I walked towards the window, which looked out upon a small flower garden, and in so doing, passed the writing table. A sheet of foolscap lay upon it, and curiosity prompted me to glance at it.
What I saw puzzled me considerably; for beside the paper was a letter of my own that I had sent him on the previous day, while upon the foolscap were many lines of writing in excellent imitation of my own!
He had been practising the peculiarities of my own handwriting. But with what purpose was a profound mystery.
I was bending over, closely examining the words and noting how carefully they had been traced in imitation, when, of a sudden, I heard a voice in the drawing-room adjoining—a woman’s voice.
I pricked my ears and listened—for the eccentric old fellow to entertain was most unusual. He always hated women, because he saw too much of their wiles and wilfulness as patients.
Nevertheless it was apparent that he had a lady visitor in the adjoining room, and a moment later it was equally apparent that they were not on the most friendly terms; for, of a sudden, the voice sounded again quite distinctly—raised in a cry of horror, as though at some sudden and terrible discovery.
“Ah! I see—I see it all now!” shrieked the unknown woman. “You have deceived me! Coward! You call yourself a man—you, who would sell a woman’s soul to the devil!”
“Hold your tongue!” cried a gruff voice which I recognised as Sir Bernard’s. “You may be overheard. Recollect that your safety can only be secured by your secrecy.”
“I shall tell the truth!” the woman declared.
“Very well,” laughed the man who was my chief in a tone of defiance. “Tell it, and condemn yourself.”