When the girls found themselves once more in the open air neither of them spoke. Then Annie said in a gasping sort of voice:
“I see quite well, Leslie, that it is all useless. I give up the hope which seemed so bright a short time ago. You have done your very best, and I thank you from my heart. I will go to Belle Acheson now. Perhaps something will turn up at the end of a week. At any rate, I have that week to turn round in.”
“We will go to the Bank,” said Leslie; “omnibuses go from there in all directions. As to what Mr. Parker said, you know, Annie, that it remains with yourself.”
“And do you think,” said Annie, coloring and shivering, “that if I could bring myself to tell the real truth I should get the post?”
“I think so; for Mr. Parker is a man who never goes back on his word. He promised to give it to you if the truth were known. He made no condition.”
“And you—you will be restored to his favor?”
“I have nothing to say,” replied Leslie somewhat proudly. “I will not plead for myself. You won’t get the post you covet unless the truth is known.”
“I cannot do it,” said Annie. “It would be betraying not only myself, but Rupert. Can you find your way back to the Chetwynds’?”
“Certainly I can; and that is your omnibus with Maida Vale marked on it.” Leslie held up her parasol and the driver stopped. Annie got in; Leslie nodded to her and turned away.
Annie shrank back in her corner. She shut her eyes: her head was aching violently. Her one desire—the only desire that she had at that moment—was not to tell but to hide the truth. The secretaryship would have saved her—it would have enabled her to live respectably and in comfort; but it was not to be hers. Between it and her lay a sin—a sin which she committed for the one she loved best in the world. Now she had to think how she was to manage. Where could she get work? What work could she best undertake? How long would Belle keep her as a guest? Belle was known to be erratic and uncertain. Well, at least for a week she was safe. During that time she would treasure her shillings as if they were gold.
The drive was a long one, but presently she reached her destination. The omnibus drew up, she alighted and turned forlornly into the square where Belle lived with her mother. Belle’s house was No. 30; it was at the left-hand side of the square. Annie had nearly reached it when she felt a hand laid lightly on her shoulder. She turned round in an access of terror, then a cry of mingled astonishment, fear, and delight burst from her, and the next instant she had clasped her arms round her brother’s neck.
“Oh, Rupert!” she cried, “where did you come from? I thought you were at the other side of the world.”
“I will tell you all,” replied Rupert in a cheerful voice. “There’s no manner of use in your giving way, and don’t, for goodness’ sake! hug me in public, Annie. Of course I’m not in Australia—I never went there; I’m not such afool. Do you think it’s likely I would leave this place when I had sixty pounds in my pocket?”
“But you owed that money; it was given you to pay a debt.”
“Well, I paid part of it—not all. The fellows were only too glad to get twenty pounds from me; so you see, my dear little sister, I had forty pounds left to go on the spree with. But now my creditors are clamoring for the second instalment. Annie, my dear, I want your help again; and what is more, I must have it. You little guessed, when you were shrinking up in that corner of the omnibus, that I was enjoying a cigar on the roof. I hurried down when you alighted, and have followed you. That precious, goody-goody Miss Gilroy little knew how close I was to her vicinity when she bade you good-by at the Bank.”
“Oh, Rupert, I am so terribly frightened; and yet—and yet it is a real joy to see you.”
“Poor old girl,” said Rupert, patting Annie on her shoulder; “you always were affectionate. You’ve got me out of more than one scrape, and you’ll get me out of this one; won’t you, kiddy? Now, where can we go for a real good talk?”
“I don’t know this part of London,” replied Annie.
“Well, it is like any other part, I suppose. We must talk in the streets; but it’s abominably hard. What is your address, Annie? Where are you staying?”
“I am just going to spend a week with Mrs. Acheson. She lives in No. 30 in this square—Newbolt Square it is called.”
“No. 30 Newbolt Square; then here we are. I’ll come and see you; nothing more natural.”
“But, Rupert, you must not—it would be most dangerous.”
“Why should it be dangerous? Why should not a bona-fide brother go to see his only sister? You are my sister, Annie.”
“And I glory in the fact,” said Annie. “Whatever you do, I shall always feel glad that I belong to you. You will always be the darling of my heart; but oh, Rupert, if Leslie finds out that you have broken your word, it is in her to be very hard. She is hard already. I never knew anyone so changed. I live in constant terror of her. Do you know what happened only to-day?”
“No, Annie; and what is more, I don’t want to know. I am too full of my own affairs to be bothered by your minor troubles.”
“That is so like you, Rupert. I am afraid you are growing terribly selfish.”
“Now, don’t begin to preach, old girl. There, if it will make you any happier you shall tell me your little adventure, whatever it was; only be quick about it.”
They walked round the square many times. Miserable as Annie felt, there was a strange glow at her heart, the color had flamed into her pale cheeks, and light into her red-brown eyes. She looked wonderfully handsome, and more than one person turned to gaze at her. She briefly told Rupert what had occurred at Mr. Parker’s.
“The old wretch!” cried Rupert. “If there is a man in the world whom I fairly loathe, it is Parker. And so he spoke of me as a scoundrel, did he? Perhaps I’ll have my little revenge yet.”
“But you would not really do anything wrong, Rupert?”
“Oh, dear me, no!” said Rupert in a sarcastic voice; “all I want at present is twenty pounds. Do let us drop Parker out of this conversation. If I could bleed him to that extent I would, right heartily; but as I donot see my way to doing so a second time, we must get it in some other fashion; and that remains for you to discover, Annie mine.”
“But, dear Rupert, there are no means open to me; and I would not, if I could, help you in that dreadful way again.”
“But you might think out another dodge. I laugh now when I think of how you managed before—forging a letter in another girl’s name and taking it to Parker of all people, and Parker giving the money and blaming that bread-and-butter Miss Gilroy, and you and I getting off scot-free. It was about the cheekiest, boldest, cleverest deed that any girl ever did, and you did it for your brother’s sake. Annie, my dear, you will be as clever, as cheeky, as bold again for your poor brother’s sake.”
“Rupert, I cannot.”
“Then you know, of course, what the consequence will be.”
Rupert Colchester now completely changed his manner. He had an expressive face, capable of almost any emotion. He had been sad, he had been jocular, in Annie’s presence during this short interview. Now he looked as if despair had seized him. His face changed color, it lengthened, and seemed to grow thinner and more haggard each moment.
“Then I cannot help it,” he said. “I suppose there is nothing further to say. You did your best, and you can do no more. I’ll be locked up; I have got into a scrape which I cannot explain to you. There is a fellow to whom I owe twenty pounds, and if I don’t get it I’ll be locked up. Think what you will feel when you have to go to the police court to give evidence against your brother.”
“But, oh, Rupert! Rupert! how can you go in for such bad ways? Oh, if only mother were alive!”
“Look here, Annie, none of that,” said Colchester, his voice becoming so stern that poor Annie nearly shook. “There,” he added, instantly changing his tone when he saw that she shivered and shrank from him. “I know you will help me if you can. You’ll just think it over, and let me know when next we meet. Where did you say you were going to stay—at No. 30? Who lives at No. 30 Newbolt Square?”
“People of the name of Acheson.”
“But who are they?”
“I don’t know, Rupert.”
“They live in a respectable house, and must be well off,” said Rupert. “I tell you what you’ll do, Annie. You get Mrs. Acheson to lend you twenty pounds. Now, see you do it, and be quick about it. She’ll lend it fast enough if you pull a long face, and make up a pitiable story, and I’ll meet you somehow or other to-morrow. Oh, yes, I’ll manage; I need not enter into particulars just now. You will tell me what you can do when we meet. That is all I require for the present. If you get me that twenty pounds I’ll let you alone—I promise I will—for a month or two.”
“But, Rupert, I don’t know anything whatever about Mrs. Acheson. I have never even seen her. Belle, her daughter, is a very odd, clever creature; but I am quite certain the Achesons are not rich.”
“Is this Belle one of the St. Wode’s undergraduates?”
“Yes.”
“Then, of course, they must be rich, or she could not go to a place like Wingfield. And that reminds me, Annie, what a goose you were not to take honors in your exam. You barely qualified—no more. If you hadtaken a first, I know a fellow who would have lent me twenty pounds on the strength of your getting a good post; but now all that is knocked on the head, and by your laziness. Positively it’s enough to sicken a fellow. Well, Annie, you know what you have before you. You must get twenty pounds for your brother within the next two or three days, or there is a prison ahead of him.”
“Oh, Rupert! Rupert! you do make me so perfectly wretched,” said poor Annie. “I must frankly confess that I have no hope at all of being able to help you.”
“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” said Rupert, whistling gaily. “Now I’m not going to bother you any more. My words will sink deep, I know, my pretty little Annie. Think of the old times. Do you remember that spring when we went out together and picked primroses, and that time when you had the measles, and I was so awfully good to you? Don’t you remember when you were so tired of being left by yourself I used to come in, and risk taking the beastly thing a second time, to amuse you? Oh, you’ll help me; you won’t leave your brother Rupert in a lurch. Well, go off now to your precious Achesons and your comfortable home. Think, when you are lapped in luxury, of your poor, starving brother.”
“Oh, Rupert, you surely are not starving?”
“Well, I have not had a decent meal for a week. Last time I ate was yesterday evening, so you can imagine I’m pretty peckish. By the way, you don’t happen to have a sovereign about you?”
“No, indeed, I don’t possess so much in the world. I’ve only got fourteen shillings, not a penny more.”
Rupert gave vent to a prolonged whistle.
“Are things really as bad as that?” he cried. “Well, at any rate, you won’t want money while you are at theAchesons’. You might let me have those few shillings; you can have them back when you want them.”
“But, Rupert, they are all I possess, all I have between me and the workhouse.”
“Bother the workhouse! Much chance a pretty girl like you has of going there. Let me have ten shillings at least. You surely do not mean to refuse your starving brother?”
“Of course I cannot refuse you,” said Annie. She took up her purse, opened it, and gave Rupert half a sovereign.
“Ta-ta,” he replied; “this will do until we meet to-morrow. You do look a bit dragged, Annie, now I come to examine you carefully; but better days will dawn.”
He shrugged his shoulders, and walked down the street. Poor as he professed himself to be, he was by no means shabbily dressed. He had a fine figure, square shoulders, and a swagger in his walk.
Annie gazed long after his retreating form.
“Why is he about the most wicked person in the world, and why do I love him so much?” she thought. “There, I have only four shillings now. How I am to get that twenty pounds Heaven only knows. Oh, I am a miserable, most miserable girl!”
Mrs. Acheson, although a most kind-hearted woman and affectionate mother, would, if she had spoken her innermost thoughts, have confessed that Belle was not at all to her mind. Being her daughter she thought it her duty to be as good as she could possibly be to Belle, but she would infinitely have preferred a girl in the style of Lettie Chetwynd, a sociable, agreeable, pleasant girl, who would have done credit to pretty dresses, have won a desirable lover, and married comfortably. She would indeed have considered her cup of happiness complete had such a girl as Leslie Gilroy been hers; but Belle being the child allotted to her by Providence, she was wise enough to make the best of her, not to attempt to turn her into any other groove, and to endeavor to counteract her eccentricities as far as possible.
When Belle mentioned to her mother that she had invited a St. Wode’s girl to stay with her, Mrs. Acheson was pleased. She went happily upstairs to see that Annie’s room was neat and comfortable, the bed well aired, and all the necessary accessories of a bedroom as they ought to be.
When her young guest arrived, she hurried downstairs to welcome her; and seeing that the girl looked forlorn and tired, with a droop about her lips and an expression in her eyes which quite went to the good woman’s heart, she kissed her affectionately, bade her welcome, and took her into the drawing room.
“You don’t look well, dear,” she said. “I am very pleased that Belle has asked you to stay with us. May I ask if you and my daughter are great friends?”
“No,” replied Annie; “in fact we scarcely know each other. We did not live in the same house at St. Wode’s, but we have met often. I happened to be at the Chetwynds’ this morning, where Leslie Gilroy was staying, when Miss Acheson arrived, and most kindly invited me here for a week. I was only too glad to accept the invitation,” continued Annie, raising her pathetic, half-starved eyes to Mrs. Acheson’s face, “for I have no home at present.”
“Dear, dear, my poor child; that is truly sad,” said the good lady. “But you must tell me all your story later on. I am deeply interested in young girls, and any friend of my Belle’s has my kindest sympathy. Now, let me take you to your room.”
Mrs. Acheson took Annie upstairs. She saw that the girl had hot water, said that Belle would be glad to lend her anything until her own trunk arrived, and left her.
“But I don’t like the look on her face, all the same,” thought the good woman as she trotted downstairs. Belle was standing in the hall.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Acheson eagerly, “Miss Colchester has arrived.”
Belle did not immediately reply. She was hanging her jacket on the hat-stand; she seldom troubled to take it upstairs.
“Yes, mother,” she answered, putting her hand to her forehead and arranging her short locks into position; “but what about it? I thought naturally she would arrive.”
“She does not look very well, Belle. She seems so tired, and—I scarcely like to say the word—so hungry.”
“Oh, I dare say she is!” replied Belle in a careless tone. “She was always a good bit of an oddity, and in the pursuit of knowledge doubtless neglected her food; but as to her being ill, I think she is all right. She has worked rather hard, that is all.”
“Then we will give her a right good time; won’t we, dear?” said Mrs. Acheson.
Belle stared at her mother through her glasses, and again did not reply. She went into the drawing room in her dusty boots.
“As we have a guest to-night, Belle, dear; and——”
“What in the world is it, mother? What are you fidgeting so dreadfully about?”
“Nothing, my love; only would you greatly mind going upstairs to wash your hands, tidy your hair, and take off your dusty boots before dinner?”
“Oh, dear,” replied Belle in an impatient voice. “If I had thought Annie Colchester’s being here would mean all this sort of thing I would have thought twice before I invited her.”
It was now Mrs. Acheson’s turn to make no reply. She knew Belle quite well enough to be certain that it was worse than useless to argue with her. If she left that eccentric young person to herself, things as a rule turned out according to Mrs. Acheson’s wish.
Belle hummed and hawed, and looked very cross, but finally did leave the room.
When dinner was announced, the two girls entered the dining-room together. Annie was only able to make a very scanty and imperfect toilet; for her clothes, which she had telegraphed to her late landlady to forward, had not yet arrived.
They went down to dinner. The meal was a good one, and nicely served. Annie ate heartily, and felt considerablyrefreshed afterwards. She was tired too; there was a sort of stunned feeling over her. If Mrs. Acheson only knew the truth, if she could guess even for a single moment that between Annie and starvation were only four shillings, would she not immediately think that she, Annie, had come into her house on false pretenses. People as a rule, do not ask starving girls to partake of the comforts of their luxurious homes. There is the workhouse for such as them. Annie shivered. The idea of confiding in Mrs. Acheson never occurred to her.
Meanwhile, that good and excellent woman had taken a fancy to the forlorn girl. She determined to give her a right good time, and to get at that secret which knitted her dark brows, and made her beautiful red-brown eyes so full of indescribable melancholy. Annie could not help cheering up after a little, in the sunshine of this rare kindness. The little week which lay before her was an oasis in the desert; she would enjoy it while she could. She might gather some strength during these few days for the solitary and miserable time which lay before her. But, after all, her poverty was scarcely her worst trouble now. It was the thought of Rupert, the terrible and awful thought that he had once more been guilty, that he had broken his solemn word, that the police even now were at his heels.
“What is to be done?” thought the wretched girl. “How am I to help him?”
Presently Mrs. Acheson suggested that they should go to bed.
“You can scarcely keep your eyes open,” she said, looking at Annie. “Do go up to your room at once, dear, and have a long, good sleep.”
“Not quite yet, mother,” said Belle, looking up from her book. “I want Annie Colchester to help me withthis translation. I know she has gone right through the sixth book of Herodotus, and I have not. I want her to help me with the translation of the story which gave rise to the saying ‘What does Hippocleides care?’”
Mrs. Acheson sighed, and made no answer: a moment later she left the room.
“You are not dead tired? You are willing to help me?” said Belle, looking at Annie when they found themselves alone.
“I will help you of course, Belle, if I can. I have read Herodotus, and thought it splendid; but I do not know the story to which you allude.”
“Well, you can help me, anyhow. Dear, dear, it does seem a pity that mother should have taken to you in this extraordinary manner. I know mother’s ways so well. She will begin to fuss over you, and then you will imagine all sorts of things; but now, if you will take my advice, you won’t consider yourself an ill-used martyr simply because mother has taken a fancy to you.”
“Oh, I have never thought myself a martyr,” said Annie.
“Then, for goodness’ sake, don’t wear that pensive air. I wish, too, you would not open your eyes so wide. It gives you a sort of starved look.”
“Starved? Really, Belle—I mean Miss Acheson.”
“You can call me Belle while you are here; it is shorter and more convenient. I could not possibly ‘Miss Colchester’ you; the name is a great deal too long for everyday use. You shall be Anne, or Ann, while you are here. And now, pray, Ann, take this chair and let us get through our work.”
They did so. Annie soon became interested. She had considerable intellectual power, and between them the girls worked out the problem with regard toHippocleides. Belle, the first to recognize genius when she saw it, clapped her hands with pleasure.
“This is quite splendid,” she said. “I never could get at the bottom of that stiff rendering before. I am delighted you are here. We can become the very closest friends. Some day, Annie, you shall come and live with me in my hostel. Mother does not yet know of my darling scheme. Poor mother herself must be excluded, and she will feel it, poor thing; but I shall have quite money enough of my own to pay the rent of the house for a couple of years after I leave college. Let me see; if you don’t mind, I’ll get the money-box now, and count my savings. I declare I am getting quite miserly over this matter.”
Belle went to the other end of the drawing room, and from a desk, where her own special treasures were kept, took a square deal box. From her pocket she extracted a little key, fitted it into the box, and opened it.
“Is it safe to leave so much money about in that careless way?” said Annie, who thought of her own four shillings, and quite shivered as Belle lifted out three canvas bags.
“Safe. Of course it’s safe,” answered Belle. “Do you think our servants would touch my money? Besides, they do not know it is here; even mother does not know what this box contains. She likes to dust the drawing room herself, and, a few days ago, she lifted the box and said: ‘Whatever is in here, Belle? It is so heavy?’ I made no reply; and she said, ‘I suppose, love, you are collecting coins.’ I said, ‘Yes, mother; I am collecting coins.’ It was perfectly true, wasn’t it. Clever of me—eh?”
“Very clever,” answered Annie, with the ghost of a smile.
“Well, now, let us count. You shall help me by and by with my dear hostel. How happy we shall be! The world quite out of sight, we delving in the riches of the past. Oh, happy, happy maidens! We will eschew marriage; we will be nuns in the true sense of the word. How silent you are; are you not glad?”
“I cannot quite realize it,” said Annie.
“You will when you come to live with me. We won’t need much furniture, will we, dear? Just the plainest rooms. Any spare cash we have will go for books—first editions, original manuscripts. Oh, lovely, lovely, bewitching, intoxicating! I see myself as I shall be during all the coming years on to the decline of life, absorbing more and more knowledge, living above the world; in it, but not of it.”
“But you won’t be in it when you are in your hostel,” said Annie, with a gleam of humor in her sad eyes; “you will be apart from it, and that is not according to Leslie Gilroy’s ideas.”
“Dear, pretty Leslie!” said Belle with sudden enthusiasm. “But the cares of the world have her in their grip. I admire her more than any worldly girl I have ever come across; but the world has her in its grip. Some day she will see her folly. I hope to convert her to my views in the long run.”
“That you never will,” said Annie.
“Think so? Well, I don’t agree with you. Now, let us count.”
The canvas bags were opened, and they did count, or rather, Belle did. The money in the bags amounted to nearly ninety pounds.
“How glad I am I did not buy that new summer dress,” said Belle; “my old serge does capitally.” She held out the dusty, fusty garment as she spoke. “Thateconomy added three pounds ten shillings to my hoard. See, I will write down the exact amount.”
She took a sheet of paper, scribbled the sum in rough writing, and thrust it into the box.
“Eighty-nine pounds, seven shillings, and tenpence,” she said. “Even the pence are not to be despised. I shall be at St. Wode’s until next June. During that time I hope to save, by the strictest economy, quite fifty pounds more. We can then start our hostel almost immediately.”
“But what about food and furniture and all the rest of the things?”
“Well, each girl, of course, must bring her own share. Wherever we are we must live.”
“Must we?” said Annie in a very pathetic voice.
“Why, of course; it is absolutely essential that each human being should have his or her modicum of food. Now, don’t let us talk of anything so very elemental. Let us consider the charming picture which lies before us. A charming little cottage in the country—we shall get it for twenty pounds a year; the rest of the money will buy the furniture. There, Annie, you need not stay up any longer; you look as if you wished to sleep. Do sleep—enjoy it—look like an ordinary mortal to-morrow; for, if you don’t, mother will begin to take to you more than ever, and that will not suit my plans at all.”
Annie went to her room. She was so weary that she could not even think any longer. The box which held her few possessions had arrived. She took out her nightdress and, soon afterward, got into bed. She slept heavily all night, but toward morning she began to have confused and troubled dreams with regard to Belle’s wooden box. She wished she had not been with Belle when she counted her money. The thought of thatmoney became an oppression and a dreadful nightmare to her.
At seven o’clock the servant appeared with a daintily prepared tray containing tea.
“Mrs. Acheson hopes you are quite rested, miss. She says if you are at all tired she would like you to stay in bed for breakfast.”
“Oh, no, I am quite refreshed. Tell her I thank her very much,” said poor Annie.
The girl bustled about the room preparing Annie’s bath. She then left her to enjoy her tea.
Annie sat up and stirred the cream into the fragrant cup.
“How queer and dreamlike and wonderful all this is,” she said to herself. “I enjoying tea at this hour in bed, and drinking it out of such delicate china; and, oh, what a sweet little silver spoon! How pretty the room is and everything belonging to it; and yet I possess only four shillings in the world. Mrs. Acheson is quite the sweetest woman I ever met. Oh, if my own mother had only lived. I should not be the miserable, hopeless creature I am to-day!”
At breakfast Belle was in the best of spirits. She also had dreamed about her hostel, and the thought of the money she had saved was reflected in her face. After breakfast she proposed to Annie that they should spend the morning at the British Museum.
“I can easily get you a day’s ticket for the reading room,” she said. “You shall sit near me, and we can have a good time.”
“But perhaps Annie would rather not go to the Museum to-day,” said Mrs. Acheson. “She looks very tired, as if she had been overdoing it.”
“I assure you, mother,” said Belle, “that most of theSt. Wode’s students have that sort of look; there is nothing whatever in it. The rosy cheek, the bright eye which sparkles with no soul beneath, the pouting lips full of rude health, do not belong to the earnest student. Don’t be alarmed about either of us, pray; we like our life, and we mean to cling to it.”
“Oh, I am not at all anxious about you, dear,” said Mrs. Acheson. “You are always somewhat sallow, but you look well. Now, this poor child—how very thin she is!”
Belle prepared to leave the room.
“You will excuse me,” she said, turning to Annie. “I have to get back to my work. Do you mean to come with me or not?”
“I should like to come,” said Annie.
“Well, that is all right,” said Belle, slightly mollified; “you meet me in the hall in half-an-hour.”
She dashed away, and Mrs. Acheson began to ask Annie some impossible questions with regard to her health.
“If I could but tell her the truth,” thought the poor girl. “If I could say: ‘Will you tell me how long four shillings—that means forty-eight pence—will keep any girl in food and raiment, I should be greatly obliged to you. If you can solve that problem you would indeed be my greatest friend on earth.’ But no, no,” thought Annie, “I cannot confide in her; that would be quite the worst of all.”
Presently Belle appeared, and the girls set off for the Museum. On their way home Belle went for a moment into a stationer’s.
“You need not come in,” she said to Annie; “just walk slowly on and I’ll soon overtake you.”
Annie had not gone a dozen yards before Rupert came up to her.
“I just thought I would meet you on the road home,” he said. “I have made up my mind; I shall call on you at Mrs. Acheson’s this evening.”
“Oh, Rupert, surely you wouldn’t dare?”
“Dare?” said Rupert; “why shouldn’t I dare? You are to introduce me to the Achesons as your brother. As to that girl you are staying with, anyone can take her in. I shall be at 30 Newbolt Square between eight and nine to-night. Look out for me, and don’t fail.”
He nodded and walked away. The next instant Belle came up.
“I saw you talking to a man,” said Belle. “Who was he? Do you know many men? Are you deceiving me, Annie Colchester?”
“Deceiving you? What do you mean?” said Annie.
“If you contemplate marriage you had better tell me so at once.”
Notwithstanding all her misery, Annie could not help laughing.
“The man I was speaking to is my brother,” she said.
“Your brother? I thought you were an orphan and alone.”
“I have one brother; his name is Rupert.”
“And that was he? Why in the world didn’t you ask him to come home with us; I am sure mother would be delighted to see him.”
“He is coming to see me this evening,” said Annie, her heart in her mouth. “Do you suppose that your mother will think that it is——”
“Think what?”
“That he is taking a liberty?”
“Of course not. It is quite natural that a sister should like to talk to a brother: and mother will be full of sympathy. Yes, he is welcome, provided he does not comemore than once. Give him to understand, please, Annie, that we have no time to waste in idle conversation with him. Yes, I will say it frankly, if there is a creature in the wide world I thoroughly despise, it is man in his first adolescence.”
At lunch Belle mentioned to her mother that Annie Colchester had a brother, and that he proposed to call that evening.
“I shall give him a hearty welcome for your sake, my dear,” said Mrs. Acheson. “What a pity I did not know, and I would have asked him to share our dinner.”
“It is very kind of you to see him at all,” said Annie, who felt more wretched each moment. If Mrs. Acheson really knew the sort of man she was receiving into her house would she ever forgive Annie?
At seven the Achesons dined. Soon after eight o’clock there came a ring to the front door, and Rupert Colchester was announced. He came in looking brisk, smart, and handsome. He had managed, Annie could not imagine how, to get himself up well. He wore a frock-coat of the newest cut, his tie was immaculate, so were his collar and cuffs. He had a hemstitched handkerchief in his pocket with a slight scent about it. His hair had been cut, his face was clean-shaven; he was so good-looking that poor, foolish Annie felt a glow at her heart when she saw him enter the room.
Mrs. Acheson was kind to Annie’s brother, and Annie’s brother managed to make himself extremely agreeable. He talked to Mrs. Acheson, but he looked at Belle.
Now Belle, although she declared that there was no one in the world she despised like a man in his first adolescence, was disturbed by these glances from Rupert’s dark eyes. She pretended not to remark them, nevertheless she found her own short-sighted orbs meeting his again and again. After the fourth or fifth meeting of the two pairs of eyes Rupert got up, left his seat by Mrs. Acheson, and came over to where Belle sat.
“Do you know,” he said, dropping into a chair by her side, “that you interest me immensely?”
“Indeed,” answered Belle, “I am rather surprised to hear you say so. I never yet knew the man who wanted to look at me a second time. I know I am extremely plain, and the fact is I glory in being so.”
“It is my turn now to be surprised,” said Rupert very gently; “good looks are a great gift. You are quite mistaken in considering yourself plain. However, it is not your coloring, nor the size of your mouth, nor the shape of your face which specially strikes me; it is the remarkable development of your forehead. I spent several of my early years in America, and I remember when there meeting a man with a forehead like yours. He was the greatest classical scholar at Harvard College, near Boston.”
Belle could not help blushing with intense gratification.
“Ah,” she said, “I also have the same tastes. I passionately love the classics.”
Rupert dropped his voice. He began to talk to Belle at once about Cicero, Socrates, Homer, and her other favorite writers of antiquity. Soon they were in the full flow of a most animated conversation. Belle spoke eagerly and well; she unfolded the riches of her really great knowledge, and Rupert cleverly led her on. He had a smattering of Greek and Latin at his fingers’ ends, but no more. He managed, however, to use his very little knowledge to the best advantage; and Belle was so flattered by his covert glances, by his skillfully veiled compliments, by his pretended comprehension of her and her moods, that she never guessed how shallow were his acquirements, and opened out herself more and more.
If Annie was nice, her brother was even nicer. He was the exception that proves the rule. After all, there always was an exception—always, always.
A faint color came into her thin cheeks. Coffee was brought in, very fragrant, strong coffee. A servant approached Belle with a tray, but she waved it aside.
“Not now,” she said. Then she turned to Rupert.“Why will mother always insist upon spoiling a great intellectual treat with those tiresome attentions to creature comforts. Who wants coffee at a moment like this?”
Now Rupert, who had not been able to indulge in a good dinner, would have liked a cup of fragrant coffee immensely; but he instantly took his cue from Belle, and declined it with a wave of the hand.
“None for me,” he said. “Yes, Miss Acheson, I agree with you; at a moment like the present one cannot think of sublunary matters.”
“Do go on,” said Belle; “So you really studied——” And then once more the conversation assumed its classical complexion.
Annie, looking on from afar, felt more and more dreadful each moment. Rupert was undoubtedly trying to be agreeable to Belle for a purpose. Annie knew her brother quite sufficiently well to be certain that Belle’s manners, her attachment to the classics, her whole style, would be the very last that Rupert, in easier moments of his career, would have deigned to notice.
At last, soon after ten o’clock, he took his leave. In the meantime he had learned, not only all that Belle could tell him of her own college life, but also the darling hope of the future. The little wooden box which contained the eighty-nine pounds odd was pointed out to Rupert.
He nodded to Annie as he left the room. She followed him into the hall.
“Well, how did I get on?” he inquired.
“I don’t understand you,” answered Annie; “you frighten me dreadfully.”
“What a little goose you are. Well, I’m coming again. I shall come to-morrow or next day. Be sureyou follow up the impression I have made with the fair Belle.” Then he made a grimace, kissed Annie lightly on her forehead, and left the house.
She went to bed feeling intensely uncomfortable. By the first post in the morning she received a letter. It was from Rupert, and ran as follows:
“My Dear Annie:“For the desperate, only desperate devices. I am desperate. I have made up my mind. The fair and delightful Miss Belle shall be my deliverer. I want you and she to meet me in the Broad Walk in Regent’s Park between four and five this afternoon. I mean boldly to secure forty pounds out of her wooden box. She herself shall give it to me. While I am talking to her you must be engaged in another way. Excellent! Get the good mamma to come too. You and the mamma can walk behind, the fascinating Belle and I in front. I foretell that I can twist my fair Belle round my little finger. Help me now, Annie, as you value your brother’s future. You perceive how nobly I take the matter out of your hands. Miss Belle Acheson has her sphere in life, but it is not what she thinks. It is not to open a hostel for idiotic women who think themselves learned, but to help Rupert Colchester in his hour of need.“Your Affectionate Brother.”
“My Dear Annie:
“For the desperate, only desperate devices. I am desperate. I have made up my mind. The fair and delightful Miss Belle shall be my deliverer. I want you and she to meet me in the Broad Walk in Regent’s Park between four and five this afternoon. I mean boldly to secure forty pounds out of her wooden box. She herself shall give it to me. While I am talking to her you must be engaged in another way. Excellent! Get the good mamma to come too. You and the mamma can walk behind, the fascinating Belle and I in front. I foretell that I can twist my fair Belle round my little finger. Help me now, Annie, as you value your brother’s future. You perceive how nobly I take the matter out of your hands. Miss Belle Acheson has her sphere in life, but it is not what she thinks. It is not to open a hostel for idiotic women who think themselves learned, but to help Rupert Colchester in his hour of need.
“Your Affectionate Brother.”
Annie read this letter twice. At each perusal her sense of dismay grew greater. The worst of it was, too, that Rupert had given no address. She could not write in reply, or send him a telegram, or do anything to stop him. He would walk in the Broad Walk in Regent’s Park that afternoon, and if Annie and Belle did not appear would go boldly to the house in Newbolt Square. Annie feltthat she herself was a guest in that house more or less on false pretenses; but that Rupert should take advantage of Mrs. Acheson’s hospitality was more than the poor girl could stand.
“I must have it out with him,” she said to herself; “but Belle shall not come with me. I must go and brave him alone. Oh, I know what he will say, and what torture I shall have to endure; for, great sins as he has committed, I still love him. No. I will be brave now. I won’t sin again for him. But God help me, I do not know how to bear all this awful burden.”
The poor girl looked so miserable at breakfast that Mrs. Acheson remarked it.
“My dear child,” she said, “do you know that your appearance quite concerns me? I am certain you are not well; I am also sure that you are troubled about something. Have you no relations, dear, except that extremely nice-looking brother of yours?”
“I have no relations at all,” replied Annie, “except Rupert. My father and mother lived in America, where they died. I was quite a child when I came to England. Since then Rupert and I have been practically alone. We were brought up during the early years of our life by a guardian, who has since died.”
“Well, at any rate, I congratulate you on your brother, Annie,” said Belle from the far end of the room, where she was reading Socrates. “He has what I call a pure taste for the classics. I shall be very pleased indeed to see him here again. Mother, don’t you agree with me that Mr. Rupert Colchester is a scholarly and gentlemanly man?”
“Yes, dear Belle, I do,” said Mrs. Acheson. “Now, I tell you what it is,” she said, turning in a confidential way to Annie, “you and your brother shall see as muchof each other as possible while you are with me. If you will just give me his address I will send him a line asking him to dine with us this evening. He feels leaving you so much.”
“Leaving me?” said Annie. “Did he say anything about that?”
“Yes, my dear, when he goes to India, he says, you will feel the parting terribly. He has secured an excellent post in the Civil Service, and has to start in about a fortnight. Why, what is the matter, dear Annie?” for Annie’s eyes had dropped on to her plate and her face looked like death.
“I did not know that Rupert was going to India,” she said at last, raising them desperately and fixing them on Mrs. Acheson.
“Perhaps he did not like to tell you, my love. From the way he spoke I rather judged that he had only just got his appointment. Of course you must know in the end. He feels so very full of sympathy for you, Annie.”
Annie got up. She made an excuse to leave the room; she felt that she could not contain herself another moment.
“Give me his address, dear, before you go,” said Mrs. Acheson. “I think it might be best for me to send him a telegram. Where is he staying?”
Annie turned, stood bolt upright, and uttered as if she was charging the words out of a cannon:
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know where your brother is staying? That does seem strange. But has he no permanent address?”
“Dear me, mother,” said Belle from the other end of the room, “does that matter? A man with Mr. Colchester’s extensive tastes doubtless cares little where helays his head at night. He is, I presume, at one of the hotels. There are many hotels in London; have you not discovered that yet?”
“I never thought of the hotels,” said Mrs. Acheson in an apologetic voice. “He did not happen to tell you which one he was staying at, my love?”
“No,” said Annie, “he did not.”
“That is a pity.”
“But,” continued the young girl, “I can give him your invitation. It is very kind of you to ask him. I had a letter from him this morning asking me to meet him in Regent’s Park.”
“Dear, dear!” said Mrs. Acheson; “of course he wants to tell you this news about India. Certainly, my love, you shall go; it will be quite convenient. And now, what do you say to having a nice drive? I think a little fresh air would do you good. Belle, suppose you go for a drive with Annie? I will send round to Marchand’s for a landau. You might take her to Richmond.”
“Really, mother,” answered Belle in a tart and injured voice, “do you suppose I have time for such frivolity, for a drive with no object whatever except to inhale the air? Do you not understand that all my life is mapped out, that each moment is lived by rule? This morning I intend to make a careful study of my Greek grammar, as it is my intention to write an exhaustive essay on the characteristics of the Æolic dialect, with illustrations from literature.”
Mrs. Acheson sighed, and rose hastily.
“You must do as you please, Belle, of course,” she said.
“Certainly, dear mother, I intend to. If Annie likes, she can stay and help me, for she has quite a good taste in Greek, and a nice accent; but if, on the other hand,she prefers the utter inanity of a drive, why, surely you can go with her?”
“So I will,” said Mrs. Acheson; “and I believe that Annie and I will enjoy the ‘inanity,’ as you call it, immensely. Annie, we will go to Richmond.”
“So be it,” said Belle. “I do not expect to see either of you until this evening. I am off at once to my study. The Greek dialects, classified as Ionian and non-Ionian, are full of the deepest interest.”
She fled from the room in a sort of whirlwind, slamming the door after her.
Mrs. Acheson looked at Annie.
“Belle is a dear, good creature,” she said in a half-hesitating way; “but still it seems a pity.”
“What?” asked Annie.
“That she should be quite so devoted to the dead languages. Surely things of living moment are much more important?”
“Well, I happen to be very fond of the classics myself,” answered Annie, “so I ought not to blame Belle; but she does go to the fair with the thing, does she not?”
“It seems so to me, dear; but then I am, comparatively speaking, an ignorant woman. We women of the last generation had not the advantages which you young creatures now receive. What Belle means by the Ionian and non-Ionian dialects I am absolutely ignorant about.”
“It does not matter,” said Annie gently.
“I agree with you; my love, it scarcely matters much; but your pale cheeks and that anxious expression in your eyes matter a great deal. If I can be of any use to you, Annie, understand that I shall be only too pleased.”
“Do you mean it?” said Annie. She went up to Mrs. Acheson. The widow held out her hand, which Annie clasped.
“Do you really mean it?” continued Annie.
“I do, my dear child. I wish you would tell me what really troubles you.”
“I long to confide everything to you,” replied Annie, “but I dare not; please don’t ask me. Let me be happy while I am here, and don’t be—oh, don’t be too kind!”
“What does the poor child mean?” thought Mrs. Acheson. She now laid her hand on Annie’s shoulder, drew her to her side, and kissed her tenderly on her forehead.
“I am drawn to you because you are a motherless girl,” she said; “and whenever you feel that you can give me your confidence I shall be only too happy to receive it, and also, Annie, my dear, to respect it. I am an old woman, and have seen much of life; perhaps I could counsel you if you are in any difficulty.”
“No, no; it may not be,” said Annie in a whisper which nearly choked her.
“Very well; we will say no more at present. I am going now to give directions about the carriage.”
At eleven o’clock an open landau was at the door, and Mrs. Acheson and Annie went for their drive. It was a lovely summer’s day, and Regent’s Park looked its best. Long years afterward Annie Colchester remembered that drive. The delightful motion of the easy carriage in which she was seated, the soft breezes on her cheeks, Mrs. Acheson’s kind and intelligent conversation returned to her memory again and again. Oh, why was life so different for her to what it was for other girls! Oh, that she could confide in Mrs. Acheson! But then the knowledge that this good woman pitied her because she imagined that she was suffering from a girlish depression, or some other equally unimportant contretemps, caused her heart to rise with wild rebellion in her breast.
“If I could tell her the truth—the truth—would not her ears tingle and her heart beat,” thought Annie to herself. “Good as she is, she is not the person to help me in a great calamity of this sort. In her quiet, sheltered, prosperous life, what can she know of sorrows like mine? Oh, Rupert, why were you and I left alone in the world, and why—why did you turn out bad, and why do I love you so much?”
The drive was over, and the time arrived when Annie was to set off to meet Rupert in Regent’s Park. She arrived at the rendezvous a minute or two late, and he was already waiting for her. He still wore the immaculate frock-coat, and looked quite the handsome, smart young man of the world; but when he saw Annie coming to meet him alone a heavy frown completely altered his expression, his lips took a sarcastic and even malignant curve. He went up to his sister and shook her by the shoulder.
“Now, what is the meaning of this?” he said.
But Rupert’s very insolence made Annie brave.
“It means,” she replied, “that I do not intend to do what you ask.”
“You don’t? You’re a nice girl to help a fellow.”
“I have made up my mind,” continued Annie. “I won’t ever do anything wrong to help you again.”
“Oh, you won’t, won’t you? Then listen—heartless girl. Don’t you know that I have you completely in my power? If I were to tell what you did at Wingfield you could be arrested on a charge of forgery. There is an ugly punishment accorded by the law to such proceedings.”
“You cannot frighten me, Rupert,” said Annie, much to the astonishment of that gentleman, “for I have thought the whole thing carefully over. It would bequite impossible for me to be punished and for you to go scot-free; so, for your own safety, you will keep what you know in the dark. Now, the thing for you to consider is that I do not intend to help you to get any money from my friends, the Achesons.”
Rupert was so much astonished at Annie’s tone that for a moment he did not reply. Then, all of a sudden, he changed his tactics. He ceased to be furious, and became, in the poor girl’s opinion, far more dangerous. He drew her hand through his arm and invited her to walk with him. He then proceeded to sketch a most vivid and graphic picture of his own sufferings, the extreme danger in which he stood, and the awful disgrace which would fall upon Annie’s devoted head when the law of the land took its course upon him.
But Annie, for some reason which she did not quite understand herself, felt strangely strong that afternoon. Perhaps it was Mrs. Acheson’s kindness; perhaps it was the thought of Leslie, and what Leslie endured through Annie’s former ill-doing. Even Belle, with all her eccentricities, had a perceptible influence upon Annie now.
“For all these good, these dear people look upon crime as an impossibility,” thought the girl. “Now, Rupert seems to take it as the ordinary course of existence. There is no saying; I may get to look at things from his standpoint if I don’t take care. I dare not; I will never yield to his entreaties.”
So, though he begged of her, and implored of her, and bullied her, and flattered her, though he used all his eloquence, Annie remained firm.
It was the first time in all Rupert’s experience that he found her so, and it was the first time he thoroughly respected his sister. At the end of that interview he sawthat if he was to get anything out of the Achesons he must do it in his own way.
“You have astonished and pained me,” he said at last. “I never thought you would desert me. Even in my darkest hour I have always thought ‘Well, at least there is Annie.’ Now my hour of gloom has truly arrived, my black hour come, and I am only able to say ‘Annie has deserted me.’”
“No,” answered Annie, “I have not really deserted you; but I will not consent to drag either you or myself any lower. I dragged you low enough when I gave you that last money; I have lowered myself. I shall never be the same again. I have also injured one of the best girls in the world. I bitterly repent of the sin which I committed. I am truly sorry for poor Leslie. Now, Rupert, you know my decision.”
“Yes, it is true what I have just said: you have utterly forsaken me.”
“No; for I still love you.”
“Oh, don’t talk humbug, Annie!” said Rupert with an angry interjection. “When you utter the word ‘love’ at such a moment like the present you make me actually sick.”
“I will not utter it again,” said Annie; “but I can still feel it. Rupert, I will not do wrong for you. On that point I am firm. Now I must leave you. Oh, by the way, Mrs. Acheson gave me a message for you. She wished to know if you would dine with them this evening. Of course you will not come. Under the circumstances it would be quite impossible; but you may as well send back a polite message.”
“Say, with my compliments, that I shall be heartily pleased to accept the invitation,” answered Rupert.
“How can you dare?”
“Will you give the message? May I not accept my own invitation, or am I to be beholden to you?”
“Well, come if you like,” said poor Annie. “I cannot quarrel with you nor argue with you any longer. Come if you wish to do so; but plainly understand that, if you attempt to ask Belle Acheson to lend you any money, I shall immediately tell the entire truth to Mrs. Acheson.”
“I believe you; you are turning into a perfect little fiend. Well, at any rate expect me at dinner time.”
After Annie and Leslie had left him, Mr. Parker returned to his office. There were two or three candidates still waiting for the vacant post of secretary. One of his clerks came to inquire what was to be done with them.
“I cannot see them,” was the reply. “You may as well say that the matter is practically settled, and that there is no use in any of them waiting.”
The clerk withdrew, and Mr. Parker began to pace up and down the length of his room.
“Well, bless my soul!” he said; “I cannot make out what all this means. There is a mystery somewhere. Why won’t Leslie Gilroy confess the truth? Well, if I don’t get to the bottom of this thing my name’s not Charles Parker. I believe—yes, I cannot help believing—that somehow the girl is innocent; but appearances are much against her.”
He opened a certain drawer in a cabinet which stood behind his desk, took from it a letter, and began to read. The letter ran as follows:
“Dear Mr. Parker:“I am in great trouble and perplexity. I have got into a terrible scrape here, and only you can get me out again. I dare not confide in mother; you alone can help me. Will you give my friend, Annie Colchester, sixty pounds for me, and will you give it in notesand gold? I will never do what I have done again if only you will trust and forgive me this time. I cannot imagine how I have been led into these terrible debts; but I can only say I will never incur another. Please give the money to Annie at once, for the matter is most urgent.“Your affectionate friend,“Leslie Gilroy.”
“Dear Mr. Parker:
“I am in great trouble and perplexity. I have got into a terrible scrape here, and only you can get me out again. I dare not confide in mother; you alone can help me. Will you give my friend, Annie Colchester, sixty pounds for me, and will you give it in notesand gold? I will never do what I have done again if only you will trust and forgive me this time. I cannot imagine how I have been led into these terrible debts; but I can only say I will never incur another. Please give the money to Annie at once, for the matter is most urgent.
“Your affectionate friend,“Leslie Gilroy.”
“There,” said the good merchant to himself, “there is her own letter—her own statement in black and white. She got into a scrape, went in debt, and wanted me to give her money. Well, if it were only debt—the ordinary girlish wish to possess herself of fal-lals and finery—why, I could forgive the child. There’s a look on her face which makes it hard for any man to withstand her; but the thing is this: she has not made a full statement; she did not want money for ordinary debts; she had another reason, and she would not divulge it. Why did she write to me as she did? What can be up? ’Pon my word! I feel quite frightened. There’s that mother of hers, the best of good women, and that noble young fellow her brother, and the rest of ’em; plenty of character, plenty of go, plenty of spirit, nothing mean or underhand about one of them; and there’s Leslie, whom all the rest look up to as the straightest of the straight and the best of the best, and who has about the most open face I ever looked into; and yet, if this letter is true, she is a sly, cunning little rogue, as sly and cunning as can be. I pity the mother, that I do: but there, is the girl guilty? Isn’t there some explanation of this extraordinary mystery?”
Mr. Parker looked again at the letter, then he folded it up and was about to put it back into his cabinet when he saw the paper on which Leslie had scribbled her request to him that day, lying on the floor. He stooped and picked it up, and the next moment his red face had turnedpale, for Leslie’s scribble, carelessly written as it was, seemed to him to be written in a decidedly different hand from that of the letter. A moment later, all eagerness, quite trembling with excitement, the shrewd man of business was comparing both writings. There was a strong resemblance; most of the capitals were formed in the same way, but there was also a distinct difference.
With pursed-up lips and a wise shake of his head, Mr. Parker slipped the letter and the scrap of paper into his pocket, and left the office. On his way out he spoke to his head clerk:
“Hudson, don’t expect me back to-day. I shall return at my usual hour to-morrow.”
“Something has happened to annoy the chief very considerably,” thought the clerk to himself as Mr. Parker’s back disappeared through the doorway.
A moment later the great tea-merchant found himself in the street, the next he had hailed a hansom, and given the address of Mrs. Gilroy’s house in West Kensington.
“I could go by train, but a hansom will take me quicker,” he muttered to himself. “I hope to goodness she won’t be in; it’s Llewellyn I wish to have a chat with. Yes, I must investigate this matter, and I don’t want the mother to know anything about it until I can feel my bearings. There’s a way out of this somehow, and I believe the poor girl is nothing but a dupe. Can it be possible that she is shielding someone; but no, that can’t be the case, for when I went down to Wingfield she knew all about the story and never denied for a moment that she had written the letter. She looked sorry enough, but not surprised—no, not surprised. Bless me! if I know what the whole thing means. These girls, with their modern education, know a thing too much when they’re a matchfor a shrewd old fellow like myself. But I’ll see Llewellyn. I’ll sound him, whatever happens.”
When Mr. Parker got to the Gilroys’ house it so happened that Llewellyn himself was going up the steps. He was just about to put his latchkey into the door when the merchant’s hearty voice arrested him.
Llewellyn turned round, and a smile broke over his face.
“But mother’s out, I am afraid, Mr. Parker. You’ll come in all the same though, won’t you?”
“Yes, Llewellyn, my man, I just will. I want to have a word with you, my boy.”
“Certainly, sir. Is there anything I can do?”
“Take me where we can be alone for a minute or two. Your sister isn’t in—eh?”
“Do you mean Leslie?”
“Yes, your eldest sister, Leslie.”
“No, Mr. Parker; she is with her friends, the Chetwynds. One of the girls is very ill, and the other won’t do without Leslie.”
“I’m not specially surprised at that,” said the merchant. “She seems the sort of girl one would rely on a good bit; but that is not what I have come about. See here, Llewellyn, have you got a letter of your sister’s handy?”
“A letter! What do you mean?” said Llewellyn,
“Just what I say. I want to see one of your sister’s letters.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Llewellyn.
“And I don’t want you to understand, my boy. I want you just to exercise a little bit of faith in your father’s old friend, and not to say a single word to your mother about this. Now, go and find some letters of your sister’s. When you have found them, I want youto put a couple of them into my care. If they contain any secrets you may trust me not to blab; but this is a serious matter, and there is more in it than meets the eye. There, my boy, just do what you are told.”
“Of course I have got several of Leslie’s letters,” answered Llewellyn. “I think there are a few which do not contain anything of a private nature. I will give you one or two, sir, with pleasure.”
Llewellyn left the room, returning presently with a packet of letters kept together with an elastic band.
“There,” he said, “you can have them all, sir. I have not even looked at them. Leslie is as open as the day, and there is nothing in her letters that you may not see.”
“As open as the day—eh? You really think so. She’s not a bit secretive, now?”
“Secretive! My sister?” said Llewellyn, drawing himself up and flushing angrily.
“There, don’t get peppery. I’m very much obliged to you. You shall have these letters back again in a day or two at the farthest.”
“But are you going, Mr. Parker?”
“Yes; I must hurry back to town as fast as ever I can. Now, good-by to you; but hark, Llewellyn, not a word of this to your mother.”
“Certainly not, if you do not wish it, sir; but I fail to understand.”
“You must have faith, my boy. You will know all sooner or later.”
With the letters in his pocket, Mr. Parker went straight off to Scotland Yard. There he had an interview with Chief-Inspector Jones, got the address of a special expert of handwriting, and drove off to the man’s house.
Mr. Essex was in, and Mr. Parker had a short, emphatic interview with him.
“Well, sir.” he said finally, “you quite understand. You will examine the letters, and let me know the result to-morrow morning.”
Mr. Essex promised, and the merchant went away.
“Now,” he said to himself, “if this is a little game which some good people are trying to hide from Charles Parker they will quickly find themselves in the wrong box.”