“It may not be necessary after all. Betty Harlowe has a French lawyer. No doubt he is adequate. Besides”—and he smiled as he recollected a phrase in Waberski’s second letter—“Betty seems very capable of looking after herself. We shall see.”
He went back to his own office, and for a week he heard no more from Dijon. His anxiety, indeed, was almost forgotten when suddenly startling news arrived and by the most unexpected channel.
Jim Frobisher brought it. He broke into Mr. Haslitt’s office at the sacred moment when the senior partner was dictating to a clerk the answers to his morning letters.
“Sir!” cried Jim, and stopped short at the sight of the clerk. Mr. Haslitt took a quick look at his young partner’s face and said:
“We will resume these answers, Godfrey, later on.”
The clerk took his shorthand notebook out of the room, and Mr. Haslitt turned to Jim Frobisher.
“Now, what’s your bad news, Jim?”
Jim blurted it out.
“Waberski accuses Betty Harlowe of murder.”
“What!”
Mr. Haslitt sprang to his feet. Jim Frobisher could not have said whether incredulity or anger had the upper hand with the old man, the one so creased his forehead, the other so blazed in his eyes.
“Little Betty Harlowe!” he said in a wondering voice.
“Yes. Waberski has laid a formal charge with the Prefect of Police at Dijon. He accuses Betty of poisoning Mrs. Harlowe on the night of April the twenty-seventh.”
“But Betty’s not arrested?” Mr. Haslitt exclaimed.
“No, but she’s under surveillance.”
Mr. Haslitt sat heavily down in his armchair at his table. Extravagant! Uncontrolled! These were very mild epithets for Boris Waberski. Here was a devilish malignity at work in the rogue, a passion for revenge just as mean as could be imagined.
“How do you know all this, Jim?” he asked suddenly.
“I have had a letter this morning from Dijon.”
“You?” exclaimed Mr. Haslitt, and the question caught hold of Jim Frobisher and plunged him too among perplexities. In the first shock of the news, the monstrous fact of the accusation had driven everything else out of his head. Now he asked himself why, after all, had the news come to him and not to the partner who had the Harlowe estate in his charge.
“Yes, it is strange,” he replied. “And here’s another queer thing. The letter doesn’t come from Betty Harlowe, but from a friend, a companion of hers, Ann Upcott.”
Mr. Haslitt was a little relieved.
“Betty had a friend with her, then? That’s a good thing.” He reached out his hand across the table. “Let me read the letter, Jim.”
Frobisher had been carrying it in his hand, and he gave it now to Jeremy Haslitt. It was a letter of many sheets, and Jeremy let the edges slip and flicker under the ball of his thumb.
“Have I got to read all this?” he said ruefully, and he set himself to his task. Boris Waberski had first of all accused Betty to her face. Betty had contemptuously refused to answer the charge, and Waberski had gone straight off to the Prefect of Police. He had returned in an hour’s time, wildly gesticulating and talking aloud to himself. He had actually asked Ann Upcott to back him up. Then he had packed his bags and retired to an hotel in the town. The story was set out in detail, with quotations from Waberski’s violent, crazy talk; and as the old man read, Jim Frobisher became more and more uneasy, more and more troubled.
He was sitting by the tall, broad window which looked out upon the square, expecting some explosion of wrath and contempt. But he saw anxiety peep out of Mr. Haslitt’s face and stay there as he read. More than once he stopped altogether in his reading, like a man seeking to remember or perhaps to discover.
“But the whole thing’s as clear as daylight,” Jim said to himself impatiently. And yet—and yet—Mr. Haslitt had sat in that armchair during the better part of the day, during the better part of thirty years. How many men and women during those years had crossed the roadway below this window and crept into this quiet oblong room with their grievances, their calamities, their confessions? And had passed out again, each one contributing his little to complete the old man’s knowledge and sharpen the edge of his wit? Then, if Mr. Haslitt was troubled, there was something in that letter, or some mission from it, which he himself in his novitiate had overlooked. He began to read it over again in his mind to the best of his recollection, but he had not got far before Mr. Haslitt put the letter down.
“Surely, sir,” cried Jim, “it’s an obvious case of blackmail.”
Mr. Haslitt awoke with a little shake of his shoulders.
“Blackmail? Oh! that of course, Jim.”
Mr. Haslitt got up and unlocked his safe. He took from it the two Waberski letters and brought them across the room to Jim.
“Here’s the evidence, as damning as anyone could wish.”
Jim read the letters through and uttered a little cry of delight.
“The rogue has delivered himself over to us.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Haslitt.
But to him, at all events, that was not enough; he was still looking through the lines of the letter for something beyond, which he could not find.
“Then what’s troubling you?” asked Frobisher.
Mr. Haslitt took his stand upon the worn hearthrug with his back towards the fire.
“This, Jim,” and he began to expound. “In ninety-five of these cases out of a hundred, there is something else, something behind the actual charge, which isn’t mentioned, but on which the blackmailer is really banking. As a rule it’s some shameful little secret, some blot on the family honour, which any sort of public trial would bring to light. And there must be something of that kind here. The more preposterous Waberski’s accusation is, the more certain it is that he knows something to the discredit of the Harlowe name, which any Harlowe would wish to keep dark. Only, I haven’t an idea what the wretched thing can be!”
“It
