The Woman With One Hand
Copyright© 2024 by Richard Marsh
Chapter 3: The Man in the Doorway
I called at Messrs. Cleaver and Caxton’s to ask what I should do with the four five-pound notes which had arrived in the letter. The individual who had taken me to the hotel was the only person in the office. It seemed, from his own statement, that he was Mr. Cleaver, the senior partner. When he learned why I had come, he laughed.
“Do with them? Why, spend them, or throw them into the river, or give them to me.”
I hesitated. The truth is, the situation threatened to become too complicated. I had an uneasy consciousness that the something which James Southam was to hear of might be something to his exceeding disadvantage. I had heard enough of that sort of thing of late. I did not wish to stand in somebody else’s shoes for the sake of hearing more. I resolved to have some sort of understanding with Mr. Cleaver.
“Who is Duncan Rothwell? Is he the client for whom you are acting?”
Mr. Cleaver was occupying himself in tearing a piece of paper into tiny shreds with his fingers. He replied to my question with another. “Why do you ask?”
“Because the signature attached to the letter which brought the bank-notes is Duncan Rothwell; and, as to my knowledge, I know no Duncan Rothwell, I should like to know who Duncan Rothwell is.”
“Do you mind my looking at the letter?”
I did not mind. I let him look at it. He read it through.
“If you will take a hint from me, Mr. Southam, I think I should advise you to restrain your not unnatural curiosity, and wait for things to take their course.”
“But, unless I am careful, I may find myself in a false position. I may not be the required James Southam. In fact, I don’t mind telling you that I don’t believe I am. I am acquainted with no Duncan Rothwell. His whole letter is double Dutch to me. There may be dozens of James Southams about.”
“Recent inhabitants of Dulborough? I thought Dulborough was a mere hamlet.”
“So it is.”
“How long did you live there?”
“I was born and bred in the place.”
“Have you any relatives of your own name?”
“I have not a relative in the world.”
“If, as you say, you were born and bred in such a place as Dulborough, I presume that you had some knowledge of the inhabitants?’
“I believe I knew something of every creature in all the country side.”
“And did you know anything of another James Southam?”
“That is the queer part of it. So far as I know, I was the only Southam thereabouts.”
Mr. Cleaver laughed.
“According to your own statement, it appears that, to put it mildly, there is at least a possibility of your being the James Southam we have been instructed to find. Frankly, Mr. Southam, we know very little more about the matter than you do yourself. We have simply been instructed to discover the present address of James Southam, at one time of Dulborough, and we have done so.”
“Is that the case?”
From their manner the day before I had suspected that Messrs. Cleaver and Caxton might be merely, as it were, lay figures, and that it was somebody else who held the strings.
“There is something else I should like to mention: I wish to change my hotel.” Mr. Cleaver stared.
“Change your hotel? Why? Isn’t it good enough?”
“It is not that exactly. It is the domestic arrangements which are not to my taste.”
“The domestic arrangements? What do you mean?”
I did not know how to explain; or rather, I did not know how much to explain.
“What do you know of Mrs. Barnes’s husband?”
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