“That’s true! They keep five maids indoors, and a charwoman three times a week, two men and a boy in the garden, and two men in the stables,” glibly enumerated Miss Jane. “All that is not done on small means, and I happen to know that Mr. Shafto himself paid everything monthly—which is more than we can say for his wife; even her bridge losses”; here she halted on the brink of scandal.
After hesitating for a second, Mrs. Billing continued:
“Well, it appears, from what my husband can gather, that Mr. Shafto trusted all his money and investments to a man who had managed his affairs for years, and in whom he had the most absolute confidence; he just drew his income regularly, lived his quiet life, and never troubled his head about business. It seems that for a considerable time this agent had been speculating with his clients’ capital, and paying them the interest to the day. He staved off the reckoning by every possible device, and when he could no longer hide his wickedness, when liabilities poured in, and proceedings were instituted, he shot himself! Not much comfort in that for the families he has beggared. I believe he had a splendid establishment at Hampstead; greenhouses, pictures, motor-cars, and entertained like a prince. He squandered the handsome fortune that was left to Mr. Shafto, and all that Mr. Shafto could be sure of, about a hundred and fifty pounds a year, belongs to Douglas.”
“Oh, my dear, never mind the money, but do tell us about poor Mr. Shafto,” urged Jane. “What was the cause of his death? Suicide? This morning I thought I heard a shot!”
“No, no, no—heart failure,” hastily interposed Mrs. Billing. “He was always troubled with a rickety heart, and on several occasions my husband attended him for rather dangerous fainting attacks; no doubt that was partly the reason why he lived so quietly, just taken up with his books, his garden, and, when he was at home, his boy. It appears that when Mr. Shafto heard of the smash, he went straight up to London, interviewed a lawyer, and learnt the worst. He returned in the afternoon, very tired and excited, broke the news to his wife, and had a serious fainting attack. My husband was sent for, but he found Mr. Shafto sinking. He died at midnight. He himself had wired for Douglas, who arrived just in time for the end. Poor boy! He feels it terribly.”
“Yes,” assented Miss Mitty, “Douglas and his father were such friends. The loss of money will make a sad difference to him. There will be no going into the Army now, no more hunting and cricket; he will have to take a clerkship. Did you see him?”
“Yes. He and my Freddy are great pals, so I know him pretty well. I declare he gave me a shock, he looked utterly heart-broken; and he said: ‘It is so sudden, so frightfully sudden—about the pater; the money may come back somehow or other, but he is gone for ever; I’ll never see him again. If he had only known me—or spoken to me!’ And then he just laid his head upon his arms and sobbed like a girl.”
“And Mrs. Shafto, how does she bear this double loss?” inquired Miss Jane magisterially.
“She had one fit of screaming hysterics after another. If you ask me, I believe it’s the money that touches her most keenly; my husband begged me to go up this morning, and see if I could do anything. She has no intimate friends here, and I have sent to Mrs. Boomer and Mrs. Jake; they will be over from Bricklands immediately. The doctor has given a certificate, and has undertaken to see about the funeral, and sent the notice to the Times and Morning Post. From what old Hannah told me, it seems that Mr. Shafto and his family were not on terms; I believe the quarrel had something to do”—she paused and glanced from one to the other of her eager listeners—“with Mrs. Shafto, and I am not surprised. They did not approve of the marriage—it was a mistake.”
“I’m afraid it was,” agreed Miss Mitty briskly; “they never appeared a well-matched couple; he, so reserved and aristocratic, and she such a gabbling, fluffy, restless creature—crazy about bridge and dress. I wonder who she was?”