THE BANK BALANCE
It was now Mr. Portlethorpe and I who looked at each other--with a mutual
questioning. What was Mr. Lindsey hinting, suggesting? And Mr.
Portlethorpe suddenly turned on him with a direct inquiry.
"What is it you are after, Lindsey?" he asked. "There's something in
your mind."
"A lot," answered Mr. Lindsey. "And before I let it out, I think we'd
better fully inform Mrs. Ralston of everything that's happened, and of
how things stand, up to and including this moment. This is the position,
Mrs. Ralston, and the facts"--and he went on to give his caller a brief
but complete summary of all that he and Mr. Portlethorpe had just talked
over. "You now see how matters are," he concluded, at the end of his
epitome, during his delivery of which the lady had gradually grown more
and more portentous of countenance. "Now,--what do you say?"
Mrs. Ralston spoke sharply and decisively.
"Precisely what I have felt inclined to say more than once of late!" she
answered. "I'm beginning to suspect that the man who calls himself Sir
Gilbert Carstairs is not Sir Gilbert Carstairs at all! He's an
impostor!"
In spite of my subordinate position as a privileged but inferior member
of the conference, I could not help letting out a hasty exclamation of
astonishment at that. I was thoroughly and genuinely astounded--such a
notion as that had never once occurred to me. An impostor!--not the real
man? The idea was amazing--and Mr. Portlethorpe found it amazing, too,
and he seconded my exclamation with another, and emphasized it with an
incredulous laugh.
"My dear madam!" he said deprecatingly. "Really! That's impossible!"
But Mr. Lindsey, calmer than ever, nodded his head confidently.
"I'm absolutely of Mrs. Ralston's opinion," he declared. "What she
suggests I believe to be true. An impostor!"
Mr. Portlethorpe flushed and began to look very uneasy.
"Really!" he repeated. "Really, Lindsey!--you forget that I examined into
the whole thing! I saw all the papers--letters, documents--Oh, the
suggestion is--you'll pardon me, Mrs. Ralston--ridiculous! No man could
have been in possession of those documents unless he'd been the real
man--the absolute Simon Pure! Why, my dear lady, he produced letters
written by yourself, when you were a little girl--and--and all sorts of
little private matters. It's impossible that there has been any
imposture--a--a reflection on me!"
"Cleverer men than you have been taken in, Portlethorpe," remarked Mr.
Lindsey. "And the matters you speak of might have been stolen. But let
Mrs. Ralston give us her reasons for suspecting this man--she has some
strong ones, I'll be bound."
Mr. Portlethorpe showed signs of irritation, but Mrs. Ralston promptly
took up Mr. Lindsey's challenge.
"Sufficiently strong to have made me very uneasy of late, at any rate,"
she answered. She turned to Mr. Portlethorpe. "You remember," she went
on, "that my first meeting with this man, when he came to claim the title
and estates, was at your office in Newcastle, a few days after he first
presented himself to you. He said then that he had not yet been down to
Hathercleugh; but I have since found out that he had--or, rather, that he
had been in the neighbourhood, incognito. That's a suspicious
circumstance, Mr. Portlethorpe."
"Excuse me, ma'am--I don't see it," retorted Mr. Portlethorpe. "I don't
see it at all."
"I do, then!" said Mrs. Ralston. "Suspicious, because I, his sister, and
only living relation, was close by. Why didn't he come straight to me? He
was here--he took a quiet look around before he let any one know who he
was. That's one thing I have against him--whatever you say, it was very
suspicious conduct; and he lied about it, in saying he had not been here,
when he certainly had been here! But that's far from all. The real
Gilbert Carstairs, Mr. Lindsey, as Mr. Portlethorpe knows, lived at
Hathercleugh House until he was twenty-two years old. He was always at
Hathercleugh, except when he was at Edinburgh University studying
medicine. He knew the whole of the district thoroughly. But, as I have
found out for myself, this man does not know the district! I have
discovered, on visiting him--though I have not gone there much, as I
don't like either him or his wife--that this is a strange country to him.
He knows next to nothing--though he has done his best to learn--of its
features, its history, its people. Is it likely that a man who had lived
on the Border until he was two-and-twenty could forget all about it,
simply because he was away from it for thirty years? Although I was only
seven or eight when my brother Gilbert left home, I was then a very sharp
child, and I remember that he knew every mile of the country round
Hathercleugh. But--this man doesn't."
Mr. Portlethorpe muttered something about it being very possible for a
man to forget a tremendous lot in thirty years, but Mrs. Ralston and Mr.
Lindsey shook their heads at his dissent from their opinion. As for me,
I was thinking of the undoubted fact that the supposed Sir Gilbert
Carstairs had been obliged in my presence to use a map in order to find
his exact whereabouts when he was, literally, within two miles of his
own house.
"Another thing," continued Mrs. Ralston: "in my few visits to
Hathercleugh since he came, I have found out that while he is very well
posted up in certain details of our family history, he is unaccountably
ignorant of others with which he ought to have been perfectly
familiar. I found out, too, that he is exceedingly clever in avoiding
subjects in which his ignorance might be detected. But, clever as he
is, he has more than once given me grounds for suspicion. And I tell
you plainly, Mr. Portlethorpe, that since he has been selling property
to the extent you report, you ought, at this juncture, and as things
are, to find out how money matters stand. He must have realized vast
amounts in cash! Where is it!"
"At his bankers'--in Newcastle, my dear madam!" replied Mr. Portlethorpe.
"Where else should it be? He has not yet made the purchase he
contemplated, so of course the necessary funds are waiting until he does.
I cannot but think that you and Mr. Lindsey are mistaken, and that there
will be some proper and adequate explanation of all this, and--"
"Portlethorpe!" exclaimed Mr. Lindsey, "that's no good. Things have gone
too far. Whether this man's Sir Gilbert Carstairs or an impostor, he did
his best to murder my clerk, and we suspect him of the murder of Crone,
and he's going to be brought to justice--that's flat! And your duty at
present is to fall in with us to this extent--you must adopt Mrs.
Ralston's suggestion, and ascertain how money matters stand. As Mrs.
Ralston rightly says, by the sale of these properties a vast amount of
ready money must have been accumulated, and at this man's disposal,
Portlethorpe!--we must know if it's true!"
"How can I tell you that?" demanded Mr. Portlethorpe, who was growing
more and more nervous and peevish. "I've nothing to do with Sir Gilbert
Carstairs' private banking account. I can't go and ask, point blank, of
his bankers how much money he has in their hands!"
"Then I will!" exclaimed Mr. Lindsey. "I know where he banks in
Newcastle, and I know the manager. I shall go this very night to the
manager's private house, and tell him exactly everything that's
transpired--I shall tell him Mrs. Ralston's and my own suspicions, and I
shall ask him where the money is. Do you understand that?"
"The proper course to adopt!" said Mrs. Ralston. "The one thing to do. It
must be done!"
"Oh, very well--then in that case I suppose I'd better go with you," said
Mr. Portlethorpe. "Of course, it's no use going to the bank--they'll be
closed; but we can, as you say, go privately to the manager. And we shall
be placed in a very unenviable position if Sir Gilbert Carstairs turns up
with a perfectly good explanation of all this mystery."
Mr. Lindsey pointed a finger at me.
"He can't explain that!" he exclaimed. "He left that lad to drown! Is
that attempted murder, or isn't it? I tell you, I'll have that man in the
dock--never mind who he is! Hugh, pass me the railway guide."
It was presently settled that Mr. Portlethorpe and Mr. Lindsey should go
off to Newcastle by the next train to see the bank manager. Mr. Lindsey
insisted that I should go with them--he would have no hole-and-corner
work, he said, and I should tell my own story to the man we were going
to see, so that he would know some of the ground of our suspicion. Mrs.
Ralston supported that; and when Mr. Portlethorpe remarked that we were
going too fast, and were working up all the elements of a fine scandal,
she tartly remarked that if more care had been taken at the beginning,
all this would not have happened.
We found the bank manager at his private house, outside Newcastle, that
evening. He knew both my companions personally, and he listened with
great attention to all that Mr. Lindsey, as spokesman, had to tell; he
also heard my story of the yacht affair. He was an astute, elderly man,
evidently quick at sizing things up, and I knew by the way he turned to
Mr. Portlethorpe and by the glance he gave him, after hearing everything,
that his conclusions were those of Mr. Lindsey and Mrs. Ralston.
"I'm afraid there's something wrong, Portlethorpe," he remarked quietly.
"The truth is, I've had suspicions myself lately."
"Good God! you don't mean it!" exclaimed Mr. Portlethorpe. "How, then?"
"Since Sir Gilbert began selling property," continued the bank manager,
"very large sums have been paid in to his credit at our bank, where,
previous to that, he already had a very considerable balance. But at
the present moment we hold very little--that is, comparatively
little--money of his."
"What?" said Mr. Portlethorpe. "What? You don't mean that?"
"During the past three or four months," said the bank manager, "Sir
Gilbert has regularly drawn very large cheques in favour of a Mr. John
Paley. They have been presented to us through the Scottish-American Bank
at Edinburgh. And," he added, with a significant look at Mr. Lindsey, "I
think you'd better go to Edinburgh--and find out who Mr. John Paley is."
Mr. Portlethorpe got up, looking very white and frightened.
"How much of all that money is there left in your hands?" he
asked, hoarsely.
"Not more than a couple of thousand," answered the bank manager with
promptitude.
"Then he's paid out--in the way you state--what?" demanded Mr.
Portlethorpe.
"Quite two hundred thousand pounds! And," concluded our informant, with
another knowing look, "now that I'm in possession of the facts you've
just put before me, I should advise you to go and find out if Sir Gilbert
Carstairs and John Paley are not one and the same person!"