found himself wanting the stupid fellow’s balls for it.
He called the sheriff, who offered his “complete cooperation,” though that meant nothing since there was nothing to cooperate over yet: a cheque that only Stuart remembered. He wired the Boes South African Mining Consortium, Limited, asking them please to verify, to the bank and his accountants, they had sent him a cheque (which could take weeks, they wired back) and please to send notice if and when and where it was cashed (which could take months or forever). Dead ends, dead ends, dead ends. Stuart felt buried under all he’d begun that he couldn’t bring to completion.
Then a stroke of marvelous luck that dropped his uncle, or so Stuart thought, directly into his hands.
While at a rural inn near a northerly village (where Stuart was dallying with the local baker’s wife—he found himself lately with an unholy attraction for short, sweet-faced Yorkshirewomen, the baker’s wife being the second woman in six days, though both were missing something which he hesitated to call refinement , yet that appeared to be what it was, for lack of a better word), he chanced to meet a fellow in the common room over ale who thought he knew Stuart. Or knew his name. Only it turned out not to be his name exactly. Agsyarth. The fellow was a teller at the local branch of a bank used by most of the farmers of the district. And then the branch turned out to be a branch of the York Joint-Stock Banking Company, and Stuart grew terribly interested.
It turned out, this small branch office had had a remarkable cheque come through—from a diamond mine company. Farmers didn’t see such a thing very often.
“Diamonds! Can ye fathom that? Some bloke with a name similar to yours gets big fat cheques off his mines in Africa.” The fellow shook his head.
Fifty-six pounds was a long way from fat, but Stuart talked to the man for half an hour about it, paid for all his drinks and dinner, then was at the bank the next day, laying a trap for Leonard, shoulder to shoulder with the local constabulary. He filed a complaint of criminal misconduct, intending to have the damned relative out of his hair for thirty years. Forgery. Fraud. Theft.
As it turned out, the cheque had been deposited, but the monies hadn’t cleared the clearinghouse in Leeds—the London bank of the African consortium, he suspected, was dragging its heels, having been alerted to a possible problem. Stuart wired them to let the cheque go through in hope of catching the culprit when he picked up the cash.
At which point, it became a simple matter of waiting. The sheriff’s office was across the street and down one block from the bank. A messenger was set up to watch and fetch the sheriff at the appropriate moment. When Leonard arrived, Stuart and Sheriff Bligh (the perfect name!) would be ready. Stuart himself, very quietly without so much as a valet, took up residence in the only hotel—of five rooms, three of whichhe rented just so he could have peace and quiet on either side of him—on the only high street in Hayward-on-Ames, the town where the branch bank held the account.
Then, bliss of pure blinding bliss—a sure sign he was in God’s grace—the third day of Stuart’s stay at the hotel, while sitting in the lobby, who should walk in but the lovely Miss Molly Muffin, full of smiling good humor, replete with bouncing blond curls—more of them than last time dangling out from the same plaid shawl she used to protect her head.
At first Stuart thought, no, it was wishful thinking. Because she somehow didn’t look herself. Her clothes were newer, coarser. And she had about her—the way she walked, nodded, chatted cheerfully, inquiring after a room—a kind of indomitable…confidence, yes, that was the word. Molly Muffin here wasn’t self-effacing for a moment, but rather was all bustle and aplomb in a way that simply hadn’t been there the last time he’d seen her.
Still, beneath that familiar gray
He called the sheriff, who offered his “complete cooperation,” though that meant nothing since there was nothing to cooperate over yet: a cheque that only Stuart remembered. He wired the Boes South African Mining Consortium, Limited, asking them please to verify, to the bank and his accountants, they had sent him a cheque (which could take weeks, they wired back) and please to send notice if and when and where it was cashed (which could take months or forever). Dead ends, dead ends, dead ends. Stuart felt buried under all he’d begun that he couldn’t bring to completion.
Then a stroke of marvelous luck that dropped his uncle, or so Stuart thought, directly into his hands.
While at a rural inn near a northerly village (where Stuart was dallying with the local baker’s wife—he found himself lately with an unholy attraction for short, sweet-faced Yorkshirewomen, the baker’s wife being the second woman in six days, though both were missing something which he hesitated to call refinement , yet that appeared to be what it was, for lack of a better word), he chanced to meet a fellow in the common room over ale who thought he knew Stuart. Or knew his name. Only it turned out not to be his name exactly. Agsyarth. The fellow was a teller at the local branch of a bank used by most of the farmers of the district. And then the branch turned out to be a branch of the York Joint-Stock Banking Company, and Stuart grew terribly interested.
It turned out, this small branch office had had a remarkable cheque come through—from a diamond mine company. Farmers didn’t see such a thing very often.
“Diamonds! Can ye fathom that? Some bloke with a name similar to yours gets big fat cheques off his mines in Africa.” The fellow shook his head.
Fifty-six pounds was a long way from fat, but Stuart talked to the man for half an hour about it, paid for all his drinks and dinner, then was at the bank the next day, laying a trap for Leonard, shoulder to shoulder with the local constabulary. He filed a complaint of criminal misconduct, intending to have the damned relative out of his hair for thirty years. Forgery. Fraud. Theft.
As it turned out, the cheque had been deposited, but the monies hadn’t cleared the clearinghouse in Leeds—the London bank of the African consortium, he suspected, was dragging its heels, having been alerted to a possible problem. Stuart wired them to let the cheque go through in hope of catching the culprit when he picked up the cash.
At which point, it became a simple matter of waiting. The sheriff’s office was across the street and down one block from the bank. A messenger was set up to watch and fetch the sheriff at the appropriate moment. When Leonard arrived, Stuart and Sheriff Bligh (the perfect name!) would be ready. Stuart himself, very quietly without so much as a valet, took up residence in the only hotel—of five rooms, three of whichhe rented just so he could have peace and quiet on either side of him—on the only high street in Hayward-on-Ames, the town where the branch bank held the account.
Then, bliss of pure blinding bliss—a sure sign he was in God’s grace—the third day of Stuart’s stay at the hotel, while sitting in the lobby, who should walk in but the lovely Miss Molly Muffin, full of smiling good humor, replete with bouncing blond curls—more of them than last time dangling out from the same plaid shawl she used to protect her head.
At first Stuart thought, no, it was wishful thinking. Because she somehow didn’t look herself. Her clothes were newer, coarser. And she had about her—the way she walked, nodded, chatted cheerfully, inquiring after a room—a kind of indomitable…confidence, yes, that was the word. Molly Muffin here wasn’t self-effacing for a moment, but rather was all bustle and aplomb in a way that simply hadn’t been there the last time he’d seen her.
Still, beneath that familiar gray
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