A woman's debt

by William Le Queux

She was so broken down and unnerved that she almost tottered through the door which Lane held open for her. While she was absent he kept a sharp look-out on the hall from force of habit. But he was quite sure she would not attempt to run away. What was the use of flight? It would only supply additional evidence, if further were needed, of her guilt.

At the end of half an hour she returned, a little more composed than when she went away, the two old friends had had a long talk together.

“Sit down, Mr. Lane. I will sign any confession you like to draw up, on the understanding that it is shown only to the persons actually interested. I will answer truthfully any question you like to put to me, and give you all the details of my life since I left the village of Brinkstone.”

CHAPTER XXV
MRS. MORRICE’S CONFESSION

And this was the story told by Mrs. Morrice, as she sat facing Lane in the small but elegantly-furnished room of her friend Alma Buckley’s flat. She told it throughout in a low voice which now and then broke down, indicating that she was on the verge of tears. For the most part it flowed forth in a continuous narrative, but now and then she paused to answer some question, to give fuller details of some incident, at the detective’s request. She informed him at the beginning that although Miss Buckley knew much—she did not know everything—that she was ignorant of the robberies.

Lane thought better of the music-hall artist after that. From the readiness to tell a lie, he had judged her to be a fairly unscrupulous woman, with full knowledge of her friend’s criminal acts, probably drawing a handsome share of the proceeds. It was evident that she drew the line at actual lawbreaking.

Lettice Larchester and her father had gone straight to London after leaving Brinkstone, and established themselves in some cheap lodgings in the Fulham district. Larchester had left the quiet little village for more than one reason. For one thing he had grown tired of it, had become weary of the ignorant people who frequented the bar of the Brinkstone Arms, his visits to which constituted his sole social recreation. Then the inspiration which he first derived from the charming scenery around had waned in its intensity, and stimulated him no longer. He was also rather weary of working continually at the one theme of landscape, and trusted that by moving to London he might break fresh ground amongst dealers and infuse variety into his rather monotonous art.

This hope was not realized to any considerable extent. For the first three months he displayed a certain feverish activity both in the business and the artistic side of his calling, with decidedly beneficial results to his exchequer. He was fairly moderate in his use of alcohol; out of every payment he received for a picture he put a small proportion in the Savings Bank for “a rainy day” as he announced with importance to his hopeful daughter, who really began to believe he had made up his mind to turn over a new leaf.

Alas, at the end of those three comparatively bright months, the old deterioration set in, the old dissolute habits once again assumed mastery of his relaxed will power. He had long bouts of intemperance, during which he could not do a stroke of work. By degrees the small savings were withdrawn from the bank to pay rent and purchase the bare necessities of life.

Then came the sudden death of old Mr. Buckley, and the arrival in London of his daughter Alma. The girls had corresponded occasionally, and the first thing Alma did when she reached London was to visit her old friend. The acquaintance which had been so close in the country soon ripened again, and this time into a life-long friendship. With her father now beyond hope of salvation drifting rapidly downward, this companionship was a great consolation to Miss Larchester. Old Buckley had left more money behind him than people would have expected, and every penny had gone to the daughter. It was, of course, only a very modest competence, but it removed the girl for ever from any fear of poverty so long as she did not touch the capital, which being a very level-headed young woman she was never tempted to do. She was a very kind friend to the Larchesters—helping them often in their hours of need, which grew more and more frequent, as the artist’s powers of self-control waxed weaker and his capacity for work declined in consequence.