“Ah!”
That last question helped Mr. Haslitt to an explanation. His face took a livelier expression.
“The answer to that is in Waberski’s, the second letter. Betty—she snap her fingers at his awkwardnesses. She doesn’t take the charge seriously. She will have left it to the French notary to dispose of it. Yes—I think that makes Ann Upcott’s letter to you intelligible, too. The ceremonies of the Law in a foreign country would frighten a stranger, as this girl is apparently, more than they would Betty Harlowe, who has lived for four years in the midst of them. So she writes to the first name in the title of the firm, and writes to him as a man. That’s it, Jim,” and the old man rubbed his hands together in his satisfaction.
“A girl in terror wouldn’t get any comfort out of writing to an abstraction. She wants to know that she’s in touch with a real person. So she writes, ‘Dear Mr. Frobisher.’ That’s it! You can take my word for it.”
Mr. Haslitt walked back to his chair. But he did not sit down in it; he stood with his hands in his pockets, looking out of the window over Frobisher’s head.
“But that doesn’t bring us any nearer to finding out what is Boris Waberski’s strong suit, does it? We haven’t a clue to it,” he said ruefully.
To both of the men, indeed, Mr. Haslitt’s flat, unillumined narrative of facts, without a glimpse into the characters of any of the participants in the little drama, seemed the most unhelpful thing. Yet the whole truth was written there—the truth not only of Waberski’s move, but of all the strange terrors and mysteries into which the younger of the two men was now to be plunged. Jim Frobisher was to recognise that, when, shaken to the soul, he resumed his work in the office. For it was interrupted now.
Mr. Haslitt, looking out of the window over his partner’s head, saw a telegraph-boy come swinging across the square and hesitate in the roadway below.
“I expect that’s a telegram for us,” he said, with the hopeful anticipation people in trouble have that something from outside will happen and set them right.
Jim turned round quickly. The boy was still upon the pavement examining the numbers of the houses.
“We ought to have a brass plate upon the door,” said Jim with a touch of impatience; and Mr. Haslitt’s eyebrows rose half the height of his forehead towards his thick white hair. He was really distressed by the Waberski incident, but this suggestion, and from a partner in the firm, shocked him like a sacrilege.
“My dear boy, what are you thinking of?” he expostulated. “I hope I am not one of those obstinate old fogies who refuse to march with the times. We have had, as you know, a telephone instrument recently installed in the junior clerks’ office. I believe that I myself proposed it. But a brass plate upon the door! My dear Jim! Let us leave that to Harley Street and Southampton Row! But I see that telegram is for us.”
The tiny Mercury with the shako and red cord to his uniform made up his mind and disappeared into the hall below. The telegram was brought upstairs and Mr. Haslitt tore it open. He stared at it blankly for a few seconds, then without a word, but with a very anxious look in his eyes, he handed it to Jim Frobisher.
Jim Frobisher read:
Please, please, send someone to help me at once. The Prefect of Police has called in Hanaud, a great detective of the Sûrété in Paris. They must think me guilty.—Betty Harlowe.
The telegram fluttered from Jim’s fingers to the floor. It was like a cry for help at night coming from a great distance.
“I must go, sir, by the night boat,” he said.
“To be sure!” said Mr. Haslitt a little absently.
Jim, however, had enthusiasm enough for both. His chivalry was fired, as is the way with lonely men, by the picture his imagination drew. The little girl, Betty Harlowe! What age was she? Twenty-one! Not a day more. She had been wandering with all the proud indifference of her sex and youth, until suddenly she found her feet caught in some trap set by a traitor, and looked about her; and terror came and with it a wild cry for help.
“Girls never notice danger signals,” he said. “No, they walk blindly into the very heart of catastrophe.” Who could tell what links of false and cunning evidence Boris Waberski had been hammering away at in the dark, to slip swiftly at the right moment over her wrist and ankle? And with that question he was seized with a great discouragement.
“We know very little of Criminal Procedure, even in our own country, in this office,” he said regretfully.
“Happily,” said Mr. Haslitt with some tartness. With him it was the Firm first and last. Messrs. Frobisher & Haslitt never went in to the Criminal Courts. Litigation, indeed, even of the purest kind was frowned upon. It is true there was a small special staff, under the leadership of an old managing clerk, tucked away upon an upper floor, like an unpresentable relation in a great house, which did a little of that kind of work. But it only did it for hereditary clients, and then as a favour.
“However,” said Mr. Haslitt as he noticed Jim’s discomfort, “I haven’t a doubt, my boy, that you will be equal to whatever is wanted. But remember, there’s something at the back of this which we here don’t know.”
Jim shifted his position rather abruptly. This cry of the old man was becoming parrot-like—a phrase, a formula. Jim was thinking of the girl in Dijon and hearing her piteous cry for help. She was not “snapping her the fingers” now.
“It’s a matter of common sense,”
