LITMIR.BIZ

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The man wrote to Laura a confession of what he had done. She got the letter this morning, took it up to London to the police—the best thing she could do—and Pavely's body was found at the place indicated, a business office."

      As Oliver spoke, in quick, jerky sentences, he was taking off his greatcoat, and hanging up his hat.

      She waited till he had done, and then only said: "I've got a little supper ready for you, darling. I sent the servants off to bed, so I'm alone downstairs."

      Oliver sighed, a long, tired sigh of relief—relief that his mother had asked no tiresome, supplementary questions. And she saw the look of strain, and of desperate fatigue, smooth itself away, as he followed her into their peaceful dining-room.

      She sat with him, and so far commanded her nerves as to remain silent while he ate with a kind of hungry eagerness which astonished her.

      He turned to her at last, and for the first time smiled a rather wry smile. "I was very hungry! This is my first meal to-day, and I seem to have lived in the train. I was up at York—we thought there was a clue there. I think I told you that over the telephone? Then I came back."

      She broke in gently, "To be met with this awful news, Oliver?"

      He looked at her rather strangely, and nodded.

      "Have you seen Laura?" she ventured.

      "Yes, just for a moment. But, mother? She's horribly unhappy. I—I expected her to be glad."

      "Oliver!"

      There was a tone of horror, more, of reprobation, in Mrs. Tropenell's low voice.

      Oliver Tropenell was staring straight before him. "Surely one would have expected her to be glad that the suspense was over? And now I ask myself——" and indeed he looked as if he was speaking to himself and not to her—"if it would have been better for Laura if that—that fellow had been left to rot there till he had been discovered, two months, three months, perchance four months hence."

      "My dear," she said painfully, "what do you mean exactly? I don't understand."

      "Pavely's body was found in an empty office, and if the man who shot him hadn't written to Laura—well, of course the body would have remained there till it had occurred to some one to force open the door of the room, and that might not have happened for months."

      "I'm very glad that Laura was told now," said Mrs. Tropenell firmly. "The suspense was telling on her far more than I should have expected it to do. Katty, too, became a very difficult element in the situation. I don't think there's much doubt that poor Katty was very fond of Godfrey."

      He muttered: "Mean little loves, mean little lives, mean little souls—they were well matched!"

      Then he got up.

      "Well, mother, I must be off to bed now, as I have to get up early and go into Pewsbury. Laura, who's staying on in town, asked me to come down and tell those whom it concerned, the truth. She wants you to tell Alice. I said I thought you'd have the child here for a while."

      "Certainly I will. She's been here all to-day, poor little girl."

      "Do you really think she's to be pitied, mother?"

      She hesitated, but his stern face compelled an answer.

      "I don't think that Godfrey would have got on with Alice later on—when she grew to woman's estate. But now, yes, I do think the child's to be deeply pitied. It will be a painful, a terrible memory—that her father died like that."

      "I can't see it! A quiet, merciful death, mother—one that many a man might envy." He waited a few moments, then went on: "Of course there will be an inquest, and I fear Laura will almost certainly have to give evidence, in order to prove the receipt of that—that peculiar letter."

      "Have you got a copy of the letter?" asked Mrs. Tropenell rather eagerly.

      Her son shook his head. "No, the police took possession of it. But I've seen it of course."

      They were both standing up now. He went to the door, and held it open for her. And then, with his eyes bent on her face, he asked her a question which perhaps was not as strange as it sounded, between those two who were so much to one another, and who thought they understood each other so well.

      "Mother," he said slowly, "I want to ask you a question.... How long in England does an unloving widow mourn?"

      "A decent woman, under normal conditions, mourns at least a year," she answered, and a little colour came into her face. Then, out of her great love for him, she forced herself to add, "But that does not bar out a measure of friendship, Oliver. Give Laura time to become accustomed to the new conditions of her life."

      "How long, mother?"

      "Give her till next Christmas, my dear."

      "I will."

      He put his arms round her. "Mother!" he exclaimed, "I love you the better for my loving Laura. Do you realise that?"

      "I will believe it if you tell me so, Oliver."

      He strode off, hastened up the staircase without looking round again, and she, waiting below, covered her face with her hands. A terrible sense of loneliness swept over and engulfed her; for the first time there was added a pang of regret that she had not joined her life to that of the affectionate hedonist who had been her true, devoted friend for so long.

      Chapter XIX

       Table of Contents

      And so, in this at once amazing and simple way was solved the mystery of Godfrey Pavely's disappearance.

      Inquiries made by the police soon elicited the fact that the Portuguese financier had told the truth as regarded his business in England, for a considerable number of persons voluntarily came forward to confirm the account the man had given of himself in his strange letter.

      During his sojourn at the Mayfair Hotel, the now mysterious Fernando Apra had impressed those who came in contact with him pleasantly rather than otherwise. It was also remembered there that one morning, about three weeks ago, he had come in looking agitated and distressed, and that he had confided to the manager of the hotel that an accident of a very extraordinary nature had occurred to him. But there his confidences had stopped—he had not said what it was that had happened to him. A day or two later, he had gone away, explaining that his business in England was concluded.

      Laura stayed up in town till the inquest, and so, rather to Laura's surprise, did Katty Winslow.

      As is always the case when there is anything of the nature of a mystery, the inquest was largely attended by the ordinary public. But no sensational evidence was tendered, though person after person went into the witness-box to prove that they had come in contact with Fernando Apra, and that under a seal of secrecy he had informed them of his gambling concession and of the scheme for developing what he believed would be a hugely profitable undertaking. In fact, he had spoken to more than one man of business of a possible two hundred per cent. profit.

      It also became clear, for the first time, why Mr. Pavely had gone to York. A gentleman who bore the aristocratic name of Greville Howard, and who was in too poor a state of health to come up to the inquest, volunteered the information that Fernando Apra had come to see him, Greville Howard, with an introduction from Mr. Godfrey Pavely. Further, that he, Mr. Howard, having gone into the matter of the proposed gambling concession, had suggested that the three should meet and have a chat over the business. As a result, a rather odd thing had happened. Mr. Apra did not accept the invitation, but Mr. Pavely, whom he had known for some years, had come to see him, and they had discussed the project. Then he, Greville Howard, had heard nothing more till he had seen in a daily paper a casual allusion to the fact of Mr. Godfrey Pavely's disappearance!

      But, though so much was cleared up, two rather important questions remained unanswered. There was no proof, through any of the shipping companies, that Fernando

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