"Edgson has been in our family ever since he was a lad. He's not romancing," replied Raife dryly. Mr Kellaway was a hard, level-headed, pessimistic person, who judged all men as law-breakers and criminals. He was one of those smug, old-fashioned Bedford Row solicitors, who had a dozen peers as clients, who transacted only family business, and whose firm was an eminently respectable one. "I have always thought Edgson a most reliable servant," he admitted, crossing to the safe, the key of which Raife had handed to him. "So he is. And when he tells me that my father possessed a secret, which he has carried to his grave--then I believe him. I have never yet known Edgson to tell a lie. Neither has my father. He was only saying so at dinner one night three months ago." "I have no personal knowledge of any secret of the late Sir Henry's," responded the elder man, speaking quite openly. "If I knew of any I would tell you frankly." "No, you wouldn't, Kellaway. You know you wouldn't betray a client's confidence," said Raife, with a grim, bitter smile, as he stood by the ancient window gazing across the old Jacobean garden. "Ah, perhaps you're right. Perhaps you're right," replied the man addressed. "But at any rate I repeat that I am ignorant of any facts concerning your father's past that he had sought to hide." "You mean that you will not betray my dead father's confidence?" "I mean what I say, Sir Raife--that I am in entire ignorance of anything which might be construed into a scandal." "I did not suggest scandal, Mr Kellaway," was his rather hard reply. "My father was, I suspect, acquainted with the man who shot him. The two men met in this room, and, I believe, the recognition was mutual!" "Your father knew the assassin?" echoed the lawyer, staring at the young man. "I believe so." "It seems incredible that Sir Henry should have been acquainted with an expert burglar--for such he apparently was." "Why should he have left me that warning message? Why should he seek to forewarn me of some mysterious trap?" The old solicitor shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply. The whole, tragic affair was a complete and absolute mystery. The London papers that afternoon were full of it, and already a host of eager reporters and press-photographers were waiting about on the off-chance of obtaining a glimpse of Raife, or any other member of the bereaved family. More than one had had the audacity to send in his card to Raife with a request for an interview, which had promptly been refused, and Edgson now had orders that the young master was not at home to any one. Raife, still unconvinced that Mr Kellaway was in ignorance of his father's secret, took him across to the cottage where lay the body of the stranger. The police were no longer there, but two doctors were making an examination. The inquest had been fixed for the morrow, and the medical men were consulting prior to the post-mortem.