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Betcher thrust his face forward till it almost touched the shrinking man.

"I've got enough theories, as you call them, to put a rope round your neck, Cravel, my Terrible Man! Enough theory, at any rate, to hold you for the murder of Joshua Monkford. I can take you right now, but I'm giving you a little more rope. Sooner or later, you're going to put the rope where I want it. If you did not kill Joshua Monkford, you were one of those who planned his death. If all I believe is true, I will put your feet on the trap where Clay Shelton stood!"

He had got home! Cravel's lips parted in a grin of diabolical fury; his eyes were blazing.

"You will, will you?" The words seemed to strangle him. "By God, you will! Put me— where you put Clay Shelton! You—"

Betcher slipped aside and missed the hammer blow that the man struck at him. Quick as light, his arm went round Cravel's neck and jerked back his head. The manager struck out wildly, lost his balance, and was flung breathless to the floor.

"Gotcher!" Betcher Long was smiling ecstatically. "Touched you on the raw, didn't I, Cravel? You've brought me nearer— just that much nearer— to the place I want to be."

The man rose slowly; he was trembling in every limb; his eyes seemed to have sunk deeper into his head, but he had control of himself.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You rattled me a bit. No man wants to be compared with a murderer, let alone accused of being one! I'll report this matter to Scotland Yard, Long."

"Come up and see the Chief : he'll be glad to see you. How old are you, Cravel?"

The manager did not reply, but, turning on his heel, walked unsteadily out of the room.

"My Gawd!" whispered Rouch, staring in dismay and admiration at his chief. "There'll be trouble over this when he reports."

"He'll never report— betcher!" said Mr. Long. "Betcher a thousand," he went on extravagantly, "that he doesn't stick his nose under the arch! Betcher a million that we never hear one little word about my disgraceful behaviour!" He glanced round the room. "You can tell the ancient guild of wood cutters that they can put their panels back."

He went to his room and packed his grip, and carried it himself to the hall. The man had brought his car from the garage, and he threw the grip into the back of the machine. One foot was on the step when he heard his name called. He turned: it was Alice Cravel, and her face for the moment was inscrutable. She held a piece of paper in her hand.

"You haven't paid your bill, Mr. Long," she said.

He took the account and examined it, and then he laughed until he was helpless. The exorbitance of the charge was not without its humour. He handed the bill back to the girl.

"Send it to Mr. Monkford's executors," he said cold-bloodedly. "And, Miss Cravel—"

She waited, her lips tightly pressed together, cold hate in her eyes.

"Will you tell your brother I'll be meeting him at Chelmsford one of these days? Harry the Lancer was no friend of mine, but I promised myself the pleasure of hanging the man who killed him. Good-morning!"

Her steadfast eyes did not so much as waver, but when he had said "Chelmsford," he had read the momentary surprise in them. Wandsworth was the jail where a Berkshire murderer would hang— she had forgotten Harry the Lancer.

Chapter 20

THE office of Mr. Frederick Henry was in Lincoln's Inn Fields. He occupied the ground floor of No. 742, and it was as neat an establishment as one would have expected in so immaculate and proper a young man. His private office looked out upon grass and trees and a bed of scarlet geraniums. There was none of the mustiness or disorder which is usually associated with lawyers' offices. Iron shelves holding well-dusted deed boxes formed a dado about the room. The desk at which he sat was of sober mahogany. And if the room held any exotic feature, it was the blue china bowl filled with red roses that had been placed on the marble shelf.

He was standing by the window, looking out upon the pleasant gardens, when his clerk announced the arrival of Betcher Long. Mr. Henry looked at the card with a smile, and then:

"Show him in, please."

He came halfway across the room to greet the detective.

"You've come about Monkford, of course?" he said. "I wrote to you last night, but fortunately I got on to the telephone and found that you had left Heartsease."

He pushed up a chair for his visitor, then seated himself behind the desk.

"Now, Mr. Long, what do you want to know?"

Betcher Long had not expected to be met halfway, either literally or figuratively, and the friendliness of the greeting was a little disconcerting.

"I will be quite frank with you, Mr. Henry," he said. "A few hours before Monkford was murdered, I saw him in conversation with Jackson Crayley and yourself. You were promenading the lawn under my window. When I subsequently saw Monkford, his attitude toward me was distinctly chilly. I want to know what was the subject of your conversation and why Monkford adopted this extraordinary attitude to one who had hitherto been a very good friend of his."

"That, I think, can be easily explained," said the lawyer. "Mr. Monkford learnt from me that you were an admirer of Miss Nora Sanders and had sent her a valuable ring."

For a second the detective was staggered. Not in his wildest moments had he dreamt that this little act of deception on his part was the cause of Monkford's curious attitude toward him.

"And why should that have affected Mr. Monkford?" he demanded. "Even supposing it were true that I was in love with Nora Sanders and sent her a present, why should he be annoyed?" Henry regarded him with a queer smile. Mr. Henry had a peculiar sense of humour, and the situation had its amusing side.

"Because Monkford was in love with her himself," he said, and was well satisfied with the effect of his announcement.

"In love with her?" repeated Betcher incredulously.

"So much in love with her," said the lawyer, emphasizing every word, "that on the afternoon preceding his death he made a will in favour of Nora Sanders, leaving her his entire fortune!"

Betcher Long got up to his feet with deliberation. "Like hell he did!" he said slowly.

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders, and his gesture was one that indicated both his indifference to the eccentricity of the dead Monkford and all its consequences.

"I have the will in my possession," he said. "It was drawn up at Monkford's request and witnessed by myself and Crayley."

"Who are the executors?" asked the detective, after a moment's thought.

"Miss Sanders herself is the sole executrix. Naturally I advised him against making such a will, and suggested he should send for his own lawyer, and I was very strongly opposed to Miss Sanders being the sole executrix— I wished the estate to be administered by the Public Executor. But he was very firm on the point. He told me he intended to see you after dinner and explain what he had done. I rather think that he was in some fear of an immediate death, and he wished the will made immediately. I advised him strongly against it—"

"You told me that before." Betcher's voice was cold, his whole manner sceptical; but, happily, Mr. Henry was not susceptible to an antagonistic atmosphere.

Betcher Long had never thought so quickly or so surely in his life. He made one lightning review of the case from the very moment he had arrested Clay Shelton till this identical moment when he stood watching the shadows of the trees throw dancing arabesques of green and purple upon the lawn.

"I've got to work fast," he said slowly. "Faster than the fastest— and I'll do it, I'll betcher!"

The lawyer's expression was one of inquiry.

"I don't see exactly how this affects you, Mr. Long."

"It affects me a whole lot," said Betcher. "What is to- day— Wednesday?"

He had a boyish trick of counting on the tips of his fingers.

"Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday." , He paused at Sunday. "Four days are a lot of days— ninety-six hours. Now, the question is," he mused, "can I keep awake for ninety-six hours? Because, if I can, there are quite a number of people going to toe the chalk mark and pass out into a better and, I hope, a brighter world. How old are you, mister?"

"I?" said the lawyer, in surprise. "I'm twenty-three or twenty-four, I'm not quite certain which. Why do you ask?"

"You look younger, that's all. I'm naturally complimentary." And then, abruptly: "Where can I find Crayley?"

"At his club," suggested Mr. Henry.

"The Arts and Sciences, isn't it? Pretty inappropriate, for Jackson is neither artful nor scientific, and if he isn't a squealer, I've never met one."

"A squealer?" Henry caressed his little black moustache. "It never struck me that Jackson Crayley would squeal, as you call it."

"Betcher he does!" Mr. Long nodded his head emphatically. "Betcher a thousand he squeals before the hot irons touch him!"

Henry laughed.

"Are you going to put him to the torture?" he asked drily. "And if you do, what do you expect to find? That the will is a fake and that Mr. Monkford's signature is a forgery? Really, Long, I never dreamt that that kind of detective existed outside of melodrama."

Betcher Long grinned as he took up his hat and walked to the door.

"Melodrama— you've said it! That's what this is going to be, a melodrama with all the villains under arrest in the last act and virtue triumphant! Ever heard of Elmstrong, the fellow who poisoned his wife down in Hereford? He was a lawyer, and they hanged him."

"Well, what about it?" asked the amused Henry.

"It was a hell of a good precedent," said Betcher.

Chapter 21

A BOULDER dropped into a piece of delicate mechanism does not more completely disorganize the smooth running of the machinery than does any extraordinary act which throws out of gear the revolution of the social wheel. Miss Revelstoke confessed bitterly that her season was wasted. Usually, she spent a month at Heartsease, staying on for three weeks after the festival, and from Berkshire she journeyed immediately to Scotland, where she usually spent another month before she went on to Aix.

"I have three weeks to spend in London," she said, "when everybody is out of town!"

Nora suggested a French plage.

The horror of Mr. Monkford's death was still upon her; she could not shake off the impression of the tragedy, and the knowledge that the Terrible People were a reality. Although she had not spoken to Arnold Long about the mysterious confederation since that memorable journey to Bourne End, he had told her enough then to convince her that Mr. Monkford's death was due to their machinations. She had tried, unsuccessfully, to elicit the views of her employer.

"Stuff and rubbish!" said Miss Revelstoke. "The Terrible People, indeed! I don't know what has come over Scotland Yard that they should listen to such preposterous nonsense! Happily, Mr. Inspector Long will not be in a position to spread these romantic stories after this week."

The girl listened, disturbed.

"But surely they are not blaming him for Mr. Monkford's death?"

"Why shouldn't they?" demanded Miss Revelstoke. "Wasn't he sent to Heartsease to protect the wretched man? And how well he protected him!"

"The Terrible People—" began Nora.

"Terrible fiddlesticks! Write to the Cap Martin Hotel, Bournemouth, and ask them if the suite I had two years ago is unoccupied; and please get the Terrible People out of your silly little head, my dear."

She glanced out of the window as a taxicab drew up to the door and a silk-hatted man alighted.

"Here is the faithful Henry, and he seems in rather a hurry."

It was not until Henry had been in Miss Revelstoke's study for twenty minutes that the girl was sent for, and the news she heard stunned her.

"Two million pounds— for me!" she gasped. "It can't possibly be true!"

She sat white and shaking, looking from one to the other. Mr. Henry was smiling with good-natured amusement.

"I'm afraid you'll have to accept the responsibility of the estate, Nora," he said. "I want you to let me act for you and apply for probate. Most of his assets are liquid, and by the terms of the will you receive one million two hundred thousand immediately."

"The sly old fox! He was in love with you, after all!" Miss Revelstoke's black eyes transfixed the girl.

"But— but " stammered Nora helplessly.

The elder woman put her arm about her shoulder, and, for some reason which the girl could not understand, she shuddered. It was as though a flexible bar of steel had gripped her, and the unsuspected strength in the woman's arm was a little frightening.

"You go upstairs and lie down. I'll talk to Henry about this legacy. It isn't to be expected that she should take in her good fortune." She was addressing the lawyer.

Meekly, Nora Sanders allowed herself to be taken up to her room. The door closed on Miss Revelstoke, leaving Nora to order her scattered thoughts.

Two million pounds! It was incredible! Presently she would wake up and find that she had been dreaming. But it was a very vivid dream. She looked round the room, cataloguing every article that met her eye. The bureau, a little writing desk, the portrait of her father that hung above, the open window— a man was standing on the opposite side of the street, and her heart leapt as he raised his hand in greeting.

It was Betcher Long! He put his finger to his lips and then beckoned her to the street and raised three fingers. Three o'clock! She looked at the timepiece on the desk: it was then half-past twelve. She nodded. But where? He carried a newspaper under his arm, but this he unfolded and showed a full-page advertisement which had occupied that space in every morning newspaper. It was the announcement of a bargain sale at Cloche's. She nodded.

And then, again, he put his finger to his lips. She was not to tell Miss Revelstoke. She signalled her understanding, and he walked on with a little wave of his hand and disappeared. She wondered what the other people in the gardens thought of these eccentric signals of his, but apparently his presence had passed unnoticed. Nobody in Miss Revelstoke's house had seen him. Why had he not telephoned? There were two instruments in the house, one in the hall and one in Miss Revelstoke's study, both within her hearing— but then, of course, it was impossible that she could carry on a conversation without her employer's knowledge.