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"Poor devil, I'm damned if I don't do it for him!" said Betton, sitting down at his desk. Three or four days later he sent word to Vyse that he didn't care to go over the letters any longer, and that they would once more be carried directly to the library. The next time he lounged in, on his way to his morning ride, he found his secretary's pen in active motion.
"Ye-es," said Tibby, and then held his mouth open in a curious quiver, as if he, too, had thoughts of Mr. Vyse, had seen round, through, over, and beyond Mr. Vyse, had weighed Mr. Vyse, grouped him, and finally dismissed him as having no possible bearing on the subject under discussion. That bleat of Tibby's infuriated Helen.
As she was dozing off, a cry the cry of nightmare rang from Lucy's room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek. "I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse it is these dreams." "Bad dreams?" "Just dreams."
"Yes that is, if I'm to sign your name." "Oh, of course: I expect you to sign for me. As for the tone, say just what you'd well, say all you can without encouraging them to answer." Vyse rose from his seat. "I could submit a few specimens," he suggested. "Oh, as to that you always wrote better than I do," said Betton handsomely. "I've never had this kind of thing to write.
Vyse most," said Tibby faintly, and leant so far back in his chair that he extended in a horizontal line from knees to throat. "And don't think I'm not serious because I don't use the traditional arguments making money, a sphere awaiting you, and so on all of which are, for various reasons, cant." She sewed on. "I'm only your sister. I haven't any authority over you, and I don't want to have any.
Vyse most," said Tibby faintly, and leant so far back in his chair that he extended in a horizontal line from knees to throat. "And don't think I'm not serious because I don't use the traditional arguments making money, a sphere awaiting you, and so on all of which are, for various reasons, cant." She sewed on. "I'm only your sister. I haven't any authority over you, and I don't want to have any.
And I believe they're all written by one man." Burton's redness turned to a purple that made his ruddy moustache seem pale. "What the devil are you driving at?" he asked. "Well, just look at it," Vyse persisted, still bent above the letters. "I've been studying them carefully those that have come within the last two or three weeks and there's a queer likeness in the writing of some of them.
This was the confession that, reluctantly, yet with a kind of white-lipped bravado, he flung at Betton in answer to the latter's tentative suggestion that, really, the letter-answering job wasn't worth bothering him with a thing that any type-writer could do. "If you mean you're paying me more than it's worth, I'll take less," Vyse rushed out after a pause.
Betton seemed for an instant to share his secretary's embarrassment; then he burst into an uproarious laugh. "Hoax, was it? That's rough on you, old fellow!" Vyse shrugged his shoulders. "Yes; but the interesting question is why on earth didn't your answer come back, too?" "My answer?" "The official one the one I wrote in your name. If she's unknown, what's become of that?"
He was always mixed up with some woman, and it was just like him to send the girl of the moment to Betton's lodgings, with instructions to force the door in his absence. Vyse had never been remarkable for delicacy.
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