A woman's debt

by William Le Queux

He said this with a very good show of concern, although he was certain he had not fired that shot at random. Mrs. Morrice’s avowal that she had been half ruined, and that it could not go on, had convinced him that her assistance to young Brookes had not been confined to a few hundreds out of her annual allowance—these would have gone no way with such a determined prodigal.

For the first time in his life, Rupert Morrice’s proud head drooped in deep humiliation. It was terribly degrading to him to listen to the detective’s merciless recital, to know that the treachery of the woman who bore his name, to whom he had given an honoured and assured position, was, as it were, the common property of others.

“Alas,” he said, in a voice from which every trace of anger had fled, which only expressed feelings of the most unutterable sadness. “Your suspicions have been fully justified. From whence did you get all this information that enabled you to make such an accurate diagnosis of what was happening?”

But Lane was very staunch, and as high-minded as a man could be in the trying circumstances of such a profession. He would certainly not give Rosabelle away, for if he did Morrice would be sure to think she should have come to her uncle first and discussed with him the propriety of going to Lane at all. He had in a manner rather stolen a march upon her, but she should not suffer.

“You must excuse me, Mr. Morrice, if I am unable to answer that very natural question. I always like to be as frank as possible with my clients, but there are times when, from motives perfectly satisfactory to myself, I am unable to reveal the means by which I obtain our information.”

Morrice made no reply. He would have dearly loved to know, but he was fair-minded enough to appreciate the detective’s excuse. Probably he had obtained his knowledge from some prying servant in the house who had kept a close watch upon his wife. Lane was not the man to despise the assistance of any instrument, however humble. Not for one moment did it occur to Morrice that his niece was implicated in the matter.

“And now, Mr. Morrice, I don’t wish to ask you more than I can help, for I can fully understand how you must be suffering, and how painful it must be for you to talk over these things with a stranger. But you say that my suspicions are confirmed—in short, you have made your investigations and found what I surmised, that a considerable number of jewels have been realized, and imitations put in their place. Am I right in saying that it means a large sum?”

“Several thousands of pounds, even taking into account the depreciated price which could be obtained for them,” was Morrice’s answer.

“I guessed it. But I doubt if it has all gone into the pockets of young Brookes. Mind you, I have no actual evidence of what I am going to say—it is, if you like, absolute theory—but Sir George is in this game and has engineered it from the beginning. They are in this together, depend upon it. Which gets the better share I cannot say; I should fancy the older and more experienced rogue.”

“I daresay you are right,” said Morrice wearily. “We know him to be a rogue from his being a party to this nephew fraud. And yet he poses as a rich man, although Mrs. Morrice has more than once dropped a hint that he is fast dissipating his money at the gaming-table.”