Varney regarded it with deep satisfaction. He was about to put it aside to dry, before he should rub out the tracing-marks, when it occurred to him that Purcell would almost certainly have marked it “confidential” or “personal.” It was, in fact, rather desirable that this missive should be opened by Penfield himself. The fewer hands it passed through the better; and then, of course, it was not worth while to let any of the clerks into the secret of Purcell’s disappearance. Accordingly, with the original letter still before him, he wrote at the top of the envelope, in bold and rather large characters, the word “Personal.” That ought to make it safe.
He put the envelope aside and began to think out the text of the letter that he was going to write. As he did so, his eye rested gloatingly on the work that he had done, and done to such a perfect finish. It was really a masterpiece of deception. Even a Post Office sorter would have been taken in by it. He took it up and again regarded it admiringly. Then he began to consider whether “Confidential” would not have been better than “Personal.” It was certainly most desirable that this letter should not be opened even by the chief clerk; for it would let the cat out of the bag rather completely. He held the envelope irresolutely for a full minute, turning the question over. Finally he picked up the pen, and, laying the envelope before him, turned the full stop into an “and” and followed this with the word “Confidential.” There was not as much space as he would have liked, and in his anxiety to preserve the character of the handwriting while compressing the letters the tail of the final l strayed on to the edge of the stamp, which to his critical eye looked, a little untidy; but that was of no consequence, in fact it was rather an additional realistic touch.
He now set to work upon the letter itself. It was to be but a short letter and it took him only a few minutes to draft out the matter in pencil. Then, spreading Purcell’s letter before him, he studied it word by word and letter by letter. When he had got the character of the writing well into his mind, he took a sheet of note-paper, and, with a well-sharpened H pencil, made a very careful copy of his draft, constantly referring to Purcell’s original and even making tracings of important words and of the signature. Having compared the lightly pencilled copy with Purcell’s letter and made one or two corrections, he picked up the pen and traced over the pencil writing with the sureness and steadiness that his training as an engraver made possible.
The letter being finished with a perfect facsimile of the signature, he made a final comparison of the handwriting with Purcell’s, and, finding it beyond criticism, read through the letter again, speculating on Mr. Penfield’s probable proceedings when he received it. The text of the letter ran thus:
“Dear Mr. Penfield:
“I have just seen your advertisement in The Times and am writing to let you know that circumstances render it impossible for me to call on you, and for the same reason I am unable to give you my present address. If there is anything connected with the Catford business that you wish me to know, perhaps you could put it briefly in another advertisement to which I could reply if necessary. Sorry to give you this trouble.
“Yours sincerely,
“Daniel Purcell.”
Laying down the letter Varney once more turned to the envelope. First, with a piece of artist’s soft rubber he removed the pencil marks of the tracing. Then, placing the envelope on a sheet of blotting paper, he carefully traced over the post-marks with an agate tracing-style, following the two concentric circles of each with their enclosed letters and figures with minute accuracy and pressing somewhat firmly. The result was that each of the two post-marks was visibly indented, as if made by a sharply-struck marking-stamp. It only remained to erase the pencil marks from the letter, to place it in the envelope and close the latter; and, when this was done, Varney rose and having once more lit his pipe, began to replace the materials in the cupboard, where also he bestowed the letter for the present.
He was in the act of closing the cupboard door when his glance fell on a small deed-box on the top shelf. He looked at it thoughtfully for a few moments, then lifted it down, placed it on the table and unlocked it. The contents were three paper packets, each sealed with his ring-seal, He broke the seals of all three and opened the packets. Two of them contained engraved copper plates, of a twenty-pound and a five-pound note respectively. The third packet contained a sheaf of paper blanks. Varney took out the latter and counted them, holding each one up to the light to examine the water-mark. There were twelve of them, all five-pound notes. He laid them down and cogitated profoundly; and unconsciously his eyes turned to the etching press at the end of the bench. A few minutes’ work, a smear of ink and a turn of the press, would convert those blanks into actual notes, so good that they could be passed with perfect safety. Twelve fives; sixty pounds—it was handsome pay for half an hour’s work; and five-pound notes were so easy to get rid of.
It was a severe temptation to a comparatively poor man whose ethical standards were none of the highest. Prosperous as he now thought himself, with the growing demand for his etchings, sixty pounds represented the product of nearly two months’ legitimate work. It was a great temptation. There were the blanks, all ready for the magic change. It seemed a pity to waste them. There were only a dozen, and, there would be no more. This would really be the end of the lay. After this he could go straight and live a perfectly reputable life.
The gambler’s lure, the attraction of easily-won wealth, was beginning to take effect. He had actually picked up the five-pound plate and was moving towards the bench when something in his mind brought him suddenly to a stop. In that moment there had risen before his mental vision the sweet and gracious figure of Margaret Purcell. Instantly his feelings underwent a revulsion. That which, but a minute ago, had seemed natural and reasonable now looked unspeakably sordid and base. No compulsion now urged him on unwillingly to crime. It would be his own choice—the choice of mere greed. Was it for this that he had set her and himself free? Could he stand in her presence and cherish thoughts of honourable love with this mean crime—committed of his own free will—on his conscience? Assuredly not. The very corpse of Purcell cried out from its dark tomb beneath the Wolf on this voluntary resumption of the chains which he had broken at the cost of murder.
Once more he turned towards the bench, but now with a different purpose. Hurriedly, as if fearful of another backsliding, he caught up a large graver and drove its point across the plate from corner to corner, ploughing up the copper in a deep score. That finished the matter. Never again could that plate be printed from. But he did not leave it at that. With a shaving scraper he pared off the surface of the plate until the engraving on it was totally obliterated. He fetched the other plate and treated it in a similar manner. Then he flung both plates into a porcelain dish and filled it with strong nitric acid mordant. Finally, as the malodorous, red fumes began to rise from the dish, he took up the sheaf of blanks and held them in the flame of the gas stove. When the last blackened fragments had fallen to the earth, he drew a deep breath. Now at last he was free. Really free. Free even from the peril of his own weakness.