The tutor expressed considerable discomfort at this new complication, and regarded the document in the banker’s hand as if it were an infernal machine.
“It’s private, you say. Would it not be better to regard it as such?”
“I think it should be seen. If you prefer I will submit it to Mr Pottinger.”
This settled the business. The tutor stretched out his hand for the letter. It was dated from on board the ship “Cyclops,” off Havana, ten years ago, and, by the unsteady character of the handwriting, which rendered some words almost illegible, had evidently been written in a high sea. Mr Armstrong could scarcely help smiling at the banker’s naïve suggestion as to the use of the document as evidence of handwriting.
The note was as follows:—
“Dear Mr Morris,—I write to you in strictest confidence. My father probably has given me up for dead. I hope so. On no account must he know that I have written to you. My object is to enclose a twenty-five dollar note which I owe him. Once, before we quarrelled, he lent me five pounds. I want to pay it back without any one knowing of it, because I’m determined not to owe anything to anybody, especially to one who has told me I’m not honest. Please put it into his bank account. He probably will never notice it; anyhow, please, whatever you do, don’t tell him or any one alive where it came from, or that you ever heard a word from me or of me. I trust you as a gentleman.
“Yours truly,—
“Roger Ingleton.”
“Well, sir,” said the banker, who had watched the reading curiously, “does it not seem an important letter?”
“I think so. It appears to be genuine, too, on the face of it. If you will allow me I should like my ward to see it. It will interest him.”
The tutor was not wrong. With this strange missive in his hand all Roger’s yearnings towards his lost brother returned in full force. The object of his search seemed suddenly to stand within measurable reach. Ten years appeared nothing beside the twenty which only a few months back had divided them. If he could but postpone his majority another year! Then came the miserable doubt about Ratman. If, after all, his unlikely, discredited story should prove to have a grain of truth at the bottom of it! But he dismissed the doubt for the hope.
“Armstrong, I must go to town to find out about the ‘Cyclops.’ Come with me, there’s a good fellow. In three weeks it will be too late.”