The Greatest Works of Anna Katharine Green. Анна Грин

I only learned that he was observed, by more than one, to hasten out of the dining-room with the Post in his hand, and go immediately to his room without touching his dinner.”

      “Humph! that does not look—-”

      “If Mr. Clavering had had a guilty knowledge of the crime, he would either have ordered dinner before opening the paper, or, having ordered it, he would have eaten it.”

      “Then you do not believe, from what you have learned, that Mr. Clavering is the guilty party?”

      Mr. Gryce shifted uneasily, glanced at the papers protruding from my coat pocket and exclaimed: “I am ready to be convinced by you that he is.”

      That sentence recalled me to the business in hand. Without appearing to notice his look, I recurred to my questions.

      “How came you to know that Mr. Clavering was in this city last summer? Did you learn that, too, at the Hoffman House?”

      “No; I ascertained that in quite another way. In short, I have had a communication from London in regard to the matter.

      “From London?”

      “Yes; I’ve a friend there in my own line of business, who sometimes assists me with a bit of information, when requested.”

      “But how? You have not had time to write to London, and receive an answer since the murder.”

      “It is not necessary to write. It is enough for me to telegraph him the name of a person, for him to understand that I want to know everything he can gather in a reasonable length of time about that person.”

      “And you sent the name of Mr. Clavering to him?”

      “Yes, in cipher.”

      “And have received a reply?”

      “This morning.”

      I looked towards his desk.

      “It is not there,” he said; “if you will be kind enough to feel in my breast pocket you will find a letter——”

      It was in my hand before he finished his sentence. “Excuse my eagerness,” I said. “This kind of business is new to me, you know.”

      He smiled indulgently at a very old and faded picture hanging on the wall before him. “Eagerness is not a fault; only the betrayal of it. But read out what you have there. Let us hear what my friend Brown has to tell us of Mr. Henry Ritchie Clavering, of Portland Place, London.”

      I took the paper to the light and read as follows:

      “Henry Ritchie Clavering, Gentleman, aged 43. Born in

      ——, Hertfordshire, England. His father was Chas. Clavering, for

       short time in the army. Mother was Helen Ritchie, of Dumfriesshire,

       Scotland; she is still living. Home with H. R. C., in Portland Place,

       London. H. R. C. is a bachelor, 6 ft. high, squarely built, weight

       about 12 stone. Dark complexion, regular features. Eyes dark brown;

       nose straight. Called a handsome man; walks erect and rapidly. In

       society is considered a good fellow; rather a favorite, especially with

       ladies. Is liberal, not extravagant; reported to be worth about

       5000 pounds per year, and appearances give color to this statement.

       Property consists of a small estate in Hertfordshire, and some funds,

       amount not known. Since writing this much, a correspondent sends the

       following in regard to his history. In ‘46 went from uncle’s house to

       Eton. From Eton went to Oxford, graduating in ‘56. Scholarship good. In

       1855 his uncle died, and his father succeeded to the estates. Father

       died in ‘57 by a fall from his horse or a similar accident. Within a

       very short time H. R. C. took his mother to London, to the residence

       named, where they have lived to the present time.

       “Travelled considerably in 1860; part of the time was with

      ——, of Munich; also in party of Vandervorts from New York; went

       as far east as Cairo. Went to America in 1875 alone, but at end of

       three months returned on account of mother’s illness. Nothing is known

       of his movements while in America.

       “From servants learn that he was always a favorite from a boy. More

       recently has become somewhat taciturn. Toward last of his stay watched

       the post carefully, especially foreign ones. Posted scarcely anything

       but newspapers. Has written to Munich. Have seen, from waste-paper

       basket, torn envelope directed to Amy Belden, no address. American

       correspondents mostly in Boston; two in New York. Names not known, but

       supposed to be bankers. Brought home considerable luggage, and fitted

       up part of house, as for a lady. This was closed soon afterwards. Left

       for America two months since. Has been, I understand, travelling in the

       south. Has telegraphed twice to Portland Place. His friends hear from

       him but rarely. Letters rec’d recently, posted in New York. One by last

       steamer posted in F——, N. Y.

       “Business here conducted by ——. In the country, —— of —— has

       charge of the property.

       “BROWN.”

      The document fell from my hands.

      F——, N. Y., was a small town near R——.

      “Your friend is a trump,” I declared. “He tells me just what I wanted most to know.” And, taking out my book, I made memoranda of the facts which had most forcibly struck me during my perusal of the communication before me. “With the aid of what he tells me, I shall ferret out the mystery of Henry Clavering in a week; see if I do not.”

      “And how soon,” inquired Mr. Gryce, “may I expect to be allowed to take a hand in the game?”

      “As soon as I am reasonably assured I am upon the right tack.”

      “And what will it take to assure you of that?”

      “Not much; a certain point settled, and——”

      “Hold on; who knows but what I can do that for you?” And, looking towards the desk which stood in the corner, Mr. Gryce asked me if I would be kind enough to open the top drawer and bring him the bits of partly-burned paper I would find there.

      Hastily complying, I brought three or four strips of ragged paper, and laid them on the table at his side.

      “Another result of Fobbs’ researches under the coal on the first day of the inquest,” Mr. Gryce abruptly explained. “You thought the key was all he found. Well, it wasn’t. A second turning over of the coal brought these to light, and very interesting they are, too.”

      I immediately bent over the torn and discolored scraps with great anxiety. They were four in number, and appeared at first glance to be the mere remnants of a sheet of common writing-paper, torn lengthwise into strips, and twisted up into lighters; but, upon closer inspection, they showed traces of writing upon one side, and, what was more important still, the presence of one or more drops of spattered blood. This latter discovery was horrible to me, and so overcame me for the moment that I put the scraps down, and, turning towards Mr. Gryce, inquired: