It was there, Bertie! Almost the very first
one that I opened was the identical one from which
Cullingworth was quoting in which my mother had described
him in those rather forcible terms.
Well, this made me sit down and gasp. I am, I think,
one of the most unsuspicious men upon earth, and through
a certain easy-going indolence of disposition I never
even think of the possibility of those with whom I am
brought in contact trying to deceive me. It does not
occur to me. But let me once get on that line of
thought--let me have proof that there is reason for
suspicion--and then all faith slips completely away from
me. Now I could see an explanation for much which had
puzzled me at Bradfield. Those sudden fits of ill
temper, the occasional ill-concealed animosity of
Cullingworth--did they not mark the arrival of each of my
mother's letters? I was convinced that they did. He had
read them then--read them from the pockets of the little
house coat which I used to leave carelessly in the hall
when I put on my professional one to go out. I could
remember, for example, how at the end of his illness his
manner had suddenly changed on the very day when
that final letter of my mother's had arrived. Yes, it
was certain that he had read them from the beginning.
But a blacker depth of treachery lay beyond. If he
had read them, and if he had been insane enough to think
that I was acting disloyally towards him, why had he not
said so at the time? Why had he contented himself with
sidelong scowls and quarrelling over trivialities--
breaking, too, into forced smiles when I had asked him
point blank what was the matter? One obvious reason was
that he could not tell his grievance without telling also
how he had acquired his information.
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