A woman's debt

by William Le Queux

Morrice’s face went very white. “You have satisfied yourself that there is no flaw in your evidence—that it is quite reliable?”

“Unquestionably,” was the detective’s answer. “My evidence with regard to your wife is her father’s statement made frequently in the hearing of several persons. As to Sir George’s brother, a colleague of mine in Australia made exhaustive inquiries on my behalf and found that Archibald Brookes senior had never married. I have also got further evidence from an old friend of mine at Scotland Yard who has had Sir George and his supposed nephew under observation for some time; that the young man was brought up under the charge of a woman named Alma Buckley, a not very prominent member of the music-hall profession, up to the period when Sir George adopted him and put about this story. Further, that at the time of his adoption young Archie Brookes was occupying an insignificant commercial post in the city of London. Of course, you know nothing of all this?”

The words were not put in the form of a question, but rather conveyed the assumption that it was impossible the financier could have any knowledge of such a gross deception.

But they brought to the surface at once that fiery temper which up to the present he had kept in check.

“What do you take me for, sir? My greatest enemy can never say of me that I have been guilty of a mean or dishonourable action. Do you think for a moment, from any motives whatever, even from a desire to shield one so closely related to me, I would be a party to such a shameful fraud?”

Lane hastened to pour oil on the troubled waters. “Pardon me, Mr. Morrice, I did not hint at such a thing. I said that, as a matter of course, you knew nothing about it.”

“It was almost unnecessary that you should say even as much as that,” growled Morrice, only half appeased. His mind was quick enough when he chose to exercise it. This man had been rendered suspicious and distrustful of everybody by his calling, and the sinister secrets he discovered in the pursuit of it. He had half suspected, or at any rate thought it within the bounds of possibility, that Morrice might have some inkling of what had been going on, and he had chosen this way of provoking a definite disclaimer.

“There are other things it is my duty to tell you,” went on the detective smoothly; he was not going to take any further notice of that angry outburst. “For some long time past Mrs. Morrice has been in the habit of supplying the young man with money. I cannot estimate the amount that has passed into his hands, but judging from his extravagant habits, I should say it must be a considerable sum, much more than the lady could afford if she were to maintain her position as the wife of a wealthy man.”

A lightning inspiration came to the unfortunate financier. “Am I not right in saying that you sent me an anonymous letter on this very subject?”

Lane felt it was useless to prevaricate. “I did. I may be wrong, but I felt it was the best way to set you on the track. I thought it would be very painful for you to be warned in a more open and direct way. I trust that the suspicion I threw out was not justified.”