“You see you can't let your dear brother go to a felon's doom—and your legitimate brother, too, my dear Sylvester,” said Usher, smacking his lips at each word. Then he rose and buttoned his frock-coat and went out of the room, chuckling quietly.
Presently Sylvester roused himself with a great shuddering sigh.
“Oh, God!” he said, and moved a step or two towards the fire.
There was a knock at the door and a servant entered, bearing a letter on a tray.
“Miss Lanyon said I was to give you this at once, sir.”
He took it, found the envelope was addressed to himself in his father's handwriting. He did not notice that the ink on the envelope was wet, nor that the enclosure had been written some time previously.
“I, Matthew Lanyon,” it ran, “of Woodlands, Ayresford, hereby declare that I drew a cheque for £3,000, dated the 10th December, 189-, in favour of Roderick Charles Usher, Esq., of 13 Queen's Park Mansions, London, S. W.” The document was signed by him, and the signature was witnessed by Agatha Lanyon and Mary Evans, the nurse.
Like a man in a dream, Sylvester crossed to a little desk by the window, that once had been his mother's, and wrote out a telegram; then a letter with which he enclosed his father's statement. Both he addressed to his solicitor. The gardener was summoned and despatched to the post-office. When he had gone, Sylvester was scarcely conscious of his action. Roderick's fate was of small account compared with the doom that had fallen upon himself.
But an hour afterwards Roderick was driving through the London streets, a free man.