"Yes. I see that all the money is left to you. I will give you back the document to-morrow. What time do you wish me to call?"
"About eleven o'clock. I have written to Mr. Busham making an appointment for mid-day. I am glad you are coming with me," said the widow, sighing; "it will be a difficult interview."
"That remains to be seen. At any rate, we are not so defenceless as we were before. If Busham accuses you--although I don't see on what grounds he can do so--we can denounce him on the evidence of Zirknitz."
"He will deny that he was at Dukesfield."
"No doubt, but will Rudolph do so? He is so afraid of the police."
Ellis reflected for a moment. "You are not so candid with me as you might be, Mrs. Moxton," said he, seriously, "therefore you render my task the more difficult. But answer me truly now. Has Zirknitz ever done anything for which he is wanted by the police?"
"Not to my knowledge," replied the widow, frankly, "but he is such a coward, and his life is so open to danger, that the very name of the law terrifies him beyond expression. It is for this reason that I am certain of his innocence, and for the same reason I shielded him by feigning ignorance of the cryptogram. But we can talk of these things later. I am tired now."
In this abrupt way she dismissed Ellis, and he left the house sorely puzzled, his constant state of mind in reference to Mrs. Moxton. If he did marry her he would marry the sphinx. That was clear enough.
Mr. Richard Busham inhabited a dingy set of offices in Esher Lane, adjacent to the Temple. His staff of clerks consisted of two under-fed, overworked creatures, who scribbled in an outer room for dear life at a miserable wage. The inner room, which had two dusty windows looking on to Bosworth Gardens, was occupied by their employer. This apartment was piled all round the walls with black tin boxes with the names of various clients painted on them in white. A brass-wired bookcase contained a few calf-bound volumes of legal lore; there was a large table covered with green baize, two chairs, and--nothing else. A more dreary or barren room can scarcely be conceived, but Mr. Busham being a miser, it suited him well enough. He called himself a lawyer, but he was really a usurer, and gained a handsome income by squeezing extortionate interest out of the needy. If the walls of Busham's private apartment could have spoken they would have protested frequently against the sights they were compelled to witness. The Holy Inquisition tortured people less than did this rat of a lawyer. He ground down his victims to the lowest, he lured them into his spider-web, and rejected them only when he had sucked them dry. His law was a farce, his money-lending a tragedy.