ago,” he said. “I came down to breakfast and found a letter. It was not registered and the address was hand-printed. I opened it, never dreaming what it contained. Just then I was terribly rattled over Stuart – I thought head office might get to know about my borrowing money. And when I found inside the letter twenty ten-pound notes you could have knocked me out.”
“Was there any letter?”
“None. Not even ‘from a friend.’”
“Who knew about your being in debt?”
One name came instantly to Kenneth’s mind.
“You told your Margot, did you…Wentford’s niece? His real name was Lynn, by the way. Could she have sent it?”
“It was not she who drew the money, I’ll swear! I should have known her. And though she was veiled, I could recognize her again if I met her. Kingfether’s line is that no woman came; he is suggesting that the cheque was cashed by me. He even says that the cheque was out of a book which I keep in my drawer for the use of customers who come to the bank without their cheque books.”
George McKay fingered his chin, his keen eyes on his son.
“If you were in any kind of trouble you’d tell me the truth, my boy, wouldn’t you? All this worry has come through me. You’re telling me the truth now, aren’t you?”
“Yes, father.”
The older man smiled.
“Fathers have the privilege of asking ‘Are you a thief?’ without having their heads punched! And most young people do stupid things – and most old people too! Lordy! I once carried a quarter of a million bank at baccarat! Nobody would believe that, but it’s true. Come and eat, then go along and see your Margot.”
“Father, who killed that man Wentford?”
There was a twinkle in McKay’s eyes when he answered: “J G Reeder, I should think. He knows more about it than any honest man should know!”
8
When her visitor was gone, Ena opened the letter he had left with her, read a few lines of it, then threw letter and envelope into the fire. Funny, the sameness of men…they all wrote the same sort of stuff… raw stuff dressed up poetically…yet they thought they were being different from all other men. She did not resent these stereotypes of passion, nor did she feel sorry for those who used them. They were just normal experiences. She sat clasping her knees, her eyes alternately on the fire and the sleeping dog. Then she got up, dressed quickly, and, going into Gower Street, found a cab.
She was set down at a house in a fashionable Mayfair street, and a liveried footman admitted her and told her there was company. There usually was in the early evening. She found twenty men and women sitting round a green table, watching a croupier with a large green shade over his eyes. He was turning up cards in two rows, and big monies, staked in compartments marked on the green table, went into the croupier’s well or was pushed, with additions, to the fortunate winner.
The usual crowd, she noted. One pretty girl looked up and smiled, then turned her eyes quickly and significantly to the young man by her side.
Ena found the governor in his room. He was smoking alone and reading the evening newspaper when she came in.
“Shut the door,” he ordered. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing much. Only Feathers is a bit worried.” She told him why.
Mr Machfield smiled.
“Don’t you worry, my pet,” he said kindly. “There has been a murder down his way – did he tell you anything about that? I’ve just been reading about it. I should be surprised if old Reeder didn’t get to the bottom of it – clever fellow, Reeder.”
He picked up his newspaper from the floor and his cigar from the ash-tray where he had laid it.
“Rather a coincidence, wasn’t it, Ena? Feathers pickin’ on that account – Wentford’s?”
She looked at him thoughtfully.
“Was it a coincidence?” she asked. “That is what is worrying me. Did he pick on this poor man’s account because he knew that he was going to be dead in a few
“Was there any letter?”
“None. Not even ‘from a friend.’”
“Who knew about your being in debt?”
One name came instantly to Kenneth’s mind.
“You told your Margot, did you…Wentford’s niece? His real name was Lynn, by the way. Could she have sent it?”
“It was not she who drew the money, I’ll swear! I should have known her. And though she was veiled, I could recognize her again if I met her. Kingfether’s line is that no woman came; he is suggesting that the cheque was cashed by me. He even says that the cheque was out of a book which I keep in my drawer for the use of customers who come to the bank without their cheque books.”
George McKay fingered his chin, his keen eyes on his son.
“If you were in any kind of trouble you’d tell me the truth, my boy, wouldn’t you? All this worry has come through me. You’re telling me the truth now, aren’t you?”
“Yes, father.”
The older man smiled.
“Fathers have the privilege of asking ‘Are you a thief?’ without having their heads punched! And most young people do stupid things – and most old people too! Lordy! I once carried a quarter of a million bank at baccarat! Nobody would believe that, but it’s true. Come and eat, then go along and see your Margot.”
“Father, who killed that man Wentford?”
There was a twinkle in McKay’s eyes when he answered: “J G Reeder, I should think. He knows more about it than any honest man should know!”
8
When her visitor was gone, Ena opened the letter he had left with her, read a few lines of it, then threw letter and envelope into the fire. Funny, the sameness of men…they all wrote the same sort of stuff… raw stuff dressed up poetically…yet they thought they were being different from all other men. She did not resent these stereotypes of passion, nor did she feel sorry for those who used them. They were just normal experiences. She sat clasping her knees, her eyes alternately on the fire and the sleeping dog. Then she got up, dressed quickly, and, going into Gower Street, found a cab.
She was set down at a house in a fashionable Mayfair street, and a liveried footman admitted her and told her there was company. There usually was in the early evening. She found twenty men and women sitting round a green table, watching a croupier with a large green shade over his eyes. He was turning up cards in two rows, and big monies, staked in compartments marked on the green table, went into the croupier’s well or was pushed, with additions, to the fortunate winner.
The usual crowd, she noted. One pretty girl looked up and smiled, then turned her eyes quickly and significantly to the young man by her side.
Ena found the governor in his room. He was smoking alone and reading the evening newspaper when she came in.
“Shut the door,” he ordered. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing much. Only Feathers is a bit worried.” She told him why.
Mr Machfield smiled.
“Don’t you worry, my pet,” he said kindly. “There has been a murder down his way – did he tell you anything about that? I’ve just been reading about it. I should be surprised if old Reeder didn’t get to the bottom of it – clever fellow, Reeder.”
He picked up his newspaper from the floor and his cigar from the ash-tray where he had laid it.
“Rather a coincidence, wasn’t it, Ena? Feathers pickin’ on that account – Wentford’s?”
She looked at him thoughtfully.
“Was it a coincidence?” she asked. “That is what is worrying me. Did he pick on this poor man’s account because he knew that he was going to be dead in a few
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