“Hang you!” he hissed between his set teeth. “I believe you think I did that job! And if you do, blast you, why don’t you say so, and be done with it?”
Mallalieu, who was standing on the hearth, warming his broad back at the fire, thrust his hands deeply into his pockets and looked half-sneeringly at his partner out of his screwed-up eyes.
“I should advise you to keep yourself cool,” he said with affected quietness. “There’s more than me’ll think a good deal if you chance to let yourself out like that.”
“You do think it!” reiterated Cotherstone passionately. “Damn it, d’ye think I haven’t noticed it? Always looking at me as if—as if—”
“Now then, keep yourself calm,” interrupted Mallalieu. “I can look at you or at any other, in any way I like, can’t I? There’s no need to distress yourself—I shan’t give aught away. If you took it in your head to settle matters—as they were settled—well, I shan’t say a word. That is unless—you understand?”
“Understand what?” screamed Cotherstone.
“Unless I’m obliged to,” answered Mallalieu. “I should have to make it clear that I’d naught to do with that particular matter, d’ye see? Every man for himself’s a sound principle. But—I see no need. I don’t believe there’ll be any need. And it doesn’t matter the value of that pen that’s shaking so in your hand to me if an innocent man suffers—if he’s innocent o’ that, he’s guilty o’ something else. You’re safe with me.”
Cotherstone flung the pen on the floor and stamped on it. And Mallalieu laughed cynically and walked slowly across to the door.
“You’re a fool, Cotherstone,” he said. “Go on a bit more like that, and you’ll let it all out to somebody ’at’ll not keep secrets as I can. Cool yourself, man, cool yourself!”
“Hang you!” shouted Cotherstone. “Mind I don’t let something out about you! Where were you that night, I should like to know? Or, rather, I do know! You’re no safer than I am! And if I told what I do know—”
Mallalieu, with his hand on the latch, turned and looked his partner in the face—without furtiveness, for once.
“And if you told aught that you do, or fancy you know,” he said quietly, “there’d be ruin in your home, you soft fool! I thought you wanted things kept quiet for your lass’s sake? Pshaw!—you’re taking leave o’ your senses!”
He walked out at that, and Cotherstone, shaking with anger, relapsed into a chair and cursed his fate. And after a time he recovered himself and began to think, and his thoughts turned instinctively to Lettie.
Mallalieu was right—of course, he was right! Anything that he, Cotherstone, could say or do in the way of bringing up the things that must be suppressed would ruin Lettie’s chances. So, at any rate, it seemed to him. For Cotherstone’s mind was essentially a worldly one, and it was beyond him to believe that an ambitious young man like Windle Bent would care to ally himself with the daughter of an ex-convict. Bent would have the best of excuses for breaking off all relations with the Cotherstone family if the unpleasant truth came out. No!—whatever else he did, he must keep his secret safe until Bent and Lettie were safely married. That once accomplished, Cotherstone cared little about the future: Bent could not go back on his wife. And so Cotherstone endeavoured to calm himself, so that he could scheme and plot, and before night came he paid a visit to his doctor, and when he went home that evening, he had his plans laid.
Bent was with Lettie when Cotherstone got home, and Cotherstone presently got the two of them into a little snuggery which he kept sacred to himself as a rule. He sat down in his easy chair, and signed to them to sit near him.
“I’m glad I found you together,” he said. “There’s something I want to say. There’s no call for you to be frightened, Lettie—but what I’ve got to say is serious. And I’ll put it straight—Bent’ll understand. Now, you’d arranged to get married next spring—six months hence. I want you to change your minds, and to let it be as soon as you can.”
He looked with a certain eager wistfulness at Lettie, expecting to see her start with surprise. But fond as he was of her, Cotherstone had so far failed to grasp the later developments of his daughter’s character. Lettie Cotherstone was not the sort of young woman who allows herself to be surprised by anything. She was remarkably levelheaded, cool of thought, well able to take care of herself in every way, and fully alive to the possibilities of her union with the rising young manufacturer. And instead of showing any astonishment, she quietly asked her father what he meant.
“I’ll tell you,” answered Cotherstone, greatly relieved to find that both seemed inclined to talk matters
