“I think we ought to know who that fat man was,” he said.

“We do know.  She is a fat woman, the ex-barmaid from Ipswich.  Next time, they will send out the youthful Jiro in a perambulator.”

“But why are you so furious about it?” demanded Hume.  “Was it so important to ascertain what she did during that hour and a quarter?”

“Important!  It is the only real clue given us since ‘Rabbit Jack’ saw a man like you standing motionless in the avenue.”

CHAPTER XVIII

FURTHER COMPLICATIONS

Brett devoted half an hour to Frazer’s business affairs next morning.  David was present, and the result of the conclave is shown by the following excerpt from a letter the barrister sent by them to Mrs. Capella, incidentally excusing his personal attendance at the Hall: 

“In my opinion, your cousin David and you should guarantee the payment of the land-tax on Mr. Frazer’s estate—­L650 per annum—­for five years.  You should give him a reasonable sum to rehabilitate his wardrobe and pay the few small debts he has contracted, besides allowing him a weekly stipend to enable him to live properly for another year.  I will place him in touch with sound financial people, who will exploit his estate if they think the prospects are good, and you can co-operate in the scheme, if you are so advised by your solicitors, with whom the financiers I recommend will carry weight.  Failing support in England, Mr. Frazer says he can make his own way in the Argentine if helped in the manner I suggest.”

He explained to the two young men that his movements that day would be uncertain.  If the ladies still adhered to their resolve to proceed to London forthwith, the whole party would stay at the same hotel.  In that event they should send a telegram to his Victoria Street chambers, and he would dine with them.  Otherwise they must advise him of their whereabouts.

Left to himself, he curled up In an arm-chair, knotting legs and arms in the most uncomfortable manner, and rendering it necessary to crane his neck before he could remove a cigar from his lips.

In such posture, alternated with rapid walking about the room, he could think best.

The waiter, not knowing that the barrister had remained in the hotel, came in to see what trifles might be strewed about table or mantelpiece in the shape of loose “smokes” or broken hundreds of cigarettes.

Like most people, his eyes could only observe the expected, the normal.  No one was standing or sitting in the usual way—­therefore the room was empty.

A box of Brett’s Turkish cigarettes was lying temptingly open.  He advanced.

“Touch those, and I slay you,” snapped Brett.  “Your miserable life is not worth one of them.”

The man jumped as if he had been fired at.  The barrister, coiled up like a boa-constrictor, glared at him in mock fury.