what this discovery would mean to the present holders of the Mallathorpe
property, and his curiosity--a strongly developed quality in him--became
more and more excited. If Eldrick was not at home, if he could not get
in touch with him, he would persuade old Bartle to let him see his
find--he would cheerfully go late to his dinner if he could only get a
peep at this strangely discovered document. Romance! Why, this indeed
was romance; and it might be--what else? Old Bartle had already chuckled
about topsy-turvydom: did that mean that--

The telephone bell rang: Eldrick had not yet reached his house. Pratt
got on to the club: Eldrick had not been there. He rang off, and went
back to the private room.

"Can't get hold of him, Mr. Bartle," he began, as he closed the door.
"He's not at home, and he's not at the club. I say!--you might as well
let me have a look at----"

Pratt suddenly stopped. There was a strange silence in the room: the old
man's wheezy breathing was no longer heard. And the clerk moved forward
quickly and looked round the high back of the easy chair....

He knew at once what had happened--knew that old Bartle was dead before
he laid a finger on the wasted hand which had dropped helplessly at his
side. He had evidently died without a sound or a movement--died as
quietly as he would have gone to sleep. Indeed, he looked as if he had
just laid his old head against the padding of the chair and dropped
asleep, and Pratt, who had seen death before, knew that he would never
wake again. He waited a moment, listening in the silence. Once he
touched the old man's hand; once, he bent nearer, still listening. And
then, without hesitation, and with fingers that remained as steady as if