I go?” he inquired.
“Not unless the lady desires it. I don’t know her at all.”
The secretary was not unobservant and he had profited from his association with Mr Carrados. Without more ado, he began to get his papers quietly together.
The door opened and a girl of about twenty came eagerly yet half timorously into the room. Her eyes for a moment swept Carrados with an anxious scrutiny. Then, with a slight shade of disappointment, she noticed that they were not alone.
“I have come direct from Oakshire to see you, Mr Carrados,” she announced, in a quick, nervous voice that was evidently the outcome of a desperate resolution to be brave and explicit. “The matter is a dreadfully important one to me and I should very much prefer to tell it to you alone.”
There was no need for Carrados to turn towards his secretary; that discriminating young gentleman was already on his way. Miss George flashed him a shy look of thanks and filled in the moment with a timid survey of the room.
“Is it something that you think I can help you with?”
“I had hoped so. I had heard in a roundabout way of your wonderful power—ought I to tell you how—does it matter?”
“Not in the least if it has nothing to do with the case,” replied Carrados.
“When this dreadful thing happened I instinctively thought of you. I felt sure that I ought to come and get you to help me at once. But I—I have very little money, Mr Carrados, only a few pounds, and I am not so childish as not to know that very clever men require large fees. Then when I got here my heart sank, for I saw at once from your house and position that what seemed little even to me would be ridiculous to you—that if you did help me it would be purely out of kindness of heart and generosity.”
“Suppose you tell me what the circumstances are,” suggested Carrados cautiously. Then, to afford an opening, he added: “You have recently gone into mourning, I see.”
“See!” exclaimed the girl almost sharply. “Then you are not blind?”
“Oh yes,” he replied; “only I use the familiar expression, partly from custom, partly because it sounds unnecessarily pedantic to say, ‘I deduce from certain observations.’”
“I beg your pardon. I suppose I was startled not so much by the expression as by your knowledge. I ought to have been prepared. But I am already wasting your time and I came so determined to be business-like. I got a copy of the local paper on the way, because I thought that the account in it would be clearer to you than I could tell it. Shall I read it?”
“Please; if that was your intention.”
“It is The Stinbridge Herald,” explained the girl, taking a closely folded newspaper from the handbag which she carried. “Stinbridge is our nearest town—about six miles from Tilling Shaw, where we live. This is the account:
“‘MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY AT TILLING
“‘WELL-KNOWN AGRICULTURALIST ATTEMPTS MURDER AND COMMITS SUICIDE’
“‘The districts of Great Tilling, Tilling Shaw and the immediate neighbourhood were thrown into a state of unusual excitement on Thursday last by the report of a tragedy in their midst such as has rarely marked the annals of our law-abiding country-side.
“‘A Herald representative was early on the scene, and his inquiries elucidated the fact that it was only too true that in this case rumour had not exaggerated the circumstances, rather the reverse indeed.
“‘On the afternoon of the day in question, Mr Frank Whitmarsh, of High Barn, presented himself at Barony, the residence of his uncle, Mr William Whitmarsh, with the intention of seeing him in reference to a dispute that was pending between them. This is understood to be connected with an alleged trespass in pursuit of game, each relative claiming exclusive sporting rights over a piece of water known as Hunstan Mere.
“‘On this occasion the elder gentleman was not at home and Mr Frank Whitmarsh, after waiting for some time, departed, leaving a message to the effect that he would return, and, according to one report, “have it out with Uncle William,” later in the evening.
“‘This resolution he unfortunately kept. Returning about eight-forty-five P.M. he found his uncle in and for some time the two men remained together in the dining-room. What actually passed between them has not yet transpired, but it is said that for half-an-hour there had been nothing to indicate to the other occupants of the house that anything unusual was in progress when suddenly two shots rang out in rapid succession. Mrs Lawrence, the housekeeper at Barony, and a servant were the soonest on the spot, and, conquering the natural terror that for a moment held them outside the now silent room, they summoned up courage to throw open the door and to enter. The first thing that met their eyes was the body of Mr Frank Whitmarsh lying on the floor almost at their feet. In their distressed state it was immediately assumed by the horrified women that he was dead, or at least seriously wounded, but a closer examination revealed the fact that the gentleman had experienced an almost miraculous escape. At the time of the tragedy he was wearing a large old-fashioned silver watch; and in this the bullet intended for his heart was found, literally embedded deep in the works. The second shot had, however, effected its purpose, for at the other side of the room, still seated at the table, was Mr William Whitmarsh, already quite dead, with a terrible wound in his head and the weapon, a large-bore revolver of obsolete pattern, lying at his feet.
“‘Mr Frank Whitmarsh subsequently explained that the shock of the attack, and the dreadful appearance presented by his uncle when, immediately afterwards, he turned his hand against himself, must have caused him to faint.
“‘Readers of The Herald will join in our expression of sympathy for all members of the Whitmarsh family, and in our congratulations to Mr Frank Whitmarsh on his providential escape.
“‘The inquest is fixed for Monday and it is anticipated that the funeral will take place on the following day.’”
“That is all,” concluded Miss George.
“All that is in the paper,” amended Carrados.
“It is the same everywhere—‘attempted murder and suicide’—that is what everyone accepts as a matter of course,” went on the girl quickly. “How do they know that my father tried to kill Frank, or that he killed himself? How can they know, Mr Carrados?”
“Your father, Miss George?”
“Yes. My name is Madeline Whitmarsh. At home everyone looks at me as if I was an object of mingled pity and reproach. I thought that they might know the name here, so I gave the first that came into my head. I think it is a street I was directed along. Besides, I don’t want it to be known that I came to see you in any case.”
“Why?”
Much of the girl’s conscious nervousness had stiffened into an attitude of unconscious hardness. Grief takes many forms, and whatever she had been before, the tragic episode had left Miss Whitmarsh a little hurt and cynical.
“You are a man living in a town and can do as you like. I am a girl living in the country and have therefore to do largely as my neighbours like. For me to set up my opinion against popular feeling would constitute no small offence; to question its justice would be held
