“Now, my good creature, whatever you have to say to me, out with it at
once! I don’t want to hurry you needlessly; but these are business
hours, and I have other people’s affairs to attend to besides yours.”
Addressing Ferrari’s wife, with his usual blunt good-humour, in these
terms, Mr. Troy registered the lapse of time by a glance at the watch
on his desk, and then waited to hear what his client had to say to him.
“It’s something more, sir, about the letter with the thousand-pound
note,” Mrs. Ferrari began. “I have found out who sent it to me.”
Mr. Troy started. “This is news indeed!” he said. “Who sent you the
letter?”
“Lord Montbarry sent it, sir.”
It was not easy to take Mr. Troy by surprise. But Mrs. Ferrari threw
him completely off his balance. For a while he could only look at her
in silent surprise. “Nonsense!” he said, as soon as he had recovered
himself. “There is some mistake—it can’t be!”
“There is no mistake,” Mrs. Ferrari rejoined, in her most positive
manner. “Two gentlemen from the insurance offices called on me this
morning, to see the letter. They were completely puzzled—especially
when they heard of the bank-note inside. But they know who sent the
letter. His lordship’s doctor in Venice posted it at his lordship’s
request. Go to the gentlemen yourself, sir, if you don’t believe me.
They were polite enough to ask if I could account for Lord Montbarry’s
writing to me and sending me the money. I gave them my opinion
directly—I said it was like his lordship’s kindness.”
“Like his lordship’s kindness?” Mr. Troy repeated, in blank amazement.
“Yes, sir! Lord Montbarry knew me, like all the other members of his
family, when I was at school on the estate in Ireland. If he could have
done it, he would have protected my poor dear husband. But he was
helpless himself in the hands of my lady and the Baron—and the only
kind thing he could do was to provide for me in my widowhood, like the
true nobleman he was!”
“A very pretty explanation!” said Mr. Troy. “What did your visitors
from the insurance offices think of it?”
“They asked if I had any proof of my husband’s death.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said, ‘I give you better than proof, gentlemen; I give you my
positive opinion.’”
“That satisfied them, of course?”
“They didn’t say so in words, sir. They looked at each other—and wished
me good-morning.”
“Well, Mrs. Ferrari, unless you have some more extraordinary news for
me, I think I shall wish you good-morning too. I can take a note of
your information (very startling information, I own); and, in the
absence of proof, I can do no more.”
“I can provide you with proof, sir—if that is all you want,” said Mrs.
Ferrari, with great dignity. “I only wish to know, first, whether the
law justifies me in doing it. You may have seen in the fashionable
intelligence of the newspapers, that Lady Montbarry has arrived in
London, at Newbury’s Hotel. I propose to go and see her.”
“The deuce you do! May I ask for what purpose?”
Mrs. Ferrari answered in a mysterious whisper. “For the purpose of
catching her in a trap! I shan’t send in my name—I shall announce
myself as a person on business, and the first words I say to her will
be these: ‘I come, my lady, to acknowledge the receipt of the money
sent to Ferrari’s widow.’ Ah! you may well start, Mr. Troy! It almost
takes _you_ off your guard, doesn’t it? Make your mind easy, sir; I
shall find the proof that everybody asks me for in her guilty face. Let
her only change colour by the shadow of a shade—let her eyes only drop
for half an instant—I shall discover her! The one thing I want to know
is, does the law permit it?”
“The law permits it,” Mr. Troy answered gravely; “but whether her
ladyship will permit it, is quite another question. Have you really
courage enough, Mrs. Ferrari, to carry out this notable scheme of
yours? You have been described to me, by Miss Lockwood, as rather a
nervous, timid sort of person—and, if I may trust my own observation, I
should say you justify the description.”
“If you had lived in the country, sir, instead of living in London,”
Mrs. Ferrari replied, “you would sometimes have seen even a sheep turn
on a dog. I am far from saying that I am a bold woman—quite the
reverse. But when I stand in that wretch’s presence, and think of my
murdered husband, the one of us two who is likely to be frightened is
not _me_. I am going there now, sir. You shall hear how it ends. I wish
you good-morning.”
With those brave words the courier’s wife gathered her mantle about
her, and walked out of the room.
Mr. Troy smiled—not satirically, but compassionately. “The little
simpleton!” he thought to himself. “If half of what they say of Lady
Montbarry is true, Mrs. Ferrari and her trap have but a poor prospect
before them. I wonder how it will end?”
All Mr. Troy’s experience failed to forewarn him of how it _did_ end.