NEW LIGHTS.
A few days later 'Jos. Larkin, Esq., The Lodge, Gylingden,' received from
London a printed form, duly filled in, and with the official signature
attached, informing him that enquiry having been instituted in
consequence of his letter, no result had been obtained.
The hiatus in his correspondence caused Mr. Larkin extreme uneasiness. He
had a profound distrust of Captain Lake. In fact, he thought him capable
of everything. And if there should turn out to be anything not quite
straight going on at the post-office of Gylingden—hitherto an
unimpeached institution—he had no doubt whatsoever that that dark and
sinuous spirit was at the bottom of it.
Still it was too prodigious, and too hazardous to be probable; but the
captain had no sort of principle, and a desperately strong head. There
was not, indeed, when they met yesterday, the least change or
consciousness in the captain's manner. That, in another man, would have
indicated something; but Stanley Lake was so deep—such a mask—in him it
meant nothing.
Mr. Larkin's next step was to apply for a commissioner to come down and
investigate. But before he had time to take this step, an occurrence took
place to arrest his proceedings. It was the receipt of a foreign letter, of which the following is an exact copy:—
'VENICE: March 28.
'DEAR LARKIN,—I read a rumour of a dissolution during the recess. Keep a
bright look out. Here's three things for you:—
'1. Try and get Tom Wealdon. He is a sina que non. [Mark's Latin was
sailor-like.]
'2. Cash the enclosed order for 150l. more, for the same stake.
'3. Tell Martin the tiles I saw in August last will answer for the
cow-house; and let him put them down at once.
'In haste,
'Yours truly,
'M. WYLDER.'
Enclosed was an order on Lake for 150l.
When Larkin got this he was in his study.
'Why—why—this—positively this is the letter. How's this?'
And Mr. Larkin looked as much scared and astonished as if a spirit rose
up before him.
This is the letter—aye, this is the letter.'
He repeated this from time to time as he turned it over and looked at the
postmark, and back again at the letter, and looked up at the date, and
down at the signature, and read the note through.
'Yes, this is it—here it is—this is it. There's no doubt whatever—this
is the letter referred to in the last—Wealdon, Martin, and the 150l.
And the attorney took out his keys, looking pale and stern, like a man
about to open the door upon a horror, and unlocked his safe, and took out
the oft-consulted and familiar series—letters tied up and bearing the
label, 'Mark Wylder, Esq.'
'Aye, here it is, Genoa, 20th, and this, Venice, 28th. Yes, the postmarks
correspond; yet the letter from Genoa, dated 20th, refers back to the
letter from Venice, written eight days later! the— Well—I can't
comprehend—how in the name of—how in the name——'
He placed the two letters on his desk, and read them over, and up and
down, and pondered darkly over them.
'It is Mark Wylder's writing—I'll swear to it. What on earth can he
mean? He can't possibly want to confuse us upon dates, as well as places, because that would simply render his letters, for purposes of business, nugatory, and there are many things he wishes attended to.'
Jos. Larkin rose from his desk, ruminating, and went to the window, and
placed the letter against the pane. I don't think he had any definite
motive in doing this, but something struck him that he had not remarked
before.
There was something different in the quality of the ink that wrote the
number of the date, 28th, from that used in the rest of the letter.
'What can that mean?' muttered Larkin, with a sort of gasp at his
discovery; and shading his eyes with his hand, he scrutinised the
numerals—'28th,' again;—'a totally different ink!
He took the previous letter, frowned on it fiercely from his rat-like
eyes, and then with an ejaculation, as like an oath as so good a man
could utter, he exclaimed,
'I have it!'
Then came a pause, and he said—
'Both alike!—blanks left when the letters were written, and the dates
filled in afterward—not the same hand I think—no, not the
same—positively a different hand.'
Then Jos. Larkin examined these mysterious epistles once more.