As We Forgive Them

by William Le Queux

there no way by which this can be avoided?" she cried, dismayed."Surely my poor father's death is sufficiently painful without thissecond misfortune!"

  She spoke to me as frankly as she would have done to a brother, and Irecognised by her intense manner how, now that her suspicions wereconfirmed, she had become absolutely desperate. Amid all the luxury andsplendour of that splendid place she was a wan and lonely figure, heryoung heart torn by grief at her father's death and by a terror whichshe dare not divulge.

  There is an old and oft-repeated saying that wealth does not bringhappiness, and surely there is often a greater peace of mind and pureenjoyment of life in the cottage than in the mansion. The poor are aptto regard the rich with envy, yet it should be remembered that many aman and many a woman lolling in a luxurious carriage and served byliveried servants looks forth upon those toilers in the streets, wellknowing that the hurrying millions of what they term "the masses" arereally far happier than they. Many a disappointed, world-weary woman oftitle, often young and beautiful, would to-day gladly exchange placeswith the daughter of the people, whose life, if hard, is neverthelessfull of harmless pleasures and as much happiness as can to obtained inthis our workaday world. This allegation may sound strange, but Inevertheless declare it to be true. The possession of money may bringluxury and renown; it may enable men and women to outshine theirfellows; it may bring honour, esteem and even popularity. But what arethey all? Ask the great landowner; ask the wealthy peer; ask themillionaire. If they speak the truth they will tell you in confidencethat they are not in their hearts half so happy, nor do they enjoy lifeso much, as the small man of independent means, the man who is subjectto an abatement upon his income-tax.

  As I sat there with the dead man's daughter, endeavouring to induce herto receive the mysterious individual without open hostility, I could nothelp noticing the vivid contrast between the luxury of her surroundingsand the heavy burden of her heart.

  She suggested that the house should be sold and that she should retireto Mayvill and there live quietly in the country with Mrs. Percival, butI urged her to wait, at least for the present. It seemed a pity thatBurton Blair's splendid collection of old masters, and the finetapestries that he had bought in Spain only a few years ago, and theunique collection of early Majolica, should go to the hammer. Among themany treasures in the dining-room was Andrea del Sarto's "Holy Family,"for which Blair had given sixteen thousand five hundred pounds atChristie's, and which was considered one of the finest examples of thatgreat master. Again, the Italian Renaissance furniture, the oldMontelupo and Savona ware and the magnificent old English plate wereeach worth a fortune in themselves, and should, I contended, remainMabel's property, as they had been all bequeathed to her.

  "Yes, I know," she responded to my argument. "Everything is mine exceptthat little bag containing the sachet, which is yours, and which is sounfortunately missing."

  "You must help me to recover it," I urged. "It will be to our mutualinterests to do so."

  "Of course I will assist you in every way possible, Mr. Greenwood," washer answer. "Since you've been away in Italy I have had the housesearched from top to bottom, and have myself examined all my father'sdispatch-boxes, his two other safes, and certain places where hesometimes secreted his private papers, in order to discover whether,fearing that an attempt might be made to steal the little bag, he leftit at home. But all in vain. It certainly is not in this house."

  I thanked her for her efforts, knowing well that she had actedvigorously on my behalf, but feeling that any search within that housewas futile, and that if the secret were ever recovered it would be foundin the hands of one or other of Blair s enemies.

  Together we sat for a long time discussing the situation. The reason ofher hatred of the man Dawson she would not divulge, but this did notcause me any real surprise, for I saw in her attitude a desire toconceal some secret of her father's past. Nevertheless, after muchpersuasion, I induced her to consent to allow the man to be informed ofhis office, and to receive him without betraying the slightest sign ofannoyance or disfavour.

  This I considered a triumph of my own diplomacy. Up to a certain pointI, as her best friend in those hard, dark days bygone, possessed acomplete influence over her. But beyond that, when it became a questioninvolving her father's honour, I was entirely powerless. She was a girlof strong individuality, and like all such, was quick of penetration,and peculiarly subject to prejudice on account of her high sense ofhonour.

  She flattered me by declaring that she wished that I had been appointedher secretary, whereupon I thanked her for the compliment, butasserted--

  "Such a thing could never have been."

  "Why?"

  "Because you have told me that this fellow Dawson is coming here as amatter of right. Your father wrote that unfortunate clause in his willunder compulsion--which means, because he stood in fear of him."

  "Yes," she sighed in a low voice. "You are right, Mr. Greenwood. Quiteright. He held my father's life in his hands."

  This latter remark struck me as very strange. Could Burton Blair havebeen guilty of some nameless crime that he should fear this mysteriousone-eyed Englishman? Perhaps so. Perhaps the man Dick Dawson, who hadfor years been passing as an Italian in rural Italy, was the only livingwitness of an incident which Blair, in his prosperous days, would havegladly given a million to efface. Such, indeed, was one of the manytheories which arose within me. Yet when I recollected the bluff,good-natured honesty of Burton Blair, his sterling sincerity, hishigh-mindedness, and his anonymous charitable works for charity's sake,I crushed down all such suspicions, and determined only to respect thedead man's memory.

  The next night, just before nine o'clock, as Reggie and I were chattingover our coffee in our cosy little dining-room in Great Russell Street,Glave, our man, tapped, entered, and handed me a card.

  I sprang from my chair, as though I had received an electric shock.

  "Well! This is funny, old chap," I cried turning to my friend. "Here'sactually the man Dawson himself."

  "Dawson!" gasped the man against whom the monk had warned me. "Let'shave him in. But, by Gad! we must be careful of what we say, for, ifall is true of him, he has the cuteness of Old Nick himself."

  "Leave him to me," I said. Then turning to Glave, said, "Show thegentleman in."

  And we both waited in breathless expectancy for the appearance of theman who knew the truth concerning the carefully-guarded past of BurtonBlair, and who, for some mysterious reason, had concealed himself solong in the guise of an Italian.

  A moment later he was ushered in, and bowing to us exclaimed with asmile--

  "I suppose, gentlemen, I have to introduce myself. My name is Dawson--Richard Dawson."

  "And mine is Gilbert Greenwood," I said rather distantly. "While myfriend here is Reginald Seton."

  "I have heard of you both from our mutual friend, now unfortunatelydeceased, Burton Blair," he exclaimed; and sank slowly into thegrandfather armchair which I indicated, while I myself stood upon thehearthrug with my back to the fire in order to take a good look at him.

  He was in well-made evening clothes, over which he wore a blackovercoat, yet there was nothing about him suggestive of the man ofstrong character. He was of middle height, and his age I judged to benearly fifty. He wore gold-framed round eye-glasses with thick pebbles,through which he seemed to blink at us like a German professor, and hisgeneral aspect was that of a sedate and studious man.

  Beneath a patchy mass of grey-brown hair his forehead fell in wrinklednotches over a pair of sunken blue eyes, one of which looked upon theworld in speculative wonder, while the other was grey, cloudy, andsightless. Straggling eyebrows wandered in a curiously uncertain mannerto their meeting-place above a somewhat fleshy nose. Below the cheeksand beard and moustache blended in a colour-scheme of grey. From thesleeves of his overcoat, as he sat there before us, his lithe, brownfingers shot in and out, twisting and tapping the padded arms of thechair with nervous persistence, an
d in a manner which indicated the hightension of the man.

  "My reason for intruding upon you at this hour," he said halfapologetically, yet with a mysterious smile upon his thick lips, "isbecause I only arrived back in London this evening and discovered thatmy friend Blair has, by his will, left in my hands the control of hisdaughter's affairs."

  "Oh!" I exclaimed in pretended surprise as though it were news to me."And who has said this?"

  "I have received information privately," was his evasive answer. "Butbefore proceeding further, I thought it best to call upon you, in orderthat we might from the outset thoroughly understand each other. I knowthat both of you have been Blair's most intimate and kindest friends,while owing