THE ANONYMOUS LETTER
Disturbed as he was at this untoward happening, and perhaps a little
annoyed at his prophecy to the valet, that they ran practically no risk
of interruption, having been falsified, Lane was compensated by the
knowledge that he would have the opportunity of observing this young
impostor at close quarters, and judging what manner of man he was. If
Simmons’s account was correct, he did not resemble his supposed uncle
in the more ungracious of his qualities.
Young Brookes came into the room and took in the situation at a glance.
Sir George’s servant had taken advantage of his master’s absence to
ask in an acquaintance; he knew the habits of that master too well to
believe that there was any hospitality involved in the invitation. If
that had been, or was about to be exercised, it would have to be at
Simmons’s own expense.
He was an easy-going fellow in many ways, and there was nothing very
heinous in such a proceeding. The man had been in the service of
well-known people for many years, and had come to his present employer
with a most excellent character. He was also a very shrewd fellow and
not likely to mix with undesirable associates, much less introduce one
of them into a place which contained a good many valuable articles.
Probably he would have thought little of the incident but for signs of
consternation on the valet’s panic-stricken face. Truth to tell, the
unhappy man was so unstrung that he thought it must be as patent to
Archie Brookes as it was to his own guilty conscience, that the two
men had been engaged in a nefarious enterprise.
A look of suspicion gradually stole over the young man’s features,
growing deeper as Simmons’s lips stammered forth a few confused words
which showed that the man’s mind was in a whirl and he hardly knew what
he was saying.
“Good evening, Mr. Archie; hardly expected you’d pop in. Sir George
left early this morning for the country, didn’t say where he was going.
A friend of mine, Mr. Cox, very fond of pictures, been in the line
himself at one time, a dealer. I told him Sir George had a few very
fine ones, thought he might like to have a peep at ’em. Hope you won’t
think I’ve taken too great a liberty, sir.”
It was a desperate invention on the part of Simmons, this about the
picture-dealing, not a very happy one, the detective thought. But the
poor wretch was in too confused a state to think, and said the first
thing that suggested itself to him. Archie Brookes looked from one
to the other and he did not appear to be quite satisfied. Lane bore
himself very well, and his conscience did not prick him in the least.
He assumed the stolid demeanour of a man who has nothing to fear, an
attitude to which his rather grave countenance lent strong support.
If only this white-livered fellow could conceal his tremors, Archie
Brookes would suspect nothing; but this was just what the unfortunate
valet found it so difficult to do.
The young man favoured Lane with a very prolonged stare which the
detective bore without flinching. He had made up his mind as to his
course of action if things got troublesome, if young Mr. Brookes
adopted a threatening attitude. He would disclaim the valet’s ingenious
fiction about the picture-dealing, boldly proclaim who he was, admit he
had made use of Simmons to learn what he could about his master, and
tell the young gentleman himself he knew him for the impostor he was.
Still, he did not wish to push matters to extremes, to take a step
which would put the two men on their guard. He would only do all this
as a very last resource. Meanwhile, he would trust to diplomacy to get
out of the awkward situation in which he had been placed by the valet’s
extreme cowardice.
“So you are in the picture line, are you?” said Brookes at length;
and Lane thought there was a slight sneer on the good-looking, rather
effeminate face, which the detective did not allow himself to be
ruffled by.
“Was,” answered the other, backing up the valet’s mendacious statement
so far. “Been out of it for many years, but still retain my old
fondness for good stuff.” He spoke in his most stolid manner, assuming
the rôle of a small tradesman quite successfully.
“And what might be your line now, pray?” The tone was just a trifle
insolent. There was no doubt the young man could be a bit of a bully
when he liked, and Lane was quite sure that the undeniably gentlemanly
appearance was only veneer. Sellars had told him that he was considered
rather a bounder.
Lane had told one lie, in order to bolster up things; it would not hurt
him very much to tell another.
“I’m in the furniture business now,” he exclaimed briefly.
Young Brookes looked hard from one man to the other. He did not appear
quite satisfied; on the other hand, he did not seem quite certain of
the grounds on which he could express his suspicions.
“I shouldn’t think much of the thing in an ordinary kind of way,” he
said in a hesitating voice. “‘When the cat’s away the mice will play,’
and of course servants have their friends in when their masters and
mistresses are safely out of the road. I don’t say it isn’t all square
and above-board, but Simmons here looks in such a devilish funk that
one might be pardoned if one thought you had been burgling the place.”
What had crossed his mind was out at last. Lane drew himself up with a
stolid air of offended dignity.
“I’m rather thinking you mean that as a kind of joke, sir. If I
didn’t, I might remind you that there is such a thing as an action for
defamation of character.” He delivered these words with a splendid air
of outraged virtue which, he was pleased to observe, rather cowed the
impetuous young man. “As my presence seems unwelcome, I will take the
liberty of wishing you good evening, unless you would wish me to stay
while you go through Sir George’s property to satisfy yourself that I
haven’t helped myself to anything.”
It was a master stroke, a fine piece of bluff, and it had the effect
intended. Lane was pretty certain he had taken a correct measure of the
young man.
Young Mr. Brookes thought it wiser to temporize; he did not relish
that nasty hint about defamation of character. Besides, there was
nothing burglarious about Lane’s appearance. It would have been very
difficult to say what he looked like. He was certainly not a common
person, neither could you say that he gave you the impression of being
a gentleman. With his clean-shaven face and rather grave expression you
might perhaps have associated him with the theatrical profession.
“Oh yes, a joke of course, Mr. —— I didn’t quite catch the name Simmons
gave me.”
“Cox,” hastily interposed the valet. Seeing that in consequence of the
detective’s masterly attitude, things seemed to be taking a turn for
the better, he was gradually regaining control of himself, his colour
was coming back to his pale cheeks, and he was beginning to think
coherently.
“Ah, Mr. Cox. I make no insinuations. But you must admit Simmons cut a
devilish rum figure when I came in.”
It was all blowing over very nicely. Lane felt he could afford to
unbend from his lofty attitude of outraged dignity. His smiled quite
pleasantly and spoke in an almost jovial tone.
“No offence taken, sir, where none is intended. My friend Simmons is
a very sensitive chap, I know. I suppose he felt he had been taking a
bit of a liberty. If you should want me any time, my friend knows where
to find me, at a little place where we sometimes take a little mild
refreshment together. Good evening to you, sir. Bye-bye, Simmons; see
you again soon, I dare say.”
And with these parting words Lane walked out, carrying with him the
honours of war, and grateful that a decidedly awkward situation had
ended so satisfactorily. He trusted that when the valet was left alone
with young Brookes he would keep his head, and be wary in replying to
any too searching questions which might be put to him.
But, as a matter of fact, as he learned subsequently, nothing awkward
occurred. Archie Brookes had apparently recovered from his suspicions
in the face of Lane’s manly and dignified attitude, and accepted the
theory so adroitly put forward that the valet’s appearance of guilt was
the outcome of a remarkably shrinking and sensitive nature.
* * * * *
All that night, Rosabelle could hardly get any sleep for thinking of
that strange fragment of conversation between aunt and nephew which she
had overheard in the afternoon. It was with great difficulty she kept
herself from telling her lover, but she wanted to meditate well over
the matter before confiding it to anyone.
She felt that if anybody ought to know it was her uncle; in fact,
was it not almost her duty to tell him? On the other hand, she had
a considerable affection for her aunt, and shrank from getting her
into trouble. The relations between the two had been for years very
close, and Mrs. Morrice had always shown her great kindness. Since the
introduction of Archie Brookes there had been a certain diminution of
affection on her aunt’s part, the new-comer had considerably ousted her.
But Rosabelle was a very fair-minded girl, and she did not resent that.
There was no blood-tie between her and Mrs. Morrice. The husband and
wife got on very comfortably together, but it was easy to see it was
a very placid union, that their marriage had not been prompted by any
great depth of feeling on either side, and there were no children to
draw them closer together.
It was only natural, therefore, that she should welcome this young
man so closely related to her, the son of a, probably, deeply loved
sister. On him she could expend that wealth of maternal feeling which,
so far, had never been called into existence, but which resides in the
heart of every good, womanly woman. Small wonder that Rosabelle, to a
considerable extent, should have receded into the background. Had she
been in her aunt’s position, the same thing would most probably have
occurred.
She had not told it to Dick, she shrank from telling it to her uncle;
for the present she was disposed to keep it to herself. Under ordinary
circumstances it would have seemed to her a tragedy of the first
importance, that this good-looking young nephew was preying upon his
aunt’s weakness or fondness for him, to such an extent that she had
declared herself to be half ruined. But the greater tragedy of her
lover lying under a horrible stigma absorbed all minor ones; she saw
them, as it were, only in perspective.
The two things could not be in any way related, she felt pretty
sure. And yet, as she lay in the darkness, pondering and pondering,
suddenly there flashed across her the thought, coming almost with
the force of an inspiration, that the detective ought to be told. He
had especially impressed upon her at the beginning of their business
connection, that she was to report to him any uncommon happening in the
Morrice household, irrespective of whether or not it seemed to her of
importance. What was troubling her now was certainly not a common or
trivial thing.
To think was to act. If the knowledge were of benefit to him, he would
use it as he thought fit—and after all, the greatest concern of her
life at the moment was the restoration of her lover to his former
honourable place in the regard of those who knew the real reason of his
exile from her uncle’s house. And, if the knowledge was useless to him,
she was quite sure of the man; he would never divulge it unless she
gave him permission.
She was round at Lane’s office early the next morning. Mrs. Morrice had
not appeared at breakfast, but Rosabelle noticed at dinner the night
before, and afterwards when they were together in the drawing-room,
that her manner had appeared anxious and preoccupied.
It could not be said of Lane at any time that he was a man whom you
could read like an open book, but she was sure the information made
a great impression on him. As was his custom after an important
communication had been made to him, he sat silent for some little time.
“And you have said nothing about this to your uncle, or Mr. Croxton?”
he asked at length. “I am so far the only person to whom you have
revealed it?”
“Because I thought you ought to know,” answered the girl frankly. “My
uncle ought to be told, I feel that, but I shrink from telling him; it
might create an irreparable breach between them, and I should be very
grieved to be the cause of it. I think, or rather I am sure, that my
aunt has not the same affection for me that she had before the arrival
of Archie, but that is only natural, and not a thing to be resented.
She has always shown me unvarying kindness, and made my life in Deanery
Street very happy. And you know, Mr. Lane, it is not every woman who
would have done that in the circumstances. For my dear uncle has been
always very demonstrative in his love for me, and it might have aroused
the jealousy of a great many wives.”
What a sweet-natured, tolerant-minded girl she was, her listener
thought. Then he said decisively: “Certainly Mr. Morrice ought to know.
You would object to my telling him, I suppose?”
Yes, Rosabelle shrank from that. “It would come to the same thing,
would it not? He would want to know where you got your information
from, and you would have to tell him. I might as well do it myself.
Besides, I expect he would be very angry with me for having told you at
all. He is a very proud man in certain things.”
Yes, there was a good deal of shrewdness in that remark. He might be
able to get through it without bringing her in, for he was a man of
infinite resources, but although by no means scrupulous when driven to
use subterfuge, he did not employ tortuous methods if it was possible
to avoid them.
“Tell me, Miss Sheldon, what do you know of your aunt’s affairs? Has
she money of her own?”
“I should say very little. I have more than once heard her jokingly
allude to her ‘paltry income.’ But I know my uncle makes her a very
handsome allowance, although I don’t know the precise amount. And he
is always making her presents of valuable and expensive jewellery.”
It was evident, by his serious look, that he was thinking very deeply.
“That allowance, of course, he makes her for her own personal needs,
and to maintain her proper position as the wife of a wealthy man. If
he knew that she was diverting any, or a considerable portion, of this
money to supplying this young man’s extravagant needs, you are of
opinion he would be greatly incensed.”
“I am sure of it. He is peculiar in many ways, he abhors strongly
anything in the nature of deceit. If she came to him openly and said
she was going to give Archie money, he might remonstrate with her,
actually forbid her, or take the view that it was her own and she could
do what she wished with it. But he would never forgive her doing it
clandestinely, I mean in large sums. He would think it a betrayal of
the trust he had reposed in her.”
Lane’s brain was still working on the problem presented to him.
Morrice, according to Rosabelle, made his wife a handsome allowance.
That might be taken for granted. He had a wide reputation for
generosity, and for pride’s sake he would be especially lavish to his
wife. But what is a very ample allowance for a woman does not go far
when constant drains are made upon it by a young man who lived in the
style that Simmons had described when speaking of Archie Brookes.
“Have you noticed any diminution in Mrs. Morrice’s expenditure on
herself since the arrival of this nephew on the scene, Miss Sheldon?”
Rosabelle gave her evidence very reluctantly, but it was right Lane
should know the whole circumstances. From the very beginning, her aunt
had appeared to curtail her personal expenditure. For the last twelve
months, her economy in her own direction had been much more marked. It
pointed to the fact that Archie had been draining her considerably.
Lane thought more than considerably. That poignant exclamation that she
had been half ruined suggested a good deal to him.
“I am going to ask you a rather peculiar question, Miss Sheldon. Are
Mr. and Mrs. Morrice what might be described as a very devoted couple?
You know what I mean, are they wrapt up in each other as some people
are at their time of life when they have married solely for love?”
It was a peculiar question certainly; to Rosabelle it seemed rather an
irrelevant one. But she was sure the detective never asked irrelevant
questions. He had some good reason for putting this one, without doubt,
and she would give him a perfectly candid answer.
“Why, no, it certainly would not be accurate to describe them as that.
I am certain they have a great respect for each other, and a very quiet
and placid affection. He is the soul of generosity and courtesy to
her; she respects his wishes in everything. You see, he was devotedly
in love with Mr. Croxton’s mother; he kept unmarried for years for her
sake. A man cannot love twice like that, can he, Mr. Lane?” concluded
Rosabelle artlessly.
The detective smiled kindly at the romantic girl. No doubt she was
contrasting the placid affection between the Morrices, and her own
ardent love for young Croxton and his for her. And no doubt she was
sure, like all fervent souls, that when the years had silvered her hair
and stolen the roses from her cheeks, love would burn as brightly as in
the hey-day of their glorious youth.
“I am not a great expert in the tender passion, Miss Sheldon, but I am
quite prepared to believe real love comes but once in a lifetime to
either man or woman. Well, now, I am much obliged to you for telling me
what you have done, and I am glad you told me. For the present we will
keep it to ourselves. But I think you had better face the fact that,
sooner or later, Mr. Morrice will have to be told by one of us.”
When the girl had left, Lane indulged in a long fit of meditation. Yes,
Morrice had better know this at once. He could probably invent more
than one plan by which Rosabelle could be kept out of it, even if he
approached him directly. But Lane had gauged the financier sufficiently
to know that in some respects he was a very peculiar man. He might
resent the detective’s interference in what he considered a purely
private matter, and order him out of the house.
He would adopt a method which he had used more than once before when he
did not wish to appear personally. He went to a small typewriter which
he only used on special occasions; his usual one had a personality of
its own which might be easily identified, for certain typewriting is
sometimes as distinctive as handwriting.
He indited a brief epistle and addressed it to “Rupert Morrice,
Esquire,” taking care to mark it “Private.” He would take it down
to the City and post it there, thus avoiding the tell-tale West End
postmark.
It was an anonymous letter, signed by “A Well-wisher.” “If that
doesn’t stir him to some sort of action, we must think of something
else,” so ran the reflections of this astute man. “It may precipitate
an explosion, and amongst other things reveal to him that Mr. Archie
Brookes is no more his wife’s nephew than I am.”
He walked away from the pillar-box in the City well pleased with
himself. It could not be said that he felt any compunction with regard
to Mrs. Morrice _née_ Miss Lettice Larchester. She had, no doubt,
married the man for his money, and was treating him very badly. But
even if he had, his hand would not have been stayed in consequence. His
first duty was to his clients.