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"My friend in San Cristobel he was a cousin, in fact put me on my legs again, and after a while he helped me to begin business at San Domingo, under my present name, Peytral, which, in fact, was my mother's maiden name. There came a sudden push in trade with the United States about this time, and I went into my affairs with the more energy to distract my thoughts.
Percy Bowmore, a frequent visitor at the house of the deceased." #/ "My telegram," said Hewitt, "is plainly from a relative of this Mr. Peytral who is dead perhaps a daughter, since she speaks of being unable to leave her mother. In that case, probably an only child, since there is no other to leave." "Unless the others are too young," I suggested. "Just so," Hewitt replied.
You can see the ash still clinging to some of the shanks; and there the shanks are, lying in two groups, six and six, as they fell! Now Peytral came out in laced shoes." "But if Peytral isn't dead, where is he?" "Precisely," rejoined Hewitt, with the curious expression still in his eyes. "As you say, where is he? And as you said before, who is the dead man?
It took some time to make inquiries there, with the necessary caution, because of the number of lodgers; and then the inquiries led to nothing. It was an experience common enough in his practice, but none the less an annoying delay, and when he returned to his office he found Mr. Peytral already awaiting him.
The first visit of Percy Bowmore after this practice had begun was on Thursday, but the presence of the visitor made no difference, as Miss Peytral had expected it would. Her father rose abruptly after dinner and went off as before; and this time Mrs. Peytral, who had been brought down to dinner, displayed a singular uneasiness about him.
"Not Myatt?" I said. "After the chase " "No, not Myatt." "Catherton Hunt?" "No, nor Catherton Hunt. He had opened it in the name of Mayes!" "What! his actual name?" "His actual original name, according to Peytral.
Hewitt paused for a moment, thoughtfully. Then he said, "Mrs. Peytral is an invalid, I know, and no doubt none the better for her anxiety. But if it could be managed I should like to ask her a few questions. What do you think?" But this Miss Peytral was altogether against.
He talked English always as good as you or me; and he was always called Mr. Peytral not Monsieur, or Signor, or any o' them foreign titles. I think he was naturalised. Mrs. Peytral, she's an invalid came here an invalid, I'm told. She never comes out of her bedroom 'cept on an invalid couch, which is carried.
There's a colour-box and a sketch-book burned. Who carried a colour-box and a sketch-book? Not Peytral, or we should have heard of it from his daughter; she made a particular point of her father's evening strolls being quite aimless, so far as her knowledge or conjecture went; she knew nothing of any sketching. And another thing don't you see what those things mean?"
She had experienced the same feeling, curiously enough, on other occasions, Miss Peytral remarked, when her husband had been unwell or in difficulties, even at some considerable distance. This time the feeling was so strong that she begged Bowmore to hurry after Mr. Peytral and accompany him in his walk.
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