"I should like to keep your father's letter, sir. As a form of receipt, sir. When you settle I'll return it. If—if anything should happen to—to you, sir, where would I be?"
Beaumont-Greene's temper showed itself.
"You all talk as if I was on my death-bed," he said.
The tailor stared. Others, then, had suggested to this large, unwholesome youth the possibility of premature decease.
"Not at all, sir, but we do live in the valley of shadders. My wife's step-father, as fine and hearty a specimen as you'd wish to see, sir, was taken only last month; at breakfast, too, as he was chipping his third egg."
Beaumont-Greene said loftily, "Blow your wife's step-father and his third egg. Here's the letter."
He flung down the letter and marched out of the shop. The tradesman looked at him, shaking his head. "He'll never come back," he muttered. "I know his sort too well." Then, business happening to be slack, he re-read the letter before putting it away. Then he whistled softly and read it for the third time, frowning and biting his lips. The "Beaumont-Greene" in the signature and on the envelope did not look to be written by the same hand.
"There's something fishy here," muttered the tradesman. "I must show this to Amelia."
It was his habit to consult his wife in emergencies. The chief cutter and two assistants said that Amelia was the power behind the throne. Amelia read the letter, listened to what her husband had to say, stared hard at the envelope, and delivered herself—
"The hand that wrote the envelope never wrote the letter, that's plain—to me. Now, William, you've got me and the children to think of. This may mean the loss of our business, and worse, too. You put on your hat and go straight to the Manor. Mr. Warde's a gentleman, and I don't think he'll let me and the children suffer for your foolishness. Don't you wait another minute."