Within That Room!. John Russell Fearn

Thwaite, of course, but all the same....

      Vera hastily boarded the bus, and found a seat on the lower deck. The legal-looking man also boarded and went upstairs. Vera sat wondering and frowning, so much so that she vaguely resented the presence of the conductor asking for her fare.

      At London Road station she took up her case and alighted. Glancing back, she saw that the annoying little man with the briefcase was walking swiftly after her—so she put on speed, mingled with the crowd inside the station, and as far as she could tell managed to lose her pursuer. Unless, of course, there was always the chance he was not Mr. Thwaite at all.

      Vera bought her ticket to London and to her relief found the 10:50 already waiting at platform 1. Complimenting herself on her evasive action in face of the enemy she selected a compartment, heaved her case up on the rack, then settled down in a corner seat furthest from the corridor.

      When the train had been an hour on its way, however, her complacency was shattered. As she sat reading in her corner she happened to glance up to behold a bowler-hatted figure in dark clothes moving along the corridor. He peered into her compartment, looking straight at her, then at her four traveling companions. Inwardly she began to quiver with indignation, was right on the verge of jumping up and demanding to know what he wanted—then remembering it could only be a summons, she remained still and waited. The little man moved on—but Vera had not the least doubt that he was hovering in the corridor just out of her line of vision.

      When she left the compartment in search of the dining car, she glanced casually over her shoulder. Sure enough, there he was. He seemed about to raise a hand at her in signal but she turned away so quickly she could not be sure of it. When she entered the dining car she whipped up a menu quickly and sat peeping over it.

      Presently the little man came drifting in. He was forestalled in his approach, however, by the waiter. Vera gave her order and then sat back and looked icily through the pursuer as he dodged in the background. Quite undeterred, though, he came forward, taking off his bowler hat to reveal a bald head fringed with gray fluff.

      “Excuse me, but—are you Miss Vera Grantham?” he asked.

      His voice was quiet enough, Vera decided, and quite cultured—but she remained coldly uncompromising.

      “I am. And if you don’t stop following me, I intend to inform the guard! I strongly object to it!”

      CHAPTER TWO

      CODICIL

      “You are quite within your rights, Miss Grantham, and I really must apologise. If it were not so important a matter I—”

      “It must be!” Vera interrupted. “You have never stopped chasing me since I left my room in Manchester!”

      The little man put his hat down on one of the chairs, and then seated himself beside it.

      “Forgive me, Miss Grantham, but this is something which cannot wait—You don’t mind my sitting at your table?”

      “I don’t own the train, do I?”

      “Hmmm—no, of course not. Er— Here is my card.” Vera took it though she knew what was coming—

      Jonathan Thwaite

      Morgan, Thwaite & Hendricks

      Solicitors

      Brazennose St., Manchester

      “Very interesting,” Vera said. “But it’s no surprise....”

      She looked at him steadily and read puzzlement in his eyes. It was as though he could not understand her distant manner.

      “You go to quite a lot of trouble to serve a summons, don’t you?” Vera asked.

      “Summons?” Jonathan Thwaite looked as though the word were in a foreign language. “Summons?” he repeated. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

      “I can hardly conceive of any other, being up to my neck in debt and with little prospect of paying off—”

      “So that’s it!” Thwaite laughed so much the gold in his back teeth became revealed. Then he seemed to remember the sobriety of his calling and became serious again. “No wonder you resented my following you.”

      He leaned forward confidentially, but before he could get started the waiter returned with Vera’s lunch.

      “I’ll take the same,” Thwaite said, surveying it: then as the waiter hurried off, he added: “I’m here to bring you good news, Miss Grantham, and if it is all the same to you, you can transact the business here instead of returning to Manchester. I can get a train back from Crewe.”

      “Good news?” Vera was suspicious. “But you don’t even resemble Santa Claus, Mr. Thwaite.”

      He coughed away his inner thoughts and laid his briefcase on the table beside him. Then he leaned forward again and asked a question in a hushed voice.

      “Do you remember your Uncle Cyrus? Cyrus Merriforth?”

      Vera frowned and tried to remember. It required some effort, too.

      “Why, yes, I believe I do,” Vera assented. “Only vaguely, though. I met him once when I was a girl at school. I seem to remember that he was a world traveler, always hopping about collecting butterflies and plants or something, then coming home and writing books about them.”

      “Your uncle was a very famous entomologist and botanist, Miss Grantham.”

      “Knew his bugs?” Vera suggested calmly.

      “Hum! Ha! Yes, indeed!”

      Thwaite paused as his lunch was set before him. He looked at it and then cleared his throat.

      “We are his solicitors,” he resumed. “He learned during the war of your gallantry in the A.T.S.—of which there was some mention in the newspapers—and decided on that account to add a codicil to his will. Now that he is dead we—”

      “Oh, he’s dead!” Vera said.

      “Yes, yes, of course.” Thwaite looked irritable. “He died a little while ago and was cremated.”

      “I’m sorry, Mr. Thwaite, but you hadn’t told me he was dead. He added a codicil, a codicil because of me?” Vera wrestled with the unexpected.

      “But—but why me?” she asked blankly. “Didn’t he remember my mother, his own sister? Though she died in the blitz along with my father, my uncle did not know that....”

      “The codicil refers entirely to you,” Thwaite stated, brushing away the side issues.

      “And he left me a huge fortune, I suppose?” Vera shook her blonde head. “I just don’t believe it! Remote uncles only leave fortunes to half forgotten nieces in novels.”

      Thwaite coughed and looked at his lunch.

      “No, Miss Grantham,” he admitted, “he did not leave you a fortune.”

      Vera sighed, and picked up her knife and fork again. “I knew it! What then? A butterfly net and an old magnifying glass?”

      “He left you Sunny Acres and £100. The bulk of his fortune went to the Society for the Preservation of Ancient Flora and Fauna; that is except for an annuity to his two servants, Mr. and Mrs. Falworth.”

      Vera smiled sadly. Then her blue eyes began to take on a new light. “What do you mean by Sunny Acres?”

      “It is the residence which Mr. Merriforth owned. It is far more than a mere residence. It is a one-time feudal castle. It has extensive grounds, and, should you wish to sell, could probably realize £15,000 for it. Such an offer is indeed already in existence. Do you know Surrey at all? The little hamlet of Waylock Dean?”

      “Fifteen thou—Waylock Dean?” Vera shook her head absently. “Fifteen thousand! Great Scott!”

      “The residence,” Thwaite proceeded, “has