Part 37 (2/2)

”The question between us,” said his cousin gently, ”was whether you were justified in abandoning them, not whether it was advantageous to them or not.”

”I would point out in pa.s.sing, Cousin Charles, that Elizabeth abandoned me, but we will let that be. My reason for opening the subject at all is not a question of justification.” He puffed away slowly at his cigar for a minute and then went on in an even, unemotional voice. ”The fact is something rather strange has happened.

For twenty years I have believed I knew the exact whereabouts of Elizabeth and my son. I had a good reason for the belief. One man only shared this supposit.i.tious knowledge with me.” His hearer seemed about to speak, but desisted and looked away from Peter out of the window.

Not a movement, a sign, a breath, escaped those hard blue eyes, and Charles Aston knew it. It did not render him nervous or even indignant, but he was a trifle more dignified, more obviously determined to be courteous at any cost.

”That boy and his mother were living at Liverpool,” went on Peter calmly. ”He was employed in a big s.h.i.+pping firm in a very minor capacity. He was killed in the great explosion in the dock last week.”

He spoke as calmly as if he were saying his supposed son had lost his post or had gone for a holiday.

Charles Aston gave a sudden movement and turned a shocked face towards the speaker.

”Terrible!” he said, ”I wonder how the shareholders in that company feel? Did you see the verdict?”

Peter waved his hand. ”Yes, yes. Juries lose their heads in these cases. But to continue. I went down to Liverpool at once before the funeral, you understand.” He paused. ”I was naturally much disturbed and horrified, and then--well, the boy wasn't my son, after all.”

”Not your son?” echoed Charles Aston slowly.

”No, not my son.” There was a tinge of impatience in his voice. ”I should not have known, but the mother was there. She went in as I came out.”

”His mother was alive?”

”Yes. She was not Elizabeth.”

His cousin turned to him, indignation blazing in his eyes. ”For twenty years, Peter, you believed you knew your wife's whereabouts, you knew she was in more or less a state of poverty, and you made no attempt to see her face to face? You accepted the story of another with no attempt to personally prove the truth yourself?”

”I had good reason to believe it,” returned Peter sulkily. ”She would have let me know if she were in want. I had told her she could come back when she had had enough of it.”

”And this poor woman, whose son was killed. What of her?”

”I don't know anything about her except she wasn't Elizabeth.”

”You had believed her so for twenty years.”

”I had made a mistake. She knew nothing about that. I took good care she should not. There was no doubt about her being the boy's mother, and no doubt she was not Elizabeth. She had no claim on me.”

”No claim!” Charles Aston stood up and faced him, ”not even the claim of the widow--her one son dead. No claim, when for all those years those two items of humanity represented in your perverse mind the two people nearest--I won't say dearest--to you. No claim!” He stopped and walked away to the window.

Peter smiled tolerantly. He enjoyed making this kind, generous man flash out with indignation. It was all very high-flown and impossible, but it suited Charles Aston. To-day, however, he was too engrossed in his own affairs to get much satisfaction from it.

”Well, well, don't let us argue about it. We don't think alike in these matters. The point I want to consult you about is not my susceptibility to sentiment, but the chances of my picking up a clue twenty years old.”

”I should say they were hardly worth considering.” He spoke deliberately, turning from the window to resume his place by the table. The fight had begun; they had crossed blades at last.

”There is a very good detective called Chance and a better one called Luck.”

”You have secured their services?”

<script>