Laid up in Lavender Part 22

"You cannot give them to me?" he repeated.

"No. Moreover the packet is sealed. I do not see, on second thoughts, what harm I can do you--now that the packet is out of your father's hands--by keeping it until to-morrow, when I will return it to your brother, from whom it came."

"He will not be in London," he answered doggedly. He stepped between me and the door with looks which I did not like. At the same time I felt that some allowance must be made for a man treated in this way.

"I am sorry," I said, "but I cannot do what you ask. I will do this, however. If you think the delay of importance, and will give me your brother's address in Liverpool, I will undertake to post the letters to him at once."

He considered the offer, eyeing me the while with the same disfavour which he had exhibited in the drawing-room. At last he said slowly--

"If you will do that?"

"I will," I repeated. "I will do it immediately."

He gave me the direction--"George Ritherdon, at the London and North-Western Hotel, Liverpool," and in return I gave him my own name and address. Then I parted from him, with a civil good night on either side--and little liking--the clocks striking midnight, and the servants coming in as I pa.s.sed into the cool darkness of the square.

Late as it was, I went straight to my club, determined that, as I had a.s.sumed the responsibility, there should be no laches on my part.

There I placed the packet, together with a short note explaining how it came into my possession, in an outer envelope, and dropped the whole, duly directed and stamped, into the nearest pillar-box. I could not register it at that hour, and rather than wait until next morning, I omitted the precaution, merely requesting Mr. Ritherdon to acknowledge its receipt.

Some days pa.s.sed during which it may be imagined that I thought no little about my odd experience. It was the story of the Lady and the Tiger over again. I had the choice of two alternatives--at least. I might either believe the young fellow's story, which certainly had the merit of explaining in a fairly probable manner an occurrence which did not lend itself freely to explanation. Or I might disbelieve his story, plausible in its very strangeness as it was, in favour of my own vague suspicions. Which was I to do?

I set out by preferring the former alternative. This, notwithstanding that I had to some extent committed myself by withholding the papers.

But with each day that pa.s.sed without bringing an answer from Liverpool, I leaned more and more to the other side. I began to pin my faith to the tiger, adding each morning a point to the odds in the animal's favour. So it went on until ten days had pa.s.sed.

Then a little out of curiosity, but more, I declare, because I thought it the right thing to do, I resolved to seek out George Ritherdon. I had no difficulty in learning where he could be found. I turned up the firm of Ritherdon Brothers (George and Gerald), cotton-spinners and India merchants, in the first directory I consulted. And about noon the next day I called at their place of business, and sent in my card to the senior partner. I waited five minutes--curiously scanned by the porter, who without doubt saw a likeness between me and his employer--and then I was admitted to the latter's room.

He was a tall man with a fair beard, not a whit like Gerald, and yet tolerably good-looking; if I say more I shall seem to be describing myself. I fancied him to be balder about the temples, however, and greyer and more careworn than the man I am in the habit of seeing in my shaving-gla.s.s. His eyes, too, had a hard look, and he seemed to be in ill-health. All these things I took in later. At the time I only noticed his clothes. "So the old gentleman is dead," I thought, "and the young one's tale was true after all!" George Ritherdon was in deep mourning.

"I wrote to you," I began, taking the seat to which he pointed, "about a fortnight ago."

He looked at my card, which he held in his hand.

"I think not," he said slowly.

"Yes," I repeated. "You were then at the London and North-Western Hotel, at Liverpool."

He was stepping to his writing-table, but he stopped. "I was in Liverpool," he answered in a different tone, "but I was not at that hotel. You are thinking of my brother, are you not?"

"No," I said. "It was your brother who told me you were there."

"Perhaps you had better explain," he suggested, speaking in the weary tone of one returning to a painful matter, "what was the subject of your letter. I have been through a great trouble lately, and this may well have been overlooked."

I said I would, and as briefly as possible I told the story of my strange visit in Fitzhardinge Square. He was much moved, walking up and down the room as he listened, and giving vent to occasional exclamations, until I came to the arrangement I had made with his brother. Then he raised his hand as one might do in pain.

"Enough!" he said. "Barnes told me a rambling tale of some stranger. I understand it all now."

"So do I, I think!" I replied dryly. "Your brother went to Liverpool, and received the papers in your name?"

He murmured what I took for "Yes." But he did not utter a single word of acknowledgment to me, or of reprobation of his brother's deceit. I thought some such word should have been spoken; and I let my feelings carry me away. "Let me tell you," I said, warmly, "that your brother is a----"

"Hush!" he said, holding up his hand. "He is dead."

"Dead!" I repeated, shocked and amazed.

"Have you not seen it in the papers? It is in all the papers," he said wearily. "He committed suicide--G.o.d forgive me for it!--at Liverpool, at the hotel you have named, and the day after you saw him."

And so it was. He had committed some serious forgery--he had always been wild, though his father, slow to see it, had only lately closed his purse to him--and the forged signatures had come into his brother's power. He had cheated his brother before. There had long been bad blood between them, the one being as cold, business-like, and masterful as the other was idle and jealous.

"I told him," the elder said to me, shading his eyes with his hand, "that I should let him be prosecuted--that I would not protect or shelter him. The threat nearly drove him mad; and while it was hanging over him, I wrote to disclose the matter to Sir Charles. Gerald thought his last chance lay in recovering this letter unread. The proofs against him destroyed, he might laugh at me. His first attempt failed; then he planned with Barnes' cognisance to get possession of the packet by drugging my father. Barnes' courage deserted him at the last; he called you in, and--you know the rest."

"But," I said softly, "your brother did get the letter--at Liverpool."

George Ritherdon groaned. "Yes," he said, "he did. But the proofs were not in it. After writing the outside letter I changed my mind and withheld them, explaining my reasons within. He found his plot was in vain; and it was under the shock of this disappointment--the packet lay before him, re-sealed and directed to me--that he--that he did it.

Poor Gerald!"

"Poor Gerald!" I said. What else remained to be said?

It may be a survival of superst.i.tion, yet, when I dine in Baker Street now, I take some care to go home by any other route than that which leads through Fitzhardinge Square.

JOANNA'S BRACELET

JOANNA'S BRACELET

On a morning early in the spring of last year, two men stood leaning against the mantelpiece of a room in one of the Government offices.

The taller of the two--he who was at home in the room--was a slim, well-dressed man, wearing his hair parted in the middle, and a diamond pin in the sailor knot of his tie. He had his frock-coat open, and his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat. The att.i.tude denoted complacency, and the man was complacent.

"Well, the funny part of it is," he said lightly, his shoulders pressed against the mantelpiece, "that I am dining at the Burton Smiths' this evening!"

"Ah?" his companion answered, looking at him with eyes of envy. "And so you will see her?"

"Of course. She is to come to them to-day. But they do not know of our engagement yet, and as she does not want to blurt it out the moment she arrives--why, for this evening, it is a secret. Still I thought I would tell you."

He stepped away as he spoke, to straighten a red morocco-covered despatch-box, which stood on the table behind him. It bore, in addition to the flaunting gilt capitals "I.O.," a modest plate with the name "Ernest Wibberley"--his name.

The other waited until he resumed his place. Then, holding out his hand, "Well, I am glad you told me, old boy," he said. "I congratulate you most heartily, believe me."

"Thank you, Jack," Wibberley replied. "I knew you would. I rather feel myself that 'Fate cannot harm me. I have dined to-day.'"

"Happy dog!" said Jack; and presently he took himself off.

The Burton Smiths, of whom we've heard them speak, are tolerably well known in London. Burton Smith himself is a barrister with money and many relations--Irish landlords, Scotch members, Indian judges, and the like. His wife is young, gracious, and fond of society. Their drawing-rooms, though on the topmost flat of Onslow Mansions--rooms with sloping ceilings and a dozen quaint nooks and corners--are seldom empty during the regulation hours.