Here he found things less satisfactory than he had hoped. Cherry was no better; indeed, to his experienced eye, the child was worse, and although Mrs. Carstairs showed no signs of fatigue, and was apparently prepared to nurse her little daughter indefinitely, it was evident that the woman Tochatti was worn out with pain, anxiety, and, possibly, remorse.
Although she pulled herself together sufficiently to answer Anstice's questions intelligibly, it was plain to see that she was in reality half dazed by the shock she had experienced and by want of sleep, and Anstice realized that if Cherry were to be properly nursed some other help must be obtained at once.
"See here, Mrs. Carstairs." His face was grave as he examined the child's condition. "I'm not going to beat about the bush—I'm going to send you a nurse to help you with Cherry."
"A nurse? But—can't Tochatti and I——?"
"You're all right," he said shortly. "You look good for any amount of nursing, though I can't imagine how you do it, seeing you had no sleep last night. But Tochatti is no use at present." He judged it best to speak frankly. "It is evident she is in pain with that hand of hers, and she will be fit for nothing to-night, at any rate."
Chloe did not contest the point further.
"Very well, Dr. Anstice. You know best; and if you think it necessary, will you find us someone at once?"
"Yes. I think I know just the person for you." He turned to Tochatti, who was standing by, her face full of smouldering resentment. "I'm sure you want me to do the best thing for Miss Cherry, don't you?"
She did not answer; and he repeated his question rather sharply.
This time she answered him.
"Si, signor." She spoke sulkily, and a flash of something like actual hatred shot from her black eyes as he watched her; but he had no time to spare for her vagaries, and turned back to Chloe Carstairs forthwith.
"Then I will try to find Nurse Trevor and bring her along. She will sit up to-night, and then you can both get some rest." He spoke kindly, including Tochatti in his smile; but the woman merely glowered, and he felt a spasm of sudden annoyance at her ungracious behaviour.
Luckily Nurse Trevor was at hand and disengaged; and Anstice had the satisfaction of finding her safely installed and apparently completely at home in her new surroundings when he paid his last visit to Cherry Orchard late that night.
She was a pretty girl of twenty-seven, who had had a good deal of experience in nursing children, and although poor little Cherry was by this time too ill to pay much attention to any of the people around her, it really seemed as though Margaret Trevor's soft voice, with its cooing, dove-like notes, had a soothing influence on the suffering child.
Anstice stayed some time in Cherry's room, doing all his skill could suggest for the alleviation of his little patient's pain, and when at length he took his departure Chloe herself came downstairs with him.
"What a lovely night!" She had opened the big hall door quietly while he sought his hat. "The moon must be nearly at the full, I think."
Together they stood on the steps looking out over the dew-drenched garden. The white stars of the jasmine which clustered thickly round the house sent out a delicious fragrance, and there were a dozen other scents on the soft and balmy air, as though the sleeping stocks and carnations and mignonette breathed sweetly in their sleep.
A big white owl flow, hooting, across the path, and Chloe shivered.
"I hate owls—I always think them unlucky, harbingers of evil," she said, and her face, as she spoke, was quite pale.
In an ordinary way Anstice would have deemed it his duty to scoff at such superstition; but to-night, his nerves unstrung, by the happenings of the last few days, his bodily vigour at a low ebb, his mind a chaos of miserable, hopeless memories and fears, Chloe's words woke a quite unexpected response in his soul.
"Don't say that, Mrs. Carstairs!" He spoke sharply. "Don't let us talk of bad luck—to-night of all nights!"
In the moonlight her narrow blue eyes studied his face with sudden keenness, and she felt an unusual desire to bring comfort to the soul which she felt with instinctive certainty stood in need of some help.
As a rule Chloe Carstairs, like Anstice himself, was too much preoccupied with the thought of her own private grudge against fate to have any sympathy to spare for others who might have known that Deity's frown; but to-night, owing possibly to some softening of her mental fibres induced by the sight of her child's suffering, she felt oddly pitiful towards this man, and her inward emotion found vent in words which surprised her as much as they startled the man to whom they were addressed.
"Why to-night, Dr. Anstice? Has this day been to you what it has been to me—a day of the bitterest suffering I have ever known?"
The tone of her deep voice, so oddly gentle, the compassionate expression in her usually cold blue eyes, were too much for Anstice, whose endurance was nearly at the breaking point; and he turned to her with a look in his face which dismayed her, so tragic was it.
"Mrs. Carstairs, this day I have been in—hell!" The word sounded cruelly out of place in the quiet moonlit night. "Once before I fancied I had reached the point at which a man may turn his back on life and its horrors without thinking himself a pitiful coward. I suffered then—my God, how I suffered!—but the torture I have endured to-day makes me feel as though I have never known what suffering is until now."
Her answer came quickly.
"But you know now that no man can turn his back on life and yet escape the allegation of cowardice!" It was an assertion rather than a question. "Dr. Anstice, I don't ask to know what your suffering has been—I don't want you to tell me—but one thing I do know, that you, and men like you, are not the ones who give up the battle when the fight is fiercest."
He delayed his answer so long that Chloe had time to feel curiously frightened by his silence. And when his reply came it was hardly reassuring.
"I thought you were too wise a woman to indulge in generalities, Mrs. Carstairs." His tired voice robbed the words of offence. "And don't you know that it is never safe to prophesy what a man will do in a battle? The bravest may turn coward beneath a hail of fire—the man who is afraid may perform some deed which will entitle him—and rightly—to the coveted Victoria Cross."
"Yes." She spoke steadily, her eyes on his face. "But that's the battlefield of the world, Dr. Anstice, the material, earthly battlefield. It's the battlefield of the soul I was thinking of just now; and if I may use a quotation which has been battered out of nearly all its original fine shape by careless usage, to me the truly brave man is he who remains to the end the—'captain of his soul!'"
Her voice sank on the last words; but Anstice had caught her meaning, and he turned to her with a new light in his tired eyes.
"Mrs. Carstairs, thank you for what you've just said. Captain of his soul—yes, I've heard it often enough, but never stopped to ponder its meaning. And as the captain mustn't lose his ship if mortal man can prevent the loss, so a man must bring the ship of his soul safely into port. Is that what you meant just now?"
She smiled faintly in the moonlight, and for once there was no mockery in her smile.
"We have wandered from our original metaphor of a battlefield," she said gently, "but I like your simile of a ship better. Yes, I suppose that is what I was trying to convey—in a confused fashion, I'm afraid. We each have our voyage to complete, our ship to bring into harbour; and even though sometimes it seems about to founder"—he knew she alluded to the catastrophe of her own life—"we must not let it sink if we can keep it afloat."
For a moment there was silence between them; and again they heard the melancholy hoot of the owl, flying homewards now.
Then Anstice said slowly:
"You are right, of course. But"—at last his pent-up bitterness burst its bounds and overflowed in quick, vehement speech—"it's easy enough for a man to handle his ship carefully when he has some precious thing on board—or even when he knows some welcoming voice will greet him as he enters—at last—into his haven. But the man whose ship is empty, who has no right to expect even one greeting word—is there no excuse for him if he navigate the seas carelessly?"
"No." In the moonlight she faced him, and her eyes looked oddly luminous. "For a derelict's the greatest danger a boat can encounter on the high seas ... all our boats cross and recross the paths of others, you know, and no man has the right to place another's ship in peril by his own—carelessness."
"By God, you're right," he said vehemently; and she did not resent his hasty speech. "Mrs. Carstairs, you've done more for me to-night than you know—and if I can repay you I will, though it cost me all I have in the world."
"You can repay me very easily," she said, holding out her hand, all the motherhood in her coming to the surface. "Save Cherry—she is allIhave—now—in the world; and her little barque, at least, was meant to dance over summer seas."
"God helping me, I will save her," he said, taking her hand in a quick, earnest clasp; and then he entered his waiting car and drove away without another word, a new courage in his heart.
And as Chloe gently closed the heavy door on the peaceful, fragrant world without and returned to the little room where Cherry lay in an uneasy slumber, she knew that a faint suspicion which had crossed her mind earlier in the summer had been verified to-night.
"He too loved Iris," she said to herself, with a rather sad little smile. "And I thought—once—that she was ready to love him in return. But, I suppose she preferred Bruce. Only"—Chloe had no illusions on the subject of her brother—"I believe Dr. Anstice would have made her a happier woman than Bruce will ever be able to do. And if he"—she did not refer to Cheniston now—"has lost his chance of happiness to-day, no wonder he feels that he has been in hell. For there is no hell so terrible as the one in which a soul who loves wanders alone, without its beloved," said the woman whose husband had left her because of a cruel doubt. "From the bottom of my heart I pity that man to-night!"
And then, re-entering Cherry's little room, pathetic now in its very brightness of colouring, Chloe forgot all else in the world save the child who slept, in the narrow bed, watched by Margaret Trevor's soft, brooding eyes.
On a cold and frosty morning in November Anstice was sitting over his solitary breakfast when the telephone-bell rang; and he left his coffee to grow cold while he answered the summons.
It was Sir Richard who was speaking; and even over the wire Anstice thought he detected an unusual note in the older man's voice.
"That you, Anstice? Are you busy, or can you spare me a few minutes this morning?"
"I'll come to Greengates, of course, if you want me, Sir Richard," said Anstice immediately. "But I hope you are not ill—nor Lady Laura?"
"No, my sister's all right—so am I." There was a pause. "But I—well, I'm rather worried, and I want to see you."
"Very well, sir. I'll be round at eleven. Will that suit you?"
"Yes, eleven will do well.Au revoirtill then," and Sir Richard rang off with a promptitude which forbade further discussion for the moment.
As he went back to his cooling coffee Anstice wondered vaguely what Sir Richard could have to say; but since speculation was mere idle waste of time he dismissed the matter from his mind and finished his breakfast in haste.
It was nearly noon when he drove his car up to the great hall door of Greengates; but the words of apology for his tardy arrival died on his lips when he caught sight of Sir Richard's face.
"I say, I'm afraid you're ill, after all!" Anstice was genuinely concerned; and Sir Richard's strained features relaxed into a smile.
"No, I'm perfectly well. Only, as I told you, I have been upset this morning; and—well, I'll explain and you will see thereissomething to worry about."
Without more ado he walked over to his substantial roll-top desk, and unlocking a drawer took from thence an envelope which he handled gingerly as though it were unpleasing to him.
From the envelope he drew a sheet of thin paper; and Anstice, watching him closely, felt still more mystified by his distasteful expression.
For a moment Sir Richard hesitated, still holding the sheet by the tips of his fingers. Then, as though he had taken a sudden resolve, he turned to Anstice abruptly.
"Look here, Anstice, this abominable thing reached me this morning. Now of course I don't need you to tell me that the proper place for it is the fire, and if it had not been for one circumstance connected with it, it would have been in the flames by now. But as things are"—he broke off suddenly and held the thin sheet out to the other man—"well, read it, and then tell me what you think is the best course to pursue."
With a premonition of evil for which he could not account, Anstice took the paper from Sir Richard and, turning to the window so that the pale autumn sunlight might fall upon the letter, he read the few lines scrawled in the middle of the sheet.
"Dr. Anstice is a murderer he killed a woman in India by shooting her because she was in the way when he wanted to escape."
"Dr. Anstice is a murderer he killed a woman in India by shooting her because she was in the way when he wanted to escape."
That was all. There was no heading, no signature, not even the cynical assurance of well-wishing which is the hall-mark, so to speak, of the typical anonymous letter; and as Anstice read the ill-written words his first sensation was of wonder as to who his secret enemy might be.
When he had finished he turned the sheet over in his hands to see if perchance the writer might have more to say; but the other side of the paper was blank; and he looked at Sir Richard with an expression of utter bewilderment.
"Well?" Sir Richard interrogated him with interest. "Pretty sort of document, eh? I suppose the writing conveys nothing to your mind?"
"Nothing at all." Holding the paper to the light, Anstice examined the ill-formed characters more closely. "It does not resemble any handwriting I know. But I suppose"—he smiled rather grimly—"the test of a successful anonymous correspondent is to disguise his writing efficiently."
"Yes." Sir Richard stretched out his hand for the paper and Anstice yielded it to him without regret. "Well, it is pretty evident that someone has—to put it vulgarly—got his knife into you. The question is, who can it be?"
"Well, it's a question I'm not clever enough to answer," returned Anstice, with assumed lightness. "All men have enemies, I suppose, and I won't swear I've never made any in my life. But I can't at the moment recall one who would stoop to fight with such dirty weapons as these."
"Dirty—that's just the word for it," said Sir Richard disgustedly. "But you know, Anstice, this sort of thing can't be allowed to go on. For your own sake, and for the sake of others"—he paused, then repeated himself deliberately—"for the sake of others it must be stopped—at once."
"I quite agree with you that it must be stopped," said Anstice slowly, "though I hardly see how the matter affects anyone except myself. Of course"—he looked Sir Richard squarely in the face as he spoke—"it is no use denying there is a certain amount of truth in this accusation against me. I wonder if you have the patience to listen to a story—the story of a great mistake made, unfortunately, by me some years ago."
For a moment Sir Richard seemed about to speak; yet no word crossed his lips. Then he said, with a very kindly inflection in his voice:
"Don't trouble to tell me the story, Anstice. I think I know it already."
"You do?" Anstice stared at him. "But who told it to you? Was it—Cheniston?"
"No, no." Sir Richard spoke hurriedly. "Cheniston never mentioned the affair to me. As a matter of fact I heard it, at the time, from his uncle, a contemporary of mine; but I confess I did not, at first, associate you with the man who was brave enough—and unfortunate enough—to carry out that poor girl's wish——"
"On my honour, sir, I could not have done anything else." Anstice's voice was full of pain, and Sir Richard put his hand kindly on the younger man's shoulder.
"Of course you couldn't—no one but a fool could imagine that for a moment! But as I say, at first I did not connect your name with that of the hero of the story. It was only on seeing you and Cheniston together on one or two occasions that I guessed you might, after all, be the man."
"Yes—to my everlasting remorse I am the man," said Anstice rather bitterly. "But since you know the facts of the case, and yet are good enough to welcome me to your house, I gather this wretched letter carried no weight with you, Sir Richard. And if that is so, why not tear it up, and make an end of the thing?"
"Wait a moment, Anstice. As you say, I know the facts of the case and even if I were ignorant of them this contemptiblecanard"—he flicked the paper angrily—"wouldn't rouse my curiosity to the extent of setting me searching for some crime in your past." He smiled, but the smile cost him an effort. "But you see the mischief may not rest here. It is quite possible other people may have been—victimized—by this morning's post."
"By Jove, I hadn't thought of that." Anstice stood biting his lip and staring thoughtfully ahead of him; and the old man watched the thin, fine-drawn face with a regard which was full of anxiety. "Naturally a story of this sort is not calculated to enhance one's popularity; and one's patients might quite well look askance at a doctor who was reputed to be a murderer!"
He paused; then threw back his head impetuously.
"After all, if they are weak-minded enough to believe an anonymous statement, they aren't worth bothering with. As it is, I've been thinking for some time that I've had enough of general practice. I never intended to go in for it, you know; and if I had a quiet year or two for research——"
He broke off suddenly, for Sir Richard had raised his hand almost entreatingly.
"Anstice, don't speak of giving up your practice here—not at this juncture, anyway. You see this vile story may spread; and to quit Littlefield now would look almost like"—he hesitated—"like cowardice."
For a second Anstice stared at him, a flash of anger on his brow. Then, as though dismayed by the effect of his words, Sir Richard spoke again.
"Besides, there is another aspect of the matter which has evidently not yet struck you. It is very natural for you to look on this letter as a loathsome, but quite unimportant, act of spite, on the part of some secret enemy; and I understand your desire to assume that it does not matter in the least. But"—his eyes sought the younger man's face anxiously—"there is another person in this neighbourhood who might be affected by a fresh flood of anonymous communications. You know to whom I refer?"
Suddenly Anstice saw, with a most unwelcome clarity of vision, what Sir Richard intended to convey; and his eyes grew hard as he replied:
"You mean——"
"I mean that once again that unfortunate girl at Cherry Orchard might be suspected of having recourse to this most degrading, most underhand form of crime. And for her sake the matter must not be allowed to rest here."
"Sir Richard"—Anstice came a step nearer his host, and Sir Richard heard, with satisfaction, the ring of steel in his voice—"you are right. I did not see, at first, how peculiarly fatal this coincidence might be. I mean that should these letters, as you suggest, be circulated through the district, the old scandal would be revived. And though no sane person could ever believe Mrs. Carstairs guilty of such a vile action, I suppose therearea good many lunatics about who would put these atrocious things down to her."
"Well, you know what people are," said Sir Richard deprecatingly, "and naturally a woman who has once been convicted, by whatever unfair means, of the same offence, is liable to be looked on with suspicion. And I shouldn't like"—for a second Sir Richard, who loved Chloe Carstairs as though she had been his daughter, faltered, and cleared his throat rather huskily—"I shouldn't like that poor, pretty creature over yonder to suffer any further indignity."
"Of course not!" Anstice's eyes flashed, and he pulled himself together resolutely. "And if I can help it, she shan't suffer! Just look here, Sir Richard, the first thing to do is to find out if anyone else has been, as you say, victimized."
"Yes." Sir Richard spoke rather dubiously. "And it will be rather hard to find out that, I fear. You see, naturally a decent man wouldn't spread the fact abroad; and we can hardly go about making open inquiries."
"I suppose not." For a second Anstice was nonplussed, then his face cleared. "But after all, if anyone—one of my patients, for instance, has received one of these charming letters, don't you think I shall find it out? You see, although the average 'decent man,' as you call him, holds firmly to the theory that the place for an anonymous communication is the fire, I'm afraid nine out of ten people can't help wondering, even while they burn it, how much truth there was in the accusation!"
"Just so—but even then——"
"Well, something of that rather uncomfortable wonder, not to say suspicion, is pretty sure to show itself in the manner of the man who's read the letter. Seriously, Sir Richard, if anyone beside yourself has received a testimonial to my character" He spoke ironically now—"I'll guarantee to discover the fact in the course of ten minutes' conversation with him!"
"You may be right, Anstice." Sir Richard did not speak with much conviction. "But for all our sakes I wish we could make certain of the facts either way. You see, should this lie be circulated through the district by means of letters or postcards it is inevitable that the old scandal should be raked up. And in that case Mrs. Carstairswillsuffer."
A thought struck Anstice suddenly and he gave it utterance forthwith.
"Sir Richard, I suppose you don't remember whether the handwriting in any of those other letters resembled this in any way? It is not likely, so long afterwards, but still——"
Sir Richard uttered an impatient exclamation.
"By Gad, what an old fool I am! I've got one of the original letters locked away in that desk now—one of the half-dozen or so which reached me when the scandal was at its height. I don't know why I kept it—God knows I hated the sight of it—but somehow I could never bring myself to destroy the thing, hoping against hope that it might some day afford a clue to the identity of the writer."
He busied himself with a bunch of keys for a moment, and finally selected one, with which he unlocked a small drawer at the back of his desk. At first his eagerness prevented him finding what he sought, but presently he brought to light another and rather worn sheet of paper, which he handed to Anstice triumphantly.
"Yes, read it, read it!" He had marked Anstice's hesitation. "The affair's been public property too long for any secrecy now. And that, after all, was a fairly innocuous screed."
Thus encouraged, Anstice ran his eye over the sheet of paper, and there read a veiled, but none the less malignant, attack on the character of Mrs. Ogden, the wife of the man who had held the living of Littlefield at the time the letter was written. In his anxiety to compare the handwriting of the two epistles Anstice barely stopped to take in the meaning of what he read; and when, in answer to his request, Sir Richard handed him the second letter he carried them both eagerly to the window and examined them carefully in the stronger light.
"Well?" Sir Richard's tone was full of sympathetic interest.
"One moment—I've got a pocket magnifying glass somewhere." He put the letters down and plunged his hand into various pockets in eager search. "Ah—here it is—and we'll jolly soon see if the game hand has been at work in both."
Watching him as he pored over the two papers Sir Richard told himself that with this man for her champion Chloe Carstairs need not fear further condemnation at the hands of a censorious or jealous world. He knew instinctively that what made Anstice so suddenly keen on discovering the authorship of the letters was not a selfish desire to rid himself of the annoyance such letters might bring upon him, but rather a determination to prove Chloe Carstairs innocent in the first instance by bringing home the guilt for both letters—or series of letters—to the right quarter.
Sir Richard made no mistake in his estimation of Anstice's chivalrous desire to right the wrong which had been done to Mrs. Carstairs. He knew quite well that to Anstice the righting of the wrong appeared in the light of a duty to the woman whom he called his friend; and that no warmer emotion animated him in regard to Chloe Carstairs than that same chivalry.
For Iris' father had not been blind to the significance of the events of the summer. Although Anstice had never betrayed his secret by word or look the other man had all along had a suspicion that Cheniston was not alone in his love for his pretty daughter; and although naturally he was ignorant of the compact entered into by the two younger men he had sometimes wondered, with just the least possible tinge of regret, why Anstice had apparently been content to leave the field to his rival.
Although he admitted to himself that he had absolutely no grounds for believing that Anstice had been in love with Iris he could never rid himself of the notion; and in any case he felt quite certain that Anstice had no warmer feeling for Mrs. Carstairs than a very genuine and chivalrous friendliness.
Watching the younger man as he stood with bent head examining the papers Sir Richard was struck by the change in Anstice's face during the last few months. Always thin, it was now positively haggard, and the black hair which clustered round his brow was touched, here and there, with grey. Yet the effect was not one of age. He could hardly be said to look older than his years; but there was a look of something more painful than a premature ageing would have been—a look of suffering, of bitter experience impatiently borne, of a mental conflict which had drawn lines round the fine lips, and given an air of hopeless weariness to the deep-set eyes.
And Sir Richard, watching, wondered again—this time uneasily—whether the marriage of his beloved little daughter to Bruce Cheniston had proved yet another trouble for this man's already burdened spirit to bear.
Sir Richard had, of course, no idea of the remorse with which Anstice remembered that terrible scene on the eve of Iris' wedding day, when Cheniston and the girl he was to marry on the morrow had come to him for help; and had found him in no fit state to render aid to any human being.
That fact alone, the fact that, as he had said bitterly to Chloe Carstairs, he had failed a child in her need, would have been sufficient to fill Anstice with a very real and deep regret for his own most lamentable failure; but added to that was the other and still more deplorable fact that it had been Iris Wayne who had seen his condition; and although she had uttered no word of reproach he told himself hopelessly that now he must have fallen very low in her estimation. And the idea that Iris must scorn him in her heart, however charitably she might strive to think of him, was a terrible one to the man who had fought so heroically for her sake to overcome his weakness, and had failed only when it had seemed to him that his failure—now—could mean nothing to the girl he loved.
As Sir Richard watched him, rather uneasily, Anstice turned to him suddenly.
"I say, Sir Richard, I'm pretty sure these letters are both written by one hand! Look, these two 'a's are identical, and the capital 'D' is absolutely similar in both."
Oddly thrilled, Sir Richard bent over the papers; and saw that Anstice had spoken the obvious truth.
"By Gad, Anstice, you're right!" For a moment he did not know whether to be disturbed or relieved by the discovery. "It looks uncommonly as though the same hand were at work again; and in that case——"
"In that case the mischief-maker shall be brought to book." A new look of resolution drove away the weary lines from the speaker's face. "I hope with all my heart itisthe same person who's at the old game—and I'll find out who it is if it costs me every penny I've got!"
"Quite right, quite the right spirit," said Sir Richard, watching him keenly the while. "It's damnably unfair that a story of that sort should be circulated about you—and the blackguard who's responsible deserves a heavy punishment for the lie."
In an instant the vivacity died out of Anstice's face; and again its hopeless expression struck Sir Richard with a sense of pain.
"Of course the thing is not exactly a lie," he said. "I mean, I did act too hastily, though God knows I did it for the best. But if the whole story is to be raked up again—by Jove, I believe after all it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie!"
"You forget—this is not the first letter which has fallen like a bombshell into Littlefield," Sir Richard reminded him quietly; and Anstice flushed a dull red.
"Of course not ... what a fool I am! Thinking of the past, of that horrible morning, I forgot Mrs. Carstairs. But"—he squared his shoulders aggressively—"I shall not forgot again. This thing is going to be sifted now, and the mystery solved. May I take these letters with me?"
"Certainly." Sir Richard felt Anstice had the better right to the documents. "You will take care of them, of course; and if you follow my advice you will not show them to anyone—yet."
"Quite so." Anstice put the two letters carefully away in his pocket-book. "Now I must go, Sir Richard; but please believe I am grateful for your kindness in this matter."
He shook hands with Sir Richard, and hurried away to his waiting car; and as he drove from the house his lips were firmly set together, and the look in his eyes betokened no good to the wretched creature who had penned this latest communication.
And Sir Richard, watching him from a side window, felt a sharp pang of regret that this man, whom he liked and trusted, had not managed, apparently, to win his daughter's affection.
"Damme if I wouldn't rather have had him for a son-in-law than the other," he said to himself presently. "Cheniston's a decent fellow enough, brainy and a thoroughly steady sort of chap, but there is something about this man that I rather admire. It may be his pluck, or his quiet tenacity of purpose—I'm hanged if I know what it is; but on my soul I'm inclined to wish I'd been called upon to give my little girl into his keeping. As for that affair in India, it's not every man who would have had the pluck to shoot the girl, and precious few men would have lived it down as he has done. I believe I'd have put a bullet through my brain if it had been me," said Sir Richard honestly, "but I can quite realize that it's a long sight finer to see the thing through. And if there's to be fresh trouble over these confounded anonymous scrawls, well, I'll stick to the fellow through thick and thin!"
And with this meritorious resolve Sir Richard went back to his comfortable fire and the paper which he had not, as yet, had the heart to peruse.
On the day following Sir Richard's interview with Anstice the latter received an unexpected call from the Vicar of Littlefield parish.
The two men were on fairly intimate terms. For the clergyman, as a scholar and a gentleman, Anstice had a real respect, though the religious side of Mr. Carey's office, as expressed in his spiritual ministrations, could hardly be expected to appeal to the man who could never rid himself of the feeling that God had deliberately failed him at a critical moment.
Mr. Carey, on his side, had a genuine liking for Anstice, whose skill he admired with the impersonal admiration which a specialist in one profession accords to an expert in another vocation. But mingled with his admiration was an uneasy suspicion that all was not well with the spiritual health of this most indifferent of his parishioners, and he was grieved, with the charity of a large and generous nature, by the gloom, the melancholy, which at times were written only too plainly on the other's face.
The two men were brought into contact now and again by the very nature of their respective callings. Soul and body are after all so closely related that the health of the one depends largely on that of the other; and at times both priest and physician must take their share in the gracious task of healing. And on the occasions when their work brought them together the mutual liking and respect between the two was sensibly strengthened.
So that it did not cause Anstice more than a passing sensation of surprise when on this cold and raw November evening the Reverend Fraser Carey was announced as a visitor.
"Mr. Carey here? Where have you taken him, Alice?"
"Into the drawing-room, sir. The fire's not lighted, but I can put a match to it in a moment."
"No, don't do that." Anstice hated the little-used drawing-room. "Take Mr. Carey into my room, and bring up some coffee directly, will you?"
"Yes, sir." The maid, who in common with the rest of the household regarded Anstice with an admiration not unmixed with awe, withdrew to carry out her instructions; and hastily finishing an important letter, Anstice went in search of his rare visitor.
"Hallo, Carey—jolly good of you to look me up on a beastly night like this." He poked the fire into a brighter blaze, and drew forward a capacious leather chair. "Sit down and light up. We'll have some coffee presently—I know you don't care for anything stronger."
"Thanks, Anstice." Mr. Carey sank down into the big chair and held his transparent-looking hands to the flames. "It is a bad night, as you say, and this fire is uncommonly cosy."
Fraser Carey was a man of middle age who, through constitutional delicacy, looked older than his years. His features, well-cut in themselves, were marred by the excessive thinness and pallor of his face; and his eyes, beneath their heavy lids, told a story of unrestful nights spent in wrestling with some mental or physical pain which forbade the refreshment of sleep. He had never consulted Anstice professionally, though he had called upon his services on behalf of a little niece who sometimes visited him; and Anstice wondered now and then what scruple it was which prevented his friend making use of such skill as he might reasonably claim to possess.
To-night Carey looked even more tired, more fragile than ever; and Anstice refrained from speech until he had poured out two cups of deliciously fragrant coffee and had seen that Carey's pipe was in full blast.
Then: "It is quite a time since you dropped in for a chat," he said cheerfully. "Yet this isn't a specially busy season of the year for you parsons, is it?Weare run off our legs with influenza and all the rest of it, thanks to the weather, but you——"
"We parsons are generally busy, you know," returned Carey with a smile. "Human nature being what it is there is no close-time for sin—nor for goodness either, God be thanked," he added hastily.
"I suppose not." Having satisfactorily loaded his pipe Anstice lay back and puffed luxuriously. "In any case I'm glad you've found time to drop in. By the way, there is a woman down in Blue Row about whom I wanted to see you. I think you know the family—the man is a blacksmith, Richards by name."
He outlined the needs of the case, and Carey took a few notes in the little book he carried for the purpose. After that the conversation ranged desultorily over various local matters mildly interesting to both; and then there fell a sudden pause which Anstice at least felt to be significant.
It was broken, abruptly, by the clergyman, who sat upright in his chair, and, laying his empty pipe down on the table, turned to face his host more fully.
"Anstice." His thin, rather musical voice held a new and arresting note. "My visit to you to-night was not of, a purely social nature. I came because—I may have been wrong—because I felt it to be both an obligation and an act of friendship to come here to discuss with you a peculiar situation which has arisen within the last day or two in Littlefield."
Instantly Anstice guessed what was to follow; and he knocked the ashes out of his pipe with a rather impatient gesture which was not lost on the other man.
"If you will listen to me for one moment," said Carey hastily, "you may then refuse to discuss the subject if you wish. But I think it will really be better if you can bring yourself to listen to me first."
Even Anstice's annoyance was not proof against the other man's moderation; and he spoke with creditable mildness.
"I think I know what you want to say, Carey. Is it—this interesting subject—concerned with certain statements which are being made about me—anonymously—in the parish?"
Carey's face lost a little of its uneasiness.
"Yes," he said, "since you appear to be already acquainted with the fact there is no use in denying it. Indeed, I don't wish to do so, seeing that is what I came to say to you."
"You have received such a letter yourself?"
"Yes. I received a letter this morning."
"I see." For a moment Anstice sat in silence, his lips set firmly together; and the other man, watching, was struck, as Sir Richard had been on the previous day, by the look of suffering in his face. "Well, Carey, is it asking you too much to let me know exactly what form the accusation against me took? Or have you the letter with you?"
"No. I burnt the letter immediately," Carey answered. "Naturally such communications are best destroyed—and forgotten—at once. But"—he hesitated—"the fact is I have since discovered that I am not the only person to be addressed by the unknown correspondent."
"Indeed?" Anstice's eyes flashed. "Is it permissible to ask who else has been thus—honoured?"
The clergyman paused a moment before replying, and it was evident a conflict was taking place in his mind. The struggle was, however, soon terminated, and he answered Anstice's question resolutely.
"Yes, it is quite permissible. Indeed, I had already gained the consent of the other—victim"—he smiled deprecatingly—"to tell you, if necessary, what was being said behind your back."
"Well?" Anstice's tone was peremptory, but his friend did not resent it.
"The other anonymous letter—the only other one of which I have any knowledge—was addressed to the wife of your colleague—I don't think he's your rival—Dr. Willows."
"Oh!" Anstice opened his eyes; he had not expected this revelation. "Poor little woman! What a shame to victimize her!"
"Yes—as you know, she's quite a girl, they've only been married three months; and the letter worried her considerably—so much so, in fact, that as Willows is away on a week's holiday she sent for me to advise her in the matter."
"What advice did you give her?"
"Well, in the first flush of indignation she was all for sending the horrid thing on to you—a pretty sure sign that any accusation against you had missed its mark," said Carey with a smile. "However, her heart failed her at the critical moment and she sent for me instead. She was at school with some young cousins of mine and we are on quite friendly terms; so she confided her perplexity to me at once."
"I see." Anstice was thinking hard. "And I suppose you returned her confidence by giving her yours?"
"Yes." Carey looked at him frankly. "I requested her to keep my confidence as I would keep hers—save to you—and I am sure she will do so. But"—he spoke gravely now—"I am afraid, Anstice, there is someone in the neighbourhood who wishes to work you ill."
"By the way"—Anstice was not listening very closely—"you have not yet told me the nature of the accusation. I presume it was the same in both cases?"
"Practically, yes. It was a statement, made very plainly and directly, that you—you——"
He broke off, his thin cheeks flushing; and Anstice smiled rather dryly.
"Don't let it distress you," he said, with an attempt at jocularity. "Suppose I save you the trouble of repeating the contents of the letters. I daresay the writer stated that I once, in order to get myself out of a tight place in India, wantonly sacrificed the woman who was my companion?"
"Yes," said Carey slowly, "that was the substance of both communications. The idea was, I gather, to prevent the recipients having confidence in you by pointing to you as one who would save himself at the expense of a woman. Of course"—he spoke more fluently now—"no one who knew you would dream of attaching any weight whatever to that sort of cruel and senseless lie; and as I told Mrs. Willows, such a baseless slander is better left to die for want of notice. She quite agreed with me," he added hastily, and Anstice's face cleared.
"Thanks, Carey." He held out his hand, and Carey's transparent, fingers clasped it with a strength which would have been surprising to one who did not know the indomitable spirit which dwelt in the wasted frame. "You are a true friend, and your friendship deserves some return. Unfortunately the only return I can make is to tell you the miserable story which is perverted by the anonymous writer into something less creditable than—I hope—you will judge it to be."
He sprang up suddenly and leaned against the mantelpiece, hands in pockets as usual; and in that position, looking down on his friend as he sat in his capacious chair, he outlined once again the happenings of that bygone Indian dawn.
He related the affair shortly—it was not a subject on which he cared to dwell; and the clergyman listened thoughtfully, his sunken eyes fixed on the pale face beneath the clustering black hair with an intentness of regard which would have disturbed anyone less engrossed than the narrator of the sad little story.
When he had finished Anstice moved abruptly.
"Well, that's the truth—and now you see that those statements made about me are the most insidious form of lying—with a good foundation of half-truths. That's what makes it so infernally hard to refute them."
"I see." Carey loaned forward thoughtfully, shielding his face from the flames with his thin hands. "It is a pitiful story, Anstice; and if you will allow me to say so I admire and respect a man who can live down the memory of a tragedy as you have done."
"I have lived it down—yes," said Anstice, rather grimly. "But it's been jolly hard at times not to throw up the sponge. Several people have suggested—discreetly—that suicide is quite justifiable in cases of this sort, but——"
"Suicide isneverjustifiable." The clergyman's delicate features stiffened. "From the days of Judas Iscariot—the most notorious suicide in the history of the world, I suppose—it has been the refuge of the coward, the ingrate, the weak-minded. People talk of the pluck required to enable a man to take his own life. What pluck is there in deliberately turning one's back on the problems one hasn't the courage, or the patience, to solve? Believe me, suicide—self-murder—is an unthinkable resource to a really brave man."
He stopped; but Anstice made no reply, though a rather cynical smile played about his lips; and presently Carey went on speaking.
"It always seems to me such sheer folly, such egregious lunacy, to precipitate one's self into the unknown, seeing that one can hardly expect the Giver of Life to welcome the soul He has not called. And I have often wondered what depths of misery, of shame, must overwhelm the uninvited soul in what someone has called 'the first five minutes after Death.'"
His voice sank to a whisper on the last words; and for a moment the room was very still. Then Carey leaned forward and laid one hand on the other's arm with a rather deprecating smile.
"Forgive me, Anstice! The subject we were discussing is one on which I find it difficult to hold my peace. But knowing you, I know that suicide is not, would never be, the way out to one of your disposition."
Anstice moved restlessly.
"Odd you should use that expression," he said quickly. "Others have employed it in connection with this miserable story of mine. No, suicide is not the way out—nor is another expedient to which I have had recourse. But"—suddenly his face lost its quietness and grew keen, alert—"this slander has got to be stopped. You see this is not the first time the neighborhood has been infested with this plague."
"You refer to the unhappy circumstances connected with my predecessor's wife?"
"Yes. You know the story, of course?"
"Yes. I am also acquainted—but very slightly—with Mrs. Carstairs."
"Then you know a much-maligned woman," said Anstice. "And it is in order to save her from further unhappiness that I intend to sift this matter to the bottom."
"I am delighted to hear you say so," said Carey earnestly. "And if I can help you in any way my services are yours. First of all, how do you propose starting on the sifting process?"
"I have already made a start," rejoined Anstice. "Through the good offices of Sir Richard Wayne, who has also been pestered with a letter, I have discovered that the writing of those communications and of those earlier ones you mentioned just now is in many respects identical."
Carey sat upright, his face alight with interest.
"Really? You think the writer of both is the same?"
"Yes. Of course until I have studied the two letters in my possession a little more closely I can't be positively certain on the point; but I intend to submit them both to an expert at the first opportunity."
"I can help you there," said Carey quite eagerly. "I mean, if you do not know of a reliable expert I can give you the name of the cleverest man in England."
"Can you?" Anstice's notebook was out in a second. "Thanks very much—I will write to him to-morrow. But in my own mind I have not a shadow of doubt that the same person wrote them both."
"By the way"—Carey spoke slowly—"how many people about here would be likely to know the story you have told me to-night? Out in India, of course, there might be some who would remember such a tragic episode. But it's a far cry from Alostan to Littlefield."
"The only people in the neighbourhood who have heard the true story are, so far as I know, Sir Richard Wayne and"—he hesitated—"and his daughter, who is now Mrs. Cheniston."
"I see." Fraser Carey's eyes had noted the change of tone as Anstice spoke the last name; and his quick humanism was stirred by the pitiful idea which crossed his mind. "Sir Richard's daughter knew the story? And—may we conclude that her husband would naturally share her knowledge?"
"Naturally—yes." He emphasized the word. "You see I omitted to tell you that the girl I—the girl who was with me in the hut was engaged to this very man, Bruce Cheniston, whom Miss Wayne eventually married."
"Was she, indeed?" Carey was really surprised. "What a strange coincidence that you should meet again—as I suppose you met—in Littlefield."
"We met, yes," said Anstice, his eyes growing fierce at the remembrance of their meeting. "But—well, as you will readily see, none of those persons is in the least likely to have anything to do with the letters we are discussing. I daresay Mrs. Carstairs may possibly know the story—if her brother saw fit to hand it on to her. But so far as I know they are the only people who do know it, and naturally we can write all of them off the list of suspects at once."
"Quite so. I wonder"—Carey rose as he spoke—"I wonder if anyone else has received one of those shameful letters? Of course should the matter go no further there is not much real harm done, though of course——"
"Whether there are other letters or not the matter is going to be thoroughly investigated," said Anstice resolutely; and Carey experienced a disturbing and quite unusual pang of regret for his own vanished youth and strength as he heard the ring of determination in the other man's voice, noted the firm set of his lips and the proud and dauntless gesture with which he threw back his head, his black eyes sparkling.
"Well, I shall follow the course of events with deep interest," he said, striving as he spoke to fight down that unworthy sensation of envy of another's superior equipment for the battle of life. "Of course I will keep my own counsel; and in a few days at latest you should know whether your enemy intends to strike again."
"It is very good of you to take an interest in the horrible affair." Anstice was really grateful. "Must you go? You haven't given me much of your company to-night."
"I must go—yes." His smile robbed the words of any discourtesy. "But don't forget to call upon me if you want any help. And for the sake of all concerned, but especially, if I may say so, for the sake of the poor lady at Cherry Orchard, I trust you may be able to clear the matter up for all the world to see."
"It is chiefly for Mrs. Carstairs' sake that I intend to do so," returned Anstice briefly. "Personally I don't care what may be said about me; but I don't mean Mrs. Carstairs to be victimized further. And if it costs me every penny I've got in the world the writer of these letters shall be brought to book!"
And Fraser Carey agreed, mentally, with Sir Richard's estimation of Mrs. Carstairs' new champion. But he went further than Sir Richard, in that he found occasion to wonder whether after all this unexpected and unwelcome repetition of the former anonymous campaign which had convulsed Littlefield might not in the end prove the salvation of the man against whom it was presumably directed.
Unlike Sir Richard, Carey was an observer of men, a student of human nature, and he had not failed to notice the increased alertness which had characterized Anstice this evening as he discussed the situation. The rather bitter, indifferent look which generally clouded his face had lifted, giving way to a brighter, more open expression; and the half melancholy cynicism which Carey had deplored had vanished before the eager determination to see an innocent and wronged woman righted in the eyes of the world.
"The man has brooded so long over what he considers to be an injustice of God that he has lost, temporarily, his sense of proportion," said Carey to himself as he trudged, rather wearily, homeward. "But if he devotes himself, as he seems anxious to do, to the service of a woman who has suffered an equal injustice, though at the hands of man this time, possibly he will forgot his own bitterness in the contemplation of her marred life. And God, who is the God of Justice, whatever scoffers may say, will bring the truth to light in His own good time. So the two tragedies may react on one another; for the lives of all of us are bound together by mysterious and undreamed-of links; and in the effort to free the soul of a woman from its bondage his own soul may well find its freedom."
But Fraser Carey was a mystic; and since the materialistic world looks with suspicion on mysticism, it is probable that even Anstice, who knew and respected him, would have heard his last speech with a passing wonder that a man should hold so unpractical and untenable a view of existence as the words would seem to imply.
Before he went to bed on the night of Carey's visit to him Anstice wrote a letter to the expert recommended by his friend, inquiring whether an appointment could be made for the following Friday afternoon; and on Thursday night a laconic telegram arrived fixing three o'clock on Friday for the suggested interview.
It had seemed to Anstice that a personal interview with the expert would be far more satisfactory than a prolonged correspondence; and he hurried through his work on Friday morning and caught the noon express to London with a minute to spare.
He had the carriage to himself; and during the quick journey to town he pored over the two specimens of handwriting which he was taking up for examination until he was more than ever convinced that both were written by the same hand.
Mr. Clive, the noted handwriting expert, had a flat in Lincoln's Inn; and thither Anstice hastened in a taxi, arriving just as the clocks of London were striking three; a feat in punctuality which possibly accounted for the pleasant smile with which Mr. Clive greeted his visitor.
The expert was a tall and thin person, with deep-set and brilliant eyes hidden more or less by a pair of rimless eyeglasses; and Anstice was suddenly and humorously reminded of the popular idea of a detective as exemplified in Sherlock Holmes and his accomplished brethren.
When he smiled Mr. Clive lost his somewhat austere expression; and as Anstice obeyed his invitation to enter his sitting-room the latter felt that he had come to the right person with whom to discuss the problem of these annoying letters.
"Now, Dr. Anstice." Clive pushed forward a chair for his visitor and sank into another one himself, leaning back and joining his finger-tips in a manner which again reminded Anstice involuntarily of the super-detective. "I expect your time is as valuable as mine—probably more so—and we won't waste it in preliminaries. I gather you have some specimens of handwriting to submit to me?"
"Yes. I have two letters to show you." He drew them carefully from his notebook. "What I want to know is, whether they were both written by the same hand or not."
Mr. Clive unlaced his finger-tips and took the papers carefully from his visitor; after which, rather to Anstice's amusement, he removed his eyeglasses and proceeded to study the letters without their aid.
For several minutes he pored over them in silence, the letters spread out on the table before him; and Anstice, watching, could make nothing of the inscrutable expression on his face. Presently he rose, went to a little cabinet at the end of the room, and took from it a small magnifying glass, with whose aid he made a further study of the two documents; after which he resumed his eyeglasses and turned to Anstice with a smile.
"Your little problem is quite simple, Dr. Anstice," he said amiably. "As soon as I looked at these letters I guessed them to be the work of one hand. With the help of my glass I know my guess to be correct."
For a moment Anstice could not tell whether he were relieved or disappointed by this confirmation of his own suspicions; but the expert did not wait for his comments.
"If you will look through the glass you will see that the similarities in many of the letters are so striking that there is really no possible question as to their being written by one hand." He pushed the papers and glass across to Anstice, who obediently bent over the table and studied the letters as they lay before him. "For instance"—Clive moved to Anstice's side and, leaning over his shoulder, pointed with a slim finger—"that 'I' in India is identical with the one with which this letter opens; and that 's' with its curly tail could not possibly have been traced by any hand save that which wrote this one. There are other points of resemblance—the spaces between the words, for instance—which prove conclusively, to my mind at least, that the letters are the work of one person; but I expect you have already formed an opinion of your own on the subject."
"Yes," said Anstice. "To be frank, I have. I was quite sure in my own mind that they were written by one person; but I wanted an expert opinion. And now the only thing to be discovered is—who is that person?"
Clive smiled.
"That is a different problem—and a more difficult one," he said quietly. "These anonymous letters are very often exceedingly hard nuts to crack. But probably you have someone in your mind's eye already."
"No," said Anstice quickly, moved by a sudden desire to enlist this man's sympathy and possible help. "I'm completely in the dark. But I intend to find out who wrote these things. I suppose"—for a second he hesitated—"I suppose it isn't in your province to give me any possible clue as to the identity of the writer?"
The other laughed rather dryly.
"I'm not a clairvoyant," he said, "and I can't tell from handling a letter who wrote it, as the psychometrists profess to be able to do. But I will tell you one or two points I have noted in connection with these things." He flicked them rather disdainfully with his finger. "They are written by a woman—and I should not wonder if that woman were a foreigner."
"A foreigner?" Anstice was genuinely surprised. "I say, what makes you think that? The writing is not foreign."
"No. You are right there inasmuch as the regulation writing of a foreigner, French, Italian, Spanish, is fine and pointed in character, while this is more round, more sprawling and clumsy. But"—he frowned thoughtfully, and Anstice thought he looked more like Sherlock Holmes than ever—"there is one point in connection with this last letter which has evidently not struck you. Suppose you read it through carefully once more, and see if you can discover something in it which appears a trifle un-English, so to speak."
Anstice took the second letter as desired, and read it through carefully, while Clive watched him with an interest which was not feigned. Although Anstice had no suspicion of the fact, Clive, who had travelled in India, had in the light of that letter identified his visitor directly with the central figure in that bygone tragedy in Alostan; and although, owing to his absence from England, Clive had not been one of the experts consulted in the Carstairs case, it was not hard for him to place the first letter as belonging to that notorious series of anonymous scrawls which had roused so much interest in the Press a couple of years before this date.
Just where the connection between the two cases came Clive could not discover, but he had always felt a curiously strong sympathy with the unknown man who had carried out a woman's wish just ten minutes too soon, and he would willingly have helped Anstice to solve this problem if he could have seen his way to find the solution.
Presently Anstice looked up rather apologetically.
"I'm awfully stupid, but I don't see what you mean about a foreigner...."
Clive smiled.
"Don't you? Well, I'll explain. And after all I may be wrong, you know. However, here goes." He bent down again and pointed to the word India, which for some reason was set in inverted commas. "Don't you notice any peculiarities about these commas? Think of the usual manner in which an English writer uses them—and note the difference here."
Anstice studied the word with suddenly keen attention, and instantly noted the peculiarity of which Clive had spoken.
"The first double comma, so to speak, is set below the line, and the other one above. But English writers and printers use both above the line. Isn't that so?"
"Yes. Whereas in the majority of French or Italian printing the commas are set as they are here—a trick which, to my mind, points to the strong probability, at least, of the writer of this letter being a foreigner of sorts."
"Italian! Why——" Suddenly a vision of the woman with the Italian name, Tochatti, Mrs. Carstairs' personal attendant, flashed into Anstice's mind, and Clive's eyes grew still keener in expression as he noted the eager tone in his visitor's voice.
"Well?" As Anstice paused the expert spoke quickly. "Does the suggestion convey anything to your mind?"
"Yes," said Anstice. "It does. But the only Italian—or half-Italian—person I know, a woman, by the way, is absolutely the last one I could suspect in the matter."
"Really?" As he spoke Clive removed his eyeglasses once more and stared with his brilliant eyes at the other man's face. "Don't forget that in cases like these it is generally the last person to be suspected who turns out to be the one responsible. Of course I don't know the facts of the case, and my suggestions are therefore of little practical value. At the same time the very fact that you are able at once to identify an Italian in the case——"
"She is not altogether Italian," said Anstice slowly. "She's a half-breed, so to speak—and I really can't in fairness suspect her, devoted as she is to Mrs. Carstairs——"
He broke off abruptly, annoyed with himself for having betrayed so much; but Clive's manner suddenly became more animated.
"See here, Dr. Anstice." He sat down again, and handed his cigarette case to his visitor. "May I be frank with you?"
"Certainly." He accepted a cigarette and Clive resumed immediately.
"I think I am correct in assuming that the first letter is one of those supposed—by some people—to have been written by Mrs. Carstairs, wife of Major Carstairs of the Indian Army?"
"Yes." It would have been folly to deny the correctness of the assumption.
"Well, I was not professionally interested in the case, but all along I have had very grave doubts as to the course of justice in that unhappy affair. And I have always thought the sentence was unjustifiably severe."
Anstice's face cleared, and his manner lost its first stiffness.
"I am glad to hear you say so," he said heartily. "For my own part I am perfectly convinced Mrs. Carstairs was absolutely innocent in the matter. You see, I have the privilege of her acquaintance, and it would be quite impossible for her to stoop to so low and degrading an action."
"Just so." For a second the expert wondered whether Dr. Anstice's interest in Mrs. Carstairs arose from a purely personal dislike to see an innocent woman unjustly accused or from some warmer feeling; but after all it was no concern of his, and he dismissed that aspect of the case from his mind for the present. "But I should like to ask you to explain one thing to me. Would it have been possible for this Italian woman of whom you speak to have written those former letters? I gather that it is not altogether impossible, though I daresay improbable, for her to be connected with this last one; but of course, if she must be acquitted of any hand in the first, the clue drops to the ground at once."
"Well"—for a second Anstice hesitated, then resolved to speak plainly. "To tell you the truth, it would have been quite possible for her to be mixed up in both affairs—save for one thing. The woman, is a servant in the household of Mrs. Carstairs; but she's not only absolutely devoted to her mistress, but is also unable to write even her name."
"What proof have you of that?" The question shot out so abruptly that Anstice was genuinely startled.
"Proof? Well, the woman herself admits it, and certainly she has never been seen to write so much as a word——"
"That does not prove she could not write quite well if she wished to," said Clive quietly. "People do strange things in this queer world of ours, Dr. Anstice, as I expect you know considerably better than I do. Have you never had an hysterical patient who declared she could not walk and after being carried about for months has been discovered dancing a fandango in her bedroom on the sly?"
He laughed and threw away his cigarette.
"Perhaps that's not quite a typical case, but you must have known of many people who declare they have lost the use of one or more of their faculties—possibly in order to gain sympathy from their friends?"
"Quite so." Anstice could not but admit the fact. "But as you say, in these cases there is generally some definite object to be gained, even if it is only the desire for sympathy. In this case, however, the motive appears to be lacking, for I gather that long before the anonymous letters began to arrive this woman had admitted her inability to handle pen or pencil."
"Really? That complicates matters a little," said Clive thoughtfully. "Though, of course, if the woman were a schemer it is possible she might prepare the way, so to speak, for some time beforehand. In any case it is an interesting problem. But I don't quite see why this woman—supposing it to be she—? should start another campaign, directed, this time, against you. Surely she can't want her mistress, to whom you say she is devoted, to be suspected once more?"
"I don't know—I confess it is a problem beyond my powers to solve," said Anstice rather hopelessly; and Clive answered at once, with a kind note in his voice.
"Don't say that, Dr. Anstice. All sorts of mysteries have come to light sooner or later, you know, and it is quite on the cards this one may be easier to solve than you think at present. At any rate, if I may give you a word of advice, keep your eye on the Italian woman. I'll swear those inverted commas are of foreign origin, and as a doctor you ought to be able to find some way of penetrating through any imposition in the way of pretence."
"Thanks," said Anstice, rather amused at this tribute to his powers. "I'll do my best. Anyway, you have given me valuable help, and I'll follow up this clue at once."
"Do—and let me know the result." Clive followed his visitor to the door. "I really am genuinely interested in the case, and I shall be pleased to hear from you how things progress."
They parted on mutually cordial terms, and an Anstice walked away he began to feel as though, after all, this mystery might yet be solved; though he was bound to confess that at present the introduction of Tochatti's name merely complicated matters.
He had a couple of hours to fill in before repairing to the station, and feeling in the mood for exercise, he set out for a brisk walk, careless of whither his steps led him while he pondered over his recent interview with Clive.
After the quiet and pastoral solitude of Littlefield London seemed unpleasantly crowded and noisy. The reek of petrol was a poor substitute for the clean country air, and the hoot of innumerable motors and 'buses struck on his ear with new and singularly disagreeable force as he took his way along Piccadilly.
Suddenly a noise considerably louder and more ominous than the rest penetrated his hearing, and looking hastily round he saw that a collision had taken place between a taxi-cab and a motor-van bearing the name of a well-known firm in Oxford Street—with apparently tragic results to the taxi-cab, which lurched in the road like a drunken man vainly attempting to steer a straight course, and eventually toppled half over on to the pavement, where it struck a lamp-post with a terrific crash as it came to rest.
With the rapidity peculiar to the life of cities a crowd instantly began to assemble; and as a burly policeman, notebook in hand, pushed through the people, a middle-aged gentleman stepped, with some difficulty, out of the wrecked cab, and stumbled forward on to the kerb, almost into the arms of Anstice, who reached the spot at the same moment and caught him as he staggered and seemed about to fall.
"Hold up, sir!" Anstice involuntarily gripped the gentleman's shoulder to support him; and his friendly tone and prompt help apparently assured the other man, who pulled himself together pluckily.
"Thanks, thanks!" He was white, and evidently had been somewhat upset, for the taxi had swerved half across the road to the discomfort of its occupant. "You are most kind. I am really not hurt, only a little shaken. The driver of the van was entirely to blame—I hope, constable, you will make all possible inquiries into the matter."
As a first step towards doing so the policeman stolidly requested the speaker's name and address, and these having been furnished he proceeded to interrogate the van-driver and the taxi-man, both of whom were only too ready to pour out voluble explanations, each accusing the other of carelessness with a freedom of language only known, apparently, to those who have intimate acquaintance with the dark ways of motors and their accompanying vices.
In the meantime the middle-aged gentleman turned to Anstice with a word of gratitude for his timely support.
"You're sure you're not hurt?" Anstice thought the other man looked oddly white. "I'm a doctor—and if I can do anything for you——"
"No, I'm really all right, thanks." He relinquished Anstice's arm, which he had been unconsciously holding, and looked round him. "By good luck I'm opposite my club, and if this fellow has finished with me I'll go in and sit down."
The constable intimated that he had no further need of him for the moment; and having asserted his readiness to appear in court in connection with the case he turned back to Anstice.