Part 36 (1/2)
”Besides,” Mr. Pyecroft went on, with a sudden flash of wrathful contempt, ”if there's anybody under G.o.d's sun I like to slip something over on it's those d.a.m.ned vermin of private detectives! And the swells that employ them! I hope that Mrs. Allistair gets stung good and plenty!”
”But Mrs. De Peyster!” wailed that lady--she couldn't help it, though she tried to keep inarticulate her sense of complete annihilation.
”When they publish that letter the damage will have been done. It's a forgery, but n.o.body will believe her when she says so, and she can't prove it! She'll be ruined!”
”Well,” Mr. Pyecroft commented casually, ”I don't see where that bothers us. She's pretty much of a stiff, too, and I wouldn't mind handing her one while we're at it. But, Lord, this won't hurt her a bit.”
Mrs. De Peyster sat suddenly upright.
”Not hurt her?”
”Didn't I tell you?” chortled Mr. Pyecroft. ”Why, when our excellent friend, Mr. Brown, presents the Duke's letter to-morrow morning to his chief, or to Mrs. Allistair's agent,--if he ever gets that far,--he will turn triumphantly over one sheet of Brentanos' very best notepaper--blank.”
”Blank?” cried Mrs. De Peyster.
Mr. Pyecroft's right eyelid drooped in its remarkable wink; his mouth again tilted high to starboard in its impish smile.
”You see,” he remarked, ”the Duke's letter was written in an ink of my own invention. One trifling idiosyncracy of that ink is that it fades completely and permanently in exactly twelve hours.”
CHAPTER XVII
A QUESTION OF IDENt.i.tY
Mr. Pyecroft's grin grew by degrees more delighted: became the smile of a whimsical genius of devil-may-care, of an exultantly mischievous Pan. But he offered not a word of comment upon his work. He was an artist who was, in the main, content to achieve his masterpieces and leave comment and blame and praise to his public and his critics.
He stood up.
”I believe I promised to peel the potatoes and put on the roast,” he remarked, and went out.
”Matilda,” breathed Mrs. De Peyster, numbed and awed, still aghast, ”did you ever dream there could be such a man?”
”Oh, ma'am,--never!”--tragically, wildly.
”Whatever _is_ he going to do next?”
”I'm sure I don't know, ma'am. Almost anything.”
”And whatever is going to happen to us next?”
”Oh, ma'am, it's terrible to think about! I'm sure I can't even guess!
Mr. Pyecroft, and all the others, and all these things happening--I'm sure they'll be the death of me, ma'am!”
Mrs. De Peyster sprang from her bed. Despite Matilda's cheap dressing-gown which she wore as appropriate to her station, she made a splendid figure of raging majesty, hands clenched, eyes blazing, furiously erect.
”That man is outrageous!” she stormed. ”I cannot, and shall not, stand him any longer! We must, and shall, get rid of him!” Her voice rang with its accustomed tone of all-conquering determination. ”Matilda, we are going to do it! I say we are going to do it!”
Matilda gazed admiringly at her magnificently aroused mistress. ”Of course, you'll do it, ma'am,” she said with conviction.
”I cannot endure him another minute!” Mrs. De Peyster raged on. ”At once, he goes out of this house! Or we do!”