The Alington Inheritance

“Yes, I’m quite sure,” said Je

Miss Silver had very little time to think until she was in the London train. It had been a tiring day, but she was not thinking of herself. She was concerned with her coming interview with Frank Abbott. She had wired to him as soon as she reached Langton, and she hoped that he would not have left the office. She was not, however, prepared for him to meet her train, though she was very glad to see him.

“My dear Frank, you should not have troubled.”

He smiled down at her.

“What have you been up to?”

“I will tell you, but let us get out of this first.”

When he had put her into a taxi he got in himself and gave her address in Montague Mansions. Then he turned to her.

“Now, ma’am-what have you been doing?”

She said very gravely, “I have been finding a murderer, Frank. Let me tell you about it.” And tell him she did, with all the scrupulous exactness which he had come to expect from her.

In conclusion she extracted from her bag the note which Mac had written to Je

“Where did you get this?” he said. And then, “It’s had some rough treatment, hasn’t it?”

“It has been in a boy’s pocket. His name is Dicky Pratt, and he is a local boy at Hazeldon. He has no father, and I gather that he manages his mother. He was given this note on the date it was written, just before seven in the evening by a man who told him to give it to Miss Je

“My dear Miss Silver!”

“You must listen, Frank. You saw Je

He listened whilst she gave him the details. When she had done she went on,

“That letter was written by Mrs. Forbes’ eldest son. He is, I think, about twenty-four years of age, and ever since he was six years old he has considered himself the heir of Alington. When Je

Je

As she stood there it came over her that she ought to have died, then there would not have been any of this trouble. But she was strong and healthy-she had never even had a bad illness-and if she had died on the common it would have been murder. Mac was a murderer. The dreadfulness of what had happened was not hers, but his. Her mind went back to the scene in the court room, to Jimmy Mottingley’s white face. How could she hold her tongue and let him suffer? The answer was plain. She couldn’t. It just wasn’t possible. The mist cleared from her, and she went on walking.

When she came to the door of the house and went in there was no one at home. Richard wasn’t back yet, and she remembered that Miss Danesworth had said that she would go in and see Mrs. Merridew- “I don’t want to in the least, but I think I ought to. I shan’t stay unless she wants me.”

Je

After a minute or two she got up, went to the telephone, and asked for Mac’s number in London.

Mac was dressing. He was joining a party for Whoops-a-Daisy, the latest musical from the U.S.A. He whistled cheerfully to himself as he brushed his hair. He was quite at ease in his mind now. Whatever had happened to the note, it wouldn’t turn up at this stage. On the whole he was well out of it. As for the young fool who had been arrested, he wasn’t really likely to come to any harm, or if he did, well, it was just too bad.

The telephone bell rang, and he went into his outer room to answer it.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Je

“Oh, have you?” His tone was short. What did the girl want?

She told him.

“Mac, something has happened-”

“What is it? I’m just going out.”

“Listen, Mac. That boy you gave the note to-”

A crawling finger of fear touched his heart.

“What are you talking about?”

Je

“I’m talking about you. That boy Dicky Pratt-he had your letter in his pocket.”

“Oh, that old letter. What of it?”

Je

“It’s dated, Mac. You dated it as you always do. Miss Silver-she’s helping Jimmy Mottingley-Dicky gave her the letter, and she has gone up to town with it. And he can swear to the car. He came up the road and got behind it and lifted the sacking. He was just curious, but-” but her voice trailed away-“I thought I would let you know-” There was the click of the receiver as she hung it up, and that was all. That was all.

Mac stood with the receiver in his hand. He was very still, but his thoughts raced. He had time to get away. They could come and look for him, but they wouldn’t find him. He would be gone. Where? And how? He saw at once with a desperate clarity that wherever he went and however he twisted there would be a price upon his head. The very sudde

He became aware that he was still holding the telephone up to his ear. A voice spoke through it. It asked him whether he had finished. He said, “Yes,” and hung up. Then he opened the second drawer of his writing-table and took out the pistol.