Adventures of Martin Hewitt by Arthur Morrison

and evidently thought that after Geldard’s
reception of her allusion to correspondence with Emma Trennatt—which
she seemed to regard as final and conclusive confirmation of all her
jealousies—I should take the case in hand at once. When she found me
still disinclined she gave me a trifling sample of her rhetoric, as no doubt
commonly supplied to Mr. Geldard. She said in effect that she had only come
to me because she meant having the best assistance possible, but that she
didn’t think much of me after all, and one man was as bad as another, and so
on. I think she was a trifle angrier because I remained calm and civil. And
she went away this time without the least reference to a consultation fee one
way or another.”
    I laughed. “Probably,” I said, “she went off to some agent who’ll watch as
long as she likes to pay.”
    “Quite possibly.” But we were quite wrong. Hewitt took his hat and we made
for the staircase. As we opened the landing-door there were hurried feet on
the stairs below, and as it shut behind Mrs. Geldard’s bonnet-load of pink
flowers hove up before us. She was in a state of fierce alarm and excitement
that had oddly enough something of triumph in it, as of the woman who says,
“I told you so.” Hewitt gave a tragic groan under his breath.
    “Here’s a nice state of things I’m in for now, Mr. Hewitt,” she began
abruptly, “through your refusing to do anything for me while there was time,
though I was ready to pay you well as I told your young man but no you
wouldn’t listen to anything and seemed to think you knew my business better
than I could tell you and now you’ve caused this state of affairs by delay
perhaps you’ll take the case in hand now?”
    “But you haven’t told me what has happened—” Hewitt began, whereat
the lady instantly rejoined, with a shrill pretence of a laugh, “Happened?
Why what do you suppose has happened after what I have told you over and over
again? My precious husband’s gone clean away, that’s all. He’s deserted me
and gone nobody knows where. That’s what’s happened. You said that if he did
anything of that sort you’d take the case up; so now I’ve come to see if
you’ll keep your promise. Not that it’s likely to be of much use now.”
    We turned back into Hewitt’s private office and Mrs. Geldard told her
story. Disentangled from irrelevances, repetitions, opinions and incidental
observations, it was this. After the quarrel Geldard had gone to business as
usual and had not been seen nor heard of since. After her yesterday’s
interview with Hewitt Mrs. Geldard had called at her husband’s office and
found it shut as before. She went home again and waited, but he never
returned home that evening, nor all night. In the morning she had gone to the
office once more, and finding it still shut had told the caretaker that her
husband was missing and insisted on his bringing his own key and opening it
for her inspection. Nobody was there, and Mrs. Geldard was astonished to find
folded and laid on a cupboard shelf the entire suit of clothes that her
husband had worn when he left home on the morning of the previous day. She
also found in the waste paper basket the fragments of two or three envelopes
addressed to her husband, which she brought for Hewitt’s inspection. They
were in the handwriting of the girl Trennatt, and with them Mrs. Geldard had
discovered a small fragment of one of the letters, a mere scrap, but
sufficient to show part of the signature “Emma,” and two or three of a row of
crosses running beneath, such as are employed to represent kisses. These
things she had brought with her.
    Hewitt examined them slightly and then asked, “Can I have a photograph of
your husband, Mrs. Geldard?”
    She immediately produced, not only a photograph of her husband, but also
one of the girl Trennatt, which she said belonged to the cook. Hewitt
complimented her on her foresight.