"...so wonderful in the next few days that I can keep straight always after this the way you want me to, darling, and you and I can go out west where the air is fine or into the Adirondacks or anywhere you like, dearest sister, and you'll never have to work any..." Then there was a blot and a tear.
Most important of all was a postscript in the upper corner that read, "Remember, please, to address me as Hester Storm, not as Jenny Regan."
Horatio read and reread this with absorbed interest. He turned it this way and that, squinted at it, sniffed at it, rubbed his glasses, and tugged at his thin side whiskers, the total result being that his excitement and astonishment were presently at fever heat as he realized that he was on the verge of a momentous discovery. Ordinarily his conscience would have pricked the gentle curate at reading a letter not meant for his eyes, but this was an exceptional case, a matter to be immediately investigated for the common good. It was a critical moment. He was on the track of something serious, possibly a crime, and his mind buzzed with the possibilities held by this scrap of paper. What would a great detective do with such a clue? What would Horatio Merle do with it?
Tingling with a growing sense of his importance, the little man studied the paper again with a penetrating frown. An extraordinary document! A fascinating puzzle! To "pull off something" was, he knew, a locution familiar in the United States, and meaning to "make a coup" or to carry through a purpose; this he had gathered from his reading of adventure stories in the cheap magazines. So something was to be "pulled off!" Something involving "thousands of dollars!" Something that had delayed a sailing to America and brought to Ippingford this unfortunate girl, Jenny Regan, alias Hester Storm, on some desperate errand involving a rich reward. There was her plain statement, "You'll never have to work again!" How simple she must have thought him that day at the golf course! A gullible fool, believing every word she told him! It was pitiful!
And straightway Horatio resolved that in the present emergency, he would act a sterner part; he would be hard as adamant and would push this investigation through to a relentless finish. That was clearly his duty in view of the peril to which he had exposed the dwellers at Ipping House. This girl must be baffled in her wicked purpose, and, having sinned, she must now suffer.
But there was need of caution; he must have his facts well in hand before making any accusation or showing any suspicion; in short, he must dissemble—detectives invariably did dissemble, and already Horatio felt himself a detective. He had the analytical mind and intuitive insight, he knew it, always had known it, and, although these qualities had hitherto lain dormant, he would use them now, and by one supreme effort, he would not only make amends for past remissness and render a signal service to the Baxter household, but he would give himself the exhilarating joy of running down a real criminal.
His first step was evidently to learn from An Petronia where and when she had found this important fragment, so he went straight to the lodge and inquired for his little friend. Mrs. Pottle informed him, with a shrug of displeasure, that the child was playing somewhere about the grounds, and, after a careful search, the curate found her in the sunken gardens giving a spelling lesson to a forlorn wooden dolly sprawling on a marble bench. An Petronia was delighted to recover the missing page from her novel. Her memory about it was perfectly distinct. She had picked it out of the fireplace in the new lady's room at the lodge. The new lady being Hester Storm? Yes, Hester Storm. Was An Petronia accustomed to use scraps of paper out of fireplaces for her novel? Well, yes; because she had no other paper. Besides, this was such a pretty shade. Didn't Daddy Merle think so? Daddy Merle shrewdly agreed that it was a pretty shade, a beautiful shade. Did An Petronia think the new lady had any more paper like this? Oh, yes, a whole box full. Indeed! Was Hester at the lodge now? No, she was at the big house sewing. Oh! Well, would An Petronia mind, for a very particular reason, a secret—going to Hester's room and getting a sheet of this pretty paper, just one sheet?
At this suggestion the child opened her blue eyes and her sweet, red lips in wide astonishment, but being assured by Daddy Merle (who must know) that it was all right, she danced happily away, while the curate followed on, not quite reconciled to this necessity of setting his eager little friend to pilfering. Still he saw the value as evidence of a sheet of paper from the sewing girl's room, and when the youthful novelist presently returned with the desired article (the paper was obviously identical), the good man merely patted the golden red curls with a solemn warning that not a word of their secret be breathed to the new lady. And he borrowed overnight the incriminating page from An Petronia's romance.
The next thing was to have a talk with Hester Storm herself, and here Horatio saw the importance of clever management. An experienced detective would draw from the girl, without arousing her suspicion, as much damaging testimony as possible, and then, having involved her in a network of lies, he would turn suddenly and overwhelm her with the evidence of her own written words. That would be the method, the curate felt sure, of M. Lecoq or Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and, with a sigh of regret, he resigned himself to the painful necessity of following their example. He disliked exceedingly resorting to subterfuge and—er—dissimulation; but there was no choice, the thing must be done and—very well, he would do it. He would be firm, he would be relentless, he would immediately find out what it was that his unworthy protégée was trying to "pull off."
Merle's first move was to exercise his patience for an hour and a half, strolling about among the shrubs and beeches, watching for the appearance of Hester Storm. He knew the girl would come forth presently from the manor, after her task, and he planned to intercept her on her way to the lodge. A detective must always be ready to wait, so Horatio waited.