“Veritas.”
“A man’s handwriting,” Hewitt commented; “fairly well formed, but shaky. The writer is not in first-rate health—each line totters away in a downward slope at the end. I shouldn’t be surprised to hear that the gentleman drank. Postmark, Hampstead; posted this afternoon also. But the striking thing is the paper and envelope. They are each of exactly the same kind and size as those of the other letter. The paper also is a half sheet, and torn off on the same side as the other; confirmation of my suspicion that the object is to get rid of the printed address. I shall be surprised if both these were not written in the same house. That looks like a traitor in the enemy’s camp; the question is, which is the traitor?” Hewitt regarded the letters intently for a few seconds and then proceeded. “Plainly,” he said, “if these letters are written by people who know anything about the matter, one writer is lying. The woman promises that the child shall be returned without reward or search, and talks generally as if the taking away of the child, or the estrayal, or whatever it was, were a very virtuous sort of proceeding. The man says plainly that the child has been stolen, with no attempt to gloss the matter, and asserts that nothing will get the child back but heavy blackmail—a very different story. On the other hand, can there be any concerted design in these two letters? Are they intended, each from its own side, to play up to a certain result?” Hewitt paused and thought. Then he asked suddenly: “Do you recognise anything familiar either in the handwriting or the stationery of these letters?”
“No, nothing.”
“Very well,” Hewitt said, “we will come to closer quarters with the blackmailer, I think. You needn’t commit yourself to paying anything, of course.”
“But, Mr. Hewitt, I will gladly pay or do anything. The hundred pounds is nothing. I will pay it gladly if I can only get my child.”
“Well, well, we shall see. The man may not be able to do what he offers, after all, but that we will test. It is too late now for an advertisement in to-morrow morning’s Standard, but there is the Evening Standard—he may even mean that—and the next morning’s. I will have an advertisement inserted in both, inviting this man to make an appointment, and prove the genuineness of his offer; that will fetch him if he wants the money, and can do anything for it. Have you nothing else to tell me?”
“Nothing. But have you ascertained nothing yourself? Don’t say I’ve to pass another night in such dreadful suspense!”
“I’m afraid, Mrs. Seton, I must ask you to be patient a little longer. I have ascertained something, but it has not carried me far as yet. Remember that if there is anything at all in these anonymous letters (and I think there is) the child is at any rate safe, and to be found one way or another. Both agree in that.” This he said mainly to comfort his client, for in fact he had learned very little. His news from the City as to Mr. Seton’s early history had been but meagre. He was known as a successful speculator, and that was almost all. There was an indefinite notion that he had been married once before, but nothing more.
All the next day Hewitt did nothing in the case. Another affair, a previous engagement, kept him hard at work in his office all day, and indeed had this not been the case he could have done little. His City inquiries were still in progress, and he awaited, moreover, a reply to the advertisement. But at about half-past seven in the evening this telegram arrived—
Child returned. Come at once.—Seton.