“He ought to be here now,” murmured Mr. Enright sweetly, looking at his watch, and soon the expected visitor was ushered in.  Arising to his feet the attorney extended a moist, pudgy hand.

“Quite prompt, John,” he greeted.  “Take the chair there—­and pardon me a moment.”

As the youth complied Enright opened the door, glanced into the outer room, and gave orders not to be disturbed for the next half-hour.  Then, drawing in his head, closed the door and turned the key.

“John,” he resumed smoothly, “I have been somewhat surprised that you failed to consult me earlier regarding the will of your late cousin Frederick.”

“His—­his will!” John leaned forward amazed, as he stared into the other’s expressionless face.  “Did—­did he leave one?”

“Oh! that’s it,” the attorney chuckled.  “You didn’t know about it, did you?  How odd.  I thought I informed you of the fact over the phone the same night Frederick died.”

“You told me he had called upon you to prepare a will—­but there was none found in his papers.”

“So I inferred from the newspaper accounts,” Enright chuckled dryly, his eyes narrowing, “as well as the information that you had applied for letters of administration.  In view of that, I thought a little chat advisable—­yes, quite advisable, since on the night of his death I did draw up his will.  Incidentally, I am the only one living aware that such a will was drawn.  You see my position?”

Young Cavendish didn’t; this was all strange, confusing.

“The will,” resumed Mr. Enright, “was drawn in proper form and duly witnessed.”

“There can’t be such a will.  None was found.  You phoned me shortly before midnight, and twenty minutes later Frederick was in his apartments.  He had no time to deposit it elsewhere.  There is no such will.”

Enright smiled, not pleasantly by any means.

“Possibly not,” he said with quiet sinister gravity.  “It was probably destroyed and it was to gain possession of that will that Frederick Cavendish was killed.”

John leaped to his feet, his face bloodless:  “My God!” he muttered aghast, “do you mean to say——­”

“Sit down, John; this is no cause for quarrel.  Now listen.  I am not accusing you of crime; not intentional crime, at least.  There is no reason why you should not naturally have desired to gain possession of the will.  If an accident happened, that was your misfortune.  I merely mention these things because I am your friend.  Such friendship leads me first to inform you what had happened over the phone.  I realised that Frederick’s hasty determination to devise his property elsewhere was the result of a quarrel.  I believed it my duty to give you opportunity to patch that quarrel up with the least possible delay.  Perhaps this was not entirely professional on my part, but the claims of friendship are paramount to mere professional ethics.”