LITMIR.BIZ

CHAPTER IV

       Table of Contents

      A LETTER FROM NEW YORK

      Jasper Jarman was a self-made man, and, like many another self-made man, had a very exalted opinion of his own handiwork.

      During his early career Jasper had fought a bitter battle with the world; by thirty-five he had conquered it, and now in the evening of his days he was very averse to relinquishing any of the moral spoils of his victory. To thwart Jasper Jarman was to rouse to their uttermost those fighting instincts that had given him the name of "Stone-wall Jarman" in his younger days.

      Another trait common to self-made men was possessed by Jasper, he was an early riser. On the morning following his arrival at Adderbury Cottage he was abroad by seven, pacing up and down the trim box-bordered walk that ran round two sides of the house. He walked with an assertive tread, his large square-toed boots crunching the gravel rhythmically. His hands were lightly clasped behind his back, and with chest thrown well out he was inhaling the scented airs that rose from the dew-drenched garden. A blackbird strutted about the little lawn, and a close observer would have noticed a certain resemblance in the manners of man and bird.

      From a little diamond-paned window a blind was drawn aside a few inches and an eye peeped cautiously forth upon the world. As the pompous figure of Mr. Jasper Jarman rounded the corner of the house and came into view, the blind was quickly dropped back into its place.

      Five minutes later Edward Povey emerged from the front door, his unbuttoned waistcoat and his vaguely tied cravat giving the lie direct to the studied indifference of his walk.

      His surprise at coming face to face with Mr. Jasper Jarman was quite an admirable piece of acting.

      "Good-morning, Uncle Jasper; up with the lark, eh! the early bird, you know. Slept well, I hope?"

      "Ah, Edward, my boy, good-morning—slept like a top, thanks; capital room Charlotte's given us. I'm afraid we've turned you out."

      "Oh not at all, uncle, pray don't mention it."

      "Faces east, though; your aunt finds the morning sun rather trying. She's going to turn the room out to-day and shift the bed to the other wall."

      "Turn out the room, uncle?"

      "Yes, my boy; capital woman your aunt, never idle a moment, always up and doing. You won't know this house after she's been here a month."

      Edward thought it far more probable that it was the house that wouldn't know him by then, but, too taken aback to reply, he merely passed his handkerchief over his dry lips and waited for Jasper to continue.

      The old man paused in his walk and ran his eye critically over some standard rose trees, that, each in its little island of mould, studded the lawn.

      "Yes, my boy, you'll find we're not drones. We're busy bees, your aunt and me; what she does to the house I do to the garden. I'm never happy unless I'm pottering about with a trowel. I'll have this place," he waved his arm comprehensively, "shipshape in no time. I'll have those roses up and put 'em in a row under the window, they're wasted where they are, and we'll re-turf the lawn and make it big enough for croquet."

      Jasper looked at Edward Povey for approbation. "Or even tennis," said the latter, who felt he must say something. Then he sat down on a rustic garden seat and nervously rolled himself a cigarette. Jasper, leaning a fat elbow upon the stone sundial, went on.

      "A nice little place all the same, yes, a nice little place. Better than Clapham, eh, Edward?"

      "Much better, uncle Jasper."

      "The firm seems to have found out your worth at last. Well, I'm glad of it. Your aunt is always telling me that Charlotte married a fool—no, don't get angry, that's only her way of putting it. Been here long?"

      "Not very long, uncle. You see, I've only got on lately. I discovered a scheme whereby my firm could save a small fortune in postage, and they rewarded me liberally. Then they found out I could correspond and speak in French and Spanish, so they rewarded me again. Oh! They've done me very well, I—— There's the gong for breakfast; we'll go in."

      The meal was hardly a pleasant one. Aunt Eliza, whose temper the battle with the morning sun had not improved, munched her toast in silence. She was one of those individuals who appear to undergo a refrigerating process during the night hours and to awake frost-bitten. During the day she would gradually thaw. The process was sometimes rapid, but more often than not the midday dinner passed before Mrs. Jasper Jarman was even commonly polite. She had never been known to smile before eleven.

      At eight-thirty Edward prepared to leave the house, presumably for the business offices of Messrs. Kyser, Schultz & Company, in Eastcheap. He was glad to escape from the charged atmosphere of the Adderbury Cottage dining-room, but he hated to leave Charlotte alone to play his game for him. To let Uncle Jasper suspect that he was not still in the service of the firm would of course be fatal. As he stood in the hall drawing on his gloves he noticed that the postman had left in the box a blue envelope. Making sure he was alone, he drew it out. It was, of course, addressed to Mr. Kyser, and Edward was about to place it unopened in his pocket, when his uncle's voice came from the stairs above—

      "That for me, Edward?"

      "No, uncle; it's—mine."

      Mr. Jasper Jarman was descending the stairs, and, acting upon impulse, Edward inserted his thumb beneath the flap and slit open the envelope. The action was quite unpremeditated, but he thought it might look suspicious to place it in his pocket unopened when he had given Uncle Jasper to believe it was his own. He seemed to have an idea that his uncle would ask to see it.

      Edward glanced at the clock, and, with a hurried good-bye, flew down the garden path, the open envelope still in his hand. On turning a bend of the road that hid him from view, he looked long and searchingly at it. It had been forwarded to Adderbury Cottage from Mr. Kyser's town house in Grosvenor Square, and Edward thought it strange that that should be so. Surely his housekeeper in town knew that her master was not at the cottage. Altogether Kyser's departure was rather suspicious. Edward had heard Mr. Schultz speaking to his partner the day he had left, had even heard them bid each other good-night, and now, as he thought of it, he remembered Schultz making an appointment for the next day. Looking at the affair squarely, it came home to Edward that Kyser's departure was hurried, not to say suspicious, and was even unknown to his housekeeper and his partner.

      Suppose the owner of Adderbury Cottage had committed some crime, the police might even now be there after him. Self-preservation told Edward that he should read the contents of the envelope he held in his hand. Any information that showed light upon the situation it was clearly to his interest to know.

      By this time he was walking rapidly down Clay Hill leading to the village of Bushey. He passed through the straggling High Street, past the old church, and descended the further hill into Watford. He was still holding in his hand the letter. At eleven o'clock he entered the smoking-room of the Rose and Crown, and having ordered a small Bass, drew a sheet of paper from the envelope that had been forwarded to Mr. Kyser from his town house in Grosvenor Square.

      "19, WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET,

       "NEW YORK CITY,

       "U.S.A.

      "To Sydney Kyser, Esq.

      "MY DEAR OLD FRIEND,

      "You will be surprised to hear from me again after so long a lapse, but many things—ill-health among

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