“What are you to say? Why, you don’t want me to write a love-letter to my own wife—it’s more in your line than mine; but make it pretty sweet, for I don’t know but that the old plan isn’t best after all.”
Smythe had written love-letters to other men’s wives before, but never under similar circumstances, with the husband witnessing the performance with a loaded revolver in his hand, nor had he ever made such a very expensive present. It was some time before he could pull himself together sufficiently to write, and one or two attempts were condemned by his severe critic, who said,—
“No, that sort of slush ain’t good enough. Put a little more sugar in it. Why, damn it, man, I thought you were so good at it!”
At last the right sort of note was written. “That will do. Here, what do you think of it, Jen?” said the Captain, passing the note across to his partner.
“Why, I think it a dear little note; it’s a beautiful note; the prettiest note I ever got. What a darling man you are to give me such a present, and yet what a wicked wretch you are to write like that to me!” and Mrs Hamilton looked at her correspondent, who was regarding her with no very loving glance, and then burst into a peal of silvery laughter.
The Captain seemed to take up the joke. “Why, hang it, man,” he said, “but you’re a generous big-hearted fellow. There are some men who wouldn’t care about their wives taking presents from such a gay cuss as you, but I know you mean no harm, old fellow;” and the Captain gave him a slap on the back with his unoccupied hand, which made him start with terror. “No,” he continued, as his visitor made as if he was going, “you sha’n’t go yet. Stop and drink, stop and drink,” he repeated, with a warning gesture with his revolver.
Mr Smythe sat down at this pressing invitation, and took one or two glasses of brandy-and-water. He felt that his nerve was altogether gone, and that he was obliged to obey the other. At last Hamilton let him go, and opening the door for him, took a noisy leave of him, that the neighbours must have heard; and then he lurched home in such a state of brandy and shock that he could hardly realise his loss before he tumbled into bed.
The next morning he did not wake up until it was late, past ten o’clock, and then he, by degrees, remembered the events of the night before. “Was it a dream?” he thought; and he went to his safe, and found out that it was no dream—the diamonds were not there! What could he do to get his diamonds back? was his first thought. He could think of nothing, for he remembered the letters he had written, and already it was too late to stop the cheque, for he knew it would have been presented as soon as the bank opened. Then he began to think that the best thing he could do would be to keep his sorrows to himself, for no one would believe his story; and the people who lived next door to the Hamiltons would have heard Captain Hamilton let him out of his house, and would never believe that anything of the sort had happened to him that evening. So Mr Smythe did nothing, and he was not surprised that evening to hear that among the passengers by the coach to Capetown were his friends the Hamiltons.
He never saw them again, nor did he wish to. They were last seen, some time ago, in Paris. Hamilton was the same stolid, heavy-dragoon looking man, and Jenny Hamilton was as young and charming-looking as ever; and they seemed to be very prosperous, so they probably did well with Smythe’s diamonds.