My dear Anne Beddingfeld,
I can’t resist writing to you, not so much for the pleasure it gives me to write, as for the enormous pleasure I know it will give you to hear from me. Our friend Race wasn’t quite as clever as he thought himself, was he?
I think I shall appoint you my literary executor. I’m sending you my diary. There’s nothing in it that would interest Race and his crowd, but I fancy that there are passages in it which may amuse you. Make use of it in any way you like. I suggest an article for the Daily Budget, “Criminals I have met.” I only stipulate that I shall be the central figure.
By this time I have no doubt that you are no longer Anne Beddingfeld, but Lady Eardsley, queening it in Park Lane. I should just like to say that I bear you no malice whatever. It is hard, of course, to have to begin all over again at my time of life, but, entre nous, I had a little reserve fund carefully put aside for such a contingency. It has come in very usefully and I am getting together a nice little connection. By the way, if you ever come across that funny friend of yours, Arthur Minks, just tell him that I haven’t forgotten him, will you? That will give him a nasty jar.
On the whole I think I have displayed a most Christian and forgiving spirit. Even to Pagett. I happened to hear that he—or rather Mrs. Pagett—had brought a sixth child into the world the other day. England will be entirely populated by Pagetts soon. I sent the child a silver mug, and, on a post card, declared my willingness to act as god-father. I can see Pagett taking both mug and post card straight to Scotland Yard without a smile on his face!
Bless you, liquid eyes. Some day you will see what a mistake you have made in not marrying me.
Yours ever,
Eustace Pedler.
Harry was furious. It is the one point on which he and I do not see eye to eye. To him, Sir Eustace was the man who tried to murder me and whom he regards as responsible for the death of his friend. Sir Eustace’s attempts on my life have always puzzled me. They are not in the picture, so to speak. For I am sure that he always had a genuinely kindly feeling towards me.
Then why did he twice attempt to take my life? Harry says “because he’s a damned scoundrel,” and seems to think that settles the matter. Suzanne was more discriminating. I talked it over with her, and she put it down to a “fear complex.” Suzanne goes in rather for psycho-analysis. She pointed out to me that Sir Eustace’s whole life was actuated by a desire to be safe and comfortable. He had an acute sense of self-preservation. And the murder of Nadina removed certain inhibitions. His actions did not represent the state of his feeling towards me, but were the result of his acute fears for his own safety. I think Suzanne is right. As for Nadina, she was the kind of woman who deserved to die. Men do all sorts of questionable things in order to get rich, but women shouldn’t pretend to be in love when they aren’t for ulterior motives.