The shadow of the Wolf

by R. Austin Freeman

Now Mr. Penfield was, as we have said, a man of irreproachable character. But he was a very secretive and rather casuistical old gentleman, and his regard for Margaret had led him to apply his casuistry to the present case; pretending to himself that his discovery of the illicit blanks came within the category of “clients’ secrets” which he need not divulge. But in his heart he knew that he was conniving at a felony; that he ought to give information to the police or to the Bank, and that he wasn’t going to. His plan was to get hold of Purcell, make him destroy the blanks in his presence, and deliver such a warning as would put a stop to the forgeries.

But if he did not propose to give Purcell away, neither did he intend to give himself away. He would share his compromising secret with no one—especially with a lady. And this consideration raised the difficult question, What on earth was he to say to Margaret Purcell when she arrived? A question which he was still debating with her telegram spread out before him and his silver snuff-box in his hand when a clerk entered his private office to announce the unwelcome visitor.

Fortifying himself with a pinch of snuff, he rose and advanced towards the door to receive her, and as she entered he made a quick mental note of her anxious and troubled expression.

“How do you do, Mrs. Purcell?” said he, with a ceremonious bow. “You have had a long journey and rather an early one. How very unfortunate that this business, to which you refer in your telegram, should have arisen while you were on holiday so far away.”

“You have guessed what the business is, I suppose,” said Margaret.

Mr. Penfield smiled deprecatingly. “We lawyers,” said he, “are not much addicted to guessing, especially when definite information is available. Pray be seated; and now,” he continued, as Margaret subsided into the clients’ chair and he resumed his own, resting his elbows on the arms and placing his finger-tips together, “let us hear what this new and important business is.”

“It is about that mysterious letter that you had from my husband,” said Margaret.

“Dear, dear,” said Mr. Penfield. “What a pity that you should have taken this long journey for such a trifling affair; and I thought I gave you all the particulars.”

“You didn’t mention whom the letter was from.”

“For several excellent reasons,” replied Mr. Penfield, checking them off on his fingers. “First, I don’t know; second, it is not my business; third, your husband, whose business it is, does know. My object in writing to you was to get into touch with him so that I could hand back to him this letter which should never have come into my possession. Shall I take down his address now?”