The flush on Roger’s face had died down into pallor by the time he reached the end of this savage yet dismal letter. Till he came to the postscript he had reckoned on demanding Armstrong’s advice as to its contents. Now, somehow, his hands seemed tied. Here was a man, claiming to be his brother, practically placing his life in his hands. Whether the story were true or false, the writer had calculated astutely on the quixotic temper of his correspondent. The appeal, insultingly as it was made, was one which Roger Ingleton, minor, could not resist.
“I have had a letter from Ratman,” said he when the two friends were alone together.
“I am not surprised,” said the tutor. “He wants money, of course?”
“I can’t show you the letter, simply because it contains a vague clue as to his whereabouts, which you would feel bound to follow up.”
“I undoubtedly should,” said Mr Armstrong. “Shall not you?”
“No. He gives it in confidence, in the hope I shall send him money. I don’t intend to do that, but it would hardly be fair to use this letter against him.”
“He is Captain Oliphant’s murderer.”
“He denies it, and once more calls himself my brother.”
The tutor shrugged his shoulders.
“As you please. Burn the letter. It probably does not tell more than the police know already.”