The Cotton Factory Times. — 1905-05-26 (Manchester, Greater Manchester, England)

CHAPTER XXI. THE HAND-PRINT ON THE WALL.  When Martin returned to Calverley Manor it ITU to find that its new owner had already begun to exert his authority. The lower windows had been shuttered, and the servants received notice to quit. Everything was to be put on a fresh footing, and Mr. Arnold Wyvern, leaning against one of the pillars of the porch, was smoking a cigarette placidly as 110 contemplated the neglected grounds. He was doing this as Martin came up the avenue, who would have passed him without speaking had not Wyvem arrested his steps. "I hope you will not hurry away from the Manor, Mr. West," he said. "It's scarcely lively here, I'll admit, but it may inconvenience you to go to-day." " I am at Mr. Herrick's disposal," replied Martin. "Ile wishes to go at once, and I shall go with him, of course."  "Have you any idea what he intends to do?" • .  "None Whatever."  "If he were a different sort of man from what he is," went on tfle other, "I might make a suggestion to him, which would be to his advantage. I should be glad to lend—to give him, in fact—a sum of money that would enable him to &tart in business abroad. I'm a great believer in going abroad, and I am willing to make it worth his while to go." "Why don't you suggest it to him?" "I'll think about it," replied Wyvern. "He took the will rather badly, don't you thinkF' Martin's eyes had an angry look, although he answered calmly:  "Rather moie seriously than you did," he replied. "For a man who had come into a large fortune, unexpectedly, you were particularly quiet, I thought." "There has been such a lot of things to be surprised at that I was hardly equal to the news—l'm just beginning to realise the fact. It is none the less gratifying."  " Scarcely that, I should think," retorted Martin. "There ía blood on the money you have inherited, Mr. Wyvern; there is a stain on the house, which only time can remove, and a foul crime to be atoned for by someone."  " You are quite dramatic," sneered Wyvern. "I have my own opinion as to the person who murdered the squire I may express it some day. At present the,* are no actual proofs." "The crime was too carefully planned for that." "Exactly my opinon, Mr. West," and Wyvern stepped out on to the path as if unwilling to continue the conversation. Martin went into the house, finding Dick in the dining-room. He was destroying some papers, and made no sign of any concern as he listened to Martin's account of his visit to Myrtle Cottage. "I have been reckoning up my wealth, Martin," he said, forcing a laugh. "And find lam worth two hundred pounds. When that is gone I shall—well, better men than I have enlisted, and a bullet through my head will save any further worry." "When shall you be ready to go to London?" asked Martin, ignoring the speech. "In an hour. I've done my packing," and Dick pointed to the disorder around him. "There's a train at eight, and then it's good-bye to Calverley Manor for ever. We'll dine in Drayfield." "Why should I speak to him. The scoundrel! I've spoken my last words to everybody here." Martin watched him sorrowfully. Words would be no salve to Dick's wounded heart, and with a promise to return soon he quitted the room, walking down the avenue. He had intended to have walked into the town, but an impulse caused him to change his mind. The sequence of events, from the time of the squire's murder, was retracing itself in his thoughts, and he suddenly stopped opposite the tenantless lodge. It was impulse that prompted him to turn aside and go up the narrow pathway which led to the deserted building, through the tangled briars and brambles. The light of the wintry sun was fading as he looked into the room, the window of which swung open in the wind, and then he entered the lodge. It contained only three rooms, the one where he found himself; showing the ravages of time and weather repulsively. The wall paper, stripped by damp, hung dragging on the leaf-covered floor, and the long-disused fireplace gaped forbiddingly in the light of the match which he had struck. Yet someone had been in the room recently, someone who in their haste, probably, had dropped something that lay revealed on the floor amongst the rotting leaves, and upon the wall was the trace of a slim, wellshaped hand—of a hand that had been stained with blood on palm and thumb and fingers.