thinking—thinking that it seemed a very strange thing, a most suspicious thing, that Thomas Wraypoole, on learning of his brother's tragic fate, should make for his belongings rather than for the mortuary where the unfortunate man was lying dead—and unclaimed. Suspicious?—yes, it was undoubtedly suspicious. Why this indecent haste? Thomas Wraypoole must have set off to Porteous Road almost as soon as he had read his newspaper. And there had been little in any newspaper—no more than the bare facts. Surely the first instinct of any decent-minded man would have been to go to the police for further information. . . .
"Carried off a lot of papers, did he?" remarked Wedgwood, abstractedly. "Um———"
"A bag full, mister," said Mrs. Creech. "And burnt a lot more—the grate was filled with papers he'd burned when he called me up into the room."
"How did you know this was his brother?" demanded Wedgwood. "You told me last night that he'd never had any relatives to call here!"
"Well, this gentleman said he was his brother," replied Mrs. Creech. "And gave me his name—Thomas Wraypoole. And you see, mister, there was a family likeness—it struck me that they may ha' been twins, them two."
