The Borough Treasurer | Page 6

which Cotherstone desired for Lettie; he would
die more than happy if he could once hear her called Your Ladyship.
And now here was--this!
Cotherstone sat there a long time, thinking, reflecting, reckoning up
things. The dusk had come; the darkness followed; he made no
movement towards the gas bracket. Nothing mattered but his trouble.
That must be dealt with. At all costs, Kitely's silence must be
purchased--aye, even if it cost him and Mallalieu one-half of what they
had. And, of course, Mallalieu must be told--at once.
A tap of somebody's knuckles on the door of the private room roused
him at last, and he sprang up and seized a box of matches as he bade
the person without to enter. The clerk came in, carrying a sheaf of
papers, and Cotherstone bustled to the gas.
"Dear me!" he exclaimed. "I've dropped off into a nod over this warm
fire, Stoner. What's that--letters?"
"There's all these letters to sign, Mr. Cotherstone, and these three
contracts to go through," answered the clerk. "And there are those
specifications to examine, as well."
"Mr. Mallalieu'll have to see those," said Cotherstone. He lighted the
gas above his desk, put the decanter and the glasses aside, and took the
letters. "I'll sign these, anyhow," he said, "and then you can post 'em as
you go home. The other papers'll do tomorrow morning."
The clerk stood slightly behind his master as Cotherstone signed one
letter after the other, glancing quickly through each. He was a young
man of twenty-two or three, with quick, observant manners, a keen eye,
and a not handsome face, and as he stood there the face was bent on
Cotherstone with a surmising look. Stoner had noticed his employer's
thoughtful attitude, the gloom in which Cotherstone sat, the decanter on
the table, the glass in Cotherstone's hand, and he knew that Cotherstone
was telling a fib when he said he had been asleep. He noticed, too, the
six sovereigns and the two or three silver coins lying on the desk, and

he wondered what had made his master so abstracted that he had
forgotten to pocket them. For he knew Cotherstone well, and
Cotherstone was so particular about money that he never allowed even
a penny to lie out of place.
"There!" said Cotherstone, handing back the batch of letters. "You'll be
going now, I suppose. Put those in the post. I'm not going just yet, so
I'll lock up the office. Leave the outer door open--Mr. Mallalieu's
coming back."
He pulled down the blinds of the private room when Stoner had gone,
and that done he fell to walking up and down, awaiting his partner. And
presently Mallalieu came, smoking a cigar, and evidently in as good
humour as usual.
"Oh, you're still here?" he said as he entered. "I--what's up?"
He had come to a sudden halt close to his partner, and he now stood
staring at him. And Cotherstone, glancing past Mallalieu's broad
shoulder at a mirror, saw that he himself had become startlingly pale
and haggard. He looked twenty years older than he had looked when he
shaved himself that morning.
"Aren't you well?" demanded Mallalieu. "What is it?"
Cotherstone made no answer. He walked past Mallalieu and looked
into the outer office. The clerk had gone, and the place was only
half-lighted. But Cotherstone closed the door with great care, and when
he went back to Mallalieu he sank his voice to a whisper.
"Bad news!" he said. "Bad--bad news!"
"What about?" asked Mallalieu. "Private? Business?"
Cotherstone put his lips almost close to Mallalieu's ear.
"That man Kitely--my new tenant," he whispered. "He's met us--you
and me--before!"

Mallalieu's rosy cheeks paled, and he turned sharply on his companion.
"Met--us!" he exclaimed. "Him! Where?--when?"
Cotherstone got his lips still closer.
"Wilchester!" he answered. "Thirty years ago. He--knows!"
Mallalieu dropped into the nearest chair: dropped as if he had been shot.
His face, full of colour from the keen air outside, became as pale as his
partner's; his jaw fell, his mouth opened; a strained look came into his
small eyes.
"Gad!" he muttered hoarsely. "You--you don't say so!"
"It's a fact," answered Cotherstone. "He knows everything. He's an
ex-detective. He was there--that day."
"Tracked us down?" asked Mallalieu. "That it?"
"No," said Cotherstone. "Sheer chance--pure accident. Recognized
us--after he came here. Aye--after all these years! Thirty years!"
Mallalieu's eyes, roving about the room, fell on the decanter. He pulled
himself out of his chair, found a clean glass, and took a stiff drink. And
his partner, watching him, saw that his hands, too, were shaking.
"That's a facer!" said Mallalieu. His voice had grown stronger, and the
colour came back to his cheeks. "A real facer! As you say--after thirty
years! It's hard--it's blessed hard! And--what does he