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THE
LOUDWATER TRAGEDY



BY
T. W. SPEIGHT
AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERIES OF HERON DYKE," "HOODWINKED,"
"BACK TO LIFE," ETC.



London
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1893






CONTENTS
CHAP.
          PROLOGUE.
       I. ON THE EDGE OF A SECRET.
      II. WHO IS MRS. WINSLADE?
     III. THE SECRET TOLD.
      IV. IN WHICH MISS SUDLOW SPEAKS HER MIND.
       V. A FAMILY CONFERENCE AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
      VI. IN WHICH MISS SUDLOW HAS HER WAY.
     VII. PERSONAL TO PHIL.
    VIII. PHIL TAKES UP THE TRAIL AFRESH.
      IX. A DEADLOCK.
       X. UNCHRISTIAN CHARITY.
      XI. FANNY AT LOUDWATER HOUSE.
     XII. MRS. MELRAY THE YOUNGER IN A NEW LIGHT.
    XIII. MRS. MELRAY'S STATEMENT.
     XIV. THE STATEMENT CONCLUDED.
      XV. A SCRAP OF PAPER.
      XVI. A FRESH LINE OF INQUIRY.
    XVII. "A MAN I AM, CROSS'D WITH ADVERSITY."
   XVIII. AN UNLOOKED-FOR DEVELOPMENT.
     XIX. AN UNAVOIDABLE NECESSITY.
      XX. "WE MUST SPEAK BY THE CARD."
     XXI. THE TRUTH AT LAST.
    XXII. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.






THE
LOUDWATER TRAGEDY.




PROLOGUE.
THE STORY OF THE CRIME.


12 Leighton Place, Worthing.
_Thursday_.

"My Dear Phil.--By this post I send you a copy of a certain penny
weekly journal entitled _The Family Cornucopia_, which, for lack of
something better to read, I picked up the other day at a bookstall
while on my way to the beach.

"Naturally, you will at once say to yourself (for you cannot deny,
dear, that you occasionally express yourself with somewhat unnecessary
emphasis over trifles), 'What the dickens does the girl mean by
bothering me with her trumpery penny rubbish?' Well, that is just the
point about which 'the girl' is going to enlighten you.

"Of course you have not forgotten 'The Loudwater Tragedy,' as most of
the newspapers called it at the time (although some there were who
wrote of it as the 'Merehampton Mystery'). Neither, perhaps, has it
escaped your memory how, with the object of helping to interest and
carry out of herself for a little while, a young woman who, just then,
was staying at a dull Devonshire village with the captious, but
much-to-be-pitied, invalid in whose service she was, you wrote her a
number of letters, dated from the very roof under which the tragedy in
question had been enacted, in which you recapitulated for her
information all the details of the crime as gathered by you on the
spot; nor how you sketched for her the old mansion and its inmates,
with the view from its windows, and all the quaint features of the
sleepy little seaport, so that, after a time, she could almost have
persuaded herself that what you had written formed a part of her
personal experiences. If you have forgotten those letters, I have not.
Yesterday I refreshed my memory by reading them again, and the reason
I did so is this.

"In the periodical I am sending you there is an article extending over
five pages, entitled, 'How, and Why' which, strange to say, not merely
seems to be based on the Loudwater Tragedy, but, under the guise of
fiction, tells the story of the crime down to its minutest details;
and not only does that, but, with almost photographic fidelity, limns
for its readers the portraits of the various persons who were in any
way mixed up with that mysterious affair.

"But the writer of 'How, and Why'--he or she, as the case may be--does
more, much more, than merely retell the story of the crime and
describe the people who had to do with it. The article in question
purports to be the confession of the murderer of Mr. Melray, written
on the eve of his suicide, and professes to trace, step by step, how
he was led on to the commission of the crime, and, in point of fact,
sets the whole affair in an entirely fresh and startling light. To
prove to you that this is so, it will only be necessary to say that
the writer of the confession describes himself as having been a lover,
before her marriage, of the old merchant's 'girl-wife,' and that it
was owing to his inadvertently interrupting an assignation between the
young people that 'Mr. Melville' came by his death. High words passed
between the elder man and the younger; there was a scuffle; a blow was
given in the heat of passion, and in a moment the irrevocable deed was
done. I have omitted to say that, according to the story, after the
police have given up the case as hopeless, suspicion unexpectedly
attaches itself to the head-clerk, (who figures as 'Mr. Day'), and
that, in the result, circumstantial evidence is brought to bear
against him sufficiently strong to ensure his conviction on the
capital charge. It is after 'Mr. Day' is left for execution that the
writer of the confession--who, although he acknowledges to the crime
of which he has been guilty, is careful to impress upon his readers
that he is not without his fine qualities--overcome by remorse,
determines to avow the truth and thereby save the life of an innocent
man, albeit at the expense of his own. He pens a farewell message to
the 'Ernestine' of the story--that is to say, to the murdered man's
widow--and then gives his readers to understand that the moment after
the last word of his confession shall have been written he will
swallow the poison which he has procured in readiness for that
purpose.

"Now, all this seems to me sufficiently remarkable. Of course, the
question is, how much truth and how much fiction underlies the
supposititious confession? That the whole of the latter part of it is
purely fictitious we know already. We know, for instance, that not an
iota of suspicion ever attached itself to Mr. Melray's managing clerk.
Consequently that he has never been arrested, tried, or condemned.
Further than that, we know that the crime remains an unexplained
mystery to this day.

"In view, then, of the fact that the latter half of the self-styled
confession is proved to be a sheer invention, might it not reasonably
be assumed that the first half pertains to the same class of
narrative? Such would seem to be a common-sense way of looking at the
affair, were it not that there is so much of actual fact as regards
the commission of the crime itself mixed up with the narrative, and so
many real persons under assumed names introduced therein, as to create
a suspicion (in my mind, at least) that there may be some substratum
of truth in that part of it which attributes the death of Mr. Melray
to a quarrel with a former lover of his young and attractive wife.

"That you will read 'How, and Why,' after what I have here said about
it, I do not doubt; after which I think you will agree with me that
the story refers to 'The Loudwater Tragedy' and to no other crime, and
that the writer of it, whoever he may be, displays a singularly minute
and intimate acquaintance with all the details of that still unsolved
mystery.

"You will say to yourself that this is a strange letter for a young
woman to write to her lover, and so it is, but then the circumstances
of the case are peculiar. However, I promise you that my next letter
shall be a very different kind of composition.

"Miss Mawby's bell has just rung, so I will conclude without a word
more, except that, now and always, I am yours and yours only,

"Fanny Sudlow."


Such was the letter which Philip Winslade found one morning on his
breakfast-table. But before introducing either the writer or the
recipient of it to the reader's notice, it may be as well to give a
brief _résumé_ of the main facts in connection with the affair known
as "The Loudwater Tragedy," so far as they had hitherto been brought
to light, as also of certain of the events which led up to it.

Those who are acquainted with the once thriving port of Merehampton
know what a pleasant, but withal dull, little town it is. No business
firm in it is, or rather was a few years ago, more widely known or
highly respected than that of Melray Brothers, ship-brokers and
general merchants. Of the two brothers who made up the firm, James,
the elder, was, to all intents and purposes, the sole representative.
Robert, the younger brother, had been delicate from boyhood, and found
it to the advantage of his health to winter abroad. Indeed, whenever
he happened to be in England his visits to Merehampton were few and
perfunctory, and while retaining a monetary interest in the business,
he never concerned himself with the details, but willingly left the
entire management to James, who, on his part, being a masterful kind
of man and one who would have felt it irksome to have to put up with a
partner who might chance to hold independent views--was quite content
that matters should remain as they were. At this time James Melray was
fifty years old, Robert being his junior by some ten or eleven years.

The house in which James dwelt, and under the roof of which both the
brothers had been born, was known as Loudwater House, through having,
once on a time, been the domicile of an old county family of that
name. It was a handsome and substantial red-brick structure of the
early Georgian period, with a good deal of ornamental stonework about
it, and stood fronting the river Laming (for Merehampton is between
three and four miles up stream from the sea) on what in these latter
days was known as the Quay-side, but which at the time the house was
built had doubtless been either green fields or private grounds
pertaining to it. So long ago, however, was it since that part of the
river had been banked in and the Quay-side called into existence, and
since its row of ugly warehouses had been erected, each with its crane
protruding from its second or third storey, and each with its suite of
gloomy offices on the ground floor, that not even the oldest
inhabitant of Merehampton could remember the place as being other than
it was now. It was only a matter of course that, having become the
home of a commercial family, the Georgian mansion should, to some
extent, be put to commercial uses. Thus it had come to pass that the
groundfloor rooms had been turned in part into offices and in part
into a warehouse, with an additional room in which were stored
cordage, blocks, sails, spars, chains and tools of various kinds,
together with a miscellaneous assortment of maritime gear and
appliances.

There could be but little doubt that Merehampton had passed the zenith
of its prosperity as a seaport. With the opening of the railway a
vital blow had been struck at the shipping interests of the little
town. The coasting trade had dwindled by degrees to less than half of
what it had been a few years before; some of the merchants and
shippers had become bankrupt; others had taken themselves and their
capital elsewhere; others, on the principle of half a loaf being
better than none, had made the best of what could not be helped; half
the warehouses on the Quay-side were untenanted; but through it all
the firm of Melray Brothers had held manfully on its way, although in
the face of a sorely diminished trade.

James Melray's household was a small one, comprising, as it did, only
himself, his mother--a venerable lady between seventy and eighty years
of age--who had her own suite of rooms and her own maid and companion,
and, lastly, the merchant's girl-wife, who at the time the tragedy
took place had been married to him some two and a half years.

Mr. Melray was a widower of some years' standing, but without family,
when he first met Denia Lidington, who was the orphan niece and ward
of one of his oldest friends. This friend dying, left Denia and her
small fortune to his charge till the girl should come of age--a charge
which Mr. Melray willingly undertook. How and by what degrees the
kindly semi-paternal feeling with which he at first regarded the
lonely girl changed to a sentiment of a far different texture is not
within the scope of this narrative to describe. It is enough to say
that about a year after his friend's death James Melray proposed to
Denia Lidington, and, somewhat to his own surprise, was accepted
without the slightest demur.

The marriage took place at Solchester, an inland town about a dozen
miles from Merehampton, where, after her uncle's death, Denia had
found a home in the house of a widowed lady of good family, but
limited means, in whom Mr. Melray had implicit confidence. A month
later the bride entered upon her new duties as the mistress of
Loudwater House.

That she was an exceedingly pretty and attractive-looking young woman
everybody was agreed; indeed, there were not wanting some who went so
far as to call her beautiful. Her figure was slight, but full of
grace, and was rather under the medium height of her sex. She had eyes
of the clearest April blue, shaded by heavy lashes, finely-arched
eyebrows, and a mass of silky maize-coloured hair. Her complexion was
a pure creamy white, with only the very faintest flush of colour
showing through it. There was nothing striking or pronounced about her
features; indeed, considered in detail, they might have been termed
insignificant, but, regarded as a whole, their effect was undeniably
charming.

It was a matter of course, in view of the disparity in the ages of
bride and bridegroom, that there should be no lack of croakers and
prophets of the pessimistic school, who, one and all, took upon
themselves to predict that such an union could be productive of
nothing but discord and unhappiness, if not of evils still more dire.
Time went on, however, and these and all, such vaticinations remained
unfulfilled. Nowhere, to all seeming, could there have been found a
more contented or cosily happy wedded pair. Mrs. Melray fell in with
her husband's tastes and mode of life with an easy adaptability which
was as delightful as was surprising in one so many years his junior.
She made his friends her friends, and never seemed to long or care for
any other society than that to which he chose to introduce her. She
dressed soberly, but in excellent taste, and after a fashion which
caused her to look half-a-dozen years older than her age. James
Melray's first marriage had not been a happy one. His wife, a woman of
an intractable temper, had been addicted to secret dram-drinking, and
had thereby hastened her end. All the greater seemed the contrast
between his life as it was now and as it had been then. In all
Merehampton there was no happier man than he.

We now come to the fatal evening of Friday, September 18.

Twice every week, on the evenings of Tuesday and Friday, it had for
years been Mr. Melray's custom to leave home as the clock was striking
eight and make his way to the house of his friend Mr. Arbour, for the
purpose of forming one at a sober rubber of whist. It was a custom
which he had seen no reason for pretermitting after his second
marriage, more especially in view of the fact that Mrs. Melray number
two had never expressed the slightest desire that he should do so, and
although she was thereby left alone for two or three hours on the
evenings in question, she never failed to part from him with a kiss
and a smile, nor greet him after the same fashion on his return.

On the aforesaid 18th of September Mr. Melray set out for his friend's
house as usual. His wife accompanied him downstairs as far as the
entrance hall and helped him to induct himself into his overcoat, and
then, before she let him go, and because the evening was chilly, she
insisted on tying a white silk muffler round his throat as a further
protection against the weather. Then came the customary parting kiss,
after which Mrs. Melray stood in the open doorway for a half a minute,
watching her husband's retreating form. Then she shut the door and
hurried back upstairs to the cosy drawing-room.

That evening Mr. Arbour and his friends waited in vain for the coming
of James Melray. He never reached No. 5 Presbury Crescent.

Her husband had been gone a little over an hour when Mrs. Melray rang
the bell for Charlotte, the housemaid, and on the latter's appearance
asked her to take a lighted candle and go down to her master's private
office and bring thence an envelope out of the stationery case, which
she would find on his table. Mrs. Melray had been writing to one of
her friends, and finding that she was out of envelopes of her own, was
under the necessity of using one of her husband's.

Charlotte went her way, leaving her young mistress seated at the
davenport with the letter in front of her. A few moments later a
piercing shriek rang through Loudwater House. The girl, holding the
lighted candle aloft in one hand, had suddenly come upon the dead body
of her master lying prone along the office floor between the fireplace
and the table.

As already stated, Mr. Melray's business premises were on the
groundfloor of Loudwater House. Although such was the case, the main
entrance to the old mansion had in no way been interfered with. There,
as for generations past, was the massive oaken door with its heavy
lion's-head knocker and its overhanging porch--also of oak, and
elaborately carved. This door gave admittance to a spacious flagged
hall, whence a wide staircase led to the rooms on the upper floors.
From the entrance hall a door opened directly into Mr. Melray's
private office, in which room there were also two other doors, the
first giving access to the outer office where sat Mr. Cray, the head
clerk, and his three subordinates, while the second door opened on a
narrow side alley leading from the back premises to the Quay-side, so
that the merchant, when so inclined, could go in and out without
having to pass through the general office.

The girl Charlotte's shrieks at the discovery of her master's body
were heard not merely by the inmates of Loudwater House, but by a
constable who happened at the time to be standing at the entrance to
the side alley, as also by a couple of passing strangers. The three
men in question were on the scene of the crime within a few seconds
after Charlotte had given the alarm; for the outer door, on being
tried, was found to be unfastened. Of what thereupon ensued it is not
needful that we should dwell.

At the inquest it was shown that Mr. Melray's death had resulted from
a blow from some blunt instrument just above the left ear. The only
hypothesis which could be deduced from the scanty evidence elicited at
the inquiry was to the effect that while on his way to Mr. Arbour's
house, Mr. Melray had unexpectedly encountered some person, or persons
with whom he was in some way connected by transactions of either a
business or a private nature, and that, in company with the same, he
had gone back to his office, admittance to which he would obtain by
means of his pass-key, after which he had lighted the gas and opened
the safe. What had happened after that, beyond the fact that Mr.
Melray had come by his death by foul play, there was not the slightest
evidence to show. The body had not been robbed; neither, as the
head-clerk's after investigation proved, had the contents of the safe
been tampered with. As far as was known, the dead man had not an enemy
in the world. Where, then, was the motive for the crime? By whom had
it been perpetrated? Days and weeks went on without bringing an answer
to either one question or the other. Within a few hours of the
discovery of the murder Mr. Robert Melray, the dead man's brother and
partner, was telegraphed for, and as, just then, he happened to be no
further away than London, he was promptly on the spot. He it was who,
a little later, and after all the efforts of Scotland Yard to unravel
the mystery had proved unavailing, offered a reward of 500_l_. in
connection with the affair, which, however, still remained unclaimed.

So much having been stated by way of prelusion, it becomes needful,
for a due understanding of the way in which Philip Winslade came to be
mixed up with the Loudwater Tragedy, that our narrative should revert
to a date several months anterior to that of Fanny Sudlow's letter to
her lover.





THE NARRATIVE




CHAPTER I.
ON THE EDGE OF A SECRET.


Probably there was no happier man in all England than Philip Winslade
on the particular afternoon on which we make his acquaintance.

At this time he had just turned his twenty-eighth birthday. He was a
thin, active, keen-faced gentlemanly young fellow, with an aquiline
nose and very bright and piercing steel-gray eyes. In colour his hair
was a light brown, and it was perhaps owing to the fact that he was
clean shaven, except for an inch of whisker on either cheek, that he
looked younger than his years; that he did look so was, however,
undisputable.

The cause of his felicity was not far to seek. The fact was that,
while on his way down from London that afternoon, the man of all
others whom he was desirous of seeing, and who for the past week or
more had never been out of his thoughts for long at a time, had
recognised him as the train drew up at a roadside station, and having
thereupon joined him in his compartment, had, by so doing, afforded
him the opportunity to seek which had been the main object of his
journey. The person in question was the Rev. Louth Sudlow, vicar of
St. Michael's, Iselford--a portly, handsome man of middle age, and a
dignitary of some importance among that section of provincial society
in which he habitually moved. Just now, however, the Vicar's sole
importance in the eyes of Philip Winslade lay in the fact that he was
the father of a very charming daughter with whom that young man had
seen fit to fall in love.

The chance which had not only landed the Vicar in the same
compartment, but had left it free from the intrusion of other
passengers, was too opportune a one not to be seized on by Winslade.
For one thing, and with him it went for much, their accidental
encounter would do away with the need for a formal call at the
Vicarage as a preliminary to a request for a private interview--a
species of cold-blooded proceeding which struck him with a chill as
often as he contemplated it. Further, it would obviate the risk of his
being seen and questioned by Mrs. Sudlow, an ordeal to which he was
far from desirous of submitting himself.

"So you have got back safe and sound from your trip," began the Vicar,
as he shook hands with Phil and proceeded to settle himself in the
opposite corner of the carriage. "I hope you had what our cousins
across the water call a 'good time' while you were away."

"On that score, sir, I had nothing to complain of; and, if I may be
allowed to mention such a thing, it is gratifying to me to know that I
was enabled to transact the special business which took me to the
States to the satisfaction of those who sent me."

"The knowledge of duties well and conscientiously performed can
scarcely be other than gratifying to anyone," remarked the Vicar with
a touch of professional unction.

This being a remark which called for no reply, Phil remained
judiciously silent. He was considering in what terms he could most
diplomatically lead up to the subject which lay so close to his heart.

"When I tell you, sir," he resumed with a little touch of hesitation,
"that I came back from New York to Liverpool by the _Parthenia_, you
will guess at once whom I had the pleasure of having for a travelling
companion."

The Vicar rubbed a thoughtful finger against his nose. "Really," he
began dubiously. Then his face brightened. "Stay, though. The
_Parthenia_ did you say? Why, now I call it to mind, that is the boat
Fanny and her aunt were to cross by. So you and she came over
together, eh? It would beguile the tedium of the voyage for both of
you."

Phil smiled inwardly. The meeting of the two young people had indeed
served to beguile the tedium of the voyage, but in a way the Vicar as
yet had no prevision of.

"If I recollect rightly," resumed the latter, "my sister was always a
poor sailor, but I hope that in that respect at least Fan does not
take after her aunt."

"Miss Sudlow proved herself a capital sailor, sir; but, as far as I am
aware, Mrs. Empson was invisible from the time we passed Sandy Hook
till we sighted the mouth of the Mersey."

"Fan dropped a line to her mother as soon as she landed, but we have
not seen her yet. We hope to have that pleasure a week hence, when,
doubtless, we shall be treated to quite a budget of traveller's
tales."

So far the conversation had kept on the lines most desired by
Winslade, but having reached this point, there seemed a danger of its
being diverted by the Vicar to some less personal topic, in which case
the coveted opportunity would be gone past recall. He pulled himself
together. One breathless moment on the brink and then the plunge!

Philip Winslade, although in the ordinary affairs of life there were
few men more self-possessed than he, could never afterwards call to
mind the exact terms in which he contrived to blurt forth his
confession. All he was conscious of was that he stammered and
hesitated like a man afflicted with an impediment in his speech; that
physically he turned first hot and then cold, and that by the time he
had done he had worked himself back into a state of fever. The pith of
the matter was that he sought the Vicar's permission to be received as
Miss Sudlow's accepted suitor. When he had come to an end he gasped
once or twice like a fish out of its proper element, and then sat
staring helplessly at his _vis-à-vis_, who, on his part, returned the
stare with interest through his gold-rimmed spectacles.

The Rev. Louth Sudlow had listened to Winslade's confession with very
mixed emotions. Once or twice he ran his fingers through his short
silvery hair and murmured an ejaculation under his breath; but he did
not interrupt Phil by so much as a word, preferring to wait till the
latter should cease of his own accord.

Then he said: "My dear young friend, what you have just told me has,
metaphorically speaking, taken my breath away. I--I am really at a
loss what to say in reply. In any case, you must not look for a
definite answer from me just now. I shall require a little time to
consider the matter in all its bearings. To me, just at present, one
of the strangest features of the affair is having the fact thus
suddenly brought home to me that my little girl, whom I used to
dandle on my knee as it might be only the other day is old enough
to--to--well, as the homely phrase has it--to have a sweetheart of her
own. Do you know, now, I had never thought of her in that light. So
easy is it to shut one's eyes, and that not intentionally, to the
flight of time." He sighed gently, and again ran his fingers through
his hair.

"One of my first proceedings on reaching home," he presently went on,
"will be to lay your request before the dear partner of my joys and
sorrows, even as you have laid it before me; for in the settlement of
a question so momentous, and one which so nearly concerns a daughter's
happiness, the views of one parent ought to carry an equal weight with
those of the other. It is certainly in your favour that both Mrs.
Sudlow and myself have been acquainted with you for a number of years;
indeed, it may almost be said that we have watched you grow up; to
which I may add that we know nothing of you but what is pleasant and
of good report."

There was no time for more. As the Vicar ceased speaking the train
drew up at Iselford station. Both men alighted. As the elder held the
hand of the younger for a moment before each went his way, he said,
"You will find me in the vestry at eleven on Monday morning. Come to
me then and there. It may be that I shall have something to say to you
by that time."

Small wonder was it that Philip Winslade deemed himself one of the
happiest of men as he made his way through the soft April twilight in
the direction of his mother's house. His disposition was of that
hopeful and sanguine cast which refuses to see difficulties in
advance, or, at any rate, to take but scant account of them till they
absolutely block the way. Nothing, as he told himself again and again,
could have been more kind and encouraging than the reception accorded
by the Vicar to his suit; and, although he was vaguely conscious that
he stood by no means so high in the estimation of Mrs. Sudlow as in
that of her husband, he did not for a moment allow himself to be
discouraged thereby. As he walked along the quiet road, humming to
himself, Love's golden shuttle was at work in his brain, weaving
the things of common life through and through with gorgeous and
many-coloured threads, till they became clothed with beauty like a
poet's dream.

Philip had not seen his mother since his return from the States.
Neither in the note he had written her announcing his arrival, nor in
the later one in which he told her that he looked to see her at
Whiteash Cottage in the course of Saturday, had he made any mention of
Miss Sudlow's name; consequently, he could not help trying to picture
in advance the mode in which his news would be received by her. That
she would be astonished he did not doubt; but that her pleasure would
nearly, if not quite, equal her surprise, he scarcely doubted more.
Dear good mother that she was! Had not his happiness been her constant
study ever since he could remember anything? And it was absurd to
suppose that, in a matter like the present one, where so much was at
stake, she would set up any wish of her own in opposition to his
wishes, or raise a host of futile objections, as some mothers have a
habit of doing, merely that they may afterwards be knocked over like
so many ninepins.

Although Mrs. Winslade was a woman who was singularly self-centred,
who made a point of going very little into society, and, as a
consequence, of seeing very little company in return, it had not been
possible for her to live so many years in Iselford without making a
certain number of acquaintances; but in all cases she had been careful
to keep them so much at arm's length, that not one of them could with
truth have arrogated to herself the warmer title of friend. Of such
acquaintances Mrs. Sudlow was one; but not even she--pushing,
undaunted, inquisitive little body though she was, with a faculty
educated by long practice for fishing out the private concerns of
those with whom she was brought in contact--not even she had been able
to pierce the fine armour of reserve which Mrs. Winslade habitually
wore, although some there were who never as much as suspected its
existence. Like an alert fencer, the latter was ever on her guard, and
the most innocent question, or innocent-seeming innuendo, never found
her unprepared with a counter thrust. Her tactics, however, were far
more those of defence than offence; and it was only when she felt she
was being pressed unduly that she retorted by pricking back on her own
account. Few were those who had the hardihood to try conclusions with
her a second time.

But it was during the earlier period of her residence at Iselford,
rather than latterly, that she had found it needful when in society
never to be caught off her guard. During the dozen years which had
elapsed since she settled down at Whiteash Cottage, coming from nobody
knew where, and bringing no introductions with her, people had had
time to get accustomed to her, to accept her as she was, and not to
look for more from her than she was prepared to give.

Little by little all curiosity about her had died out. Society at
Iselford had stamped her with its _cachet_, and had come to accept her
(without professing to understand her) as one of its elect. Only in
the heart of Mrs. Sudlow did a tiny mustard-seed, so to call it, of
spite and dull resentment continue to rankle, which, occasion being
given it, would not fail to strike downward and upward, and force its
way to the light, as such baleful germs, even after having been buried
out of sight for years, sooner or later contrive to do.

For be it known that Mrs. Sudlow was not merely the wife of the Vicar
of St. Michael's--which of itself was a matter of no great moment--but
was, besides, second cousin to Lord Beaumaris, and, consequently, an
offshoot of the noble house of Penmarthen. Hence it was that not only
did she claim to have a certain standing in county society, but she
was also in a position to form a little coterie of her own among the
lesser luminaries of the neighbourhood, of which she was the
recognised chief; and it was Mrs. Winslade's suave, but persistent,
refusal to pose as one of the coterie in question which had been the
original head and front of her offending. Still, it is possible that
the "Vicaress"--as many people irreverently termed her--could have
forgiven even that, if, on the other hand, the widow of Whiteash
Cottage would but have made a confidante of her, and have revealed to
her all those particulars anent her antecedents and family history
which she was secretly dying to be told. But Mrs. Winslade, always
smilingly, declined to do anything of the kind. She kept the Vicaress
as completely at arm's length as she did her parlour-maid, and took
one into her confidence no more than the other. Mrs. Sudlow believed
herself to be a thoroughly good woman, and one by whose walk and
conduct many might take example with profit to themselves; but it was
almost too much to expect that poor human nature could quite forgive
the way in which Mrs. Winslade had thought fit to repel her advances.
This secret grievance, however, if such it could be termed, was of old
date by now, and one might naturally have expected that, whatever
virus had been distilled from it in days gone by, would have been
rendered innocuous by the simple efflux of time; but it sometimes
happens that a pin-prick takes longer to heal than a gaping wound.

When Philip reached home, in place of his mother he found a note
written by her awaiting him. Mrs. Winslade had gone to attend the
funeral of an old woman, who, when younger, had been for many years in
her service. She expected to be back at Iselford by the train due to
arrive there at ten o'clock P.M. Meanwhile Phil would have to dine
alone, and afterwards, if he had nothing better to do, he might meet
the train in question. It was annoying to him to find that he would be
compelled to keep his news to himself for four or five hours longer,
after having counted confidently on being able to pour it into his
mother's sympathetic ears within five minutes of his arrival at the
cottage.

When his solitary meal was over he lighted a cigar, and went for a
stroll in the starlit garden; first, however, paying a visit to Leo in
the backyard--who recognised him by his footsteps even before he
spoke, and barked a boisterous welcome--and freeing him from his
chain. All Phil's thoughts this evening were happy ones. More than
once he took a certain letter from his pocket and pressed it fervently
to his lips; more than once in his abstraction his cigar was
unwittingly allowed to go out. It was abundantly evident that he was
in very bad case indeed.

At half-past nine he set out for the station, taking Leo with him. He
had debated with himself whether he should take the pony-chaise, but
finally decided against doing so. His mother would probably prefer to
engage a fly at the station rather than have Doxie put into harness at
that late hour. He took the road to the railway mechanically, swinging
his cane as he went. He was hundreds of miles away in fancy. Once more
he was pacing the deck of the _Parthenia_ with Fanny by his side.

Mother and son kissed each other with effusion at the moment of
meeting. Then Mrs. Winslade drew back a step and took a long look at
Phil by the light of the station lamps.

"You know, dear, it's two months--two whole months--since I saw you
last," she said, as if by way of apology for her scrutiny. "A long
time to me; but I don't see that you are a bit changed."

Phil laughed. "The only change, _madre mia_, is that I know a good
deal more of the world than I did eight weeks ago."

"A sort of knowledge, my dear, that is of little or no value unless
you have learnt how to put it to a good use. Of course I know already
from your letters that you were thoroughly successful in the mission
which took you to the States."

"Most successful. But I will tell you all particulars later on."

For the mother of a son who numbered eight-and-twenty summers Mrs.
Winslade might be called a young-looking woman. Her figure was tall,
and had not yet lost the fine proportions for which it had been
noticeable in years gone by. Both hair and eyes were dark, the latter
large and shining usually with a soft clear lustre which most people
found singularly attractive. She had a rather long, straight nose, a
mouth indicative of firmness and self-possession, and a well-rounded
chin. All her movements, if touched with a certain stateliness, were
easy and gracious, and if she was not in the habit of smiling very
often, when her face did light up the smile brought out a hidden
sweetness of which one had only been vaguely conscious before.

Phil engaged a fly, and presently they were being driven leisurely
homeward, Leo trotting contentedly behind.

"Although it is so many years since Martha Dobson left my service, I
hope, Phil, that you have not forgotten her," said Mrs. Winslade
presently.

"Why, certainly not, mother! My memory is not quite so treacherous as
that. I was remarkably fond of Martha, as, I am quite sure, she was of
me, and although I could not have been more than six or seven years
old when she left us, I am not likely to forget her."

"She belonged to that race of faithful, staunch-hearted domestics of
which, I am afraid, there are very few specimens to be found nowadays,
and I don't believe she would ever have left me had not her brother
sent for her to keep house for himself and his six motherless little
ones. I shall always respect and cherish her memory. She stood by me
like the true-hearted woman she was through the great trouble of my
life--and she died as she had lived, without breathing a word to
anyone of the secret she had kept for so many years." Mrs. Winslade
spoke the latter words as if to herself--as if for the moment she had
forgotten that her son was by her side.

Ever since he could remember Phil had been conscious, although he
could not have told how or when the consciousness first came to him,
that there was a secret in his mother's life, the particulars of which
were kept as carefully from him as they were from the rest of the
world. He had often speculated and wondered in his own mind as to the
possible nature of it; but never had he ventured to hint, even in the
most roundabout way, his wish to penetrate the mystery. To-night,
however, there seemed something in his mother's mood different from
any mood he had ever seen her in before. The death of her old servant
had evidently affected her very deeply; hidden chords had been
touched, and it might well be that scenes and incidents which time had
robbed of their pristine sharpness of outline had for a little while
been quickened into vivid life. In any case, it seemed to Phil that
now, if ever, was the moment when he might look to be taken into his
mother's confidence. He put forth his fingers in the dark, and having
found one of her hands, he stroked it caressingly.

"I am well aware, mother dear," he began, "and I seem always to have
been, that many years ago your life was darkened by some great
trouble, as to the particulars of which I know nothing. You have just
told me that in Martha Dobson you have lost the one person to whom was
known the secret of your life, and such having been the tie between
you, its severance cannot but touch you keenly. But, mamsie dear, I
want you not to forget that you have a son, and that if one confidant
has been taken from you, there is another ready to your hand. That
your trouble was over and past long ago I am quite aware, but I am
equally as convinced that it entailed effects from which you are
suffering now and probably will continue to suffer as long as you
live. Why, then, not----?"

"My dear Phil, you don't in the least know what you are asking me to
do," broke in Mrs. Winslade, her fingers returning her son's pressure.
"If I have hitherto kept this thing from you, and if I still continue
to do so, I must ask you to believe that the motives by which I have
been and am still actuated are such as I am fully able to justify to
my own conscience. Trust me, you are happier, far happier, in your
ignorance than you could hope to be if I made you as sadly wise as
myself."

"But, mother----"

"Is another word needed, Phil?" asked Mrs. Winslade gently; but that
very gentleness, as the young man was well aware, veiled a firmness
not to be shaken. "Scarcely so, I think--unless it be this: that I
only know of one contingency which would induce me to break the rule
of silence I have hitherto imposed on myself with regard to a certain
matter."

"May I ask to be enlightened as to the nature of the contingency of
which you speak?"

"You may ask, my dear boy, but you must pardon me if I decline to
satisfy your curiosity. Be content to rest in ignorance. Believe me,
it is better so."




CHAPTER II
WHO IS MRS. WINSLADE?


Although the Vicar of St. Michael's, in the exuberance of his good
nature, had allowed Philip Winslade to infer that there was no reason
why Mrs. Sudlow might not be expected to look upon the young man's
suit with eyes as favourable as those with which he himself was
inclined to regard it, he felt far from sure in his own mind that such
would really be the case. He knew that his wife was a woman of strong
prejudices and narrow sympathies, who had a habit of nourishing
petty resentments till they swelled out of all proportion to the
original cause of offence, whether it chanced to be real or merely
supposititious. For his own part, he would have gladly welcomed Phil
for a son-in-law. He--the Rev. Louth--was, comparatively speaking, a
poor man. There seemed little prospect of any further preferment for
him; he had eight younger olive-branches to provide for, who were
growing more expensive year by year; and to be able to get his eldest
daughter off his hands, and married to one who he felt sure would
make her a good husband, seemed to him one of those things devoutly
to be wished. He was not a man of strong will, nor even one of those
who contrive to mask their moral cowardice under the bluster of
self-assertion. Dear to his heart were peace and quietness, more
especially on the domestic hearth. As he rang the vicarage bell this
evening his courage sank a little at the prospect before him. His
conscience was too sensitive to allow him to shirk what he deemed to
be a duty, how disagreeable soever it might be to him; but that did
not render its discharge any the easier.

Dinner came as a brief respite. It was not till later, after the
younger members of the family had retired for the night and husband
and wife were left alone in the drawing-room, that the Vicar braced
himself to the task before him.

Mrs. Sudlow was a small, slight, fair woman, with chilly blue eyes,
pinched features, and a somewhat worn and acid expression; but whether
the latter was due to the fact that she found the cares of a numerous
family weigh heavily upon her, or whether it had its origin in those
fictitious troubles which some women make a point of creating for
themselves, hugging them all the more fondly in that they have no
substantial existence, was a moot point, and one which, happily, no
one was called upon to decide.

The Vicar laid down the _Times_, which he had been making a pretence
of reading, hemmed and gave a tug at the bottom of his waistcoat. His
wife was seated opposite him, busy with some fancy embroidery.

"My dear, I picked up young Winslade this afternoon, or, to speak more
accurately, he picked me up, at Downhills station. He was on his way
from London to spend a few days with his mother."

Not the slightest notice took Mrs. Sudlow. Her husband might have been
addressing himself to the chimney-piece for any heed vouchsafed by
her.

Again the Vicar cleared his voice.

"From what he told me, it appears that he has been over to America on
some special matter for his employer, and, by a rather singular
coincidence, it so happened that he crossed from New York in the same
steamer that brought my sister and Fanny. By the way, I don't think
that Fan, in the letter she wrote us after landing, as much as
mentioned young Winslade's name."

"Why should she? Doubtless to her such a detail seemed too
insignificant to be worth recording."

This was not a very promising beginning, but there could be no drawing
back now; whatever might be the result, he must go through with that
which he had made up his mind to say.

"There may, perhaps, have been another and a totally opposite reason
why Fan made no mention of Philip Winslade in her letter."

"What _do_ you mean? The older you get, Louth, the fonder you become
of beating about the bush when you have anything to say."

"That's your opinion, is it, my love?" he demanded, not without a
shade of irritation. "Well, then, in what I am about to tell you there
shall be no beating about the bush--none whatever. Here, in a few
words, is the long and the short of it. Fan and young Winslade
met on board the _Parthenia_, doubtless as old acquaintances, they
having known each other for years. My sister being prostrated by
sea-sickness, they were naturally thrown much together, and by the
time Liverpool was reached had contrived to fall in love with each
other, and come to some sort of a mutual understanding in the affair.
Had Winslade and I not met in the train, it was his intention to have
sought an interview with me in the course of Monday next."

Mrs. Sudlow's needle came to a halt midway in a stitch, and the line
of her lips hardened till the division between them was scarcely
perceptible.

There was a brief space of silence when the Vicar had brought his
statement to an end. Then Mrs. Sudlow said in her chilliest accents:
"And what, pray, might be Mr. Philip Winslade's purpose in seeking an
interview with you on Monday next?"

"What purpose but one can a young man in such circumstances have? What
he is anxious to obtain is my consent--or rather, I ought to say,
_our_ consent--to his engagement with Fanny. Indeed, he went so far as
to put the question to me this afternoon; but of course I told him
that it was impossible for me to give him an answer on the spur of the
moment, or, in point of fact, till I had consulted with you in the
matter."

"I fail to see why you could not have given him an answer on the spur
of the moment, as you term it."

"Surely, surely, my dear, in a matter which so nearly concerns the
welfare of our child, some little time for consideration is
imperatively demanded."

"None whatever, as it seems to me, where a person like Philip Winslade
is in question. You might have given him his answer there and then,
and thereby have saved him the necessity of seeking a further
interview with you."

"Um! That would certainly have been rather an arbitrary mode of
procedure. But there is another view of the affair which does not seem
to have struck you. As I understand it, Winslade and Fanny have
already come to some sort of an agreement, in which case----"

"There is no need whatever why you should trouble yourself on that
score. Fanny will be home in a week from now. I shall know how to deal
with her."

"And yet Fan is a girl of spirit," remarked the Vicar drily, "and when
once she has made up her mind, sticks to her point like a limpet to
its rock. I rather doubt, my dear, whether you will find her as easy
to manage in this affair as you seem to anticipate."

"I have not the least doubt in the world that, to serve his own ends,
Philip Winslade has exaggerated a mere passing flirtation, such as is
so often indulged in on board ship, into something far more formidable
than it really is. In any case, as I said before, you may leave me to
deal with Fanny, and, if needful, to--to bring her to her senses."

"With all my heart. But why this display of animosity as regards young
Winslade? More than once I have heard you hint that it would be a good
thing if Fan were to make an early marriage."

"I am not aware that I have imported any animosity into the
conversation. I have merely brought to bear a modicum of that wordly
prudence and common sense which it behoves all parents to exercise
where the future of their children is in question, but in which, I am
sorry to say, you are lamentably deficient."

She paused to re-thread her needle.

"After all," she resumed, "if one may ask, who and what is this Mr.
Philip Winslade with whom you seem to be so taken up?"

"Come, come, Kitty, you can't pretend that you are altogether ignorant
of his antecedents. He is a clear-headed, energetic, clever young man,
and, as it seems to me, sure to make his way in the world. He is a
good son----"

"_Cela va sans dire_. It would be more to the purpose if you
were to ascertain the amount of his income and the nature of his
prospects--provided he has any."

"Those were points, my dear, which there was no opportunity of
entering upon in the train. But had he not conceived himself to be in
a position to marry, if not just yet, in the not distant future, I do
not suppose he would have spoken to me as he did."

"Would you not be nearer the mark if you were to say that such
'mercenary considerations,' as I have no doubt you term them to
yourself, never entered your mind?"

The Vicar coughed and proceeded to polish his spectacles with his
handkerchief.

"You seem to forget," resumed Mrs. Sudlow, a little inconsequentially
it might have been thought, "or, rather, you never care to remember,
that Fanny is second cousin once removed to the Earl of Beaumaris. But
there! I have known for years, to my sorrow, that you have not a
morsel of proper pride in your composition."

The Vicar's shoulders went up deprecatingly. "My dear," he said, "if
the noble Earl, your second cousin, had ever done anything for us, or
had interested himself in our fortunes in any way, it might have been
politic to bear the family connection in mind. But, seeing that
neither he nor his daughters, the Lady Mary and the Lady Anne, care a
stiver about us, it may be as well to leave the 'claims of long
descent' out of the discussion."

Again Mrs. Sudlow's lips compressed themselves into a thin straight
line. She felt that it had become necessary for her to shift her basis
of attack. She had reserved one barbed arrow till the last. "After
all, you have contrived to shuffle out of the question I put to you,
which was, Who is Philip Winslade?"

"My dear, you know as well as I do that he is the only son of Mrs.
Winslade, who has been a neighbour of ours for the last dozen years,
and who, in addition, is a lady for whom I have the highest possible
regard."

"Oh, I am quite aware that you always had a sneaking _penchant_ for
Mrs. W. She is what is vulgarly called a 'fine woman,' and I have not
forgotten that your tastes always did run in that direction."

The Vicar held up his hands. "My love, you are forgetting yourself!"

"Not at all. If I may push my question further--Who is Mrs. Winslade?"

"You know precisely as much about her as I do."

"Which is equivalent to saying I know nothing about her."

"Her life for the past twelve years is before you to bear witness for
her."

"As much of it as she has allowed to be seen, and that, as you must
admit, is very little. In the first place, Who was she before she made
her appearance at Iselford? She planted herself among us without a
single introduction. To this day nobody knows where she sprang from.
She passes herself off as a widow--who can say with certainty whether
she ever had a husband?"

This was too much for the Vicar. He got up abruptly, his face very
red, and an unwonted sparkle in his eyes. "For shame, Kitty; for
shame!" he exclaimed. "I never thought to hear such words from the
lips of my wife. I will leave you to your uncharitable thoughts and
retire to my study."

It was not often in their little skirmishes that the worthy Vicar
ventured to offer such a bold front of opposition to his wife as he
had this evening, and through all the irritation and annoyance into
which she had stung him he could not help pluming himself somewhat on
his unwonted display of pugnacity. Still, nothing had been settled, no
course decided upon as between husband and wife, and it was quite
evident that the question would have to be reopened by one or the
other of them. And reopened it was next morning as soon as breakfast
was over, with the result that the following note, addressed to
Philip, was delivered by Quince, the sexton, at Whiteash Cottage early
on Sunday afternoon:


"My dear young Friend,--With reference to what passed between us
yesterday afternoon, Mrs. Sudlow and I have come to the decision that,
pending my daughter's arrival at home about a week hence, when an
opportunity will be afforded us of ascertaining her views and wishes,
the question at issue had better remain precisely where it is at
present. Such being the case, it seems to me advisable that our
interview, as arranged for to-morrow, should be postponed till a
future date. You may, however, rely upon it that as soon as I have any
communication to make you shall hear further from me.

"Pray present my remembrances to Mrs. Winslade, and believe me,

"Sincerely yours,

"Louth Sudlow."




CHAPTER III.
THE SECRET TOLD.


On their arrival at the cottage on Saturday evening it was manifest to
Phil that his mother was very tired, and he debated with himself as to
whether it would not be better to delay breaking his news to her till
the morrow. But he felt that it would be hard to have to do so; so,
after waiting till she had rested awhile, and had partaken of some
refreshment, he drew his chair a little closer to hers and began.

"Mother," he said abruptly, feeling at the same time a hot flush of
colour mount to his face, "I have not only brought you myself to-day,
but some very special news into the bargain."

"Indeed, my dear boy. By very special news I presume you mean news
which I shall be glad to hear. Don't keep me on tenterhooks longer
than you can help."

"The fact is, mamsie, that I've fallen in love with Fanny Sudlow (you
know Fanny--have known her for years), and--and although it may seem
egotistical to say so, I've every reason to believe she doesn't
dislike me--indeed, far from it. My intention was to call on the Vicar
while down here, and ask his consent to our engagement; but, by great
good fortune, I encountered him in the train this afternoon so I took
advantage of the opportunity to tell him what I am now telling you,
and I must say that the dear old boy listened to me most kindly, and,
in short, I'm to meet him at the vestry at eleven on Monday,
when---- But, good gracious, mother, you are ill! What can I get you?
What can I do for you?"

Mrs. Winslade had been lying back in her easy-chair; but the moment
the confession that he was in love escaped Phil's lips her frame
seemed to become suddenly rigid, while her face blanched to the
hue of one at the point of death. Slowly her figure rose from its
half-recumbent position till it sat stiffly upright, her long slender
hands grasping each an arm of the chair. It was at that moment Phil
lifted his eyes and caught sight of her face. He sprang to his feet in
alarm, but his mother put up her hand with a restraining gesture, and
he sank back in his chair, unable to take his eyes off her face.

"It has come at last--that which I have so long dreaded!" said Mrs.
Winslade, speaking in a hard dry voice, wholly different from her
customary low and mellow tones. "Of course it was folly to hope that
the blow could be much longer delayed, and if it had not come now it
must have come a little later." She paused, as if to crush down the
emotion which she found it so hard to keep back. "To-day, when you
asked me to reveal to you my life's secret, I told you that you knew
not what you asked, and for your own sake I refused to tell it you.
Now, however, you _must_ be told. There is no help for it--would to
heaven there were! My poor boy, you are about to pass from the land of
sunshine into that of shadow, and it is my hand that perforce must
thrust you there."

"Mother," said Phil, a little proudly, "it seems to me that you
underrate both my strength and my courage. If you, a woman, have been
able uncomplainingly to carry this dark secret (whatever its nature
may be) all these years, why should you fear that I, a man, may sink
under the burden of it?" Next moment he was on his knees in front of
her and her arms were round his neck. "Forgive me," he added, "I know
that in this, as in everything, you have acted for the best."

"Mine is a terrible confession for a mother to have to make to her
son," began Mrs. Winslade a few minutes later, when she and Phil had
in some measure recovered their composure. "As you are aware," she
went on, "I have never talked to you much about your father. He died
when you were about three years old, and to you he is nothing more
than a name."

"That is all, mother--a name. Whenever I have ventured to speak of
him, which has not been often, you have seemed so distressed, so
unaccountably put about, that I have refrained from questioning you
about him, and have been glad to turn our talk to other things."

"That I had ample cause for my reticence you will presently learn."
She paused, and sat gazing into the glowing embers in the grate for
what, to Phil, seemed a long time. Then she roused herself with a
sigh, and, turning her eyes full upon him, said slowly: "Do you happen
ever to have heard of a certain criminal, who was notorious enough in
his day, but who by this time is happily well-nigh forgotten--Philip
Cordery by name?"

"Why, it was only the other day, so to speak, that I met with a
magazine article giving an account of his career, which had a strange
fascination for me. He was known as 'The Prince of Forgers.' But what
of him?"

"Merely this--that Philip Cordery, the so-called Prince of Forgers,
was your father."

"Mother!" was the only word that broke from the young man's lips. It
was the half-stifled cry of one struck suddenly in some vital part.
Horror, incredulity, and shame the most bitter, all seemed to appeal
to her out of his dilated eyes to take back her words. Then with an
abrupt gesture he rose. As he crossed the room a groan forced its way
from his lips. Although the lamp had been lighted long before, the
curtains were still undrawn; on these pleasant spring evenings it was
the custom to leave them so till bedtime. Phil opened the long window
and stepped out into the veranda. A fine rain had begun to fall; sweet
fresh odours seemed to be wandering aimlessly to and fro; there was a
sense of silent gratitude in the air, for all nature had been athirst.
Phil stood there minute after minute, resting his head against the
cool pillar of the veranda. His soul was sick within him, his mind was
in a tumult in which nothing formulated itself clearly save the one
hideous, overwhelming fact that Philip Cordery was his father, and
that he was the son of a felon. As yet he only suffered vaguely, like
one who, having been suddenly struck down, comes back to consciousness
by degrees. He was stunned, he was dazed, the real anguish had yet to
come. A dash of cold rain in his face recalled him in some measure to
himself. He stepped back into the room and shut the window, and,
crossing to his mother, he stooped and pressed his damp cheek for a
moment against hers.

In Mrs. Winslade's eyes, as she sat fronting the fire, pale, erect,
with that absolute quietude which comes from the intensity of
restrained emotion, there was nothing to be read but infinite
compassion--compassion for the son whom hard circumstance had forced
her to smite thus sorely.

"So that is the secret you have kept from me for so long a time," said
Phil quietly, as he resumed his seat.

"That is the secret."

"Well, mother, being what it was, I can't wonder at your locking it up
in your own breast, at your safeguarding it from the world; still, it
might, perhaps--I only say perhaps--have been better if you had told
me years ago."

"Ah, my son, do not say that! Should I not have been a wretch to cast
a blight over your young life one hour before I was absolutely
compelled to do so? But you know, or, at least, you can guess, why I
have at length broken the seal of silence which I imposed on myself so
many years ago, and have told you this to-night."

"Yes, I think I know," he said with a sort of slow sadness. "After what
I told you just now--that I had won the love of one of the dearest
girls on earth--you felt that the time had come when I must walk
blindfold no longer, when, at every risk, the bandage must be plucked
from my eyes."

"The necessity was a hard one, but there seemed to me no help for it."

"None whatever. It will be a hard thing and a bitter to have to tell
the Vicar on Monday morning."

"After all these years, is there no other way than that?"

"None that I can see. The understanding between Fanny and myself has
gone so far that I could not withdraw from it honourably, even were I
wishful of doing so. No, mother, there is nothing left me save to tell
everything to the Vicar and leave him to decide the matter in whatever
way may seem best to himself."

For a little while neither of them spoke.

Then Phil said: "Mr. Sudlow is an honourable man, no one more so, and
I feel sure, and so must you, mother, that your secret--or ours, as I
must now call it--will be as safe with him as though it were still
unspoken."

Mrs. Winslade did not reply; only to herself she said: "My poor Phil,
you forget that there is such a person as Mrs. Sudlow to be reckoned
with."

Phil was bending forward, staring into the fire with gloomy eyes, his
elbows resting on his knees, and his chin supported by his hands. "Of
course it is too much, altogether too much to expect," he went on
disconsolately, "however good and kind-hearted a man Mr. Sudlow may be
and is, that he will ever consent to accept me in the light of a
prospective son-in-law. No; he will insist on the engagement being at
once broken off; and, under the circumstances, how can anyone blame
him?"

Mrs. Winslade still sat without speaking. Not a word of what her son
had said could she controvert. His life was wrecked so far as his love
for Fanny Sudlow was concerned, and she had not even a solitary spar
to fling to him. Far more clearly than he she realised what must
inevitably come to pass when once her life's secret had passed beyond
her keeping and his.

After a little space Phil's sombre thoughts found a vent for
themselves in another channel.

"Mother," he said abruptly, "it seems to me something incredible that I
should really be the son of such a man as Philip Cordery."

"It is none the less a fact which cannot be gainsaid."

"He--he died in prison, did he not?"

"He did, years before we came to live at Iselford."

Again for a little while the silence remained unbroken. Then Mrs.
Winslade drew herself together like a woman who has nerved herself for
the performance of a duty which, however painful it may be, must yet
be gone through with.

"Now that you have been told so much it is only right that you should
be told more," she presently said. "You shall hear my story once for
all. After to-night I trust there will be no need for either you or I
ever to refer to it again." She closed her lids for a few moments like
one conjuring up in memory the scenes of bygone years.

Then with her still beautiful eyes--large, dark, and just now charged
with a pathos too deep for words--fixed on her son, she began: "My
mother was dead and I was living at home with my father, who was
rector of Long Dritton, in Midlandshire, when I first set eyes on
Philip Cordery. At that time he was a man of two or three and
thirty--handsome, plausible, well-read, or so to all seeming; master
of more than one showy accomplishment, and, in addition, a man who had
been, or professed to have been, nearly everywhere. No wonder that I,
a simple country-bred girl, who knew nothing whatever of the world,
felt mightily flattered when this grand gentleman, for such he
appeared in my eyes, began by complimenting me on my looks, and, a
little later, went on to pay me attentions of a kind which could
scarcely be misunderstood. Such being the case, it is almost needless
to add that I presently ended by falling in love with him.

"Ours was a famous hunting county, and Mr. Cordery, who kept a couple
of horses, had taken rooms for the season in the neighbouring town of
Baxwade Regis. He was hand and glove with the master, Lord Packbridge,
and was made welcome at several of the best houses round about. He won
my father's heart, in the first instance, by putting down his name for
a very handsome subscription to the Church Restoration Fund. I hardly
know how it came about, but before long he began to be a frequent
guest at the rectory. I suppose my father was taken by him, as most
people seemed to be, and certainly I have never met anyone more gifted
with the faculty of attracting others than he was. Well, there came a
day when Philip Cordery asked my father to bestow on him the hand of
his only child. Before doing so, however, he had drawn from my lips
the avowal that I loved him. In what way he contrived to satisfy my
father as to his means and position in life, I never heard; but that
he did satisfy him is certain, seeing that my father gave his
unqualified sanction to our engagement. I deemed myself the happiest
of girls. We were married in the early summer and went for a month's
tour on the Continent.

"On one point I must do Philip Cordery justice. He did not marry me
for the sake of my fortune, which, indeed, was only a matter of a few
hundreds of pounds left me by my mother's sister. Neither could he
expect anything at my father's death, for the living of Long Dritton
was a very poor one, and my father's purse was never shut against the
claims of charity. It was a great blow to me when, within a couple of
months of my marriage, my father died after a few days' illness; but
when, eighteen months later, my other great trouble fell upon me, I no
longer grieved that he had been taken.

"My husband had hired a small furnished house at St. John's Wood,
London, which stood in its own grounds and was surrounded by a high
wall. Its position was a very secluded one, so much so that it could
not be overlooked from any other house. Your father had never
enlightened me in definite terms as to the nature of the business in
which he was engaged, but I had a vague notion that he was connected,
although in what capacity I was wholly ignorant, with some important
firm in the City. Sometimes his duties took him from home for a week
or ten days at a time. At other times there would be days when he
never went beyond the precincts of his own garden. He had given me to
understand that his great hobby was experimental chemistry, and he had
fitted up a room on the top floor of the house as a laboratory where
he often worked till far into the night, and the door of which,
whether he was engaged there or not, was always kept locked.
Considering the number of people whose acquaintance he had made in the
shires, it seemed strange that he should know so few people in London,
but so it was. He belonged to no club, we saw very little company, and
he rarely took me anywhere except now and then to the theatre. Such
callers as we had were all men, many of them being foreigners of
different nationalities. I usually got away from them to my own room
as soon as possible, and Philip seemed pleased that I should do so.

"All this time, although many of my illusions had taken to themselves
wings, I was by no means unhappy. Philip, while never demonstrative,
was kind in his careless, easy-going fashion; in fact, I may say that
I believe he was as fond of me as it was in his nature to be of
anyone. And then, by-and-by, you were born, and life seemed to me a
sweeter thing than it had ever been before.

"It was when you were about four months old that the crash came. There
is no need for me to dwell on that time, nor to recapitulate in detail
all I had to go through. It is enough to say--and it may now be said
once for all--that Philip Cordery was proved to have been the leader
and guiding spirit of one of the most notorious gangs of bank-note
forgers with which the present century has had to do. I saw him but
twice after his conviction. A month or two after my second interview
with him he died. A little later, through the death of an uncle, I
came in for a legacy (taking his name at the same time), the income
derivable from which has enabled me to keep up a home such as you have
known as long as you can remember. At my death the capitalised amount
will become yours to deal with as you may deem best."

Philip had refrained from interrupting his mother's narrative by a
word; indeed, his interest in the tragic story she had to tell was too
intense to allow of his willingly breaking in upon it even for a
moment. When she had come to an end the silence that ensued was broken
by a deep-drawn sigh from him. "Poor mother! poor mother!" he murmured
half aloud. It was on her and on all she had undergone that his
thoughts were dwelling just then, rather than on that mysterious
entity--to him he would remain for ever a mystery and a wonder--Philip
Cordery, the author of his being; or even on the effect which his
mother's revelation might have on his own future.

Presently Mrs. Winslade spoke again. "You will now be able to
comprehend one thing which has doubtless puzzled you more than enough
in days gone by, and that is why I have led so persistently secluded a
life, seeing so little company under my own roof and scarcely ever
visiting anywhere. Never feeling sure from day to day that the secret
of my past might not by some mischance become public property, I was
determined that the good folk of Iselford should not have it in their
power to say that I forced my way into their society under false
pretences--that I had sought them out and sat by their firesides,
being conscious all the time there was that in my history which I
would be ashamed to have them know. It is they who have sought me out;
it is they who have thrust themselves on me. In so far my conscience
holds me free from blame."




CHAPTER IV.
IN WHICH MISS SUDLOW SPEAKS HER MIND.


Philip Winslade did not accompany his mother to church on Sunday
morning. His heart was still so sore, he was still so mentally shaken
by his mother's revelation that, like the stricken deer, he craved for
solitude the most absolute. It was a craving Mrs. Winslade was too
wise to combat. She herself had suffered in like manner in years gone
by, and her heart bled for her boy.

Phil still held firmly by his overnight determination to make a clean
breast of it to the Vicar at their interview on the morrow, and it was
so evidently the right thing to do that on no account would his mother
have breathed a syllable in any effort to dissuade him therefrom. In
the course of the afternoon the Vicar's note was delivered at the
Cottage, and after a first reading it seemed both to Phil and Mrs.
Winslade as if a brief providential breathing-space had been accorded
them. The evil day was only put off for a time; but it was a respite,
and they were grateful for it.

Further consideration of the note, however, made it evident that,
although the Vicar expressed a wish to defer the Monday's interview
till he should have had an opportunity of consulting his daughter,
that was no sufficient reason why Phil should take on himself to delay
his confession. Was it not, rather, his duty to tell everything to the
Vicar before the meeting in question took place? With the latter in
possession beforehand of all the facts of the case, it could not
afterwards be alleged that any unfair advantage had been taken of
either his or his daughter's ignorance of them. Clearly here also was
the right thing to do.

Next morning after breakfast--such a breakfast as either mother or son
had the appetite to partake of--Phil set out for the vestry. His
mother kissed him and bade him be of good cheer; her eyes were dry,
but there was a wistfulness in the smile with which she followed him
as he left the house which seemed to have its origin in emotions too
profound for tears. As it fell out, however, the Vicar and Phil were
not destined to meet that day. The latter, on reaching the vestry, was
told by Jabez Drew, the parish clerk, that "his reverence" had been
summoned from home by telegram and was not expected back till next
day. Now, Philip Winslade was due back in London at nine o'clock on
Tuesday morning. Evidently there was no help for it. He must defer
what he had to say till the Vicar should appoint a meeting at his own
time and place.

At this stage another difficulty confronted him. He had promised that
he would write to Miss Sudlow and let her know the result of his
interview with her father, by which means she would be forewarned as
to the attitude her parents would be likely to adopt towards her when
she should see them a few days later. But, as Philip asked himself,
how was it possible, under the circumstances, that he should write to
her at all? Nothing would have been easier than for him to tell her in
so many words that the Vicar had postponed all decision in the affair
till he should have seen Fanny herself; but how could he tell her so
much without telling her more? He had written to her twice already
such letters as it is a lover's happiness to indite, but how dare he
mention such a word as love now with that hideous secret crushing him
down like a veritable Old Man of the Sea? Neither could he tell his
tale to her before telling it to her father. To have done so would
have been to take advantage of the Vicar in a way his pride would not
allow--him to stoop to, and would, in addition, have the appearance of
trying to secure, through Fanny's compassion and womanly pity, a
promise to continue true to him which she might see cause to regret
after the influence of her parents should have been brought to bear on
her. Even at the risk of having hard things thought of him by her he
loved so fondly, he would keep an unbroken silence till he had made
his confession to the person who was entitled to hear it first of all.


Miss Sudlow went down to Iselford on Saturday by the same train that
her lover had travelled by a week before. She had been puzzled and
somewhat put about when day passed after day without bringing her the
expected letter, or a word of any kind from Phil. That she put a score
of questions to herself goes without saying, to none of which,
however, was any answer forthcoming; and it was not without a certain
vague uneasiness and dread of what the next day or two might have in
store for her that she travelled down home. Nothing of this, however,
did she betray to her mother, who, with one of her sisters, she found
awaiting her arrival at the station.

Fanny Sudlow, unlike her mother, was a brunette. She had brown eyes,
frank and vivacious, a great quantity of dark wavy hair, and a face
that depended more on character for its attractiveness than on any
special charm of feature. As we shall presently discover, she was a
young woman of spirit, with a strong sense of independence and
considerable fixity of will, which latter characteristic her mother
called by another name.

"My dear," said Mrs. Sudlow, after she had embraced her daughter,
eyeing Fanny's Saratoga trunk with evident dismay, "pleased as I am,
of course, to see you again, my hope was that you had only come to pay
us a flying visit, and that, in point of fact, you had contrived to
make yourself so indispensable to your aunt that she would ask you to
stay with her altogether."

"I am sorry to disappoint you, mamma, but I have left Aunt Charlotte
for good and all. When I went to her you know it was only as a
makeshift till her companion, Miss Pudsey, whose health had broken
down (and I don't wonder at it) was able to resume her duties. Then
poor Pudsey is terribly afraid of the sea, and Aunt Charlotte having
made up her mind to go in person to America and look after some
property she was afraid she was being swindled out of, probably
thought that I should be of more use to her during the voyage out and
home. Now, however, Pudsey is back in harness, so aunt and I have said
good-bye, mutually glad to have seen the last of each other for at
least a considerable time to come."

"It is a pity, a very great pity, that you were not at more pains to
conciliate your aunt; and she with so many thousands to leave behind
her."

By this time they had packed themselves into one of the station flies
and were being jolted homeward.

"It is just possible that if Aunt Charlotte had been a poor woman
instead of a rich one, I might have been at more pains to please her
than I was. But, for my part, I've no inclination to fill the _rôle_
of toady to a cross-grained and abominably selfish old woman, however
well-to-do she may be." Then, a moment later, she added: "Not for a
thousand a year would I willingly degenerate into a Pudsey."

"Still, I cannot help repeating that it is a great pity you could not
bring yourself to put up with your aunt's whims and little infirmities
of temper, especially knowing, as you do, what a number of mouths
there are at home to be fed, and what a little money there is to do it
on. But of course it was too much to expect that you would sacrifice
any of your ridiculous prejudices, whatever might be the gain to
others from your doing so."

Fanny did not reply; she was already debating a certain scheme in her
mind which would reduce the number of mouths to be fed at home by one.

It was not till rather a late hour, and after the younger members of
the family circle had retired for the night, that Mrs. Sudlow found an
opportunity of being alone with her daughter. The Vicar, with a
prevision of what was coming, had shut himself in his study on the
plea of having to put the finishing touches to his morrow's sermon.

Mrs. Sudlow was not without her misgivings as to the success of the
task she proposed to herself. Her preliminary skirmish with Fanny in
the afternoon had proved to her of what stuff the girl was made. But
the little woman was not deficient in pugnacity, and rather relished a
battle-royal now and again, as tending to diversify the monotony of
everyday existence. Only she would much rather that her antagonist
should have been someone other than her daughter. In the present
instance, however, there was no help for it.

"Your father accidentally encountered young Winslade the other day,
when he was down here over the week-end," began the Vicaress. "From
what I gathered, it would seem that you and he met on the steamer
which brought yourself and your aunt over from New York."

The clear olive of Fanny's cheek flushed to the tint of a damask rose
at the sudden mention of her lover's name. There was something in her
mother's tone, an added flavour of acidity, as it were, which warned
her that she was about to be attacked. A moment later her coolness
came back to her in full measure.

"What you gathered was no more than the truth, mamma," she said.
"Philip Winslade and I met on board the _Parthenia_, and seeing that
Aunt Charlotte was confined to her state-room the whole way across, I
was glad to have someone to talk to other than strangers."

"I can quite understand that, my dear; and if the matter had only
ended there no harm would have been done. Mr. Winslade, however,
would seem to be gifted with an amazing amount of effrontery and
self-conceit."

"You surprise me, mamma. That he is occasionally a little audacious, I
am willing to admit; but of the other qualities which you attribute to
him I know nothing."

"In any case, it would seem that you have studied him to some
purpose."

"There is so little to do on board ship except study one's
fellow-passengers."

Mrs. Sudlow was becoming slightly nettled.

"There is all the difference between a general study and an individual
one. I have good reason for speaking of young Winslade as I did.
May I ask, Fanny--and I trust you will give me a straightforward
answer--whether you were aware of the particular object which brought
him to Iselford a week ago?"

Again that telltale colour dyed Fanny's cheeks, but she answered her
mother as calmly as before.

"I was quite aware, mamma, of the nature of the business which brought
him here. He came to see papa and to ask him for his sanction to our
engagement."

"Your engagement! Can it be possible that the wretched affair has gone
as far as that?"

"That is just as far as the 'wretched affair' has gone."

"You--you astonish me. I can't find words to express a tithe of what I
feel. Do you mean to tell me that you have been cozened into an
engagement with this young man?--that you have allowed him to extort
from you a promise which----"

"Pardon me, mamma, but there has been no cozening, as you term it,
either on one side or the other. Quite the contrary, I assure you. My
engagement with Philip Winslade is the outcome of my own free action.
It was entered into deliberately and with my eyes wide open."

"Oh, this is too much!" cried Mrs. Sudlow, her hands quivering with
the excitement which she had some ado to keep under. At that moment
she would dearly have liked to box her daughter's ears, as she had
been used to do in days gone by. "But, thank goodness, it is not too
late," she went on. "Your father must interfere. The affair must be
broken off at the earliest possible moment."

"Did papa give Mr. Winslade to understand as much at their interview
last week?"

Mrs. Sudlow paused before answering. She had taken it for granted that
Fanny was acquainted with what had passed between the two men, but in
so thinking she had evidently assumed what was not the fact. She would
have given much to be able to assure the girl that the Vicar had
already sent Phil to the right-about; but, with all her faults, she
was a truthful woman where a question of fact was involved, and
Fanny's question demanded a truthful answer.

"No, Fanny," she replied; "your father, instead of giving Mr. Winslade
his _congé_ there and then, as he ought to have done, was weak enough
to defer his final decision till after your arrival at home."

"Dear, dear papa!" murmured Fanny under her breath. Mrs. Sudlow saw
the added sparkle that flashed suddenly out of her eyes, but did not
hear the words.

"Not that the result will be in any way different," resumed the latter
lady dogmatically. "Your father must write the young man a note on
Monday, informing him that the affair is finally broken off."

"Indeed, and indeed, mamma, he must do nothing of the kind."

"Why not, pray?"

"Because the affair, as you call it, is not broken off--in point of
fact, it is quite a long way from being broken off."

"Disobedient girl! And would you, then, persist in this--this
entanglement in direct opposition to the wishes of your parents?"

"Pardon me, mamma, but I have not yet heard from papa's lips that he
is so wholly opposed to my engagement as you seem desirous of making
him out to be."

"For all that, I tell you that he will write to the purport just now
stated by me."

"I should be very sorry for him to do so. The writing of such a note
would simply have the effect of putting things in more of a tangle
than they are already; and that is hardly necessary, I think."

"Perhaps you won't mind telling me what you really mean."

"Simply this, mamma. Even if papa were to write such a note as you
speak of, it would not have the effect of breaking off my engagement.
I have given my word to Philip, and only he himself could induce me to
take it back, and I am quite sure he is not likely to attempt anything
of the kind. So long as I remain under age my obedience, up to a
certain point, is due to my parents, and I will do nothing in direct
opposition to their wishes. But my engagement will continue to stand
good just the same, and in two years and two months from now I shall
be twenty-one."

It was gall and wormwood to Mrs. Sudlow to be compelled to listen to
this outspoken statement without seeing any means by which it might be
gainsaid. "You are a wilful, headstrong, disobedient girl," was all
she could find for the moment to say. It was a statement which Fanny
made no attempt to refute.

"Neither you nor your father have an atom of proper pride about you,"
resumed Mrs. Sudlow in a tone of cold acidity. "Little did I think
that any daughter of mine--the daughter of a woman who can trace back
her ancestry for upwards of three hundred years--would ever condescend
to marry anyone so low down in the social scale as Philip Winslade. I
know quite well what his Lordship will say when he hears of it--for
hear of it he must. He will say that you have disgraced the family
from which (on your mother's side) you spring, and he will beg that
your name may never be mentioned in his hearing again." For once the
little woman seemed on the verge of tears. For her the picture her
imagination had conjured up was full of pathos.

Fanny bit her lip and waited for a few moments before trusting herself
to reply. Then she said: "With all deference to you, mamma, I don't
care the snap of a finger what his Lordship may choose either to think
or say--indeed, if it comes to that, I very much doubt whether he
remembers that there is such a person as poor me in existence, and
certainly I am not going to make a fetich of him. I have not forgotten
that day when the Earl and his daughters drove over from Raven Towers,
where they were staying on a visit, and condescended to partake of
luncheon at the Vicarage. As for his Lordship, I remember that both in
manners and appearance he struck me as being more like a small
shopkeeper than a nobleman with a long line of ancestry, and the way
he once or twice snubbed papa, who is much the finer gentleman of the
two, made my blood boil, young as I was at the time. And then, when I
was asked to show the Lady Anna and the Lady Mary round the garden,
I have not forgotten with what frosty condescension they listened
to my remarks, nor how they stared at my sunburnt cheeks, and my
country-made shoes and my poor print frock--as if, taken altogether, I
were a creature who had strayed by chance from another sphere. Do you
think, mamma, that to themselves, or to each other, they would
acknowledge that the same blood runs in my veins as in their own? No,
I am quite sure they would not."

Mrs. Sudlow cast up her eyes and shook her head. She could not but
acknowledge to herself that she had come off second best in the
encounter. All she could find to say was: "You are incorrigible--yes,
perfectly incorrigible; and I am at a loss to know why Providence has
seen fit to afflict me with such a child."




CHAPTER V
A FAMILY CONFERENCE AND WHAT CAME OF IT.


It was quite by chance that Philip Winslade did not travel down to
Iselford on the second Saturday by the same train that Fanny went by.
As it fell out, however, he was detained at the last moment and had to
wait for a later train. On Sunday morning his mother went to church
without him. If Fanny had reached home she would be sure to be there,
and it seemed better not to run the risk of a chance meeting with her
on the way to or from church, in view of his impending interview with
her father.

When morning service was over and the Rev. Louth Sudlow retired to the
vestry to disrobe himself, he found his wife and eldest daughter there
before him. Mrs. Sudlow had just taken up a note addressed to her
husband which she had found on the table. "Now, who can this be from?"
she was saying as the Vicar entered. Fanny, who had recognised the
writing, blushed and turned away, but did not answer her mother. The
Vicar took the note, opened it, read it in silence, and then handed it
to his wife. It was from Philip Winslade, asking the Vicar to name an
hour when it would be convenient for him to see the writer on the
morrow about "a matter of urgent moment."

"A matter of urgent moment!" repeated Mrs. Sudlow. "What can that be,
I wonder?"

The Vicar did not reply, but there and then he sat down and wrote an
answer to the note, naming, as before, the vestry for the place of
meeting, and the hour of eleven.

It was only natural that, as Fanny walked home with her parents, she
should feel somewhat disquieted. Why had her lover not written to her
in the course of the week, as he had promised to do? That he was at
Whiteash Cottage was proved by his note; why, then, had he omitted to
accompany his mother to church? Above all, what could be the matter of
urgent moment he was so anxious to see her father about?

As yet the Vicar had not mentioned her lover's name, nor as much as
hinted at any knowledge of her engagement. But that did not surprise
her. Probably he did not care to enter upon the subject on the
Sabbath. Doubtless he would say what he had to say on the morrow. His
manner towards her had been, or so she fancied, more than commonly
kind and affectionate, and how could she accept that as anything but a
happy augury? Had the news of her engagement displeased him, or proved
a source of annoyance to him, he would scarcely have failed to make
the fact patent to her in one way or another. She longed for the
morrow to come, as young people have a way of doing. Never had the
even-paced hours seemed to drag themselves to so wearisome a length.
She was glad when bedtime had come, and gladder still when, after a
restless night, she saw the April dawn begin to brighten in the
eastern sky.

It wanted a quarter to eleven when the Vicar left home, and the
clock had just struck twelve when Fanny, from the window of the
morning-room, saw him coming back across the lawn. Her heart sank, so
grave and preoccupied did he look. She would fain have opened the long
window and have run to meet him, but her mother's cold eyes were upon
her, and she refrained. When the Vicar entered the room two minutes
later his first act was to cross to where his daughter was sitting,
and taking her head gently between his hands, to kiss her on the
forehead.

"Papa!" exclaimed Fanny, looking up into his face with frightened eyes,
and laying her hand for a moment on his sleeve. That he was the
messenger of ill news her heart portended but too surely.

Mrs. Sudlow was too accustomed to reading her husband's looks not to
know that something was amiss; but although her curiosity was keen to
hear whatever news he might be the bearer of, she set her thin lips
tight and seemed to be intent on her sewing and on nothing beyond it.
The Vicar sat down in his easy-chair and proceeded to rub his
spectacles with his handkerchief.

"Little did I dream when I left home this morning," he began, sighing
as he did so, "that I should have such a strange and distressing story
to tell on my return. Dear me--dear me! Who could have believed in the
possibility of such a thing?"

"My dear, if you would but endeavour to be a little less prolix!" said
Mrs. Sudlow. "If you cannot see that Fanny is dying of impatience, I
can."

The Vicar hemmed and fidgeted in his chair.

"Really, my love," he murmured deprecatingly. Then turning to Fanny
and addressing himself directly to her, he said: "I am afraid, my
child, that what I am about to tell you will distress you greatly, but
unfortunately the blow is one which there are no means of averting.
The reason Philip Winslade wished to see me this morning was that he
might impart to me, in strict confidence, a certain circumstance
connected with his personal history which only came to his own
knowledge a few days ago. It appears that when Mrs. Winslade became
aware of the existence of some sort of an engagement between her son
and you, and was told he was about to seek your parents' sanction
thereto, she revealed to him the circumstance in question, which had
hitherto been kept carefully from him. What she had to tell him was
that her husband and his father was a certain notorious bank-note
forger, Philip Cordery by name, who was tried and convicted upwards of
twenty years ago, and who died in prison a little while afterwards."

"Ah!" was the sole comment vouchsafed by Mrs. Sudlow; but although a
word of two letters only, it can be made to convey a variety of
meanings, and on the present occasion what it conveyed to the Vicar
was, "I always felt sure that there was something discreditable in
that woman's past, and now you see how right I was."

Fanny's cheek had turned a shade paler, but as yet she scarcely
realised the full significance of her father's news. After the silence
had lasted a few moments she said, "But why, after keeping the fact a
secret for so many years, should Mrs. Winslade have thought it needful
to speak of it now?"

"Whatever may have been her trials and misfortunes, Mrs. Winslade is a
high-principled woman," replied the Vicar. "When informed that her son
was seeking to become engaged to a certain young lady, she revealed to
him the story of his parentage as a measure of simple right both to
the person in question and her parents. It would rest with them to
accept or dismiss him as they might deem best, when the truth about
him had been told; but in any case Mrs. Winslade was determined that
there should be no risk of accepting him blindfold and under a cloak
of false pretence."

"It seems to me," said Fanny, with a little glow of colour, "that it
was a very magnanimous thing of Mrs. Winslade to do."

"You talk like a school-girl," broke in Mrs. Sudlow. "For very shame
the woman could not do otherwise than as she did."

"On that point, my dear, I must venture to differ from you," remarked
her husband in his blandest accents. "I fully believe there are many
women who would have continued to keep silence in the future as they
had in the past rather than run the risk of spoiling their son's
chance of marrying into a reputable family. Such persons might not
unreasonably allege that the fact of their having been able to keep
their secret for so long a time might be taken as a strong argument
that they would be able to keep it for ever." Then, a moment later, he
added: "Poor young fellow! I felt truly sorry for him. There was a
touch of manly pathos in the way he told his tale, which affected me
more than anything it has been my lot to listen to for a very long
time."

"It is an extremely disagreeable episode well ended," remarked Mrs.
Sudlow with an air of satisfaction, as her sharp teeth bit in two the
thread she was sewing. "Of course, you gave the young man his _congé_
there and then?"

Fanny stared at her mother as if doubting whether she had heard
aright.

"I told him that I would write to him in the course of a day or
two--nothing more."

"I think it a great pity you did not send him packing at once. I have
no patience with such temporising ways."

"But, mamma----" began Fanny, and then stopped at sight of her
father's uplifted hand.

"My dear, it was not for me to dismiss the young man after so summary
a fashion. It seemed to me due to Fanny that before arriving at any
decision in the matter, the whole of the circumstances should be made
known to her."

"There I differ from you _in toto_," said Mrs. Sudlow with accentuated
acidity. "You are Fanny's father, and as such it was your bounden duty
to give young Winslade clearly to understand that all is at an end
between him and her, now and for ever."

"But, mamma, all is not at an end between us. Far from it," said
Fanny, with that little air of determination which her mother was
learning to know so well.

Mrs. Sudlow turned quickly on her.

"Girl, are you mad?" she demanded with a stamp of her foot. "What way
but one can there be of dealing with a man whose father was a forger
and a felon, and whose mother for years has been passing under a name
not her own? Why, even to shake hands with such a person would make me
feel as if there was a gaol taint about me for days to come."

The Vicar coughed uneasily. "Pardon me, my dear, but your sentiments
are scarcely such as become the wife of a minister of the Gospel."

Mrs. Sudlow sniffed, but did not condescend to any reply.

"That Philip Winslade's father was what he was," said Fanny, "is
Philip's misfortune, but in no wise his fault; and why such a fact
should be allowed to affect anyone's estimate of him is what, so far,
I fail to understand."

Mrs. Sudlow's dull eyes flamed out as they did on rare occasions only.
"Do you mean to tell me, Fanny Sudlow," she said with a cold, slow
emphasis, which was the more effective in that her anger was so
evidently at white-heat--"do you wish me for one moment to credit
that, after what you have been told, it is not your intention at once
to break off whatever engagement (oh, how rashly entered into!) may
heretofore have existed between yourself and this unhappy young man?"

"You are right, mamma, when you term him an unhappy young man. But is
not that the very reason why our engagement, instead of being broken
off, should, if possible, be riveted more firmly than before? Who
should stand by him now this great trouble has come upon him if not I,
to whom he has given the greatest treasure a man has to give?" Her
cheeks glowed, her eyes shone with an inner radiance--never, to her
father's thinking, had she looked so beautiful as at that moment.

Mrs. Sudlow turned upon her husband. "Louth, speak to her!" she
commanded. "If she has so far forgotten herself and the lessons of her
upbringing as no longer to heed her mother's wishes and commands, it
is to be hoped that this new evil influence has not yet obtained such
complete control over her as to induce her to treat her father's
admonitions as contemptuously as she has seen fit to treat mine."

The Rev. Louth Sudlow felt that his position was anything but an
enviable one. His sympathies were altogether with his daughter; but to
a man who loved peace and quietness as he loved them, to sanction the
unfurling of the flag of rebellion on the domestic hearth might well
represent itself as a very serious thing indeed. Such being the case,
he did what weak men nearly always do when they find themselves in a
corner--he resolved to play the timid game of expediency, and to
attempt the impossible feat of steering a straight course between two
strongly opposite currents.

Addressing himself to Fanny, he said: "My dear girl, while fully
agreeing with you that in the case of a person who has been overtaken
by a misfortune which he has had no hand in bringing on himself, and
yet from the consequences of which it is impossible for him to escape,
it is the duty of those who know him and respect him--and--and like
him--to rally round him, and prove to him that though the world at
large may look askance on him, he will find no change in them, it is
still possible, I think, to push even so admirable a sentiment to a
point at which it not only becomes Quixotic, but--but, so to speak,
indefensible. And this, my dear, as it appears to me, is just what you
seem inclined to do in the case under discussion. Young Winslade by
his action in coming to me first of all has proved his entire
willingness to release you from any promise you may have made
him--such promise having been given in ignorance of what has since
become known, and accepted by him in equal ignorance. The question
therefore now is, whether you ought not at once to reclaim your
promise, and release him from any he may have given you. Although at
present, as far as we are aware, the knowledge of this painful episode
is confined to us three, there is no knowing how soon, nor by what
mischance, it may become common property. Think, then--consider, I beg
of you most seriously--what in such a case would be your position as a
member of a family which society (always terribly unrelenting in such
cases) would shun and contemn almost as if it were plague-smitten. Are
you willing for the sake of a passing girlish fancy--(you shake your
head; but, knowing the world far better than you know it, I hold by
the phrase)--to run the risk of overshadowing and embittering your
whole future life? Strive to realise all that you would sacrifice by
such a step, and then ask yourself what compensation you can
reasonably expect in return. The wrench of parting might be a sharp
one, and just at first the pain might seem almost intolerable, but
time would heal the wound, as it does the wounds of all of us, and
before long life would again look as bright to you, and as full of
promise, as ever it had done."

When the Vicar ceased he rubbed his white hands softly one within the
other like a man well satisfied with himself. He had not been
oblivious of certain contemptuous sniffs on the part of his wife
during the progress of his little oration; but he was too familiar
with such tokens of disparagement to allow himself to be affected
thereby. Fanny felt that one of the most important moments of her life
had come. Drawing a deep breath she said:

"Papa, when I gave my promise to Philip Winslade that I would one day
become his wife, it was with no intention of ever taking it back, and
far less than ever should I think of doing so now that a shadow has
crept over his life of which neither he nor I knew anything when my
promise was given. As for the world, or that small section of it
which, as you say, would look askance at him and his if his story were
to become known, it seems to me not worth a moment's consideration
when weighed in the balance against other things. Disgrace comes but
as we bring it on ourselves. Papa--and you too, mamma--permit me,
therefore, with all due deference and respect, to say, once for all,
that I have given my heart into the keeping of Philip Winslade, and in
his keeping I mean it to remain."

"If such be the case, my dear child, there is nothing more to be
said," remarked the Vicar.

"Nothing more to be said? Oh!" said Mrs. Sudlow, as she started to her
feet, a vivid spot of colour flaming in either cheek. Then staring her
husband full in the face, she said, in quiet, venomous accents, "Louth
Sudlow, you are a fool!" After which emphatic asseveration she swept
slowly from the room with all the dignity of which so little a woman
was capable, leaving father and daughter gazing blankly at each other.

A couple of hours after the somewhat stormy scene detailed above, the
following note was delivered at Whiteash Cottage:


"Dear Phil,--Papa has told me _everything_. The only effect has been
to make me love you the more, if, indeed, that be possible. This
afternoon I am going to Frimpton to see my old nurse, who is ill, and
I shall return by the footpath through the meadows between six and
seven o'clock. You may come part of the way and meet me if you like.

     "Always and always yours,

                            "F. S."


They met at the stile where the footpath through the fields loses
itself in the high road, about a quarter of a mile on the hither side
of Frimpton--Phil being determined that the walk back to Iselford
should be as long a one as possible. They had only seen each other
once since their parting on the landing-stage at Liverpool, and they
now stood for a moment or two, hand clasped in hand and eyes gazing
into eyes, trying to read whatever secrets of the heart might
perchance be revealed therein, and feeling their inmost being flooded
with a gladness which, for the little while they stood thus, made
speech seem an impertinence.

Fanny was the first to find her tongue. She withdrew her hand from
Phil's grasp, and, instead, slipped it under his arm. Then they set
their faces towards Iselford.

"Do you know, Phil," began Miss Fan, "it was very noble of you to come
to my father and tell him what you did."

"It was simply my duty. No other course was open to me."

"But we don't, some of us, always care to do our duty, even when we
see it clearly before us. And, in your case, I am by no means sure
that it was a duty, or, indeed, anything more than a piece of
modern-day chivalry, beyond the reach of folk of ordinary stature."

"I am afraid you rate what I have done far more highly than it
deserves."

"I can, at least, think my own thoughts about it," replied Fan softly.
"But poor Mrs. Winslade--what she must have suffered at finding
herself driven to make such a confession! My heart bleeds for her." As
she spoke she could feel a shiver run through the arm on which her
hand was resting.

For a minute or two they walked on in silence. Phil felt that it was
now his turn to speak. "My dear," he began, "in the note I received
from you this afternoon you tell me that you only love me the more
after what I said to your father."

"I told you no more than the truth."

He lifted her hand and pressed it passionately to his lips.

"But there are your parents to think of," he went on. "It is your
place, your duty to consider them first of all. It is too much to
expect that they should welcome to their fireside, or be willing to
allow their daughter to ally herself to, the son of a felon. They
would deem both her and themselves disgraced by so doing." Here an
involuntary sigh broke from him. "Listen, then, dearest. Let the cost
to myself be what it may, I here and now cancel the promise you gave
me three weeks ago on board ship. Take it back and try to forget that
it ever had an existence. We did not know then all that we have learnt
since. To you a far different fate is due than to wed the son of
Philip Cordery the forger."

Fanny laughed a little laugh that had in it more of tears than mirth.
"You foolish, foolish Phil!" she exclaimed. "And is that the sort
of young woman you take me for? What a low opinion you must have
formed of me! How strangely you must have misread me! No, sir,
you not only have my promise, but I have yours, and I mean to keep
it fast--fast---fast! So 'no more of that, Hal, an' thou lovest me.'
As for papa, I feel sure that in his heart he admires and likes you
to-day far more than he ever did before. He will never as much as lift
his little finger in opposition to our engagement. With mamma I admit
that it is different. She is not without her opinions, and there is
always that fetich of our noble relations to block the way. But this
she knows from me and clearly understands, that neither on account
of our relatives (who care nothing for us), nor for any other
cause--certainly not by reason of anything you told papa--will I take
back my plighted word. I am yours, and you are mine." Then, a moment
later, she added: "Beyond my father and mother, there is no one else
to consider, for that your and Mrs. Winslade's secret is safe in their
keeping cannot for one moment be doubted. The world will never be any
wiser than it is now."

In the face of such a declaration of unwavering love, so unfalteringly
given, so instinct with loyalty and determination, what could Philip,
what could any lover, have done save that which he did? The place was
solitary, not a creature was in sight; his arms encircled her, he drew
her to him, and then his lips pressed hers in a lingering kiss which
was repeated again and again. "O my love--my love!" he murmured. "I am
not worthy, indeed I am not, of all that you are sacrificing for my
sake."

With her head resting against his shoulder, she looked up into his
face with a heavenly smile. "Where true love exists there can be no
such thing as a sacrifice."




CHAPTER VI.
IN WHICH MISS SUDLOW HAS HER WAY.


Although Mrs. Empson, the Rev. Louth Sudlow's widowed sister, was a
cross-grained, selfish old woman, to whom existence, unseasoned by the
fulsome flatteries of Miss Pudsey, or one of her genus, would have
seemed barely tolerable, she was not quite oblivious of the claims of
relationship. She knew that, for his position in life, her brother was
a poor man, encumbered with a numerous and increasingly expensive
family, and it was probably her knowledge of those facts that was her
inducement for writing the following letter:


"My dear Louth,--That you rarely trouble yourself so far as to inquire
whether I am alive or dead is a fact which, with that regard for truth
which is supposed to pertain to your cloth, but does not invariably do
so, you would find it difficult to deny; still, it does not on that
account follow that I should treat you and your interests with an
equal amount of indifference.

"Although your eldest daughter, who, as far as I can judge, must, when
young, have been allowed to have far too much her own way, and cannot
now help betraying the results of her defective bringing-up, chose to
quit my roof in a very abrupt and off-hand fashion, after flouting
certain suggestions which, entirely for her own good, I was at pains
to lay before her, I bear no ill-feeling towards her on that account.
Indeed, were you here, Miss Pudsey, my _dame-de compagnie_, would tell
you that one of the most marked traits of my character is that I
invariably strive to return good for evil.

"As a proof that such is the case, I write these few lines to inform
you that Lady Charlotte Mawby is looking out for a companion (who must
be a young gentlewoman) for her daughter, who is somewhat of an
invalid; and should you think it worth your while to allow Fanny to
leave home in the capacity in question, I have little doubt about
being able to secure the position for her. The salary would be
thirty-five guineas a year.

"Don't shilly-shally over this offer, as you have a way of doing over
most things, but let me have a positive 'yes' or 'no' by return of
post.

     "Your affectionate sister,

               "Charlotte Empson."

"P.S.--Pray remember me to Mrs. Sudlow."


This characteristic effusion was like another apple of discord dropped
among the inmates of the Vicarage. Needless to say, Mrs. Sudlow's
indignation took immediate flame. What business, she should like to
know, had Mrs. Empson to assume that _her_ daughter, who was second
cousin once removed (on her mother's side) to the Earl of Beaumaris,
was desirous on her own account, or would be permitted by her parents,
to accept the position of companion to anyone?--much less to the
daughter of a woman whose husband was nothing more than a rich
tallow-chandler who had been created a baronet, for what reason nobody
seemed to know, at the close of his year of office as Lord Mayor. It
was like Mrs. Empson's low-bred impertinence to dare to propose such a
thing.

But fully one-half of Mrs. Sudlow's indignation was due to the tone in
which the letter was written. It was gall and wormwood to her to have
to submit to reflections on the manner in which her daughter had been
brought up. And then, too, the way in which all reference to herself
was relegated to a postscript! Yet she dared not, by way of retort
courteous, wing even the tiniest of envenomed shafts in return. For
her children's sake she could not afford to quarrel with their rich,
but odious, old aunt. It was very hard.

But what was Mrs. Sudlow's amazement and bitter indignation when Fanny
remarked in her calmly aggravating way that she felt greatly obliged
to her aunt, whose offer had come at a most opportune moment, seeing
that she had been on the point of asking her parents to allow her to
look out for some such situation as the one in question. She was quite
aware, she went on to say, that her father's means were cramped, and
it seemed to her that she was now of an age when she ought no longer
to be a burden to him, but in a position to earn her own living.
Her next sister, Winifred, was quite old enough to help her mother
with the younger children and to take that position in the household
which had heretofore been filled by her--Fanny. In short, this
self-opinionated young person made it clearly manifest that she was
possessed by a strong desire to work out an independent position for
herself, pending a certain event which just now was only dimly
discernible as something which pertained to a far-distant future.

As regards this little episode it is enough to add that, in the
result, Fanny had her way, and a fortnight later was duly installed as
companion to Miss Mawby.

In her encounter with her daughter Mrs. Sudlow had been beaten
"all along the line," but even in her defeat she contrived to
extract a grain of comfort from the fact that, as Miss Mawby rarely
visited London, but spent nearly all her time at one or another
watering-place, either in England or on the Continent, it would not be
possible for Fanny and her lover to see much, if anything, of each
other. That they would correspond was a foregone conclusion, but Mrs.
Sudlow had seen something of the world, and had very limited faith in
the axiom that "absence makes the heart grow fonder." Within her
experience she had not infrequently found that absence has a precisely
opposite effect, and that young men--and young maidens too, for that
matter--lacking the presence of the object on whom their affections
are supposed to be fixed, have a habit of gradually cooling down and
of being drawn, as by a magnetic influence which they are unable to
resist, to worship at some other shrine, and to conveniently forget,
or ignore, the vows they have already whispered in the ear of another.
Fanny had told her parents that, as regarded her engagement, no
further steps should be taken by her till she was of age; therefore
did Mrs. Sudlow derive some barren comfort from the thought that in
two years many things might happen.

She found it far easier to forgive Philip Winslade than to forgive his
mother; indeed, the latter was a piece of magnanimity which
transcended the scope of her limited nature. After all, the young man
had not been so much to blame. Fanny was an attractive girl, and it
was small wonder that he had fallen in love with her. The head and
front of his offending lay in the fact that he had been presumptuous
enough to aspire to the hand of one in whose veins ran the blood of
the ennobled Penmarthens.




CHAPTER VII.
PERSONAL TO PHIL.


Philip Winslade had been educated at the Iselford Grammar School,
whence he had gone, with a scholarship, to Cambridge. As he did not
conceive himself adapted for either the Church or the Bar, after
taking his degree he had cast about for an opening in a tutorial
capacity by way of making a start in life. This he had not been long
in finding in the family of a certain Mr. Layland, a wealthy London
merchant, who engaged him to take charge of the education of his two
sons--backward boys who had been spoiled by their mother, lately dead.
Under Phil's supervision the lads soon began to make marked progress,
and Mr. Layland had every reason to congratulate himself on his
choice.

It was when his engagement with the merchant was about two years old
that, as a matter of curiosity and more in order to kill a few idle
hours than with any ulterior purpose, he took up and began to study
the details of a recent mysterious robbery of bonds and securities of
which his employer had been the victim, and which had baffled all the
efforts of policedom to bring the criminals to justice. As it was,
Winslade presently found that the task he had taken in hand had an
absorbing interest for him, as also that it brought into play a
certain faculty of analysis of the possession of which he had been
only half conscious before, as well as a gift for the sifting of
contradictory evidence and the marshalling in orderly sequence of a
complicated array of apparently disconnected details, thereby enabling
him to build up a theory which indicated how and where the missing
clue should be looked for. The result was that Winslade succeeded in
doing that which Scotland Yard had failed to effect. As a consequence,
his success got talked about in certain City circles, and, a little
later, he was asked to take another case in hand which so far had
proved to be as great a puzzle as the previous one. Here again Phil
was successful in evolving a clue which in the result proved to be the
right one.

Such was Mr. Layland's belief in his tutor's abilities that when
Phil's engagement came to an end, in consequence of the departure of
his pupils for a public school, the merchant requested him to go to
the States and there carry out a certain diplomatic business
commission which, for reasons of his own, he did not care to entrust
to any recognised member of his staff. It was while on his voyage back
to England that he encountered Miss Sudlow and her aunt, and thereby
brought about a crisis in the affairs of Fanny and himself such as had
entered into the dreams of neither.

So unwilling was Mr. Layland to dispense with Phil's services that on
his return from America he offered him an influential position in his
counting-house at a liberal salary to start with, and with a promise
of promotion before he should be much older. But tempting as the offer
was in some ways, Phil, feeling that he had neither liking nor
aptitude for a commercial career, found himself compelled to decline
it. As the next best thing the merchant could do for his _protégé_, he
recommended him to his friend Mr. Robert Melray, who just then
happened to be in need of the services of a secretary and amanuensis.

Mr. Melray had lately returned from an expedition into the interior of
Borneo, and Winslade's duties consisted chiefly in transcribing his
diary, together with a miscellaneous collection of notes written in
all sorts of places and under all sorts of circumstances, and in
working up the whole into a connected narrative of travel with a view
to its proximate publication in volume form.

Winslade, working at his employer's rooms in London, had only been
engaged a few weeks at his new duties when news came to hand of the
tragic and mysterious death of Mr. James Melray. Robert Melray at once
hurried down to Merehampton, and Phil was left to go on with his task
alone.

One day, about a month later, Robert Melray being up in town for the
first time since his brother's death, seized the opportunity to call
on his friend Mr. Layland. Naturally their talk gravitated to the
strange circumstances connected with the death of the elder Mr.
Melray, the younger brother deploring in forcible terms the fact that,
despite his offer of a reward of five hundred pounds, so far not the
slightest clue to the perpetrator of the crime was forthcoming. Then
it was that Mr. Layland brought Winslade's name on the carpet,
instancing the able way in which he had succeeded in tracking down the
criminals in the case of the bond robbery, as also in the second case
he had taken in hand, and strongly advising his friend to induce Phil
to take up the affair _sub rosâ_ and see what _he_ could make of it.
Robert Melray, who was ready to catch at the slightest straw in his
burning desire to bring his brother's murderer to justice, did not
fail to act on the merchant's advice. He went direct to Winslade, told
him what he had heard with reference to his abilities in a certain
line, and begged of him, as a great favour, to take the Loudwater Case
in hand and bring all his efforts to bear on its unravelment.

It was not without reluctance that Phil acceded to his employer's
request. He had a strong objection to being regarded in the light of a
private detective, but the circumstances of the affair being such as
they were, it would have seemed a very ungracious act on his part to
refuse his aid, whether it might prove worth much or little, in the
elucidation of the mystery of James Melray's death.

Accordingly, a few hours later found him at Merehampton duly installed
in Loudwater House in the position of Mr. Robert Melray's amanuensis.
Not a syllable was breathed to anyone that any ulterior motive was at
the bottom of his sojourn under the roof of the old mansion.

But, as we have already seen, all Winslade's efforts proved, as those
of the police had already done, wholly unavailing to trace the
assassin of James Melray. The mystery baffled him as it had baffled
them, and at the end of a month he went back to London no wiser in one
respect than he had left it. A month or two later his services with
Mr. Melray came to an end.

While he was taking a brief holiday and considering in what way he
could best put to account such talents and experience as he possessed,
a communication reached him from Mr. Layland. That gentleman was the
chief promoter, financially, of a new weekly newspaper which was on
the eve of making its appearance, and he was good enough to offer Phil
an appointment on the staff. It was an offer which was gratefully
accepted. The new venture proved to be a success from every point of
view. Phil was still engaged on it, and was likely to be so for an
indefinite time to come. He had at length found the _métier_ which
seemed best suited to his tastes and abilities, and that of itself
ought to afford a large measure of content to any reasonable being.

A close correspondence had been kept up all this time between himself
and Miss Sudlow. Only twice had they met, and that for an hour only on
each occasion. Miss Mawby, the semi-invalid to whom Fanny filled the
office of companion, as a rule detested London, but there were times
when she was seized by an irresistible longing to do a day's shopping
at the West-end, on which occasions she would rush up to town from
wherever she might be, dragging Fanny with her, only to go back,
exhausted and worn out, a couple of days later. On two such occasions
it was that Fanny and her lover had contrived to meet.

Philip Winslade had never felt quite the same man from the date of his
mother's confession. It seemed to him as if he had grown half-a-dozen
years older in the course of the first few hours after he was told.
Circumstances had forced him to confront the skeleton which for long
years had been his mother's companion, and it seemed to him that its
grisly presence would haunt him till the last day of his life. With it
ever in the background, only felt to be there while he was mixing
among the crowd of his fellowmen, but intruding itself as a ghastly
reality on his hours of solitude, a measure of that sunshine which his
life's morning had heretofore held had vanished, never to return. It
was only his supreme love for Fanny which strengthened him and nerved
him to oppose with all the power of his will the insidious
encroachment of that baleful shadow which, but for that, would have
gradually enfolded him in its chill embrace, and have darkened the
issues of his life through all the years to come.

We now come to the date of the letter written by Fanny to her lover,
the contents of which are already known to the reader. That letter was
answered to the following effect a week later.




CHAPTER VIII.
PHIL TAKES UP THE TRAIL AFRESH.


"My darling Fanny,--That your letter, with its accompanying number of
_The Family Cornucopia_, was a great surprise to me I at once admit.
After reading it, I turned to the story, which I went through very
carefully, some parts of it more than once, and I quite agree with you
that the writer of it seems to have been mixed up in some, to me,
inexplicable way with the Loudwater Tragedy.

"So much, indeed, was I impressed with several points in the
narrative, so startling was the new theory of possibilities which it
had the effect of opening up, so minute did the writer's acquaintance
seem to be with the details of the crime, that a strong desire to find
out some particulars about him, and, if it were possible, to make his
acquaintance, took possession of me. All the more strongly did I feel
myself urged thereto in that it was impossible for me to forget how
thoroughly the case had baffled all my attempts at its elucidation.

"Accordingly, the following forenoon found me at the office of _The
Family Cornucopia_, where, after having sent in my card, I was
presently asked into the presence of the editor--a pleasant,
middle-aged gentleman, Mr. Philpot by name. When I told him that my
object in calling on him was to obtain the name and address of the
writer of an article in such and such a number of his magazine, he
shook his head and said with a smile that I was asking for a kind of
information which he was not prepared to give save in very exceptional
cases. To this I replied that my case was a very exceptional one
indeed, and thereupon I went on to tell him of my connection with the
Loudwater affair (leaving him to infer that I was still in the service
of Mr. Melray), how struck I had been by the perusal of the story
entitled 'How, and Why,' and proceeded to detail some of my reasons
for wishing to make the author's acquaintance. After that there was no
further difficulty. 'Here is what you ask for,' he said a couple of
minutes later, as he handed me a slip of paper.

"'May I ask, Mr. Philpot, whether you have had any previous
contributions from Mr. Frank Timmins?' I queried, after a glance at
the name on the paper.

"'None that we have seen our way to accept. From time to time he has
sent us several little things, none of which, however, have proved to
be quite up to our mark; but the story entitled "How, and Why," was so
far superior to anything Mr. Timmins had sent us before that we were
glad to retain it.'

"There being nothing further to learn from Mr. Philpot, I presently
went my way. A hansom took me to the address in Pentonville which the
editor had given me. Mr. Timmins, however, proved to be not at home.
He was a single man, his landlady told me, and I further elicited from
her that he was a reporter for certain newspapers, as also that the
most likely time for finding him at home was after seven o'clock in
the evening.

"Seven-thirty sharp saw me again at Pentonville. This time,
fortunately, Mr. Timmins was at home, and I was at once shown to his
sitting-room, which, I may add, was also his bedroom. He had just
finished his tea and was in the act of charging his pipe as I was
shown in. When his landlady disappeared she took the tea-tray with
her.

"Mr. Timmins is a man of four or five and twenty, with a fair but
somewhat freckled face, straw-coloured hair, and weak eyes. By the
time I had been ten minutes in his company I had discovered him to be
one of that numerous class of young men who have a very excellent
opinion of themselves and their abilities, without having anything to
offer the world in justification thereof.

"The first thing I did was to hand him my card.

"'To what may I attribute the honour of this visit, Mr. Winslade?' he
asked, as, after glancing at the card, he laid it on the table.

"'I am given to understand by the editor of _The Family Cornucopia_
that you are the author of a story entitled "How, and Why" which
appeared in a recent number of that magazine. May I assume, Mr.
Timmins, that such is the fact?'

"He changed colour and hesitated for a second or two before answering.
Then he said: 'Really, Mr. Winslade, I am at a loss to imagine how it
can possibly matter to you whether I am, or am not, the author of the
story in question. Still, if, as you state, Mr. Philpot has seen fit
to acknowledge the fact, I am not going to run counter to his
statement.'

"'Thank you for your frankness, Mr. Timmins,' I replied, as I drew my
chair a little closer to the table which divided us. 'You may take it
for granted that the information I am here to seek at your hands has
not for its object the satisfaction of an idle curiosity; very far
indeed is that from being the case. What I should like you to tell me
first of all is, whence and how you obtained the information, in other
words, the basis of fact, on which your story is built up.'

"As before, there was the same hesitation prior to answering. Then he
said: 'I fail to understand why you should assume that my story has
any, even the slightest substratum of fact, or that it is anything
more than a specimen of purely imaginative writing.'

"'That is a point as to which I can speedily enlighten you,' was my
reply.

"Thereupon I entered into the reasons, one by one, which had sufficed
to convince me that, whoever the writer of the story might be, he was
someone who had not merely a suspiciously intimate knowledge of all
the details of the Loudwater Tragedy, but one who professed to account
for the crime after a fashion so startling and original that I, as a
person connected to some extent with the case, felt bound to ascertain
what amount of truth, if any, underlaid his statements.

"Mr. Timmins listened with growing wonder, and when I had come to an
end he lay back in his chair, and for several seconds could do nothing
but stare blankly at me. At length he said: 'It is, perhaps, a
fortunate thing for me, Mr. Winslade, that my share in the story, or
whatever it may be called, is one that can very readily be explained.
To begin with, I am only part author of it. But perhaps I had better,
first of all, explain by what a singular conjunction of circumstances
the original MS. came into my hands. Possibly you may remember that,
some months ago, several people were killed owing to a railway
accident about a couple of miles beyond Eastwich?' I nodded. 'I, sir,
happened to be in the train when the accident took place, but was
fortunate enough to escape with nothing worse than a few bruises and a
severe shaking, while the only other passenger in the same compartment
with me was killed on the spot. I had been to report the speeches at a
great political meeting in the country, and was on my way back to
London by the night mail, travelling first-class in order that I might
be the better enabled to transcribe my notes _en route_. For a part of
the time I was alone, but at some station, I forget which, I was
joined by another passenger. I was too immersed in my work to take
more than the most casual notice of him, and all I can remember is
that he was young and dark-complexioned and had a black moustache. I
did notice, however, and I had occasion to remember the fact later on,
that after he had been some time in the carriage he took out of his
pocket a number of loose sheets of paper covered with writing, and
began to read them with what seemed to me the closest attention,
making an occasional pencil memorandum in the margin of one or another
of them as he went on. We were both at work, each in his own fashion,
when, without any other warning than a prolonged shriek of the engine,
of which neither of us took any notice, the crash came. All I knew, or
felt, of it was a momentary shock, as if all my limbs had been
suddenly dislocated, after which came an utter blank.

"'When consciousness returned, and I was able to realise what had
happened, I found myself lying on the sloping embankment of the line,
where I had been laid by the men who had extricated me from the
wrecked carriage. A yard or two away lay stretched the body of my
travelling companion, stone dead. A little brandy, administered by I
know not whom, revived me wonderfully, and thereupon I woke to the
necessity of recovering my missing shorthand notes, which doubtless
were somewhere among the _débris_ of the carriage. Feeling still too
shaken and bruised to go in search of them myself, I gave a platelayer
half-a-crown to find them for me by the aid of his hand-lamp. After a
quarter of an hour he returned with a jumble of loose papers, which he
said were all that he could find. Without looking at them, I thrust
them into my pocket, and it was not I after I reached home, some five
or six hours later, and came to examine them, that I found among them
the sheets which my dead travelling companion had been reading at the
moment of the accident, which the platelayer, in ignorance of their
not being my property, had rescued from the wreck together with my
own.

"'For the time being I laid them aside, but later in the day, when my
own work had been despatched, I sat down to read them; and next day,
when I went down by train to attend the inquest to which I had been
summoned as a witness, I took the papers with me. And now comes a very
singular feature of the affair. The body of my travelling companion
was never identified; nor, so far as I am aware, is it known to this
day who he was; nor, beyond such information on the point as the
railway-ticket found in one of his pockets afforded, whence he had
come or for what place other than London--which is a big address--he
was bound. He seemed to have been travelling without luggage of any
kind; his linen was unmarked, and there was nothing whatever found on
him by the aid of which his identity could be established. Under those
circumstances, I kept the dead man's papers by me, saying no word
about them to anybody. As a matter of course, I took the precaution of
looking carefully through them with a view of ascertaining whether
they furnished any clue to the personality of the writer, but none
such could I find. When I tell you this, Mr. Winslade, you will at
once understand in what light I regarded the MS. To me it seemed
neither more nor less than a rather clever little magazine story--a
piece of pure fiction, in point of fact. As such I read it, and such I
should have still believed it to be but for what you have told me this
evening.

"'Well, sir, some three or four months after the unknown writer of the
MS. had been buried, I said to myself one day, "Why not write it out
in my own hand, invent an ending to it, give it a name, and send it to
one of the magazines? If it comes back it will only be one failure the
more." And failures in that line were things to which I was becoming
pretty well used.'

"Here I interrupted Mr. Timmins for the first time.

"'You say "invent an ending to it,"' I remarked. 'Had the MS., then, a
different ending from that which it has in the printed story?'

"'I ought, perhaps, to have remarked before that it had no ending of
any kind,' replied Timmins, 'but broke off abruptly at the bottom of a
page. Whether the writer had never finished it, or whether, if a more
thorough search had been made in the carriage, the continuation of it
would have been found, I am, of course, unable to say. In any case, as
far as I am concerned, unfinished it was; consequently all the latter
part of the story, as printed, is from my pen.'

"I at once saw, how important a knowledge of this fact might prove to
be, should the Loudwater Case ever come to be reopened. Laying the
open periodical before him on the table, I said, 'Will you be good
enough, Mr. Timmins, to point out the place where the original MS.
left off, and your pen took up the running?'

"After drawing the magazine to him and casting his eye over the
columns, he said presently, marking a certain place with his
thumb-nail as he did so, 'Here is where the original writer ends and I
begin.'

"'May I take it, then, as a fact that up to the point indicated by you
the printed story follows exactly on the lines of the MS.?'

"'As nearly so as makes no matter. Here and there a word may have been
changed or transposed, or the turn of a sentence altered, but it may
be accepted as being to all intents and purposes a faithful copy of
the MS.'

"You, my dear Fan, have read the story; so, when I tell you that the
point at which the break occurs is where 'Ernestine' and her former
lover find themselves together in the old merchant's office, you will
not fail to call to mind what a very important share of the narrative
proves to be wholly due to the inventive genius of Mr. Timmins. And
yet, perhaps, on further consideration, it is not really so important
as at first sight it seems. You and I knew, the moment we read it,
that the latter half of the narrative was nothing more than a farrago
of fiction; but who, in view of the little that is really known of the
causes which led to Mr. Melray's death, dare venture to assert that
the incidents, as detailed in the early part of it, may not be based
on fact? That is just what one would like to be in a position to
determine.

"But to return.

"'By the way, Mr. Timmins,' I said, 'I should like very particularly
to inspect the original MS.; indeed, I may add that I should like to
take possession of it for a little while.'

"'I am sorry to say that it is no longer in existence. I kept it till
I heard that my story was accepted; then I burnt it.'

"'Oh, you idiot!' was my mental exclamation; but aloud I only said it
was a great pity he had done so.

"'Judging from what you have told me,' I went on presently, 'I suppose
I may take it for a fact that there was no hint whatever in the MS.
about suspicion fixing itself on "Mr. Day," the head clerk, nor
anything about his arrest and subsequent trial and conviction?
Neither, I presume, was there any mention made of the writer's
intention to commit suicide?'

"'All those portions of the narrative were of my own invention. The
thing needed an ending of some kind in order to render it acceptable
to a magazine editor, and, to tell you the truth, I rather prided
myself on the way in which I got over the difficulty.'

"Evidently there was nothing more to be got out of Mr. Timmins. The
truthfulness of what he had told me I did not for a moment doubt. He
made no difficulty, before I left him, about pledging me his word not
to speak of our interview to anyone.

"The first thing I did next day was to hunt through a file of old
newspapers for the particulars of the Eastwich railway accident. What
I there read confirmed Timmins's statement in every respect. One of
the four victims of the accident was buried without having been
identified. Still, it was just possible that someone might have since
come forward and, by means of his clothes and the minute personal
description of him which would doubtless be taken prior to his
interment, have been able to claim him as the missing relative, or
friend, of whom they were in search, in which case his name and
address when living, with, possibly, other particulars concerning him,
would doubtless be now in the possession of the railway authorities.

"But my hope that such might prove to be the case was doomed to
disappointment. The next post took a note from me to the railway
company, to which they promptly replied. No one, they informed me, had
ever come forward to claim, or identify, the unknown victim of the
Eastwich accident. My next step was to write to Mr. Robert Melray and
ask him to inform me when and where I could have half an hour's talk
with him. His reply was to the effect that he should be in town a
couple of days later and would call upon me.

"My justification for so doing lay in the fact that in the
MS.--supposing that any value was to be attached to its
statements--there were certain allegations so seriously affecting the
reputation of the widow of the murdered man that it seemed to me
absolutely essential that the present head of the family should be
made acquainted with them. It would then rest with him to decide
whether any further action, and if so, of what kind, should be taken
in the affair, or whether it should be allowed to rest where it does
and remain an unsolved mystery till the end of time.

"Well, my interview with Mr. Melray came off in due course. As I think
I have told you before, he is a man of strong feelings, although he
shows little of them on the surface, and his burning desire to bring
to justice the unknown person, or persons, who were concerned in his
brother's tragic fate remains just as strong as ever it was. I found
him more inclined than I confess I am to look upon the MS. (so to term
that portion of the narrative found in the railway carriage) as a
genuine recital of facts. To him it seems by no means unlikely that
the assassin of his brother may, in very truth, have been a former
lover of Mrs. Melray. Of course the question did not fail to put
itself to him, as it had already put itself to me: Were the murderer
and the unknown man who was killed in the railway accident one and the
same person? And if so, was he also the writer of the MS.? But those
were questions which he was no more able to answer than I had been.

"I had already cause for believing that the feeling with which Mr.
Robert Melray regards his brother's widow is not of the most friendly
kind. That to a certain extent she is inimical to him I cannot doubt.
Consequently I was not much surprised when he avowed his intention of
having the case reopened--to the extent, at least, if such a thing
should prove possible, of testing the accuracy of the MS. so far as it
concerned itself with the relations between 'Ernestine,' otherwise the
wife, and her lover. But such a course was far easier to determine on
than to carry into effect, and how to set about it was a point which
puzzled both of us. Finally Mr. Melray and I parted without having
come to an agreement as to any definite course of action. He has
promised to call on me again three days hence. Meanwhile, at his
request, I am going down to Solchester with the view of making a few
cautious inquiries having reference to the existence there of any
possible lover of Mrs. Melray prior to her marriage.

"And now to change the subject to something more personal to
ourselves.

     *     *     *     *     *     *

"Yours unalterably,

"Philip Winslade.

"P.S.--If any further evidence were needed to prove that the story
'How, and Why' is based on the Loudwater Tragedy, one might find it in
several of the thinly-veiled names which the anonymous writer has
thought fit to make use of. Thus, in the story Mr. Melray becomes 'Mr.
Melville'; the head clerk, Mr. Cray, is changed into 'Mr. Day';
Silston, the chief constable, becomes 'Dilston'; while, in place of
Merehampton as the _locale_ of the narrative, we are introduced to the
town of 'Hampton Magna.'"




CHAPTER IX.
A DEADLOCK.


A few days later the train deposited Winslade at Solchester, one of
those third-rate provincial towns where it is next to impossible to
hide anything from one's neighbours, and where it seems to be the rule
for everybody to know everything, or to assume that they do, about
everybody else's business.

From this it followed that Phil experienced little difficulty in
finding plenty of people ready and willing tell him all there was to
tell about the early life and antecedents of the Denia Lidington who
later on became the wife of Mr. James Melray. The fact of her
husband's tragical fate and the mystery which still enshrouded his
death, had served to bring everything connected with her freshly to
people's minds; indeed, the good folk of Solchester had come to look
upon the Loudwater Tragedy as being a matter which concerned them
nearly, if not quite, as much as their Merehampton neighbours.

The one fresh fact pertinent to his inquiry elicited by Winslade was
that, while still little more than a school-girl, Miss Lidington had
had a very pronounced flirtation with a handsome, but impecunious,
ne'er-do-well, Evan Wildash by name, which had so alarmed the girl's
uncle that he had sought out the young fellow and had there and then
made him an offer of two hundred pounds on condition that he took
himself off for good and all to one or other of the colonies. This
Wildash had made no difficulty in doing, and, a couple of years later,
tidings, the authenticity of which nobody had seen reason to doubt,
had come to hand of his death by fever at the Cape. In any case, Evan
Wildash had never been seen in Solchester again.

The information thus obtained seemed to Robert Melray to supply strong
and convincing reason for accepting as an authentic record the MS.
which such a strange chance had put into the hands of Mr. Timmins. To
him it now appeared clearly manifest that Wildash had _not_ died
abroad as was reported, but had come back, had surreptitiously sought
out the Denia Lidington of former days, had had more than one meeting
with her, the last of which had been interrupted by the justly
indignant husband, and that in the quarrel which ensued the latter had
been foully murdered. Of all this Robert Melray was fully convinced in
his mind. Scarcely more difficult did he find it to believe that
Wildash himself was the writer of the MS. (although what his object
had been in penning such a document was by no means clear), as also
that he was the unknown man who was killed in the railway accident.

Winslade, while fully admitting the plausibility of the theory thus
advanced, was by no means inclined to allow his judgment to be
overridden by opinions so positive as those cherished by Mr. Melray.
That the latter's theory might prove to be in consonance with the
facts of the case, should those facts ever be brought to light, he was
quite open to allow; but, on the other hand, there was a possibility
that it might be at total variance with the truth. What he was willing
to grant was that, had such a thing been feasible, it might have been
advisable to reopen the case on the assumption that the statements
embodied in the manuscript might be based on certain circumstances
which all previous inquiries had failed to elicit.

But to have gone to the widow and challenged her with being cognisant
of the existence and return of Wildash, as also with being an
accessory after the event, if not a passive agent at the scene of her
husband's death, would have been a brutal thing to do in any case, and
infinitely more so in the event of the theory of her having had a
former lover who was implicated in the affair turning out to be
nothing more than a wild invention on the part of the writer of the
manuscript. Be the truth what it might, such an accusation would only
be met by an indignant denial, and one which there would be no means
whatever of refuting. Finally, the two men parted without having
arrived at a decision of any kind, to meet again by appointment a
couple of days later.

Then Mr. Melray said to Winslade, "It seems clear to me that I can do
nothing, that I am bound hand and foot. Unless some further evidence
bearing on my brother's fate, of which at present we have no
cognisance, should turn up from some unexpected quarter, the mystery
must rest where it does. It is a terribly unsatisfactory state of
affairs, but one which I am powerless to alter."

It was at Mr. Layland's house that the meeting took place; and now,
when Phil rose to take his leave, the merchant, who had been present
at the interview, pressed him so cordially to stay and dine that he
could not well have refused, even had he been wishful of doing so.

As they sat after dinner over their wine, Robert Melray said to his
friend: "You have helped me from time to time in more ways than I
could reckon up, and now I want you to help me once more. My mother
has given me orders to look out for a governess for my little boy. He
is just turned six, and I am told that his education is being
shamefully neglected. Now, if you and Miss Layland will put your heads
together and pick me out a likely person for the post in question, you
will oblige me more than I can say."

Phil pricked up his ears. Miss Mawby had died quite suddenly about
three weeks before, and Fanny Sudlow was already looking out for
another situation. After spending a few days at home she had gone to
stay for a time at the house of one of her old school friends who was
lately married. Her mother had not yet forgiven her for her refusal to
break off her engagement to Phil, and Fanny felt that, for the sake of
domestic peace and harmony, it was better that they should still
remain apart; besides which she had no inclination to again become a
burden on her father's resources, which were taxed to the utmost by
the necessity of having to provide for those younger than herself. All
these were matters within Phil's cognisance.

"There ought to be no difficulty in finding you the article you
require," said Mr. Layland. "I will get my sister to pick out a few
likely advertisements and see what can be done."

"I hope you won't think it presumptuous on my part," remarked Phil,
addressing himself to Mr. Melray, "but I may just mention that my
mother is acquainted with a young lady, the eldest daughter of the
Vicar of Iselford, who, from what I know and have heard of her, would,
I imagine, exactly suit your requirements."

"Nothing could be better. Let the young lady call upon Miss Layland,
and if _she_ is satisfied as to her qualifications, I am quite sure
that I shall be."

Thus it came to pass that within a fortnight from that date Miss
Sudlow entered upon her new duties at Loudwater House as governess to
Master Freddy Melray.




CHAPTER X.
UNCHRISTIAN CHARITY.


With all the emphasis of which he was capable, and, indeed, with far
more than he had ever ventured to bring to bear before, the Rev. Louth
Sudlow had impressed upon his wife the obligation they were under, as
a matter of principle and honour, to keep inviolate the secret which
had been entrusted to them by Philip Winslade. It was one of those
things as to which it was not permissible to open their lips to a
soul. It must remain with them as though it had never been spoken. To
all which Mrs. Sudlow agreed; and although her agreement might be of
that negative kind which is implied by the phrase that "silence gives
consent," in her own mind she honestly meant to carry out the
condition laid upon her by her husband. All that, however, could not,
or, in any case did not, keep her from letting Mrs. Winslade see,
whenever they chanced to encounter each other, that she knew the
latter's secret, and in that fact found her justification for looking
down upon her in a way she had never ventured to do before. Heretofore
there had always been a certain show of cordiality between the two
ladies. Whenever they met they stopped to shake hands and smile, and
take stock of each other's bonnet, and make a few mutual inquiries
about nothing in particular; but now Mrs. Sudlow passed Mrs. Winslade
with the most frigid of bows, and a sort of drawing round her of her
skirts, more metaphorical, perhaps, than actual; but none the less a
palpable fact to the other. All of which said as plainly as words
could have done: "I know you for what you are--a woman passing under a
name not your own; the widow of a forger and a felon; and, as such,
not fit to move in that circle in which you have hitherto been
received in ignorance of your antecedents." These were moments of
triumph to Mrs. Sudlow, and at such times she felt half inclined to
condone the act which had been the means of putting such a power into
her hands. Sweet to her was it to be able to stab this woman again,
and yet again, who for twelve long years had so persistently kept her
at arm's length, and whose airs of quiet superiority (on this point
the Vicaress allowed her fancy too wide a margin) and general
_noli-me-tangere_ manner had been to her as a perpetual hidden sting,
the existence of which was known to herself alone.

As time went on Mrs. Sudlow found her secret becoming more and more of
a burden. If only she could have shared it with someone--if only she
could have had one confidant with whom to dissect and discuss it in
all its bearings. There were times when the longing to whisper it
became almost irresistible; but she knew that her husband would never
forgive her if she were to breathe the slightest hint of it to anyone.
Weakly good-natured, and somewhat of a time-server, as the Rev. Louth
Sudlow might be in some things, no man could be more rigid than he on
a point of honour, or have a more genuine contempt for the mean and
ungenerous motives which prompt the actions of so many people. No;
however painful its continued presence might be, Mrs. Sudlow--so
indifferent, as a rule, to her husband's wishes, so contemptuous of
his opinions, and so habituated to having her own way--was yet in this
matter afraid to take the embargo off her tongue which the Vicar (so
foolishly and weakly, as it seemed to her) had seen fit to lay upon
it.

One of Mrs. Sudlow's most intimate friends was a certain well-to-do
maiden lady, of middle age, Miss Tuttilow by name, who, being very
hospitable and fond of society, and without a grain of malice in her
composition, was deservedly popular.

Miss Tuttilow had one brother, who, like herself, was unmarried, and
who was a partner in a firm of London lawyers. In the spring of each
year Gregory Tuttilow made a point of stealing away from business for
a few days, and of spending a brief holiday with his sister, in order
that he might be able to indulge in the fishing for which the
neighbourhood of Iselford is so justly famed.

It was on an afternoon in the pleasant month of May that Miss
Tuttilow, who never let a week go by without calling at least once at
the Vicarage, said to her "dear friend," Mrs. Sudlow: "Gregory has gone
back home after a week of the best fishing he has had for years. By
the way, the mention of his name reminds me of a rather curious
circumstance which happened the other day. He and I had walked into
the town together--he to buy some tobacco and I some feminine
fal-lals--when whom should we meet face to face but Mrs. Winslade. She
favoured me with one of her indefinite smiles, bowed slightly, and
passed on. 'You seem to know that lady. Who is she?' queried my
brother, as he turned for a moment to look after her. Whereupon I told
him as much as anybody in Iselford knows about Mrs. Winslade, which,
as you and I are aware, is very little; and then, of course, asked him
what _he_ knew about her? 'Nothing at all,' was his reply. 'it was
merely that she put me very strongly in mind of a person, one of your
sex, whom I had occasion to meet professionally two or three and
twenty years ago. The person in question was the wife of a notorious
forger, Philip Cordery by name, who engaged our firm to defend him at
his trial. I found Mrs. Cordery to be a very charming woman, and I
pitied her from the bottom of my heart for being wedded to such a
scoundrel. As it happens, I have a very excellent memory for faces,
and really, allowing for the lapse of time, your friend Mrs. Winslade
bears a quite startling likeness to the Mrs. Cordery of so long ago.
But, of course, it can be nothing more than a coincidence.' Singular,
was it not, my dear friend? And it would be still more singular, would
it not? should Mrs. Winslade and Mrs. Cordery turn out to be one and
the same person. But even if such were the case nobody in Iselford
would be able to prove it."

"You are mistaken," said Mrs. Sudlow, "_I_ could prove it. I have known
of it for the last two months."

Miss Tuttilow jumped up as if a cracker had exploded under her chair.
"Goodness gracious me!" was all she was able to gasp out in the first
access of her amazement.

Next moment Mrs. Sudlow could have bitten her tongue off with
vexation. She had had no intention whatever of enlightening her
visitor as to the extent of her knowledge, and it was not until the
latter ventured the assertion that nobody in Iselford would be able to
identify Mrs. Winslade with Mrs. Cordery, that she, all unwittingly,
let slip that fatal sentence, which it was impossible to recall, and
equally impossible to soften down, or twist to any other meaning than
its few simple words conveyed. She felt excessively annoyed with
herself; but that in nowise altered what was done. All she could now
do was to minimise the effects of her indiscretion as far as it might
be in her power to do so.

What passed further between the two ladies need not detain us. It is
enough to say that when Miss Tuttilow left the Vicarage she was under
a solemn bond of secrecy; but, whether purposely or by accident, she
quite omitted to inform Mrs. Sudlow that she had already informed two
other "dear friends" of her brother's meeting with Mrs. Winslade, and
of the remarkable likeness which he averred she bore to the wife of a
notorious criminal.

As time went on it seemed to Mrs. Winslade that people, even some of
those she had known longest, were beginning to look upon her with
changed eyes. At first she told herself that it was nothing more than
fancy; but, before long, what had been a doubt deepened into a
certainty. She could not be mistaken. Many with whom she had been on
speaking terms for years now passed her with a curt nod, or a frigid
bow, or even in some cases averted their eyes of set purpose, and made
believe not to see her. Whenever an errand took her into the town she
was aware that not infrequently people turned and stared at her, and
sometimes whispered to one another, as if there was something about
her which differentiated her from others of her sex. It was impossible
for her any longer to doubt that her life's secret had become public
property.

She would not blame Mrs. Sudlow even in her thoughts; she would not
believe that the Vicaress, notwithstanding the veiled hostility which
had existed between them for years, would, knowingly and of her own
free will, do her so ill a turn. But, indeed, it would have been a
matter of small moment to her to be able to ascertain by what
mischance the truth had become known. The situation was an intolerable
one, for beneath that calm and equable exterior lay hidden a proud and
sensitive spirit, which, now that its secret armour had been pierced,
lay at the world's mercy. Iselford as a home was no longer possible to
her; she must seek another elsewhere.

"Where should she go but to London and keep house for her son?"
demanded Phil, not without a show of reason, when the case was laid
before him. She had given in her adhesion to the plan, but had not
quite settled the date of her departure, when Phil came down to spend
the week-end with her. Together they went to church on the Sunday
morning, but, as they left after service was over, so unmistakable was
the way in which they were avoided--it may be said shunned--by one
group of whilom acquaintances after another, that, as they quitted the
churchyard, Mrs. Winslade let her veil drop over her face, and Phil
could feel that the arm resting within his was  trembling. "My dear
boy," she said presently with a pathetic quaver in her voice, "if you
can arrange to stay over to-morrow I will go back with you. The
furniture and other things can follow later on."

Thus did it come to pass that Mrs. Winslade was driven from the home
which had sheltered her for so long a time by the "look askance, the
cut direct" of a number of so-called "good" people, whose views, both
mental and ethical, were as restricted and as incapable of expansion
as the horizon of the petty provincial town in which their lot
happened to be cast.




CHAPTER XI.
FANNY AT LOUDWATER HOUSE.


Miss Sudlow and Phil made a point of writing to each other twice a
week. With the ordinary run of their correspondence we have nothing to
do; it concerned themselves only and was sacred to their own eyes. But
there came a day, after Fanny had been about three weeks at Loudwater
House, when she addressed to her lover a long epistle, which, as
having an important bearing on the events of which this narrative is a
record, is here transcribed in so far as it is needful to do so.


"In accordance with a promise which I made you some time ago, I now
proceed to jot down a few impressions and opinions anent the new--and
strange--little world and its inmates into the midst of which I was so
suddenly transplanted three weeks ago.

"First of all, let me gratefully record the fact that everybody is very
kind to me, that my comfort is studied in a score of different ways,
and that I am treated more like one of the family than a dependent. My
pupil is a dear little fellow, quick at learning and of an
affectionate disposition, and I am really becoming quite attached to
him.

"I confess that for the first few days I stood somewhat in awe of Mrs.
Melray the elder. You know what a stately, almost imperious, old dame
she is, with a manner which at first strikes one as being reserved
almost to the point of frigidity; but by degrees one discovers that it
is nothing more than manner, and that under it beats a warm woman's
heart, in which there is no lack of generous sympathies.

"That, at least, is how I construe her character, and I don't think
that I am far out in my diagnosis. But it may be that I have been
exceptionally fortunate, in view of the fact that two or three days
ago Mr. Melray said to me, with one of his dry smiles: 'I find that my
mother has conceived quite a liking for you, Miss Sudlow. It is not
often that she takes to anyone as she has taken to you.' Of course it
was very gratifying to me to be told this, especially as I had in no
way laid myself out to conciliate the old lady.

"Of Mrs. Melray the younger what shall I say? I confess that in many
respects she is an enigma to me. I was scarcely prepared to find her
so attractive as she really is. Beautiful she is not, and it would be
a misnomer to apply the term to her, but her face is one which I
should think that seven out of every ten men would find singularly
fascinating, in addition to which there is a strange but indefinable
charm about her personality, which even I, one of her own sex, find it
impossible wholly to resist. She is still curiously girlish, not
merely in appearance, but in many of her ways, and when I first set
eyes on her in her widow's weeds, it caused me the oddest sensation
imaginable; indeed, I would not like to assert that a moisture, rare
with me, did not dim my eyes as her tiny hand lingered for a moment or
two in mine.

"To connect, even in thought, those guileless blue eyes, that
milk-white brow, and that expression at once so candid and innocent,
with crime of any kind, much more with a crime so mysterious and
terrible as the murder of Mr. Melray, seems to me as if one were to
draw up an indictment in opposition to Nature's own instincts. And yet
there have been occasions when, taking her unawares, I have caught her
scrutinising me with a certain indescribable something in her gaze
which has not merely puzzled me, but rendered me vaguely uneasy. At
such times it has seemed to me that, instead of its being I who was
studying and trying to read her, it was she who was submitting me to a
like process.

"I remember your giving it as your opinion that Mr. Robert Melray
entertained no very friendly feeling towards his brother's widow, and
the longer I stay here the more inclined I am to think you were right.
But then, Mr. Melray is one of those dry, reserved, undemonstrative
men, as to whose likes or dislikes it is somewhat rash to formulate
too positive an opinion. Being the gentleman he is, it goes without
saying that he treats her with uniform courtesy and consideration; but
underlying it all there is a certain hardness and frigidity which, no
doubt, are partly natural to him, but in part only as it seems to me.

"But, if one may be allowed to entertain some doubt as to the quality
of the feeling with which Mr. Melray regards the youthful widow, there
can be no room for doubt as far as his mother is concerned. That Mrs.
Melray the younger is distinctly antipathetic to Mrs. Melray the elder
unfortunately admits of no dispute. Not that they see much of each
other, save at luncheon and dinner, and perhaps for an hour afterwards
in the drawing-room. The dowager always breakfasts in her own
apartments and spends the major part of her time there with her
companion, a middle-aged spinster, Miss Armishaw by name, and an
amiable nonentity. More than once young Mrs. Melray has spoken to me,
in her prettily pathetic, girlish way, of the evident dislike in which
the elder woman holds her: 'I have done all I can in the effort to
conciliate her, but in vain,' she says; 'so now I have given up the
attempt as useless. I have been told that there are some women so
constituted that they always dislike their daughters-in-law unless
they themselves have had a hand in choosing them; and yet that seems a
hard thing to believe.'

"From this you will gather that the widow and I are on very good terms
with each other; and such, indeed, is the case. On first coming here I
arranged with the elder Mrs. Melray that the hour from twelve till one
each day, weather permitting, should be devoted to taking Freddy out
for a run in the fresh air. There is a big old-fashioned garden at the
back of Loudwater House to which we sometimes limit our
constitutional; but more frequently we make our way into the meadows
which skirt one shore of the river and extend for miles, where the air
is the purest imaginable. Well, on the third morning, as I was getting
ready to go out, young Mrs. Melray came to me. 'I should so much like
to go out now and then with you and Freddy, Miss Sudlow, if you will
kindly allow me to accompany you,' she said. 'Since my husband's death
my life has necessarily been a very quiet one. I have hardly anyone to
talk to and I go nowhere. It would be a charity to let me join you.'

"What could I say except that I should be very glad of her company,
and since then she has made a point of joining me in my walk every
other day, or thereabouts. Usually she has not much to say on these
occasions, and, as you know, I do not shine as a conversationalist, so
that it sometimes happens that we pace along for a quarter of an hour,
side by side, without a word passing between us; but she seems quite
content that it should be so. Now and again, however, she expands a
little and begins to talk of her own accord. In this way I have heard
a good deal about her early home life at Solchester, together with
sundry particulars concerning her school-days; but no syllable
bearing, directly or indirectly, on the existence of any possible
lover in the days before her late husband asked her to be his wife.
Her mention of Mr. Melray is of the rarest; but when she does speak of
him, it is more as if she were referring to some near and dear elderly
relative than to a husband whom she has lost. I see no reason for
doubting that she cherishes a very warm regard for his memory. To the
tragic circumstances of his death she never alludes even in the
remotest degree. One can well imagine that for her the subject is too
dreadful a one to bear talking about. It is impossible to help feeling
sorry for her when one calls to mind the nature of the calamity which
has overshadowed her young life.

"Loudwater House has few visitors. Occasionally someone calls upon the
dowager Mrs. Melray, and since my arrival, two of young Mrs. Melray's
former associates at Solchester have been to visit her. The people we
see most of are staid, practical-minded Mr. Cray, who has been
head-clerk to the firm for the last quarter of a century, and Mr.
Richard Dyson, a kinsman of the Messrs. Melray, who has been in the
employ of the firm since he was quite a youth. These two Mr. Melray
frequently brings upstairs with him to dinner. Knowing so little of
the business as he does, and liking it still less, he is almost wholly
dependent on them for its conduct and efficient working. You will
remember Mr. Dyson as a particularly good-looking young man, with a
cool _dégagé_ manner, stylishly dressed, and with the air of one who
knows how to appraise his personal advantages at their full value. He
is a great favourite with the elder Mrs. Melray--a result probably due
in part to his own pleasant qualities, and in part to the fact that he
is the only son of a niece whom in bygone years the dowager regarded
almost in the light of a daughter. As his kinsman's assistant in
business, he has proved to be everything that could be wished--so Mrs.
Melray herself gives me to understand--and there is little doubt that,
had Mr. James Melray lived, he would, in the course of a few years,
have been made a partner in the firm.

"But if Richard Dyson is a favourite with his own relatives, the same
cannot be said of him with regard to his kinsman's widow. That there
is a marked coolness between the two cannot escape the notice of
anyone who has eyes to see. They address each other no oftener than is
absolutely necessary, and on those evenings when Mr. Dyson dines with
us Mrs. Melray retires to her room an hour or more before her usual
time. But whatever this state of things may be the outcome of in no
wise concerns me. In our frequent walks together Mr. Dyson's name is
never mentioned between the widow and myself.

"And now, my dear Phil, I think I have told you all there is to tell
that would be likely in any way to interest you. After having been
used for a long time to Miss Mawby's restless peregrinations, life at
Loudwater House is, in comparison, pleasant and home-like. Dull I have
not yet found it; indeed, on that point I have no fear whatever. It
seems hard to believe that so short a time ago a tragedy so dire was
enacted under the roof of this old mansion, where already the wheels
of life move as noiselessly and methodically as if actuated by
clockwork, and where one might easily imagine, but for the black
dresses of the ladies, that nothing out of the common ever had
happened or ever could happen. Has the drama, then, come to an end? Is
there nothing more to follow? or has the curtain yet to rise on
another act? _Chi vivra verra_. Not a word more; but, instead, a
kiss--nay, a score. (Oh, fie! fie!)

          "Fan."




CHAPTER XII.
MRS. MELRAY THE YOUNGER IN A NEW LIGHT.


One morning, about a fortnight subsequently to the date of the letter
embodied in our last chapter, Winslade was surprised to receive by
post a somewhat bulky package addressed to him in Fanny's familiar
hand. He opened it wonderingly, and his wonder was in nowise lessened
by what he found therein. First of all there was a long letter from
Fanny, and, secondly, a manuscript in a different writing, tied round
with narrow white ribbon.

After requesting that Phil would not open the manuscript till he
should have read what she had to say, Fanny went on as follows:

"From what I have already told you at different times, you will
readily comprehend that Mrs. Melray the younger has a great deal of
spare time on her hands which, I have no doubt, she sometimes finds it
rather difficult to get through with satisfaction to herself.
Previously to her husband's death (this is what she tells me), she
subscribed to the local library; but, as a consequence of that event,
her subscription has been allowed to lapse, and she is unwilling to
take it up again just yet, feeling sure in her own mind that such a
step would be disapproved of by her mother-in-law as savouring of
disrespect for the dead. Now, the stock of books at Loudwater House is
limited in number, and comprises but few volumes which would be likely
to interest a young woman like Mrs. Melray, who has no special
pursuits and no tastes in particular, unless it be a love of fiction
(in its narrative form), which seems to be a part of the natural
endowment of our sex. Under these circumstances, Mrs. Melray has
several times asked me for the loan of whatever books or magazines I
may happen to have by me (and, thanks to you, dear, I am kept pretty
well supplied with both), a request with which I have very willingly
complied.

"Well, in the course of the afternoon of Tuesday last, she came to me
in the school-room to ask me whether I had anything by me which she
had not yet read. As it happened, she had already pretty well
exhausted my current supply. Then suddenly, while I stood with my
finger on my lip, wondering whether I had anything left which would be
likely to suit her, a great temptation assailed me. Low down in my
heart a voice whispered: 'Why not give her "How, and Why" to read?
That it will startle and surprise her can hardly be doubted, for
whether she is as innocent as I believe her to be, or whether, if she
chose to do so, she could clear up the mystery of her husband's death,
the story can scarcely fail to recall vividly to her mind every
circumstance connected with that event, while it is next to impossible
to credit that she can be so blind as not to comprehend that,
intermixed with a lot of fictitious matter, it is the story of Mr.
Melray's tragical end which is being thus retold by some unknown pen.
Scarcely less can she fail to see that the "old man's darling," who
plays such an important part in the narrative, is intended for none
other than herself. In any case, the reading of it by her can do no
possible harm, and there is just a chance--a very faint one, I
admit--that something unforeseen may result therefrom.'

"(That something unforeseen _has_ resulted therefrom you will
presently have ample proof.)

"Such were the thoughts that flashed through my mind during the three
or four seconds that I stood with my finger on my lip. Then, turning
to Mrs. Melray, I said: 'I am afraid that you have all but exhausted
my supply till a fresh one comes to hand. However, I will see what I
can find.'

"I confess that my heart beat a little faster than common as I brought
from my bedroom the number of _The Family Cornucopia_, and placed it
in her hands. So lonely is her life that she spends an hour or two
most forenoons in the school-room with Freddy and me; accordingly I
was not at all surprised when she drew her chair up to the fire and
settled herself for what she calls a 'comfortable read.'

"I watched her furtively, feeling pretty sure that, as a child picks
the biggest currants out of its cake first of all, so would she pick
out the story 'How, and Why' from the rest of the somewhat dry and
jejune contents of the magazine. First her face flushed, and then, a
few seconds later, paled as suddenly; then she flashed a look at me
and caught my eyes fixed on her, with, it may be, a directness in
their gaze which she found somewhat disconcerting. Anyhow, hers were
the first to drop. For a minute or more she sat staring into the fire,
her little pearly teeth biting into the crimson of her under-lip.
Then, as if she had come to some resolve, she got up suddenly, and,
looking me steadily in the face, said in tones as steady as her gaze:
'It is not often that I am troubled with a headache, but one has laid
hold of me this afternoon. If you don't mind, dear Miss Sudlow, I will
take this magazine to my own room and read it there.' Of course I told
her that I did not mind in the least, and that I hoped her headache
would soon pass off. Whereupon, with the palm of one hand pressed to
her brow, and smiling a little strangely, she went, taking the story
with her.

"For the rest of the day nothing more was seen of Mrs. Melray. At
dinner-time she sent down word that she had a bad headache, and
apparently she had not got rid of it by next morning, seeing that she
failed to appear at the breakfast-table, neither was she visible at
luncheon. But a surprise was in store for me. In the course of the
afternoon a note was brought me by Charlotte the housemaid. Here it
is:

"'Dear Miss Sudlow,--Will you oblige me by coming to my room as soon
as Freddy's lessons for the day are over?

          "'Yours sincerely,
                   "'Denia Melray.'


I am afraid that for the rest of the afternoon Master Freddy and his
lessons received but a very perfunctory attention at my hands. Much to
the boy's delight, I dismissed him a quarter-of-an-hour before the
usual time, and five minutes later found me at the door of the widow's
private sitting-room, which, during her husband's lifetime, had been
known as the small drawing-room. After a preliminary tap I turned the
handle and went in.

"Mrs. Melray was half sitting, half reclining on a couch. The blinds
were part way down, so that the room was in semi-darkness, and as she
reclined there in the glow of the firelight, with her aureole of pale
gold hair, with the delicate ivory contours of her face thrown into
relief against the embroidered cushion which supported her head, and
with the graceful folds of her sombre draperies wrapping her round,
she made indeed a charming picture.

"'I have asked you to come here,' she began, 'because we shall be more
free from interruption than we should be anywhere else.' Then, with a
touch of bitterness, she added: 'From morning till night no one ever
intrudes upon me here. In all England there can be few more lonely
mortals than I. But I am getting used to it by this time. Don't sit
there, Miss Sudlow, half a mile away from me. Here is a chair that
will suit itself deliciously to the curves of your back. Come and try
it.'

"As soon as I was settled in the chair indicated by her, she said:
'That was rather a curious stor--y you gave me to read yesterday. But
before saying more about it, I want to ask you a certain question. Of
course you can please yourself about answering it; but, in any case, I
trust you will not be offended by my asking it.'

"She paused as if expecting me to say something.

"'I don't think there's much likelihood, Mrs. Melray, of my being
offended by any question you may choose to put to me.'

"'It is very nice of you to say so, and yet---- But here is my
question without further preface. (Now, dear, remember, no offence!)
Are you, or are you not, the _fiancée_ of Mr. Philip Winslade, who was
here on a visit of several weeks' duration a little while ago?'

"Her question took me so by surprise that not to save my life could I
have kept back the rush of telltale colour that dyed my cheeks.

"Next moment, to my surprise, Mrs. Melray clapped her hands, as a
child might have done, and broke into a low rippling laugh.

"'I can see that I guessed rightly," she exclaimed, "for, after all,
my question was only a guess.'

"'Yes,' I said, 'you have guessed rightly. Mr. Winslade and I are, and
have been for some time, engaged.' Although I spoke gravely, I felt in
no degree offended by her question, and she saw it. 'But, if I may put
a question in my turn, Mrs. Melray,' I went on after a momentary
pause, 'what were the grounds which led you to the assumption that a
tie of any kind existed between Mr. Winslade and myself, or even that
we were as much as known to each other?'

"'The explanation is a very simple one, as you shall hear. One day
last week I had just come in from my walk and was passing through the
hall, when my eye was caught by some letters on the table, which had
arrived by the afternoon post. Thinking that perhaps one of them might
be for me (although such an event would indeed be a rarity) I took
them up to examine the addresses. There was none for me, but there was
one for Miss Sudlow," which was sealed with wax as though it might
contain something of value. I suppose it was a touch of natural
curiosity that caused me to turn the letter over and examine the seal,
which proved to be a representation of an Assyrian winged bull, and
the same instant my memory recalled the fact that attached to Mr.
Winslade's watch-guard was an intaglio which represented a winged
bull. The inference to be drawn was an obvious one, at least it seemed
so to me, and, as the event has proved, it was a correct one.'

"It began to dawn upon me that there might be more, much more, behind
those guileless blue orbs and that candid brow than either you or I
had dreamed of.

"'Your powers, both of observation and deduction, seem to have been
cultivated to some purpose,' I remarked drily.

"'I am not quite sure that I follow you,' she answered, with a puzzled
look, which might be genuine, but might just as easily be assumed.
'You must bear in mind that I am not clever in the way you are. But
now that you have been so frank with me on one point, perhaps you will
be equally so on another. What special object, may I ask, had you in
view in giving me a certain story to read?'

"This was a question the answer to which demanded some consideration.
For once in a way, my dear Phil, your generally ready and quick-witted
Fan was undoubtedly nonplussed.

"'Suppose I answer the question for you,' said Mrs. Melray presently,
with a smile which brought both rows of her pearly teeth into view;
but, for all that, it was not a pleasant smile by any means.

"'The story in question having come under the notice of my estimable
brother-in-law, and he being satisfied that, as far as some of the
incidents it treated of were concerned, it could refer to one case and
no other, brought you, my dear Miss Sudlow, to Loudwater House,
hoping, by your help (that is to say, by matching one woman against
another) to be able to sift to the bottom sundry statements embodied
in the opening pages of the narrative, as to the truth or falsehood of
which neither he nor anyone else had any knowledge whatever. Finding,
after a time, that your design was no nearer its fulfilment than at
first, you took the only step left open to you--you gave me the story
itself to read, hoping to gain goodness only knows what advantage
thereby. Tell me, now, are my surmises, or guesses, or whatever you
like to call them, very wide of the mark?'

"This, as you must admit, was very plain speaking indeed, and if I had
been taken aback before, I was doubly so now. Her blue eyes were bent
on me as she finished speaking with a sort of hard keenness in their
concentrated gaze, such as heretofore I should not have deemed them
capable of expressing. One thing was clear to me, that she was
labouring under an altogether erroneous belief, of which it became my
duty at once to disabuse her.

"'If you are under the impression, Mrs. Melray,' I said, 'as your
words seem to imply, that I was invited here by your brother-in-law to
act as a sort of private detective, or, in other words, to play the
part of a spy on you and your actions, I can only say that you are
wholly mistaken. I am here to fill the post of Freddy's governess, and
with no ulterior motive of any kind. It was entirely of my own accord,
and unprompted by anyone, that I yesterday gave you the story, "How,
and Why" to read. At the same time, I admit that when I put it into
your hands it was with the object of enabling you, should you feel so
disposed, to disprove certain allegations, which, as I take it, can
refer to no other person than yourself.'

"'Allegations which concern me most seriously, for I quite agree with
you that, in the eyes of anyone acquainted with the case, they point
unmistakably to Denia Melray. But tell me this: Should I be very wide
of the mark in assuming that the story has already been read both by
Mr. Winslade and Mr. Robert Melray?'

"'It has been read by both of them.'

"'So much I surmised. And now, will you be good enough to enlighten me
as to anything you may happen to know about the authorship of this
very remarkable composition? I am also curious to learn by what chance
it fell into your hands.'

"Frankness being apparently the order of the day, I at once proceeded
to recount to her everything as it had happened, from my purchase of
_The Family Cornucopia_ onward through all the details of your
interview with Mr. Timmins, ending with a mention of the letter from
the railway company, in which it was stated that one out of the four
people killed in the accident had never been identified. She seemed to
drink in every word with an almost breathless avidity. I fancied that
her face paled perceptibly when I told her how, on Mr. Timmins coming
to his senses, the first thing he saw was the dead body of his unknown
travelling companion stretched out beside him. Neither of us broke the
silence for a little while after I had come to an end. Mrs. Melray was
the first to speak.

"'Did'--here her hand went up to her throat for a moment--'did Mr.
Timmins describe to Mr. Winslade--what I mean is, did he give him any
description of the stranger who was killed?'

"'The notice Mr. Timmins took of his fellow-traveller was of the most
casual kind. All he could call to mind was that he was young and
dark-complexioned, with a black moustache.'

"'Yes--yes--young and dark-complexioned, with a black moustache,' she
repeated like an echo. 'It must have been he--it could have been no
other than he! Poor Evan! What an end--what a terrible end!"

"She turned and buried her face in the sofa-cushions, and presently
her slight frame was shaken by those dry-eyed, almost silent sobs
which bear witness to a grief that, for the time being, is beyond the
consolation of tears.

"I knew not what to do--of no way in which I could comfort her. The
conditions of the case were so exceptional that I felt myself utterly
helpless. I could only sit and look dumbly on.

"'Poor Evan!' she had said. I did not forget that Evan Wildash was the
name of her one-time lover, who was said to have gone to the Cape
years before, and to have died there.

"After a time, without lifting her face from the cushions, she said,
'Leave me now, dear Miss Sudlow. Come to me at the same time
to-morrow, when I shall have more to say to you.'

"I need not tell you, my dear Phil, with what impatience I awaited the
afternoon of the morrow. In the interim Mrs. Melray kept closely to
her rooms, being waited upon by her own maid and being present at none
of the family meals.

"I found her on the second afternoon just as I had found her on the
first; it might have been five minutes instead of twenty-four hours
since I had left her last. She was very pale, but perfectly composed.
'I want you to sit, please, where you sat yesterday,' she said.

"For a little while she lay back on her cushions with drooping
eye-lids and close-drawn brows.

"'When I came to think over what passed at our interview yesterday,'
at length she began, 'I saw that two courses were open to me. I might
have professed my entire ignorance of the writer of the manuscript
found in the railway carriage; have averred that all that part of the
narrative prior to the murder which concerns itself with the "young
wife" and her lover was sheer romance, that I had never had a lover
since I was sixteen, and that he had died in Africa years ago; and,
finally, I might have defied anyone to prove that I knew one iota more
in connection with my husband's death than was given by me in evidence
at the inquest. That was one of the two courses open to me, and to
most women in my position it is the one which would have recommended
itself to them.

"'The other course was to tell the truth as far as it is known to me,
to reveal that which I have hitherto hidden in my own breast--and that
is what I have made up my mind to do. Ah! you don't know how often I
have been tempted to do this before to-day; but, like the coward I am
at heart, I have hitherto shrunk from the ordeal. I am quite aware of
the feeling with which both Mr. Melray and his mother regard me, and
that the knowledge is very painful to me I need scarcely say. I think
it very likely that if their attitude towards me had been one of
greater sympathy (affection I hardly looked for), they would long ago
have been made aware of all that I have to tell. But be that as it
may, the truth shall now be told, whatever its effect may be on the
relations between them and me in time to come. For more reasons than
one, however, I have thought it advisable not to recount, to you by
word of mouth what there is to make known, but rather to set it down
in black and white, so that you and others may be able to read it at
your leisure. It took me till far into the night to accomplish my
self-imposed task. Here is the result."

"As she finished speaking she thrust her hand under the sofa cushion
and brought forth a thin roll of manuscript, which she handed to me.

"'Read this first yourself,' she said, 'and then oblige me by handing
it to my brother-in-law. I should like it to be understood that I
shall expect not to be cross-questioned about this, that, or the
other statement comprised in it. That would simply be to torture me.
The paper tells all there is to tell. I have nothing to add to it.'

"The enclosed is a copy, written out by myself, of Mrs. Melray's
narrative. The original was this morning placed by me in the hands of
Mr. Robert Melray."




CHAPTER XIII.
MRS. MELRAY'S STATEMENT.


"My mother died when I was little more than a child, and a year later
I lost my father. After the latter event I went to live at Solchester
with my uncle, Mr. Samuel Champneys, who was also my guardian. When I
first met Evan Wildash I was sixteen years old and had just left
school. He was my senior by four years and had come to Solchester to
fill a vacancy in a land surveyor's office, his home, meanwhile, being
with a maiden aunt whose house was only a few doors away from that of
my uncle. Evan was an especially handsome young man, with large,
black, lustrous eyes, a dark Italian-looking face, and a most
persuasive voice; in short, just the kind of provincial Romeo to take
captive the heart of a romantic school-girl. Small wonder, therefore,
was it that, when he one day whispered in my ear that he loved me, he
took mine captive on the spot. After that we used to met in secret two
or three times a week, and, as if that were not enough, we got into
the way of writing silly little love notes to each other between
times, our post-office being a hollow in an old apple-tree at the
bottom of my uncle's orchard.

"This went on for half a year or more, wholly without my uncle's
knowledge, and never was girl more happy than I. Not for a moment did
I doubt Evan's assurances that in all the world he loved but me; and,
in return, he had all the girlish love I had to bestow. By-and-by
rumours began to reach me of the wild and reckless kind of life he was
leading--of his racing and betting propensities, of his card-playing,
billiard-playing, and I know not what besides; but he was my Bayard in
so far that, in my eyes, he was _sans reproche_, and I would not
listen to aught that was said in his disparagement. At length,
however, the crash came. He was dismissed from his situation, and,
worse than all, dismissed without a character. Even then I would hear
no ill spoken of him.

"It was just about this time that someone, I never discovered who,
opened my uncle's eyes (good simple man!) to the state of affairs
between Evan and myself. Under these circumstances five uncles out of
six would have sent for their niece and have upbraided her and made
things generally unpleasant for her; but he went to work after a
different fashion. Instead of scolding me, he sent for my lover.

"According to Evan, as told to me later, Uncle Samuel spoke to him
something to the following effect: 'You have lost your situation and
you have lost your character--such a one as you had to lose.
Solchester and you must now part company. I am given to understand
that you profess to be in love with my niece. If you are seeking her
for the sake of her small fortune--and it is only a very small
one--I must impress two facts upon you. The first is, that she will
not be of age for three and a half years; the second, that her money
is so tied up that her husband, whoever he may be, will not be able to
touch a penny of it. Now, although I am my niece's guardian, and
although she is legally bound to do my bidding while under age, I have
no wish to quarrel with her on your account. Rather than do that I am
prepared to make you an offer, which, for your own sake, I strongly
advise you to accept. What I have to propose is this: That, on
condition of your breaking off all future relations with my niece, and
of your at once going out to one of the Colonies--I care not which--I
will present you with the sum of two hundred and fifty pounds, the odd
fifty to be given you at once for your passage and outfit, and the two
hundred to be paid you the day after you land at Melbourne, or
Halifax, or at whatever port you may decide upon consigning your
worthless self to.' Evan took a day to consider. On the morrow he told
my uncle that he would accept the proffered sum and go.

"'So that is the price at which you and my uncle appraise me!' I
whimpered, when, with his arm round my waist and my head resting
against his shoulder, he told me what he had agreed upon doing. 'Two
hundred and fifty pounds! Oh, if I had but known before!'

"'Believe me, dearest, it is for the best,' he replied as he softly
fondled my cheek. Then he went on to say that his plan was to go out
to the South African diamond fields, where, according to his account,
fortunes, just then, were being picked up 'every day of the week.' Why
should he be less lucky than others? What was there to hinder _him_,
from picking up a fortune? He had not the slightest doubt that at the
end of two, or, at the most, three years, he should be back in
England, worth who could say how many thousands of pounds. When that
desirable state of affairs should have come to pass, he would marry me
despite the opposition of all the uncles in the universe. Meanwhile,
would I be true to him? Of course I would be true to him, I told him
as I wept quietly on his shoulder.

"Well, he went. One letter he wrote me after landing at Cape Town,
which reached me through the good offices of his aunt, Miss Pinchin,
who was privy to our engagement and willing to further it to the best
of her ability. After that there was a long, long silence, and
finally, about a couple of years after his departure from England came
the news of his death from fever.

"I cried, but not a great deal, when the news was told me. The fact
was that by the time Evan had been gone three or four months I began
to find, much to my surprise and hardly less to my mortification, that
his image was slowly, but surely, fading and losing its vividness of
outline in my memory--that I no longer thought of him by day and
dreamt of him by night, as I had been wont to do, and that his
unaccountable silence troubled me less and less as time went on. Love,
or that which I had dignified with the name of love, had taken no real
root in my heart. A few natural tears I shed when the news was told
me; and a sense of what might have been, but never could be now, came
over me and smote me as with a lash. But I quickly dried my eyes.
Three days before I had promised to become the wife of James Melray.

"My uncle had died some time before, after having appointed Mr. Melray
my guardian for the remaining term of my minority. He placed me under
the care of a certain Mrs. Simpson, and there, from time to time, he
used to come and see me. Before a year was out he one day took my
breath away by making me an offer of marriage. I asked for a couple of
days to consider my answer, at the end of which time I accepted his
offer. Before doing so, however, I gave him clearly to understand that
I entertained no warmer feeling for him than one of simple liking and
esteem. He was quite content, he told me, to take me on those terms.
Affection, he did not doubt, would follow in due course. There seemed
to me no need for mentioning the name of Evan Wildash. The episode in
connection with him was a thing of the past. He was dead, and
therewith the promise I had given him had no longer any binding force.

"Mr. Melray and I were married. I did my best to make my husband
happy, and, through all the dark days which have followed, the
consciousness that I succeeded in doing so has been the greatest
consolation left me. He prophesied rightly when he said that, being
rooted in esteem, affection would not fail to grow. It did grow, as he
knew, and he was happy in the knowledge.

"One afternoon, about a week prior to that fatal September day, having
finished my shopping in the town, instead of going direct home, I was
tempted by the fineness of the weather to go round by the Ladies'
Walk, that fine old avenue of elms which stretches for nearly a mile
along the left bank of the river, and is the only park, so to call it,
of which Merehampton can boast.

"I had been strolling slowly along for some minutes, immersed in
thought, when I was startled by a man who came suddenly out from
behind the trunk of one of the big old trees, and stepping in front of
me blocked the way. A second look was needed before I knew him again.
It was Evan Wildash; but oh, how changed! With his sallow, sunken
cheeks, his restless, furtive eyes, his long, unkempt hair, and his
shabby, ill-fitting clothes, he looked like a vile copy of his former
self. I fell back with a cry as my eyes met his. 'So, traitress, you
have not forgotten me!' he exclaimed through his set teeth, as he
followed me up with clenched hands and raised shoulders.

"What answer I made I don't recollect, nor does it matter; but
apparently it had the effect of soothing him in some measure. 'Let us
sit,' he said,' I have much to tell you, many questions to ask.'
Accordingly we seated ourselves on one of the public benches. At that
hour of the afternoon the walk was nearly deserted; its whole length
did not hold more than half-a-dozen people.

"What passed between us may be briefly summarised.

"After that one letter written from the Cape, he had gone 'up country'
to the diamond fields. There he was presently smitten by sunstroke,
and months passed before he was able to crawl outside the
hospital-tent. So reduced was he in strength that manual labour of any
kind was out of the question, and in order to keep himself from
starving he was glad to accept a berth in a store; and there he had
stayed till he had saved enough money to pay his passage home.

"'But when you got better, why did you not write,' I asked. 'I did
write, again and yet again,' he replied. 'After that first letter not
a line from you ever reached me,' I said. 'What conclusion could I
come to save that you had forgotten me?' 'If that is so, then has
there been treachery at work,' he replied, with a contraction of his
ebon brows. 'That is a thing to be ferreted out, and I charge myself
with the task. Meet me, three days from now, at the same time and
place.'

"On that understanding we parted. There had been little or no
tenderness in his manner towards me, but only, as it were, the gloomy
humour of a man who found himself despoiled by another of something
which he had believed to be his own, but on which, in his heart, he
had set no particular store. On my part, I felt towards him nothing
but a sort of repulsion mixed with pity--pity for the so evidently
forlorn condition of one whom ill-fortune had so remorselessly dogged.
As for his good looks they were gone as completely as if they had
never existed. I wondered at and half despised myself when I called to
mind that there had been a time when I looked up to this man as the
hero of my dreams.

"I met him three days later as I had promised. He had averred that
there had been treachery at work, and I was curious to learn the
result of his inquiry. What he had to tell was something of a shock to
me. The letters he had written after his recovery from his illness had
all, like the one written after landing, which duly reached me, been
sent under cover to his aunt, Miss Pinchin. But by the time the second
letter came to hand I was engaged to be married. Miss Pinchin, in the
exercise of her discretion, instead of forwarding that and the
subsequent ones direct to me, had put them into fresh envelopes and
addressed them to Mr. Melray. Whether he had opened and read them, or
whether, having had some hint from the spinster as to the probable
nature of their contents, he had burnt them unread, is a point as to
which I am as ignorant to-day as I was then. At any rate, not one of
them ever reached the person for whom they were intended, and, for the
time being, a dull fire of resentment was kindled in my heart.

"For all that, I was by no means prepared to look at the affair from
the point of view of Evan Wildash. In brief he pressed me to elope
with him. 'You loved me--that you cannot deny,' ran his plea. 'When I
was compelled to leave you, you gave me your promise to remain true to
me; and that you would have kept it I fully believe, had not the
report of my death been spread about, and had you not found yourself,
after your uncle's decease, alone in the world. Even then, but for my
aunt's treachery, it would not have been too late for you to have
saved yourself from marrying a man whom you can henceforth regard with
nothing but loathing and contempt. Although you have failed me, I have
been true to you. To-day you are infinitely dearer to me than you were
four years ago. You belong to me. You are mine and mine only. We will
fly together to some land beyond the seas. I have means at command and
you shall not want. Come, then--now--at once! In twelve hours we shall
be far beyond pursuit.'

"Such and such like were the persuasions and arguments made use of by
him. But I had no longer any love for him (if, indeed, I had ever had
any)--no, not the least bit! Rather was I frightened of him. His
restless manner, his strange jerky movements, a peculiar twitching of
one corner of his mouth, and an indescribable something which flashed
out at me every now and again from the sombre depths of his eyes, made
me timorous of him and involuntarily caused me to shrink from too
close a proximity to him. It seemed to me then--as, with still more
reason, it seems clear to me now--that he had never thoroughly
recovered from the effects of his sunstroke, and that, to a certain
extent, he could hardly be held accountable for what he might either
say or do.

"I will not weary you with the details of all that passed between us.
I was afraid to take too indignant a tone with him, lest my doing so
should provoke an explosion of passion on his part, which might end in
a way disastrous to one or both of us. There was, however, no lack of
firmness in the way in which I gave him to understand that between
himself and me all was at an end for ever, and that that must be our
last interview. He pleaded and urged me to reconsider my
determination, but to no purpose. Finally, finding that I had only
half-an-hour left in which to get home and change my dress before
dinner, I was compelled to leave him somewhat abruptly. 'Shake hands
before I go, and let us part as friends,' I said.

"He stared at my extended hand for a moment or two with bent brows.
Then, with a strange harsh laugh which seemed to me to have an echo of
insanity in it, he said: 'Part as friends--you and I? Never! We are
lovers, not friends. You are mine and I am yours. Not even death shall
have power to divide us.' Then, pulling his hat over his brows and
turning quickly on his heel, he flung me a parting look over his
shoulder. 'It is _au revoir_, and not farewell,' he exclaimed with a
wave of his hand, and so strode swiftly away through the gloaming."




CHAPTER XIV.
THE STATEMENT CONCLUDED.


"For the next few days there was an uneasy feeling at my heart, a
sense of impending misfortune, of which I could not rid myself. 'It is
_au revoir_,' he had said, and that despite my telling him that on no
account would I consent to meet him again. What motive was at the
bottom of his persistence? When and how would he attempt to force his
presence on me? For three days I never left the precincts of the house
and garden.

"I now come to the fatal 18th of September. About ten o'clock on the
morning of that day, after breakfast was over and my husband had shut
himself up in his office, a note was brought me with word that the
messenger had been instructed to wait for an answer. Even before I
opened it I guessed but too surely who it was from. As nearly as I can
recollect, it ran almost word for word as under:

"'You _must_ see me once more and to-day. I have made up my mind to
leave England in less than a week from now, probably never to return;
but I cannot go without bidding you farewell. Besides, I have some
letters of yours, written years ago, which I will give you when I see
you. Should you refuse me this last request, you must abide by the
consequences. To-morrow at daybreak my body will be found in front of
Loudwater House. There will be a bullet in my brain and on my lifeless
heart will be found your letters.--E. W.'

"Such a message, coming from a man whom I believed to be half
demented, was enough to frighten any woman, and it frightened me. I
scribbled a line in answer, saying when and where I would meet him.

"All that day I was a prey to the most dismal forebodings. It was
Friday. My husband, who was as regular in his habits as a piece of
clockwork, made an invariable point of leaving home punctually at
eight o'clock every Tuesday and Friday evening, in order to make one
at a rubber of whist at the house of his friend, Mr. Arbour. Being
thus aware that from eight till half-past ten my time would be at my
own disposal, and being unwilling to meet Evan again by daylight in
the Ladies' Walk, from fear lest the fact of my doing so should
somehow reach my husband's ears, in my reply to him I had named nine
o'clock as the time, and the corner of the graveyard of St. Mary's
Church (a lonely spot at that hour and not more than three hundred
yards from Loudwater House) as our place of meeting.

"I had fully made up my mind that this our last interview should be as
brief a one as possible. I was morbidly anxious to regain possession
of my letters. Unless I did so there was no knowing into whose hands
they might fall nor what use might be made of them. And then for Evan
Wildash to have committed suicide at the door of my husband's house
would have been a dreadful thing indeed!

"The clock struck eight as my husband was putting on his overcoat in
the hall. I tied a muffler round his throat, and at the door he kissed
me, as he always did, even if he were not going to be more than an
hour away. Alas and alas! how little did I dream that it was the last
time he would ever press his lips to mine!

"After he was gone I scarcely blow how the time passed till nine
o'clock. As I look back in memory, everything that happened that night
after my husband's departure seems as far removed from reality as is
the recollection of some hideous nightmare. It is enough to say that I
was at the corner of the churchyard within five minutes of the
appointed hour, where I found Evan already waiting for me.

"Of what passed between us I have only the vaguest
recollection--after-events seem almost to have blotted the record from
my mind. I remember with what a feeling of relief my fingers closed
over my letters, which, however, he did not yield up without evident
reluctance. Half a minute later his clenched hand went up to his
heart, and, with a low cry, he staggered backward, and would have
fallen had not his other hand instinctively gripped one of the
churchyard railings. 'That accursed pain again!' he exclaimed with a
groan. 'Brandy!--I must have brandy! or I shall die.'

"I gazed around in despair. As I have said, the place was a lonely
one. There was no tavern in sight, nor, indeed, was I sure in which
direction the nearest one lay. By this time he was resting his back
against the railings, and even by that dim light I could discern that
his features were warped by agony. Then a thought struck me. I had
planned so as to leave Loudwater House unknown to anyone, having made
my exit not by way of the front door, but through my husband's private
office, one door of which opens into a side lane. My intention
was to go back the same way, which the latch-key I had brought with
me--applicable to both the front and side doors--would allow of my
doing. It now struck me that if only Evan could walk as far as the
office I might be able to get him some brandy from the liqueur-case
upstairs unseen by anybody. I told him my idea, and he assented to it
eagerly. How in the agony he was in he contrived to get as far as
Loudwater House I cannot tell; but there we were at last. I opened the
door with my key and went in first, he following. The place was in
darkness; but I knew where matches were always to be found. 'Wait by
the door till I get a light,' I said, being afraid lest he might
stumble over something in the dark. Whether he did not heed me, or did
not hear me, I have no means of knowing. In any case, he groped his
way forward into the room, and a moment later an exclamation broke
from his lips. He had half fallen over some obstruction on the floor.
As I struck a match, and the gas-jet leapt up, I turned my head to see
what had happened. By that he had recovered his footing, and, the
instant the room became flooded with light, I saw that he was staring
intently at his outstretched hands. Without my being aware of it, my
eyes followed the direction of his. Then I saw that his hands were
wet--nay, more; that they were bedabbled with blood. A moment I gazed,
horror-stricken, then my eyes travelled downward, and the dread
knowledge burst upon me that the object over which Evan had stumbled
was none other than the murdered body of my husband!

"Frozen, I stood there gazing at the ghastly object--all the currents
of life seeming, for the time being, to stand still. As for Evan, his
gaze wandered from his hands to the body, and thence back to his
hands. Then, all at once, he burst into a harsh, discordant, maniacal
laugh, almost more dreadful to hear than was that which lay so white
and still on the floor to look upon.

"'Blood!--blood on my hands--and his blood!' he cried with a half
shriek. 'They will say that I did it--I--I!' Again his madman's laugh
rang through the room. Then, with a last stare at his crimsoned hands,
he turned, and, as I verily believe, without as much as another look
at me, he flung wide the door and, passing with staggering strides out
into the night, vanished from my sight for ever.

"But before that I was down on my knees by the side of my dead
husband. How did I know he was dead? you may possibly ask. My first
glance at his face had been enough to assure me that no faintest spark
of life animated the marble-like image at my feet. On it was stamped
the indescribable seal of death. For all that, as I now knelt by him
my hand felt for his heart, but not the slightest fluttering responded
to the pressure of my palm. He must have been dead some time. Already
the hand I took in mine, and the brow to which I pressed my lips, were
of an icy coldness.

"Presently I stood up and asked myself what I ought to do next. An
unnatural calm possessed me. My eyes were dry and burning, but it
seemed to me as if my limbs were as cold as those of the corpse at my
feet. Tears would come later on, tears in abundance, but just then the
fountains were fast sealed. I knew, no one better, that what I ought
to have done was there and then to raise an alarm and summon the
police with all possible speed. 'But if I do that,' I said, 'how can I
explain away my presence at this untimely hour? And what if Evan, in
his half-demented condition, and with his blood-imbrued hands, should
be arrested and confronted with me? Would it not, in such a case, go
hard with the pair of us, innocent though we are?' My poor dear
husband was dead, of that there could be no doubt. It could do him no
good, but might do me infinite harm, were the slightest shadow of
suspicion to fall upon me in connection with the mystery of his
murder, as would almost inevitably be the case were I found in that
room at that hour with my outdoor things on, without anyone in the
house dreaming that I was otherwhere than in my own chamber.

"Such were some of the thoughts that surged through my brain while one
might have counted a dozen slowly. My mind was made up. After one last
shuddering glance at my poor dear one, I put out the gas, opened the
inner door without noise, satisfied myself that no one was about, sped
upstairs and reached my own room unseen. A quarter of an hour later I
rang the bell, to which Charlotte, the housemaid, responded. Under the
pretence of being without an envelope in which to enclose a letter I
had just written, I asked her to take a lighted candle, go down to Mr.
Melray's office, and bring me one from there. The rest is known.

"As already stated, I never saw Evan Wildash after that night, nor did
the slightest tidings of him ever reach me. After having read the
story 'How, and Why,' and after having heard from Miss Sudlow by what
strange chance the MS., of which the first half of the story professes
to be a faithful copy, came into the hands of a certain Mr. Timmins, I
can only conclude that the unknown stranger who met his death in the
railway accident could have been none other than Evan. As to whether
his partial derangement (for that his brain was affected I cannot
doubt) was temporary or permanent, and by what motive he was possessed
in describing under fictitious names, but not without sundry
exaggerations and erroneous deductions, some portion of that which
passed between himself and me, I am no more able to divine than the
veriest stranger who may read these lines.

"Of the murder of my dear husband (surely such a crime cannot go for
ever unpunished!) I know nothing more than is here set down.

"And that I aver to be the solemn truth.

     "Denia Melray."




CHAPTER XV.
A SCRAP OF PAPER.


Within twenty-four hours of the receipt by Philip Winslade of Miss
Sudlow's letter enclosing the copy of Mrs. Melray's statement, he and
Mr. Robert Melray were closeted together in a private room of the
hotel where the latter generally stayed during his visits to town.

"What a pity, what a very great pity it is that Denia was not
straightforward enough to tell me all this at first," said Mr. Melray
as he replaced the statement, which he had been glancing over afresh,
in his pocket. "As you will readily conceive, it is an immense relief
to me to find that she is in no way implicated in my poor brother's
tragical fate. It would indeed have been terrible had anything tending
to the contrary come to light, and I am truly thankful my mother and I
have been spared any such revelation. Unfortunately we seem no nearer
the elucidation of the mystery of James's death than we were before."
He sighed heavily, his chin drooped forward on his breast, and he
seemed lost in thought. There was a long pause. Suddenly he raised his
head and, with his eyes bent searchingly on Winslade, said: "I suppose
_you_ see no reason to doubt the accuracy of any of the details
embodied in my sister-in-law's narrative?"

It was a question which Phil had expected to have put to him, and
there was no hesitation in his reply.

"I see no valid reason for questioning the _bona fides_ of Mrs.
Melray's narrative. There are certain points in connection with the
events of September 18, as told by her, which would undoubtedly be
open to grave suspicion did she not account for them in such a
seemingly straightforward and natural way. For instance, on the face
of it, it seems nothing less than a most remarkable coincidence that
she and Wildash should have found themselves in her husband's private
office within so short a time of Mr. Melray's unaccountable return and
all that must have happened immediately after; and yet the explanation
of how they came to be there is so simple and direct that, when one
comes to consider, it seems by no means improbable that things should
have fallen out as she asserts them to have done."

"Does there not seem to you a possibility that my brother may have
accidentally discovered the assignation of the young people--that, in
point of fact, he may have come suddenly upon them while they were
talking together by the corner of the churchyard, that a quarrel may
thereupon have ensued, with a result that was fatal to James?"

"That is a point which I have not failed to consider; but it is one
which, the more I look at it, the more I find it to bristle with
difficulties. That Mr. Melray left home as usual at eight o'clock is
not questioned. Supposing him to have gone there direct, he was due at
the house of Mr. Arbour from ten to twelve minutes later. Mrs. Melray
states that, knowing her husband would not be back before half-past
ten at the soonest, she named nine o'clock for her meeting with
Wildash. This seems quite feasible, seeing that by that hour most of
the shops would be shut, that there would be fewer people in the
streets, and, consequently, less likelihood of their meeting being
observed. But, supposing Mrs. Melray to have been unwise enough to fix
a quarter or half-past eight for the meeting, what then? The
churchyard where the meeting is said to have taken place is in an
exactly opposite direction to the road Mr. Melray would have to
traverse on his way to Mr. Arbour's; what possible reason, therefore,
could take him so far out of his way? Even supposing for a moment
that, by some means of which we know nothing, he had got wind of the
assignation and had made up his mind to be present, that he carried
out his intention, that high words passed between the two men,
resulting in a quarrel fatal to one of them; supposing all this, we at
once find ourselves beset with a fresh difficulty--none other, in
fact, than to account for Mr. Melray's body being found in his own
office, and not in the street by the churchyard, where the quarrel,
had there been one, must presumably have taken place. But there is no
evidence of a quarrel, nor as much as a single witness to prove that
the two men ever met, while it could not for a moment be contended
that Wildash, after killing Mr. Melray, could unobserved have dragged
the body as far as Loudwater House. No; I confess it would be much
harder for me to swallow these difficulties than it is to accept Mrs.
Melray's narrative as a truthful statement of the facts of the case as
far as she was concerned in them; and, looked at from her point of
view, one can quite understand her anxiety to keep the whole affair a
secret from everybody."

"Your views in the main seem to tally with my own," said Mr. Melray,
"and I am glad to have them confirmed by you."

"It certainly seems somewhat singular," resumed Winslade presently,
"that no one in Solchester should have known of the return of Wildash,
and that by all his old associates the tidings of his death should
still be implicitly believed. His aunt's evidence on the point would
have been most valuable, because she, more than anyone, would have
been likely to know of his return; but, unfortunately, she died some
months ago. As to whether he and the stranger who was killed on the
railway were one and the same person, there seems very little
likelihood now of our ever being able to prove; the probability,
however, would seem to be in favour of their being the same man."

"It is a point which, I confess, has very little interest for me,"
replied the other. "But now comes the question," he presently resumed,
"of what I ought to say to my sister-in-law, of what notice, in point
of fact, it is advisable that I should take of her extraordinary
statement."

"If I may be allowed," said Winslade, "I would suggest that the less
notice you take of it the better."

"My own opinion exactly. Indeed, if she and I were brought face to
face, I scarcely know what I should find to say to her about it. For
me, at least, it opens up a very different view of her character from
the one I held before. But that," he added with one of his dry smiles,
"is scarcely a point as to which it behoves me to enlighten her." He
paused for a few seconds, sitting with half-shut eyes and drumming
softly on the table with one hand. Then he said: "Perhaps, after all,
my best plan will be to write her a brief note, telling her I have
read her statement, and that although I am sorry she did not see her
way to take me into her confidence long ago, yet, bearing in mind the
uncommon circumstances surrounding the affair, that I do not feel at
liberty to blame her for her reticence. Further, that I accept her
statement without the shadow of a doubt as to the truth of anything
there set down, and that for the future it may be as well that the
subject should not be further alluded to between us. Yes," he
continued with an air of relief, "I think that will decidedly be the
best thing to do."

At Loudwater House everything went on as before. Fanny and the younger
Mrs. Melray remained on the best of terms, and the latter continued to
join her and Freddy two or three times a week in their walks. Once,
and once only, did the young widow refer to a certain matter which was
as carefully shunned by Fanny as by herself. One day when Freddy was
out of hearing, Denia said: "I suppose I am only telling you what you
know already when I inform you that my brother-in-law's perusal of the
statement which I gave into your hands resulted in his writing me a
short, but extremely nice letter."

"I was given to understand that it was Mr. Melray's intention to write
to you."

"I cannot tell you how happy his letter has made me. Ever since
receiving it I have felt sorry and ashamed of myself for not having
taken him into my confidence at first and told him all I had to tell.
All my life long I shall think very differently of him from what I
used to do."

There was a little break in her voice as she finished speaking, and
Fanny, glancing at her, saw that her blue eyes were brimmed with
tears.

If, since her receipt of his letter, Mrs. Melray regarded her
brother-in-law from a changed standpoint, Fanny did not fail to notice
that he, on his part, now treated her with a certain show of
cordiality of which there had been no sign before. Heretofore he had
always addressed her ceremoniously as "Mrs. Melray," whereas he now as
often as not spoke to her and of her by her baptismal appellation. A
cloud seemed to have lifted itself off the house. The pretty widow's
eyes began to sparkle again as they had not sparkled since her
husband's death.

Only, Mrs. Melray the elder, when in her daughter-in-law's company,
continued to be as grim and taciturn as she had always been. Nothing
had happened which served to change or modify the silent, but
uncompromising hostility with which she regarded the younger woman.
That she could be very different when she chose was shown by her
treatment of Miss Sudlow, which was not merely considerate, but had in
it a certain element of cordiality, of a somewhat chill and stately
kind it may be, but which, coming from the person it did, meant more
than it would have meant from another.

One of the chief duties of the dowager's companion was to read aloud
to her mistress. Unfortunately, about this time Miss Armishaw
contracted a severe cold, which resulted, for the time being, in a
partial loss of voice. In this strait Fanny offered her services as
reader, an offer which Mrs. Melray was pleased to accept. This brought
the two women into more confidential relations than before, for the
readings always took place in the elder lady's private sitting-room,
and were usually followed by half-an-hour's chat on sundry topics of
the day before Fanny went back to her more immediate duties.

It was in the course of one of these after-reading talks that the
dowager said: "Not till a week ago, my dear, did Robert give me a
certain document to read, which, as I understand, was placed by my
daughter-in-law in your hands first of all. It is a document which
serves, in my opinion, to place her conduct in a very curious light
indeed, and one which she may well have shrunk from having thrown on
it. On that point, however, I will say no more. She is my son's widow,
and although it would be hypocrisy on my part to say that I like her,
I have no desire whatever to prejudice her in the eyes of others. Nay,
I will go so far as to admit that there was never the slightest fault
to be found with the way she did her duty by her husband, and that
since his death her conduct has been most exemplary. That her life
under this roof is a very lonely and isolated one cannot be disputed,
consequently that she should seek your society a good deal is not to
be wondered at. I am quite willing to grant her considerable powers of
attraction, and if anyone were to question me closely on the point, I
should probably be at a loss to say what there is about her which
repels me so. There the feeling is, however, and it is one which I
have been unable to overcome. If I were to describe it as a vague
instinctive distrust I should perhaps not be very wide of the mark."

Fanny knew not what reply to make to this unwonted burst of
confidence. But seeing that the dowager did not look as if any reply
were expected of her she wisely held her tongue.

After a pause, during which the elder lady sat staring into the fire
with a far-away look in her eyes, she spoke again.

"I suppose we may now finally give up all expectation of ever seeing
my poor son's murderer brought to the bar of justice."

"For my part, madam, I cannot go so far as to admit that," replied
Fanny. "One never can tell from day to day what clue may turn up, or
what important fact be brought to light, perhaps from a quarter the
least expected, or in a way the most surprising and unthought of. I
have read of cases as apparently unfathomable as that of Mr. Melray,
which time has unravelled after its own fashion, and after those most
experienced in such matters had given them up as hopeless."

"Let us trust, my dear, that it may prove so in my son's case; but
every day that passes tends to make it more unlikely."

"If one could only discover by what motive Mr. Melray was influenced,
or what particular object he had in view, in coming back to his office
after having set out for the house of Mr. Arbour, we should, I think,
lay our hands on a very important clue. I suppose there was nothing
found among Mr. Melray's papers bearing on that feature of the
affair?"

"So far as I am aware, nothing. Mr. Cray had the going through of my
son's papers, and had there been anything of the kind among them he
would surely not have overlooked it. Not only was he closely
questioned at the inquest, which was twice adjourned, but, later on,
he had more than one private interview with the officer from Scotland
Yard who had the case specially in hand. No man, however, could have
been more entirely bewildered and nonplussed than he was. Again and
again he declared that, as far as his knowledge went, his master had
not an enemy in the world--no, not a single enemy, but a thousand
friends!"

"I presume," said Fanny, "there was nothing found on Mr. Melray's
person after death--no letter, or memorandum of any kind--which would
serve to throw even a glimmer of light on the events of the 18th of
September?"

"Mine were the hands that emptied my son's pockets of their contents
after death," said the mother with a thin quaver in her voice. "Of
course she--his wife, I mean--was supposed to be too much overcome to
think of anything. I knew that James was in the habit of carrying a
pocket-book, and it seemed to me that there might perhaps be entries
in it which it would be as well that no strange eyes should read.
Accordingly I took possession of it, and it has never been out of my
keeping since that time."

"Pardon my inquisitiveness, but may I ask whether you have made
yourself acquainted with the contents of the pocket-book?"

"I went carefully through it within a few hours of my son's death."

"And there was nothing in it that would serve----?"

"Nothing whatever. Nearly the whole of the entries in it have
reference to his personal or domestic expenditure, for James was
methodical in all his ways, and as careful to balance his private
expenses as he was his business accounts. Since that day I have never
opened the book, but have kept it locked up in my writing-table. Of
course I was very much upset and put about just then, and it may be as
well that you, with your younger and more trained eyes, should look
over it, for, now that the point has been raised, it will certainly be
more satisfactory to me to be assured that it contains nothing of
moment which I may inadvertently have overlooked."

She rose, crossed to her writing-table, unlocked a drawer and produced
therefrom her dead son's pocket-book, which she at once placed in
Fanny's hands.

"Look carefully through it, my dear," she said. "There is nothing in
it that you may not read."

Fanny cast her eyes over a number of the entries, all of which bore
out Mrs. Melray's description of them. Then, because a pocket-book
without a pocket would in some sort be a misnomer, she turned to the
Russia-leather cover and, on lifting a flap, found the receptacle she
was in search of. It held nothing save a small folded paper, which,
from its texture, she took at first for a bank-note. When, however,
she had extracted it she saw that it was merely an ordinary piece of
tissue-paper with some written characters showing through it. Without
opening it she handed it to Mrs. Melray.

"What is this, my dear?" demanded the elder lady. "I saw nothing of
this when I looked through the book. But I suppose I did not look
carefully enough. There seems to be writing on it, but my eyes are so
weak that I must ask you to read it for me."

Accordingly Fanny took back the paper, which proved to be an ordinary
press copy of a letter, its uneven edge on one side tending to show
that it had been torn out of the tissue-book after having been passed
through the machine. Having unfolded it she proceeded to read aloud as
follows:


"Loudwater House,

     "_September_ 4, 18--.

"Mr. John Noyes,

     "Solchester.

"Sir,--I beg to enclose you Bank of England notes value three hundred
and fifty pounds (viz., three of 100_l_. each and one of 50_l_.) in
full discharge of the claim standing in your books against my name.
This I do in preference to forwarding you a cheque for the amount. You
will understand what I mean when I tell you that a few hours ago I had
a long interview with our mutual friend, Mr. ----. I have retained the
documents brought by him for my examination, as to the authenticity of
which it is not needful that I should enter into any particulars.
Kindly acknowledge the receipt of my enclosure by return, and at the
same time forward, through registered post, the important document
belonging to me which you have still in your possession.

"To a person of your business tact and experience I need scarcely
remark that in a delicate matter like the present discretion is a most
laudable virtue.

"Yours most truly,

     "James Melray."


"Well, my dear, and what do you make of it?" asked Mrs. Melray, after
staring silently at Fanny for several seconds.

"On the face of it, it seems a very mysterious production, and I
confess that I don't in the least know what to make of it. The date of
it is just a fortnight before Mr. Melray's death."

"So it is. That is a point which failed to strike me at the moment.
But what is meant by 'our mutual friend, Mr. ----'? Is the name
omitted?"

"Not omitted, but owing to a fault in copying, it is so smudged as to
be illegible."

"That is a pity, but of course it can't be helped." Then, after a few
moments of silent consideration, she added: "I think this is a case as
to which it may be advisable to consult my son. What say you?"

"I quite agree with you, madam."

"Then you are inclined to attach some importance to the paper?"

"I am inclined to attach very great importance to it."

"In that case, will you be good enough to ring the bell?"

But Robert Melray was no more able to make head or tail of the paper
found by Fanny than his mother had been. "The name of the person to
whom the letter is addressed is altogether strange to me," he said;
"but that is hardly to be wondered at, seeing that I don't know more
than half-a-dozen people in all Solchester. I think we had better ask
Cray to come upstairs, and ascertain whether he can throw any light on
the affair."

But the managing clerk, when summoned, only shook his head. "The name
of Mr. Noyes is quite unknown to me," he said. "From the tenor of this
letter, I take it to refer to some private transaction of Mr. Melray.
There is certainly no entry in the books of the firm bearing on any
affair of the kind."

"I will have a copy of this copy made and forwarded to Winslade by
to-night's post," was Robert Melray's final decision. "If he can do
nothing else, he can at least establish for us the identity of Mr.
John Noyes."




CHAPTER XVI.
A FRESH LINE OF INQUIRY.


Once more Philip Winslade found himself under the necessity of
journeying down to Solchester. It took him no long time after his
arrival to discover that Mr. Noyes was the secretary and manager of a
certain Loan and Discount Corporation well known to not a few of the
good people of the town.

No sooner had he ascertained this than he made it his business to call
upon Mr. Noyes. Having explained who he was and that he was
prosecuting the inquiry on behalf of Mr. Robert Melray, he produced
his copy of the letter of the 4th of September, and asked the manager
to inform him whether he remembered the receipt of the original, to
which Mr. Noyes, having glanced his eye over the copy, replied that he
remembered it very well indeed.

"In that case," resumed Winslade, "will you be good enough to
enlighten me, and Mr. Robert Melray through me, as to the precise
nature of the transaction to which it refers, in view of the fact that
no note or memorandum of any kind has been found among the late Mr.
Melray's papers which helps in the slightest degree to explain it?"

Mr. Noyes toyed for some seconds with his watch-chain before
answering. Then he said: "I need scarcely tell you, Mr. Winslade, that
it is a matter of principle with me never to open my lips about any
confidential matters of which I may become the depositary in the
ordinary course of business. Seeing, however, that the case to which
this letter refers is of a very exceptional kind, that Mr. Melray is
dead, and that the information is asked for by his brother as his
partner and successor, I think that, for once, I shall be justified in
taking an exceptional course. Here is the 'Times.' If you will kindly
engage yourself with it for a matter of five or six minutes, I shall
then be at liberty to tell you all I know of the affair."

"It was about the middle of last August," began the manager a few
minutes later, as he wheeled his chair half round so as more directly
to confront his auditor, "that a young man called upon me whom I had
never to my knowledge seen before. (I can verify the exact date for
you, should it be necessary to do so.) His name, he told me, was
Richard Dyson, and that he was a relative of Mr. Melray, the
well-known shipowner of Merehampton. His object in calling on me was
to negotiate, on the part of that gentleman, a loan of three hundred
pounds, of which sum, he gave me to understand, Mr. Melray was in
immediate need; the security offered for the same being a fully
paid-up life policy for two thousand pounds. That Mr. Melray, although
in a large way of business, should be in pressing want of the sum in
question did not surprise me in the least. Many prosperous merchants
and tradesmen whose capital is locked up, or otherwise not available
at a moment's notice, are occasionally pressed for a comparatively
small amount of ready money. Consequently what I did was to take down
the particulars of the required loan and tell Mr. Dyson that I would
lay the application before my directors and communicate with him at
the earliest possible moment.

"Well, sir, the terms of the loan having been acceded to, a
communication to that effect was sent under cover to Mr. Dyson. Next
day saw him at my office again, his object in coming being to settle
with me the details for the completion of the affair. Mr. Melray
having an objection to being seen entering or leaving an office the
chief business of which was the lending of money, it was arranged
between Dyson and myself that I should wait upon his relative at
half-past seven on the evening of the next day but one, at the George
and Dragon Hotel, where a private room would be engaged by him.

"I was at the hotel punctually at the time agreed upon, and on asking
for Mr. Melray was at once ushered into his room. I found the
shipowner, whom I had never seen before, to be a thin, grey-haired
man, somewhat prim and old-fashioned in his attire, and wearing
smoke-tinted spectacles. After a brief greeting we at once entered on
the business which had taken me there. The evening was closing in and
the room was in semi-darkness. I thought Mr. Melray would have rung
for lights, but he did not. There were pen and ink on the table. At
his request I stationed myself by him, and pointed out the particular
spot on the assignment and other documents where his signature was
required. That done, I folded up the papers and handed him a cheque
for three hundred pounds; he, in return, presented me with the policy,
which, till the sum lent should be repaid, together with interest as
agreed on, would remain in my custody. The whole affair was over in
five or six minutes at the most. At this distance of time there can be
no harm in my confessing that I thought it rather stingy treatment on
the part of Mr. Melray not to offer me as much as a glass of wine.

"Now, one of the two people who, twice every year, audit the
Corporation's accounts and verify their securities, is Mr. Dunning, a
lawyer well known both at Solchester and Merehampton, At the
half-yearly audit, which took place about three weeks after my
interview with Mr. Melray, the policy of assurance, together with
other documents bearing on the transaction, came, in due course, under
Mr. Dunning's inspection. You will readily imagine, then, that I was
not a little surprised when he came to me with the papers in his hand
and asked me to tell him all I knew of the transaction to which they
referred. Taking into account his official connection with the
Corporation, there was no breach of confidence in my complying with
his request. It was then my turn to put certain questions to him, and
the surprise I had felt before was in nowise lessened when he told me
that he had been Mr. Melray's lawyer, and, in certain matters, his
confidential adviser, for something like a quarter of a century; that,
from his knowledge of that gentleman's affairs, he could aver that it
was next to impossible that he should have been in need of such a sum
as three hundred pounds; that, so far as he was aware, Mr. Melray,
whose eyes were remarkably good for his age, had never worn spectacles
in his life; and, finally, that he, Mr. Dunning, believed the
signatures which I had witnessed to be neither more nor less than
unblushing forgeries of his client's name. Thereupon it was agreed
that he should take the suspected documents away with him and see Mr.
Melray on the morrow.

"Of what passed between the two I have no knowledge, but when I tell
you that, as far as I am concerned, the sequel of the affair was the
letter of which you have this morning shown me a copy, you are at
liberty, just as I was, to think what you like. Having got my 'pound
of flesh,' as I suppose you would term it, I returned the policy as
requested, and from that day to this have never sought to pry further
into the affair."

The first thing Winslade did after leaving Mr. Noyes was to despatch a
telegram to Mr. Melray, which served to bring that gentleman to
Solchester by the next train. It is not needful to dilate on the
grieved astonishment with which he listened to the other's recital of
what had passed between himself and the money-lender. Dyson had been a
favourite with both the brothers, not merely because he was the only
son of an orphan cousin--of whom, as a girl, they had been both proud
and fond--but also by reason of certain pleasant qualities of his own,
which, if they did not spring from any genuine depth or sincerity of
feeling, had all the appearance of doing so and answered their purpose
equally as well.

"We must go at once and find Dunning," were Mr. Melray's first words
when he had in some measure regained his composure. "So far we have
only heard half the story. It rests with him to tell us the
remainder."

They were fortunate enough to find Mr. Dunning at home and disengaged.
A very few minutes sufficed to acquaint the lawyer with the nature of
their errand.

"We know all that Mr. Noyes has to tell," said Mr. Melray in
conclusion. "We want you to supplement his narrative from the point
where his information comes to an end."

"That I can very readily do," said the lawyer. "When I showed Mr.
James Melray the loan-office documents, with what purported to be
three separate signatures of his attached thereto, he at once, in the
most emphatic and indignant terms, denounced the whole affair as an
audacious mixture of forgery and fraud. He had never seen Noyes in his
life, much less applied to him for a loan, or pledged his policy of
assurance. But when he had reached that point of his disclaimer I said
to him, 'Would it not be as well to satisfy yourself that the policy
is still in your possession?' 'Why, I had it in my hand no longer ago
than yesterday,' was his reply. 'It lies where it has always lain, on
the top shelf in the large safe, one of a bundle of documents tied
round with red tape.' Thereupon, as if to make assurance doubly sure,
he rose, crossed the room, unlocked the safe, and produced from the
interior the bundle of papers of which he had spoken and extracted
from the rest a large oblong envelope, which he brought to the table.
It was labelled in his own writing, 'Paid-up Policy of Assurance on
Own Life for 2,000_l_.; 'There,' he said, with a little triumph in his
tone, 'whatever else the rogue may have been guilty of he has not
succeeded in making away with this.' 'I hope you won't think me
unreasonable,' I replied, 'if I ask you to open the envelope and
examine its contents.' Scarcely had the words left my lips before,
with his office knife, he had slit open one end of the envelope and
drawn forth the enclosure. An instant later he sank back in his chair
with a groan. All that the envelope contained was some blank sheets of
engrossing paper.

"For a few moments I was afraid that Mr. Melray was about to have a
seizure of some kind, so colourless was his face and so glassy were
his eyes. He would not, however, let me ring for help, and gradually
he came round. A careful examination of the envelope revealed the
_modus operandi_ by which the fictitious contents had been substituted
for the genuine. The large black seal, with its impression of Mr.
Melray's monogram, had not been meddled with beyond the point of
detaching it bodily, probably with the help of a sharp penknife, from
the thick paper of the envelope. Then, after the substitution had been
effected, the seal had been reaffixed in its place with the help of a
little gum; and, finally, a thin rim of melted wax had been run round
it so as completely to hide any evidence of the envelope having been
tampered with. In the confidential position held by Dyson under his
kinsman, he had free access to the safe and its contents. When once he
had got the policy into his possession and had put everything in train
with Mr. Noyes, it was a comparatively simple matter, with the aid
of a wig and a few other accessories, to pass himself off in the
half-light of the August evening for a man double his own age. What
puzzled me then, and not only me, but Mr. Melray, and what puzzles me
still, is, why he contented himself with the comparatively small sum
of three hundred pounds, when he might have borrowed double that
amount on the security of the policy had he been so minded. But it may
have been that he saw, or thought he saw, the means of repaying a
small sum, and so of redeeming the policy, while it might have been
impossible for him to do so in the case of a more considerable loan.

"I have already told you, gentlemen," continued the lawyer, "how
terribly Mr. Melray was put about by the discovery of his young
relative's treachery and ingratitude, not to call his conduct by a
stronger name. In the first excess of his resentment he vowed that the
moment Dyson returned (just then he happened to be away on his annual
holiday) he would cause him to be arrested, and would prosecute him
with the most extreme rigour of the law. But, after a while, the flame
of his anger began to burn less fiercely. He called to mind that the
culprit was the only son of his favourite cousin, to whom he had
passed his word when she lay on her death-bed that he would act a
parent's part by the lad. He remembered, too, his unfortunate
bringing-up, and that his father had been a dissolute spendthrift,
bankrupt of all moral principle. Nor did he forget that young men
often flounder into difficulties almost unwittingly and through no
very grave dereliction on their part, and that, in order to get rid of
one difficulty, they sometimes succumb to the first temptation that
comes in their way, and thereby saddle themselves with an incubus of a
far more onerous kind. Finally, he decided that on Dyson's return he
would confront him with the evidences of his crime, but that, instead
of handing him over to the arm of the law, he would insist on his
quitting England for a certain term of years, and would forgive him to
the extent of finding him the means wherewith to make a fresh start in
life on the other side of the world. Me he bound to secrecy, while,
either on the same or the following day, he forwarded the three
hundred and fifty pounds to Noyes and thereby redeemed his policy.

"As we all know," said Robert Melray, "the interview between my
brother and Richard never took place. The latter did not get back from
his holidays till the third day after James's death; but it seems
somewhat remarkable, in view of my brother's intention, as avowed to
you, of confronting Richard with the evidence of his guilt, that the
criminatory documents should not have been found by Mr. Cray among his
papers."

"The absence of the papers in question, as it seems to me, can only be
explained by one of two suppositions. Either your brother afterwards
changed his mind and himself destroyed them, or else Dyson, either
suspecting or knowing that his crime had been brought to light during
his absence, contrived to find and appropriate them in advance of Mr.
Cray."

"Your last supposition seems to me the more likely of the two," said
Mr. Melray. "I recollect now that it was not till after the funeral
that Mr. Cray set about a systematic examination of my brother's
papers, so that, in the interim, Richard would have plenty of
opportunity to search for and find what he wanted. I declare that,
next to my poor brother's death, to-day's revelation is the most
distressing thing I have had to contend with in the whole course of my
life!"

"You say, Mr. Dunning, that my brother bound you to secrecy," resumed
Robert Melray after a pause. "Would it not have been better if you had
looked upon his death as virtually absolving you from your promise,
thereby enabling you to bring under my notice certain facts which I
have learnt to-day for the first time?"

"The point is one which I have debated with myself not once, but many
times. The conclusion I finally came to was that, having regard to
certain special features of the case, your brother's death did not
absolve me from my promise. That a grievous crime had been committed
could not be gainsaid; but if Mr. Melray chose to condone it that was
no business of mine. In all probability, as he said, it was the one
great sin of the young man's life, and who should say that it had not
been bitterly repented of? Further, how was I to be sure in what light
you would look at the affair? You might have chosen to prosecute the
culprit, which would have made it a very difficult matter for me ever
to forgive myself. In any case his character would have been blasted,
and his career, almost of necessity, ruined. Still, I am not prepared
to state positively what I might or might not have done, had it been
your intention to carry on the business of Melray Brothers, which,
almost as a matter of course, would have involved the retention of
your kinsman in your service. Knowing, however, as I have from the
first, that it is your resolve to get rid of the business as speedily
as possible and retire into private life, in which case you and he
would part, probably for ever, I deemed it best to keep the secret of
his delinquencies locked up in my own breast, where, I can assure you,
it had no lack of other secrets to keep it company."

"I will not say but that you have perhaps acted for the best,"
remarked Mr. Melray. "Still---- But at this stage of the affair it
would be futile to dwell on suppositions. What I have now to decide
upon is the nature of the steps which it behoves me to take after what
has been told me to-day. That, however," he added with a sigh, "is a
problem which requires consideration."

"May I ask whether Mr. Dyson is entitled to any bequest under his late
cousin's will?" It was Winslade who put the question.

"His name is down in the late Mr. Melray's will for a legacy of three
thousand pounds," replied the lawyer. "The reason he has not been paid
it before now is because the estate has not yet been finally wound
up."

Presently Mr. Melray and Winslade went their way, the former to the
railway station, the latter to prosecute certain inquiries on his own
account.

The first thing he did was to retrace his steps to the office of Mr.
Noyes.

"I must ask you to excuse me for troubling you again," he said to the
money-lender; "but what I am desirous of knowing is whether any
communication passed between Dyson and yourself after his return from
his holidays?"

"I wrote to him the day after the funeral, asking him to come and see
me. He came. Thereupon I proceeded to tell him of Mr. Melray's
discovery of the payment by the latter of the three hundred and fifty
pounds (principal and interest of the loan), and of my return to him
of the policy of assurance. What, however, I positively declined to
tell him, although he pressed me hard to do so, was how and by whose
agency the discovery had been brought about. From that day to this I
have seen nothing of Mr. Dyson, neither do I care if I never set eyes
on him again."

Philip Winslade thanked Mr. Noyes and took his leave. "There can be
little doubt," he said to himself as he walked along, "that, as
Dunning suggested, Dyson obtained access to the dead man's papers
before Mr. Cray had an opportunity of going through them, and
abstracted the promissory note and other documents which bore Mr.
Melray's signature as forged by himself."

In the course of the interview with Mr. Dunning the question had
suggested itself to him whether it was really a fact that Dyson did
not get back from his holidays till the third day after Mr. Melray's
death. In order to answer it, it would be needful for him to go to
Merehampton; but, as he had still another inquiry to make in
Solchester, he resolved to take that in hand first.

It was not till late in the evening that he got back to his hotel,
after having brought his inquiry to a successful issue. The nature of
it and its result cannot be told more succinctly than in the following
note:

"My dearest Fanny,--In Mrs. Melray's statement there occurs the
following passage: 'Evan was an especially handsome young man, with
large, black, lustrous eyes, and a dark Italian-looking face.'
Elsewhere she makes mention of his 'ebon brows.' Now, in face of this,
I have ascertained to-day beyond the possibility of doubt, and not
from one, but from three different sources, that Evan Wildash, instead
of being a dark-complexioned man with black eyes and 'ebon brows,' had
a particularly fair complexion, also that his eyes were blue-grey, and
the colour both of his hair and eyebrows a light reddish brown.

"Solve me the problem which is involved in this contradiction if you
can. For myself, I confess that it baffles me.

"For the present I have decided to say nothing of this to Mr. Melray.
It would only unsettle him and cause him to imagine all sorts of
things, and just now he has enough to occupy his thoughts, poor man!

"I will write you fully in the matter of R. D. in the course of a few
days. I shall be in Merehampton for an hour or two to-morrow, but it
is not advisable that we should meet.

"Ever and always yours,

"Phil."


In the dusk of the following evening Philip Winslade alighted at
Merehampton station. Thence he made his way to the head constable's
office, where he was already known, and where he found awaiting him
certain information which, the day before, he had asked by letter
might be obtained for him.

The information thus supplied him was to the effect that Richard
Dyson, at the time of Mr. Melray's death, was lodging with a widow of
the name of Parkinson, at No. 5 Lydd Place, but that he had removed to
fresh rooms about a month later. It was to No. 5 Lydd Place that
Winslade now betook himself.

Widow Parkinson proved to be quite willing to tell all she knew, which
was not much, about her late lodger, and even to adorn her somewhat
bald narrative with a little fanciful embroidery of her own invention.
She considered that she had a grievance against Mr. Dyson. According
to her account, he had left her, without any just cause or reason, in
what she was pleased to term a very shabby way, and had taken himself
and his belongings elsewhere; therefore did she feel herself at
liberty to throw reticence to the winds.

That from the widow's flood of talk, which at times threatened,
metaphorically, to wash him off his feet, Phil contrived to eliminate
the particular bit of information he was in search of goes without
saying. Mr. Melray came by his death on the evening of Friday,
September 18. According to his landlady, Dyson, at that time on his
holidays, did not put in an appearance at his lodgings till Monday,
the 21st, early on the morning of which day--that is to say, somewhere
between five and six o'clock--he knocked the widow up. The account of
himself which he volunteered was to the effect that he had just
arrived by an early train, having lengthened out his holiday to the
last possible moment, and that he was due back at the office at nine
o'clock that same morning. It was the widow herself who broke to him
the news of his cousin's tragical fate. "And awfully cut up about it
he was surely," she went on to remark. "He had always been a laughing,
careless, easy-going sort of gent, and I did not think he had so much
feeling in him."

Philip Winslade left No. 5 Lydd Place no wiser than he had entered it.
While his inquiries of the last few days had served to bring to light
many strange and hitherto unsuspected facts, they left the Loudwater
Tragedy as much a mystery as before, and to Phil, in the mood in which
he then was, it seemed likely to remain such for all time to come. But
it sometimes happens that when everything seems at a standstill, when
the way we would go is, as it were, blocked by a solid wall against
which it would be folly to dash ourselves, silent forces of which we
know nothing are at work, and in their own way and their own good time
bring round the appointed end, which, as often as not, proves to be an
end such as has not been dreamed of by us in any of our schemes of
what the future might possibly bring to pass.




CHAPTER XVII.
"A MAN I AM, CROSS'D WITH ADVERSITY."


There are certain persons connected with our narrative whom, although
for some time we may seem to have lost sight of them, it is
permissible to hope the reader has not quite forgotten. To them and
their concerns we now turn for a little while.

Mrs. Winslade, since her departure from Iselford, had been living a
very quiet life with her son in one of the north-western suburbs of
London. It was an infinite relief to her to be able to breathe the
freer and more generous air of the metropolis (where people scarcely
know the names of their next-door neighbours, much less their
business, and find enough to do in attending to their own concerns)
after having lived for so long a time under the prying eyes of the
gossipmongers of Iselford.

On a certain chilly afternoon in early summer, as Philip Winslade was
being driven in a hansom along the Thames Embankment on an errand
connected with his employers, his eyes were attracted to a solitary
figure seated on a bench fronting the river. After staring for a
moment or two as though doubtful whether he saw aright, he ordered the
driver to pull up, and alighted. Even then he paused before advancing.
Could it be possible, he asked himself, that yonder lonely figure,
sitting with bowed shoulders, his clasped hands resting on the nob of
his umbrella, and gazing into vacancy with the unmistakable air of a
man weighed down by some secret trouble which he was unable to shake
off, could be the Rev. Louth Sudlow? As he drew nearer he saw that it
was indeed none other than the Vicar of St. Michael's who was sitting
there.

That something was amiss, that the whilom genial, kind-hearted Vicar
was suffering from the effects of a blow of some kind, Phil could no
longer doubt.

Seeing that the other took no notice of his presence, he laid a hand
lightly on his shoulder. "Mr. Sudlow," he said, "this is indeed a
surprise to meet you here."

The Vicar started violently, straightened his back and stared up into
Phil's face, as he might into that of a stranger; but presently a slow
light of recognition dawned in his eyes. "Surely--surely it must be
young Mr. Winslade," he said, as he extended his hand with something
of his old urbanity.

"Yes, sir, it is I," answered Phil as he grasped the proffered hand,
which trembled like that of a very old man. "I trust that you are
quite well, sir, and that all are well at home." Then, after a
moment's hesitation. "May I ask whether you have been sitting here
long?"

The Vicar stared around for a moment as if not quite certain how he
came to be there, and stroked his cheeks with the fingers and thumb of
his left hand before answering. "Not very long, I think," he said
hesitatingly; "but, really, I am not quite sure at what hour I left my
hotel."

If Phil, while at a distance, had been struck by the change in his
appearance, he was nothing less than dismayed now that he saw him
close at hand. The gold-rimmed spectacles were there as of yore, but
the eyes that looked through them were dim and sunken, with a sort of
vacant despair in them and that sad, heavy-lidded weariness which
betokens insomnia. Then, too, it was evident that he had not been
shaved for some days, which, of itself, was enough to prove that all
was not well with him. His white cravat was limp and loosely tied, his
hat and clothes were unbrushed, while his shoes were thick with dust
and one shoe-string had come untied. The fresh healthy tints of his
face were utterly gone; his cheeks had become flabby and pendulous,
and, in short, the Rev. Louth Sudlow looked to the full a dozen years
older than when Phil had seen him last.

The young man was at a loss what to say or do next. Presently he
ventured to ask, "Are you making much of a stay in London, Mr.
Sudlow?"

Again the elder man had to pull his thoughts together before replying.
"I--I scarcely know. That is to say, I had intended going back home
to-night, but--but certain things have happened, and I have not quite
made up my mind what to do."

Phil saw that his thoughts would be far away again in a moment or two,
and that he must say what he had to say while he could still claim his
attention.

"You are perhaps not aware, sir," he went on, "that my mother is
keeping house for me in London; but such is the case. I need scarcely
tell you how pleased she would be to see you. That is my cab waiting
there. Let me persuade you to keep me company as far as where I live.
We shall just be in time for a cup of my mother's tea, which I
remember you used to say was the best you tasted anywhere."

Somewhat to his surprise, the Vicar rose at once, although a little
stiffly. "I shall be very gratified indeed," he said, "to see Mrs.
Winslade again after so long a time. I know no one for whom I have a
greater respect and esteem."

Half-an-hour later the hansom deposited the two men at Pembury Villa.

As Phil had prophesied, they were just in time for a cup of his
mother's tea. After the Vicar had partaken of one, together with a few
mouthfuls of thin bread-and-butter, he suddenly fell fast asleep in
the easy-chair in which he was sitting on one side of the fire. It was
past ten o'clock when he awoke. Scarcely had he opened his eyes and
had time to call to mind where he was, before his hostess was at his
side with a cup of broth in which a glass of sherry had been infused.
A few minutes later he averred that he felt better and stronger than
he had felt for the past week. It was too late now to think of going
down to Iselford till the morrow, and he must perforce stay where he
was over night.

As the Vicar sat there an irresistible longing came over him to
unburden his mind of the trouble that was crushing him down--so
utterly down that, as he sat on the Embankment, he had more than once
been tempted to make an end of everything in the cold grey river
running so swiftly within a few yards of his feet.

Well, he yielded to the longing and did unburden himself. The story he
had to tell, although sad enough, was by no means an uncommon one. He
had been induced--he did not say by whom or what--to invest the whole
of his savings, painfully accumulated, a few pounds at a time, during
a long course of years, in some American mining shares of which only
half the nominal capital had been subscribed. The concern had been
paying an intermittent dividend for three or four years, and there
seemed no likelihood that the shareholders would ever be called upon
to disburse the remainder of the capital. The sudden flooding of the
mine had, however, entirely altered the complexion of affairs. A large
sum was needed to enable it to be got into working order again, and a
heavy call was at once made, something like six hundred pounds being
demanded from the Rev. Louth Sudlow as his portion thereof. Now, the
whole of the Vicar's available resources did not amount to more than
one-sixth of the sum in question. The predicament was a serious
one--so serious, in point of fact, that Mrs. Sudlow, in a moment of
desperation, had been induced to appeal for help to her kinsman, the
Earl of Beaumaris. The answer to that appeal had been a curt refusal.
After that, as a last resource, the Vicar had come up to London in the
hope of being able to borrow the required sum from an old college chum
with whom he still kept up a desultory correspondence. Here again
disappointment awaited him. His friend had gone on a voyage to the
antipodes for the benefit of his health, and was not expected back for
some months. Ruin stared the unhappy man in the face, and he had been
wandering about the streets for some hours, lacking courage to carry
back home the story of his failure, when Phil chanced to encounter
him.

Such was the story poured forth by the Vicar, brokenly and with many
pauses and hesitations, to his sympathising listeners. But when, an
hour later, he went down on his knees in his bedroom he had been made
happy by the assurance that the morrow should see his troubles at an
end.

Next forenoon Mrs. Winslade went into the City and sought an interview
with her broker. When, later in the day, Phil saw the Vicar off at the
terminus on his way to Iselford, the heart of the latter was too full
to find expression in words. There was a last handshake, a fervent
"God bless you!" and then, as the wheels of the train began to
revolve, he was fain to turn away his face and hide the emotion which
would no longer be controlled.




CHAPTER XVIII.
AN UNLOOKED-FOR DEVELOPMENT.


That Robert Melray was infinitely distressed by the revelations of his
kinsman's delinquencies we have had his own word for. He had been so
much away from England that for a number of years he had seen scarcely
anything of Dyson, but he knew that his brother had always had a high
opinion of the young man's industry and business capacity, and that
from the time of the elder Dyson's death he had stood in a sort of
paternal relation to him. To James Melray, as Robert admitted, far
more than to himself, must the discovery, thrust upon him by Dunning,
have come as a shock--one, indeed, in his case from which he would
never have wholly recovered had his life been prolonged for years.

Richard Dyson's wrongdoing was of a character so extreme that not to
have taken some kind of notice of it would have seemed to Robert
Melray not merely weak, but criminal. What if he were to carry out the
programme as laid down by his brother to Dunning? What if he were to
advance Dyson the three thousand pounds which would accrue to him
presently under James Melray's will and dismiss him with ignominy?
Nothing less than that did it seem possible for him to do. On the
other hand, he could not afford to overlook the love borne by his
mother for her dead niece's son--a love till now undarkened by the
faintest shadow of a cloud. Mrs. Melray senior was seventy-six years
old. The murder of her eldest son had been a blow which nothing but
her indomitable spirit had enabled her to recover from. Should his be
the hand, Robert Melray asked himself, to strike her another blow,
which, to such a woman as she--one to whom the probity of every member
of the house of Melray was as dear as her own virtue--would be only
less terrible than the first? The more he thought of it the more he
shrank from taking upon himself the onus of such a deed.

One other course was open to him. He had good hope of being able to
dispose of the business of Melray Brothers before he was many weeks
older. What if he were to go on till then and make no sign? With the
turning over of the business to other hands his relations with Dyson,
so far as the firm was concerned, would cease, and there would be no
need ever to set eyes on him again were he minded not to do so. What
if he were to keep his dark secret undivulged, unless it were to the
criminal himself at their hour of parting, and allow his mother to
live on for the rest of her days in happy ignorance of what, were it
brought to her knowledge, might, perchance, prove well-nigh fatal to
her? Yet it galled Robert Melray's strong sense of right and justice
to think that a crime so flagrant should go wholly unpunished, even
although the criminal were of his own flesh and blood. Willingly,
then, did he accede to Dyson's written request for a ten-days' holiday
on the plea of ill-health, which he found on his desk one morning
shortly after his and Philip Winslade's interview with Mr. Dunning.
For the time being he felt absolved from coming to a decision of any
kind, and he breathed more freely in consequence.

Fanny Sudlow was another inmate of Loudwater House whose mind was
beset by doubts which refused either to allow themselves to be treated
as if they were of no consequence, or to furnish any ground from
which they might be developed into certainties. It was Phil's last
briefly-worded epistle which had served to upset Fanny's equanimity.
The strange discrepancy between Evan Wildash, as described by those
who had known him, and the same person as described in Mrs. Melray's
statement, was one which it baffled her to reconcile, even as it had
baffled her lover. When she looked at Denia and asked herself whether
it were possible that the foul demon of deceit could find lodgment in
so fair a frame, she could but shake her head and tell herself that
such a thing was very hard to believe. And yet there was Phil's
letter! In her own despite, Fanny began to feel something of that
sentiment of vague distrust which the elder Mrs. Melray avowed that
her daughter-in-law had inspired her with from the first.

Meanwhile Denia's smiles, as the spring days lengthened, began to come
and go more frequently, and there were times when some quaint remark
on Fanny's part would elicit a little burst of rippling laughter and a
gay rejoinder. The cloud which had for so many months overshadowed her
young life was beginning to melt and disappear. Soon the past, with
all that it held of pleasure or of pain, would for her have become
nothing more than a faint memory which, as time went on, would intrude
itself less and less often upon her. Hers was one of those natures
which no calamity can crush for long. Her heart was like one of those
quiet tarns, deep-buried among the hills, high above which the
tempests rave while they lie softly darkling below. She was happy as
the birds are happy, because it was not in her to be otherwise: that,
at least, was how Fanny Sudlow summed her up in her own thoughts.

But Denia's talk, however wide it might range, or however apparently
careless it might be, was always strictly impersonal. Herself and her
concerns were kept studiously in the background, and Fanny's hand was
not the one to try to drag them to the front. One afternoon, however,
either of set purpose or because for a moment her usual caution
had deserted her, Denia said to Miss Sudlow: "Don't these sunny,
sweet-breathing spring days, when everything seems bursting with
life, often make you long to have wings that you might fly away
somewhere--anywhere? They do me. Oh! I am not going to bury myself in
this place for ever, let who will think it. I have ideas--intentions.
As soon as my husband's affairs have been wound up and I know for
certain what my portion of the estate will amount to, I shall leave
here and for ever. I have friends in London, and to them I shall go
first of all. Afterwards---- But that is no matter."

It was a hot close evening in mid May. There had scarcely been a
breath of air all day and the night had brought no coolness. Fanny
Sudlow sat in the dark at the open casement of her bedroom window, her
hair unbound and a handkerchief soaked in vinegar laid across her
forehead. She was suffering from one of those distressing headaches to
which she had been more or less liable all her life. She heard the
clock of St. Mary's strike eleven, and still she sat on, knowing of
old that it was useless for her to go to bed till the pain should in
some measure have abated. Her window looked into a corner of the old
garden, in which, just then, the moon shone silvery bright. She had
not been out of doors all day; her room felt so stifling and the
garden looked so cool and inviting, that a strong desire came over her
to get away from the close atmosphere of the house and pace its silent
walks awhile in search of that nepenthe she was unable to find
indoors. It was a desire which she let have its way.

Having tied back her hair, she flung a dark travelling cloak around
her, the hood of which she could draw over her head were she so
minded. Then she quitted her room and went lightly downstairs. Early
hours were the rule at Loudwater House, and everybody had retired long
ago. There were two exits from the house into the garden, one through
the conservatory, the other by means of a glass door at the end of a
side corridor. Fanny chose the latter. Having, with as little noise as
possible, unlocked the door, she opened it and stepped out into the
still moonlit night.

Making her way into the farther walks, she began to pace them slowly
to and fro. Not a light shone anywhere in such windows of the house as
were visible from the garden. The quietude was intense, but presently
the silence was broken by the chiming of the quarter before twelve.
The moonlight seemed to listen, and as the sound died away a low sigh
breathed over the garden, and therewith half-opened leaves and
bursting buds began to stir and whisper. They had awoke to the first
kisses of the soft cool airs which had come as the avant-couriers of
midnight.

Suddenly Fanny became as rigid as a statue. Her quick ears had caught
a faint sound, as it might be of the crunching of gravel beneath
someone's footsteps. Scarcely breathing, she listened. Yes, there it
was again, nearer than before. Evidently someone was approaching in
the direction where she was. Her first impulse was to hide herself. In
a little trepidation she glanced around. Ah! there, close by her, was
the well-house, as it was called. It was the one sheltered spot in the
garden. A few swift noiseless strides and her form was lost among its
shadows.

The old well was said to be coeval with the building of Loudwater
House, to the inmates of which it had been the sole source of water
supply for several generations. Of late years, however, that is to
say, since the establishment of the Merehampton waterworks, it had
fallen into the desuetude and neglect which become the portion of all
things which outlast their uses. Nowadays its water was used for two
purposes only. One was to supply the dowager Mrs. Melray's tea-kettle
(there was no water anywhere, in that lady's opinion, equal to that of
the old well for expressing the hidden virtues of Souchong or Bohea).
The other purpose to which it was put was the irrigation of the
garden. The well itself was covered in by a conical overhanging
red-tiled roof, supported by thick oaken beams, with other beams
inside, forming, with the windlass-rope and bucket, the needful
apparatus for bringing the water to the surface. Even on a moonlight
night like the present it was a home of dense shadow.

Fanny drew the hood of her cloak about her and waited in mute
expectancy, her eyes fixed on the point whence the sound had come.
Nearer came the footsteps--only in the intense midnight quietude could
they have been heard--and presently round a curve of the path advanced
a female figure, also, like Fanny, darkly cloaked; but, for all that,
one glance was enough to reveal to the latter the identity of the
new-comer. It was impossible to mistake either figure or gait for
those of anyone save Denia Melray.

Fanny, with an arm flung round one of the beams that supported the
windlass and with her other hand pressed to her bosom, watched the
lithe, graceful figure pass her hiding-place and disappear round a
curve of the walk a little further on. Three or four seconds later
came the sound of a low whistle, which was immediately responded to by
another whistle. Then, as in a flash, Fanny recalled to mind that,
among other knick-knacks suspended from a chatelaine which the young
widow occasionally wore, was a tiny silver dog-whistle, which had
struck her as being a somewhat incongruous ornament for a person to
carry who acknowledged to never having owned a dog in her life. Now,
in the direction which Denia had taken was the one door by which
admittance could be had to the garden from the outside; consequently,
when a peculiar grating sound presently made itself heard, Fanny at
once came to the conclusion that Mrs. Melray was at that moment
withdrawing the bolts of the door in question. Who was her midnight
visitor? Fanny's heart beat painfully. On the threshold of what
mystery had she unwittingly found herself?

Evidently a change of weather was impending. By this time a fine gauzy
mist had overspread the upper reaches of the sky, through which the
moon shone with a chastened lustre. The evergreens babbled softly to
each other of the rain that was soon to come. Presently a sound of
voices reached the ears of the waiting girl, those of a man and a
woman talking together in low tones, and then, half a minute later,
the speakers came round a turn of the path and so towards the
well-house, he with an arm round her waist and with his other hand
holding one of hers pressed close to his breast. Then, while the two
were still some distance away, something in the man's walk, or figure,
or his way of carrying himself, revealed his identity. "It is Richard
Dyson!" exclaimed Fanny to herself, with a thrill that set every nerve
tingling. "Oh, blind, blind that I have been!"

Phil had written her a brief account of what had passed at the
interviews with Messrs. Noyes and Dunning, and she was aware that
Dyson had been accorded a holiday on the plea of ill-health, Mr.
Melray having mentioned the fact in her hearing in reply to his
mother's question, "How is it that I have seen nothing of Richard for
the last few days?" In all probability Dyson had only just returned,
and his first thought, his first object had been to---- But when
Fanny's thoughts had travelled thus far they veered suddenly round to
his companion. "Oh, it is dreadful--dreadful!" she murmured under her
breath. "Who would have thought it of her?--Who would have believed it
possible?"

Meanwhile the two were slowly drawing nearer, talking earnestly
together. The first words which reached Fanny distinctly were spoken
by Denia.

"You are sure your holiday has done you good, and that you have come
back better than you went?" she was saying.

"On that point I have no doubt whatever," was Dyson's low-voiced
reply. "Only, darling, had _you_ been with me I should have enjoyed my
holiday infinitely more. But the day will come, and that before long,
when you will be mine and I shall be yours, and no one in the wide
world will have the right to come between us."

With that he bent his head and, unreproved, pressed his lips to hers.

At that moment they were exactly opposite the well-house. Slowly they
kept on to a point about a score yards beyond it, then they turned and
as slowly retraced their steps. It struck Fanny that the reason why
they kept to that particular walk might be because it was less
overlooked from the windows of Loudwater House than any other part of
the grounds. Ought she to stay and overhear more of what they might
have to say to each other? Ought she not, rather, to try and get away
unseen and unheard? What right had she to be there, hiding and
listening? On the other hand, she could not forget that a certain dark
mystery still remained unfathomed, and in consideration of the strange
and undreamed-of way in which events were shaping themselves, she
could not help saying to herself, "What if by staying here and
listening I should chance to overhear something which would----" She
was about to add, "bring to light the long-sought-for clue?" But her
thought became dumb midway. No, whatever Denia might be, whatever she
might have been guilty of otherwise, she, Fanny, could not and would
not believe that she had had any hand in the bringing about of her
husband's death. It was a hateful thing to be an eavesdropper, and as
soon as they had passed her--they were close to the well-house again
by this time--she would steal away through the shrubbery at the back.

Suddenly, with a quick movement, Denia disengaged herself from Dyson's
encircling arm. "Ah!" she exclaimed, drawing a deep breath, as she
turned and confronted him, "for the moment I had forgotten. Answer me
this, and truthfully, as the breath is in your body: Did you, or did
you not, just before you went away, on two occasions, take Annabel
Glyn for a walk along the Solchester Road?"

There was a perceptible pause before Dyson replied. Then with a laugh
which to Fanny in her hiding-place sounded wholly forced and
artificial, he said: "Why, my darling, what rubbishing nonsense is
this you have got into that pretty head of yours? _I_ take Annabel
Glyn for a walk? The idea is preposterous."

"Your answer is no answer. Did you, or did you not, take her?"

"I did not."

"That you will swear?"

"That I swear."

"Very well. I will take your word for the truth of what you tell me.
It was the dusk of evening and my informant must have mistaken someone
else for you. Only, I want you to understand, Dick, that if I know how
to love, I know how to hate just as fervently. It is as easy to me to
do one as the other. Therefore, _cher ami_, woe be to you if you
deceive me. Don't forget--never for one moment forget, that your
secret is my property--that I hold your life in the hollow of my
hand!"

For a moment or two longer her emotion seemed almost to choke her;
then suddenly turning, she placed her hand within his arm. "Come," she
said, and her voice was again as soft as that of a cooing dove, just
one turn more and then you must positively go. "Who can say what prying
eyes may not be secretly watching us?"

With that they passed out of earshot, and the same instant Fanny
turned and sped softly away through the shrubbery at the back of the
well-house. As she passed the conservatory she saw that the door was
ajar, but she did not pause till she reached her own room. Then she
stood with her hands pressed to her head, amazed--confounded--not so
much by her own blindness as by the revelation of Denia's unparalleled
cunning and duplicity. It almost took her breath away to think of it.
How she had hoodwinked them all!--she, with her doll's eyes and
candid-seeming brow, and her smile that was almost infantine in its
sweetness. What puppets they had been in her fingers--Mr. Melray,
Phil, and herself!

And she loved Richard Dyson! On that point, after what she, Fanny, had
been witness to, there could be no possible doubt; and yet all along
Denia had made believe that Dyson's presence was utterly repugnant to
her. But over and above their love for each other was there not some
dark secret between the two--some bond the nature of which was known
to themselves alone? "Your secret is my property. I hold your life in
the hollow of my hand." Those had been Denia's words, and they had
been meant as a warning to Dyson. What hidden meaning lay at
the back of them? Could it, after all, be possible that Denia----?
"No--no--even now I will not believe it!" cried Fanny when her
thoughts had carried her thus far.




CHAPTER XIX.
AN UNAVOIDABLE NECESSITY.


Little sleep had Fanny Sudlow that night. In the morning she arose
weary and unrefreshed, but by that time she saw her duty clearly
before her. How distasteful soever it might be to her to do so, it was
evident that she must acquaint Mr. Melray with what she had seen and
heard overnight in the garden. This was no commonplace instance of a
pair of secret lovers, of two people meeting stealthily at midnight.
With the knowledge strong upon her of what had happened under that
roof one fatal September night and of all that had since occurred, no
other course seemed open to her. It was a necessity from which she
shrank with the most heartfelt repugnance, but she was powerless to
help herself. Her first impulse had been to telegraph to Phil and ask
him to meet her at Merehampton station. She would have given much,
very much, to be able to confide her secret to him and so shift to his
broad shoulders the responsibility of deciding what ought to be done
next. But she called to mind the fact that Phil was on the Continent,
having been sent there, in the interests of the _Pharos_, to work up a
certain subject which was just then attracting a good deal of public
attention, and that the date of his return was uncertain. It was very
unfortunate, but in nowise could it be helped.

She was almost glad, when she went downstairs, to find that Mr. Melray
had left home for the day on business and would not be back till a
late hour. A respite, however brief, was welcome.

It was something of an ordeal for her to be compelled to meet Denia at
meal times, and yet, neither by tone, nor look, nor manner, allow
anything to escape her which would tend to arouse the suspicions of
that sharp-witted young woman. Fortunately the day was a wet one.
There was no possibility of going out, consequently no opportunity was
afforded Denia for a private gossip with Miss Sudlow. The latter kept
close to the school-room, and, except at table, the two saw nothing of
each other. The dowager Mrs. Melray, being unaware of Richard Dyson's
return, made no inquiry about him; and so the day wore itself
uneventfully away. There was no slightest sign to give warning of the
storm that was so soon to break.

It was close upon eleven o'clock when Robert Melray reached home. He
would have been annoyed had he found anyone waiting up for him except
the one man-servant who was kept at Loudwater House. His supper had
been laid for him in the dining-room. "You can fasten up, Johnson, and
get to bed as soon as you like," he said to the man as he took off his
overcoat in the hall. "I shall not want you any more to-night."

Robert Melray had finished his supper and was glancing somewhat
sleepily over the _Times_, when a low knock at the door startled him
into wakefulness. His surprise was not lessened when, in response to
his "Come in," the door opened and he saw that his untimely visitor
was none other than Miss Sudlow.

Of Fanny's apologies for her intrusion, and of the narrative she
presently proceeded to unfold to her wondering listener, it is not
requisite that we should speak in detail. What she had to tell is
already known to the reader.

"It is an odious duty, Mr. Melray, that I have taken upon myself," she
said in conclusion, with a little break in her voice, "but I felt that
no other course was open to me."

"None whatever, Miss Sudlow. You have done your duty, and I honour you
for it; indeed, I may add that I am infinitely obliged to you."

That he was terribly pained and distressed by what had just been told
him was plainly evident. Sick at heart, Fanny left him. Just then she
devoutly wished that she had never set foot across the threshold of
Loudwater House.

Mention has been made of a certain Miss Annabel Glyn. Till within six
months of the date at which we have now arrived the young woman in
question had been a milliner's assistant in one of the Merehampton
shops. Then, by the death of an uncle in Australia, she had come in
for a fortune of eight thousand pounds, whereupon she had at once
thrown up her situation, and, till she could decide upon her future
plans, had gone to lodge with the widow of a Captain Malcolm in the
most fashionable part of Merehampton. Miss Glyn being of age and both
her parents being dead, she was at liberty to bestow her hand and
fortune on whomsoever she pleased.

Denia's information with regard to Dyson and Miss Glyn having been
seen walking out together had reached her through a very simple
channel. It so fell out that Charlotte Wallis (she who had been the
first to find Mr. Melray's body and give the alarm), whose duties were
partly those of own maid to young Mrs. Melray, had a brother who was a
member of the very limited police force of Merehampton. It was through
information furnished by him to his sister and passed on by the latter
to her mistress, that Denia had based the interrogatory she put to
Dyson in the garden. Still, she was willing to believe that
Charlotte's brother might have been mistaken, more especially after
Dyson's emphatic denial that he had ever been out walking with Annabel
Glyn.




CHAPTER XX.
"WE MUST SPEAK BY THE CARD."


It was Thursday morning, the morning of the day following that of Mr.
Melray's journey to London. Denia, Freddy, and Miss Sudlow breakfasted
by themselves, Mr. Melray having requested that his tea and toast
might be taken upstairs to his dressing-room. Denia had just left the
table and was on her way back to her own room, when she was accosted
by Charlotte. "If you please, ma'am," said the girl, "I have had a
note this morning from my brother. I don't know whether you would
care to read it, but in case you should I have left it on your
dressing-table."

Be it noted that Charlotte was the only person, or so Denia believed,
who had any knowledge or suspicion of the relations between Dyson and
her mistress.

Denia nodded and passed on. Shutting the door of the room behind her,
she went quickly up to the table and pounced on the note. She felt
quite sure that Charlotte would not have left it for her to read had
there not been something in it which nearly concerned her.

Here is what she read:


Dear Lotty,--This comes to inform you that on Tuesday evening, between
nine and ten o'clock, I see Mr. R. D. and Miss G. a-walking out
together. They passed close under a lamp by which, I was standing, so
that I could not be mistaken about either one or the other. Still, to
make quite sure, I thought I would follow them. I did so, and I see
them part at Mrs. Malcolm's door. He kissed her, and then she rang the
bell. Then he strolled back to his lodgings in Peelgate, I strolling
after him; and that is all I know.

          "Your loving brother,

                 "Edgar Wallis."


(It was at midnight on Tuesday that Dyson had kissed Denia in the
garden.)


Ten minutes later Denia received a message to the effect that Mr.
Melray would feel obliged if she would step downstairs to his office.
"Something about money matters, I suppose," she said wearily to
herself. She went at once, presaging nothing, fearing nothing. She was
as one half dazed, who, having been struck down from behind, as yet
can hardly realise what has happened to him. Although she was unaware
of it, the note which had been to her as a message of doom was still
clutched tightly between her fingers as she entered the room. Robert
Melray was at once struck by the pallor of her face, and by a certain
hard, cold glitter in her eyes such as he had never noticed in them
before.

"Sit down, Dania; I have something of particular moment to say to
you," he began, in no unkindly tones, indicating a chair at the table
opposite his own. Then, opening the door of the outer office, he said:
"Mr. Cray, will you be good enough to see that I am not disturbed by
anybody till I ring." Then he turned the key of the door which opened
into the side lane, after which he sat down facing Denia. It was
evident to that clear-sighted young woman, even through her own
perturbation, that he was extremely nervous and ill at ease.

With his elbows resting on the table and his fingers interlocked, he
gazed at her for a few seconds with a sort of sad, wistful
earnestness. Then clearing his voice he said: "I am a poor hand at a
preface, or at leading up by degrees to anything I may have to say. In
short, I cannot beat about the bush." For a moment he paused, and
again he cleared his voice. "Denia, it has come to my knowledge that
you and Richard Dyson were together in the garden at midnight on
Tuesday. It was your hand that admitted him by way of the side-door."

He ceased, as though to afford her time to recover herself. The pallor
of her face gave way to a great wave of colour which surged quickly up
from her bosom to her cheeks and thence to the roots of her hair. For
a few moments it remained thus, at high-water mark as it were, and
then began to subside.

"His arm was round you," continued Robert, "he kissed you and you did
not repulse him Only one inference can be drawn--that he and you are
in love with each other."

Denia's bosom rose with the slow indrawing of her breath. It was one
of those supreme moments when, brought to bay, one's whole future
course in life may depend on the next few sentences that fall from
one's lips.

"I believed that Richard Dyson loved me, but now I know that I was
mistaken," said Denia in a low voice. "I loved him (or, perhaps, I
only dreamt I did), but now--I hate him!"

"You hate him!" exclaimed Robert. "And yet, less than thirty-six hours
ago, you allowed him unreproved to press his lips to yours."

"A great deal may happen in thirty-six hours. I loved him then. I hate
him now."

"So be it. Whatever reasons may have influenced you in this sudden
change of feeling are no concern of mine. What, however, does seem to
concern me (and you yourself can best infer why), and what I must ask
you to afford me some explanation of, is a certain threat which you
made use of to Dyson on Tuesday night. You bade him beware in that his
secret was your property, that you 'held his life in the hollow of
your hand.' Now, will you be good enough to tell me to what those
words referred?"

Denia's hesitation was of the briefest. For a moment or two she set
her teeth hard, then with a little nod of her head she said: "Yes, Mr.
Melray, I will tell you--will tell you everything. From this moment
there shall be no more secrets between you and me. I used those words
to Richard Dyson because to his hand was due the death of my husband
and your brother!"

Robert Melray sank back in his chair with a gasp. "You have known this
all along, and yet you have kept it hidden from everyone in your own
breast!" he contrived to say after a time.

"I have known it all along, and yet I have kept it hidden from
everyone," came like an echo from Denia's lips.

Robert knew not what to say. Never had he been so utterly at a loss
for words. There was a space of silence while the two sat confronting
each other. Denia was the first to break it.

"You stare at me, Mr. Melray, as if I were some monster of
wickedness," she said with a bitter smile. "Perhaps, before you open
your lips to reproach me or to give utterance to words such as, later
on, you might see reason to regret, it may be as well that you should
be enlightened about certain matters as to which at present you are
wholly ignorant. If you will condescend to listen to me, I will
promise to be as little tedious as possible, and that, on this
occasion at least, you shall hear from me the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth!"

"Go on," said Robert in a voice that was hardly raised above a
whisper.

But Denia did not at once respond to the invitation. It was neither
shyness nor hesitation that held her back; the former, indeed, was a
quality of which she knew nothing; she was merely considering in what
terms it behoved her to couch her version of what could no longer be
kept back.

"It was my husband who, soon after our marriage introduced Richard
Dyson to me," at length she began, her blue eyes fixed calmly on
Robert Melray's face. Before long he began to spend three or four
evenings a week in the drawing-room, and by the time I had been half a
year married it was evident to me that (not to mince my words) he had
either fallen in love with me or was wishful of making me believe that
he had done so. He was young and handsome and had a certain
fascinating way with him; he played and sang charmingly, or so it
seemed to me. I liked and respected my husband--no one could help
doing that--and I strove to do my duty by him as a true wife should
do; but I did not love him. Love is a very different sentiment from
that which I experienced for James Melray. Is it, then, greatly to be
wondered at if, at times, my heart could not help fluttering a little
under the ardent glances of Richard Dyson? But, for all that, when,
one day, he ventured to whisper certain words in my ear such as he had
no right to whisper in the ear of any married woman, I was not slow in
giving him to understand what an egregious piece of folly he had been
guilty of. So strongly, indeed, did I resent the liberty he had taken
that he never ventured to err in the same way again. And so matters
went on as before. I continued to do my duty by my husband and guarded
my feelings to the best of my ability; but, having promised that this
shall be a full and frank confession, let me at once admit that deep
down in my heart a germ of love lay perdu, and that it was only my
strong sense of wifely obligation and the remembrance of all I owed my
husband, which kept it there, frozen and half torpid, like a bulb
buried deep under the snow.

"Such was the state of affairs on Friday, the 18th of September.
Richard had gone for his annual holiday about ten days before.
Sometimes I felt sad and lonely without him, missing his bright,
vivacious talk and those half-veiled glances the meaning of which
could be read by me alone; at other times I wished most devoutly that
I might never set eyes on him again.

"At eight o'clock that evening I saw my husband off on his way to Mr.
Arbour's for his usual rubber of whist. After that I sat down with the
intention of writing a long letter to my friend, Mrs. Simpson. I was
alone in the little sitting-room at the back of the drawing-room. The
servants were all below stairs. Your mother had gone to her own room
at the further end of the long corridor, and Miss Armishaw with her. I
had got about half-way through my letter when a slight noise caused me
to turn my head, and there in the open doorway I beheld Richard
Dyson! Next instant he came forward and fell on his knees at my feet.
His dress was disordered, his face was as white as that of corpse,
while his eyes were charged with horror and fear, the like of which I
have never seen in those of anyone else. 'Save me! Save me!' were the
first words he gave utterance to.

"I have no wish to weary you, and will relate, as succinctly as
possible, the story told me by Richard on that memorable night.

"Lack of funds had brought him back from his holidays two or three
days before he was due at business. He had been compelled to leave his
luggage in pawn at the seaside hotel where he had been staying. Not
wishing it to be known, for private reasons of his own, that he had
come back before his time, he had alighted from the train at a station
a couple of miles away, and was making his way through some of the
back streets to his lodgings, when he came face to face with Mr.
Melray. The recognition was mutual. It would seem that Richard had
been guilty of something at which my husband had just cause to be
offended, but of what nature the something in question was even now I
have no knowledge. In any case, Mr. Melray insisted on Richard there
and then accompanying him back to his office. Once there, they appear
to have got to high words, one thing leading to another, till at
length Mr. Melray threatened Richard with some kind of public
exposure. There was a struggle for the possession of some papers, and
in the result my husband unhappily came by his death. On his knees
Richard swore to me by everything he held sacred that it was purely an
accident. Well, I believed him. Some people might say that, instead of
putting credence in what he told me, I ought there and then to have
denounced him as a murderer; but to me it seemed too terrible a thing
to credit that he could wilfully have been guilty of such a crime.
But, be that as it may, when he appealed to me to save him I felt it
impossible to reject his appeal. From Friday night till an early hour
on Monday he lay hidden in the lumber-room on the top floor, which is
rarely entered from one year's end to another, I supplying him with
food meanwhile. On Monday morning he made his appearance at his
lodgings, and, later on, at the office, no one suspecting otherwise
than that he had just got back from his holidays."

Robert Melray had not interrupted her by a word. He sat for a space
after she had done with drawn brows and introverted eyes which saw
nothing of what was before them. At length he roused himself with a
deep sigh. "That your narrative throws a wholly unexpected light on a
mystery which has long perplexed both me and others cannot be denied,
he said, and I am obliged to you for the frankness which has at length
prompted the telling of it. Still, I altogether fail to reconcile what
you have just told me with the details of certain circumstances as set
down in your written statement of a fortnight ago."

A short derisive laugh broke from Denia. "My good sir," she said,
"seeing that I have just told you the true history of the events of
the 18th of September as far as they concern me individually, but one
inference can be drawn by you with regard to my so-called statement,
namely, that from beginning to end it was a simple tissue of
romance."

Mr. Melray stared at her in wide-eyed amazement. "But surely," he
gasped, "you don't mean to say that all which was there stated with
reference to Evan Wildash and yourself was----"

"A sheer piece of rigmarole--that and nothing more. I found it
impossible to resist the temptation Miss Sudlow was good enough to put
in my way. Besides, I had a suspicion, which may or may not have been
baseless, that she had been brought to Loudwater House purposely to
watch me and spy upon my actions, so that when she gave me a certain
story to read, which undoubtedly seemed to embody in rather a
startling way a number of details in connection with my husband's
death, I decided to accept it as a true narrative, and it was on that
assumption that I wrote out my statement. I need hardly add that my
object in acting thus was to divert suspicion from the real quarter,
and, if it were possible thereby to do so, to bring to an end, once
and for ever, the inquiry into the causes of my husband's death."

"It is most extraordinary!" ejaculated Robert Melray. "But do you mean
to imply that Evan Wildash never came back from Africa?"

"Never, to my knowledge. He was reported to have died there, and, for
anything known by me to the contrary the report was true."

"Then, as regards the man who was killed in the railway accident?"

"I know no more about him than about the man in the moon."

Robert Melray sat back in his chair like a man bereft of speech.




CHAPTER XXI.
THE TRUTH AT LAST.


Some minutes later Robert Melray opened the door which led to the
outer office, and said to his head clerk, "Mr. Cray, will you be good
enough to ask Mr. Dyson to step this way?"

When Richard Dyson entered the private office he had no prevision that
he was wanted about anything more important than some ordinary
business detail. Long immunity from suspicion had bred in him the
belief that his dark secret was buried out of sight for ever. He
glanced round as he entered. He had not the remotest suspicion that
the high screen in the corner hid Denia from his view.

"Sit there," said Robert, pointing to the chair vacated by Denia a
minute before. There was something in his tone which caused Dyson to
glance keenly at him, something which warned him to be on his guard.
The two had not met since the latter's return from his leave of
absence.

"Since I saw you last to speak to," began Robert, regarding the other
with a cold steady gaze, "certain facts have come to my knowledge
which have shocked and surprised me far more than I could express to
you in any words. In order that you need be under no misapprehension
as to how much, or how little, I know of the circumstances in
question, I will at once enlighten you on the point. Being in want of
money for some purpose of which I know nothing, you abstracted my
brother's life policy from the safe, and on the security of it
obtained an advance of three hundred pounds from Mr. Noyes of
Solchester. But, in order to carry out your nefarious purpose, you
were compelled to forge James's signature to three several documents.
Of the means by which you contrived to make Mr. Noyes believe that he
was dealing with my brother in person, I will say nothing. Whether it
was your intention ultimately to redeem the policy and put it back in
the place whence you had taken it, or whether----"

"Certainly it was my intention to redeem the policy and replace it in
the safe, without, as I hoped, anyone being the wiser," broke in Dyson
a little impetuously. He was pale, but composed.

Robert's exordium had allowed time for his nerves to recover from any
shock which the latter's opening words might have caused them. "The
three hundred pounds was only borrowed for a term of four months, by
the end of which time I had every reason to believe that I should be
in ample funds. I may add that my difficulties were the result of some
unfortunate operations on the Stock Exchange, but latterly I had hit
on a good thing and I felt no doubt whatever about being able shortly
to far more than recoup myself for all my losses."

"I will refrain from asking you how you proposed to yourself to get
out of the clutches of Mr. Noyes, and to redeem the policy in case
your expectations should come to nothing. But, in all likelihood, that
was a contingency which you never cared to face. In any case, it is a
matter of no consequence at this time of day; so, if you have no
objection, we will now come to the events of the 18th of September."

Dyson started visibly and bit his under-lip hard, as he might have
done had he been on the point of undergoing a surgical operation.

"For reasons best known to yourself," resumed Robert in the same
quiet, passionless voice in which he had spoken before, "you arrived
back from your holiday on Friday evening, although you were not due at
business till the following Monday. While on your way to your lodgings
you came face to face with my brother, and in consequence, doubtless,
of certain representations on his part, you accompanied him back to
his office--to this very room, in point of fact. A quarter of an hour
later you surprised Mrs. Melray in her sitting-room. In explanation of
your intrusion you gave her to understand that, through some
mischance, my brother had met his death at your hands, and you
appealed to her to help to save you from the consequences of your rash
act. To that appeal she responded by finding you, unknown to anyone,
shelter and food for three nights and two days; by which means you
were enabled to appear at the office on Monday morning as if you had
but just got back from your holiday. Now, Richard Dyson, I demand of
you that you shall account to me for my brother! I hint no threats,
but it must be plain to you on the verge of what a precipice you are
standing. Let me have the truth about what happened just as it did
happen. I ask for no more and I have a right to look for no less."

It would not be easy to describe with what a strange confluence of
emotions Dyson had listened to the growing indictment. Wonder as
whence and how Robert had gleaned his information was, perhaps, his
predominant feeling just then. Could it be possible, he asked himself,
that Denia had turned traitor and betrayed him? But such was his faith
in the sincerity of her love for him that he dismissed the thought
almost as soon as it was formed. But it was no time for indulging in
futile speculations. Robert Melray was waiting with bent brows.

Dyson's face darkened as his thoughts concentred themselves on the
story he had to tell. "Yes," he presently began, facing Robert with
the quiet and collected air of one who has nothing to hide, "as you
have stated, I unexpectedly encountered cousin James on my way from
the railway station to my lodgings. Gripping me by the arm he said,
'So you are back, are you? That is well. I want particularly to speak
with you. Come with me at once to my office.' Nothing more was said,
but I pretty well guessed what was in the wind. As soon as we were
inside the office, with the door shut and the gas alight, he turned
upon me. As I surmised, he had found out about the abstraction of the
policy and the advance obtained by means of it from Noyes. I at once
admitted that it was an infamous return to have made for all that he
had done for me. I explained to him, as I have explained to you, by
what means it happened that I was temporarily 'cornered,' that not to
have raised the three hundred pounds meant exposure and ruin, and that
I had every expectation of being in a position to repay the amount
before the bill would fall due. But by this he had worked himself into
a passion and was no longer in a condition to listen to any excuses.
You cannot have forgotten to what ungovernable bursts of rage he would
give way on rare occasions, in one of which, when you were boys, I
have been told he all but strangled you, his brother.

"He had already opened the safe and brought thence the documents to
which I had forged his signature. Placing one finger on them as they
lay on the table, and speaking in coldly contemptuous tones, which
stung me far more than any invective on his part would have done, he
said: 'Here are the proofs of your guilt. Here is the evidence that
will condemn you to penal servitude. In less than an hour from now the
four walls of Merehampton gaol will hold your worthless carcase.' It
was a threat that maddened me. I dashed his hand aside and seized the
papers. With a cry like that of some wild animal, he sprang from his
chair and flung himself upon me. Although double my age, he was a much
more powerful and muscular man than I, and when once he had got his
fingers fixed firmly inside my necktie and was grinding his knuckles
into my throat, I was almost as powerless in his hands as a child
would have been. As it seems to me now, it was all the work of a few
seconds. Backward and forward we swayed and struggled, I trying
desperately, but vainly, with one hand to loosen his hold of me, but
still gripping the papers fast with my other hand; he, his eyes
glaring with a passion that was almost maniacal, and those terrible
knuckles still compressing my windpipe. I was being slowly but surely
choked. Vivid jets of flame began to dance and quiver before my eyes;
my heart laboured almost to the point of bursting; the papers dropped
from my fingers; I could feel myself being forced back against the
table till my spine was bent half double. Suddenly my fingers, wildly
clutching at nothing, came in contact with a heavy iron paperweight
and closed over it. With a last effort I struck with all my force at
my cousin's head. For aught I know, I may have struck more than once,
but in the very act consciousness left me.

"When I regained my senses, a quarter of an hour later, I was lying on
the floor. A little way off lay the body of my cousin--stone dead.
Hardly had I time to realise the horror of the situation before I
heard the voices of two men talking in the lane outside. With that,
the instinct of self-preservation came back in full force. As in a
flash, I seemed to see how hardly it would fare with me should I
chance to be found there. After picking up the papers which had cost
me so dearly, I put out the gas, and then a sudden impulse, for which
I am unable to account, decided me to--to---- But you know already
what befell afterwards."

"And the paperweight--what became of that?" demanded Robert Melray
after a short silence.

"I dropped it into the pocket of my coat and took it upstairs with me.
Later on I hid it away in the lumber-room where I myself was in hiding
at the time."

"You had better leave me now," said Robert presently. "I will see you
again later in the day. I must have time to think over what you have
told me and to decide upon some course of action which----"

But at this juncture there came a tap at the door, which was followed
by the intrusion of Mr. Cray's spectacled head. "I beg your pardon,
sir," said the chief clerk, "but Mr. Bayliss has been waiting some
time, and he says that if you can't see him at once, he will call
again to-morrow, or next day."

Now, Mr. Bayliss was the person with whom Robert was in negotiation
for the purchase of the business of Melray Brothers.

"I will see him now--at once," was his reply.

Richard Dyson stepped quietly out without a word more, as Robert went
forward into the outer office to greet his visitor. At the same moment
Denia slipped out of her hiding-place, and out of the room by the
other door, unseen and unheard by anyone.




CHAPTER XXII.
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.


Richard Dyson went out to luncheon at his usual time, but failed to
return. About five o'clock Mr. Melray asked for him, but no one knew
what had become of him, nor did any authentic tidings of him come to
hand till the following day. It was then discovered that he and Miss
Glyn had gone off together, after having been married at an early hour
by special license. Neither of them was ever seen in Merehampton
again. It may be that Robert Melray was not ill-pleased to have the
hard problem which circumstances would otherwise have compelled him to
solve taken out of his hands and done with, as far as he was
concerned, for ever.

Mrs. Melray the elder was never told that it was to the hand of her
nephew that James Melray owed his death-blow. To her, as to the world
at large, the Loudwater Tragedy remained an unsolved mystery. Neither
was she ever enlightened as to that secondary crime of forgery and
fraud of which her nephew had been guilty. To have told her would have
answered no good purpose, but might, indeed, have had a serious effect
upon her health, already hardly tried by that which had gone before.
It was a quite sufficient shock to her to learn of the elopement of
Dyson and Miss Glyn. Womanlike, she laid the whole blame of the affair
on the girl. Doubtless she was one of those double-faced, scheming
hussies who seem sent into the world purposely to spoil the lives and
ruin the careers of whatever young men may not be strong-minded enough
to resist their siren-like blandishments. That poor dear Richard had
been both weak and foolish she could not deny; still, he was to be
pitied far more than blamed. He was not the first man by many, nor
would he be the last, to fall a victim to the arts of a designing
woman. As long as she lived Mrs. Melray continued to think and speak
of Dyson with mingled pity and tenderness, and at her death it was
found that she had bequeathed him half of all she had to leave.

Long before that event took place Robert Melray had paid over to
Dyson, or rather to the solicitor who represented him, the three
thousand pounds willed him by the man whose death lay at his door. Had
it not been for those two legacies falling in one after another,
Dyson, in all probability, would have lived several years longer than
he did. But for them--his wife's fortune having been quickly
dissipated--he would not have been able to continue in that course of
fast living, combined with hard drinking, which gradually shattered
his constitution and consigned him to a premature grave while he ought
still to have been in the prime of life.

The Erinyes have many ways of avenging their misdeeds on the children
of men.

Within twenty-four hours of Dyson's disappearance Denia had quitted
Loudwater House, never to return. She announced her intention of
taking up her abode, for a time at least, with certain friends in
London whom she had known during her uncle's lifetime. About a year
later, she married again, by which time she had received her share of
the property left by her husband. Her second husband (a blackleg with
the manners and education of a gentleman) was a very different type of
man from James Melray, as, later on, Denia found to her cost.

It was about the time of Denia's marriage that the final mystery in
connection with the Loudwater Tragedy found its solution.

One day a young American arrived at Merehampton in search of his
brother, who had been missing for upwards of a year. After some
difficulty he had succeeded in tracing him as far as the little
seaport, but at that point he came, for the time being, to a deadlock.
Like so many of his countrymen, the missing man had been fond of
adventure and change of scene. For many months he had been touring
about England, chiefly on foot, and, with a view of eking out his
slender means, had been in the habit of writing sketches of English
life and character for one or more American newspapers, as well as
occasional short stories for sundry magazines.

It would be beyond the scope of this narrative to recount how Gavin
Pryce, having succeeded in picking up the missing clue, was led onward
step by step till at length a shred of doubt was no longer left him
that the unidentified victim of the Eastwich accident was none other
than his brother Evan.

The way in which the latter had acquired his intimate knowledge of the
details of the Loudwater Tragedy, as set forth by him in the MS. which
fell into the hands of Mr. Timmins, was as peculiar as it was simple.

It may be remembered that the alarm raised by the housemaid Charlotte,
which followed immediately on her discovery of her master's body, was
responded to by a constable and a couple of strangers who happened to
be passing at the time. One of the strangers in question was the young
American, Evan Pryce. He it was who helped the constable to examine
the body with the view of ascertaining whether life was extinct, and,
a little later, assisted in carrying it upstairs. At the inquest he
was called as a witness, and, being a newspaper man, the case had an
exceptional interest for him in so far as it furnished him with an
ample supply of "copy" for some time to come. Having used it up as far
as the newspapers were concerned, the idea would appear to have
occurred to him that the main incidents of the affair, if worked up
into a magazine story, would not prove ineffective. Hence, in order to
supply the crime with a _raison d'être_, his invention of a lover for
the young wife, who finding on his return from abroad that she is
married, picks a quarrel with the husband; at which point, as the
reader may remember, the manuscript broke off abruptly. Whether the
author had written no further when he came by his untimely end, or
whether only a part of the manuscript was recovered from the _débris_
of the accident, is a question which must remain for ever unanswered.
It will not have been forgotten that it was Mr. Timmins who furnished
the story with an ending after a fashion of his own.

That it was as gall and wormwood to Mrs. Sudlow to have to be beholden
to a woman she disliked more than anyone, and whom she had contemned
and turned her back upon as the widow of a notorious felon, for the
pecuniary help which had been forthcoming from no other source, may be
taken for granted. But for Mrs. Winslade the Vicar would have been a
ruined man. It was bitter, very bitter, to have to acknowledge that
such was the indisputable fact. And then, what likelihood was there of
her husband ever being in a position to pay back the sum which had
been thus generously and unconditionally advanced? None at all as far
as Mrs. Sudlow could see. A few pounds might be spared now and
again--mere driblets, as it were--but, in the face of family expenses
which could not but help growing for several years to come, it would
not be possible to do more. In those days Mrs. Sudlow was a very
unhappy woman.

No one, not even her husband, ever heard her mention Mrs. Winslade's
name. When, half a year later, Philip and Fanny were married, no word
of opposition fell from her lips; but, on the other hand, she
resolutely declined to be present at the ceremony. Neither when, later
on, Philip offered to find a situation for her eldest son in the
counting-house of Mr. Layland did she raise the slightest objection to
his doing so. It was as though her life was burdened with the weight
of an obligation from which she found it impossible to rid herself.

Finally, it may be said of the "Vicaress" that, if from the date of a
certain transaction Mrs. Winslade's name found no mention at her lips,
neither did that of her kinsman, the Earl of Beaumaris. One seemed to
have passed out of the sphere of her mental retina as absolutely as
the other.

Once and once only did Fanny and Denia see each other again after the
latter's abrupt departure from Loudwater House.

Late one autumn evening about a year and a half after Fanny's
marriage, as she was sitting alone in the drawing-room, she was
informed that a lady was waiting in the entrance-hall who wished
particularly to see her, but who refused to send in her name. The
untimely visitor proved to be none other than Denia Melray, now Mrs.
Ferdinand Gascoigne. The two years which had elapsed since Fanny had
seen her last had wrought a great change in her appearance, but not
for the better. She had fallen away both in face and figure; there
were dark half-circles under her eyes; while that expression of
mingled candour and ingenuousness which had been one of her greatest
charms in days gone by had given place to the anxious careworn look of
one whose days and nights were full of trouble.

That Fanny was surprised to see her goes without saying. She did not
know then, nor does she to this day, by what means Denia had
discovered her address. When greetings were over and they were
together in the drawing-room, Mrs. Gascoigne said: "I am here this
evening, my dear, on purpose to ask you a very great favour. But where
is Mr. Winslade?"

Fanny explained that her husband had gone for a couple of days'
shooting to the house of a bachelor friend in the shires.

"So much the better," observed Denia in her old quick way. "Pleased as
on many accounts I should have been to see Mr. Winslade again, I am
more pleased that he is not here to-night. But your eyes are asking
what the favour is that I want you to grant me. It is simply this: I
have left my husband, without his knowledge or consent, and I want you
to give me shelter till morning."

"You have left your husband!" exclaimed Fanny. "Oh, Mrs. Gascoigne!"

"Yes, I have left him, never to go back," replied Dania with a hard
cold glitter in her blue-grey eyes. Then with deft fingers she
unfastened a portion of her dress, and baring her left shoulder,
exposed to Fanny's shocked gaze a great livid bruise. "That is where
he struck me last night with his clenched fist and felled me to the
ground. It is not the first occasion by many that he has struck me.
But last night was the climax. Then and there I swore an oath to leave
him. He did not believe me, but when he gets home from his club at
midnight he will not find me there. To-day I have been making certain
arrangements which to-morrow will see completed. At ten o'clock my
cousin, William Champneys--the son of my late uncle--will call here
for me (you see, dear, I have taken the liberty of assuming that you
won't turn me into the street), and will take me down into the country
to some relatives of my mother, whom I have not seen since I was quite
a child."

It is almost needless to state that Mrs. Gascoigne was accorded the
shelter she craved.

At ten o'clock next morning a hired brougham drove up at the door, and
Mr. William Champneys was announced. Denia had already breakfasted
(her troubles seemed in no wise to have impaired her appetite), and
two minutes sufficed her to put on her outdoor things. Having
introduced her cousin to Fanny, she seemed in a hurry to be gone. Her
last words as she touched Fanny's cheek with her lips were: "I shall
be sure to write to you, dear, and let you know how I am getting on."
But she never did.

Two months later Mr. Ferdinand Gascoigne fell down a flight of stairs
and broke his neck.

Half a year later still came an Australian newspaper, addressed to
Winslade, containing an announcement of the marriage of "Evan Wildash,
Esq., formerly of Solchester, England, to Denia (_née_ Lidington),
widow of Ferdinand Gascoigne, Esq., of London."

When Phil read the announcement aloud he and his wife could only stare
at one another in blank bewilderment.

"Evan Wildash alive!" gasped Phil.

"And married to Denia at last!" exclaimed Fanny. "Of all the strange
developments brought about by the Loudwater case this last one is the
strangest of all."

"By the way," remarked Phil a little later, "you never told me, or
else I omitted to ask, what kind of looking man was the cousin in
whose charge Mrs. Gascoigne left here."

Thereupon Fanny proceeded to describe Mr. William Champneys to the
best of her ability.

"Your description tallies exactly with that of Evan Wildash, as given
me at Solchester. And now that I begin to call things to mind, I am
nearly sure I was told by somebody that Mr. Champneys, Denia's uncle,
was a bachelor. Can it be possible that the man she introduced to you
as her cousin was none other than Evan Wildash himself? It would be
just like one of Denia's _supercheries_ if it were so."

It was a question to which no answer was ever forthcoming.




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