Free Beggar’s Choice by Patricia Wentworth Page A

you.”
    â€œGood Lord, Anna, do you really want me to believe you’ve been forging checks?”
    She nodded.
    â€œOne check—Car, it sounds worse than it is. Won’t you let me tell you about it? I—I—it’s been dreadful having no one to talk to.”
    â€œMr. Markham?” I suggested.
    â€œBobby doesn’t count.”
    I thought that was nice for Bobby, who was probably mixing himself up in a shady business because he was fool enough to be fond of her.
    â€œI want to tell you about it. You’ll listen—won’t you? You must, because it wouldn’t be fair if you didn’t. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. I thought Uncle John was dying, and I knew he’d left me everything, because he told me so himself only the week before, so I didn’t think there was any harm in my writing that check—he’d have given me the money twice over if I’d asked him for it.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you?”
    â€œBecause he was unconscious, and I couldn’t wait. I had to have the money. And now I don’t know what to do.”
    I gave her the best advice I could. She really was frightened.
    â€œThere’s only one thing you can do—make a clean breast of it.”
    â€œTo Uncle John?”
    â€œYes.”
    She sat there and looked at me for about half a minute. There wasn’t any color in her face. Then she said,
    â€œHe’d never forgive me.” She said that slowly; and then, like a flash, “You think that would play your game.”
    If she had been a man I should have struck her. Not that it’s any use anyhow—you can’t strike the beastly mind that thinks that sort of thing.
    She gave a gasp, leaned forward, and caught me by the arm.
    â€œNo—no—I didn’t mean that! Car—I didn’t mean it! Other people are like that, but not you. You’d help me out if you could. You’re trying to help me out, even if you do hate me.”
    I wasn’t going to answer that.
    â€œI’m desperate—I don’t know what I’m saying. If he knows, he’ll cut me out of his will—and I don’t know how to be poor—I’ve counted on the money always. If you were any one else, you wouldn’t help me—but you’re Car—you’ll help me, won’t you?”
    â€œYou can help yourself—I can’t.”
    â€œNo—no— no ! He wouldn’t leave me a penny, and if he doesn’t leave it to me, it will all go to charities, for he told me so. You won’t get it anyhow, Car— no , I didn’t mean that—Car, I didn’t—I don’t know what I’m saying.”
    She turned from me, caught at the doorpost with both hands, hid her face against her arm, and burst into wild weeping. It was horrible to hear her. She wasn’t pretending, she was really crying. Later on, when I touched her arm, I could feel her sleeve soaking wet with her tears. A woman crying like that makes a man feel a most awful fool, unless he can take her in his arms and comfort her—and that was just about the last thing in the world I wanted to do with Anna.
    I sat down and waited, and I didn’t say anything, because there didn’t seem to be anything to say. After a bit she quieted down, and at last she let her arms drop and moved round so that she was facing me again. She put her hands in her lap and leaned her head back against the doorpost. Her face was wet, and her eyes were shut.
    â€œI didn’t mean it,” she said.
    â€œThat’s all right.”
    â€œI know you’re not like that.”
    While she was crying I’d been thinking a bit.
    â€œLook here, Anna,” I said, “I don’t really know what you’ve been driving at with this fake advertisement business, and getting me down here, but I do know one thing—if you’ve really been up to anything with Uncle John’s check-book,