“His younger son Murray was a refined, highly educated man, and was, moreover, the apple of his father’s eye, as he was the spoilt darling of Dublin society; good-looking, a splendid dancer, and a perfect rider, he was the acknowledged ‘catch’ of the matrimonial market of Ireland, and many a very aristocratic house was opened hospitably to the favourite son of the millionaire.

“Of course, Percival Brooks, the eldest son, would inherit the bulk of the old man’s property and also probably the larger share in the business; he, too, was good-looking, more so than his brother; he, too, rode, danced, and talked well, but it was many years ago that mammas with marriageable daughters had given up all hopes of Percival Brooks as a probable son-in-law.  That young man’s infatuation for Maisie Fortescue, a lady of undoubted charm but very doubtful antecedents, who had astonished the London and Dublin music-halls with her extravagant dances, was too well known and too old-established to encourage any hopes in other quarters.

“Whether Percival Brooks would ever marry Maisie Fortescue was thought to be very doubtful.  Old Brooks had the full disposal of all his wealth, and it would have fared ill with Percival if he introduced an undesirable wife into the magnificent Fitzwilliam Place establishment.

“That is how matters stood,” continued the man in the corner, “when Dublin society one morning learnt, with deep regret and dismay, that old Brooks had died very suddenly at his residence after only a few hours’ illness.  At first it was generally understood that he had had an apoplectic stroke; anyway, he had been at business hale and hearty as ever the day before his death, which occurred late on the evening of February 1st.

“It was the morning papers of February 2nd which told the sad news to their readers, and it was those selfsame papers which on that eventful morning contained another even more startling piece of news, that proved the prelude to a series of sensations such as tranquil, placid Dublin had not experienced for many years.  This was, that on that very afternoon which saw the death of Dublin’s greatest millionaire, Mr. Patrick Wethered, his solicitor, was murdered in Phoenix Park at five o’clock in the afternoon while actually walking to his own house from his visit to his client in Fitzwilliam Place.

“Patrick Wethered was as well known as the proverbial town pump; his mysterious and tragic death filled all Dublin with dismay.  The lawyer, who was a man sixty years of age, had been struck on the back of the head by a heavy stick, garrotted, and subsequently robbed, for neither money, watch, or pocket-book were found upon his person, whilst the police soon gathered from Patrick Wethered’s household that he had left home at two o’clock that afternoon, carrying both watch and pocket-book, and undoubtedly money as well.

“An inquest was held, and a verdict of wilful murder was found against some person or persons unknown.