The Old Man in the Corner | Page 3

fortune by trading in furs.
"Now, mind you, every one knows Smethurst, the Siberian millionaire.
Kershaw's story that he had once been called Barker, and had
committed a murder thirty years ago, was never proved, was it? I am
merely telling you what Kershaw said to his friend the German and to
his wife on that memorable afternoon of December the 10th.
"According to him Smethurst had made one gigantic mistake in his
clever career--he had on four occasions written to his late friend,
William Kershaw. Two of these letters had no bearing on the case,
since they were written more than twenty-five years ago, and Kershaw,
moreover, had lost them--so he said--long ago. According to him,
however, the first of these letters was written when Smethurst, alias
Barker, had spent all the money he had obtained from the crime, and
found himself destitute in New York.
"Kershaw, then in fairly prosperous circumstances, sent him a £10 note
for the sake of old times. The second, when the tables had turned, and
Kershaw had begun to go downhill, Smethurst, as he then already
called himself, sent his whilom friend £50. After that, as Müller
gathered, Kershaw had made sundry demands on Smethurst's
ever-increasing purse, and had accompanied these demands by various
threats, which, considering the distant country in which the millionaire
lived, were worse than futile.
"But now the climax had come, and Kershaw, after a final moment of
hesitation, handed over to his German friend the two last letters
purporting to have been written by Smethurst, and which, if you
remember, played such an important part in the mysterious story of this
extraordinary crime. I have a copy of both these letters here," added the

man in the corner, as he took out a piece of paper from a very worn-out
pocket-book, and, unfolding it very deliberately, he began to read:--
"'Sir,--Your preposterous demands for money are wholly unwarrantable.
I have already helped you quite as much as you deserve. However, for
the sake of old times, and because you once helped me when I was in a
terrible difficulty, I am willing to once more let you impose upon my
good nature. A friend of mine here, a Russian merchant, to whom I
have sold my business, starts in a few days for an extended tour to
many European and Asiatic ports in his yacht, and has invited me to
accompany him as far as England. Being tired of foreign parts, and
desirous of seeing the old country once again after thirty years' absence,
I have decided to accept his invitation. I don't know when we may
actually be in Europe, but I promise you that as soon as we touch a
suitable port I will write to you again, making an appointment for you
to see me in London. But remember that if your demands are too
preposterous I will not for a moment listen to them, and that I am the
last man in the world to submit to persistent and unwarrantable
blackmail.
'I am, sir, 'Yours truly, 'Francis Smethurst.'
"The second letter was dated from Southampton," continued the old
man in the corner calmly, "and, curiously enough, was the only letter
which Kershaw professed to have received from Smethurst of which he
had kept the envelope, and which was dated. It was quite brief," he
added, referring once more to his piece of paper.
"'Dear Sir,--Referring to my letter of a few weeks ago, I wish to inform
you that the Tsarskoe Selo will touch at Tilbury on Tuesday next, the
10th. I shall land there, and immediately go up to London by the first
train I can get. If you like, you may meet me at Fenchurch Street
Station, in the first-class waiting-room, in the late afternoon. Since I
surmise that after thirty years' absence my face may not be familiar to
you, I may as well tell you that you will recognize me by a heavy
Astrakhan fur coat, which I shall wear, together with a cap of the same.
You may then introduce yourself to me, and I will personally listen to
what you may have to say.

'Yours faithfully, 'Francis Smethurst.'
"It was this last letter which had caused William Kershaw's excitement
and his wife's tears. In the German's own words, he was walking up and
down the room like a wild beast, gesticulating wildly, and muttering
sundry exclamations. Mrs. Kershaw, however, was full of apprehension.
She mistrusted the man from foreign parts--who, according to her
husband's story, had already one crime upon his conscience--who might,
she feared, risk another, in order to be rid of a dangerous enemy.
Woman-like, she thought the scheme a dishonourable one, for the law,
she knew, is severe on the blackmailer.
"The assignation might be a cunning