CHAPTER III

Before he went to bed on the night of Carey's visit to him Anstice wrote a letter to the expert recommended by his friend, inquiring whether an appointment could be made for the following Friday afternoon; and on Thursday night a laconic telegram arrived fixing three o'clock on Friday for the suggested interview.

It had seemed to Anstice that a personal interview with the expert would be far more satisfactory than a prolonged correspondence; and he hurried through his work on Friday morning and caught the noon express to London with a minute to spare.

He had the carriage to himself; and during the quick journey to town he pored over the two specimens of handwriting which he was taking up for examination until he was more than ever convinced that both were written by the same hand.

Mr. Clive, the noted handwriting expert, had a flat in Lincoln's Inn; and thither Anstice hastened in a taxi, arriving just as the clocks of London were striking three; a feat in punctuality which possibly accounted for the pleasant smile with which Mr. Clive greeted his visitor.

The expert was a tall and thin person, with deep-set and brilliant eyes hidden more or less by a pair of rimless eyeglasses; and Anstice was suddenly and humorously reminded of the popular idea of a detective as exemplified in Sherlock Holmes and his accomplished brethren.

When he smiled Mr. Clive lost his somewhat austere expression; and as Anstice obeyed his invitation to enter his sitting-room the latter felt that he had come to the right person with whom to discuss the problem of these annoying letters.

"Now, Dr. Anstice." Clive pushed forward a chair for his visitor and sank into another one himself, leaning back and joining his finger-tips in a manner which again reminded Anstice involuntarily of the super-detective. "I expect your time is as valuable as mine—probably more so—and we won't waste it in preliminaries. I gather you have some specimens of handwriting to submit to me?"

"Yes. I have two letters to show you." He drew them carefully from his notebook. "What I want to know is, whether they were both written by the same hand or not."

Mr. Clive unlaced his finger-tips and took the papers carefully from his visitor; after which, rather to Anstice's amusement, he removed his eyeglasses and proceeded to study the letters without their aid.

For several minutes he pored over them in silence, the letters spread out on the table before him; and Anstice, watching, could make nothing of the inscrutable expression on his face. Presently he rose, went to a little cabinet at the end of the room, and took from it a small magnifying glass, with whose aid he made a further study of the two documents; after which he resumed his eyeglasses and turned to Anstice with a smile.

"Your little problem is quite simple, Dr. Anstice," he said amiably. "As soon as I looked at these letters I guessed them to be the work of one hand. With the help of my glass I know my guess to be correct."

For a moment Anstice could not tell whether he were relieved or disappointed by this confirmation of his own suspicions; but the expert did not wait for his comments.

"If you will look through the glass you will see that the similarities in many of the letters are so striking that there is really no possible question as to their being written by one hand." He pushed the papers and glass across to Anstice, who obediently bent over the table and studied the letters as they lay before him. "For instance"—Clive moved to Anstice's side and, leaning over his shoulder, pointed with a slim finger—"that 'I' in India is identical with the one with which this letter opens; and that 's' with its curly tail could not possibly have been traced by any hand save that which wrote this one. There are other points of resemblance—the spaces between the words, for instance—which prove conclusively, to my mind at least, that the letters are the work of one person; but I expect you have already formed an opinion of your own on the subject."

"Yes," said Anstice. "To be frank, I have. I was quite sure in my own mind that they were written by one person; but I wanted an expert opinion. And now the only thing to be discovered is—who is that person?"

Clive smiled.

"That is a different problem—and a more difficult one," he said quietly. "These anonymous letters are very often exceedingly hard nuts to crack. But probably you have someone in your mind's eye already."

"No," said Anstice quickly, moved by a sudden desire to enlist this man's sympathy and possible help. "I'm completely in the dark. But I intend to find out who wrote these things. I suppose"—for a second he hesitated—"I suppose it isn't in your province to give me any possible clue as to the identity of the writer?"

The other laughed rather dryly.

"I'm not a clairvoyant," he said, "and I can't tell from handling a letter who wrote it, as the psychometrists profess to be able to do. But I will tell you one or two points I have noted in connection with these things." He flicked them rather disdainfully with his finger. "They are written by a woman—and I should not wonder if that woman were a foreigner."

"A foreigner?" Anstice was genuinely surprised. "I say, what makes you think that? The writing is not foreign."

"No. You are right there inasmuch as the regulation writing of a foreigner, French, Italian, Spanish, is fine and pointed in character, while this is more round, more sprawling and clumsy. But"—he frowned thoughtfully, and Anstice thought he looked more like Sherlock Holmes than ever—"there is one point in connection with this last letter which has evidently not struck you. Suppose you read it through carefully once more, and see if you can discover something in it which appears a trifle un-English, so to speak."

Anstice took the second letter as desired, and read it through carefully, while Clive watched him with an interest which was not feigned. Although Anstice had no suspicion of the fact, Clive, who had travelled in India, had in the light of that letter identified his visitor directly with the central figure in that bygone tragedy in Alostan; and although, owing to his absence from England, Clive had not been one of the experts consulted in the Carstairs case, it was not hard for him to place the first letter as belonging to that notorious series of anonymous scrawls which had roused so much interest in the Press a couple of years before this date.

Just where the connection between the two cases came Clive could not discover, but he had always felt a curiously strong sympathy with the unknown man who had carried out a woman's wish just ten minutes too soon, and he would willingly have helped Anstice to solve this problem if he could have seen his way to find the solution.

Presently Anstice looked up rather apologetically.

"I'm awfully stupid, but I don't see what you mean about a foreigner...."

Clive smiled.

"Don't you? Well, I'll explain. And after all I may be wrong, you know. However, here goes." He bent down again and pointed to the word India, which for some reason was set in inverted commas. "Don't you notice any peculiarities about these commas? Think of the usual manner in which an English writer uses them—and note the difference here."

Anstice studied the word with suddenly keen attention, and instantly noted the peculiarity of which Clive had spoken.

"The first double comma, so to speak, is set below the line, and the other one above. But English writers and printers use both above the line. Isn't that so?"

"Yes. Whereas in the majority of French or Italian printing the commas are set as they are here—a trick which, to my mind, points to the strong probability, at least, of the writer of this letter being a foreigner of sorts."

"Italian! Why——" Suddenly a vision of the woman with the Italian name, Tochatti, Mrs. Carstairs' personal attendant, flashed into Anstice's mind, and Clive's eyes grew still keener in expression as he noted the eager tone in his visitor's voice.

"Well?" As Anstice paused the expert spoke quickly. "Does the suggestion convey anything to your mind?"

"Yes," said Anstice. "It does. But the only Italian—or half-Italian—person I know, a woman, by the way, is absolutely the last one I could suspect in the matter."

"Really?" As he spoke Clive removed his eyeglasses once more and stared with his brilliant eyes at the other man's face. "Don't forget that in cases like these it is generally the last person to be suspected who turns out to be the one responsible. Of course I don't know the facts of the case, and my suggestions are therefore of little practical value. At the same time the very fact that you are able at once to identify an Italian in the case——"

"She is not altogether Italian," said Anstice slowly. "She's a half-breed, so to speak—and I really can't in fairness suspect her, devoted as she is to Mrs. Carstairs——"

He broke off abruptly, annoyed with himself for having betrayed so much; but Clive's manner suddenly became more animated.

"See here, Dr. Anstice." He sat down again, and handed his cigarette case to his visitor. "May I be frank with you?"

"Certainly." He accepted a cigarette and Clive resumed immediately.

"I think I am correct in assuming that the first letter is one of those supposed—by some people—to have been written by Mrs. Carstairs, wife of Major Carstairs of the Indian Army?"

"Yes." It would have been folly to deny the correctness of the assumption.

"Well, I was not professionally interested in the case, but all along I have had very grave doubts as to the course of justice in that unhappy affair. And I have always thought the sentence was unjustifiably severe."

Anstice's face cleared, and his manner lost its first stiffness.

"I am glad to hear you say so," he said heartily. "For my own part I am perfectly convinced Mrs. Carstairs was absolutely innocent in the matter. You see, I have the privilege of her acquaintance, and it would be quite impossible for her to stoop to so low and degrading an action."

"Just so." For a second the expert wondered whether Dr. Anstice's interest in Mrs. Carstairs arose from a purely personal dislike to see an innocent woman unjustly accused or from some warmer feeling; but after all it was no concern of his, and he dismissed that aspect of the case from his mind for the present. "But I should like to ask you to explain one thing to me. Would it have been possible for this Italian woman of whom you speak to have written those former letters? I gather that it is not altogether impossible, though I daresay improbable, for her to be connected with this last one; but of course, if she must be acquitted of any hand in the first, the clue drops to the ground at once."

"Well"—for a second Anstice hesitated, then resolved to speak plainly. "To tell you the truth, it would have been quite possible for her to be mixed up in both affairs—save for one thing. The woman, is a servant in the household of Mrs. Carstairs; but she's not only absolutely devoted to her mistress, but is also unable to write even her name."

"What proof have you of that?" The question shot out so abruptly that Anstice was genuinely startled.

"Proof? Well, the woman herself admits it, and certainly she has never been seen to write so much as a word——"

"That does not prove she could not write quite well if she wished to," said Clive quietly. "People do strange things in this queer world of ours, Dr. Anstice, as I expect you know considerably better than I do. Have you never had an hysterical patient who declared she could not walk and after being carried about for months has been discovered dancing a fandango in her bedroom on the sly?"

He laughed and threw away his cigarette.

"Perhaps that's not quite a typical case, but you must have known of many people who declare they have lost the use of one or more of their faculties—possibly in order to gain sympathy from their friends?"

"Quite so." Anstice could not but admit the fact. "But as you say, in these cases there is generally some definite object to be gained, even if it is only the desire for sympathy. In this case, however, the motive appears to be lacking, for I gather that long before the anonymous letters began to arrive this woman had admitted her inability to handle pen or pencil."

"Really? That complicates matters a little," said Clive thoughtfully. "Though, of course, if the woman were a schemer it is possible she might prepare the way, so to speak, for some time beforehand. In any case it is an interesting problem. But I don't quite see why this woman—supposing it to be she—? should start another campaign, directed, this time, against you. Surely she can't want her mistress, to whom you say she is devoted, to be suspected once more?"

"I don't know—I confess it is a problem beyond my powers to solve," said Anstice rather hopelessly; and Clive answered at once, with a kind note in his voice.

"Don't say that, Dr. Anstice. All sorts of mysteries have come to light sooner or later, you know, and it is quite on the cards this one may be easier to solve than you think at present. At any rate, if I may give you a word of advice, keep your eye on the Italian woman. I'll swear those inverted commas are of foreign origin, and as a doctor you ought to be able to find some way of penetrating through any imposition in the way of pretence."

"Thanks," said Anstice, rather amused at this tribute to his powers. "I'll do my best. Anyway, you have given me valuable help, and I'll follow up this clue at once."

"Do—and let me know the result." Clive followed his visitor to the door. "I really am genuinely interested in the case, and I shall be pleased to hear from you how things progress."

They parted on mutually cordial terms, and an Anstice walked away he began to feel as though, after all, this mystery might yet be solved; though he was bound to confess that at present the introduction of Tochatti's name merely complicated matters.

He had a couple of hours to fill in before repairing to the station, and feeling in the mood for exercise, he set out for a brisk walk, careless of whither his steps led him while he pondered over his recent interview with Clive.

After the quiet and pastoral solitude of Littlefield London seemed unpleasantly crowded and noisy. The reek of petrol was a poor substitute for the clean country air, and the hoot of innumerable motors and 'buses struck on his ear with new and singularly disagreeable force as he took his way along Piccadilly.

Suddenly a noise considerably louder and more ominous than the rest penetrated his hearing, and looking hastily round he saw that a collision had taken place between a taxi-cab and a motor-van bearing the name of a well-known firm in Oxford Street—with apparently tragic results to the taxi-cab, which lurched in the road like a drunken man vainly attempting to steer a straight course, and eventually toppled half over on to the pavement, where it struck a lamp-post with a terrific crash as it came to rest.

With the rapidity peculiar to the life of cities a crowd instantly began to assemble; and as a burly policeman, notebook in hand, pushed through the people, a middle-aged gentleman stepped, with some difficulty, out of the wrecked cab, and stumbled forward on to the kerb, almost into the arms of Anstice, who reached the spot at the same moment and caught him as he staggered and seemed about to fall.

"Hold up, sir!" Anstice involuntarily gripped the gentleman's shoulder to support him; and his friendly tone and prompt help apparently assured the other man, who pulled himself together pluckily.

"Thanks, thanks!" He was white, and evidently had been somewhat upset, for the taxi had swerved half across the road to the discomfort of its occupant. "You are most kind. I am really not hurt, only a little shaken. The driver of the van was entirely to blame—I hope, constable, you will make all possible inquiries into the matter."

As a first step towards doing so the policeman stolidly requested the speaker's name and address, and these having been furnished he proceeded to interrogate the van-driver and the taxi-man, both of whom were only too ready to pour out voluble explanations, each accusing the other of carelessness with a freedom of language only known, apparently, to those who have intimate acquaintance with the dark ways of motors and their accompanying vices.

In the meantime the middle-aged gentleman turned to Anstice with a word of gratitude for his timely support.

"You're sure you're not hurt?" Anstice thought the other man looked oddly white. "I'm a doctor—and if I can do anything for you——"

"No, I'm really all right, thanks." He relinquished Anstice's arm, which he had been unconsciously holding, and looked round him. "By good luck I'm opposite my club, and if this fellow has finished with me I'll go in and sit down."

The constable intimated that he had no further need of him for the moment; and having asserted his readiness to appear in court in connection with the case he turned back to Anstice.

"Will you come in and have a peg with me?" His invitation was cordial. "I'm all alone—just back from India, and if you can spare five minutes, I'll be glad of your company."

"Thanks." Anstice was curiously attracted towards the man. "I'm killing time, waiting for a train, and I'll come with pleasure."

They went up the steps of the building outside which the accident had occurred; and five minutes later his new friend, brushed and tidied, every speck of dust removed from his well-cut suit, led him to a comfortable corner of the smoking-room and invited him to take a seat, calling to a waiter as they sat down.

"What will you drink—whisky-and-soda? Right—I'll have the same—a large whisky for me," he said, as the man moved away. "I really feel as though I want a stiff drink," he added, rather apologetically, to Anstice.

"I expect you do—your taxi came a fearful bump on the kerb," said Anstice, "You were lucky not to get shoved through the window."

"Yes—it was down, fortunately, or I might have got in quite a nasty mess with cut glass." He hesitated a moment. "By the way, shall we exchange cards? Here's mine, at any rate."

He laughed and pushed the slip of pasteboard over to Anstice, who returned the courtesy before picking it up. But as the latter glanced at it perfunctorily, with no premonition of the surprise in store for him, the name he read thereon sent a sudden thrill through his veins; and he uttered a quite involuntary exclamation which caused his companion to look up in amazement.

For by one of those strange coincidences which happen every day, yet never lose their strangeness, the man who sat opposite to Anstice on this murky November afternoon was Chloe Carstairs' husband, Major Carstairs.



CHAPTER IV

For a moment his vis-a-vis regarded him with a very natural surprise. Then:

"You seem a little astonished," he said, with a hint of stiffness in his manner. "May I ask if my name is familiar to you? I don't think I remember yours—though"—he stole another glance at the card, and his brows drew together a little thoughtfully—"Now that I come to look at it I do seem to have heard it before."

"I daresay you have, if you have lived in India. Unfortunately, my name was pretty well known in that country once, for the proverbial nine days." His voice was a little savage. "But don't trouble about my name—let me admit at once that yours is perfectly familiar to me."

He broke off as the waiter approached with their glasses; and until he had vanished Anstice said no more. Then he continued steadily:

"You see I am living at present in Littlefield; and I have the honour of being acquainted with a lady bearing the same name as yourself."

"You mean my wife?" He spoke calmly; and Anstice found himself admiring the other's composure. "Then you will be able to give me the latest news of her and of my little daughter. Has she—Cherry, I mean—quite recovered from that serious burning accident in September?"

"Quite, I think." For a second Anstice's heart was sick within him as he remembered the night on which that accident had taken place; but he stifled the memory and continued steadily. "She got over it splendidly, and she is not marked by even the tiniest scar."

"That's a good thing." Major Carstairs took a drink from the contents of his glass, and then, setting it down, looked Anstice squarely in the face. "See here, Dr. Anstice, by a strange coincidence you and I have been brought together this afternoon, and I should be very much obliged if you will be kind enough to answer me one or two questions."

"I am quite ready to answer any questions you may care to ask, Major Carstairs." Anstice sat upright and pushed aside his glass, and Major Carstairs began at once.

"First of all, how long have you been in Littlefield?"

"A little over twelve months. I went there, to be exact, in September of last year."

"I see. And you have been acquainted with Mrs. Carstairs during the whole of that time?"

"Not quite. I first met Mrs. Carstairs in the spring, when I was called in to attend her professionally."

"I see. As a doctor you will naturally be acquainted with many people in the neighbourhood; and that being so"—Major Carstairs moistened his lips and went heroically on—"you are of course familiar with my wife's story—you know all about those damned anonymous letters—and their sequel?"

"Yes." Anstice met his gaze fully. "I know the story, and I am glad of this opportunity to assure you of my unswerving belief in Mrs. Carstairs' innocence of the charge brought against her. I hope you don't consider my assertion uncalled-for," he added hastily.

For a long moment Major Carstairs said nothing, gazing ahead of him thoughtfully, and Anstice studied the face of Chloe Carstairs' husband with deep interest.

He said to himself that this man was a gentlemen and a man of honour. There was something about him, something dignified, reserved, a little sad, which won Anstice's usually jealously-withheld sympathy at once; and although he had hitherto pictured Major Carstairs as harsh, unforgiving, narrow-minded, inasmuch as he could not bring himself to believe his wife innocent of a degrading charge, now that he saw the man himself, traced the lines in his face which spoke of tragedy, noted the sadness in his eyes, and heard the gentle note in his voice as he spoke of Chloe, Anstice was ready to swear that this man had not lightly disbelieved his wife.

If he had left her, it had not been done easily. He had surely acted in accordance with his lights, which would permit no compromise in a matter of honour; and as he now sat opposite to Major Carstairs, Anstice felt a strange new respect springing up in his heart for the man who had had the courage to stand by his inward convictions, however terribly, tragically mistaken those convictions might have been.

When at length that long pause ended, Anstice was surprised by the manner of its ending.

Major Carstairs leaned across the little table and laid his square-fingered hand, brown with the suns of India, on Anstice's arm.

"From the bottom of my heart I thank you for those words," he said earnestly. "I am glad to know my wife has one friend, at least, in Littlefield, who is able to believe in her innocence."

"She has more than one, sir," returned Anstice significantly, as Carstairs withdrew his hand. "Sir Richard Wayne is as firmly convinced as I that Mrs. Carstairs has been the victim of a cruel injustice. And——"

"Sir Richard? Ah, yes, he was always a true friend to Chloe." He spoke absently and for a second said no more. Then he suddenly bent forward resolutely. "Dr. Anstice, I see you are to be trusted. Well, you have doubtless heard that I left my wife because I could not bring myself to acquit her of the charge brought against her. I don't know how much you may have learned, but I give you my word the evidence against her was—or appeared to be—overwhelming."

"So I have heard." Anstice's tone was strictly non-committal, and after a glance at his impassive face Carstairs went on speaking.

"You must forgive me for reminding you that Mrs. Carstairs never categorically denied the charges made. That is to say, she implied that any such denial was, or should be, unnecessary; and it seemed as though her pride forbade her realizing how unsatisfactory her silence was—to others."

"Forgive me, Major Carstairs." Anstice took advantage of a momentary pause. "May I not just suggest that a categorical denial was unnecessary? Surely to anyone who knew her, Mrs. Carstairs' silence must have been sufficient refutation of the charge?"

He was almost sorry for his impulsive words when he noted their effect. Major Carstairs' naturally florid complexion turned grey; and his whole face grew suddenly aged. In that moment Anstice felt that his speech, with its implied rebuke, had been both impertinent and unjust; yet he hardly knew how to repair his error without committing still another breach of good taste.

Accordingly he said nothing; and after a moment had passed Major Carstairs spoke with something of an effort.

"I am glad to see my wife has found a champion in you," he said, with a smile which Anstice felt to be forced. "And even although as a partisan of hers you naturally think me cruel and unjust, may I ask you to believe that I would give years—literally years—of my life to be able to think myself mistaken in my first judgment of that unhappy affair!"

The note of passion in the last words moved Anstice powerfully; and he forgot his own delicate position in a sudden quite unusual desire to justify himself.

"Major Carstairs, forgive me if I seem to you impertinent, meddlesome. I know quite well that this is no business of mine, but—but I know Mrs. Carstairs, and I know she has been made bitterly unhappy by this wretched misunderstanding. And I am sure, as sure as I am that you and I sit here to-day, that she never wrote one word of all those beastly letters—why, I can almost prove it to you, if you really care for such proof—and then——"

He stopped short, arrested by the change in Carstairs' face. His eyes suddenly blazed with a new and startling fire; and the hand which had been idly playing with a glass clenched itself into a determined fist.

"My God, man, what are you saying? If you can prove my wife to be innocent, why in God's name do you let me sit here in Purgatory?"

"I ... I said almost——" Anstice positively stammered, so taken by surprise was he.

"Well, that's enough to be going on with." Carstairs spoke resolutely. "Look here, I'll tell you something I meant to keep to myself. For the last two months—ever since I received my wife's short and formal letter telling me of Cherry's accident—I've been haunted by the thought that perhaps after all I was mistaken—frightfully, appallingly mistaken, in the conclusion I came to at the time of the trial. At first I was convinced, as you know, that the verdict was the only possible one; and, although it nearly killed me, I could do nothing but leave her and return to India alone. But in the last few weeks I have asked myself whether after all I have not made a terrible mistake. Supposing my wife were innocent, that her silence were the only possible course open to a proud and honourable woman ... supposing that a grievous wrong had been done, and the real writer of those letters allowed to escape scot-free. Oh, there were endless suppositions once I began to dwell on the possibility of my wife's absolute ignorance of the vile things ... and when at last I was able to sail for England I came home with the full determination to go into the matter once more, to rake up, if necessary, the whole sad affair from the beginning, and see whether there were not some other solution to the mystery than the one I was forced to accept at the time of the trial."

"You mean that, sir?" Anstice spoke eagerly, and the other man nodded. "Then I'm bound to say I think it is something more than coincidence that has brought us together to-day. I'm not a religious fellow, and I always feel that if there be a God He went back on me years ago in a way I had not deserved, but I do think that there is something more than chance in our meeting; and if good comes out of it, and the truth is brought to light, well"—he laughed with a sudden gaiety that surprised himself—"I'll forget my old grudge against the Almighty and admit there is justice in the world after all!"

"Dr. Anstice," said Carstairs, "I don't understand you. Would you mind explaining a little more clearly just what you mean? Why should a meeting between you and me be anything more than the prelude—as I hope it may be—to a very pleasant friendship? I honour your belief in my wife, but when you speak of proof——"

"Look here, Major Carstairs." With a sudden resolve Anstice pulled his note-case out of his pocket and extracted two sheets of thin paper therefrom. "You will probably be surprised when I tell you that those infernal letters have started again, and this time I am the person honoured by the writer's malicious accusations."

"The letters have started again? And you are the victim? But——"

"Well, look at this charming epistle sent to a certain gentleman in Littlefield a day or two ago." Anstice handed across the letter he had received from Sir Richard Wayne, and Major Carstairs took the sheet gingerly, as though afraid of soiling his fingers by mere contact with the paper.

He read the letter through, and then looked at Anstice with a new expression in his eyes, which were so oddly reminiscent of Cherry's brown orbs.

"Dr. Anstice, were you the hero of that unfortunate episode in the hills a few years ago?"

Anstice nodded.

"I was the hero, if you put it so. Personally I should say I feel more like the villain of the piece. That, anyway, is how the writer of this letter regards me."

"Oh, that's nonsense." He spoke authoritatively. "You could have done nothing else, and I think myself you showed any amount of pluck in carrying out the girl's request. You and I, who have been in India, know what strange and terrible things happen out there; and I tell you plainly that if I had been that unfortunate girl's brother, or father, I should have thanked you from the bottom of my heart for having the courage to do as you did."

Now it was Anstice's turn to change colour. These words, so heartily spoken, spoken, moreover, by a man who knew the world, whose commendation carried weight by reason of the speaker's position, fell with an indescribably soothing touch on the sore places in Anstice's soul, and in that moment his inward wound received its first impetus towards healing.

He threw back his head with something of the old proud gesture which was now so rarely seen, and his voice, as he replied, held a new note of confidence.

"Thanks awfully, sir." His manner was almost boyish. "You have no idea what it means to me to hear you say that. Of course I acted as I did, meaning it for the best, but things turned out so tragically wrong——"

"That was not your fault." Major Carstairs' reply was decisive. "And anyone who ventures to criticize your action proclaims himself a fool. As for the stupid accusations in this letter, well, I should say no one would give them a second's credence."

"Well, I did venture to hope that my few friends would not believe it," returned Anstice, smiling. "And if I had only myself to consider I should not bother my head about it. But you see there is someone else——"

"You mean Mrs. Carstairs?" His manner was suddenly brisk. "Quite so. Of course a second series of letters would remind the neighbourhood of the first. Well, if you can bring yourself to allow me to have that letter I will submit it to one of those handwriting fellows——"

Anstice interrupted him abruptly.

"I've already done so. And the report of the expert I consulted—a well-known man of the name of Clive—is that both these letters were written by the same hand."

"Ah! And did the expert utter any further authoritative dicta on the matter?"

"He gave me two—possible—clues." Anstice spoke slowly. "The letters are, he says, probably written by a woman, and there is a strong presumption in favour of that woman being a foreigner—for instance"—he paused—"an Italian."

"An Italian?" For a second Major Carstairs looked blank. Then a ray of light illumined his mental horizon. "I say, you're not thinking of my wife's maid, old Tochatti, are you?"

"Well"—he spoke deliberately—"to tell you the truth, ever since Clive suggested a foreigner, I have been wondering whether the woman Tochatti could have anything to do with the letters."

"But old Tochatti! Why, she is absolutely devoted to my wife—been with her for years, ever since she was a child. No, believe me, Dr. Anstice, you must write Tochatti off the list."

"Very well." Anstice mentally reserved the right to his own opinion. "As you say, the woman certainly appears devoted both to Mrs. Carstairs and the child. But I'm sure you will agree it is wise to leave no clue uninvestigated in so serious a matter?"

"Quite so. And you may rest assured the matter shall be thoroughly investigated. By the way, you said something about a train. Are you returning to Littlefield to-night?"

"Yes. And it's time I was moving on," said Anstice, glancing at his watch. "Shall I have the pleasure of your company on the journey?"

"Not to-night. I have one or two matters to attend to in town, and I must write and prepare Mrs. Carstairs for my visit. But I shall certainly be down shortly, and I hope I may have the pleasure of meeting you again before very long."

"I hope we may meet soon," said Anstice heartily, and Major Carstairs escorted his guest to the steps of the Club, where he took a cordial farewell of him and stood watching the tall figure swing along Piccadilly with the stride of an athlete.

"So that's the fellow there was all the 'gup' about." Major Carstairs had heard the story of Hilda Ryder's death discussed a good many times during his sojourn in India. "A thoroughly decent chap, I should say, and it's deuced hard luck on him to go through life with a memory of that sort rankling in his soul. Ah, well, we all have our private memories—ghosts which haunt us and will not be laid; and at least there is no disgrace in that story of his. At the worst it could only be called a miscalculation—a mistake. But what if my mistake has been a more grievous one—what if Chloe is innocent and I have misjudged her cruelly? If that should be so," said Major Carstairs, "then my ghost will never be laid. The man who shot Hilda Ryder will be forgiven for his too hasty deed. But for a mistake such as mine there could be no forgiveness."

And as he turned to re-enter the club his face looked suddenly haggard and old.



CHAPTER V

The more Anstice pondered over the matter of the anonymous letters, the more inclined he was to believe that the woman Tochatti was one of the prime movers, if not the sole participator, in the affair.

Leaving the subject of motive out of the question for the moment, it was evident that Tochatti, of all the household, would have the most free access to her mistress' writing-table or bureau; and Anstice knew, through a chance word, that on the occasion of Mrs. Carstairs' fatal visit to Brighton, she had been accompanied by her maid.

True, the woman was supposed, by those around her, to be incapable of writing, even to the extent of signing her name; but, as the export had pointed out in the course of the interview, it was not unknown for a person to deny the possession of some faculty, either from a desire to gain sympathy or from some other and less creditable reason.

The question of motive, however, was a more complicated one. Why should this woman seek to injure her mistress in the first place, and having done her an irrevocable wrong—always supposing Tochatti to be the culprit—why should she seek now to bring dishonour on a man who had never, to his knowledge, done her any harm?

The thing seemed, on the face of it, absurd; yet somehow Anstice could not relinquish his very strong notion that Tochatti was in reality at the bottom of the business, and on the Sunday following his visit to Mr. Clive he walked over to Greengates to discuss the matter with Sir Richard Wayne.

Sir Richard was almost pathetically pleased to see his visitor, for he missed his pretty daughter sorely, and he welcomed Anstice cordially on this foggy November afternoon.

Over their cigars in Sir Richard's cosy sanctum Anstice gave him an outline of his visit to the handwriting expert and the conclusions to be drawn therefrom—a narrative to which Sir Richard listened with close attention; and when Anstice had finished his story the older man took up the subject briskly.

"You really think this woman may be implicated? Of course, as you say, she would have opportunities for tampering with Mrs. Carstairs' belongings; but still—the question of motive——"

"I quite realize that difficulty, Sir Richard. But I confess to a very strong feeling of distrust for the woman since visiting Clive. He suggested almost at once that the writer was a foreigner, and Tochatti is about the only foreign, or half-foreign, person in Littlefield, I should say."

"Quite so." Sir Richard leaned back in his chair and placed his finger-tips together in a judicial attitude. "Well, let us consider the question of motive a little more fully. If the writer really were Tochatti, we must suppose her to be actuated by some strong feeling. The question is, what feeling would be sufficiently strong to drive her to a deed of this nature?"

He paused; but Anstice, having no suggestion to make, kept silence, and Sir Richard went on with his speech.

"Generally speaking, in the character of a woman of a Southern nature, we find one or two strongly-marked attributes. One is a capacity for love, equalled only by a capacity for hatred. Of course Tochatti is only half Italian, but personally I distrust what we may call half-breeds even more than the real thing. You know the old proverb, 'An Englishman Italianate He is a devil incarnate'—and I believe there is some truth in the words."

"I share your distrust for half-breeds," said Anstice fervently. "And in this case, although she speaks excellent English as a rule, it always seems to me that Tochatti is more than half Italian. Do you agree with me?"

"I do—and that's why I distrust her," returned Sir Richard grimly. "I confess I don't like the women of the Latin races—those of the lower classes, anyway. A woman of that sort who is supplanted by a rival is about the most dangerous being on the face of the earth. She sticks at nothing—carries a knife in her garter, a phial of poison in her handbag, and will quite cheerfully sacrifice her own life if she may mutilate or destroy the aforesaid hated rival."

"So I have always understood. But in this case, if you will excuse me pointing it out, there is no possibility of love entering into it. To begin with, Tochatti is a middle-aged woman; and of course there could not be any question of rivalry between her and her mistress."

"Oh, of course not. I was speaking generally," Sir Richard reminded him. "But there are other reasons for jealousy besides the primary reason, love. You know, in the case of these last letters, which are certainly actuated by some very real spite against you ... why, what's the matter now?" For Anstice had uttered an exclamation which sounded almost exultant.

"By Jove, sir, I believe I've got it—the reason why the woman should feel spiteful towards me!" In his excitement he threw away his cigar, half-smoked, and Sir Richard, noting the action, guessed that an important revelation was at hand.

"You've got it, eh?" Sir Richard sat upright in his chair. "Well, may I hear it? It's no secret, I suppose?"

"Secret? Heavens, no—but how intensely stupid I've been not to think of it before!"

"Go on—you're rousing my curiosity," said Sir Richard as Anstice came to a sudden stop. "Tell me how on earth you have managed to rouse the woman's spite. Personally, seeing how cleverly you pulled her adored Cherry through that illness of hers, I should have thought she would have extended her devotion to you."

"That's just how the trouble began," rejoined Anstice quickly. "You remember how the child set herself on fire one night in September?"

"Yes—on the night before Iris' wedding day." In spite of himself Anstice winced, and the other man noted the fact and wondered. "Set fire to herself with a candle, didn't she?"

"Yes—and Tochatti put out the flames somehow, burning one of her hands in the process."

"Did she? I had forgotten that."

"Yes—with the result that she was not able to take her fair share of nursing the child, and I accordingly installed a nurse."

"Yes, I remember—a bonny girl, with a voice as soft as the coo of a wood-pigeon."

"Just so. Well, I—or rather Mrs. Carstairs—had a pitched battle with Tochatti before she would consent to Nurse Trevor being engaged; and the girl herself told me that the woman did her very best to make her life unbearable while she was at Cherry Orchard."

"The deuce she did! But if she were really incapacitated——"

"She was; but with the unreasonableness of women—some women," he corrected himself hastily, "she resented her enforced helplessness, and looking back I can recall very well how she used to scowl at me when I visited Cherry."

"Really! You're not imagining it?"

"I'm not an imaginative person," returned Anstice dryly. "I assure you it was no fancy of mine. She used to answer any questions I put to her with a most irritating sullenness; and once or twice even Mrs. Carstairs reproved her—before me—for her unpleasant manner."

"You think that would be sufficient to account for the animus against you displayed in these letters?"

"Honestly, I do. You see, luckily or unluckily, the child took a great fancy to Nurse Trevor; and being ill and consequently rather spoilt, she behaved capriciously towards her former beloved Tochatti—with the result that the woman hated the nurse—and hated me the more for having introduced her into the household."

Sir Richard nodded meditatively.

"Yes. I see. It hangs together, certainly, and it is quite a feasible explanation. But what about the nurse? She would be the one against whom Tochatti might be expected to wreak her spite——"

"Yes, but you see Nurse Trevor was only a bird of passage, so to speak. She had come down here from a private nursing home in Birmingham, and had just finished nursing a case when I wanted her; and after Cherry was better she returned to Birmingham; so that the woman would probably have had a good deal of trouble in getting on her track."

"Quite so. You, being at hand, were a more likely victim. Upon my soul, it almost looks as though you were right. Still, even this does not explain why she should ruin Chloe's life."

"No, I admit that. But don't you think if we could bring this last crime—for it is a crime—home to the Italian woman we could wring a confession out of her concerning the first series of letters?"

"Yes, that is quite possible. The question is, How are we going to bring it home to her? At present we have no clue beyond the specialist's opinion that the writer is a foreigner."

"No, and it's going to be a hard nut to crack," said Anstice thoughtfully. "But it shall be cracked all the same. What do you say to taking Mrs. Carstairs into our confidence, Sir Richard? Of course the idea will be a shock to her at first; but if the matter could be cleared up, think what a difference it would make to her!"

"Yes, indeed!" Sir Richard agreed heartily. "And to her husband as well. You know, Major Carstairs is a man with a rather peculiar code of honour; and you must not run away with the idea that because he refuses to believe in his wife's innocence he is necessarily a narrow-minded or—or callous person."

"I don't," said Anstice quickly. "By the way I've not told you all that happened the day I was in town. By a curious coincidence I met Major Carstairs——"

"What, is he in England again?"

"Yes." Anstice related the particulars of the meeting between them, and repeated, so far as he could remember it, the substance of the subsequent conversation in the club. "So you see, Sir Richard, Major Carstairs is not only ready, but longing, to be convinced of his wife's innocence in the matter."

"Good! That's capital!" Sir Richard beamed. "If once Chloe can be led to understand that her husband will believe in her one day she will be ready to help us to prove her innocence. You know I have sometimes thought that if she had taken up a rather more human, more feminine attitude, had relinquished the pride which forbade her to protest loudly against the injustice which was done her, she might have been better off in the end. It is very hard fighting for a woman who won't fight for herself; and that idea of hers that if her own personal character were not enough to prove her blameless of so vile a charge nothing else was worth trying—well, it was the attitude of conscious innocence, no doubt, but it was certainly above the heads of a conscientious, but particularly unintelligent jury!"

He put down the stump of his cigar, which unlike Anstice he had smoked to the end, and looked at the other man with a kindly eye.

"Look here, Anstice, why shouldn't we go—you and I—to visit Mrs. Carstairs now?"

"Now?" Anstice was somewhat taken aback at the proposal.

"Yes. Why not? There's no time like the present. It is barely six o'clock, and she will certainly be at home."

"But—won't she be at church?" Anstice felt suddenly unwilling to go into the matter with the mistress of Cherry Orchard.

"Not she! Don't you know Chloe only goes to church once in a blue moon?" Sir Richard laughed breezily. "I don't blame her—I expect she feels she owes Providence a grudge—but anyway she will be at home to-night. And—another inducement—Tochatti will almost certainly be at her church. Those Catholics are a queer lot," said Sir Richard, who was a Protestant of the old school. "They will cheat you and lie to you—aye, and half murder you, on a Saturday night—and turn up at Mass without fail on Sunday morning!"

"Yes, I know Tochatti does go to the Roman Catholic chapel at night," owned Anstice rather reluctantly. "Well, sir, if you really think the moment is propitious let us go by all means. After all, it is just possible Mrs. Carstairs may have had suspicions of Tochatti herself."

"Yes. I remember Iris often used to say she distrusted the woman—don't know why. I never paid much attention to her caprices," said Sir Richard with a smile; and Anstice made haste to seize the opportunity thus offered.

"Ah—by the way, what news have you of your daughter?" He could not call her by the name he hated. "She is still in Egypt, I suppose?"

"Yes. She and Bruce are somewhere in the Fayoum at present—he has been engaged on some irrigation job for a rich Egyptian of sorts, and he and Iris have been camping out in the desert—quite a picnic they seem to have had."

"Really?" For the life of him he could not speak naturally; but Sir Richard was merciful and ignored his strained tone.

"They sent me some photographs—snapshots—last week," said Sir Richard. "Would you care to see them? I have them here somewhere."

He opened a drawer as he spoke, and after rummaging in the contents for a few moments drew out half a dozen small prints which he handed to Anstice, saying:

"Amateur, of course—but quite good, all the same. Oh, by the way"—he spoke with elaborate carelessness—"how did you come? Are you walking, or have you the car?"

"The car? No, I walked—wanted exercise," said Anstice rather vaguely; and Sir Richard nodded.

"Then we'll have out the little car, and you shall drive us over if you will. And if you'll excuse me for a moment I'll just go and order it round."

He waited for no reply, but bustled out of the room as though in sudden haste; and left to himself Anstice turned over the little photographs he held and studied them with eager eyes.

Four of them were of Iris—happy little studies of her in delightfully natural poses. In one she was standing bare-headed beneath a tall date-palm, shading her eyes with her hand as though looking for someone across the expanse of sunny sand before her. In another she stood by the edge of the Nile, in converse with a native woman who bore a balass on her head; and even the tiny picture was sufficiently large to bring out the contrast between the slim, fair English girl in her white gown and Panama hat and the dusky Egyptian, whose dark skin and closely-swathed robes gave her the look of some Old Testament character, a look borne out by the surroundings of reed-fringed river and plumy, tufted palms. In the third photograph Iris was on horseback; but it was the fourth and last which brought the blood to Anstice's brow, made his heart beat quickly with an emotion in which delight, regret, wild happiness and over-mastering sorrow fought for the predominance.

It was a photograph of Iris' head, nothing more; but it brought out every separate charm with an art which seemed to bring the living girl before the man who pored over the print with greedy eyes.

She was looking straight out from the photograph and in her face was that look of half-laughing, half-wistful tenderness which Anstice knew so well. Her lips were ever so slightly parted; and in her whole expression was something so vital as to be almost startling, as though some tinge of the sitter's personality had indeed been caught by the camera and imprisoned for ever in the picture. It was Iris as Anstice knew—and loved—her best: youth personified, yet with a womanliness, a gracious femininity, which seemed to promise a more than commonly attractive maturity.

And as he looked at the little picture, the presentment of the girl he loved caught and imprisoned by the magic of the sun, Anstice felt the full bitterness of his hopeless love surge over his soul in a flood whose onrush no philosophy could stem. To him Iris would always be the one desired woman in the world. No other woman, be she a hundred times more beautiful, could ever fill the place held in his heart by this grey-eyed girl. With her, life would have been a perpetual feast, a lingering sacrament. Her companionship would have been sufficient to turn the dull fare of ordinary life into the mysterious Bread and Wine which only lovers know; and with her beside him there had been no heights to which he might not have attained, no splendour of achievement, of renown, even of renunciation, which might not have been reached before the closing cadence which is death had ended, irrevocably, the symphony of life.

But not for him was this one supreme glory, the glory of an existence spent with her. She had chosen otherwise—for one fiercely rebellious moment he told himself he had been a fool, and worse, to enter on that infamous bargain with Bruce Cheniston—and henceforth he must put away all thoughts of her, must banish his dreams to that mysterious region where our lost hopes lie—never, so far as we can see, to come to fruition; unless, as some have thought, there shall be in another world a great and marvellous country where lost causes shall be retrieved, forlorn hopes justified, and the thousand and one pitiful mistakes we make in our earthly blindness rectified at last.

* * * * *

The door opened suddenly, and Sir Richard's voice smote cheerily on his ears.

"I've got the car, Anstice, and if you are ready——"

Anstice hastily replaced the photographs, face downwards on the table, and turned to Sir Richard with a trace of confusion in his manner.

"The car there? Oh, yes, I'm ready. You would like me to drive?"

"If you will—then Fletcher can stop at home. You'll come back to dinner with me, of course."

With some haste Anstice excused himself; and after a courteous repetition of the invitation Sir Richard did not press the matter.

* * * * *

Mrs. Carstairs was at home, and alone; and in a moment the two men were ushered into her pretty drawing-room, where she sat, book in hand, over a dancing wood-fire.

She looked up in some surprise as the door opened to admit visitors; but on seeing Sir Richard she rose with a welcoming smile.

"Sir Richard! How good of you to take pity on me on a day like this!" She greeted the old man with almost daughterly affection; and then turned to Anstice with a rather forced expression of cordiality.

"You, too, Dr. Anstice! How sorry Cherry will be to have missed you!"

"Is she in bed, then?"

"Yes, I'm sorry to say she was a naughty girl and was put to bed immediately after tea!" She laughed a little, and Anstice asked, smiling, what had been the extent of Cherry's latest misdemeanour.

"Oh, nothing very serious," said Chloe lightly. "It was really to soothe Tochatti's wounded feelings that I had to banish the poor child. It seems that one day last week, while out walking with Tochatti, Cherry noticed a house in the village with all its blinds down; and on inquiring the reason Tochatti informed her that someone was dead in the house; further entering, so I gather, into full details as to the manner in which Catholics decorate the death-chamber."

"Oh?" Anstice looked rather blank. "But I don't see——"

"Well, it seems the idea fired Cherry's imagination; and this morning, when Tochatti returned from High Mass about noon, she found the blinds pulled down in all the front windows of the house!"

"The little monkey!" Sir Richard laughed. "I'll wager the woman got a fright!"

"She certainly did, and matters were not improved by Cherry coming to meet her with her face quite wet with tears—you know Cherry is a born actress—and begging her, between sobs, to come upstairs softly as someone was dead!"

"Someone? She did not specify who it was?"

"No—or if she did Tochatti did not understand; but when she got into the nursery she found an elaborately conceived representation of a Catholic death-bed—flowers, bits of candle, and so on; and Cherry's very biggest doll—the one you gave her, by the way, Dr. Anstice—enacting the part of the corpse!"

Even Anstice's mood was not proof against the humour of the small child's pantomime; and both he and Sir Richard laughed heartily.

"And Tochatti took it amiss?" Sir Richard put the question amid his laughter.

"Yes. It seems she had really had a bad fright; and on finding Cherry in tears she never doubted that some tragedy had occurred!"

"So you had to punish the poor mite for her realism!"

"Yes. Tochatti waited for me to return—I was out motoring—and then hauled the culprit before me; and although I really didn't see much harm in poor little Cherry's joke I was obliged, in order to pacify Tochatti, to sentence her to go to bed early—a special punishment on Sunday, when, as a rule, she sits up quite late!"

"I almost wonder," said Anstice slowly, "that Tochatti, devoted as she is to Cherry, could bring herself to give the child away. One would have expected her to hush up any small misdeeds, not dwell upon them to the powers that be."

Chloe looked at him with a hint of cynicism in her eyes.

"Even Tochatti is human," she said, "and when one has had a fright one's natural impulse, on being reassured, is to scold somebody. Besides, Tochatti, in her way, is implacable. She never forgives what she really considers an injury."

These words, fitting in so curiously with their conversation a little earlier, caused the men to glance surreptitiously at one another; but Chloe, whose eyes were as sharp as her wits, intercepted the look.

"Sir Richard, why do you and Dr. Anstice look at one another?" She put the question directly, with her usual frankness; and Sir Richard met candour with candour.

"I will tell you in a moment, Chloe. First of all, I will admit that our visit here to-night was made with a purpose. We came here to ask you one or two questions which I feel sure you will answer as fully as possible."

"Certainly I will." Her manner had lost its animation and once more she wore the marble mask which as a rule hid the real woman from the world's gaze. "But won't you sit down? And if a cigarette will help you in your cross-examination——"

She sat down herself as she spoke, and Sir Richard followed her example; but Anstice remained standing on one side of the fireplace; and after a glance at his face Chloe did not repeat her invitation.

Rather to Sir Richard's surprise Chloe did not wait for him to begin questioning her; but put a question to him on her own account.

"Sir Richard, has your visit anything to do with certain letters received lately by several people in Littlefield?"

Both the men, genuinely taken aback, stared at her in silence; and with a faint smile she proceeded quietly.

"Well, I have heard of those letters, anyway. In fact"—she paused dramatically before making her coup—"I've received one myself!"

"You have?" Anstice's voice was full of dismay.

"Yes. And I gather, from a short conversation I had with Mr. Carey last evening, that there have been several more of the things flying about this week."

"Well"—Sir Richard looked rather helplessly at Anstice—"in that case there is no need to make a mystery of it. Yes, Chloe, we did call here to-night to talk over those abominable letters, and to see if you can possibly help us to follow up a rather extraordinary clue."

"A clue!" Chloe's eyes suddenly blazed.

"Yes. That is to say—possible clue." Sir Richard hedged a little. "But Anstice can tell you the story better than I can."

"Will you, please, tell me, Dr. Anstice?" She turned to him, grave again now; and he complied at once, giving her a full account of his visit to Clive, and relating at length the expert's opinion on the letters.

She heard him out in silence; her almond-shaped eyes on his face; and Anstice omitted nothing of the happenings of that day in town, save his unexpected meeting with her husband in Piccadilly.

When he had finished Chloe sat quite still for a moment, saying nothing; and neither of the men dreamed of hurrying her.

At last:

"But, Dr. Anstice—Tochatti! Why, she has been with me for years—ever since I was a child like Cherry!"

Her voice was so full of incredulity that for a moment both her hearers wondered suddenly how they could have accepted the possibility of Tochatti's guilt so readily. But Anstice's common sense reasserted itself immediately; and he knew that the mere fact of Mrs. Carstairs' unbelief did not really materially alter the main issue. It was natural she should be surprised, unwilling to believe evil of the woman who, whatever her faults, had served her faithfully; but this was no time for sentimentality; and he replied to Chloe's last speech rather uncompromisingly.

"Even the fact that she has been with you for years does not preclude the possibility of her doing this thing," he said. "Of course I can understand you would hesitate to believe her capable of such wickedness, but——"

"But why should Tochatti wish to work me harm?" Her blue eyes were full of a kind of hurt wonder. "And these last letters directed against you, Dr. Anstice—why on earth should she have any spite against you?"

"Dr. Anstice tells me she much resented the presence of the hospital nurse in the house," chimed in Sir Richard. "Of course she has always been absurdly jealous of any claim to Cherry's affection—even Iris noticed that and used to say she hardly dared to pet the child before Tochatti."

"Yes." Chloe assented reluctantly. "That is quite true. She has always been jealous; and I confess I once or twice saw her look at Dr. Anstice with a—well, rather malignant expression. But I thought it was only a passing jealousy; and judged it best to take no notice."

"Of course all this is very largely conjectural," said Anstice slowly. "Such evidence as we have is purely circumstantial; and wouldn't hang a cat. But I admit that Mr. Clive's suggestion carries weight with me; and it is certainly odd that he should have mentioned an Italian as the possible author of the letters when there is a person of that nationality—more or less—in the house."

"Yes. I can see that for myself." Chloe's voice was low. "But to be quite candid, I don't see how it would be possible to bring the letters home to Tochatti. To begin with, she can't write."

"Or pretends she can't. You must remember, Mrs. Carstairs, we have only the woman's own word for that."

"I certainly never remember seeing her with a pen in her hand," said Chloe, "though of course that's no real proof. But if this horrible idea is correct how are you going to prove it? You don't intend to tackle Tochatti herself, I suppose?"

"Not for the world," said Anstice hastily. "That would be a fatal mistake. A woman who is clever enough to carry on an intrigue of this kind without incurring suspicion is sufficiently clever to answer any direct questioning satisfactorily. No. If Tochatti is the culprit—mind you I only say if—she must be caught with guile, made to commit herself somehow, or be taken red-handed in the act——" He broke off suddenly; and the other two looked at him in surprise.

"Well, Anstice, what's struck you now?" Sir Richard's tone was eager.

"Only this. Is your writing-table always open to access, Mrs. Carstairs? I mean, you don't lock up your ink and pens, and so on?"

"No," she said, catching the drift of his questions at once. "Anyone in the house could sit down here to write and be sure of finding everything at hand."

"Just so—and unless the person who wrote was considerate enough to use the blotting-paper you would not know anyone had touched your things."

"No—unless they were left strewn untidily about."

"Which they would not be. Now, Mrs. Carstairs, to speak quite plainly, what is there to prevent Tochatti, or any other member of your household, creeping downstairs at the dead of night and making use of those pens and sheets of paper which you so obligingly leave about for anyone to play with?"

"Nothing," she said with a smile. "But unless you propose that I should sit up behind the curtains all night to see if some mysterious person does creep down——"

"That's just what I was going to propose," he said coolly. "At least I wasn't suggesting that you should be the person; but you might allow someone else to sit there on your behalf. You see, if Tochatti is really the mysterious writer she would not like to run the risk of keeping pens and ink in her own room where some prying eyes might light upon them sooner or later. It would be much less incriminating to use another person's tools, and it is quite possible many, if not all, of those beastly letters were written at this very table!"

The conviction in his tone brought forth a protest from Chloe.

"Dr. Anstice, have you really made up your mind that my poor Tochatti is the criminal? It seems to me that your evidence is very flimsy—after all some uneducated person might quite easily put those inverted commas wrong without being a foreigner; and I still disbelieve in Tochatti's power to write. Besides"—she paused a moment—"she has always served me with so much devotion. She is not perfect, I know, but none of us is that; and I have never, never seen anything in her manner which would lead me to suppose her to be the hypocrite, the ungrateful, heartless creature you seem to imply she is."

Listening to Chloe's words, watching the clear colour flood the marble whiteness of her cheeks, Anstice was struck by the curious contrast between this generous championship of a woman who had served her and her utter indifference and lack of all protest when it was her own innocence which was in question. In defence of her servant she spoke warmly, vehemently, unwilling apparently, to allow even mere acquaintances to look upon the woman as unworthy; yet she had rarely expressed in words her own entire innocence of the disgraceful charge which had been made against her; and had suffered the cruel injustice meted out to her without allowing its iron to enter into her soul.

And as he watched and listened Anstice told himself that there was something of nobility in this reluctance to accept her own acquittal at the cost of another's condemnation; yet his determination to see her righted never wavered; and he answered her impassioned speech in a cool and measured tone.

"Mrs. Carstairs, I think you will agree with me that the person who was capable of carrying out such a gigantic piece of deceit, carrying it through to the extent of allowing an innocent person to be found guilty for her offence, must be capable of a good deal more in the way of hypocrisy. I don't say for certain that your maid has written these letters; I don't yet know enough to convict her, or anyone else; but I do say that if it were she who stood by and allowed you to suffer for her wickedness, well, she is fully capable of living with you on terms of apparently, the most respectful devotion—and hating you in her heart all the while."

"But why should she hate me?" Chloe's tone expressed an almost childish wonder; and Sir Richard, who had been watching her uneasily, rose from his seat and patted her shoulder reassuringly.

"There, there, don't distress yourself, my dear!" His tone was fatherly. "After all, we only want to clear up this mystery for your sake. I daresay Anstice would be quite willing to let the matter drop if he alone were concerned——"

"Ah! I had forgotten that!" She turned to him with contrition in her blue eyes. "Dr. Anstice, please forgive me! In my selfishness I was quite forgetting that you were a victim of this unknown person's spite! Of course the matter must be sifted to the very bottom; and if Tochatti is indeed guilty she must be punished."

"I think you are quite right, Chloe." Sir Richard spoke with unexpected decision. "For all our sakes the matter must be cleared up. You see"—he hesitated—"there are others to be considered besides ourselves."

"My husband, for one," said Chloe unexpectedly. "I heard from him this morning—he is back in England again now."

"Mrs. Carstairs"—Anstice, feeling desperately uncomfortable, broke into the conversation abruptly—"may I go upstairs and say good-night to Cherry? You know I got into serious trouble for not going up the last time I was here."

She turned to him, smiling.

"Of course you may, Dr. Anstice. I know Cherry would be heart-broken to hear you had gone without seeing her. You know the way?"

"Yes, thanks." He had grown familiar with the house during the weeks of Cherry's illness. "I won't stay long—and I'll not wake her if she's asleep."

She was not asleep, however; and her face lighted with pleasure as Anstice stole quietly in.

"Oh, do come in, my dear!" She sat up in bed, a quaint little figure with two thick brown plaits, tied with cherry-coloured ribbons, over her shoulders. "I'm just about fed up with this stupid old bed!"

She thumped her pillows resentfully; and Anstice, coming up, sat down beside her, and beat up the offending pillows with the mock professional touch which Cherry adored.

"That better, eh?"

"Rather!" She leaned back luxuriously. "Wasn't it a shame sending me to bed to-day? And I hadn't really done nothing!" The intensity of the speech called for the double negation.

"Well, I don't know what you call nothing," returned Anstice, smiling. "Apparently you'd given poor Tochatti a terrible fright——"

"Serve her right," said Cherry placidly. "She shouldn't have been so silly as to think any real person was dead. She might have known all the servants would have been howling on the doorstep then!"

The tone in which she made this remarkable statement was too much for Anstice's gravity; and he gave way to a fit of unrestrained laughter which mightily offended his small friend.

"I don't see anything to laugh at," she observed icily. "Seems to me people being dead ought to make you cry 'stead of laugh."

"Quite so, Cherry," returned Anstice, wiping his eyes ostentatiously. "But you see in this case there wasn't anybody dead—at least, so I understood from Mrs. Carstairs."

"Yes, there was, then," returned Cherry, still unforgiving. "I'd gone and killed my best-b'loved Lady Daimler"—christened from her mother's car—"on purpose to make a pretty death-bed for Tochatti—and then she simply flew into a temper—oh, a most dreadful temper, my dear!" At the thought of Tochatti's anger she forgave Anstice's lesser offence, and took him once more into her favour.

"That was too bad, especially as I'm sure Tochatti doesn't, often lose her temper with you," said Anstice with some guile; and Cherry looked at him gravely, without speaking.

"Not with me," she announced presently. "But Tochatti gets awful cross sometimes. She used to be fearful angry with Nurse Marg'ret. Where's Nurse Marg'ret now, my dear?"

"Don't know, Cherry. I suppose she is nursing someone else by this time. Why do you want to know?"

"'Cos I like Nurse Marg'ret," said Cherry seriously. "Tochatti didn't. She made a wax dollie of her once, and she only does that when she doesn't like peoples."

"A wax dollie?" Anstice was honestly puzzled. "My dear child, what do you mean?"

"She did," said Cherry stoutly. "She maded an image like what they have in their churches, because I saw her do it—out of a candle, and then she got a great long pin and stuck it in the gas and runned it into the little dollie." As Cherry grew excited her speech became slightly unintelligible. "And I know it was Nurse Marg'ret 'cos she wrote a great big 'M' on a bit of paper and pinned it on to show who it was meant for."

Her words made an instant and very unexpected impression on her hearer; not alone as a revelation of Tochatti's mediaeval fashion of revenging herself upon an unconscious rival—though this method of revenge was amazing in the twentieth century—but as a strangely apt confirmation of those doubts and suspicions which had been gathering round the Italian woman in Anstice's mind during the last few days.

If Cherry had spoken truly—and there was no reason to think the child was lying—then Tochatti's supposed inability to write was an error; and once that fact were proved it should not, surely, be difficult to unravel the mystery which had already caused so much unhappiness.

But first he must make sure.

"Tell me, Cherry"—he spoke lightly—"how did you see all this? Surely Tochatti didn't show you what she was doing?"

"No." For a second Cherry looked abashed; then her spirit returned to her and she spoke boldly. "It was one night when Nurse Marg'ret had gone to bed—she was awful tired, and Tochatti said she'd sit up with me ... and I was cross, 'cos I didn't want her, I wanted Nurse Marg'ret," said Cherry honestly, "so I wouldn't speak to her, though she tried ever so hard to make me, and she thought I'd gone to sleep, and I heard her say something in 'talian.... I 'spect it was something naughty, 'cos she sort of hissed it, like a nasty snake once did at me when I was a teeny baby in Injia," said Cherry lucidly, "and then she looked up to be sure I was asleep, so I shutted my eyes ever so tight, and then she made the wax dollie and I watched her do it." Wicked Cherry chuckled gleefully at the remembrance.

"But the letter 'M'—how do you know she wrote that?" Anstice put the question very quietly.

"'Cos she couldn't find nothin' to write with, so she crept into Nurse Marg'ret's room next through mine and came back with her pen—one of those things what has little ink-bottles inside them," said Cherry, referring, probably, to the nurse's beloved "Swan." "And I watched her ever so close, 'cos I wanted to see what she was going to do, and she wrote a big 'M' on a bit of paper and pinned it into the dollie——"

"Into?" For a moment Anstice was puzzled.

"Yes, 'cos you see the dollie was all soft and squeezy," explained Cherry obligingly, "and it hadn't got no clothes on to pin it to, so it had to go into the soft part of the dollie."

"I see. But"—Anstice was still puzzled—"why do you say the dollie was meant for Nurse Margaret? Mightn't it have been somebody else?"

"No—'cos when Tochatti hates anyone she makes wax dollies end sticks pins into them," returned Cherry calmly. "I know, 'cos she once told me about a girl she knew what wanted somebody to die, and she did that and the person died."

"Oh, my dear little Cherry, what nonsense!" Anstice, whose mother had been an Irishwoman, had heard of the superstition before, had even known an old crone in a little Irish cabin high up in the mountains who had, so it was said, practised the rite with success; but to hear the unholy gospel from Cherry's innocent lips was distinctly distasteful; and instinctively he tried to shake her faith in Tochatti's teaching.

"'Tisn't nonsense—at least I don't think so," said Cherry, rather dubiously. "Of course Nurse Marg'ret didn't die.... I don't think she even got ill—but p'raps Tochatti didn't stick the pins in far 'nuff."

"Well, I'm quite sure if she stuck in all the pins out of your cherry-tree pincushion it wouldn't affect Nurse Margaret or anybody else," said Anstice, putting his arm round her shoulders as he spoke. "And you really mustn't get such silly notions into your head, Cherry Ripe!"

"That's what Iris used to call me," said Cherry, burrowing her head contentedly into his neck. "I wish she was back, don't you, my dear? Somehow things don't seem half such fun without Iris—I can't think what she wanted to go and marry Uncle Bruce for, can you?"

"There are many things I can't understand, little Cherry," said Anstice with a smile whose sadness was hidden from the child. "But I agree with you that it was much nicer when Iris"—he might venture here to use the beloved little name—"was at home. But we can't always have the people we like with us, can we?"

"No—or I'd always have you, my dear," said Cherry with unexpected though rather sleepy affection; and as Anstice, touched by the words, kissed her upturned little face, her pretty brown eyes closed irresistibly.

"Good-night, Cherry! Pleasant dreams!" He laid her back deftly on her pillows and the child was asleep almost before he had time to reach the door.

But as he went back to the drawing-room, eager to tell Mrs. Carstairs and Sir Richard of the revelations so innocently made by Cherry, he wondered whether at last the mystery were really within reach of a solution.

Cherry's story, although fragmentary and confused, was sufficiently coherent to rank as evidence; and although he could hardly credit Tochatti with a genuine belief in the old superstition of the wax image he reminded himself she was half a Southerner; and that in some of the mediaeval Italian towns and cities superstitions still thrive, in spite of the teaching of the modern world.

And if Cherry's story were true——

"Out of the mouths of babes"—he murmured to himself as he went down the shallow oak stairs—"strange if, after all, the child should be the one to clear up the whole mysterious affair! At any rate, we are a step further on the way to elucidation; and from the bottom of my heart I hope Mrs. Carstairs may be righted at last!"

And with this aspiration on his lips he entered the drawing-room and related the substance of his unexpectedly profitable interview with the unsuspicious Cherry to an interested and enthralled audience of two.



CHAPTER VI

It did not take Anstice long to discover that the accusation against him—an accusation all the more difficult to refute because of the half-truth on which it was based—had been disseminated throughout Littlefield with a thoroughness which implied a determination on the part of the anonymous writer to leave no prominent resident in the neighbourhood in ignorance of Anstice's supposed cowardice on that bygone day in India.

He could not help noticing as he went here and there on his daily business that some of his patients looked askance at him, although they did their best to hide their new and rather disconcerting interest in him. So far as he knew, none of his patients forsook him for another and less notorious doctor, but he was keenly alive to the altered manner of some of those whom he attended, and although at present it was evident that he was not yet condemned—after all, no fair-minded person condemns another solely on the evidence of a tale-bearer who is ashamed to put his name to the stories he relates—yet Anstice felt with a quick galling of his pride that he was on probation, as it were, that those with whom he came in contact were considering what verdict they should pass upon him. And although his indifference to that verdict equalled Mrs. Carstairs' former indifference to the opinion of these same neighbours, his soul was seared with the thought that his unhappy story—or rather a garbled version of it—was common property among those men and women whom he had served faithfully to the best of his ability during the eighteen months he had spent in Littlefield.

On one thing he was fully determined. So soon as this mystery should be solved—and he fancied a solution was no longer impossible—he would leave the place, resign the position which had become tedious, unbearably tedious in its cramped monotony, and seek some other place, in England or abroad, where he might have leisure to pursue those studies in research which had been so ruthlessly cut short by his own most unhappy miscalculation.

True, he no longer cared for fame. The possibility of some renown crowning his toil no longer danced before his eyes with alluring promises. The part of him which had craved success, recognition, the youthful, vital part of him was dead, slain by the same bullet which had ended poor Hilda Ryder's happy life; and although he was beginning to look forward to a new and less cramped career than this which now shackled him, the joyous, optimistic anticipation of youth was sadly missing.

It was impossible that once at work the old interest in his subject might awake; but now he would work for the work's sake only, for the sake of the distraction it might afford him; and though through all his troubles he had preserved, at bottom, the quick humanity which had led him to choose medicine as his career, he was thinking less now of his old ambition to find a means of alleviation for one of the greatest ills of mankind than of the zest which the renewed study of the subject might restore to his own overshadowed life.

Yet although he was determined to turn his back as soon as he decently might on Littlefield and its people, with the perversity of mankind he was equally determined to see them brought to confusion before he left them—see them impelled to admit that in the case of Mrs. Carstairs they had been unjust, prejudiced, and, most galling of all, misled; and the question of his own vindication was only a secondary matter after all.

One day he heard, casually, that Major Carstairs was expected at Cherry Orchard, and when he entered his house at lunch-time he found a note from Chloe asking him to call upon her between tea and dinner and remain, if possible, for the latter meal. In any case she asked him to come for half an hour, at least, and he rang her up at once and fixed six o'clock for the time of his call upon her.

At six accordingly he entered the drawing-room, and found Major Carstairs in possession, as it were, standing on the hearth-rug with the air of a man at home in his own house. Before Anstice had time to wonder how this situation had arisen Chloe advanced, smiling, and held out her hand.

"Good-evening, Dr. Anstice. I think you and my husband have met already."

In these words she announced her cognizance of that meeting in Piccadilly a few days earlier, and Anstice acknowledged the supposition to be correct, relieved to see by her smile that she did not grudge his former secrecy.

"Yes, by Jove! Dr. Anstice came to the rescue or I'd have had a nasty fall on the pavement," said Major Carstairs genially. "And by the way, I declare I'm quite jealous of your supremacy with Cherry! She does nothing but talk of you, and I hear she infinitely prefers your car to her mother's!"

"Yes, Cherry and I are very good friends," said Anstice with a smile. "We had a slight difference last week because I wouldn't allow her to drive that same car; but Cherry is always amenable to reason, and when I pointed out to her that she had no licence, and might possibly be reported by some interfering police-constable and get us both into trouble she gave in like a lamb. By the way, Mrs. Carstairs, where is she to-night? Not in disgrace again, I hope?"

"No, she's as good as gold to-day because she is to sit up to dinner to-night," said Chloe, smiling—Anstice thought her smiles came more readily than usual this evening. "I believe she is making an elaborate toilette upstairs just now; and I admit I was glad to have her occupied, for I wanted, if you and my husband agree, to talk over the matters of the letters—and Tochatti."

For a second Anstice felt uncomfortable, but Major Carstairs probably noted his discomfort, for he turned to him with a sincerity there was no doubting.

"Look here, Dr. Anstice, you have been—luckily for us, if I may say so—mixed up in this most unsavoury affair, and from what my wife tells me I believe you are going to be the means of clearing it up—a consummation most devoutly to be wished."

Anstice's embarrassment vanished before the soldier's frankness.

"I only hope you may be right, Major Carstairs," he said, looking the other man squarely in the face. "Personally, since I intended to leave Littlefield before long in any case, these wretched slanders don't affect me much. The few friends I have made in this place are not likely to give credence to the rumour which has been spread broadcast in the last week or two—and for the rest——"

"I understand your indifference to the opinion of 'the rest,'" said Major Carstairs, smiling, "but I think it will be more satisfactory for all of us when the affair is really cleared up. But won't you sit down? Chloe tells me it is too late for tea—but you'll have a peg?"

"Not for me, thanks." Anstice was too intent on the matter in hand to turn to side issues. "If you don't mind giving me your opinion on the subject—do you think it possible that the woman Tochatti is the one to blame?"

"Well——" Major Carstairs sat down as he spoke, and since Chloe had already taken her accustomed seat in a corner of the big couch, Anstice followed their joint example. "Personally I have never been able to conquer a dislike, which I always put down as absolutely unjust and uncharitable, for the woman. I know she has served my wife faithfully, and her devotion to our little daughter has been beyond praise. But"—he smiled rather deprecatingly—"even ten years in India haven't apparently cured me of British insularity, and I have never liked foreigners—especially half-breeds such as Tochatti, Italian on one side, English on the other."

"Then you think it possible, at least, that she may be the culprit?"

"I do, quite possible. And I thank God from the bottom of my heart for the bare possibility," returned Major Carstairs deliberately, and his words and manner both served to assure Anstice that at last this man had been brought to believe, wholeheartedly, in his wife's innocence.

Anstice never knew, either then or afterwards, exactly how the miracle had come about. Indeed, so subtle are the workings of a man's heart, so complex and incomprehensible the thoughts and motives which touch a soul to finer issues, that it is quite possible Major Carstairs himself could not have told how or when he first began to realize that his judgment might well be at fault, that his own stern honesty and unflinching integrity, which would not permit him to subscribe outwardly to a belief which inwardly he did not hold, might after all have been stumbling-blocks in the way of true understanding rather than the righteous bulwarks which he had fancied them.

Probably the conviction that he had misjudged his wife had been stealing imperceptibly into Major Carstairs' mind during many lonely days spent on the Indian Frontier; and though he could never have stated with any degree of certainty the exact moment in which he understood, at last, that his wife, the woman he had married, the mother of his child, was incapable of the action which a censorious and unkind world had been ready to attribute to her, when once that conviction entered his honest, logical, if somewhat stubborn mind, it had found a home there for ever.

His chance meeting with Anstice, whose belief in Mrs. Carstairs was too genuine to be doubted for an instant, had come at an opportune moment, setting, as it were, the seal on his own changed judgment; and being essentially a man of honour, upright and just to a fault, he deemed it not only a duty but a privilege to come directly to his wife, and while asking her pardon for his unjustifiable suspicions, assure her of his firm determination to see her innocence made manifest before all the world.

* * * * *

Something of this Anstice guessed as he watched the interchange of glances between husband and wife on this bitter November evening, and he told himself that few women would have accepted their husband's tardy reparation as this woman had done. It did not need a magician to know that husband and wife were truly reunited, and though some might have been inclined to label Chloe Carstairs poor-spirited in that she had apparently forgiven her husband's mistrust so easily, Anstice told himself that Chloe was a woman in a thousand, that this very forgiveness and lack of any natural resentment showed the unalloyed fineness, the pure gold of her character, as nothing else could have done.

* * * * *

It was Chloe who broke the silence which followed Major Carstairs' last words, and as he looked at her Anstice was struck suddenly by the change in her appearance this evening. Where she had hitherto been cold, impassive, indifferent, now she was warm, glowing, responsive. In her pale cheeks was a most unusual wild-rose colour and her blue, almond-shaped eyes held a light which made them look like two beautiful sapphires shining in the sun.

When she spoke her rich, deep voice lost its undertone of melancholy, and rang joyously, with the soft beauty of a 'cello's lower notes.

"You see, Dr. Anstice, your faith in me—for which I have never attempted to thank you—is at last within measure of being justified!" She smiled happily. "And although Tochatti has served me faithfully she cannot be allowed to go on with this thing—if she be the one responsible. The question is, How is it to be brought home to her?"

Thus encouraged Anstice again outlined the plan he had formerly suggested—that a watch should be set during the night; but, as he had half expected, Chloe did not give it her unqualified approval.

"No, Dr. Anstice." She spoke too gently to cause him offence. "I don't think, honestly, I like the idea. Can't I speak openly, ask her quite plainly why she has done this thing—what perverted notion of—well, resentment she has against me which would lead her to act in this manner?"

To Anstice's relief Major Carstairs vetoed this plan, unhesitatingly.

"No, Chloe, that is an absolutely impossible suggestion! As Dr. Anstice says, guile must be met with guile, and the only way to catch this woman is to take her absolutely red-handed. And if, as you seem to think, she is likely to creep down in the night—well, it could do no harm to set a watch."

"There is one reason against that delightfully simple plan of yours," objected Chloe. "Tochatti would not be likely to write any more of these letters with you in the house, Leo. You see, it would be very serious for her if you encountered her at my writing-table in the night!"

Before Carstairs could reply Anstice spoke rather diffidently.

"I have just one suggestion to make, Major Carstairs. Am I right in supposing you are staying down here to-night?"

A fleeting embarrassment was visible on the faces of both Major Carstairs and his wife; but the former answered resolutely:

"Yes. I am certainly hoping to stay here."

"Well, if I might just make a suggestion, why not give out that you are returning to town to-night and coming down to stay to-morrow or the next day? Tochatti would probably, thinking this her last opportunity, make haste to seize it and write another letter or two—possibly the last—to-night."

"You mean give out that I am returning to town to-night; start, in fact, in reality, and come back later, when the house is quiet?"

"Yes," said Anstice, wondering what the soldier thought of his amateur strategy. "Then you—and anyone else you choose—could sit up here and wait events."

"I admire the simplicity of your plan, Dr. Anstice," returned Carstairs with an irrepressible laugh. "I've been called upon to exercise diplomacy at times myself, but I don't think I ever hit on anything more telling in the way of a plan than this charmingly simple one of yours!"

"You approve of it, then?" Anstice was in no wise offended by the other's mirth.

"Highly—it's just the plan to appeal to me," said Carstairs, still smiling infectiously; and Chloe rose from her couch and coming to his chair seated herself on the arm and rested her hand on his shoulder.

"I know why the plan appeals to you, Leo! It recalls your schoolboy days, when you pretended to go to bed and then stole out to skate by moonlight!"

"Hush, hush, Chloe! Never tell tales out of school," commanded the Major in mock alarm; but Anstice noticed how the man's brown fingers closed round his wife's hand, and suddenly he felt as though this spectacle of their reunion was too tantalizing to be pleasant to a sore heart like his own.

He rose rather abruptly, and both the others looked at him with a little surprise.

"You're not going, Anstice? Surely you'll stay to dinner? My little daughter will be sorely disappointed if you run away now!"

"Do stay, Dr. Anstice!" Chloe rose too, and her eyes, like two beautiful blue jewels, shone kindly into his. "Our scheme will have to be discussed further, won't it? We mustn't take the field with an ill-prepared plan, must we, Leo?"

"Indeed we must not," returned her husband quickly. "Especially as I was going to ask a very big favour of you. Dr. Anstice! Seeing how more than good you have been in interesting yourself in this affair, I have been wondering whether you wouldn't conceivably like to be in at the death, so to speak. In plain words, I was going to ask you if you would care to be my fellow-conspirator in this nefarious plot we have hatched between us!"

"You mean—will I sit up with you to-night?" Anstice spoke eagerly, and Chloe smiled.

"Well, you're not annoyed by the suggestion, anyway! I needn't say I should appreciate your company—though after all, it is a big thing to ask a man of your calling to sacrifice the rest he must need pretty badly!" He spoke rather dubiously.

"Oh, not a bit of it, Major Carstairs!" Anstice's eyes brightened at the thought of the adventure. "In a matter of this kind two witnesses are better than one; and there is always a chance that even a woman may turn nasty when she finds herself cornered—especially one who is half a foreigner," he added with a smile.