"Why," continued Cobcroft, "it isn't what you rightly would call a secret--though I don't think anybody knows aught about it but myself! It was just this--and it may be there's naught in it but a mere fancy o' mine. That morning, before the accident happened, I was in and out of the private office a good deal--carrying in and out letters, and account books, and so on. Mr. John Mallathorpe's private office, ye'll understand, sir, opened out of our counting-house--as it does still--the present manager, Mr. Horsfall, has it, just as it was. Well, now, on one occasion, when I went in there, to take a ledger back to the safe, Mr. Mallathorpe had his manager and cashier, Gaukrodger and Marshall in with him. Mr. Mallathorpe, he always used a stand-up desk to write at--never wrote sitting down, though he had a big desk in the middle of the room that he used to sit at to look over accounts or talk to people. Now when I went in, he and Gaukrodger and Marshall were all at this stand-up desk--in the window-place--and they were signing some papers. At least Gaukrodger had just signed a paper, and Marshall was taking the pen from him. 'Sign there, Marshall,' says Mr. Mallathorpe. And then he went on, 'Now we'll sign this other--it's well to have these things in duplicate, in case one gets lost.' And then--well, then, I went out, and--why, that was all." "You've some idea in your mind about that," said Collingwood, who had watched Cobcroft closely as he talked. "What is it?" Cobcroft smiled--and looked round as if to ascertain that they were alone. "Why!" he answered in a low voice. "I'll tell you what I did wonder--some time afterwards. I dare say you're aware--it was all in the papers--that Mr. John Mallathorpe died intestate?" "Yes," asserted Collingwood. "I know that."