The Herapath Property

Produced by Andrew Wainwright, Suzanne Shell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









                                  THE

                            H E R A P A T H

                            P R O P E R T Y


                                   BY
                             J. S. FLETCHER


                                NEW YORK
                           ALFRED . A . KNOPF
                                MCMXXII




                          COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
                         ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.

                       _Published October, 1921_

                      _Second Printing, May, 1922_

                PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




CONTENTS


CHAPTER

       I JACOB HERAPATH IS MISSING, 9
      II IS IT MURDER? 18
     III BARTHORPE TAKES CHARGE, 27
      IV THE PRESSMAN, 36
       V THE GLASS AND THE SANDWICH, 45
      VI THE TAXI-CAB DRIVER, 54
     VII IS THERE A WILL? 64
    VIII THE SECOND WITNESS, 74
      IX GREEK AGAINST GREEK, 83
       X MR. BENJAMIN HALFPENNY, 91
      XI THE SHADOW, 100
     XII FOR TEN PER CENT, 109
    XIII ADJOURNED, 118
     XIV THE SCOTTISH VERDICT, 127
      XV YOUNG BRAINS, 136
     XVI NAMELESS FEAR, 145
    XVII THE LAW, 154
   XVIII THE ROSEWOOD BOX, 163
     XIX WEAVING THE NET, 172
      XX THE DIAMOND RING, 181
     XXI THE DESERTED FLAT, 190
    XXII YEA AND NAY, 199
   XXIII THE ACCUSATION, 208
    XXIV COLD STEEL, 217
     XXV PROFESSIONAL ANALYSIS, 226
    XXVI THE REMAND PRISON, 235
   XXVII THE LAST CHEQUE, 244
  XXVIII THE HOTEL RAVENNA, 253
    XXIX THE NOTE IN THE PRAYER-BOOK, 263
     XXX THE WHITE-HAIRED LADY, 273
    XXXI THE INTERRUPTED DINNER-PARTY, 283
   XXXII THE YORKSHIRE PROVERB, 290
  XXXIII BURCHILL FILLS THE STAGE, 294
   XXXIV DAVIDGE'S TRUMP CARD, 304
    XXXV THE SECOND WARRANT, 312




                                 THE

                               HERAPATH

                               PROPERTY




CHAPTER I

JACOB HERAPATH IS MISSING


This was the third week of Selwood's secretaryship to Jacob Herapath.
Herapath was a well-known man in London. He was a Member of Parliament,
the owner of a sort of model estate of up-to-date flats, and something
of a crank about such matters as ventilation, sanitation, and lighting.
He himself, a bachelor, lived in one of the best houses in Portman
Square; when he engaged Selwood as his secretary he made him take a
convenient set of rooms in Upper Seymour Street, close by. He also
caused a telephone communication to be set up between his own house and
Selwood's bedroom, so that he could summon his secretary at any hour of
the night. Herapath occasionally had notions about things in the small
hours, and he was one of those active, restless persons who, if they get
a new idea, like to figure on it at once. All the same, during those
three weeks he had not once troubled his secretary in this fashion. No
call came to Selwood over that telephone until half-past seven one
November morning, just as he was thinking of getting out of bed. And the
voice which then greeted him was not Herapath's. It was a rather anxious,
troubled voice, and it belonged to one Kitteridge, a middle-aged man, who
was Herapath's butler.

In the act of summoning Selwood, Kitteridge was evidently interrupted by
some person at his elbow; all that Selwood made out was that Kitteridge
wanted him to go round at once. He dressed hurriedly, and ran off to
Herapath's house; there in the hall, near the door of a room which
Herapath used as a study and business room, he found Kitteridge talking
to Mountain, Herapath's coachman, who, judging by the state of his
attire, had also been called hurriedly from his bed.

"What is it, Kitteridge?" demanded Selwood. "Mr. Herapath ill?"

The butler shook his head and jerked his thumb towards the open door of
the study.

"The fact is, we don't know where Mr. Herapath is, sir," he answered.
"He hasn't slept in his bed, and he isn't in the house."

"Possibly he didn't come home last night," suggested Selwood. "He may
have slept at his club, or at an hotel."

The butler and the coachman looked at each other--then the coachman, a
little, sharp-eyed man who was meditatively chewing a bit of straw,
opened his tightly-compressed lips.

"He did come home, sir," he said. "I drove him home--as usual. I saw him
let himself into the house. One o'clock sharp, that was. Oh, yes, he
came home!"

"He came home," repeated Kitteridge. "Look here, sir." He led the way
into the study and pointed to a small table set by the side of
Herapath's big business desk. "You see that tray, Mr. Selwood? That's
always left out, there, on that table, for Mr. Herapath every night. A
small decanter of whiskey, a syphon, a few sandwiches, a dry biscuit or
two. Well, there you are, sir--he's had a drink out of that glass, he's
had a mouthful or so of sandwiches.