Fool Errant by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online

He took it from her and went on into the study, wondering who his correspondent might be.
    The letter was signed “Brice,” or “Rice,” or some such name, and it appeared to be from the middle-aged man who wanted to buy Uncle Richard’s field-glasses. Hugo looked at a page covered with characterless copper-plate and read:
    â€œD EAR S IR ,
    â€œI am instructed to say that my client does not consider the sum you mentioned too large in view of the nature, and the value to him, of the article in question. I am therefore empowered to make you an offer of £50.
    â€œYours faithfully,”
    There followed the scrawl that might have been “Brice” or “Rice.”
    How astonishing! Fifty pounds for a pair of old field-glasses. If it had been five, Hugo would have been tempted. But fifty gave him the sensation of being out of his depth in dangerous waters; there were currents running of which he knew nothing. He put the letter away and thought that he would take a day or two before he answered it.
    It happened that he was alone when the telephone bell rang. He took up the receiver and, to his surprise, heard his own name:
    â€œIs that Mr. Ross?”
    â€œSpeaking.”
    â€œOh, Mr. Ross”—it was a man’s voice—“I rang up to ask if you had received my letter—the one in which my client made you an offer.”
    â€œYes, I’ve got the letter.”
    â€œAnd you accept my client’s offer?”
    Hugo was silent.
    â€œCome, Mr. Ross, you fixed the price yourself.”
    Hugo laughed.
    â€œIf you call that fixing it! I wasn’t serious.”
    â€œAre you not satisfied with the amount?”
    â€œIt seems to me to be a perfectly ridiculous amount,” said Hugo.
    â€œWell, well, I won’t say that my client would not raise it. He attaches great importance—Come, Mr. Ross, name your own terms—in writing. I can’t say fairer than that.” There was a click and the line went dead.
    Hugo put back the receiver. He was to name his own terms. If fifty pounds was not enough, he could have more. What sort of fool did they take him for? And who were they? For the hundredth time, what did it all mean?
    Hacker came in presently.
    â€œHe’s going to town to-morrow for a couple of days. I’m going with him, worse luck! And he says you can stay here, or go away, or do any blessed thing you please. I should clear out if I were you, or you’ll be dead of boredom by the time we get back. It’s only his temper that keeps us going. Whatever else he is, he’s not dull—is he?”
    Hugo took a look at Mr. Rice’s letter—he had decided that the name was Rice. It gave an address in north-east London. It occurred to him that he might do worse than run up to town and make some discreet inquiries about Mr. Rice. He could get a bed at his old lodgings if he wanted one. He could—yes, he thought he would go to town. But he didn’t say so to Hacker.
    About one o’clock the telephone went again. This time it was a woman speaking.
    â€œCan I speak to Mr. Hugo?”
    Hugo jumped. Who was it? It didn’t sound—and yet—
    He said, “Speaking,” and had trouble with the “p.”
    â€œIt’s me,” said the voice. “Oh—is it you? Oh, do say quickly if it is, because I can’t stop a moment—I can’t really.”
    â€œI’m Hugo Ross. Who are you?” But by now he knew that it was the girl in the lane.
    â€œI’m Loveday. You know—you carried my bag. Is your name Ross? I didn’t get that part of it—only the Hugo. It is Hugo, isn’t it? Did you get my letter—the one I sent by Gertie?”
    â€œYes, I g-got it. Look here, what does it mean?”
    â€œI can’t tell you on the telephone. I want to see you—I must see you. Can you come up to town and meet me at Waterloo, by the end platform where you go