There were two documents to be witnessed—the will and the agreement. The I.O.U., which was Woodman’s further security for the £20,000, would not, of course, be signed until the money was actually paid over. The two men went downstairs, found the night-porter and a waiter who had not yet gone to bed, and completed the two documents in their presence. Then, taking the will and his copy of the agreement, Woodman bade Walter Brooklyn good-night, receiving a not very cordial response. His first business on the morrow would be to use the two documents and the joint expectation of the two men under Sir Vernon’s will, as a means of raising at once, not merely the £20,000 for Walter Brooklyn, but the much larger sum of which he himself stood immediately in need. He thought he knew a man who would let him have the money. If he failed, bankruptcy was inevitable. Woodman congratulated himself on a good night’s work. Already his chestnuts were half out of the fire. Walter Brooklyn, when Woodman had gone, sat down again in his chair with a heavy sigh. He was very conscious that he had been swindled. Carter Woodman knew the terms of Sir Vernon’s will, and he did not; and it was certain that, with this knowledge to help him, Woodman had struck a hard bargain. Moreover, he not only knew the will: he was in a very strong position, as Sir Vernon’s legal adviser, to prevent the making of a new one which would be disadvantageous to him. Woodman was almost safe to score, whatever might happen. But there was solid comfort in the thought that, under the compact they had just made, it was to Woodman’s interest that Walter should get the largest possible slice of Sir Vernon’s money. Whatever came to Walter was to become Woodman’s in time. Woodman, therefore, would be bound to do his best to serve Walter’s interests. Yes, there were compensations in being swindled on such terms. Walter stood a good chance of wealth for as long as he lived; and what did it matter to him who might get the money after his death? “After me, the deluge,” said Walter Brooklyn to himself, summing up the evening’s transaction. Chapter XXVII Robert Ellery’s Idea Ellery woke up in the morning with the dim consciousness that he had a great idea. What had he been thinking out when he dropped off to sleep the night before? The murders, of course—they were always in his thoughts. But what was the shattering new idea that had come to him as he lay awake? That was how his best ideas often came—in the night just before he went to sleep they came to him half-formed, and the next morning, by the time he was fully awake, they had somehow taken on form and certainty. With an effort he stretched and roused himself, and, as he did so, the idea came back to him. He felt certain that he knew who was the murderer.