HANDWRITING.
After Annie and Leslie had left him, Mr. Parker returned to his office.
There were two or three candidates still waiting for the vacant post of
secretary. One of his clerks came to inquire what was to be done with
them.
“I cannot see them,” was the reply. “You may as well say that the matter
is practically settled, and that there is no use in any of them
waiting.”
The clerk withdrew, and Mr. Parker began to pace up and down the length
of his room.
“Well, bless my soul!” he said; “I cannot make out what all this means.
There is a mystery somewhere. Why won’t Leslie Gilroy confess the truth?
Well, if I don’t get to the bottom of this thing my name’s not Charles
Parker. I believe—yes, I cannot help believing—that somehow the girl is
innocent; but appearances are much against her.”
He opened a certain drawer in a cabinet which stood behind his desk,
took from it a letter, and began to read. The letter ran as follows:
“Dear Mr. Parker:
“I am in great trouble and perplexity. I have got into a terrible
scrape here, and only you can get me out again. I dare not confide in
mother; you alone can help me. Will you give my friend, Annie
Colchester, sixty pounds for me, and will you give it in notes and
gold? I will never do what I have done again if only you will trust
and forgive me this time. I cannot imagine how I have been led into
these terrible debts; but I can only say I will never incur another.
Please give the money to Annie at once, for the matter is most
urgent.
“Your affectionate friend,
“Leslie Gilroy.”
“There,” said the good merchant to himself, “there is her own letter—her
own statement in black and white. She got into a scrape, went in debt,
and wanted me to give her money. Well, if it were only debt—the ordinary
girlish wish to possess herself of fal-lals and finery—why, I could
forgive the child. There’s a look on her face which makes it hard for
any man to withstand her; but the thing is this: she has not made a full
statement; she did not want money for ordinary debts; she had another
reason, and she would not divulge it. Why did she write to me as she
did? What can be up? ’Pon my word! I feel quite frightened. There’s that
mother of hers, the best of good women, and that noble young fellow her
brother, and the rest of ’em; plenty of character, plenty of go, plenty
of spirit, nothing mean or underhand about one of them; and there’s
Leslie, whom all the rest look up to as the straightest of the straight
and the best of the best, and who has about the most open face I ever
looked into; and yet, if this letter is true, she is a sly, cunning
little rogue, as sly and cunning as can be. I pity the mother, that I
do: but there, is the girl guilty? Isn’t there some explanation of this
extraordinary mystery?”
Mr. Parker looked again at the letter, then he folded it up and was
about to put it back into his cabinet when he saw the paper on which
Leslie had scribbled her request to him that day, lying on the floor. He
stooped and picked it up, and the next moment his red face had turned
pale, for Leslie’s scribble, carelessly written as it was, seemed to him
to be written in a decidedly different hand from that of the letter. A
moment later, all eagerness, quite trembling with excitement, the shrewd
man of business was comparing both writings. There was a strong
resemblance; most of the capitals were formed in the same way, but there
was also a distinct difference.
With pursed-up lips and a wise shake of his head, Mr. Parker slipped the
letter and the scrap of paper into his pocket, and left the office. On
his way out he spoke to his head clerk:
“Hudson, don’t expect me back to-day. I shall return at my usual hour
to-morrow.”
“Something has happened to annoy the chief very considerably,” thought
the clerk to himself as Mr. Parker’s back disappeared through the
doorway.
A moment later the great tea-merchant found himself in the street, the
next he had hailed a hansom, and given the address of Mrs. Gilroy’s
house in West Kensington.
“I could go by train, but a hansom will take me quicker,” he muttered to
himself. “I hope to goodness she won’t be in; it’s Llewellyn I wish to
have a chat with. Yes, I must investigate this matter, and I don’t want
the mother to know anything about it until I can feel my bearings.
There’s a way out of this somehow, and I believe the poor girl is
nothing but a dupe. Can it be possible that she is shielding someone;
but no, that can’t be the case, for when I went down to Wingfield she
knew all about the story and never denied for a moment that she had
written the letter. She looked sorry enough, but not surprised—no, not
surprised. Bless me! if I know what the whole thing means. These girls,
with their modern education, know a thing too much when they’re a match
for a shrewd old fellow like myself. But I’ll see Llewellyn. I’ll sound
him, whatever happens.”
When Mr. Parker got to the Gilroys’ house it so happened that Llewellyn
himself was going up the steps. He was just about to put his latchkey
into the door when the merchant’s hearty voice arrested him.
Llewellyn turned round, and a smile broke over his face.
“But mother’s out, I am afraid, Mr. Parker. You’ll come in all the same
though, won’t you?”
“Yes, Llewellyn, my man, I just will. I want to have a word with you, my
boy.”
“Certainly, sir. Is there anything I can do?”
“Take me where we can be alone for a minute or two. Your sister isn’t
in—eh?”
“Do you mean Leslie?”
“Yes, your eldest sister, Leslie.”
“No, Mr. Parker; she is with her friends, the Chetwynds. One of the
girls is very ill, and the other won’t do without Leslie.”
“I’m not specially surprised at that,” said the merchant. “She seems the
sort of girl one would rely on a good bit; but that is not what I have
come about. See here, Llewellyn, have you got a letter of your sister’s
handy?”
“A letter! What do you mean?” said Llewellyn,
“Just what I say. I want to see one of your sister’s letters.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Llewellyn.
“And I don’t want you to understand, my boy. I want you just to exercise
a little bit of faith in your father’s old friend, and not to say a
single word to your mother about this. Now, go and find some letters of
your sister’s. When you have found them, I want you to put a couple of
them into my care. If they contain any secrets you may trust me not to
blab; but this is a serious matter, and there is more in it than meets
the eye. There, my boy, just do what you are told.”
“Of course I have got several of Leslie’s letters,” answered Llewellyn.
“I think there are a few which do not contain anything of a private
nature. I will give you one or two, sir, with pleasure.”
Llewellyn left the room, returning presently with a packet of letters
kept together with an elastic band.
“There,” he said, “you can have them all, sir. I have not even looked at
them. Leslie is as open as the day, and there is nothing in her letters
that you may not see.”
“As open as the day—eh? You really think so. She’s not a bit secretive,
now?”
“Secretive! My sister?” said Llewellyn, drawing himself up and flushing
angrily.
“There, don’t get peppery. I’m very much obliged to you. You shall have
these letters back again in a day or two at the farthest.”
“But are you going, Mr. Parker?”
“Yes; I must hurry back to town as fast as ever I can. Now, good-by to
you; but hark, Llewellyn, not a word of this to your mother.”
“Certainly not, if you do not wish it, sir; but I fail to understand.”
“You must have faith, my boy. You will know all sooner or later.”
With the letters in his pocket, Mr. Parker went straight off to Scotland
Yard. There he had an interview with Chief-Inspector Jones, got the
address of a special expert of handwriting, and drove off to the man’s
house.
Mr. Essex was in, and Mr. Parker had a short, emphatic interview with
him.
“Well, sir.” he said finally, “you quite understand. You will examine
the letters, and let me know the result to-morrow morning.”
Mr. Essex promised, and the merchant went away.
“Now,” he said to himself, “if this is a little game which some good
people are trying to hide from Charles Parker they will quickly find
themselves in the wrong box.”