“Only this, sir,” I said. “The man—his tutor—Delane——”
“Yes?”
“Did you ever see him?”
“No. I was on circuit at the time. He was engaged by my sister, Lady Thorold, in answer to an advertisement.”
“And Lady Thorold is dead too?”
“Yes.”
Seeing I did not answer, he added voluntarily after a moment:
“Delane was the last to—to see and speak with my boy. They had parted on the hillside, and Charlie went on alone—a reckless fellow: always a reckless fellow. The man himself I never saw or spoke to. His depositions were sent me by Lady Thorold, who represented me out there. I was too ill to go myself. When I did, Delane had disappeared beyond tracing—not that I could have any object in wishing to see him, beyond a morbid sickness to dwell upon things best accepted and forgotten. They had been on the best of terms, as I understood, and Lady Thorold was struck with his genuine grief over the catastrophe. What makes you curious about him, Gaskett?”
What, indeed? This man in sympathy with grief and stricken hearts! this abject cur a disinterested mourner! What made me curious? How could I answer? It had been hardly in expectation of learning anything to Delane’s discredit. Scoundrels, to the simplest understanding, do not prevail by making a boast of their characteristic qualities. Yet I had been curious; and how to explain myself without self-committal was the difficulty. I sorrowed for this unsuspecting faith; I sorrowed for the wretched woman, whose sin, long past and long repented, was threatening to engulf in ruin all that it had sinned to gain. And yet, for some incalculable reason, I felt myself destined to be the minister of that Nemesis, whether to launch or withhold, to baffle or direct, I could not tell. But a sense of unrealised, indefinite power drove me on. I dwelt a little on my answer before I spoke.
“I am curious, sir. I will tell you the truth. I found a letter—or part of a letter—in this book last night. It was written by your son—apparently to Mr Thesiger himself—and there were some references in it to Mr Delane. They set me speculating, that’s all. I will beg you, sir, not to ask me to show you the letter—not just at present anyhow. I don’t fancy, from what I can gather, that the man was altogether what you supposed him to be. But I would rather pursue my inquiries independently; I would rather bring down my quarry before boasting of my skill.”