“And was killed before he could do so?”

“Possibly; but if that dead man had no scar on his chest, he was not Frederick Cavendish; he was an impostor; some poor victim deliberately substituted because of his facial resemblance.  Tell me, if it was Fred who was murdered, what became of the money he was known to have in his private safe?  What became of the original copy of the will he had in his pocket when he left the club?”

She shook her head, convinced that his argument had force.

“I—­I do not know.”

“Yet these things are true, are they not?  No money, no will was found.  There is but one reason possible, unless others entered after the murder and stole these things.  My belief is that Fred returned to his apartments, took what money he required, packed his valise, and departed without a word to any one.  He often did things like that—­hastily, on the spur of the moment.”

“But what happened afterward?”

“The rest is all theory.  I do not know, but I’ll make a guess.  In some way the conspirators learned what had occurred, but not in time to intercept his departure; yet they had everything ready for action, and realised this was the opportunity.  Frederick had disappeared leaving no trace behind; they could attend to him later, intercept him, perhaps——­ Wait!  Keep still.  There comes the carriage from the train.”

He drew her back into the denser undergrowth and they looked out through the leaves to where the road circled in toward the bridge.  The hoof-beats of horses alone broke the silence.

CHAPTER XII:  VIEWED FROM BOTH SIDES

The team trotted on to the bridge, and then slowed down to a walk.  Above the dull reverberation of hoofs the listeners below could hear the sound of voices, and an echo of rather forced laughter.  Then the carriage emerged into full view.  Beside the driver it contained three passengers—­Beaton on the front seat, his face turned backward toward the two behind, a man and a woman.  Westcott and Miss Donovan, peering through the screen of leaves, caught only a swift glimpse of their faces—­the man middle-aged, inclined to stoutness, with an unusually red face, smoking viciously at a cigar, the woman young and decidedly blonde, with stray locks of hair blowing about her face, and a vivacious manner.  The carriage rolled on to the smooth road, and the driver touched up the horses with his whip, the lowered back curtain shutting off the view.

The girl seized Westcott’s arm while she directed his gaze with her free hand.  “Look!” she cried.  “The woman is La Rue.  And the man—­the man is Enright!  He is the lawyer I told you of, the one whose hand is not clear in this affair.  And he is here!”

“Good!” Westcott exclaimed.  “I’m glad they’re both here.  It means that there will be more to observe, and it means that there will be action—­and that, too, quick!  They are out here for a definite purpose which must soon be disclosed.  And, Miss Donovan, I may be a little rock-worn and a little bit out of style, but I think their presence here has something to do with the whereabouts of Fred Cavendish.”