Replacing these documents in a safe inner pocket in the lining of my waistcoat, I went into our room and woke up Anscombe who was sleeping soundly, a fact that caused an unreasonable irritation in my mind. When at length he was thoroughly aroused I said to him—
“You are in luck’s way, my friend. Marnham is dead.”
“Oh! poor Heda,” he exclaimed, “she loved him. It will half break her heart.”
“If it breaks half of her heart,” I replied, “it will mend the other half, for now her filial affection can’t force her to marry Rodd, and that is where you are in luck’s way.”
Then I told him all the story.
“Was he murdered or did he commit suicide?” he asked when I had finished.
“I don’t know, and to tell you the truth I don’t want to know; nor will you if you are wise, unless knowledge is forced upon you. It is enough that he is dead, and for his daughter’s sake the less the circumstances of his end are examined into the better.”
“Poor Heda!” he said again, “who will tell her? I can’t. You found him, Allan.”
“I expected that job would be my share of the business, Anscombe. Well, the sooner it is over the better. Now dress yourself and come on to the stoep.”
Then I left him and next minute met Heda’s fat, half-breed maid, a stupid but good sort of a woman who was called Kaatje, emerging from her mistress’s room with a jug, to fetch hot water, I suppose.