The Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley. Tracy Louis

person, or persons, may not have forgotten it."

      "Well, you must have the full story, if at all. My father was not a well-born man. Thirty years ago he was a trainer in the service of a rich East Indian merchant, Anthony Drummond, of Calcutta, who owned racehorses, and one of Drummond's daughters fell in love with him. They ran away and got married, but the marriage was a failure. She divorced him – by mutual consent, I fancy. Anyhow, I was left on his hands.

      "He went to Assam, and fell in with a tea planter named Manning, who had a big estate, but neglected it for racing. My father suddenly developed business instincts and Manning made him a partner. Unfortunately – well, that is a hard word, but it applies – my father married again – a girl of his own class; rather beneath it, in fact. Then Bob was born.

      "The old man made money, heaps of it. Manning married, but lost his wife when Sylvia came into the world. That broke him up; he drank himself to death, leaving his partner as trustee and guardian for the infant. There was a boom in tea estates; my father sold on the crest of the wave and came to London. He progressed, but Mrs. Fenley – didn't. She was just a Tommy's daughter, and never seemed to try and rise above the level of 'married quarters'.

      "I had to mind my p's and q's as a boy, I can assure you. My mother was always thrown in my teeth. Mrs. Fenley called her 'black.' It was a – lie. She was dark-skinned, as I am, but there are Cornish and Welsh folk of much darker complexion. My father, too, shared something of the same prejudice. I had to be the good boy of the family. Otherwise, I should have been turned out, neck and crop.

      "As I behaved well, he was forced to depend on me, because Bob did as he liked, with his mother always ready to aid and abet him. Then came this scrape I've spoken of. I believe Bob was being blackmailed. That's the long and the short of it. Now you know the plain, ungarbled facts. Better that they should come from me than reach you with the decorations of gossip and servants' tittle-tattle."

      The somewhat strained and metallic voice ceased. Fenley was seated at the corner of the table near the door. Seemingly yielding to that ever-present desire for movement, he pushed with his foot an armchair out of its place at the head of the table.

      Sylvia Manning had pointed out that chair to Furneaux as the one occupied by Mortimer Fenley at breakfast.

      "Is the first Mrs. Fenley dead?" said Furneaux suddenly.

      "I don't think so," said Fenley, after a pause.

      "You are not sure?"

      "No."

      "Have you ever tried to find out?"

      "No, I dare not."

      "May I ask why?"

      "If it were discovered that my mother and I were in communication I would have been given short shrift in the bank."

      "Did she marry again?"

      "I don't know."

      Again there was silence. Furneaux seemed to be satisfied that he was following a blind alley, and Winter became the inquisitor.

      "What is the name of the woman with whom your brother is mixed up?"

      "I can not tell you, but my father knew."

      "What leads you to form that opinion?"

      "Some words that passed between Bob and him last Saturday morning."

      "Where? Here?"

      "Yes, in the hall. Tomlinson heard more distinctly than I. I saw there was trouble brewing, and kept out of it – hung back, on the pretense of reading a newspaper."