Now she is done for I almost pity her. You did it very well,
you wicked boy, the servants all think it was suicide, and there will
be no fuss. Better not touch the jewels till after the inquest.
"Clotilde."
Anything that Mrs. Heasant had previously done in the way of outcry was
easily surpassed as she raced upstairs and beat frantically at her son's
door.
"Miserable boy, what have you done to Dagmar?"
"It's Dagmar now, is it?" he snapped; "it will be Geraldine next."
"That it should come to this, after all my efforts to keep you at home of
an evening," sobbed Mrs. Heasant; "it's no use you trying to hide things
from me; Clotilde's letter betrays everything."
"Does it betray who she is?" asked Bertie; "I've heard so much about her,
I should like to know something about her home-life. Seriously, if you
go on like this I shall fetch a doctor; I've often enough been preached
at about nothing, but I've never had an imaginary harem dragged into the
discussion."
"Are these letters imaginary?" screamed Mrs. Heasant; "what about the
jewels, and Dagmar, and the theory of suicide?"
No solution of these problems was forthcoming through the bedroom door,
but the last post of the evening produced another letter for Bertie, and
its contents brought Mrs.
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