I am in full possession of the secret which you have taken such vast pains to keep for fifteen years.
I think you are quite competent to read my meaning, and I now confidently expect to hear that you will take pleasure in obliging me in the way which I indicated to you in my previous letters.
Yours faithfully,Frank Burchill.Barthorpe read this communication three times, pausing over every sentence, seeking to read the meanings, the implications, the subtly veiled threat. When he folded the square sheet and replaced it in the letter-case he half spoke one word:
Blackmail!
Then, staring in apparent idleness about the little restaurant, with its gilt-framed mirrors, its red, plush-covered seats, its suggestion of foreign atmosphere and custom, he idly drummed the tips of his fingers on the table, and thought. Naturally, he thought of the writer of the letter. Of course, he said to himself, of course he knew Burchill. Burchill had been Jacob Herapaths private secretary for rather more than a year, and it was now about six months since Jacob had got rid of him. He, Barthorpe, remembered very well why Jacob had quietly dismissed Burchill. One day Jacob had said to him, with a dry chuckle:
Im getting rid of that secretary of mineit wont do.
What wont do? Barthorpe had asked.
Hes beginning to make eyes at Peggie, Jacob had answered with another chuckle, and though Peggies a girl of sense, that fellows too good looking to have about a house. I never ought to have had him. Howeverhe goes.
Barthorpe, as he ate the cutlets and sipped the half-bottle of claret which the waiter presently brought him, speculated on these facts and memories. He was not very sure about Burchills antecedents: he believed he was a young man of good credentials and high respectabilitypersonally, he had always wondered why old Jacob Herapath, a practical business man, should have taken as a private secretary a fellow who looked, dressed, spoke, and behaved like a play-actor. As it all came within the scope of things he mused on Burchill and his personal appearance, calling up the ex-secretarys graceful and slender figure, his oval, olive-tinted face, his large, dark, lustrous eyes, his dark, curling hair, his somewhat affected dress, his tall, wide-brimmed hats, his taper fingers, his big, wide-ended cravats. It had once amused Barthorpeand many other peopleto see Jacob Herapath and his secretary together; nevertheless, Jacob had always spoken of Burchill as being thoroughly capable, painstaking, thorough and diligent. His airs and graces Jacob put down as a young mans affectationsyet there came the time when they suited Jacob no longer.
I catch him talking too much to Peggie, he had added, in that conversation of which Barthorpe was thinking. Better get rid of him before they pass the too-much stage.
So Burchill had gone, and Barthorpe had heard no more of him until now. But what he had heard now was a revelation. Burchill had witnessed a will of Jacob Herapaths, which, if good and valid and the only will in existence, would leave him, Barthorpe, a ruined man. Burchill had written a letter to Jacob Herapath asking for some favour, reward, compensation, as the price of his silence about a secret. What secret? Barthorpe could not even guess at itbut Burchill had said, evidently knowing what he was talking about, that Jacob Herapath had taken vast pains to keep it for fifteen years.
By the time Barthorpe had finished his lunch he had come to the conclusion that there was only one thing for him to do. He must go straight to Calengrove Mansions and interview Mr. Frank Burchill. In one way or another he must make sure of him, or, ratherthough it was really the same thingsure of what he could tell. And on the way there he would make sure of something elsein order to do which he presently commissioned a taxi-cab and bade its driver go first to 331, Upper Seymour Street.
The domestic who answered Barthorpes double knock at that house shook her head when he designedly asked for Mr. Frank Burchill. Nobody of that name, she said. But on being assured that there once had been a lodger of that name in residence there, she observed that she would fetch her mistress, and disappeared to return with an elderly lady who also shook her head at sight of the caller.
Mr. Burchill left here some time ago, she said. Nearly six months. I dont know where he is.
Did he leave no address to which his letters were to be sent? asked Barthorpe, affecting surprise.
He said thered be no letters comingand there havent been, answered the landlady. And Ive neither seen nor heard of him since he went.
Something in her manner suggested to Barthorpe that she had no desire to renew acquaintance with her former lodger. This sent Barthorpe away well satisfied. It was precisely what he wanted. The three people whom he had left in Portman Square in all probability knew no other address than this at which to seek for Burchill when he was wanted; they would seek him there eventually and get no news. Luckily for himself, Barthorpe knew where he was to be found, and he went straight off up Edgware Road to find him.
Calengrove Mansions proved to be a new block of flats in the dip of Maida Vale; 35c was a top flat in a wing which up to that stage of its existence did not appear to be much sought after by would-be tenants. It was some time before Barthorpe succeeded in getting an answer to his ring and knock; when at last the door was opened Burchill himself looked out upon him, yawning, and in a dressing-gown. And narrowly and searchingly as Barthorpe glanced at Burchill he could not see a trace of unusual surprise or embarrassment in his face. He looked just as any man might look who receives an unexpected caller.
Oh! he said. Mr. Barthorpe Herapath! Come indo. Im a bit latea good bit late, in fact. You see, Im doing dramatic criticism now, and there was an important première last night at the Hyperion, and I had to do a full column, and sobut that doesnt interest you. Come in, pray.
He led the way into a small sitting-room, drew forward an easy-chair, and reaching down a box of cigarettes from the mantelpiece offered its contents to his visitor. Barthorpe, secretly wondering if all this unconcerned behaviour was natural or merely a bit of acting, took a cigarette and dropped into the chair.
I dont suppose you thought of seeing me when you opened your door, Burchill? he remarked good-humouredly, as he took the match which his host had struck for him. Last man in the world you thought of seeing, eh?
Burchill calmly lighted a cigarette for himself before he answered.
Well, he said at last, I dont knowyou never know whos going to turn up. But to be candid, I didnt expect to see you, and I dont know why youve come.
Barthorpe slowly produced the letter-case from his pocket, took Burchills letter from it, and held it before him.
Thats what brought me here, he said significantly. That! Of course, you recognize it.
Burchill glanced at the letter without turning a hair. If he was merely acting, thought Barthorpe, he was doing it splendidly, and instead of writing dramatic criticism he ought to put on the sock and buskins himself. But somehow he began to believe that Burchill was not acting. And he was presently sure of it when Burchill laughedcontemptuously.
Oh! said Burchill. Ah! So Mr. Jacob Herapath employs legal assistanceyour assistancein answering me? Foolishfoolish! Or, since that is, perhaps, too strong a wordindiscreet. Indiscreetand unnecessary. Say so, pray, to Mr. Jacob Herapath.