CHAPTER XVTHE ANONYMOUS LETTER
Disturbedas 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 sayit 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 minorones; 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,” answeredthe 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 owndirection 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 believereal 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 thathe felt any compunction with regard to Mrs. MorricenéeMiss 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.