the tips of his
fingers delicately together, "he was rather a good judge of jewels."

"And a pawnbroker," interrupted Hurd, dryly. "I have heard all about
that from Bart Tawsey, his shopman. Skip it and go on."

"I can only go on so far as to say that Miss Norman will probably
inherit a fortune of five thousand a year, beside the jewels contained
in those bags. That is," said Mr. Pash, wisely, "if the jewels be not
redeemed by those who pawned them."

"Is there a will?" asked Hurd, rising to take his leave.

Pash screwed up his eyes and inflated his cheeks, and wriggled so much
that the detective expected an acrobatic performance, and was
disappointed when it did not come off. "I really can't be sure on
that point," he said softly. "I have not yet examined the papers
contained in the safe of my deceased and esteemed client. He would
never allow me to make his will. Leases--yes--he has some
house-property--mortgages--yes--investments--yes--he entrusted me with
all his business save the important one of making a will. But a great
many other people act in the same strange way, though you might not
think so, Mr. Hurd. They would never make a lease, or let a house, or
buy property, without consulting their legal adviser, yet in the case of
wills (most important documents) many prefer to draw them up themselves.
Consequently, there is much litigation over wrongly-drawn documents of
that nature."

"All the better for you lawyers. Well, I'm off to look for your nautical
gentleman."

"Do you think he is guilty?"

"I can't say," said Hurd, smiling, "and I never speak unless I am quite
sure of the truth."

"It will be hard to come at, in this case," said the lawyer.

Billy the detective smiled pleasantly and shrugged his brown shoulders.
"So hard that it may never be discovered," he said. "You know many
mysteries are never solved. I suspect this Gwynne Street crime will be
one of them."

Hurd had learned a great deal about the opal brooch from Sylvia and
Deborah, and what they told him resulted in his visiting the Charing
Cross Hospital to see Paul Beecot. The young man was much worried. His
arm was getting better, and the doctors assured him he would be able to
leave the hospital in a few days. But he had received a letter from his
mother, whom he had informed of his accident. She bewailed his danger,
and wrote with many tears--as Paul saw from the blotted state of the
letter--that her domestic tyrant would not allow