The Story of Charles Strange. Vol. 2 (of 3). Henry Wood

his place. His cousin wants to dispute the will and to turn him out. They have been serving notices on the tenants not to pay the rent."

      "What a curious woman she must be!"

      Mr. Brightman smiled slightly, but made no answer.

      "He did not stay long, sir."

      "No, he is going out to dinner."

      As Mr. Brightman spoke, he turned up the gas, drew his chair to the desk and sat down, his back then being towards the fire. "I must look over these letters and copies of notices which Sir Edmund brought with him, and has left with me," he remarked. "I don't care to go home directly."

      The next minute he was absorbed in the papers. I put down the Times, and rose. "You do not want me, I suppose, Mr. Brightman," I said. "I promised Arthur Lake to go to his chambers for an hour."

      "I don't want you, Charles. Mind you are not late in coming down to me to-morrow morning."

      So I wished him good-night and departed. Arthur Lake, a full-fledged barrister now of the Middle Temple, rented a couple of rooms in one of the courts. His papers were in one room, his bed in the other. He was a steady fellow, as he always had been, working hard and likely to get on. We passed many of our evenings together over a quiet chat and a cigar, I going round to him, or he coming in to me. He had grown up a little, dandified sort of man, good-humouredly insolent as ever when the fit took him: but sterling at heart.

      Lake was sitting at the fire waiting for me, and began to grumble at my being late. I mentioned what had hindered me.

      "And I have forgotten my cigar-case!" I exclaimed as I sat down. "I had filled it, all ready, and left it on the table."

      "Never mind," said Lake. "I laid in a parcel to-day."

      But I did mind, for Lake's "parcels" were never good. He would buy his cigars so dreadfully strong. Nothing pleased him but those full-flavoured Lopez, whilst I liked mild Cabanas: so, generally speaking, I kept to my own. However, I took one, and we sat, talking and smoking. I smoked it out, abominable though it was, and took another; but I couldn't stand a second.

      "Lake, I cannot smoke your cigars," I said, flinging it into the fire. "You know I never can. I must run and fetch my own. There goes eight o'clock."

      "What's the matter with them?" asked Lake: his usual question.

      "Everything; they are bad all over. I shall be back in a trice."

      I went the quickest way, through the passages, which brought me into Essex Street, and had my latch-key ready to open the door with as I approached the house. There were three of these latchkeys. I had one; Lennard another, for it sometimes happened that he had to come in before or after business hours; and Leah had possession of the third. But I had no use for mine now, for the door was open. A policeman, standing by the area railings, recognised me, and wished me good-evening.

      'Whose carelessness is this?' thought I, advancing to the top of the kitchen stairs and calling to Leah.

      It appeared useless to call: no Leah made her appearance. I shut the front door and went upstairs, wondering whether Mr. Brightman had left.

      Left! I started back as I entered; for there lay Mr. Brightman on the floor by his desk, as if he had pushed back his chair and fallen from it.

      "What is the matter?" I exclaimed, throwing my hat anywhere, and hastening to raise him. But his head and shoulders were a dead weight in my arms, and there was an awful look upon his face, as the gaslight fell upon it. A look, in short, of death, and not of an easy death.

      My pulses beat quicker, man though I was, and my heart beat with them. Was I alone in that large house with the dead? I let him fall again and rang the bell violently. I rushed to the door and shouted over the banisters for Leah; and just as I was leaping down for the policeman I had seen outside, or any other help that might be at hand, I heard a latch-key inserted into the lock, and Lennard came in with Dr. Dickenson. I knew him well, for he had attended Miss Methold in the days gone by.

      As he hastened to Mr. Brightman, Lennard turned to me, speaking in a whisper:

      "Mr. Strange, how did it happen? Was he ill?"

      "I know nothing about it, Lennard. I came in a minute ago, and found him lying here. What do you know? Had you been here before?"

      "I came, as Mr. Brightman had directed," he replied. "It was a little before eight; and when I got upstairs he was lying there as you see. I tried to rouse him, but could not, and I went off for the doctor."

      "Did you leave the front door open?"

      "I believe I did, in my flurry and haste. I thought of it as I ran up the street, but would not lose time in going back to shut it."

      "He is gone, Mr. Strange," said Dr. Dickenson, advancing towards me, for I and Lennard had stood near the door. "It is a case of sudden death."

      I sat down, bewildered. I could not believe it. How awfully sudden!

      "Is it apoplexy?" I asked, lifting my head.

      "No, I should say not."

      "Then what is it?"

      "I cannot tell; it may be the heart."

      "Are you sure he is dead? Beyond all hope?"

      "He is indeed."

      A disagreeable doubt rushed over my mind, and I spoke on the impulse of the moment. "Has he come by his death fairly?"

      The surgeon paused before he answered. "I see no reason, as yet, to infer otherwise. There are no signs of violence about him."

      I cannot describe my feelings as we stood looking down at him. Never had I felt so before. What was I to do next?—how act? A hazy idea was making itself heard that some weighty responsibility lay upon me.

      Just then a cab dashed up to the door; we heard it all too plainly in the hushed silence; and someone knocked and rang. Lennard went down to open it, and I told him to send in the policeman and fetch another doctor. Looking over the banisters I saw George Coney come in.