As a matter of fact, he received letters both for himself and Basil, which he kept carefully concealed in an inner pocket. He had become a man of method in the crooked paths he was pursuing, and these letters, before being packed away, were placed in a wrapper, securely sealed, with written directions outside to the effect that if anything happened to him and they fell into the hands of another person they should be immediately burnt. This insured their destruction in the event of their falling into the hands of Basil, for Chaytor had implicit faith in his comrade's quixotism and chivalry, at which he laughed in his sleeve.
It has already been stated that Chaytor had made himself a master of the peculiarities of Basil's handwriting. Having served his apprenticeship in his disgraceful career in England he could now produce an imitation of Basil's hand so perfect as to deceive the most skilful of experts, who often in genuine writing make mistakes which should, but do not, confound them. Shortly after Annette and her uncle and aunt had taken their departure from Australia he wrote to Basil's uncle in England. It is not necessary to reproduce the letter; sufficient to say that it was chatty and agreeable, that it recalled reminiscences which could not but be pleasant to the old gentleman, that it abounded in affectionate allusions, and wound up with the expression of a hope that Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham would live till he was a hundred in health and happiness. There was not a word in the letter which could be construed into the begging of a favour; it was all gratitude and affection; and the writer asked whether there was any special thing in Australia which Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham would like to have. "Nothing would give me greater pleasure," said the wily correspondent, "than to obtain and send it to you in memory of dear old times. I will hunt the emu for you; I will even send you home a kangaroo. God bless you, my dear uncle! I have been a foolish fellow I know, but what is done cannot be undone, and I have only myself to blame. There, I did not intend to make the most distant allusion to anything in the past that has offended you, but it slipped out, and I can only ask your forgiveness." In a postscript the writer said that his address was the Post Office, Sydney, not, he observed, that he expected Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham to write to him or answer his letter, but there was no harm in mentioning it. It was just such a letter as would delight an old gentleman who had in his heart of hearts a warm regard for the young fellow whose conduct had displeased him. Chaytor had some real ability in him, which, developed in a straight way, would have met with its reward; but there are men who cannot walk the straight paths, and Chaytor was one of these.