written line!"

"Because, as I said before, he was murdered for his papers," affirmed
Viner. "I'm sure of that as you are of the rest."

"I dare say you're right," agreed Mr. Pawle. "But, as _I've_ said
before, that presupposes that Ashton told somebody the secret.
Now--who? Was it the man he was with in Paris? And if so, who is that
man? But it's useless speculating. I've made up my mind to a certain
course, Viner. Tomorrow, after the funeral, I'm going to call on the
present Lord Ellingham--his town house is in Hertford Street, and I
know he's in town--and ask him if he has heard anything of a mysterious
nature relating to his long-missing uncle. We may hear something--you
come with me."

Next day, toward the middle of the afternoon, Mr. Pawle and Viner got out
of a taxicab in Park Lane and walked down Hertford Street, the old lawyer
explaining the course he was about to take.

"This is a young man--not long come of age," he said. "He'll be quite
well acquainted, however, with the family history, and if anything's
happened lately, I dare say I can get him to talk. He--What is it?"

Viner had suddenly gripped his companion's arm and pulled him to a halt.
He was looking ahead--at the house at which they were about to call. And
there, just being shown out by a footman, was the man whom he had seen at
the old-fashioned tavern in Notting Hill, and with him a tall,
good-looking man whom he had never seen before.