“But how do you account for these telegrams and letters?”
Mr. Sycamore positively tittered. “That’s for Mr. Grimes to explain.”
“And he is alive—and unhurt?”
“As fresh as paint; and quite happy.”
“Then if ever a little boy deserved a whipping, a thoroughly good whipping,” cried Lady Charlotte, “it is Master Peter Stubland! Safe, indeed! It’s outrageous! After all I have gone through! Unwin!”
Unwin handed the salts.
Mr. Sycamore stood up. He still had the essence of his business to communicate, but there was something in the great lady’s blue eyes that made him want to stand up. And that little tussock of fair hair on her cheek—in some indescribable way it had become fierce.
“To think,” said Lady Charlotte, “that I have been put to all this unutterable worry and distress—”
She was at a loss for words. Mr. Sycamore appreciated the fact that if he had anything more to say to her he must communicate it before the storm burst. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, and began to deliver his message with just the faintest quality of hurry in his delivery.
“The real business upon which I came to you today, Lady Charlotte, has really nothing to do with this—escapade at all. It is something else. Things have arisen that alter the outlook for those children very considerably. There is every reason to suppose that neither you nor the Misses Stubland are properly guardians of Joan and Peter at all. No. One moment more, Lady Charlotte; let me explain. Two young Germans, it would appear, witnessed the accident to the boat from the top of the Capri headland. They saw Mr. Stubland apparently wrestling with the boatman, then the boat overset and the two men never reappeared. They must have dragged each other down. The witnesses are quite certain about that. But Mrs. Stubland, poor young lady, could be seen swimming for quite a long time; she swam nearly half-way to land before she gave in, although the water was very choppy indeed. I made enquiries when I was in Naples this spring, and I do not think there would be much trouble in producing those witnesses still. They were part of the—what shall I call it?—social circle of that man Krupp, the gunmaker. He lived at Capri. If we accept this story, then, Lady Charlotte, Mrs. Stubland’s will holds good, and her husband’s does not, and Mr. Oswald Sydenham becomes the sole guardian of the children....”