"Very well." Anstice mentally reserved the right to his own opinion. "As you say, the woman certainly appears devoted both to Mrs. Carstairs and the child. But I'm sure you will agree it is wise to leave no clue uninvestigated in so serious a matter?"

"Quite so. And you may rest a.s.sured the matter shall be thoroughly investigated. By the way, you said something about a train. Are you returning to Littlefield to-night?"

"Yes. And it's time I was moving on," said Anstice, glancing at his watch. "Shall I have the pleasure of your company on the journey?"

"Not to-night. I have one or two matters to attend to in town, and I must write and prepare Mrs. Carstairs for my visit. But I shall certainly be down shortly, and I hope I may have the pleasure of meeting you again before very long."

"I hope we may meet soon," said Anstice heartily, and Major Carstairs escorted his guest to the steps of the Club, where he took a cordial farewell of him and stood watching the tall figure swing along Piccadilly with the stride of an athlete.

"So that's the fellow there was all the '_gup_' about." Major Carstairs had heard the story of Hilda Ryder's death discussed a good many times during his sojourn in India. "A thoroughly decent chap, I should say, and it's deuced hard luck on him to go through life with a memory of that sort rankling in his soul. Ah, well, we all have our private memories--ghosts which haunt us and will not be laid; and at least there is no disgrace in that story of his. At the worst it could only be called a miscalculation--a mistake. But what if my mistake has been a more grievous one--what if Chloe is innocent and I have misjudged her cruelly? If that should be so," said Major Carstairs, "then my ghost will never be laid. The man who shot Hilda Ryder will be forgiven for his too hasty deed. But for a mistake such as mine there could be no forgiveness."

And as he turned to re-enter the club his face looked suddenly haggard and old.

CHAPTER V

The more Anstice pondered over the matter of the anonymous letters, the more inclined he was to believe that the woman Tochatti was one of the prime movers, if not the sole partic.i.p.ator, in the affair.

Leaving the subject of motive out of the question for the moment, it was evident that Tochatti, of all the household, would have the most free access to her mistress' writing-table or bureau; and Anstice knew, through a chance word, that on the occasion of Mrs. Carstairs' fatal visit to Brighton, she had been accompanied by her maid.

True, the woman was supposed, by those around her, to be incapable of writing, even to the extent of signing her name; but, as the export had pointed out in the course of the interview, it was not unknown for a person to deny the possession of some faculty, either from a desire to gain sympathy or from some other and less creditable reason.

The question of motive, however, was a more complicated one. Why should this woman seek to injure her mistress in the first place, and having done her an irrevocable wrong--always supposing Tochatti to be the culprit--why should she seek now to bring dishonour on a man who had never, to his knowledge, done her any harm?

The thing seemed, on the face of it, absurd; yet somehow Anstice could not relinquish his very strong notion that Tochatti was in reality at the bottom of the business, and on the Sunday following his visit to Mr.

Clive he walked over to Greengates to discuss the matter with Sir Richard Wayne.

Sir Richard was almost pathetically pleased to see his visitor, for he missed his pretty daughter sorely, and he welcomed Anstice cordially on this foggy November afternoon.

Over their cigars in Sir Richard's cosy sanctum Anstice gave him an outline of his visit to the handwriting expert and the conclusions to be drawn therefrom--a narrative to which Sir Richard listened with close attention; and when Anstice had finished his story the older man took up the subject briskly.

"You really think this woman may be implicated? Of course, as you say, she would have opportunities for tampering with Mrs. Carstairs'

belongings; but still--the question of motive----"

"I quite realize that difficulty, Sir Richard. But I confess to a very strong feeling of distrust for the woman since visiting Clive. He suggested almost at once that the writer was a foreigner, and Tochatti is about the only foreign, or half-foreign, person in Littlefield, I should say."

"Quite so." Sir Richard leaned back in his chair and placed his finger-tips together in a judicial att.i.tude. "Well, let us consider the question of motive a little more fully. If the writer really were Tochatti, we must suppose her to be actuated by some strong feeling. The question is, what feeling would be sufficiently strong to drive her to a deed of this nature?"

He paused; but Anstice, having no suggestion to make, kept silence, and Sir Richard went on with his speech.

"Generally speaking, in the character of a woman of a Southern nature, we find one or two strongly-marked attributes. One is a capacity for love, equalled only by a capacity for hatred. Of course Tochatti is only half Italian, but personally I distrust what we may call half-breeds even more than the real thing. You know the old proverb, 'An Englishman Italianate He is a devil incarnate'--and I believe there is some truth in the words."

"I share your distrust for half-breeds," said Anstice fervently. "And in this case, although she speaks excellent English as a rule, it always seems to me that Tochatti is more than half Italian. Do you agree with me?"

"I do--and that's why I distrust her," returned Sir Richard grimly. "I confess I don't like the women of the Latin races--those of the lower cla.s.ses, anyway. A woman of that sort who is supplanted by a rival is about the most dangerous being on the face of the earth. She sticks at nothing--carries a knife in her garter, a phial of poison in her handbag, and will quite cheerfully sacrifice her own life if she may mutilate or destroy the aforesaid hated rival."

"So I have always understood. But in this case, if you will excuse me pointing it out, there is no possibility of love entering into it. To begin with, Tochatti is a middle-aged woman; and of course there could not be any question of rivalry between her and her mistress."

"Oh, of course not. I was speaking generally," Sir Richard reminded him.

"But there are other reasons for jealousy besides the primary reason, love. You know, in the case of these last letters, which are certainly actuated by some very real spite against you ... why, what's the matter now?" For Anstice had uttered an exclamation which sounded almost exultant.

"By Jove, sir, I believe I've got it--the reason why the woman should feel spiteful towards me!" In his excitement he threw away his cigar, half-smoked, and Sir Richard, noting the action, guessed that an important revelation was at hand.

"You've got it, eh?" Sir Richard sat upright in his chair. "Well, may I hear it? It's no secret, I suppose?"

"Secret? Heavens, no--but how intensely stupid I've been not to think of it before!"

"Go on--you're rousing my curiosity," said Sir Richard as Anstice came to a sudden stop. "Tell me how on earth you have managed to rouse the woman's spite. Personally, seeing how cleverly you pulled her adored Cherry through that illness of hers, I should have thought she would have extended her devotion to you."

"That's just how the trouble began," rejoined Anstice quickly. "You remember how the child set herself on fire one night in September?"

"Yes--on the night before Iris' wedding day." In spite of himself Anstice winced, and the other man noted the fact and wondered. "Set fire to herself with a candle, didn't she?"

"Yes--and Tochatti put out the flames somehow, burning one of her hands in the process."

"Did she? I had forgotten that."

"Yes--with the result that she was not able to take her fair share of nursing the child, and I accordingly installed a nurse."

"Yes, I remember--a bonny girl, with a voice as soft as the coo of a wood-pigeon."

"Just so. Well, I--or rather Mrs. Carstairs--had a pitched battle with Tochatti before she would consent to Nurse Trevor being engaged; and the girl herself told me that the woman did her very best to make her life unbearable while she was at Cherry Orchard."

"The deuce she did! But if she were really incapacitated----"

"She was; but with the unreasonableness of women--some women," he corrected himself hastily, "she resented her enforced helplessness, and looking back I can recall very well how she used to scowl at me when I visited Cherry."

"Really! You're not imagining it?"

"I'm not an imaginative person," returned Anstice dryly. "I a.s.sure you it was no fancy of mine. She used to answer any questions I put to her with a most irritating sullenness; and once or twice even Mrs. Carstairs reproved her--before me--for her unpleasant manner."

"You think that would be sufficient to account for the animus against you displayed in these letters?"

"Honestly, I do. You see, luckily or unluckily, the child took a great fancy to Nurse Trevor; and being ill and consequently rather spoilt, she behaved capriciously towards her former beloved Tochatti--with the result that the woman hated the nurse--and hated me the more for having introduced her into the household."

Sir Richard nodded meditatively.

"Yes. I see. It hangs together, certainly, and it is quite a feasible explanation. But what about the nurse? She would be the one against whom Tochatti might be expected to wreak her spite----"

"Yes, but you see Nurse Trevor was only a bird of pa.s.sage, so to speak.

She had come down here from a private nursing home in Birmingham, and had just finished nursing a case when I wanted her; and after Cherry was better she returned to Birmingham; so that the woman would probably have had a good deal of trouble in getting on her track."

"Quite so. You, being at hand, were a more likely victim. Upon my soul, it almost looks as though you were right. Still, even this does not explain why she should ruin Chloe's life."

"No, I admit that. But don't you think if we could bring this last crime--for it is a crime--home to the Italian woman we could wring a confession out of her concerning the first series of letters?"