Читать книгу The Evil That Men Do - M.P. Shiel - Страница 8

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In the grey of the morning Hartwell opened his eyes and the first thing which he saw was a towel hanging over the mirror of the chest of drawers. He was astonished and could only conclude that he had put it there during sleep, for it happened to him to walk in his sleep before this, but his rising from bed to do this proved that his nervous fancy about Drayton's face during the night had made a deep enough impression on his nerves. He now smiled at himself for being subject to such disorders of digestion and dismissed the matter from his mind.

For two hours he then lay, full of plans and thought. During that time he made a review of all that the world contained to gratify him and of all these things he chose out what pleased him best. It has been shown that revels and pomps were already below the level to which his staid mind had risen, but among the letters he had seen one from the captain of a yacht called the Sempronia. She was his now and he would travel; and there was a long-love science of biology; he would become a genuinely "learned man"—that old dream of his. He could picture himself moving about his own laboratory, adding a little to the sum of human knowledge.

First, however, he would give his mind to acquiring a sufficient working knowledge of Drayton's business in order to retire from it without serious loss. There would have to be at least one month's daily personal attendance at the office in Fenchurch Street, after which he would probably be able to retire with credit in order to lead a mild, studious, epicurean life, the life of much science, a little art, and the pagan virtues.

For the pagan virtues, or any virtue, Hartwell had no more respect theoretically, than for vice, since "a pure egotism" was his summing up of the duty of man. But since he had inherited a tendency to virtue from his father and forefathers, he knew that more or less virtue was as needful to his comfort as breathing; "the pagan virtues," therefore, and a life of calm study, was the line along which he foresaw his maximum of happiness in that great new world into which he was that morning born. Drayton's friends would, of course, be greatly surprised at such a change in Drayton's manner of life—no more Epsom, unbridled motor cars, and rattling doings.

Hartwell foresaw their surprise, but he decided that he would live his life as he thought fit: for by old habit of mind he looked with no small disdain upon "the human animal in his present stage of development," and was ever disposed to esteem lightly the opinions of that animal. From time to time he might pretend in his new world that the shock of the motor car accident had made a difference in him and, for the rest, he trusted in the bodily oneness between himself and Drayton to bear the strain of any novelty of conduct that might be marked in the new Drayton.

As to "the wife" who "screamed," he he would provide for and somehow rid himself of her, if he was really married; and as to Julia, the sweetheart, he would be quickly rid of her, too. So he lay and dreamed and planned in the early morning, not counting upon the unexpected which, however, is always sure to happen: and within two hours his new state of existence seemed already as old and stale to him as if he had been a rich man and filled Drayton's place for ten years. As for hunger and want they had become to him unrealities as remote and forgotten as the nightmare of the night.

Near eight he rose to go to Drayton's overcoat pocket where there were still some shreds of paper which he had not examined. He had felt them in the pocket and, on account of the trouble of fitting them together, had not taken them out on taking the mass of other papers. He now took them in one heap, unlocked his door, removed the towel from the mirror, returned to bed, and began to fit the shreds of paper together.

But he was almost at once interrupted in this by a rap and bundled the shreds with the other papers as the opened door, let in a flood of day light, and the girl, Maggie, came in asking how he was.

"Much better, thank you," said Hartwell.

"Hodder, the sergeant, is downstairs asking to speak with you, sir," she said.

"Send him up and bring me a breakfast of hard-boiled eggs and coffee," said Hartwell. "Then see what can be made of my clothes by dint of cleaning. The overcoat, I think, is beyond your cares, and I must get a new one in the town; or perhaps I shall take from the police that of my friend, Mr—McCalmont."

He had seen from the letters that McCalmont was the name of Drayton's right-hand man, and also that McCalmont had accompanied his chief on the motor car expedition to Sheffield. He therefore made the true guess that this was the name of the second dead man.

The girl took up his clothes and went out. Then came in the officer, hat in hand, saying, "sorry sir, I'm sure, for your terrible accident."

"Ah, yes," said Hartwell, "I have had a memorable shaking, sergeant and an escape only to be attributed to the interpositions of a merciful Providence."

"Bad bruise on the forehead sir, I see," said the officer in a sympathetic voice.

"Yes, I was pitched head foremost over the cart—happily into a mass of mud. Sit down on that side of the bed while I have some breakfast and I will tell you all."

Hodder, the sergeant, sat and they spoke of the accident, of the condition of the two bodies and what had been done with the half-burned car, with the cart and with the guilty carter. As for the inquest, the coroner had issued his warrants and it would be at two p.m.

"It was a night o' trouble, last night," remarked the officer, as he rose to go, "what with the storm and there's Mr Barnes, of the "Anchor Inn," can't find his daughter, Letty. Its odd too, sir, how that laboring man got himself between your motor car and the cart. There's precious little left of his head, I see."

Hartwell's eyes, characterised by a certain humorous vivacity in their sideward look, smiled upon him as he said:

"The poor tramp perished in trying to save us. We heard him howling out to us but had no idea what he meant. The lamps may have dazzled and made him think us farther from him than we were and so he got himself between the car and the cart."

"You must have been going a pace, sir!"

"No doubt. If you like to fine me, I suppose I must pay—"

"Oh, that'll be all right sir, bless you," said Hodder, the sergeant.

He then went away, but before Hartwell could finish his breakfast, in came the girl again, this time with a breezy telegram, which said:

"CONGRATULATION! HURRAH!—BENTLEY."

And while he ate, three more arrived. This meant that the accident of the night had got into the London morning papers; and by 10.30 there was quite a crowd of telegrams.

One of them said:

"MY HEARTY CONGRATULATION; I AM COMING DOWN TO YOU.—OSWALD."

Another said:

"THE OFFICE BEG TO UNITE IN EXPRESSION OF SYMPATHY AND CONGRATULATIONS.—FOTHERGILL."

A third said:

"YOUR USUAL LUCK; THREE CHEERS FOR THE OLD FIRM!—EDWARDS."

Hartwell lay back smoking a cigar: but he was to find no rest now from the rain of congratulatory telegrams. There was only one which was the reverse of congratulatory, for it said:

"YOU HAVE ESCAPED THIS TIME, BUT NOT FOR LONG,"

and this one was anonymous. Near one o'clock there came one from "the sweetheart" at Cannes, saying:

"THE NEWS HAS BEEN TELEGRAPHED ME BY YOUR BROTHER: ACCEPT MY CONGRATULATIONS.—JULIA."

He had just read this when Maggie, whose legs were growing weary of mounting and going down the stairs, re-appeared, saying:

"Mr Oswald Drayton to see you, sir."

"Ah," thought Hartwell, "this is that Oswald who was 'coming down to me,' and he is a 'Drayton,' the 'brother' probably whom 'Julia' speaks of. Now, then, begins the test," and his eyes hardened keenly under their coarse brows. "Show him up," he said.

Presently there entered before Hartwell, in his room at the inn, a man rather under middle size, with a polished bald head (though he was only 35) and a friz of reddish hair running behind from ear to ear. He had a well-curled moustache, a hard chin, square jaws, a square head and a limp in his walk. His dress was the perfection of correctness, with some studied harmony between the tie, the gloves, the morning coat and, in all his air, a suggestion of club-land and Pall Mall.

"This does not look like my brother," thought Hartwell, quickly. But he was bold, he spoke first, though with a quailing sense of rashness, saying quietly: "My good Oswald, you are kind to come—"

But the words were so unlike Drayton's, who had usually addressed brother Oswald with a rough off-handiness, tossing him anon a careless hundred-pound-note, that Oswald stopped short one moment and his eyebrows slightly lifted. He shook hands, saying:

"My dear James, I am delighted at your escape, but—my dear fellow—you certainly look bad."

"In what way?" asked Hartwell quickly.

"Done up somehow, thinner—"

"Haven't I—cause?"

"Of course you have. I have myself lost a pound at least in weight since hearing of the accident. By a mere chance my man, Magee, saw it in the 'Times' about eight this morning, and I at once telegraphed to Lady Methwold. Er—heard from her, by the way?"

Hartwell at the first instant did not know who Lady Methwold was and, though in the second instant he guessed, his momentary conclusion caused him to say, more to himself than to Oswald, "Lady Methwold—you mean Julia."

Oswald slowly seated himself, and slowly turned his large gaze upon Hartwell, for all Oswald's movements were slow and premeditated. He was stiffer even than his collar. Anon he slowly turned his gaze at his image in the glass with sublime eyebrows. There was about him some detachment or absence of mind, as of one musing inwardly on himself and not finding surrounding objects of sufficient interest to occupy his attention.

"My good fellow," said he, "you are queer. Why on earth am I to call Lady Methwold 'Julia' before your marriage with her, if that ever arrives? Has she telegraphed to you?" He asked it with an interest which did not escape Hartwell's notice.

"Yes. Why?" asked Hartwell.

"Curiosity. Don't be odd. One has always a natural interest in people whose actions are always unexpected. Tell me about the spill"—with half a yawn.

Hartwell, looking at him penetratingly, said:

"Why tell you? You are not really anxious about the spill."

Oswald again turned his large eyes upon the bed, subconscious, no doubt, of a change in Drayton's noisy, slangy choice of words, and he said with surprise:

"My good James! do you mean because I merely yawned? It is that infernal journey—You are queer to-day. I see you have got a knock on the head. If I was not anxious, why come? No other brother would."

"He is poor," thought Hartwell, "and a sponger: his motive is money."

But before he could sound Oswald further, the breathless Maggie again looked in, saying, "Mr Barnes to see you, sir."

"Show him up," said Hartwell, without having any idea who Mr Barnes was, and in a minute in came the red beard and constant frown of Barnes, the father of the murdered Letty.

"You will excuse me, sir," began Barnes, "I am in a bit of trouble—"

"Yes, just take that chair, Mr Barnes," said Hartwell.

"Thank you, sir. Sorry to hear of your accident, sir, and I congratulate you on your lucky escape. I am very much put about this morning, sir, or should not have troubled you. Fact is—God help us all!—my daughter, Letty, left the house during the night and can't be found."

At the mention of that name, "Letty," Oswald Drayton slowly turned himself to look at Barnes, and listened closer.

"I thought she might have come to her cousin's in Aylsham," continued Barnes; "at least, it was just possible, but she hasn't. There's no telling where's she got to, or when she left the house, or why, or—anything. Forgive a father's feelings, gentlemen—"

The man buried his face, and a sob was heard in the room. Oswald's gaze turned upon Hartwell's face.

"I am sorry for your trouble, Barnes," said Hartwell. "I only hope that—" he was about to say, "am in no way connected—" but checked himself.

"I have been thinking that it is just possible that you may have seen the lass last night, sir," said Barnes, looking up.

"I may have, tell me more."

"You recollect coming to The Anchor in your motor car, sir? It must have been about twenty past seven?"

"That is true, I had almost forgotten. My head is all in a topsy-turvey this morning, Barnes. You see where I got the blow—" Hartwell passed his palm across the breadth of his brow, and Oswald's gaze travelled slowly from one to the other.

"Forgive me for troubling you sir, with my troubles, when you have your own," said Barnes. "I had the notion that if you had seen the lass when you went upstairs to write your letter, then we'd be able to say that at that hour, anyway, she was in the house. But if you don't recollect seeing her, I can only wish you a good day, and a speedy recovery—ah, good God!"

Barnes sighed, and stamped his stick and his foot together as he rose, the picture of loss and care.

"You are certain to find her, Barnes!" Hartwell called comfortingly after him, "have you made a thorough search?"

"The house, the whole neighborhood, five of us, since midnight, sir. She's gone, God knows where to."

The old man went out, and as he disappeared, Oswald's eyebrows deliberately lifted and, turning upon Hartwell, he said:

"I am prepared to take an oath that you have run off with that girl, James."

The fact was that, five days before this, Oswald had received a letter from a woman unknown to him named Letty Barnes, asking if he would tell her the proposed date of his brother's marriage with Lady Methwold; he had received it with a number of others brought him by his man Magee, at his club, and had then somehow dropped or mislaid it, for when he looked for it afterwards he could not find it anywhere. But he happened to remember the name Letty, because Letty seemed to be someone who, like himself, had a dislike to his brother.

"What makes you think that I have run off with her?" asked Hartwell.

Oswald would say nothing about Letty's letter to him, but said only:

"Why else should you stop at that inn when you were coming to dine at Aylsham? You have run off with her—dreadful scoundrel."

This was meant as flattery for Oswald, having come down to beg for money, wished to please. The real Drayton would have undoubtedly chuckled at being thus prodded about his conquests, but Hartwell who was born with the soul of a professor in the body of a Viking, took it without the least humor, foreseeing already that Drayton's way of life would probably involve him in some distasteful episodes. He looked at Oswald with a smiling eye, saying:

"I see that your methods of deduction are not conclusive, Oswald. Because I stopped on my way to dine at Aylsham at the 'Anchor Inn,' therefore, you say, I have run off with the girl there. But the landlord has already given you my real reason for stopping—namely, to write a letter."

"You would have waited till you came to Aylsham to write it, if you hadn't had some other motive," said Oswald, "and what on earth are you doing in this part of the country at all? My man, Magee, told me that you had gone to Sheffield for something, or other."

"So I had. But I returned this way to do some business at Cromer."

"Do people do business at Cromer?" asked Oswald wearily, looking at his image in the wardrobe glass with the critical detachment of a drill sergeant. "I thought Cromer was all bathing machines and shrimps. It is of no importance, my dear James. I don't know why you take it gravely, a girl less or more can't matter to you. But I thought that you were going to reform when you became engaged to her ladyship of Garlot. Magee, who never can get over his surprise that she ever took you, thinks that if she had any conception of your rowdyism, she would send you to the devil."

(Magee was Oswald's Irish servant, and Oswald seldom opened his mouth, without somehow bringing in Magee.)

"Magee is right," said Hartwell, "I am, in fact, already practically thrown over. So, if it will comfort you to know that I shall not finally outrun you in the good graces of that lady, then be comforted. We shall not marry."

Hartwell's thick lips smiled clinically as he said this, with that definite point in the middle of the upper pressed into the lower, not thinking how sad a prophecy he uttered. Oswald stared incredulously at him, as he uttered it, though even the mere prophecy pleased Oswald for one of the dreads of his life was that his brother should marry anyone, since that would mean the loss of two entails which would fall to him if his brother died without an heir.

Oswald had no suspicion that his brother had married nine years before this, in South Africa, a certain Martha Harper, and he had taken to his bed for a week, sick with disgust, when the extraordinary news of Drayton's engagement with Lady Julia became public, for he himself had long worshipped Julia as a "bright particular star" afar off, and had vaguely hoped to wed it. That the "James" whom he despised should have rushed in and conquered where Oswald feared to tread was a marvel to which Oswald's slow mind could never accustom itself. He had a constitutional and chronic dislike for the breezy Drayton, who threw him doles and checks with a careless hand, as one throws bones to a dog, and with this dislike was mixed a fine-gentleman disdain for the rough-and-ready city-man which Oswald could often hardly keep from peeping through his pretended chumship with James, to whom he was obliged to cringe, since his elegant existence among the tip-top circles was almost dependent on James' doles.

The brothers had not grown up together. They moved for the most part in different sets. Till James' surprising engagement with the wayward and independent Julia, James and Oswald could hardly have been called social equals, Oswald being so distinguished, though poor, and James so democratic a fellow, though a millionaire. Their parents had been pretty high in the social scale, but at an early age James had quarrelled with his father, had run away from school, resolving to stand on his own footing and make his own way, and in South Africa, where he lived a good many years, had laid the foundations of his large fortune.

It was not surprising, therefore, that little love was lost between the brothers, since they had seen little of each other, nor did Oswald's dislike—as yet—amount to actual hatred of "James." Yet that morning when he had been shown by Magee the account in the newspaper of the good James' escape from the spill, the thought in Oswald's mind, though he did not express it, was this: "My vicious luck."

He and Hartwell conversed for half an hour in a desultory way, Hartwell pumping him on the details of Oswald's own and the dead Drayton's mode of existence, their friends, habits, and so on, till at one-thirty Hartwell started, saying:

"I must get up and dress for that inquest."

Then Oswald, too, rose, and paced a little, anon inspecting the image in the glass, saying:

"So McCalmont is gone? Well, one cannot pretend to be sorry. I hated McCalmont."

"Why so?" asked Hartwell, glad of any scrap of information.

"You know very well that he used to put you against me, James. I say, Jimmy"—Oswald's voice lowered rather meanly—"I lost £80 on that dreadful Riley-match, and there's an infernal bill from Prince's this week. Don't think I'm exigent, but I might have scraped something together to-day from somewhere, if I had not rushed down to see you. May I count upon a hundred before I start back to town."

"I will think about it," said Hartwell, not intending to give. "You might go down while I dress and ask the girl whether the sergeant has sent me McCalmont's overcoat, as I told him to. My own is all stained."

"Is it that splendid sable of yours that is all stained? I say, may I have it, Jimmy? I might use the fur."

"If you like!" said Hartwell off-handedly.

Oswald went out, while Hartwell dressed in Drayton's clothes, which the girl had well cleaned and brought up, some time before. He then descended to the commercial room, where lunch was waiting for him, and he and Oswald sat to lunch.

Oswald was all the time conscious in a dull way of some change, some heightening of mind and character in the good James before him, but without making any attempt to account for it. All problems, in fact, were regarded by Oswald as an ox regards a five-barred gate, seeing it certainly there, but unable to understand who made it, or how, or why, and not caring, but chewing its cud, and feeling bored. During the lunch, however, Oswald could not but be surprised at the little that "James" drank, and he asked:

"Why are you drinking less heroically, my good James? That spill has had a chastening effect upon you. You are less florid and boisterous, somehow. You look like a converted burglar, which is horrid. I believe her fair ladyship of Garlot would almost prefer the unconverted type. Better not change, James, from just what you were at the moment of her consent, or she will certainly fly off at a tangent, and leave you. Is that really true then, that she shows sighs of restiveness?"

"Yes," said Hartwell.

"Tell me."

"I have a letter saying that she has re-considered the matter, and is disposed to cast me into despair."

"Despair!" repeated Oswald to himself, with a mocking breath of laughter. Just that little turn of expression was so unexpected for his slangy brother to use. "But do you think that she meant it, Jimmy?"

"I have no doubt about it—Ah that makes you glad, Oswald! Your sympathies with the pangs of your brother are not so profound as they should be, my friend."

Oswald glanced at him in surprise, and then said with abashed lids in a lower voice:

"My dear James, you are queer to-day."

Already the power of Hartwell's personality was producing upon him an effect of greater respect.

"You remarked that before," said Hartwell, "that I am queer to-day. But in what sense queer? Because I probe in you your unbrotherly mood? You are to get it well into your mind Oswald, that I am not queer to-day, even if I was queer before."

"My dear fellow," said Oswald, "I don't care a curse whether you are queer or not. I don't know what it is all about. If I am glad at all that Lady Methwold won't have you, it is partly for your sake. You know very well that you have no earthly right to such a wife."

"Why not?"

"Because, because. You know very well. In two weeks she would play the very deuce with you, or you with her, or both. She is the very finest flower of nineteenth-century Society, and you belong to the Roman Empire under Galba."

"Not altogether to the Roman Empire, Oswald," said Hartwell with a twinkling eye. "No! I have heard a mention of the geologic ages, my friend, at least a mention, though you may not think so well of me. And why, after all, am I not a suitable catch for a lady of title? I am rich—

"Not a suitable match for her, James. There are plenty of others who will be glad of you, if you are sufficiently absurd to desire rank in a wife. What, then have you done about her letter?"

"Nothing yet. I mean to answer it shortly. And I shall accept her inclination to withdraw from the engagement as being as serious as I consider it wise."

"You won't really, James?"

"Yes, never fear, you shall be well pleased!"

"Magee tells me that she is coming back from Cannes before Christmas, first to Garlot Croft, and then for hunting in Gloucestershire."

"I may see her then, or write before—Ah, it must be time for the inquest," Hartwell rose as he said this, and took out the dead man's watch to look at it, and now occurred a painful incident to him, for he could not open the watch, which was double cased, and only opened on the touching of a tiny spring which he did not know where to find. He fumbled with the winding knob, but the watch would not open, and catching sight of Oswald looking at him, he grew rather confused, feeling that he should surely know the secret of opening his own watch. It was rather a bitter moment. The watch would not open, and Hartwell's colour slightly changed when Oswald asked:

"Why ever can't you open it?"

This question, innocent as it was, was never forgotten by Hartwell who, in his sensitive outlook for the first sign of a suspicion that he was not Drayton, was apt to flee when no man pursued. From that moment, he definitely disliked, as well as despised, Oswald, in whom however, not even the beginning of a suspicion of anything wrong had arisen. For men know each other, not by vague impressions of character or manner, but almost entirely by the broad evidence of the senses, so that if one knows one's brother, or ones husband, to be a saint, yet if someone exactly like him came home tipsy one day, the last thing which one would think is that it was not really he. One might say, "I cannot believe my eyes," but one would nevertheless believe them, in spite of a whole life's excellence of character, for our trust in our senses is perfect—far more perfect than they deserve.

If even the faintest suspicion should happen to arise in one's mind that the tipsy man might not really be one's brother or husband, then the march from that to certainty would in most cases be swift, but the birth of such a suspicion would be more hard and stubborn than the changing of coal into diamond, if the bodily resemblance was very strong. In the case of Hartwell and Drayton, not only was the manner, speech and tone of mind as different as possible in the two men, but even the bodily resemblance was not perfect. For Hartwell's beard was worn quite an inch shorter than Drayton's and the raspberry birth-mark on his temple was rather smaller, and of a different shape to that of Drayton. Yet that "first suspicion" which was necessary to open the eyes to see all this did not occur to Oswald nor, for a long time, to anyone.

Such an incident as that of the watch, and a hundred others like it which did not fail to occur to Hartwell during the first two weeks of the imposture, might have opened any eyes but those fast closed by the undoubting certainty that he was Drayton, since he was like Drayton, and stood in Drayton's shoes. He was quite a minute fumbling with Drayton's watch, yet could not open it. His first impulse was to say that the shock of the spill had made him forget everything, finally, however, he rose better than that to the emergency, his perfect calm returning as he quietly said:

"I see the cover got strained in my fall. Never mind, it must be time to go."

They then set out for the court, Hartwell in a hat of the landlord's and in McCalmont's overcoat which Hodder, the sergeant, had sent him. He walked down the street, still keeping up the pretence of feebleness, leaning on Oswald's arm, with his palm on the bruise on his brow. The wealth and importance of Drayton had been learned by Aylsham from the morning papers, so Hartwell was received by the coroner and his twelve men like a sovereign who had been the victim of someone's wrong-doing, was condoled with, was not permitted to stand in giving his evidence, and finally went out with everyone bowing to him. As to the furious driving not a word was said.

The jury did not give their verdict that day, and on this account, as well as to meet Mrs McCalmont and her father who had telegraphed him their coming down, Hartwell had to remain at Aylsham that night. Oswald, meanwhile, was clearly beginning to fidget—hating to stay—for outside of Mayfair he was like a fish out of water, yet afraid to speak of hurrying off, lest he should go without the £100, for 'James' was touchy and a creature of whims. But as they re-entered the old coaching house, he ventured to say at last:

"I think I must go, Jimmy; I could hardly stand a night in this hole."

"Then go, my friend," answered Hartwell, who had now sufficiently used Oswald to pump from him all the knowledge he could furnish, and wished to be alone to study McCalmont's papers, which he had just obtained at the court.

"Then may I have the cheque, Jimmy, before I go?" asked Oswald in a certain sycophant voice.

"I think not," answered Hartwell. He had Drayton's cheque-book, but did not yet consider himself sufficiently expert in signing Drayton's name to do so, even if he had wished to be obliging. But Hartwell was no scatterer of £100 cheques, and did not wish to be obliging and, at that moment, the enmity already begun between him and Oswald deepened.

"But I thought you promised?" said Oswald.

"I said that I would think about it."

"Don't be a miser, Jimmy! Didn't I rush down at once to see you?"

"No doubt, but I have been over-liberal of late. You know that."

"The clown!" muttered Oswald to himself, "but what has happened to the brute? His choice of words seems different—Won't you then, Jimmy?"

"No."

That "No" was very final. Hartwell went up to his room, and Oswald lingered in the commercial room for two hours, pacing there with his slow limp, as the afternoon shadows lengthened, nosing the old window panes, his mind bitter with the miseries of scarcity, and with the thought which haunted it that, if the car had only pitched James when it had pitched McCalmont, then he, Oswald, would have changed his rooms in a week's time to the Albany and would have wintered in Algiers.

As for Hartwell, wearied with the anxieties of the day and night, he had gone again to bed. He already knew Oswald through and through and acted with respect to him without hesitation. For already a certain heightening of wit and insight, which his ticklish situation called forth, was begun in him—a certain "adaptation to his environment," almost like the growth of a new sense which, in a few weeks, would find him sharpened at the call of a thousand exigencies into a very genius of swift discernment and decision.

When Oswald went up to say good-bye, he found Hartwell asleep. He did not wake him but, coming down again to go, got the "splendid sable" overcoat which Hartwell had made him a present of, from the maid, who had cleaned it as well as she could. He was about to leave the tavern, when, feeling in the pockets of the overcoat, in the vague hope of finding a forgotten five pound note, he found instead a shred of paper. A shred of Letty Barnes' letter to Lady Methwold, which Hartwell had chanced to leave behind in the pocket in taking out the rest in a heap.

The hand-writing interested Oswald, he seemed to know it. Letty Barnes had written to him in that hand, asking the date of his brother's marriage.

"James" had said that morning that he did not know Letty, yet here was a shred of her writing in James' pocket and on it Oswald read the word and the half-word: "cruel bru."

That seemed very odd to Oswald that James should have denied knowing her, for James usually took such things more lightly. What, then, had he done with this Letty?

Oswald called Maggie again, and asked her:

"Has anything more been heard of Mr Barnes' daughter?"

"I don't think so, sir," she answered. "There's a great excitement about it in the town. Everybody was that fond of Letty."

"Where is the 'Anchor Inn?'"

"About two miles from here, between Ingworth and Coleby, sir."

"I want you to get me a horse and trap."

Oswald waited till this was procured him, and instead of walking to the station, drove to "The Anchor," and actually slept there that night.

Hartwell, on his part, spent the night much as he had spent the last, studiously examining McCalmont's papers, making his plans for the future and forming his handwriting on the model of Drayton's. About nine in the evening there occurred to him an event in the shape of a letter from Lady Julia. It had been written two days after the one of hers which he had found in Drayton's pocket, threatening him with dismissal, and four days before Julia had heard of his accident. The letter had gone from Cannes to Drayton's house in Addison Road, and was now sent down to Aylsham with some others by a Miss Scatchett, who was Drayton's town housekeeper.

In this letter Lady Methwold did what in the previous letter she had only threatened to do, for with a light and almost flippant touch, but still firmly enough, she threw Drayton over, giving no reason that any British jury would take seriously. Though it was evident "between the lines" that she had thought seriously of the matter, for she accounted in one place for her change of whim by the fact that she was "six months older." Hartwell had already so identified himself with Drayton, that, if he had been dissected, some slight pique or feeling of offence would have been found within him at this light treatment. He read the letter with a cold and smiling eye, and murmured when he was finished:

"Your ladyship will be spared the action, and since I no longer possess your ladyship's affections, I shall now set about and dispose myself to exist without them."

He was almost merry that night—as near it as his earnest nature ever got—full of a sense of success, safety, and old-established ease. But as he was dropping off to sleep, about two in the morning, the same thing as on the previous night troubled his repose, for he caught sight of a face in the mirror which was his, and yet might possibly be Drayton's. The face meditated upon him, and since Hartwell looked at it through half-closed lids, the face seemed a dead man's face. This disturbed Hartwell, as such things do to one who is about to sleep and though he had smiled at himself that morning, his unrest was even greater this second night. It was a morbidness, the beginning of a madness—which might grow. Fearing lest he should again cover the mirror in his sleep, he rose and threw the towel over it. Till he did that he could not sleep.