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XXXV THE SECOND WARRANT, 312

THE

HERAPATH

PROPERTY

CHAPTER I

JACOB HERAPATH IS MISSING

This was the third week of Selwood's secretaryship to Jacob Herapath.
Herapath was a well-known man in London. He was a Member of Parliament,
the owner of a sort of model estate of up-to-date flats, and something
of a crank about such matters as ventilation, sanitation, and lighting.
He himself, a bachelor, lived in one of the best houses in Portman
Square; when he engaged Selwood as his secretary he made him take a
convenient set of rooms in Upper Seymour Street, close by. He also
caused a telephone communication to be set up between his own house and
Selwood's bedroom, so that he could summon his secretary at any hour of
the night. Herapath occasionally had notions about things in the small
hours, and he was one of those active, restless persons who, if they get
a new idea, like to figure on it at once. All the same, during those
three weeks he had not once troubled his secretary in this fashion. No
call came to Selwood over that telephone until half-past seven one
November morning, just as he was thinking of getting out of bed. And the
voice which then greeted him was not Herapath's. It was a rather anxious,
troubled voice, and it belonged to one Kitteridge, a middle-aged man, who
was Herapath's butler.

In the act of summoning Selwood, Kitteridge was evidently interrupted by
some person at his elbow; all that Selwood made out was that Kitteridge
wanted him to go round at once. He dressed hurriedly, and ran off to
Herapath's house; there in the hall, near the door of a room which
Herapath used as a study and business room, he found Kitteridge talking
to Mountain, Herapath's coachman, who, judging by the state of his
attire, had also been called hurriedly from his bed.

"What is it, Kitteridge?" demanded Selwood. "Mr. Herapath ill?"

The butler shook his head and jerked his thumb towards the open door of
the study.

"The fact is, we don't know where Mr. Herapath is, sir," he answered.
"He hasn't slept in his bed, and he isn't in the house."

"Possibly he didn't come home last night," suggested Selwood. "He may
have slept at his club, or at an hotel."

The butler and the coachman looked at each other--then the coachman, a
little, sharp-eyed man who was meditatively chewing a bit of straw,
opened