It was a day or two after the conversation in the swimming-bath that a
letter addressed to Bertie Heasant slid into the letter-box at his home,
and thence into the hands of his mother. Mrs. Heasant was one of those
empty-minded individuals to whom other people's affairs are perpetually
interesting. The more private they are intended to be the more acute is
the interest they arouse. She would have opened this particular letter
in any case; the fact that it was marked "private," and diffused a
delicate but penetrating aroma merely caused her to open it with headlong
haste rather than matter-of-course deliberation. The harvest of
sensation that rewarded her was beyond all expectations.
"Bertie, carissimo," it began, "I wonder if you will have the nerve to
do it: it will take some nerve, too. Don't forget the jewels. They
are a detail, but details interest me.
"Yours as ever, Clotilde."
"Your mother must not know of my existence. If questioned swear you
never heard of me."
For years Mrs. Heasant had searched Bertie's correspondence diligently
for traces of possible dissipation or youthful entanglements, and at last
the suspicions that had stimulated her inquisitorial zeal were justified
by this one splendid haul.
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