Bransby checked him—not unkindly—he sensed something of what it must have cost him, this unanswered affection; he knew Stephen’s nature ran deep and keen—but he spoke decidedly, feeling, too, that there was something callous, almost something of treachery, in a brother who could hint at hope so quick on a brother’s ruin, and Helen’s heart newly hurt and raw. “Put it out of your mind, Stephen. Helen will never change; least of all now. The women of our family are constant forever. Now we must act—you and I. We must arrange that there shall be no scandal about Hugh’s disappearance. We must protect his name—on Helen’s account—and the firm’s. About his commission—almost I regret saying he must throw it up. It might—it might have been the way out. Have you any idea where he is?”
“None.”
“Well—then—we must act at once. Already I’ve let a day slip—I—I’m not well—I said I’d attend to it. We’ll attend to it now. I don’t think there’ll be any trouble about that. Oh! he ought to have written his resignation, though, before he went. My fault—my fault. However, I’ll do it now. No! I can’t.” He held out the hand with the Chinese curio in it. The hand was trembling so that the jade thing winked and rainbowed in the light of the fire. “You must write it. That will do. Sit there and do it now. Make it brief and formal as possible. I’ll go to town to-morrow and see his Colonel myself, if necessary—Latham willing or no.”
Stephen crossed to the writing-table thoughtfully. He began to write—Bransby walking about still carrying the paper-weight absent-mindedly—and thinking aloud as he moved. “His leave isn’t up for another three days. Yes—I think that gives us time. Yes—we’ll get into touch with his Colonel to-morrow and find out just how to proceed. I hope I shan’t have to tell the real reason.”
“Will this do?” Pryde had finished, and passed his uncle the sheet.
Bransby glanced at it carelessly at first. “Yes, yes.” He held it towards Pryde—then something prompted—a strong impulse—he drew it back, looked at it, then he fell to studying it. A terrible change passed over his face. He gazed at the paper in amazement, then looked in horror from it to the man who had written it—then back at the note, crimson flooding his neck, a gray shadow darkening his rigid face. He raised his haggard eyes and stared at Stephen thunderstruck.
Stephen felt the fierce eyes, and looked up. “Why—why—what is it, sir?”
But even as he spoke Stephen Pryde knew—as Bransby himself had learned in a flash—one of those terrible forked flashes of illumination that come to most of us once in life.
Bransby answered slowly, coldly, carefully. “You have signed Hugh’s name to this, and it is Hugh’s handwriting. If I didn’t know otherwise, I would have sworn he wrote it himself.”
Stephen lost his head. His hand shook, and his tongue. “That’s odd,” he stammered with a sick laugh, “I—I didn’t realize.” He put his hand out for the letter—Bransby drew it back, looking him relentlessly in the eyes. The brain that had made and controlled one of the greatest businesses ever launched, and complicated in its immense ramifications, was working now at lightning speed, rapier-sharp, sledge hammer in force, quick, clear and sure.