THE LAWYER'S SUGGESTION
The offices of Mr. Bentham were situated at the extreme end of a dingy,
depressing looking street which ran from the Adelphi to the Embankment
Gardens. It was a street of private hotels which no one had ever heard
of, and where apparently no one ever stayed. A few cranky institutions,
existing under the excuse of charity, had their offices there, and a firm
of publishers, whose glory was of the past, still dragged out their
uncomfortable and profitless existence in a building whose dusty windows
and smoke-stained walls sufficiently proclaimed their fast approaching
extinction. They found the name of Mr. Bentham upon a rusty brass plate
outside the last building in the street, with the additional intimation
that his offices were upon the first floor. There they found him, without
clerks, without even an errand boy, in a large bare apartment overlooking
the embankment. The room was darkened by the branches of one of a row of
elm trees, and the windows themselves were curtainless. There was no
carpet upon the floor, no paper upon the walls, no rows of tin boxes,
none of the usual surroundings of a lawyer's office. The solicitor, who
had bidden them enter, did not at first offer them any salutation. He
paused in a letter which he was writing and his eyes rested for a moment
upon Wrayson, and for a second or two longer upon his companion.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Bentham!" Wrayson said. "My name is Wrayson--you
remember me, I daresay."
"I remember you certainly, Mr. Wrayson," the lawyer answered. His eyes
were resting once more upon Sydney Barnes.
"This," Wrayson explained, "is Mr. Sydney Barnes, a brother of the Mr.
Morris Barnes, who was, I believe, a client of yours."
"Scarcely," the lawyer murmured, "a client of mine, although I must
confess that I was anxious to secure him as one. Possibly if he had lived
a few more hours, the epithet would have been in order."
Wrayson nodded.
"From a letter which we found in Mr. Barnes' desk," he remarked, "we
concluded that some business was pending between you. Hence our visit."
Mr. Bentham betrayed no sign of interest or curiosity of any sort.
"I regret," he said, "that I cannot offer you chairs. I am not
accustomed to receive my clients here. If you care to be seated upon
that form, pray do so."
Wrayson glanced at the form and declined. Sydney Barnes seemed scarcely
to have heard the invitation. His eyes were glued upon the lawyer's face.
"Will you tell me precisely," Mr. Bentham said, "in what way I can be of
service to you?"
"I want to know where my brother's money is," Barnes declared, stepping a
little forward. "Two thousand a year he had. We've seen it in his
bank-book. Five hundred pounds every quarter day! And we can't find a
copper! You were his lawyer, or were going to be. You must have known
something about his position."
Mr. Bentham looked straight ahead with still, impassive face. No trace
of the excitement in Sydney Barnes' face was reflected in his features.
"Two thousand a year," he repeated calmly. "It was really as much as
that, was it? Your brother had, I believe, once mentioned the amount to
me. I had no idea, though, that it was quite so large."
"I am his heir," the young man declared feverishly. "I'll take my oath
there's no one else. I'm going to take out letters of administration. He
hadn't another relation on God's earth."
Mr. Bentham regarded the young man thoughtfully.
"Have you any idea, Mr. Barnes," he asked, "as to the source of
this income?"
"Of course I haven't," Barnes answered. "That's why we're here. You must
know something about it."
"Your brother was not my client," the lawyer said slowly. "If his death
had not been quite so sudden, I think that he might have been. As it is,
I know very little of his affairs. I am afraid that I can be of very
little use to you."
"You must know something," Barnes declared doggedly. "You must tell us
what you do know."
"Your brother was," Mr. Bentham said, "a very remarkable man. Has it
never occurred to you, Mr. Barnes, that this two thousand a year might
have been money received in payment of services rendered--might have
been, in short, in the nature of a salary?"
"Not likely," Barnes answered, contemptuously. "Morris did no work at
all. He did nothing but just enjoy himself and spend money."
"Nothing but enjoy himself and spend money," Mr. Bentham repeated. "Ah!
Did you see a great deal of your brother during the last few years?"
"I saw nothing of him at all. I was out in South Africa. I have only just
got back. Not but that I'd been here long ago," the young man added, with
a note of exasperation in his tone, "if I'd had any idea of the luck he
was in. Why, I lent him a bit to come back with, though I was only
earning thirty bob a week, and the brute only sent it me back in bits,
and not a farthing over."
"That was not considerate of him," Mr. Bentham agreed--"not at all
considerate. Your brother had the command of considerable sums of money.
In fact, Mr. Barnes, I may tell you, without any breach of confidence, I
think that if he had kept his appointment with me on the night when he
was murdered, I was prepared, on behalf of my client, to hand him a
cheque for ten thousand pounds!"
Barnes struck the table before him with his clenched fist.
"For what?" he cried, hysterically. "Ten thousand pounds for what?"
"Your brother," Mr. Bentham said calmly, "was possessed of securities
which were worth that much or even more to my client."
"And where are they now?" Barnes gasped.
"I do not know," Mr. Bentham answered. "If you can find them, I think it
very likely that my client might make you a similar offer."
It was the first ray of hope. Barnes moistened his dry lips with his
tongue, and drew a long breath.
"Securities!" he muttered. "What sort of securities?"
"There, unfortunately," Mr. Bentham said, "I am unable to help you. I am
an agent only in the matter. They were securities which my client was
anxious to buy, and your brother was not unwilling to sell for cash,
notwithstanding the income which they were bringing him in."
"But how can I look for them, if I don't know what they are?" Barnes
protested.
"There are difficulties, certainly," the lawyer admitted, carefully
polishing his spectacles with the corner of a silk handkerchief; "but,
then, as you have doubtless surmised, the whole situation is a
difficult one."
"You can get to know," Barnes exclaimed. "Your client would tell you."
Mr. Bentham sighed gently.
"Of course," he said, "I am only quoting my own opinion, but I do not
think that my client would do anything of the sort. These securities
happen to be of a somewhat secret nature. Your brother was in a position
to make an exceedingly clever use of them. It appears incidentally to
have cost him his life, but there are risks, of course, in every
profession."
Barnes stared at him with wide-open eyes. He seemed, for the moment,
struck dumb. Wrayson, who had been silent during the greater part of the
conversation, turned towards the lawyer.
"You believe, then," he asked, "that Morris Barnes was murdered for the
sake of these securities?"
"I believe--nothing," the lawyer answered. "It is not my business to
believe. Mr. Morris Barnes was in the receipt of an income of two
thousand a year, which we might call dividend upon these securities. My
client, through me, made Mr. Barnes a cash offer to buy them outright,
and although I must admit that Mr. Barnes had not closed with us, yet I
believe that he was on the point of doing so. He had doubtless had it
brought home to him that there was a certain amount of danger associated
with his position generally. The night on which my client arrived in
England was the night upon which Mr. Morris Barnes was murdered. The
inference to be drawn from this circumstance I can leave, I am sure, to
the common sense of you two gentlemen."
"First, then," Wrayson said, "it would appear that he was murdered by the
people who were paying him two thousand a year, and who were acting in
opposition to your client!"
Mr. Bentham shrugged his shoulder gently.
"It does not sound unreasonable," he admitted.
"And secondly," Wrayson continued, "if that was so, he was probably
robbed of these securities at the same time."
"Now that, also," Mr. Bentham said smoothly, "sounds reasonable. But, as
a matter of fact," he continued, looking down upon the table, "there are
certain indications which go to disprove it. My personal opinion is that
the assassin--granted that there was an assassin, and granted that he was
acting on behalf of the parties we have referred to--met with a
disappointment."
"In plain words," Wrayson interrupted, "you mean that the other side have
not possessed themselves of the securities?"
"They certainly have not," Mr. Bentham declared. "They still remain--the
property by inheritance of this young gentleman here--Mr. Sydney Barnes,
I believe."
His tone was so even, so expressionless, that its slightest changes were
noticeable. It seemed to Wrayson that a faint note of sarcasm had crept
into these last few words. Mr. Barnes himself, however, was quite
oblivious of it. His yellow-stained fingers were spread out upon the
table. He leaned over towards the lawyer. His under lip protruded, his
deep-set eyes seemed closer than ever together. He was grimly, tragically
in earnest.
"Look here," he said. "What can I do to get hold of 'em? I don't care
what it is. I'm game! I'll deal with your man--the cash client. I'll give
you a commission, see! Five per cent on all I get. How's that? I'll play
fair. Now chuck away all this mystery. What were these securities? Where
shall I start looking for them?"
Mr. Bentham regarded him with stony face. "There are certain points," he
said, "upon which I cannot enlighten you. My duty to my client forbids
it. I cannot describe to you the nature of those securities. I cannot
suggest where you should look for them. All that I can say is that they
are still to be found, and that my client is still a buyer."
The young man turned to Wrayson. His face was twitching with some
emotion, probably anger.
"Did you ever hear such bally rot!" he exclaimed. "He knows all
about these securities all right. They belong to me. He ought to be
made to tell."
Wrayson shrugged his shoulders.
"It does seem rather a wild-goose chase, doesn't it?" he remarked. "Can't
you tell him a little more, Mr. Bentham?"
Mr. Bentham sighed, as though his impotence were a matter of sincere
regret to him.
"The only advice I can offer Mr. Barnes," he said, "is that he induce you
to aid him in his search. Between you, I should never be surprised to
hear of your success."
"And why," Wrayson asked, "should you consider me such a useful ally?"
Mr. Bentham looked at him steadily for a moment.
"You appear to me," he said, "to be a young man of intelligence--and you
know how to keep your own counsel. I should consider Mr. Barnes very
fortunate if you could make up your mind to aid him in his search."
"It is not my affair," Wrayson answered stiffly. "I could not possibly
pledge myself to enter upon such a wild-goose chase."
Mr. Bentham turned over some papers which lay upon the table before him.
He had apparently had enough of the conversation.
"You must not call it exactly that, Mr. Wrayson," he said. "Mr. Barnes'
success in his quest would probably result in an act of justice to
society. To you personally, I should imagine it would be expressly
interesting."
"What do you mean?" Wrayson asked, quickly.
The lawyer looked at him calmly.
"It should solve the mystery of Morris Barnes' murder!" he answered.
Wrayson touched his companion on the shoulder.
"I think that we might as well go," he said. "Mr. Bentham does not mean
to tell us anything more."
Barnes moved slowly towards the door, but with reluctance manifested in
his sullen face and manner.
"I don't know how I'm going to set about this job," he said, turning once
more towards the lawyer. "I shall do what I can, but you haven't seen the
last of me, yet, Mr. Bentham. If I fail, I shall come back to you."
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. He was already absorbed in other work.