SEARCHING THE PAPERS
The late Stephen Hurd had been a methodical man. Every one of those many
packets of foolscap and parchment bore in the left-hand corner near the
top a few carefully written words summarizing their contents. It was
clear from the first that Wilhelmina had undertaken not an examination
but a search. Mortgages, leases, agreements, she left unopened and
untouched. One by one she passed them back to the young man who handed
them out to her, for replacement. In the end she had retained one small
packet of letters only, on the outside of which were simply the initials
P. N. These she held for a moment thoughtfully in her hand.
"Do you happen to remember, Mr. Hurd," she said, "whether this small
packet which I have here was amongst the papers which you found had been
disturbed after the attack upon your father?"
"I am sorry," the young man answered, "but it is quite impossible for me
to say. I do not remember it particularly."
Wilhelmina turned it over thoughtfully. It was an insignificant packet
to hold the tragedy of a woman's life.
"You see," she continued, "that it has the appearance of having been
tampered with. There are marks of sealing wax upon the tape and upon the
paper here. Then, too," she continued, turning it over, "it has been
tied up hastily, unlike any of the other packets. The tape, too, is much
too long. It looks almost as though some letters or papers had been
withdrawn."
"I am afraid I cannot help you at all," he admitted regretfully. "My
father never allowed any one but himself to open that safe. Mine was the
out-of-door share of the work--and the rent-book, of course. I kept
that."
She slowly undid the tape. The contents of the packet consisted of
several letters, which she smoothed out with her fingers before
beginning to read. Stephen Hurd stood with his back towards her,
rearranging the bundles of documents in the safe.
"You have no idea then," she asked softly, "of the contents of this
packet?"
He turned deliberately round. He was not in the least comfortable. It
was almost as though she could see through his tweed shooting-jacket
into that inner pocket.
"May I see which packet you refer to?" he asked.
She showed it to him without placing it in his hand. He shook his head.
"No!" he said, "I have not noticed them before."
She sighed--or was it a yawn? At any rate, her eyes left his face, for
which he was immediately grateful. She began to read the papers, and,
having finished his task, he walked towards the window and stood there
looking out. He stood there minute after minute, hearing only the sound
of rustling paper behind. When at last it ceased he turned around.
She had risen to her feet and was slowly drawing on her gloves. The
letters had disappeared, presumably into her pocket, but she made no
reference to them. When she spoke, her voice was smooth and deliberate
as usual. Somehow or other he was at once conscious, however, that she
had received a shock.
"I presume, Mr. Hurd," she said quietly, "that amongst your father's
private papers you did not discover anything--unexpected?"
"I am afraid I scarcely follow you, madam," he answered.
"I am asking you," she repeated deliberately, "whether amongst your
father's private papers, which I presume you have looked through, you
found anything of a surprising nature?"
He shook his head.
"I found scarcely any," he answered, "only his will and a memorandum of
a few investments. May I ask----"
She turned towards the door.
"No!" she said, "do not ask me any questions. To tell you the truth, I
am not yet fully persuaded that the necessity exists."
"I do not understand," he protested.
[Illustration: "FORGIVE ME," HE SAID, WITH HIS HAND UPON THE GATE. Page
117]
She shrugged her shoulders. She did not trouble to explain her words.
He followed her along the cool, white-flagged hall, hung with old prints
and trophies of sport, into the few yards of garden outside, brilliant
with cottage flowers. Beyond the little iron gate her carriage was
waiting--a low victoria, drawn by a pair of great horses, whose sleek
coats and dark crimson rosettes suggested rather a turn in the Park
than these country lanes. The young man was becoming desperate. She was
leaving him altogether mystified. Somewhere or other he had missed his
cue: he had meant to have conducted the interview so differently. And
never had she looked so provokingly well! He recognized, with hopeless
admiration, the perfection of her toilette--the trim white flannel
dress, shaped by the hand of an artist to reveal in its simple lines
the peculiar grace of her slim figure; the patent shoes with their
suggestion of open-work silk stockings; the black picture hat and veil,
a delicate recognition of her visit to a house of mourning, yet light
and gossamer-like, with no suggestion of gloom. Never had she seemed so
desirable to him, so fascinating and yet so unattainable. He made a last
and clumsy effort to re-establish himself.
"Forgive me," he said, with his hand upon the gate, "but I must ask you
what you mean by that last question. My father had no secrets that I
know of. How could he, when for the last forty years his life was
practically spent in this village street?"
She nodded her head slowly.
"Sometimes," she murmured, "events come to those even who sit and wait,
those whose lives are absolutely secluded. No one is safe from fate, you
know."
"But my father!" he answered. "He had no tastes, no interests outside
the boundary of your estates."
She motioned to him to open the gate.
"Perhaps not," she assented, "yet I suppose that there is not one of us
who knows as much of his neighbour's life as he imagines he does. Good
afternoon, Mr. Hurd! My visit has given me something to think about. I
may send for you to come to the house before I go away."
She drove away, leaning back amongst the cushions with half closed eyes,
as though tired. The country scenery with its pastoral landscape, its
Watteau-like perfections, was wholly unseen. Her memory had travelled
back, she was away amongst the days when the roar of life had been in
her ears, when for a short while, indeed, the waves had seemed likely to
break over her head. An unpleasant echo, this! No more than an echo--and
yet! The thought of old Stephen Hurd lying in his grave suddenly chilled
her. She shivered as she left the carriage, and instead of entering the
house, crossed the lawn to where Gilbert Deyes was lounging. He
struggled to his feet at her approach, but she waved him back again.
"Sybarite," she murmured, glancing around at his arrangements for
complete comfort. "You have sent Austin out alone."
"Dear lady, I confess it," he answered. "What would you have? It is too
fine an afternoon to kill anything."
She sank into a chair by his side. A slight smile parted her lips as she
glanced around. On a table by his side, a table drawn back into the
shade of the cedar tree, were several vellum-bound volumes, a tall
glass, and a crystal jug half full of some delicate amber beverage,
mixed with fruit and ice, a box of cigarettes, an ivory paper-cutter,
and a fan.
"Your capacity for making yourself comfortable," she remarked, "amounts
almost to genius."
"Let it go at that," he answered. "I like the sound of the word."
"I want you to go to Paris for me," she said abruptly.
He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette and looked at her
thoughtfully. Not a line of his face betrayed the least sign of
surprise.
"To-morrow?" he asked.
"Yes!"
"I can get up in time for the two-twenty," he remarked thoughtfully. "I
wonder whether it will be too late for the Armenonville!"
She laughed quietly.
"You are a 'poseur,'" she declared.
"Naturally," he admitted. "We all are, even when the audience consists
of ourselves alone. I fancy I'm rather better than most, though."
She nodded.
"You won't mind admitting--to me--that you are surprised?"
"Astonished," he said. "To descend to the commonplace, what on earth do
you want me to go to Paris for?"
"I will tell you," she answered. "Forget for a moment the Paris that you
know, and remember the Paris of the tourist."
"Painful," he answered; "but it is done."
"The _Hotel de Luxe_!"
"I know it well."
"There are a race of creatures there, small, parasitical insects, who
hang about the hall and the boulevard outside--guides they call
themselves."
"'Show you something altogether new this evening, Captain,'" he quoted.
"Yes; I know them."
"There is, or was, one," she continued, "who goes by the name of Thomas
Johnson. He is undersized; he has red cheeks, and puffy brown eyes. He
used to wear a glazed black hat, and he speaks every language without an
accent."
"I should know the beast anywhere," he declared.
"Find out if he is there still. Let him take you out. Don't lose sight
of him--and write to me."
"To-morrow night," he said, "I will renew my youth. I will search for
him on the boulevards, and see the sights which make a gay dog of the
travelling Briton."
She nodded.
"You're a good sort, Gilbert," she said simply. "Thanks!"