“Dead?” exclaimed Spargo.  “That was sudden!”

“Very sudden,” agreed Mr. Quarterpage.  “Yes, sir, he came back in his coffin, did Chamberlayne.  On the very evening on which he’d spoken of being back, there came a telegram here to say that he’d died very suddenly at the Cosmopolitan Hotel.  That telegram came to his brother-in-law, Corkindale, the saddler—­you’ll find him down the street, opposite the Town Hall.  It was sent to Corkindale by a nephew of Chamberlayne’s, another Chamberlayne, Stephen, who lived in London, and was understood to be on the Stock Exchange there.  I saw that telegram, Mr. Spargo, and it was a long one.  It said that Chamberlayne had had a sudden seizure, and though a doctor had been got to him he’d died shortly afterwards.  Now, as Chamberlayne had his nephew and friends in London, his brother-in-law, Tom Corkindale, didn’t feel that there was any necessity for him to go up to town, so he just sent off a wire to Stephen Chamberlayne asking if there was aught he could do.  And next morning came another wire from Stephen saying that no inquest would be necessary, as the doctor had been present and able to certify the cause of death, and would Corkindale make all arrangements for the funeral two days later.  You see, Chamberlayne had bought a vault in our cemetery when he buried his wife, so naturally they wished to bury him in it, with her.”

Spargo nodded.  He was beginning to imagine all sorts of things and theories; he was taking everything in.

“Well,” continued Mr. Quarterpage, “on the second day after that, they brought Chamberlayne’s body down.  Three of ’em came with it—­Stephen Chamberlayne, the doctor who’d been called in, and a solicitor.  Everything was done according to proper form and usage.  As Chamberlayne had been well known in the town, a good number of townsfolk met the body at the station and followed it to the cemetery.  Of course, many of us who had been clients of Chamberlayne’s were anxious to know how he had come to such a sudden end.  According to Stephen Chamberlayne’s account, our Chamberlayne had wired to him and to his solicitor to meet him at the Cosmopolitan to do some business.  They were awaiting him there when he arrived, and they had lunch together.  After that, they got to their business in a private room.  Towards the end of the afternoon, Chamberlayne was taken suddenly ill, and though they got a doctor to him at once, he died before evening.  The doctor said he’d a diseased heart.  Anyhow, he was able to certify the cause of his death, so there was no inquest and they buried him, as I have told you.”

The old gentleman paused and, taking a sip at his sherry, smiled at some reminiscence which occurred to him.

“Well,” he said, presently going on, “of course, on that came all the Maitland revelations, and Maitland vowed and declared that Chamberlayne had not only had nearly all the money, but that he was absolutely certain that most of it was in his hands in hard cash.  But Chamberlayne, Mr. Spargo, had left practically nothing.  All that could be traced was about three or four thousand pounds.  He’d left everything to his nephew, Stephen.  There wasn’t a trace, a clue to the vast sums with which Maitland had entrusted him.  And then people began to talk, and they said what some of them say to this very day!”