Part 32 (1/2)

”Yes--to my everlasting remorse I am the man,” said Anstice rather bitterly. ”But since you know the facts of the case, and yet are good enough to welcome me to your house, I gather this wretched letter carried no weight with you, Sir Richard. And if that is so, why not tear it up, and make an end of the thing?”

”Wait a moment, Anstice. As you say, I know the facts of the case and even if I were ignorant of them this contemptible _canard_”--he flicked the paper angrily--”wouldn't rouse my curiosity to the extent of setting me searching for some crime in your past.” He smiled, but the smile cost him an effort. ”But you see the mischief may not rest here. It is quite possible other people may have been--victimized--by this morning's post.”

”By Jove, I hadn't thought of that.” Anstice stood biting his lip and staring thoughtfully ahead of him; and the old man watched the thin, fine-drawn face with a regard which was full of anxiety. ”Naturally a story of this sort is not calculated to enhance one's popularity; and one's patients might quite well look askance at a doctor who was reputed to be a murderer!”

He paused; then threw back his head impetuously.

”After all, if they are weak-minded enough to believe an anonymous statement, they aren't worth bothering with. As it is, I've been thinking for some time that I've had enough of general practice. I never intended to go in for it, you know; and if I had a quiet year or two for research----”

He broke off suddenly, for Sir Richard had raised his hand almost entreatingly.

”Anstice, don't speak of giving up your practice here--not at this juncture, anyway. You see this vile story may spread; and to quit Littlefield now would look almost like”--he hesitated--”like cowardice.”

For a second Anstice stared at him, a flash of anger on his brow. Then, as though dismayed by the effect of his words, Sir Richard spoke again.

”Besides, there is another aspect of the matter which has evidently not yet struck you. It is very natural for you to look on this letter as a loathsome, but quite unimportant, act of spite, on the part of some secret enemy; and I understand your desire to a.s.sume that it does not matter in the least. But”--his eyes sought the younger man's face anxiously--”there is another person in this neighbourhood who might be affected by a fresh flood of anonymous communications. You know to whom I refer?”

Suddenly Anstice saw, with a most unwelcome clarity of vision, what Sir Richard intended to convey; and his eyes grew hard as he replied:

”You mean----”

”I mean that once again that unfortunate girl at Cherry Orchard might be suspected of having recourse to this most degrading, most underhand form of crime. And for her sake the matter must not be allowed to rest here.”

”Sir Richard”--Anstice came a step nearer his host, and Sir Richard heard, with satisfaction, the ring of steel in his voice--”you are right. I did not see, at first, how peculiarly fatal this coincidence might be. I mean that should these letters, as you suggest, be circulated through the district, the old scandal would be revived. And though no sane person could ever believe Mrs. Carstairs guilty of such a vile action, I suppose there _are_ a good many lunatics about who would put these atrocious things down to her.”

”Well, you know what people are,” said Sir Richard deprecatingly, ”and naturally a woman who has once been convicted, by whatever unfair means, of the same offence, is liable to be looked on with suspicion. And I shouldn't like”--for a second Sir Richard, who loved Chloe Carstairs as though she had been his daughter, faltered, and cleared his throat rather huskily--”I shouldn't like that poor, pretty creature over yonder to suffer any further indignity.”

”Of course not!” Anstice's eyes flashed, and he pulled himself together resolutely. ”And if I can help it, she shan't suffer! Just look here, Sir Richard, the first thing to do is to find out if anyone else has been, as you say, victimized.”

”Yes.” Sir Richard spoke rather dubiously. ”And it will be rather hard to find out that, I fear. You see, naturally a decent man wouldn't spread the fact abroad; and we can hardly go about making open inquiries.”

”I suppose not.” For a second Anstice was nonplussed, then his face cleared. ”But after all, if anyone--one of my patients, for instance, has received one of these charming letters, don't you think I shall find it out? You see, although the average 'decent man,' as you call him, holds firmly to the theory that the place for an anonymous communication is the fire, I'm afraid nine out of ten people can't help wondering, even while they burn it, how much truth there was in the accusation!”

”Just so--but even then----”

”Well, something of that rather uncomfortable wonder, not to say suspicion, is pretty sure to show itself in the manner of the man who's read the letter. Seriously, Sir Richard, if anyone beside yourself has received a testimonial to my character” He spoke ironically now--”I'll guarantee to discover the fact in the course of ten minutes'

conversation with him!”

”You may be right, Anstice.” Sir Richard did not speak with much conviction. ”But for all our sakes I wish we could make certain of the facts either way. You see, should this lie be circulated through the district by means of letters or postcards it is inevitable that the old scandal should be raked up. And in that case Mrs. Carstairs _will_ suffer.”

A thought struck Anstice suddenly and he gave it utterance forthwith.

”Sir Richard, I suppose you don't remember whether the handwriting in any of those other letters resembled this in any way? It is not likely, so long afterwards, but still----”

Sir Richard uttered an impatient exclamation.

”By Gad, what an old fool I am! I've got one of the original letters locked away in that desk now--one of the half-dozen or so which reached me when the scandal was at its height. I don't know why I kept it--G.o.d knows I hated the sight of it--but somehow I could never bring myself to destroy the thing, hoping against hope that it might some day afford a clue to the ident.i.ty of the writer.”

He busied himself with a bunch of keys for a moment, and finally selected one, with which he unlocked a small drawer at the back of his desk. At first his eagerness prevented him finding what he sought, but presently he brought to light another and rather worn sheet of paper, which he handed to Anstice triumphantly.