“Froissart paid. He paid again, and then a third time. He was not a man of much backbone, or of strong mentality. When the blackguard to whom he had already paid thousands came to him again for a further sum, Froissart, believing that he must in the end be reduced to beggary through the man’s extortions, went down to Bournemouth and threw himself off the cliff.
“The night before he had written a number of letters at his club—the Junior Carlton. One of those letters was addressed to me—I was his medical adviser. In it he told me everything, and directly I had read the letter I burnt it, as he wished me to do. This is the first time I have revealed his secret, and it is the last time I shall speak of it. I have revealed it to you that it may serve as a warning of what may happen if ever you are so unwise as to pay hush money to anybody. Froissart had mentioned the name of his persecutor, and with some trouble I got the man arrested and convicted. He is in penal servitude to-day, and will be for some years.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE TIGHTENING GRIP.
Doctor Johnson’s optimism and words of encouragement set Cora’s mind at rest to some extent, but she still felt anxious. She did not expect to be back in England for several weeks, and Johnson had told her that he intended to remain in Jersey about the same length of time. What, she asked herself, would happen meanwhile if she ignored the anonymous letter, as he advised? True, he had pointed out that the writer of the letter could have no desire to ruin her good name, and that she threatened only in order to terrorize her into paying the money. If she did not reply in the Morning Post, her persecutor would, he had assured her, write her another letter before taking any action. Indeed, he had declared that she would probably receive several letters before the writer attempted to carry out her threat.
“And remember,” he had ended, “the more letters you get, and the more they threaten, the more evidence you possess to help to convict the villainess when she is arrested. Give her as much rope as possible, then strike hard and suddenly.”
They had wandered a considerable way along the sea wall, which runs beside the coast, one evening some days later, when Johnson happened to remark:
“Whom do you think I ran across in the gardens at the Pomme d’Or, Mrs. Hartsilver? Why, the young journalist, Harry Hopford. He was in high spirits, as he generally is, and told me he had been here several days, spending his holiday. When I mentioned that you were here too, he became quite excited, and said he ‘did hope’ he would have the pleasure of seeing you again. He is meeting me at the Pomme d’Or to-night. Won’t you join us? It is a Bohemian little place, but I can call for you, and I think you will be amused.”
But Cora explained it would be impossible, as the friends with whom she was staying were giving a dinner party, she said, from which she could not well absent herself.
“I only wish I could come,” she added with sincerity. “It would amuse me more than meeting a lot of people I don’t know, and have no particular wish to know. And I should like to see Mr. Hopford again, too. He has always been so kind.”