The Charing Cross Mystery. J. S. Fletcher

will—I heard he'd left one!"

      "Thank you," replied Rhona. "He hasn't. He left me everything. I've got about three hundred a year—rather more. But that's no reason why I should sit down, and do nothing, is it?"

      "Good!" said Hetherwick. "But—if that sealed packet could be found? What was worth a hundred thousand to him, would be worth a hundred thousand to his sole legatee. Worth finding!"

      "I wonder if anything will be found?" she answered. "The whole thing's a mystery that I'm not even on the edge of solving."

      "Time!" said Hetherwick. "And—patience."

      He went away presently, and strolled round to Brick Court, where Kenthwaite had his chambers.

      "Doing anything?" he asked, as he walked in.

      "Nothing," replied Kenthwaite. "Go ahead!"

      Hetherwick sat down, and lighted his pipe.

      "You know Sellithwaite, don't you?" he asked when he had got his tobacco well going. "Your town, eh?"

      "Born and bred there, and engaged to a girl there," replied Kenthwaite. "Ought to! What about Sellithwaite?"

      "Were you there ten years ago?" demanded Hetherwick.

      "Ten years ago? No—except in the holidays. I was at school ten years ago. Why?"

      "Do you remember any police case at Sellithwaite about that time in which a very handsome woman was concerned—probably as defendant?"

      "No! But I was more interested in cricket than in crime, in those days. Are you thinking about the woman Hannaford spoke of in the train to the chap they can't come across?"

      "I am! Seems to me there's more in that than the police think."

      "Shouldn't wonder. Let's see: Hannaford spoke of that woman as—what?"

      "Said she'd been through his hands, ten years ago."

      "Well, that's easy! If she was through Hannaford's hands, as Superintendent of Police, ten years ago, that would be at Sellithwaite. And there'll be records, particulars, and so on at Sellithwaite."

      Hetherwick nodded, and smoked in silence for awhile.

      "Think I shall go down there," he said at last.

      Kenthwaite stared, wonderingly.

      "Keen as all that!" he exclaimed.

      "Queer business!" said Hetherwick. "Like to solve it."

      "Oh, well, it's only a four hours' run from King's Cross," observed Kenthwaite. "Interesting town, too. Old as the hills and modern as they make 'em. Excellent hotel—'White Bear.' And I'll tell you what, my future's brother is a solicitor there—Michael Hollis. I'll give you a letter of introduction to him, and he'll show you round and give you any help you need."

      "Good man!" said Hetherwick. "Write it!"

      Kenthwaite sat down and wrote, and handed over the result.

      "What do you want to find out, exactly?" he asked, as Hetherwick thanked him, and rose to go.

      "All about the woman, and why Hannaford cut her picture out of the paper," answered Hetherwick. "Well—see you when I get back."

      He went off to his own chambers, packed a bag, and drove to King's Cross to catch the early afternoon train for the North. At half-past seven that evening he found himself in Sellithwaite, a grey, smoke-laden town set in the midst of bleak and rugged hills, where the folk—if the railway officials were anything to go by—spoke a dialect which, to Hetherwick's southern ears, sounded like some barbaric language. But the "White Bear," in which he was presently installed, yielded all the comforts and luxuries of a first-class hotel: the dining-room, into which Hetherwick turned as soon as he had booked his room, seemed to be thronged by a thoroughly cosmopolitan crowd of men; he heard most of the principal European languages being spoken—later, he found that his fellow-guests were principally Continental business men, buyers, intent on replenishing exhausted stocks from the great warehouses and manufactories of Sellithwaite. All this was interesting, nor was he destined to spend the remainder of his evening in contemplating it from a solitary corner, for he had scarcely eaten his dinner when a hall-porter came to tell him that Mr. Hollis was asking for Mr. Hetherwick.

      Hetherwick hastened into the lounge, and found a keen-faced, friendly-eyed man of forty or thereabouts stretching out a hand to him.

      "Kenthwaite wired me this afternoon that you were coming down, and asked me to look you up here," he said. "I'd have asked you to dine with me, but I've been kept at my office until just now, and again, I live a good many miles out of town. But to-morrow night——"

      "You're awfully good," replied Hetherwick. "I'd no idea that Kenthwaite was wiring. He gave me a letter of introduction to you, but I suppose he thought I wanted to lose no time. And I don't, and I dare say you can tell me something about the object of my visit—let's find a corner and smoke."

      Installed in an alcove in the big smoking-room, Hollis read Kenthwaite's letter.

      "What is it you're after?" he asked. "Kenthwaite mentions that my knowledge of Sellithwaite is deeper than his own—naturally, it is, as I'm several years older."

      "Well," responded Hetherwick. "It's this, briefly. You're aware, of course, of what befell your late Police-Superintendent in London—his sudden death?"

      "Oh, yes—read all the newspapers, anyway," assented Hollis. "You're the man who was present in the train on the Underground, aren't you?"

      "I am. And that's one reason why I'm keen on solving the mystery. There's no doubt whatever that Hannaford was poisoned—that it's a case of deliberate murder. Now, there's a feature of the case to which the police don't seem to attach any importance. I do attach great importance to it. It's the matter of the woman to whom Hannaford referred when he was talking—in my presence—to the man who so mysteriously disappeared. Hannaford spoke of that woman as having been through his hands ten years ago. That would be some experience he had here, in this town. Now then, do you know anything about it? Does it arouse any recollection?"