Daddy's Girl Part 34

Rycroft was a past master in drawing up reports of mines, and Ogilvie now helped him with a will. He found a strange pleasure in doing his work as carefully as possible. He no longer suffered from qualms of conscience. The mine would work really well for six months. During that time the promoters would make their fortunes. Afterward--the deluge. But that mattered very little to Ogilvie in his present state of mind.

"If I suffer as I have done lately from this troublesome heart of mine I shall have gone to my account before six months," thought the man; "the child will be provided for, and no one will ever know."

The report was a plausible and highly colored one.

It was lengthy in detail, and prophesied a brilliant future for Lombard Deeps. Ogilvie and Rycroft, both a.s.sayers of knowledge and experience, declared that they had carefully examined the lodes, that they had struck four veins of rich ore yielding, after crus.h.i.+ng, an average of six ounces to the ton, and that the extent and richness of the ore was practically unlimited.

They spent several days over this doc.u.ment, and at last it was finished.

"I shall take the next mail home," said Ogilvie, standing up after he had read his own words for the twentieth time.

"Sign first," replied Rycroft. He pushed the paper across to Ogilvie.

"Yes, I shall go to-morrow morning," continued Ogilvie. "The _Sahara_ sails to-morrow at noon?"

"I believe so; but sign, won't you?"

Ogilvie took up his pen; he held it suspended as he looked again at his companion.

"I shall take a berth on board at once," he said.

"All right, old chap, but sign first."

Ogilvie was about to put his signature to the bottom of the doc.u.ment, when suddenly, without the least warning, a strange giddiness, followed by intolerable pain, seized him. It pa.s.sed off, leaving him very faint. He raised his hand to his brow and looked around him in a dazed way.

"What is wrong," asked Rycroft; "are you ill?"

"I suffer from this sort of thing now and then," replied Ogilvie, bringing out his words in short gasps. "Brandy, please."

Rycroft sprang to a side table, poured out a gla.s.s of brandy, and brought it to Ogilvie.

"You look ghastly," he said; "drink."

Ogilvie raised the stimulant to his lips. He took a few sips, and the color returned to his face.

"Now sign," said Rycroft again.

"Where is the pen?" asked Ogilvie.

He was all too anxious now to take the fatal plunge. His signature, firm and bold, was put to the doc.u.ment. He pushed it from him and stood up. Rycroft hastily added his beneath that of Ogilvie's.

"Now our work is done," cried Rycroft, "and Her Majesty's mail does the rest. By the way, I cabled a brilliant report an hour back.

Grayleigh seemed anxious. There have been ominous reports in some of the London papers."

"This will set matters right," said Ogilvie. "Put it in an envelope.

If I sail to-morrow, I may as well take it myself."

"Her Majesty's mail would be best," answered Rycroft. "You can see Grayleigh almost as soon as he gets the report. Remember, I am responsible for it as well as you, and it would be best for it to go in the ordinary way." As he spoke, he stretched out his hand, took the doc.u.ment and folded it up.

Just at this moment there came a tap at the door. Rycroft cried, "Come in," and a messenger entered with a cablegram.

"For Mr. Ogilvie," he said.

"From Grayleigh, of course," said Rycroft, "how impatient he gets!

Wait outside," he continued to the messenger.

The man withdrew, and Ogilvie slowly opened the telegram. Rycroft watched him as he read. He read slowly, and with no apparent change of feature. The message was short, but when his eyes had travelled to the end, he read from the beginning right through again. Then, without the slightest warning, and without even uttering a groan, the flimsy paper fluttered from his hand, he tumbled forward, and lay in an unconscious heap on the floor.

Rycroft ran to him. He took a certain interest in Ogilvie, but above all things on earth at that moment he wanted to get the doc.u.ment which contained the false report safely into the post. Before he attempted to restore the stricken man, he took up the cablegram and read the contents. It ran as follows:--

_"Sibyl has had bad fall from pony. Case hopeless. Come home at once."_

"So Sibyl, whoever Sibyl may be, is at the bottom of Ogilvie's fall,"

thought Rycroft. "Poor chap! he has got a fearful shock. Best make all safe. I must see things through."

Without an instant's hesitation Rycroft took the already signed doc.u.ment, thrust it into an envelope, directed it in full and stamped it. Then he went to the telegraph messenger who was still waiting outside.

"No answer to the cable, but take this at once to the post-office and register it," he said; "here is money--you can keep the change."

The man departed on his errand, carrying the signed doc.u.ment.

Rycroft now bent over Ogilvie. There was a slightly blue tinge round his lips, but the rest of his face was white and drawn.

"Looks like death," muttered Rycroft. He unfastened Ogilvie's collar and thrust his hand beneath his s.h.i.+rt. He felt the faint, very faint beat of the heart.

"Still living," he murmured, with a sigh of relief. He applied the usual restoratives. In a few moments Ogilvie opened his eyes.

"What has happened?" he said, looking round him in a dazed way. "Oh, I remember, I had a message from London."

"Yes, old fellow, don't speak for a moment."

"I must get back at once; the child----"

"All right, you shall go in the _Sahara_ to-morrow."

"But the doc.u.ment," said Ogilvie, "it--isn't needed; I want it back."

"Don't trouble about it now."

Ogilvie staggered to his feet.

"You don't understand. I did it because--because of one who will not need it. I want it back."

"Too late," said Rycroft, then. "That doc.u.ment is already in the post.

Come, you must pull yourself together for the sake of Sibyl, whoever she is."