From time to time in the ever-recurring sequence of murders of which
the details are given to the world by a vigilant and busy Press,
one will be found which stands out and grips the public attention.
Sometimes it is the gruesome detail of the crime which awakens the
interest of the world at large. More often it is the mystery which
envelopes its circumstance and stands between the general curiosity
and the satisfaction thereof by a full explanation of the motive. But
the greatest excitement always occurs when the victim of the crime
happens to be an individual already, on other grounds, well known to
the public and more or less a celebrity. Such a murder occurred a few
days before Easter, in the year 1902. Sir John Rellingham, a well-known
solicitor--one of the most prominent men in his profession--stayed
on late at his offices one afternoon, busily engaged in writing. One
by one his junior partners and managing clerks had drifted away, and,
after the office clock had indicated the hour of six, Sir John and his
confidential secretary were the only ones who remained in the building.
The solicitor rang his bell, and his secretary presented himself.
“There’s no need for you to stay any longer, Smith. Don’t wait for me.
I shall be busy for some time.”
“I’ve just been working on those Trentbeck leases, and I may as well
finish them. I’m really in no hurry to go, sir.”
“Oh, those can wait, Smith. I’d rather you went. Just lock up
everything before you go.”
[Illustration: “Sir John was found still seated at his writing-table,
but dead”]
“Very well, Sir John,” had been the answer; and the man, in obedience
to the directions given him, had put books and papers away, locked up
the safe, and gone. Of what took place afterwards no one had any
knowledge. On the following day Sir John was found still seated at his
writing-table, but dead: shot through the temple.
No weapon of any kind was found in the room, and the appearance of the
wound left no doubt that the shot must have been fired from only a
short distance. That it was murder there could be no doubt. Suicide was
perfectly impossible.
Before the coroner’s jury had brought in their verdict of “Wilful
murder by some person or persons unknown,” the whole of the public
Press was seething with excitement. The firm of Rellingham, Baxter,
Marston & Moorhouse stood at the head of the profession. It had behind
it more than a century of untarnished and honourable repute; half the
peerage employed the firm in those parts of their legal necessities
which were of a reputable character, and the name of one or other of
the partners in the firm was to be found as a trustee in a very large
proportion of the great family settlements which were in operation. The
capital for which the firm somehow or other stood in the relation of
trustee ran into many millions. But the public had become suspicious
of solicitor trustees, and every one waited for the impending crash
to which the mysterious death of Sir John appeared to be the usual
prelude. Men whispered, “How much will they break for?” But the crash
never came. An immediate and searching audit, required at once by the
surviving partners, disclosed the facts that there was not a penny
missing, not a single suspicious circumstance in the affairs of the
firm. Its repute was as untarnished, its integrity as unchallengable
as had been the case throughout the long history of the firm; and the
public really began to believe in the truth of the verdict at the
inquest. The murder, of course, engaged the keenest attention of the
police; but as the weeks flew by without producing any explanation of
the mystery, the partners of Sir John commenced to take steps of their
own. Sir John, they knew, was a widower, without children, and with few
relatives, but many friends. Carefully and methodically his partners,
who were his executors, examined and scrutinised every paper left by
Sir John both at his house and at his office. Everything was perfectly
open, straightforward, and free from any trace of suspicion upon which
a clue could be founded. Everything was ordinary, humdrum, and usual,
with one exception.
This one exception was a clause in Sir John’s will, and this clause ran
as follows:--
“I give and bequeath, free of all charges and legacy duty, the sum of
£20,000 to my partners, Arthur Baxter, Charles Marston, and Edward
Moorhouse, upon trust, to be applied by them to and for the purposes
which I have taken steps to sufficiently indicate to them, such trust
to be executed according to their honour and integrity, of which I am
well satisfied, and without the interference, check, or control of any
person or persons whomsoever; and I direct that if at any time, in the
absolute exercise of their unfettered discretion, they or the survivors
or survivor of them shall at any time decide that the further existence
of the trust which I have hereby constituted and created has become
impossible, then and forthwith the said trust shall immediately cease
and determine, and my said partners or the then survivors or survivor
of them shall stand possessed in their or his own right and for their
or his own use and benefit of the capital moneys of the said trust, and
shall not be required by anybody to render accounts or explanations
of their or his dealings with the trust or of their or his action or
actions in regard to it. And I further direct that if at any time this
trust or the capital moneys of this trust shall be or shall become the
subject matter of litigation through the interference or intervention
of any party or parties other than my said partners, or the survivors
or survivor of them, then and forthwith and from the commencement of
such litigation the said trust shall cease and determine, and the
capital sums of the said trust shall be distributed and applied in the
form and manner above provided.”
In due course of time the will of Sir John Rellingham was proved, and,
as was only to be expected, this curious clause was reprinted in the
Press pretty widely. The mystery of Sir John’s murder had remained
unsolved, and was passing into the oblivion of public forgetfulness,
when curiosity was again aroused by the strange wording of the clause
in Sir John’s will. All other clues had failed. Here was the chance
of a clue. The sensational Press thundered for a full revelation of
this secret trust, arguing speciously that the mystery of Sir John’s
death was a matter of public concern, and private interests must bow
to public necessities. The partners met the demand by a point-blank
refusal to disclose any information whatever. As one of them--Arthur
Baxter--said to an inquisitive reporter: “The public know of the clause
in the will--the law has compelled us to disclose it; but if we could
have avoided doing so, we should not have made even that much public.
It would have been possible, by making other arrangements for Sir John,
to have obviated even that disclosure; but you can take it from me
that a secret trust in a will is not an uncommon occurrence. If Sir
John had not been murdered, the clause would never have attracted any
attention. But Sir John was a clever lawyer, and he knew perfectly
well, when he drew that clause, that public curiosity as to its meaning
need not be satisfied, and no doubt he preferred to run the risk of
that curiosity rather than constitute the trust in his own lifetime. So
you can tell your editor, with my compliments and the compliments of
the firm and my partners individually and collectively, that we will
see him and his paper and all of the rest of the Press a good deal
further on its way to an undesirable place before we give one word of
explanation of that clause.”
It was an unwise remark to have made. Mr. Baxter, a steady-going
solicitor, in the security of his knowledge of the law, scoffed at the
possibility of interference. He had no experience of the inquisitive
prying of a sensational evening paper. The latter, irritated by the
contempt of the solicitor, laid itself out to teach him a due and
proper respect for the power of the Press. Day after day it returned to
the attack, demanding, in the interests of justice, a full disclosure.
So reiterated became the demand, so irritating to the public curiosity
was the blank _non possumus_ of the solicitors, that at last the
inevitable happened and the public came to believe (a perfectly
unwarranted hypothesis) that in the details of the trust which had
been created lay the explanation of the murder, and the partners and
executors were publicly hounded into the position of accomplices in
the crime, on the assumption that by keeping the trust secret they
were assisting the culprit to evade the claims of justice. It is not
difficult for an energetic newspaper to create such an impression, and
the obstinate silence of the surviving partners of Sir John fanned the
flame of public curiosity. So rooted did this conviction become that at
last it took hold of Scotland Yard. Once a settled conviction obtains
a footing in that quarter, it usually sticks, and the Home Office took
a hand in the game and asked for an assurance from the firm that the
secret trust had no connection with the murder.
The firm replied that they were unable to give that or any other
assurance.
A lengthy correspondence followed, which culminated in a personal
letter from the Home Secretary, egged on by Scotland Yard, asking the
partners of the firm to disclose in confidence the terms and purposes
of the secret trust, and conveying concurrently an intimation that
the disclosure could be made personally to the Home Secretary without
witnesses, and his personal assurance that, no matter what the trust
might be, no action against any member of the firm should be based upon
any such disclosure.
The letter was misunderstood. The promise of the indemnity was made
_bona fide_. The Home Secretary was perfectly cognisant that many
secret trusts are illegal or made for illegal objects, and his only
desire was to let the firm know that he personally would respect that
trust and their confidence, if they would show him that this particular
trust had nothing to do with the murder.
Knowing the high reputation the firm deservedly enjoyed, the partners
were perfectly furious at the bare suggestion that they might be
parties to either illegal or dishonest actions, and the reply to the
Home Secretary was brief and to the point.
“SIR,--On behalf of myself and the other surviving partners of this
firm, I beg to state that we resent the tone and contents and the
insinuations of your letter. We point-blank decline to supply you
with any information whatsoever.--I am, sir, your obedient servant,
(ARTHUR BAXTER) for Rellingham, Baxter, Marston & Moorhouse.”
The Home Secretary replied in another personal letter, regretting that
his letter had been misunderstood, and stating that he felt assured the
letter of Mr. Baxter had been written in momentary irritation, and that
the firm, upon reconsideration, would see that the most satisfactory
course to pursue would be a compliance with his suggestion. The answer
to the second letter was still briefer than had been the former.
“SIR,--You can go to the devil or wherever else you feel
inclined.--Yours faithfully, ARTHUR BAXTER.”
And the Home Secretary was on the horns of a dilemma. Afraid to
litigate and thus end the trust--for the terms of the will were
before him--worried by Scotland Yard to compel a revelation, which
the determined opposition he was meeting seemed only to intensify the
apparent necessity of--he nevertheless clearly saw there was another
possibility. Were the partners in the firm with diabolical cunning
simply doing all they knew to compel him to litigate, and by so doing
convey to them the actual property in the capital moneys of the
trust, free from any legal or moral liability? And with the ingrained
suspicion of the Government official he decided this must be the true
explanation.
Finally, on an _ex parte_ motion, he obtained an injunction pending
proceedings, restraining the trustees from taking any steps in regard
to the dissolution and realisation of the trust. Having done this he
served notice upon them of his intention to apply for a rule requiring
them to show cause why the trust should not be disclosed and the
capital moneys paid into court.
And then Mr. Baxter went and consulted Ashley Tempest.
“It isn’t often you come here on business, Baxter,” said the barrister,
as he rose to greet his caller.
“No; our work isn’t often in your line. I think it’s nearly fifty years
since we litigated a criminal case, and we don’t often litigate on the
King’s Bench side either. To be perfectly frank with you, Tempest, I’ve
come here as much for your advice as a man of the world as a barrister.”
“There are a good many men better qualified to give that kind of
counsel than I am.”
“Possibly, but they haven’t your knowledge of criminal law. Do you know
anything about trusts, Tempest?”
“A bit--I daresay as much as most of the men on our side of the hedge.
But if it’s a trust, why don’t you go to Overhill?”
“I’m going on to him presently--when I’ve heard what you’ve got to
say. But these chancery men always seem to me to be machines without
humanity. To be candid, my partners and I want to know exactly where we
stand over this infernal secret trust which old Sir John strapped on
our shoulders. I suppose you’ve heard about it?”
“I’ve seen what the newspapers have had to say, and I’ve heard the
usual gossip that’s gone on. What’s the trouble? But are you wise in
coming to me? Suppose it is--of course I don’t know--suppose it is
mixed up with Sir John’s murder, and the defence brief were to come
along to me, it might prove very inconvenient to you?”
“I don’t think so. My partners and I talked it over, on the supposition
that in such a case you would get the brief, and I have come to you, at
the express wish of the three of us. You see, we don’t know yet what
the real objects of this secret trust are.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Just what I say, Tempest. The trust, as it appears from the clause
of the will, is a holy terror of a mystery; but when you come to read
our instructions you’ll find that it’s twenty times as much a mystery.
Here, read this!” and the solicitor passed across a letter.
“To ARTHUR BAXTER, CHARLES MARSTON, EDWARD MOORHOUSE, my partners and
friends.
“Forgive me if I remind you that your partnerships in the firm were
not purchased in cash, but were given to you by myself in testimony
of my high appreciation of your several abilities, of your worth,
your integrity, and discretion. I have always had and still retain
my high opinion of you all. As you will be aware, from my will,
my remaining half share in the proprietorship of the firm I have
bequeathed equally amongst you, and I have in my will also bequeathed
to you jointly the sum of £20,000 upon trust. May I rest assured
you will repay the obligations I remind you of, by accepting the
trouble this trust may entail? The object of the trust is to pay the
annual income arising from the capital moneys of the trust to the
partners in the firm for the time being, as an annual payment for
their services in preserving that capital intact. Whatever changes
may take place in the firm after my death at any time during the
continuance of the trust, I desire that the necessary steps shall be
taken for its proper preservation. A certain eventuality may at some
time arise, for which I wish to provide, should it ever happen. But
I cannot provide for it, save by a disclosure which would amount to
a breach of honour, a breach of confidence, and a breach of trust.
That eventuality may never arise. Writing calmly and deliberately
I say, for your guidance, that it is probable that it never will
arise; but if it ever does, then certain information is necessary
to enable you to act justly and as I desire. That information is
contained in the sealed packet which you will find herewith; but,
if you have any gratitude to my memory, then I solemnly charge you
to respect my wishes that that packet shall remain sealed and its
contents unexamined until events compel this by the occurrence of the
eventuality for which I am providing. I cannot indicate what that
eventuality will be, or in what manner it will arise, and I leave the
point entirely to your discretion to determine whether it has arrived
or not. I say only, that if it does you will at once recognise it. It
will be plainly apparent beyond doubt that it has arisen, and I warn
you that any eventuality as to which you have doubt cannot be the
one I am providing for. If at the end of a hundred years, from the
18th August 1881, no such eventuality has arisen, it will by then be
impossible for it ever to occur, and I then desire that this packet
shall be destroyed unopened. The commencement of any litigation which
may involve the disclosure of the information in the packet is to be
held to be the termination of the trust, and I desire this my wish to
be regarded as a vital part of the trust, and I leave it as a sacred
charge upon you all that the packet shall be immediately destroyed.
Offering you my gratitude, not only for your past devotion to the
firm, but also for the personal friendship of yourselves, which it
has been my privilege to enjoy.--I remain, your affectionate partner,
JOHN RELLINGHAM.”
“You are right about the mystery, Baxter.”
“Yes. I wonder if any such trust has ever been created before!”
“I doubt it. Still, it’s all pretty plain sailing. You three are just
to draw the income till some overpowering circumstance occurs which
advertises itself as the occasion Sir John refers to.”
“I haven’t told you quite all, Tempest. The Home Secretary has
commenced litigation, and he has also obtained an _ex parte_
injunction, restraining our firm from destroying any documents or
dealing with the trust, pending an order of the court.”
“Then by the terms of the will the trust is already at an end, and
you rake in and divide the capital. But it’s rather awkward about the
documents. By the terms of the trust they must at once be destroyed,
and yet you say the Crown have got an injunction to prevent you. What
have you done?”
“What should you have done, Tempest?”
The barrister laughed. “Are you here for a professional opinion?”
“Well, suppose you give me that to begin with?”
“Then I’m bound to tell you you must obey the order of the court, which
overrides the terms of the trust, and I’m bound to advise you that
disobedience would be flagrant contempt of court, for which the penalty
is imprisonment until the contempt is purged. Still, all that’s ancient
history to you and your firm. You didn’t come here, I’ll warrant, just
for me to tell you that much.”
“No, Tempest, I didn’t.”
The two men looked at each other, and gradually a smile formed itself
on each face.
“And I’m pretty certain,” said the barrister, “you did not come here
for me to tell you what to do. What have you done?”
“Tempest--frankly, now--tell me what you think we ought to have done.
I’ve told you our legal difficulty; but there’s the other one, and
that’s why I came to you. Are these documents likely to be a clue to
the murder? If so, ought we to disclose them? You are an adept at
murders--or rather at elucidating them. What do you think?”
“What a situation!”
The barrister rose to his feet and lit a cigarette as he began to pace
his room, backwards and forwards along the well-marked path across
his carpet. The solicitor sat and watched him--watched his impassive
face--watched the quick, nervous fingers as they clicked the rings upon
them backwards and forwards--watched the cigarette smoked to the end
and thrown away as another was lighted from it. At last the barrister
came to a pause in front of his fireplace.
“Baxter, the murder has proved an insoluble mystery, depending upon an
unknown motive. You know everything about Sir John’s affairs, except
what those papers may disclose. You cannot find a basis for a motive in
what you know. The odds are the clue is hidden in those papers.”
“I agree with you. I should say that is probable.”
“But no man contemplates his own murder without taking steps to avert
it, if that be possible. Sir John took no steps at all. No man would
sit down to be murdered, and content himself with providing evidence
to catch his murderer afterwards. Sir John never created the trust
for that purpose. You can rest assured this is not the eventuality to
provide for which that trust was created. It exists for some widely
different purpose. And there’s another thing, Baxter. Sir John says
a disclosure would be a breach of faith. That would involve a third
person. It is that third person on whose behalf Sir John has gone to
all that trouble. It wasn’t himself he was bothering about. So long as
he was alive he could have dealt with the thing himself, or he might
have been waiting for the knowledge that it never would arise. That
was why he did not constitute the trust during his own lifetime, but
preferred rather to run the risk of public curiosity about the clause
in his will.”
“What should you have done, Tempest?”
“I should have destroyed the papers, I think; but there is one awful
risk. Suppose they do contain the clue to the murder, and through the
lack of that clue an innocent person gets hanged?”
“Well, as a matter of fact we burnt them yesterday.”
“Then you elected to run that risk?”
“Tempest, it isn’t fair to a lawyer to tell him only half the tale.
Wrapped round the papers was another slip. As nearly as I remember, the
words written on it were as follows:--
“‘This paper is to be burnt the moment it has been read. I desire that
no memorandum of it shall ever be put into writing. If litigation is
threatened, this packet is to be burned immediately. A duplicate set
of the papers is deposited in the name of the firm at the Chancery
Lane Safe Deposit. The existence of this duplicate set is not to be
disclosed. I leave it to the honour and integrity of my partners that
if under litigation the trust ceases to exist, it shall at the earliest
safe opportunity be again reconstituted.’”
“That does away with the risk I spoke of. You were certainly right to
destroy the papers.”
“In spite of the court?”
“Yes, I think so. I’m sure of it. The old boy intended you to stand the
racket. I should fancy he anticipated it, though it’s more likely he
expected litigation from the heir-at-law than the Crown.”
“That is the conclusion my partners and I came to. But, Tempest, ought
we to disclose the other simply to catch the murderer?”
“No, I think not. Sir John is dead. You can’t bring him to life again.
All you can do is to regard his wishes. I bet he’d prefer that to the
stringing up of some poor devil.”
When the motion came on in court the trust was upheld. As constituted
under the will it had been perfectly valid; but now under the terms of
the will the litigation had put an end to it, and the court ruled that
the capital moneys had now vested in the surviving partners for their
own benefit.
“Come and dine with all of us to-night, Tempest,” said one of the
partners, as they left the law courts after hearing judgment given.
“We’re in a deuce of a quandary!”
The invitation was accepted, and after dinner the four men sat over the
walnuts and the wine in the sumptuously furnished bachelor chambers of
Arthur Baxter.
“You see, Tempest,” said the host, “the secret trust is already
reconstituted. We did it this afternoon. We can’t afford to run the
risk of one of us dying and his executors claiming any proprietorship
in the money. So the position now is exactly as it was when the will
was first proved. But now that the court has declared the money to
belong to us personally, the state of affairs isn’t particularly
pleasant, because that infernal evening rag is bound to adopt the
standpoint that by preventing the elucidation of the murder we have
advantaged our own pockets, and that we took the line we did for that
reason.”
“Is that as far as you’ve got, Baxter?”
“Yes, but what do you mean?”
“My dear man, don’t you see what the logical consequence is? Don’t any
of you see it?”
The three solicitors looked at each other in surprise, and then glanced
back at Tempest, as his grave face filled with concern, and they looked
the question to him which they waited for the barrister to answer.
“Moorhouse, I saw you at Epsom, so I suppose you bet? Well, I’ll lay
you a pound to a penny that unless the real murderer of Sir John is
discovered pretty quickly, one or other of you three, if not all of
you, will be accused of the murder--very likely arrested for it, if
they can find the semblance of any circumstantial evidence. If you’ll
take my advice, you’ll look pretty carefully to your alibis on the
evening and night Sir John was murdered.”
“You cannot mean that seriously, Tempest?”
“I do mean it, and I’m perfectly serious. You three men are not in an
enviable position.”
As Tempest spoke he looked across the table to where Marston was
sitting. His face had gone as white as a sheet, and his fingers were
trembling as mechanically he eased the collar at his throat.
“What’s the matter, Marston?” said one of his partners.
“It’s three months ago. I’ve no more idea than the man in the moon what
I was doing that evening.”
“Keep an engagement book?” asked Tempest.
“No--not private things. Just stick the cards up on the mantelpiece
till the shows are over and then pitch ’em away.”
“Nor a diary?”
“No. Never did such a thing.”
“Would your wife know?”
“Haven’t got a wife.”
“Do you think your servants would be likely to?”
“No. What can I do, Tempest?”
“Well, praying seems to be about all that’s left.”
“Why do you think we are any of us likely to be accused?”
“Simply because you must have motive for a murder. No one knows or can
suggest the shadow of a motive in regard to Sir John. You three who
knew him intimately and all his private affairs know of nothing that
even hints at a motive. You have gone through all his papers since his
death, and you can find nothing there to give you a clue. Nobody, as
far as you know, stood to profit by Sir John’s death except----”
“Except whom?”
“Except yourselves. Now, remember the police know less than you do, so
they can guess at no motive, save the obvious one I have pointed out
to you--that halfpenny rag has hounded Scotland Yard on till they got
the Home Office to interfere about the trust. They will go on now--mark
my words--on the basis that the line you three took was dictated by
your desire to bring the trust to an end. They will point out how you
all stood to benefit by Sir John’s death. They will assume--no matter
how much you may deny it--that being his partners you three were aware
beforehand both of the terms of the will and of the trust. Don’t
forget what the terms of the will were--‘to be applied by them to and
for the purposes which I have taken steps to sufficiently indicate to
them’--and don’t forget he divides his share of the partnership with
you. Just think what the obvious meaning of that is--what nine men out
of ten would assume to be the meaning----”
“What do you say that is, Tempest?”
“Simply that he had already told you. Nobody would, by the wildest
guess, be likely to imagine the existence of such a letter as he left.
And even the letter you can’t in honour disclose till it becomes a
matter of life and death.”
“It doesn’t seem to be very far off being that even now.”
“There’s another thing you fellows have overlooked. That shot was
obviously fired inside the room. There was nobody in the offices when
Smith left, except Sir John. How many keys are there?”
“We’ve each got one. Smith has one and the cleaner has one. The clerks
come whilst she is there. She does their rooms first and then does
ours afterwards. They arrive before she has finished.”
“Had Sir John a key?”
“Yes. We found it on his bunch in his pocket after he was dead.”
“Then his key wasn’t used. Now, Smith locked the door when he left.
It’s a spring latch--that came out at the inquest. So did Smith’s
alibi that evening. So did the old woman’s. That only leaves the
three keys you chaps have. There’s no difficulty about getting out
afterwards--it’s the getting in that matters.”
“God! Tempest, you are building up a case against us.”
“Well, there’s only one loophole; and that’s the possibility that Sir
John himself opened the door to his murderer. I really think that’s
the true explanation, because he had previously told Smith he wished
him to go. I’m pretty certain myself that Sir John was expecting
somebody whom he wished to see without the visit being known. But the
police will try the other tack first, and they will try and fix the
responsibility on one or all of you three. Don’t let me frighten you
too soon. They couldn’t get a conviction on what we or they know at
present; but once, by accident or by research, they can get any fact
that seems to corroborate the theory, then the position is changed. You
can rest assured they are looking for such a fact already. That’s what
I meant in warning you about your alibis.”
“Well, mine’s good enough,” said Baxter. “I was at the club.”
“What time did you go there?”
“About eight, and I stayed playing cards till nearly midnight.”
“Baxter, don’t forget Smith left Sir John soon after six. His dead body
wasn’t found till next morning. You’ve got to account for the time
from six to eight and after midnight. Then Marston has absolutely
forgotten. How about you, Moorhouse?”
“Oh, I was at the theatre.”
“That’s only another partial one, then. Why on earth don’t you people
try to find out who did murder the man and not wait till you are in
sight of the rope yourselves before you start?”
“But what can we do?”
“You can offer a reward for one thing. You can engage Dennis Yardley,
the detective, for another.”
“Tempest, can we make it worth your while for you to take a hand in it?”
“No. I’m not keen at playing detective professionally. It’s not my
profession. But I don’t mind helping Yardley, as I’ve done in other
cases, if that’s what you want.”
“Will you take a retainer from us?”
“What do you mean?”
“In case any of us are accused.”
“Oh, certainly. Fix it up with my clerk in the morning. Book it as
_in re_ Rellingham. Now, don’t do anything to draw suspicion upon
yourselves, but do your utmost to account for how you all spent that
particular night. Of course, I may be quite wrong in what I’ve said. I
hope I am, but I can’t help seeing the risk.”
The four men separated, each going his lonely way home. But
justification of all Tempest had said was to follow quickly. Step
by step, on the very lines the barrister had indicated, the case
was argued the following day in a leader in the same paper that
had previously taken up the matter, and the article wound up with
a definite demand for the arrest and trial of the three surviving
partners in the firm.
That a conviction could be obtained was a proposition which few cared
to admit; but, on the other hand, the bulk of the public were quite
willing to commit themselves to the ready admission that “there might
be something in it after all.” And, day by day, as the suspicion
grew, the position of the three solicitors became almost unbearable.
They felt themselves slowly but only too certainly drifting into the
position of social lepers. And there was nothing more that they could
do. They thought of libel, and the thing went to Lake Rodgers, K. C.,
for an opinion. His opinion was that the article had been so carefully
written that it contained no libel, and the opinion ended with the
friendly hint that a failure to obtain a verdict would probably be more
damaging under the circumstances than inaction.