The shadow of the Wolf

by R. Austin Freeman

“You know of no reason for supposing that he has gone away for good?”

“Lord bless you, no,” replied Levy. “The first I heard of anything unusual was when old Penfield came round to ask if he had been to the office. Of course he hadn’t, but I gave Penfield his address at Oulton and I wrote to Oulton myself. Then it turned out that he hadn’t gone to Oulton after all. I admit that it is queer he hasn’t written, seeing how methodical he usually is; but there is nothing to make a fuss about. Purcell isn’t the sort of man to go off on a jaunt that would involve his dropping money; I can tell you that.”

“And meanwhile his absence is not causing any embarrassment in a business sense?”

Mr. Levy rose with a somewhat foxy smile. “Do I look embarrassed?” he asked. “Try me. I should like to do a bit of business with you. No? Well, then, I will wish you good morning and good luck; and don’t worry too much about the lost sheep. He is very well able to take care of himself.” He shook hands once more with undiminished cordiality and personally escorted Thorndyke out on to the landing.

There was one other matter that had to be looked into. Mr. Varney’s rather vague report of the voyage from Falmouth to Ipswich required to be brought into the region of ascertained fact. Accordingly, from Purcell’s office Thorndyke took his way to Lloyd’s, where a brief investigation put him in possession of the name and address of the owner of the steamship Hedwig of Hernosand. With this in his note-book he turned homeward to the Temple with the immediate purpose of writing to the owner and the captain of the ship asking for a list of the passengers from Falmouth and of those who disembarked at Ipswich and further giving a description of Purcell in case he should have travelled, as was highly probable, under an assumed name.

With these particulars it would be possible at least to attempt to trace the missing man, while, if it should turn out that Varney had been misinformed, the trouble and expense of a search in the wrong place would be avoided.

Chapter VI.
In Which Mr. Varney Prepares a Deception

Varney’s domestic arrangements were of the simplest. Unlike the majority of those who engage in dishonest transactions, he was frugal, thrifty and content with little. Of what he earned, honestly or otherwise, he saved as much as he could; and now that he was free of the parasite who had clung to him for so long and had a future to look forward to, he was more than ever encouraged to live providently well within his modest means. For residence he occupied a couple of furnished rooms in Ampthill Square, Camden Town, but he spent little of his time in them, for he had a little studio in a quiet turning off the High Street, which he held on lease and which contained his few household goods and formed his actual home. Thither he usually repaired as soon as he had breakfasted, buying a newspaper on the way and sitting in the Windsor armchair by the gas fire—alight or not, according to the season—to smoke his morning pipe and glance over the news before beginning work. Following his usual custom, on a bright, sunny morning near the end of October, he arrived at the studio with a copy of the Times under his arm, and, letting himself in with his latch-key, laid the paper on the work-bench, hung up his hat and put a match to the gas fire. Then, having drawn the chair up to the fire, he drew forth his pipe and pouch and sauntered over to the bench, where he stood, filling his pipe and gazing absently at the bench whereon the paper lay while his thoughts travelled along a well-worn, if somewhat vague track into a pleasant and tranquil future. Not for him alone was that future pleasant and tranquil. It held another figure—a sweet and gracious figure that lived in all his countless day-dreams. She should be happy, too, freed, like himself, from that bloated parasite who had fastened upon her. Indeed, she was free now, if only she could be made to know it.

Again, for the thousandth time, he wondered, did she care for him? It was impossible to guess. She seemed always pleased to see him; she was warmly appreciative of his attentiveness and his efforts to help her, and her manner towards him was cordial and friendly. There was no doubt that she liked him; and what more could he ask until such time as the veil should be lifted and her freedom revealed to her? For Maggie Purcell was not only a pure-minded and innocent woman; she was the very soul of loyalty, even to the surly brute who had intruded unbidden into her life. And for this Varney loved her the more. But it left his question unanswered and unanswerable. For while her husband lived—in her belief—no thought of love for any other could be consciously admitted to that loyal heart.

He had filled his pipe, had taken a match-box from his pocket and was in the act of striking a match when, in an instant, his movement was arrested and he stood rigid and still with the match poised in his hand and his eyes fixed on the newspaper. But no longer absently; for his wandering glance, travelling unheedingly over the printed page, had lighted by chance upon the name Purcell, printed in small capitals. For a few moments he stood with his eyes riveted on the familiar name; then he picked up the paper and read eagerly.