The Lost Heir

by G. A. Henty

"My Dear Miss Covington: My man has taken a step which I should certainly have forbidden, had he told me beforehand of his intention. He watched the man go out, and then, having previously provided himself with instruments for picking locks, he opened the door and went in. On the table were several heavy ledgers and account books, all bearing the names of tradesmen in the neighborhood, with several files of accounts, bills, and invoices. These fully bore out what the woman had told him. Besides the chairs, table, and safe, the only other articles of furniture in the room were an office washing stand and a large closet. In the latter were a dress suit and boots, and a suit of fashionable walking clothes, so that it is evident that he often changed there instead of going home. I am sorry to say that all this throws no further light upon the man's pursuits, and had it not been for Simcoe's visit to him, it would be safe to say that he is a hard-working accountant, in a somewhat humble, but perhaps well-paying line; that he is a trifle eccentric in his habits, and prefers living a cheap, solitary life at home, while spending his money freely in the character of a man about town in the evening. I cannot say that the prospect in this direction seems hopeful. I have told my man that for the present we shall not require his services further."

"It does not seem very satisfactory, certainly," Hilda said with a sigh; "I am afraid that we shall have to keep on watching Simcoe. I wish I could peep into his room as this detective did into that of the Pentonville man."

"I don't suppose that you would find anything there, Hilda; he is not the sort of man to keep a memorandum book, jotting down all his own doings."

"No," Hilda said with a laugh; "still, one always thinks that one can find something."

Had Hilda Covington had her wish and looked into John Simcoe's room that morning, she would certainly have derived some satisfaction from the sight. He had finished his breakfast before opening a letter that lay beside him.

"What a plague the old woman is with her letters! I told her that I hated correspondence, but she persists in writing every month or so, though she never gets any reply except, 'My dear Aunt: Thanks for your letter. I am glad to hear that you are well.—Your affectionate nephew.' Well, I suppose I must read it through."

He glanced over the first page, but on turning to the second his eye became arrested, and he read carefully, frowning deeply as he did so. Then he turned back and read it again. The passage was as follows:

"I had quite an interesting little episode a day or two after I last wrote. A young lady—she said her name was Barcum, and that she was an artist—came in and asked if I would take her in as a lodger. She was a total stranger to the place, and had come down for her health, and said that some tradesman had recommended her to come here, saying that, as a single lady, I might be glad to accommodate her. Of course I told her that I did not take lodgers. She got up to go, when she nearly fainted, and I could not do less than offer her a cup of tea. Then we got very chatty, and as I saw that she was really too weak to go about town looking for lodgings, I invited her to stay a day or two with me, she being quite a lady and a very pleasant-spoken one. She accepted, and a pleasanter companion I never had. Naturally I mentioned your name, and told her what adventures you had gone through, and how kind you were. She was greatly interested, and often asked questions about you, and I do think that she almost fell in love with you from my description. She left suddenly on receipt of a letter that called her up to town, saying that she would return; but I have not heard from her since, and I am greatly afraid that the poor child must be seriously ill. She was a pretty and intelligent-looking girl, with dark eyes and hair, and I should say that when in good health she must be very bright. Of course, she may have changed her mind about coming down. I am sure she would have written if she had been well."

"Confound the old gossip!" John Simcoe said angrily, as he threw the letter down. "I wonder what this means, and who this girl can be? It is clear enough that, whoever she is, she was sent down there to make inquiries about me. It is that girl Covington's doing, I have no doubt, though it was not the minx herself, for the description does not tally at all. She has light brown hair and grayish sort of eyes. There is one comfort, she would learn nothing to my disadvantage from the old woman, nor, I believe, from anyone at Stowmarket. In fact, she would only get more and more confirmation of my story. I have no fear upon that score, but the thing shows how that girl is working on my track. As for the lawyer, he is an old fool; and if it hadn't been for her I would bet a hundred to one that he would never have entertained any suspicion that all was not right. It is her doing all through, and this is a piece of it. Of course she could have no suspicion that I was not John Simcoe, but I suppose she wanted to learn if there was any dark spot in my history—whether I had ever been suspected of robbing a bank, or had been expelled from school for thieving, or something of that sort. I begin to be downright afraid of her. She had a way of looking through me, when I was telling my best stories to the General, that always put me out. She disliked me from the first, though I am sure I tried in every way to be pleasant to her. I felt from the day I first saw her that she was an enemy, and that if any trouble ever did come it would be through her. I have no doubt she is moving heaven and earth to find Walter; but that she will never do, for Harrison is as true as steel, and he is the only man who could put them on the right track. Moreover, I have as much pull over him as he has over me. He has never had a doubt about my being John Simcoe; he doesn't know about the other affair, but only that Walter stood between me and the estate, and he was quite ready to lend me a hand to manage to get him out of the way. So in that business he is in it as deep as I am, while I know of a score of schemes he has been engaged in, any one of which would send him abroad for life. I expect those inquiries were made at Stowmarket to endeavor to find out whether any child had been sent down there. If so, Miss Covington is not so sharp as I took her to be. Stowmarket would be the very last place where a man, having relations and friends there, would send a child whom he wished to keep concealed. Still it is annoying, confoundedly annoying; and it shows that these people, that is to say Hilda Covington, are pushing their inquiries in every direction, likely or unlikely.