"The letter!" Rupert looked up surprised. "What letter?"
Mrs. Beatson fumbled in her breast, and pulling out a torn envelope threw it across the room into Hendle's lap. "I got that this morning," she declared in sullen tones, "and acted as it advised. As there is no name to it, I don't know who wrote it. Don't let Mr. Carrington get it; I trust you, sir, not him."
Rupert picked up the envelope and examined it, while the barrister looked over his shoulder. It was directed to "Mrs. Beatson, The Big House, Barship, Essex," and had evidently, judging from the postmark, been sent through the General Post Office of the metropolis. Having ascertained this, the young man took out a double sheet of tolerably good notepaper, upon which in a backward sloping hand probably disguised, were written a few lines, to which no signature was appended. These intimated abruptly that the will of John Hendle was to be found buried at the foot of the sundial in the vicarage garden, and that Mrs. Beatson could find it by searching. While the two men read and reread this anonymous letter, the housekeeper went rambling on.
"I intended at first to keep it, and show Mr. Mallien when he returned. But then I thought--not trusting him--that if I had the will I could hold it until he gave me a deed making safe the annuity I wanted. For that reason I took advantage of your dining at the cottage, Mr. Hendle, to go and get it. I knew that the sundial was hidden among the grasses and shrubs of the vicarage garden, so there was no difficulty in finding the place mentioned. I did not think that you would return early from the dinner, and so left the thing until it was too late. I dug up the will easily, as it was only a little way under ground and the earth was piled loosely over it. Then I came out and stopped at the gate to make sure that it was the will I had found."
"A silly thing to do, seeing that Kensit on his rounds might have caught you," said Carrington, returning to his seat. "Now how much of this tale are we to believe?"
"The whole of it," retorted Mrs. Beatson, distinctly amazed. "It's the truth."
"Hum!" said Carrington reflectively, "it may be; but did you not send that letter from yourself to yourself?"
"Me!" Mrs. Beatson's voice leaped an octave.
"Hush! hush!" said Hendle, hurriedly glancing at the door. "You'll bring in the servants. I need hardly tell you that it is best to thresh out this matter among the three of us."
Thus warned, the housekeeper sank her voice, and took refuge in angry tears, always a woman's last resource. "I'm so tired of being insulted," she sobbed loudly. "Ever since you came across me, Mr. Hendle, that friend of yours has been taking away my character."