A woman's debt

by William Le Queux

In the meantime, while Lane was preparing his coup, Rupert Morrice had been stealthily pursuing his line of investigation.

A passionate man by nature, he had experienced the greatest difficulty in restraining himself on his return from the jeweller who had told him that the supposed “birthday” necklace was a worthless imitation. When his wife returned about five o’clock unconscious of the tragic happenings during her brief absence, his first impulse was to follow her up to her room, tell her what he had learned and wring from her a confession.

But he held himself in by a great exercise of self-control. He wanted more evidence, he wished to make sure if this was an isolated instance or one of a series of similar transactions.

As it happened, fortune was adverse to the wrong-doer, and in the banker’s favour. Mrs. Morrice’s friend was very unwell, and the lady drove down to her on the two following days to cheer her up, leaving early in the morning and returning about the same time in the afternoon. As on the previous occasion, the maid was given a holiday during the few hours of her mistress’s absence.

The coast therefore was quite clear for Morrice, and he took advantage of his unique opportunities with grim determination. Rosabelle alone in the house had an idea that something was going on from noting the fact that she met him in the hall on one of the mornings, carrying a small bag and wearing a very grim expression, as if he were engaged on some urgent but disagreeable business.

In all he took some ten very valuable pieces of jewellery to the same man for examination. The result in each case was similar, they were all cleverly executed imitations of the original gifts he had presented to her. That was enough for him. She had a pretty large collection, and it might be that a great many of them were not substitutes; that she had not so far made use of them for her secret purposes. On those of which he was quite certain from the expert’s evidence, he reckoned that, even selling at a greatly depreciated price, she must have realized several thousands of pounds.

On the afternoon of the third day he was pacing his room about five o’clock like a caged lion, feverishly awaiting his wife’s return, waiting to confront her with the anonymous letter, and reveal to her his verification of the charges it contained.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck five, the quarter, and the half-hour. His face grew darker and darker, as the tide of his righteous wrath swelled. Six o’clock struck, and no sign of Mrs. Morrice. Then ten minutes later a telegram was brought to him which after reading he cast angrily on the floor. It explained that her friend was very unwell, that she was stopping the night at her house, and would return home at lunch time to-morrow.

The storm could not burst to-day on the devoted head of the woman who had played so foolishly with her husband’s trust in her. The unexpected delay incensed further the unfortunate financier, against whom of late fate seemed to have a special grudge.

Rosabelle came in while he was fuming, to ask him for a small cheque in anticipation of her quarter’s allowance. So preoccupied was he with his bitter thoughts of the gross way in which he had been deceived that he wrote the cheque like a man in a dream, and the girl noticed that his hand trembled. When he looked up to give it to her, she saw that his face was as black as night.