THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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showed them into the panelled parlour, which was close from lack of air, and dampy warm. All the shutters were fastened, and a choked fire smouldered in the dog-grate.
The two women sat in their usual places—Miss Asprey in the pool of lamp-light, and Miss Mack in the shadows. Both looked up as the men entered, but, before Miss Asprey could speak, Ignatius crossed to Miss Mack, and held out the envelope which Vivian Sheriff had given him.
"Yours," he said.
She looked at him with her placid smile. Her glossy face and serene light-blue eyes reminded the Rector of a china doll. Then he glanced at Miss Asprey and noticed how the veins of her hands stood out in swollen cords, as she gripped the arms of her chair.
Her tense attitude and frozen expression testified to the extremity of fear. She was waiting for a thunderbolt to crash down and destroy her.
Miss Mack took the envelope, glanced at it, and then walked to Miss Asprey's chair.
"Yours," she said.
A violent shudder ran through Miss Asprey, leaving her so still and rigid that it might have been a current of electrocution which had blasted her life.
Ignatius' acid voice bit the silence.
"I've been waiting for you to make your false step, Miss Mack. You made it when you addressed that letter to 'Miss C. Martin'. As the four sisters all possess the same initial, no resident would have made that slip."
As Miss Mack's face remained blank, he went on to explain. "Since the Martins have been abroad for two years, it is conclusive that the person who addressed that envelope, has been in the neighbourhood for less than two years. That person would naturally take it for granted that the two ladies, who are at present at the Towers, were 'Miss Martin' and 'Miss C. Martin', respectively—especially as she was not formally introduced to them."
"The letter might have been intended for anyone of them," said Miss Mack coolly. "They all brag of their bargains."
"A shrewd hit," commented Ignatius. "But—how did you know what was in their anonymous letter?"
Miss Mack made no attempt to clear herself; her calm smile proclaimed her mistress of the situation.
"Why do you come to me?" she asked. "Miss Brook is more of a stranger than me."
"Another shrewd hit. Only I happen to possess a specimen of her printing. I have just returned from London, where I submitted Miss Brook's envelope, and this one, to an expert in handwriting. He has stated definitely that Miss Brook did not address this envelope."
"Of course not," said Miss Mack, wriggling again out of the net. "She did."
She pointed to Miss Asprey, who sat in her chair, white and stiff as a dead woman.
"Can you prove this?" asked Ignatius softly.
"I can prove that she wrote the first letter—the one to herself. She started the game with herself, so that no one should suspect her. But I've got the copy of that letter in her own writing. When the people here see that, they'll know who's been sending these letters, and driving the poor Scudamores and Miss Corner to their deaths."
Again the spasm rent Miss Asprey's frozen calm. Miss Mack glanced at her employer, as she went on speaking.
"She'll be driven from the village. Everyone knows that nobody writes a letter to herself, saying she's no better than she ought to be, unless there's something underneath."
The Rector looked at Miss Asprey, expectant of her denial. To his dismay, she presented a pitiful spectacle of guilty shame. Her ivory face was crimson, her eyes were downcast, and her fingers shook as they tried to clasp the arms of her chair.
Ignatius, too, looked at her, as he spoke in a voice tinged with respect.
"As you say, Miss Mack, no one could write such a letter but Miss Asprey. It would be hopeless to try to make you understand the almost terrifying purity of a nature which holds so little of earth that she seems to belong to the Company of Angels and Archangels. Miss Asprey cannot be satisfied with less than perfection, which is impossible to human nature. She has no faults of her own, so she has burdened herself with the reflections of other people's sins."
As he listened, the Rector feared that Ignatius had exceeded the limits of credulity; no one could possibly swallow such gross flattery.
To his astonishment, however, Miss Asprey's response to the overdose was almost instantaneous. Within two sentences, she changed from a shamed culprit to her familiar composed and magnificent self.
It was so plain to him that Ignatius knew exactly how to handle the delicate situation that he gave up worrying over the outcome, and followed, with keen interest, the duel between Ignatius and Miss Mack. There was no doubt that she would be exceedingly difficult to corner, for her smiling indifference was akin to a coating of grease. She made no attempt to proclaim her innocence, but—confident that she could slip out of any grasp—she merely challenged Ignatius to prove her guilt.
"I'm glad you mentioned the draft of that first letter," said Ignatius. "I was just going to bring up the matter myself. Of course, I knew you had it...I want it, please."
"So do I," smiled Miss Mack. "Are you making me an offer?"
"Yes."
"What's your price?"
"Miss Asprey's promise not to prosecute."
"Prosecute?" Miss Mack elevated her fair brows.
"What for?"
"Blackmail."
"How do you know that? Miss Asprey has never written me any cheques, except for my salary."
The Rector feared that Ignatius had, himself, received a check. He was up against an intangible adversity he could not fight—the Spirit of the Village, which resented any advertisement of private business. The little man knew it, and his air of confidence was a shade overdone, as he appealed to Miss Asprey.
"I shall have Miss Asprey's evidence," he said, "that she has paid you sums of money, from time to time, for your silence. Her word will be taken before yours."
Miss Asprey shook her head with cold dignity.
"I'm sorry," she said, "but I prefer to do nothing in the matter."
Ignatius was silent for a minute, before he turned to Miss Mack with fresh assurance.
"In that case, Miss Mack, it rests with you to clear yourself. You can show us your Post Office Savings Book, and let us see if your deposits correspond with your salary."
Miss Mack grasped the point, for, in her turn, she shook her head.
"No," she said. "Besides, it doesn't matter. I have the copy of her letter. She doesn't want her friends to know she wrote that."
Once again the convulsive quiver tore Miss Asprey's frame. To calm her, Ignatius spoke with quiet authority.
"No one will ever know. Miss Asprey appealed to the Confessional. It should not fail her."
He turned to Miss Mack.
"This is my offer. From that tacit admission that your Bank is the Post Office, the sums that Miss Asprey has already paid you cannot exceed a certain figure. I imagine that she would prefer to write off her loss, rather than be exposed to annoyance."
Miss Asprey inclined her stately head.
"So," went on Ignatius, "she will not prosecute you. My car will take you to London tonight, and leave you at the Saint Monica Hostel for Women, where you are expected. Another good and easy situation will be found for you. We are taking into consideration the rather peculiar circumstances of your case. So Miss Asprey will continue her interest in you, but it will be passive, and not active. I warn you that there will be a certain supervision of your actions, so it will be wiser for you to be more circumspect, in the future...Isn't that a good and generous offer?"
"Yes," replied Miss Mack.
"Then,