“Yes; he went often to see his father—so he told me—an actor who gave lessons. I never saw Monsieur le père.”
“How long did he stay with you?”
“Callow? For five years he served me well. Then there was a fracas, a quarrel; I remember it now. An English officer was here, and played with him, and was beaten. ’Twas the only time I ever knew Callow win a game; but he lost his temper this time, and won. Then Milord called him a cheat, and without a word Monsieur Callow knocked him down. The police came, and Monsieur Callow knocked him down. Then he put on his hat and walked, and I never saw him more. He always said he would go to sea, and I think he would keep his word. Ah, a telegram! ’Tis long since telegrams came to my hotel. Hélas! not for me; for you, Monsieur.”
It was from Armstrong.
“Shall be with you, ten to-morrow morning.”
The three weeks which had passed at Maxfield had been terrible.
The discovery of Captain Oliphant’s body at the foot of the cliff, with the clear traces of a struggle on the brink above, had created a profound sensation at Maxfield and the country round.
For a day the air was full of wild conjectures of suicide, incident, foul play; until the last-named theory was finally confirmed by the discovery in the tightly-clenched hand of the dead man of a fragment of a promissory note bearing the signature of Robert Ratman.
To the tutor, as he held the paper in his hand, everything became startlingly clear. This was the last act of a tragedy which had been going on for months; and now that the curtain had abruptly fallen, he could not help, in the midst of this horror, owning to a sense of thankfulness, for the sake of others, that the troubled career of his rival and enemy had stopped short at a point beyond which nothing but disgrace and scandal and misery awaited it.
From that disgrace it was his business now, by every means in his power, to shield the innocent brother and sisters who still honoured the dead man as their father.