1912.

"'JACOB HERAPATH.'"

Selwood paused there, and a sudden silence fell--to be as suddenly
broken by a sharp question from Barthorpe.

"The Witnesses?" he said. "The witnesses!"

Selwood glanced at the further paragraph which he had not thought it
necessary to read.

"Oh, yes!" he said. "It's witnessed all right." And he went on reading.

"'Signed by the testator in the presence of us both
present at the same time who in his presence and in the
presence of each other have hereunto set our names as
witnesses.

"'JOHN CHRISTOPHER TERTIUS, of 500, Portman Square,
London: Gentleman.

"'FRANK BURCHILL, of 331, Upper Seymour Street, London:
Secretary.'"

As Selwood finished, he handed the will to Peggie, who in her turn
hastily gave it to Mr. Tertius. For a moment nobody spoke. Then
Barthorpe made a step forward.

"Let me see that!" he said, in a strangely quiet voice. "I don't want to
handle it--hold it up!"

For another moment he stood gazing steadily, intently, at the signatures
at the foot of the document. Then, without a word or look, he twisted
sharply on his heel, and walked swiftly out of the room and the house.

CHAPTER VIII

THE SECOND WITNESS

If any close observer had walked away with Barthorpe Herapath from the
house in Portman Square and had watched his face and noted his manner,
that observer would have said that his companion looked like a man who was
either lost in a profound day-dream or had just received a shock that had
temporarily deprived him of all but the mechanical faculties. And in point
of strict fact, Barthorpe was both stunned by the news he had just
received and plunged into deep speculation by a certain feature of it. He
hurried along, scarcely knowing where he was going--but he was thinking
all the same. And suddenly he pulled himself up and found that he had
turned down Portman Street and was already in the thick of Oxford Street's
busy crowds. A passer-by into whom he jostled in his absent-mindedness
snarled angrily, bidding him look where he was going--that pulled
Barthorpe together and he collected his wits, asking himself what he
wanted. The first thing that met his gaze on this recovery was a little
Italian restaurant and he straightway made for the door.

"This is what I want," he muttered. "Some place in which to sit down and
think calmly."

He slipped int