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Updated: May 3, 2025
"And you would like me to take him the papers and see that he does it?" "And bring them back again with you," he whispered, screwing up his eyes into a shrewd grimace. "And bring them back again with me," repeated the secretary. "I understand perfectly." Shorthouse knew from unfortunate experience more than a little of the horrors of blackmail.
This, of course, settled it, for Shorthouse had no pretensions to being other than a very ordinary young man, and an appeal to his vanity was irresistible. He agreed to go.
When they entered the front drawing-room it was plain that the folding doors had been closed half a minute before. Without hesitation Shorthouse opened them. He almost expected to see someone facing him in the back room; but only darkness and cold air met him. They went through both rooms, finding nothing unusual.
My house would be ruined if they told all, and I'd sue for damages." They reached the bedroom, and the woman went in and pulled up the edge of the carpet where Shorthouse had seen the blood soaking in the previous night. "Look thar, if you feel like it," said the old hag.
Most of his characters, however, are so overdrawn and caricatured as to be hardly true to life. In the "Romance of John Inglesant," by J. H. Shorthouse, we have a remarkable picture of an unusually gifted youth, who played an important role in the days of Cromwell and King Charles, and who was long poised in soul between the Church of Rome and the English party.
There's a bitter storm outside, and you don't put me out at all. On the contrary it's a great pleasure. I have so little contact with the outside world that it's really a god-send to have you." The man's face changed as he spoke. His manner was cordial and sincere. Shorthouse began to feel ashamed of his doubts and to read between the lines of his employer's warning.
If Shorthouse was afraid already, what in the world was to happen to me in the long hours that lay ahead? . . . I only know that, in my fierce efforts to deny to myself the evidence of his partial collapse, the strength came that enabled me to play my part properly, and I even found myself helping him by means of animated remarks upon his stories, and by more or less judicious questions.
He made a sort of deprecating bow by way of reply. Then he blew out the taper and went out, closing the door noiselessly behind him. Shorthouse was alone. He felt relieved. There was an air of obsequious insolence about the old Jew that was very offensive. He began to take note of his surroundings.
"I'm putting the papers back," Shorthouse said quietly; "you've done with them, I think." "Certainly," he replied as, completely deceived, he saw the blue envelope disappear into the black bag and watched Shorthouse turn the key. "They no longer have the slightest interest for me."
A second later there was a lurching from the table on to the floor and against the partition that separated the rooms. The bed quivered an instant at the shock, but the unholy spell was lifted from his soul and Jim Shorthouse sprang out of bed and across the floor in a single bound. He knew that ghastly murder had been done the murder by a father of his son.
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