"Dear Brother,--For the last time I claim your help. I know quite
well that I am being hunted to death by you and those you employ.
Without a shred of evidence you are willing to believe me a murderer.
I suppose I have no right to complain. It would be convenient to you
to have me out of the way, and the best way of getting rid of me is to
get up this cry against me. A nice brotherly act, and worthy of an
Ingleton! It is no use my telling you that I am innocent--that till I
had been two days here I never so much as heard of Oliphant's death.
You would not believe it. Nor, I fancy, is it much use telling you
that the scoundrel owed me money, that I was shielding him from the
consequences of an old felony for which he might have had penal
servitude, and that the little he did pay me was stolen from your
property. Of course you wouldn't believe it. It is only about your
brother, who has been a slung stone all his life, who never had a
friend, never knew a kind look from any one, that you are ready to
believe evil. I am nearly at the end of my tether here. In a day or
two you will probably hear that I am arrested, and then you will have
your revenge on me for daring to be your flesh and blood; and you will
have no difficulty in convincing a judge and jury that I have
committed any crime you and your saintly tutor choose to concoct
between you. Pleasant to be rich and influential! I could escape if
I had money. Fifty pounds would rid you of me almost as effectively
as the gallows. But it would cost you something; therefore it is
absurd to imagine it possible. When, three days hence, I make my last
call at the General Post Office, and hear once more that there is
nothing for me, not even a message of brotherly pity (which costs
nothing), I shall know my last hope is gone. And you, in the lap of
luxury, counting your thousands, and monarch of all you survey, will
be able to breathe again. Either you will hear of my arrest, or, if
my courage befriends me, you may read in an obscure corner of the
paper of a wretch, hounded to death, who escaped his pursuers after
all, and preferred to die by his own hand rather than that of his
brother. Good-bye till then.
"Your brother,--
"Roger Ingleton.
"_P.S_.--The Post Office know me, or my messenger, as `Richard
Redfern.' No doubt you will show this letter to your tutor, who
should have no difficulty in using the information I am obliged to
give as to my whereabouts to run me down."
The flush on Roger's face had died down into pallor by the time he
reached the end of this savage yet dismal letter. Till he came to the
postscript he had reckoned on demanding Armstrong's advice as to its
contents. Now, somehow, his hands seemed tied. Here was a man,
claiming to be his brother, practically placing his life in his hands.
Whether the story were true or false, the writer had calculated astutely
on the quixotic temper of his correspondent. The appeal, insultingly as
it was made, was one which Roger Ingleton, minor, could not resist.
"I have had a letter from Ratman," said he when the two friends were
alone together.
"I am not surprised," said the tutor. "He wants money, of course?"
"I can't show you the letter, simply because it contains a vague clue as
to his whereabouts, which you would feel bound to follow up."
"I undoubtedly should," said Mr Armstrong. "Shall not you?"
"No. He gives it in confidence, in the hope I shall send him money. I
don't intend to do that, but it would hardly be fair to use this letter
against him."
"He is Captain Oliphant's murderer."
"He denies it, and once more calls himself my brother."
The tutor shrugged his shoulders.
"As you please. Burn the letter. It probably does not tell more than
the police know already."
Roger dismally obeyed. Had he felt sure that this man was his brother,
he would have, at all risk and in spite of all, tried to help him. Even
so, to help him with one hand would mean to ruin him with the other. If
he found him, it would be to hand him over to the police. If he
procured his escape, it would be to oust him irrevocably from his
inheritance.
There seemed nothing for it but to do nothing and wait.
In other quarters the policy of inaction found little favour. Mr
Headland called up the same evening at Maxfield and demanded an
interview with the tutor.
"Wal, young man," said he, "I calculate those two hundred-pound notes of
mine didn't travel so far astray after all."
"You have traced them, then?"
"I've been three weeks doing it, but I have so."
"And with what conclusion?"
"Just this, that Captain E. Oliphant fell over that cliff just about
the right time, sir. Yes, sir, my notes are lying snug at the English
Bank at this present moment, and I know their pedigree. Number 90,356
came there from a bank in Fleet Street. The bank in Fleet Street
received it from a hotel. The hotel received it from a gentleman who
slept in bedroom Number 36, and that gentleman's name was Ratman.
Number 90,357 came to the bank later from Amsterdam. Amsterdam had it
from an English diamond merchant, the diamond merchant had it from a
stock jobber, and the stock jobber had it from a sporting club, who had
it from a temporary member in December last in payment of a gambling
debt, and that temporary member's name was Ratman. That's not all, sir.
My letter was posted in America, November 9. On November 17 the post-
master at Yeld, an intelligent man, sir, received a letter with an
American stamp, sir, addressed to Roger Ingleton, senior, at Maxfield.
A Yankee stamp was a novelty to your intelligent post-master, and he
took a note of date, and sent it up here for delivery. It was delivered
here November 17, and your footman remembers giving it to your
colleague. Three days after, Mr Ratman visited his friend Captain E.
Oliphant here. Two days later he reached the hotel in London with a
Yeld label on his trunk. A week after that he passed note Number 90,356
to settle his bill. There, sir; the Americans are born explorers. I
flatter myself there's not much more to know about my two notes."
"Quite so," said the tutor. "You have done a great deal in three weeks.
What reparation can be made you?"
"Sir, you are an honest young man. You believe in shielding the memory
of a dead enemy. You are right. Continue on that tack and you'll do
yourself credit. As executor of my late kinsman, I will trouble you to
place this cheque for £200 to the credit of the estate, and never to say
a word about the sum that was lost. Notes get lost every day; at least
they do in America."
Mr Armstrong's gratitude was beyond words. He had set his heart, for
the sake of the children of his late colleague, and even for Roger's
sake, on covering with a cloak of oblivion the crime of which chance had
made him the detector. This American had it in his power to aid or
thwart him, and had chosen the former course; and a great weight was
lifted off the tutor's mind in consequence.
On the following day he was calling at the Yeld bank to transact some
business (part of which was to pay in Mr Headland's cheque), when the
manager invited him into his parlour. This functionary was a
respectable, middle-aged person, who had held his appointment for five
or six years, keeping pretty much to himself, and, as is the lot of bank
managers, being made a great deal of by clients who chanced to be, or
desired to be, under obligations to his bank.
"Mr Armstrong," said he, "you will pardon me, but there's a little
matter--"
"Hullo!" thought the tutor, "has the bank stopped payment, or the
Maxfield securities been robbed?"
"Well, sir?"
"It's a private matter, and I should not mention it if it were not for
the talk which is going to and fro about young Mr Ingleton's lost
brother. I understand there's a claimant for the title, and not a very
eligible one."
"On the contrary, most ineligible," said the tutor. "And it seems
likely that he will, under present circumstances, keep far enough away
from these parts?"
"Naturally. The coroner's jury have given him a pressing invitation,
which he feels compelled to decline."
"Well, about this lost boy. You'll think me impertinent, but I think I
can tell you something about him."
The tutor started, and looked hard at the speaker. "Yes," said the
latter mildly. "As you know, I've not been here long. My predecessor,
Mr Morris, was a friend of the family. I remember his once mentioning
an elder son of the Squire who had been reported dead, and that was all
I ever heard of the matter from him or anybody else. But only last
week, in a bundle of documents relating to Mr Morris's own affairs,
which, as his executor, it was my duty to examine, I came upon a letter
which, though evidently private at the time, seems as if it ought at
least to be seen by you and your ward now. It proves that ten years ago
the elder son was alive, and being in his handwriting, it may be
important evidence if you have to deal with the claim of an impostor."
The tutor expressed considerable discomfort at this new complication,
and regarded the document in the banker's hand as if it were an infernal
machine.
"It's private, you say. Would it not be better to regard it as such?"
"I think it should be seen. If you prefer I will submit it to Mr
Pottinger."
This settled the business. The tutor stretched out his hand for the
letter. It was dated from on board the ship "Cyclops," off Havana, ten
years ago, and, by the unsteady character of the handwriting, which
rendered some words almost illegible, had evidently been written in a
high sea. Mr Armstrong could scarcely help smiling at the banker's
naive suggestion as to the use of the document as evidence of
handwriting.