The question of motive, however, was a more complicated one. Why should this woman seek to injure her mistress in the first place, and having done her an irrevocable wrong—always supposing Tochatti to be the culprit—why should she seek now to bring dishonour on a man who had never, to his knowledge, done her any harm?
The thing seemed, on the face of it, absurd; yet somehow Anstice could not relinquish his very strong notion that Tochatti was in reality at the bottom of the business, and on the Sunday following his visit to Mr. Clive he walked over to Greengates to discuss the matter with Sir Richard Wayne.
Sir Richard was almost pathetically pleased to see his visitor, for he missed his pretty daughter sorely, and he welcomed Anstice cordially on this foggy November afternoon.
Over their cigars in Sir Richard's cosy sanctum Anstice gave him an outline of his visit to the handwriting expert and the conclusions to be drawn therefrom—a narrative to which Sir Richard listened with close attention; and when Anstice had finished his story the older man took up the subject briskly.
"You really think this woman may be implicated? Of course, as you say, she would have opportunities for tampering with Mrs. Carstairs' belongings; but still—the question of motive——"
"I quite realize that difficulty, Sir Richard. But I confess to a very strong feeling of distrust for the woman since visiting Clive. He suggested almost at once that the writer was a foreigner, and Tochatti is about the only foreign, or half-foreign, person in Littlefield, I should say."
"Quite so." Sir Richard leaned back in his chair and placed his finger-tips together in a judicial attitude. "Well, let us consider the question of motive a little more fully. If the writer really were Tochatti, we must suppose her to be actuated by some strong feeling. The question is, what feeling would be sufficiently strong to drive her to a deed of this nature?"
He paused; but Anstice, having no suggestion to make, kept silence, and Sir Richard went on with his speech.
"Generally speaking, in the character of a woman of a Southern nature, we find one or two strongly-marked attributes. One is a capacity for love, equalled only by a capacity for hatred. Of course Tochatti is only half Italian, but personally I distrust what we may call half-breeds even more than the real thing. You know the old proverb, 'An Englishman Italianate He is a devil incarnate'—and I believe there is some truth in the words."
"I share your distrust for half-breeds," said Anstice fervently. "And in this case, although she speaks excellent English as a rule, it always seems to me that Tochatti is more than half Italian. Do you agree with me?"