Traces of the Departed

By Maria Quintero

"Traces of the Departed" is a remarkable book where each page serves as a window into the world of the past. Within its pages, you'll encounter mysterious and enigmatic stories inspired by remnants of the past - the relics left behind by those who have departed.

From old letters to faded photographs, from ancient honor rolls to fragments o

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maria Quintero
• Release date: Jun 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9798330209439

Book preview

Traces of the Departed

By Maria Quintero

CHAPTER I.

At an early hour on the day Valentine Hawkehurst sent a telegraph to his employer, Philip Sheldon arrived once again at the dingy office door in Gray's Inn.

The dingy door was opened by an even dingier boy; and Mr. Sheldon the elder—who perpetually seemed to be in a hurry and usually had a hansom cab waiting for him at every step of his journey—was vexed to find his brother was out.

Out! he repeated with supreme disgust. He always is out, I think. Where can he be found?

The boy replied that his master would be back in half an hour if Mr. Sheldon wanted to wait.

Like to wait! cried the stockbroker. When will lawyers' clerks learn that nobody on this earth ever likes to wait? Where's your master gone?

I think he's just slipped round into Holborn, sir, the boy replied, with some hesitation. He knew well that George had secrets from his brother and that it was not wise to be too open with the elder gentleman. But Philip’s black eyes and white teeth were intimidating, and if Philip questioned him, he had to tell the truth, not having been provided with any convenient falsehood by his master in case of inquiry.

What part of Holborn? asked Philip sharply.

I did hear tell as it was the telegraph office.

Good! exclaimed Mr. Sheldon; and then he dashed downstairs, leaving the boy staring after him in wonder.

The telegraph office meant business; and any business of his brother's was of interest to Mr. Sheldon at this particular time. He had pondered the meaning of George's triumphant smile in the calm of his own office; and the more he pondered, the more convinced he became that his brother was involved in some very deep and profitable scheme that he had to uncover.

With this idea in mind, Mr. Sheldon returned to the hansom-cab waiting at the end of Warwick-court and headed to the telegraph office. The reason for his visit to Gray's Inn was sufficient excuse to follow his brother's trail. It was one of those disreputable bits of business the elder sometimes threw the younger’s way.

As the hansom's wheel ground against the kerbstone in front of the telegraph office, George Sheldon's figure disappeared into a small court to the left of the building. Instead of pursuing his brother, Philip Sheldon walked straight into the office.

It was empty. There was no one in any of the shaded compartments, painfully suggestive of pecuniary distress and the discreet hypothecation of portable property. A sound of rattling and bumping from an inner office indicated the presence of a clerk, but in the office itself, Mr. Sheldon was alone.

On the blotting pad on the counter of the central partition, the stockbroker noticed a large blot of ink, still moist. He touched it with the tip of his square forefinger to confirm its freshness, then proceeded to scrutinize the blotting paper. Philip Sheldon was not a man who hesitated. His greatest successes in the money market had often resulted from his ability to make prompt decisions. Today, he picked up the blotting pad and examined the half-formed syllables stamped upon it with the same calmness and focus as if he were in his own office reading his newspaper. A hesitant man would have looked around for an opportunity and missed it. Philip knew better than to waste his chances with unnecessary caution. He absorbed all the information the blotting pad could offer before the clerk emerged from the inner office where the rattling and stamping had been taking place.

I thought as much, he muttered, recognizing traces of his brother's sprawling penmanship on the pad. The message had been written with a heavy hand and a spongy quill, leaving a reasonably clear impression on the blotting paper.

Some words stood out boldly; in other places, there was only one decipherable letter among a few broken hieroglyphics. Mr. Sheldon, accustomed to examining very illegible documents, managed to decipher enough of the impression. If he couldn't read the