Witness to the Deed Part 44

"Yes, of course."

"Why should he go out, on Stratton's wedding day, instead of stopping to congratulate him?"

"I don't know. It was odd, but Mr Brettison is eccentric."

"It's more than odd, Percy Guest," said Miss Jerrold, looking very keen and intent; "the clue lies that way. Mr Brettison must have known something and quarrelled with Malcolm Stratton, it seems to me."

"You think so?"

"Yes; his conduct suggests it. Out of town? Hasn't he been to his chambers since?"

"I think not."

"There's your clue then. I've loaded you. Go off."

"And find Mr Brettison?"

"Of course. Then try and get from him the information we want."

"Do we want that information, Miss Jerrold?"

"Of course we do, sir. Malcolm Stratton's actions may be purged from their grossness, and happiness come after all."

"Heaven grant it may!" cried Guest.

"There, then, you have something sensible to do; better than always calling here in your speculative way. Go to work at once, and come and communicate with me."

Guest went off at once, and had himself driven to Benchers' Inn, where he ascended to Stratton's door, but turned off to Brettison's, where all was dark and silent.

He knocked, but there was no answer; and, after repeating the knock several times, he went to Stratton's door, where he had no better success. Going down, he crossed to the tunnel-like archway, where he found Mrs Brade, and learned that Mr Brettison had not yet returned from the country.

"Mr Stratton does not seem to be at home either."

"No, sir. He goes out a deal now, and is very seldom at home. Many people come to ask for him, and I give them his message--that they are to write."

"Well, that's reasonable enough if they have not made appointments, Mrs Brade, so pray don't shake your head like that."

"Certainly not, sir, if you don't wish it, but I can't help thinking he'd be better not left alone."

"Why?" said Guest impetuously, Mrs Brade tapped her forehead, and Guest frowned angrily.

"Nonsense, my good woman," he cried; "don't exaggerate, and pray don't jump at conclusions. Mr Stratton is no more mad than you are."

"That ain't saying much, mister," cried the porter from the next room, where he was making up for late hours consequent upon sitting up for occupants of the inn. "My missus is as mad as a hatter."

Mrs Brade darted to the door and closed it with a heavy bang, following it up by s.n.a.t.c.hing, more than drawing the curtain over the opening--a curtain originally placed there to keep off draughts, but so used by Mrs Brade as to give the onlooker the idea that her husband was a personage kept on exhibition, and not shown save as a favour and for money paid.

"I don't know what I could be thinking of to marry such a man, sir," she said indignantly. "Mad, indeed! Not mad enough to take more than's good for me, and pretty often, too."

"A lesson for you, Mrs Brade," said Guest sternly, "You cannot make a more painful or dangerous a.s.sertion about a person than to say that a person or personage is mad."

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

WALKING IN THE DARK.

Disappointed in his visit to the inn, Guest went back to his own chambers, where his first act on reaching his room, with its lookout over the old rookery, was to take out his pocketbook, and carefully examine a photograph--a proof intrusted to his care that day--and which he instantly pressed to his lips several times before restoring it to its envelope, and returning it to his breast.

His next proceeding was to light his pipe, lie back, and think over Miss Jerrold's words; and the more he thought over them the more they seemed to fit with the situation.

One thought begat another till he grew startled at the growth emanating from Miss Jerrold's suggestion.

Stratton had always been greatly attached to him, he knew, but he did not always confide in him; he had a way of being extremely reticent, especially over money matters, and he recalled a little upset they had once had about a time when Stratton was hard pressed to get his rent ready and had raised the money in what he (Guest) had dubbed a disreputable way--that is to say, he had borrowed from "a relative"

instead of from his friend.

"The old lady's right," mused Guest, after a long period of thinking, during which his ideas seemed to ripen. "Mr Brettison must know, and depend upon it, he, being such a particular, high-souled man, was angry with Stratton, and would not come to the wedding. Of course; I remember now, Stratton did say that morning that Brettison was off, out collecting. Now, how to find out where he has gone."

No idea came, for Brettison was one of the most erratic and enthusiastic of beings. Being very wealthy, and living in the simplest way, money was no object; and he would go off anywhere, and at any cost, to obtain a few simple and rare plants for his herbarium. As Guest mused over the matter, he recollected that Stratton said something about the south; but whether it was south of England, France, or Italy, he could not remember.

"Might be the South Pole," he muttered pettishly. "Fancy that old chap having nothing better to do with his money than spend it over weeds!"

"Now, if I had half," he said, after refilling his pipe, "I could go to the old admiral and say--Oh, what a fool I am!"

But somehow that idea about Brettison and his money seemed to pervade his brain for the next few days, and to be mixed up with Stratton and his troubles. He recollected the money lying in crisp banknotes upon the table, and recalled that it was a heavy sum. That was an entirely fresh view to take; could Stratton have borrowed that money from Brettison? Likely enough, and that might have caused the estrangement.

People did not like lending money. They would offer to do so, but when the demand was made they were a little bitter.

"'Neither a borrower nor a lender be,'" muttered Guest, quoting from his favourite author, and then adding, "if you can help it."

"Bah! That upsets the idea of the lady in the case," he muttered impatiently. "What a fool I am! As if it was likely that poor old Mal would try to make his quietus with a bare bodkin--modernised into a six-shooter--because old Brettison was huffed at his borrowing money. I must pump it out of the poor fellow somehow."

That evening he went to Stratton's chambers, but could get no reply; and he waited about on the stairs till, growing uneasy and suspicious once more, he knocked again, and listened at the letter slit.

Just then he heard steps, and the occupant of the upstairs chambers ascended to the landing.

"How do?" he said. "Mr Stratton's out. I met him on the Embankment not half an hour ago."

That swept away the black, mental cobwebs once more for a time about Guest's brain, and he went away relieved--but not before writing his intention of dropping in about ten that night, and thrusting his card in at the slit--to dine at his club, after which he went into the library to read up some old legal cases, and think about Edie.

He was punctual to the time appointed in Benchers' Inn, but there was no light in Stratton's window, none in Brettison's, and he waited till eleven in the expectation of seeing his friend come back.

At the above hour he became convinced that Stratton had returned early and gone to bed, so he went to his own chambers vexed and irritated, after dropping another card into the letter-box, making an appointment for the next evening at seven.

"Take him out for a bit of dinner. He seems to be very busy just now, or else he is behaving very sensibly and taking exercise to get back his strength."

Guest went to Benchers' Inn the next evening at seven, but the outer door was closed, and after waiting for some time he went off to his club and wrote a letter begging Stratton to make an appointment to see him.

Next day glided by and there was no reply. The chambers were still closed, and the Brades had not seen their occupant; neither had Mr Brettison come back.