Mrs. Tice was right: marriage with Allen was out of the question. He could not make the daughter of a murderer his wife; no power, human or divine, would sanction such a union. Dora no longer wondered at Allen's strange silence. It was natural that he should shrink from telling her so terrible a story, and from branding her father with the terrible name of assassin. She remembered how she had been glad to know that her father had died without killing Edermont; that he had gone to his account without blood on his hands. No wonder Pallant had chuckled at her ignorance, and had forborne to enlighten her. George Carew had taken a life in cold blood, with deliberation and malice aforethought. She, Dora Carew, was the daughter of a criminal.
Dora said little to Mrs. Tice after the story had been told. Indeed, there was nothing to say; for she knew her fate only too well. She could never marry Allen; and if she did not become Joad's wife, to save her lover from arrest, and possibly condemnation, she would be forced to remain single for the rest of her life, lonely and sorrowful. The sins of the father had been visited on the child, and Dora was reaping the harvest of blood which George Carew had sown. Morally speaking, the end of all things had come to Dora.
I shall go over to Canterbury with you, she said to Mrs. Tice, "and say good-bye to Allen. I can never marry him; but I can at least see him for the last time, and tell him that he is safe from Joad."
But, my dear young lady, you will not marry that wicked man?
If I can save Allen in no other way, I must, said Dora firmly. "Consider his position, Mrs. Tice, should Joad accuse him of the crime! He quarrelled with Edermont, he came here at the very hour of the murder, and when he left the house Edermont was dead. To all this circumstantial evidence he can oppose only his bare word. I tell you he is in danger of being hanged, Mrs. Tice. Nothing is left for me to do save to marry Joad. He dare not speak then."
The real assassin may be found yet, suggested Mrs. Tice hopefully.
There is little chance of that, I am afraid. When all these hundreds of men, stimulated by that gigantic reward, have failed to track the murderer, how can I hope to succeed? No, Mrs. Tice; the name of the criminal will never be known, so it only remains for me to see Allen for the last time, and return here to be Joad's wife.
The housekeeper sighed. This indeed appeared the sole way out of the difficulty, and she could offer no advice on the subject. It went to her heart that Dora should marry so disreputable a creature; but as the reason for such marriage was the safety of Allen Scott, she was content that it should take place. In her love for Allen, the old nurse would have sacrificed a hundred women. Dora's fate was hard; she admitted that, but it was necessary.
Allen proved less ill than they expected to find him. He was annoyed that Mrs. Tice had been sent for, although he was glad to see both her and Dora. Nevertheless, he protested against being considered a sick man, or that he should take to his bed.
I'm not well enough to go about my work, he said candidly; "at the same time, I am not sufficiently ill to retire to a sick-room. I shall be all right in a day or two."
He did not look as though he would recover in so short a time. In default of bed, he was lying on a sofa in the dining-room, covered with a rug, and he appeared to be thoroughly ill. His eyes were bright, his hands were burning, and every now and again he shivered with cold, as though suffering from an attack of ague. Mrs. Tice made him some beef-tea, and insisted upon his taking it, which he did after much persuasion.
You see, Dora, he said, with a smile, "the doctor has to be prescribed for by his old nurse. All my science and knowledge goes for nothing in comparison with Mrs. Tice's remedies."
I know what is common-sense, said Mrs. Tice, smiling also. "Lie still, Mr. Allen, and keep warm. Miss Carew will sit with you here while I look after the house. I dare say it has been dreadfully neglected in my absence."
That is hardly a compliment to my management, said Allen, trying to smile.
Oh, as to that, no gentleman can look after a house, Mr. Allen. It's woman's work to see to such things. Let me manage at present, and when I am gone your wife can take my place.
Wife! echoed Dr. Scott, with a sigh. "I shall never marry."
Dora said nothing, but bent her head to hide the despair written on her face. Feeling that she had said too much, Mrs. Tice hastened to excuse herself; in doing so, she only succeeded in making matters worse. The name of Joad occurred in the midst of her excuses, and Allen made a feeble gesture of displeasure.
I wish you would not mention that creature, he said, clasping Dora's hand. "I hate him as much as Dora does. He is her enemy and mine."
But, for all that, I must marry him, Allen.
No. You must not sacrifice yourself.
Mr. Allen, be sensible! cried Mrs. Tice. "You stand in a dreadful position; you are at the mercy of Joad. Should he speak you are lost."
I can tell my story.
Dora shook her head.
It will not be believed in the face of Joad's evidence, said she dolefully. "And then the quarrel you had with Mr. Edermont gives colour to his accusation."
Dr. Scott made a gesture of dissent, but Mrs. Tice supported Dora.
She is right, Mr. Allen. If Joad speaks you are lost. Talk it over with Miss Carew, sir, and I'll hear what you think when I come back. Just now I must look after the house.
When she left the room, Allen waited until the door was closed, then turned to look at Dora. She was sitting by the side of the sofa with a drooping head, and a sad expression on her face. Moved by her silent sorrow, and ascribing it rightly to the unhappy position in which they stood to one another, he took her hands within his own.
Do not look so sad, Dora, he said softly; "I shall be better shortly. It is the knowledge of what was told to me by Mr. Edermont which has made me ill. But I shall recover, my dear, and bear my troubles like a man."
Dora burst into tears.
I can only bear my troubles like a woman, she sobbed. "Oh, Allen, Allen! what have we done, you and I, that we should be made so unhappy? You are in a very dangerous position, and I can save you only by marrying a man I detest."
Dora, you must not marry Joad. I cannot accept safety at the price of your lifelong misery.
What does it matter about my marrying that creature? she said, drying her tears. "I can never become your wife."
Allen groaned.
True, true; ah, how true it is that the sins of the father are visited on the children! It is shameful that we should suffer as we do for the evil of others.
We cannot help our position, Allen. There is no hope.
You are right, said Allen in a despairing tone; "there is no hope. Ah, Dora, if you only knew the truth!"
I do know the truth.
Who told you? he asked, sitting up with a look of astonishment.
Lady Burville told me that----
Lady Burville! he interrupted sharply; "what does she know?"
Everything. And it is no wonder, seeing that she is the root of all the evil.
How do you mean that she is the root of all the evil?
Lady Burville is my mother, Allen.
Great heavens! Your mother--Mrs. Carew!
Yes. Mrs. Carew, Mrs. Dargill, Lady Burville--whatever you like to call her. I know her story, Allen, and what she failed to relate Mrs. Tice told. I know that my father killed yours, and that we can never marry.
Lady Burville--your mother told you this! he stammered; "and I was so careful to hide the truth from you!"
I know you spared me, in the goodness of your heart, Allen, but it was better that I should know the truth. Yes, I went up to town; I restored the pearl brooch to Lady Burville--I cannot call her my mother--and I heard her story.
Dora! Allen seized her hand again. "Did your mother kill Mr. Edermont?"
No. Thank God, she is innocent of that crime!
Then how was it I found her brooch by the dead body?
She dropped it in the room when she went to see Mr. Edermont on that night.
But why did she see Edermont?
He sent for her to deliver up a packet of letters she had written to him. It is a long story, Allen, and a sad one. Listen, and I will tell you all.
Allen signified his desire to hear the story, and listened eagerly while she told him what her mother had related. To make the information complete, Dora passed on to the history of the murder, as told by Mrs. Tice. When she finished, and Allen was in possession of all the facts, she waited for him to comment thereon. This he was not long in doing.
I see that you know all, Dora, he said with a melancholy smile. "Yes, this is what Mr. Edermont told me on that day. I lost my head when he ended; I believe I advanced towards him in a threatening manner, to thrash him for the share he had taken in the matter. It was then that he threw up the window and cried out that I wished to kill him. Probably I was wrong to act as I did, as the miserable little creature was not responsible for the death of my father; but I did not consider that at the moment. When he cried out to you and Joad, I left the room, and the house. You remember, I would not speak to you when I went. I could not, my dear; the revelation had proved too much for my self-control. I felt half-mad, for I saw that I had lost you for ever."
And why did you go up to London? asked Dora anxiously.
Edermont referred me to a file of the Morning Planet, containing an account of the tragedy which ended in the death of my father.
You went up to see an account of your father's murder?
Yes. I could not bring myself to believe that matters were so bad as he made out. But in London I went to the office of the paper; I turned up the report, and it was true enough. Your father shot mine, as was stated by Edermont. Afterwards I went down to Christchurch, and found out the rest of the story from an old housekeeper.
Did you learn that Lady Burville was my mother?
No: nor did Edermont tell me so. Why, I do not know. He only stated the bare facts of the case, and how my father had been killed. Now you know why I told you nothing, Dora--why I kept silent. I was afraid lest your father should be arrested for the double murder, and bring shame and pain on you, my poor dear.
The double murder?
Yes. George Carew killed my father; and, in accordance with his oath, I believe he murdered Mr. Edermont--found him out after many years and killed him.
You are wrong, Allen. I told you how Pallant blackmailed my mother, and learnt the whole story from my wretched father. Well, Captain Carew died two years ago in San Francisco.
Are you sure?
I am certain. He died in Mr. Pallant's arms. Pallant has no reason to lie over that story.
Then, if Carew did not kill Edermont, who did?
Ah, said Dora with a weary sigh, "that is just what we must find out, if only to save your life and prevent my marrying Joad."
Dora, said Allen after a pause, "do you know why Pallant wanted that packet of letters?"
Yes. He desired to confirm his possession of my mother. By threatening to show the letters to Sir John Burville, he hoped to get whatever money he wished.
The scoundrel! What particular information did the letters contain to render them so valuable?
I don't know. Mr. Pallant hinted that they were about me.
About you? Allen reflected for a few moments. "Dora," he said at length, "I dare say those letters passed between your mother and your guardian after the tragedy at Christchurch. Probably they contained a full account of the crime, and details as to how your mother parted with you. In fact, I believe they contained a summary of Lady Burville's life. If Pallant had obtained those letters, no wonder he could have extorted money. If they had been shown to Sir John Burville, his wife--your mother--could have denied nothing. Her own handwriting would prove the falsity of her denial."
I quite understand, said Dora; "but Mr. Edermont was wise enough to give them to my mother himself."
And that is just it! cried Allen. "Supposing Lady Burville had unconsciously let Pallant know that she was going to the Red House to receive the letters; supposing he followed her, and was too late to intercept the packet. Do you think he might have killed Edermont in a fit of rage at losing the letters?"
No, Allen, I do not think so for a moment. Mr. Pallant is too cautious to act so foolishly. Besides, if it was as you say, he could easily have followed Lady Burville along that lonely road, and have forced her to give him the letters. No. Whoever killed my guardian, it was not Mr. Pallant.
Then who is guilty? asked Allen in despair.
Ah! said Dora with a melancholy sigh. "That secret is worth fifty thousand pounds and your life, my dear Allen."
When Dora took leave of Allen, she returned to the Red House with the firm conviction that to save the doctor she would be obliged to marry Joad. In the face of this old man's evidence, she did not see how Allen could defend himself. It was true that he could produce the letter of Mr. Edermont, giving him a midnight invitation to his study; but such production would not mend matters. It would only show that he had been present at the very hour of the murder, and would confirm the evidence of Joad. Once that was proved, what plea could he put forward to prove his innocence? None. A quarrel might have taken place on the subject of their previous conversation, and Allen might have killed Edermont in a fit of rage. That was the view, Dora truly believed, which the judge and jury would take of the matter. And on the face of it what view could be more reasonable?
It was no use bringing Lady Burville into the question, for her evidence could throw no light on the subject. When she left the house Edermont was alive; when Scott arrived the old man was dead, and there was nothing to show that anyone had been in the study between Lady Burville's departure and Dr. Scott's arrival. Medical evidence could prove that Lady Burville was too feeble a woman to strike so terrible a blow, of too nervous a character to carry out so brutal a crime. No; if Lady Burville came into court, it would be to save herself, and to condemn Allen. Under these circumstances, it only remained to hush the matter up by granting Joad's wish. Dora hated the man, but for the sake of Allen she decided to marry him. Yet, as she still had a few days' grace before giving him his answer, she resolved to say nothing of her resolution at present. It might be that in the interval the real criminal might be discovered.
All that night Dora tossed and tossed on her bed, courting sleep in vain. She was like a rat in a trap, running round and round in the endeavour to escape. She would have done anything rather than consent to this marriage with Joad; but unless some miracle intervened, she saw no chance of escaping the ceremony. To be saddled with such a husband! to live in constant companionship with such a satyr! The poor girl wept bitterly at the very thought. What would she feel when Joad demanded payment of the price of his silence?
Towards morning she fell into an uneasy slumber, and awoke more despondent than ever. It was with a listless air that she descended to breakfast, and only with a strong effort could she force herself to eat. Meg Gance, who brought in the meal, informed her Mr. Joad was already in the library, engrossed in his daily occupation.
He come here afore nine, said Meg, who was a large, stupid countrywoman, with more muscle than brains; "it wasn't so when master lived, was it, Miss Dora?"
No. But I don't suppose it matters much now when Mr. Joad comes, Meg.
I dunno 'bout that, said the servant, putting her large hands on her hips; "it takes long to clean up bookshop, it do. I rarely get it done afore nine. I declare, miss, when Mr. Joad come this morn, I couldn't believe 'twas so late. Thought I, Clock's gone wrong again."
What clock? asked Dora, remembering the strange remark made by Pallant.
Lor, miss, how sharp you speak! said Meg, rather startled by the abruptness of the question. "Why, clock in hall, for sure!"
Was it ever wrong, Meg?
A whole hour, miss; though how it could have lost hour in night I dunno. But it was ten when I looked at it in morning, while kitchen clock was nine. Too fast by hour, Miss Dora.
On what night was it wrong? asked Dora, eagerly feeling that she was on the verge of a discovery.
Why, miss, it went wrong on night master had head bashed. Not as I wonder, miss, for my aunt had husband as died, and clock--her clock, miss--struck thirteen. Seems as clock knows of deaths and funerals, concluded Meg reflectively.
Was the clock in the hall wrong by an hour when you saw it in the morning after the crime had been committed?
For sure, Miss Dora. But Lor' bless you, miss, it don't matter. I jes' put it right by kitchen clock, as has never lost a minute since I came here, and that's six years, miss.
Why did you not mention that the clock was wrong when you gave your evidence?
Meg stared at her mistress.
I never thought, miss, she said gravely; "and I wasn't asked about clock. It didn't matter, I hope?"
No, replied Dora carelessly, "it didn't matter. You need say nothing about it to Mr. Joad, or, indeed, to anyone."
I aren't much of a chat at any time, miss, cried Meg, tossing her head; "and as for Mr. Joad, I'd as lief speak to blackbeetle! I won't say naught, bless you, no, miss."
Very well, Meg. You can clear away.
This Meg did with considerable clatter and clamour; while Dora left the room, and without putting on a hat walked slowly across the lawn, in the dewy freshness of the morning. On reaching the beehive chair under the cedar, which was Joad's favourite outdoor study, the girl sat down, and looked contemplatively at the scene before her. A space of sunlit lawn, with a girdle of flaming rhododendrons fringing it on the right; tall poplars, musical with birds, bordering the ivy-draped wall; and beyond the wall itself the red-tiled roof of Joad's cottage, showing in picturesque contrast against the delicate azure of an August sky. After regarding the scene to right and left, as it lay steeped in the yellow sunlight, Dora's gaze finally rested on the glimpse of Joad's house. There it stayed; and her thoughts reverted to the remark about the clock made by Pallant, and to the later explanation given by Meg Gance. What connection these things had with Joad may be gathered from the girl's thoughts.
They ran something after this fashion: "Could it be possible that Joad had killed Edermont? There seemed to be no motive for his committing the crime, and he was not the kind of man to run needlessly into danger. Yet the discovery about the clock was certainly very strange. I knew it was correct on the night of the murder," meditated Dora. "I set my watch by it before I went upstairs. That was at half-past nine, and my watch has been right ever since. When Meg looked at it in the morning, it was an hour wrong; therefore, somebody must have put it wrong with intent. It is impossible that so excellent a clock could suddenly slip for an hour, and then go on again. Could Joad have been in the house on that night, and have put it on an hour? At the time of the murder the clock struck one, and at that hour Joad, according to his own showing and Mr. Pride's corroboration, was in the cottage. If the clock had been put wrong, the murder must have taken place at twelve, since it was an hour fast in the morning. There was ample time for Joad to commit the crime at twelve, and be back in his cottage by one."
Dora got up, and walked restlessly to and fro. She could not quite understand why the clock should have been put on an hour, so as to give a false time, when there was no one to hear it in the night. That she had woke up and heard it strike was quite an accident, although there had been nights when she had heard every hour, every chime, strike till dawn. Suddenly she remembered that once she had said something to Joad about her sleepless nights. On the impulse of the moment she walked into the library.
Mr. Joad, she said to the old man, who was reading near the window, "that hall clock."
It seemed to Dora that a pallor crept over the red face of the man she addressed. However, he looked up quietly enough, and spoke to her with the greatest calmness.
What about the hall clock, Miss Dora? he asked in a puzzled tone.
It is disturbing me again. I really must have it removed. In the dead hours I hear it strike in the most ghostly, graveyard fashion. As it did on that night, she concluded under her breath.
Do you have many sleepless nights now?
How do you know that I have sleepless nights at all? she asked quickly.
Joad looked at her in surprise.
You told me so yourself shortly before we lost Julian, he said quietly. "It was toothache, was it not?"
Yes--something of that sort, she answered carelessly. "But it is not toothache now. Still, I lie awake thinking."
Of me? said Joad with a leer.
The week is not yet over, Mr. Joad, she said coldly; "till the end of it you have no right to ask me such a question. Good-bye for the present; I am going out on my bicycle."
This was an excuse. Confident that Joad had altered the clock, on the chance that she would hear it during her sleepless nights, she was confident also that for such reason, and for a more terrible one, he had been in the house on the night of the murder.
He put on the clock so as to prove an alibi, she thought, wheeling her bicycle down the path to the gate. "If he killed Edermont at twelve o'clock--the right time when it struck one--he would have ample opportunity of getting back to his cottage through the postern. I quite believe that he was with Pride at one o'clock; but I also believe he was in the study at twelve."
She had proved to her own satisfaction that Joad could have been in the house; she wished to discover if he had killed Edermont. The assassin had committed the crime to obtain the manuscript containing the story of her guardian's life. If Joad were guilty, that manuscript would be in his possession. This was why Dora excused herself on a plea of riding her bicycle. She was determined to search Joad's cottage, and find out if the manuscript was hidden there.
With this intent she hid the bicycle behind the hedge on the other side of the road, and went to the cottage. There was plenty of time for her to search, as Joad took his mid-day meal in the Red House and never returned to his house until nine at night. She had the whole day at her disposal, and determined to search in every corner for the manuscript she believed he had hidden. If she found it, she would then be able to prove Allen guiltless and Joad guilty. It would be a magnificent revenge on her part. The man would be caught in his own trap.
It can be easily guessed by what steps Dora had arrived at this conclusion--the chance remark of Pallant anent the possibility of the clock being wrong; the chance explanation of Meg which proved that the clock was an hour fast on the morning after the murder had taken place; the memory of her own remark to Joad about her sleepless nights; and the conclusion that the old man had put the clock wrong for purposes of his own. The inference to be drawn from these facts was that Joad had been in the house on the night of the second of August. If he had been in the house, it was probable that he had killed Edermont, since Allen and Lady Burville, the only other people who had been present at the same hour, were innocent. It had been proved by sundry scraps of evidence that the murder had been committed to obtain possession of the manuscript. Therefore, if Joad were guilty, he must have hidden the fruits of his crime. Where? In the cottage, without doubt.
The front door of the cottage was locked, so Dora went round to the back. She knew that Joad was in the habit of hiding the key of the back door under the water-butt, and sure enough she found it there. To open the door and pass into his study was the work of a moment. So here she was in the stronghold of the enemy. But where was the manuscript?
The room was not very large, and lined on all four sides with books. A writing-desk, littered with papers, stood before the single window, and a few chairs were scattered round. There were also a horsehair sofa, a small sideboard of varnished deal, three or four china ornaments, and a little clock on the mantelpiece. The floor was covered with straw matting, but what the pattern of the paper was like no one could tell, for it was hidden completely by the books. The whole apartment looked penurious in the extreme and very untidy. Books lay on chairs and sofas, and the fireplace was filled with torn-up letters, newspapers, and hastily scribbled manuscripts.
The books first, decided Dora, after a look at this chaos.
There was no need to go through them one by one, for dust lay thickly upon bindings and shelves. She had only to glance to see those which had been disturbed within the last few weeks. Those that had been taken down she examined carefully, but could find no trace of the manuscript. She looked on the top of the bookcase, went down on her knees to search the lower shelves, and still found nothing. At the end of an hour Dora had gone through the whole library of Joad, but had come across no trace of the wished-for paper. He had hidden it--always presuming that it was in his possession--more cunningly than she had thought.
Now for the desk.
Another hour's search in drawers and pigeonholes and blotting-pad likewise revealed nothing. Dora emptied out the wastepaper basket, and sorted every scrap, and still she was unsuccessful. Then she lifted portions of the matting, removed the cushions of the chairs, searched the sideboard, and dived into the recesses of the sofa. All to no purpose.
Perhaps he has not got it after all, thought Dora, disappointed, "or he has burnt it."
Burning suggested the fireplace; but she saw that there had not been a fire for months in the grate. It then struck her that Mr. Joad might have taken an idea from Poe's "Purloined Letter," and have hidden the manuscript in some conspicuous place. The fireplace alone was unsearched, so she went down on her knees and turned out the disorderly mass of papers. Her patience was rewarded at last. From under the heap she drew forth a crumpled mass of paper, foolscap size, and spread it out carefully. Then she uttered a cry. "The Confession of Julian Dargill, better known as Julian Edermont," she read. "Ah! I was right. Here is the stolen story of the past, and Joad is the man who killed my guardian."
With the recovered manuscript in her hands, with the knowledge where it had been found, and with the memory of the clock being wrong, Dora felt convinced that Joad was guilty of the crime. Without doubt he had designed to kill Edermont on that night, and had prepared the alibi so as to prove his innocence should such proof be needed. But what was his motive for the perpetration of so detestable a crime? Why had he stolen the manuscript, and why had he not destroyed so dangerous a piece of evidence? Dora believed that the answer to these questions was to be found in the manuscript itself. The reading of it would probably solve the whole mystery.
Having accomplished her task, she slipped the paper into the pocket of her dress, ran out of the house, and, having locked the door, repaired to the place where she had hidden her bicycle. To give colour to her excuse to Joad, she mounted and rode down the road for some considerable distance. Indeed, she felt inclined there and then to go to Canterbury and assure Allen that he was safe, and that she had won a fortune by discovering the actual criminal; but her desire to do away with any possible suspicions on the part of Joad induced her to abandon such intention. When he found the manuscript gone, he might suspect her if she went directly into Canterbury, whereas, if she behaved as usual, he could have no doubts on the subject.
Besides, said Dora to herself, as she turned her face towards Chillum, "Joad never goes to his cottage during the day, and therefore he will not find out his loss until to-night. Should he suspect that I have discovered his secret, he may do me an injury, or take to flight. I must allay his suspicions, and see Allen about the manuscript. We will read it together, and then take such steps as may be necessary to save him and arrest Joad."
On approaching the gates of the Red House, Dora received a shock, for on glancing at Joad's cottage, she saw its owner coming out of the door. Perhaps her questions about the clock had induced him to depart from his usual routine, and by rousing his suspicions had created a desire to assure himself that the manuscript was safe; but whatever might be the reason, Dora had never known Joad to revisit his domicile in the daytime. A qualm seized her lest he should guess what she had done; but the memory of what was at stake nerved her to resistance, and she confronted the approaching old man with a mien cool and composed. Certainly she needed all her courage at that moment, for Joad was conducting himself like a lunatic.
His face was redder than usual with suppressed rage; he swung round his arms in a threatening manner, and, hardly seeing her in his blind fury, babbled about his loss. Dora did not need to hear his words to be assured that he had discovered the loss of the manuscript. But she strained her ears to listen, in the hope that Joad might say something likely to incriminate himself.
Lost, lost! muttered Joad, as he shuffled near her--"and after all my care. What am I to do now? What--what--what?"
Is anything wrong, Mr. Joad?
The man paused before Dora with a dazed look, and suddenly cooled down in the most surprising manner. Knowing the dangerous position in which he was placed by the loss of the manuscript, he saw the necessity for dissimulation. His rage gave place to smiles, his furious gestures to fawning.
No, Miss Dora; there is nothing wrong. I have lost a precious book, that is all. But I know who took it, he broke out with renewed fury.
Dora felt nervous, and for the moment she thought that he suspected her. But the next moment--still talking of the manuscript under the flimsy disguise of a book--his words reassured her. "Oh yes," he repeated; "I know who stole it, but I'll be revenged;" then he shook his fists in the air, as though invoking a curse on someone, and returned to the Red House.
When Dora reached her own room, she took out the manuscript. It was a lengthy effusion, evidently carefully prepared, and certainly clearly written. With a thrill of excitement the girl sat down to read the story, and learn from it, if possible, the motive of Joad in becoming a midnight assassin. Before she had read two lines, Meg knocked at her door. Dora hid away the precious paper hastily in her wardrobe, and called on Meg to enter.
Dinner is up, miss, said the stout countrywoman, "and Mr. Joad waits. He don't look well, Miss Dora. Sheets ain't nothing to face of he."
Is he in a bad temper, Meg?
Lordy, no, miss! He ghastly pale and quiet like.
Meg's report proved to be true. Joad's rage had died out into a subdued nervousness, and his red face had paled to a yellowish hue. He said little and ate little, but Dora noticed that he drank more than his ordinary allowance of whisky-and-water. Every now and then he cast a furtive glance round the room, as though waiting anxiously for the unexpected to happen. His conduct reminded Dora of the late Mr. Edermont's behaviour in church during the Litany, and there was no doubt in her mind as to Joad's feelings. He had received a shock, and in consequence thereof he was thoroughly frightened.
Towards the end of the meal he grew more composed, under the influence of the spirits and water, and it was then that he abruptly informed Dora that he was going into Canterbury.
You are going into Canterbury, she echoed, fairly astonished, "this afternoon?"
Yes; I have not been in the town for months. But I wish to consult--a lawyer.
About the loss of your book, I suppose?
Joad raised his heavy eyes, and sent a piercing glance in her direction.
Yes, he said, in a quiet tone, "I wish to consult about that loss."
Will you see Mr. Carver?
On the whole, said Joad, with great deliberation, "I think I shall see Mr. Carver. He knows much; he may as well know more."
What do you mean? asked Dora, startled by the significance of this speech.
You will know to-morrow, Miss Carew.
He left the room, and shortly afterwards the house. Anxious to learn if he intended to fly, and so escape the consequences of his crime, Dora followed him down to the gate. This had not been kept locked of late, and Joad swung it easily open. Stepping out, he cast a glance to right and left in an uneasy fashion, and suddenly staggered against the wall with his hand to his heart. In an instant Dora was beside him.
What is the matter, Mr. Joad?
Only the old trouble--my heart, my heart, he muttered; "it will kill me some day. The sooner the better--now."
Dora took this speech as an acknowledgment of his guilt, and withdrew a little from his neighbourhood. Joad took no notice of this shrinking, but explained his plans.
I go to my cottage to change my clothes, he said calmly, "then I will get a trap from the hotel, and drive to Canterbury to see Mr. Carver. You need not expect me at the Red House to-night, Miss Dora. I shall stay in my own cottage. It will not do for me to be out after dark."
Why not, Mr. Joad? You are in no danger?
I am in danger of losing my life, retorted the old man, and, flinging her detaining hand rudely aside, he ran across the road with an activity surprising in one of his years and sedentary life.
When he disappeared Dora returned to the house. She was at a loss what to do with regard to Joad. His actions and speech were so strange that she was afraid lest he should fly. If he did, his complicity in the crime might never be proved, and so Allen's safety might be compromised. Dora was determined that this should not be. She decided to get into Canterbury before Joad, to see Mr. Carver and ask his advice; afterwards to call on Allen and show him the manuscript. In some way or other she would contrive to circumvent the discovered villain.
Having come to this decision, Dora put the manuscript in her pocket, assumed her hat and gloves, and took out her bicycle. Joad was not yet out of his cottage, so she hurried in hot haste, and spun up the road at full speed. By the time he had got to the hotel and ordered the trap she hoped to be in Canterbury preparing the ground for his arrival, so that his efforts to fly--if indeed he intended to do so--might be baffled in every direction. Dora felt that a crucial moment was at hand, and that it behoved her to have all her wits about her if she hoped to save Allen and win the fifty thousand pounds.
On her arrival at Canterbury, Dora lost no time in seeking the lawyer. He was busy in his dingy back office as usual, and betrayed no surprise at seeing his visitor. With a dry smile he shook hands, and placed a chair for her, then he gave his explanation of her appearance.
You have come to ask further about your five hundred pounds, said he; "if so, I am afraid you are wasting your time."
I do not intend to waste my time on that matter, Mr. Carver, replied Dora quietly, "nor yours either. The object of my visit is far more important. I have discovered who killed Mr. Edermont."
If she hoped to astonish Mr. Carver by this speech, she was never more mistaken in her life. He did not display any surprise, but merely laughed and rubbed his dry hands together.
Have I, then, to congratulate you on gaining fifty thousand pounds? he asked satirically.
You can judge for yourself, Mr. Carver, said Dora quietly; and then and there, without further preamble, she related the finding of the manuscript, the behaviour of Joad, and the evidence of the clock.
Carver betrayed his interest by frequent raisings of his eyebrows, but otherwise remained motionless until the conclusion of her story. She might as well have been speaking to a stone.
And this manuscript, he asked; "have you it with you?"
Yes, Dora laid it on the table, "here it is. The story of Mr. Edermont's early life."
You have read it?
No; not yet. I have not had time to do so. I have brought it in to read with Allen--that is, unless you require it.
Carver thought for a moment, and shook his head.
No, he said in an amiable tone, "I do not require it at the present moment. I shall see Mr. Joad first, and then call on Dr. Scott to hear his and your report on this paper."
Do you think Mr. Joad is guilty? asked Dora, replacing the manuscript in her pocket.
Circumstantial evidence is strongly against him, replied Mr. Carver cautiously, "but I shall reserve my opinion until I hear his story."
Do you think he will call on you?
He told you that he intended to do so, Miss Carew.
Very true, Mr. Carver. All the same, he may have done so to save time. For all we know, he may design to go straight to the railway-station and catch the London express.
Oh, I can frustrate that scheme, said Carver, rising. "Mr. Joad's conduct is sufficiently suspicious to justify his detention on the ground of complicity, if not of actual guilt. A word to Inspector Jedd, and Mr. Joad will not get away by the express. Go and see Dr. Scott, my dear young lady, and leave me to deal with your friend."
You won't let him escape?
No, said Carver dryly. "On the whole, I had rather you got the fifty thousand pounds than anyone else."
And then he conducted Dora to the door with a courtesy he had never extended before to any female client, and at which his clerks were greatly astonished. Congratulating herself on having thus made all safe, Dora went to see Allen. He was still unwell, but felt better than he had done on the previous day. He was surprised at her visit, and gathered from her bright looks that she had something of importance to communicate to him.
What is it, Dora? he asked anxiously; "good or bad news?"
Good! You are safe!
Then you intend to marry Joad? said Allen in a tone of despair.
Indeed, I intend no such thing! Mr. Joad has other things to think about besides marriage.
What other things?
How to save his neck. Yes, you may well look astonished, Allen. Joad, and none other, killed my guardian! Here is the proof! and Dora flung the manuscript on the table.
Allen looked on the manuscript thus suddenly produced in mute wonder. With a swift glance he questioned Dora as to what it was--for he could not yet bring himself to believe that it was the lost paper--and how she had come by it. The girl afforded him at once a concise explanation.
It is the paper containing an account of the early life of Mr. Edermont, said she, with a nod; "the manuscript stolen from the bureau, on account of which we believe the murder to have been perpetrated. I found it in the cottage of Joad."
In the cottage of Joad? echoed Allen slowly. "How did he come by it?"
By robbery and murder. He is the guilty person.
Dora--are you sure? He proved an alibi, you know.
I am aware of that, and I am aware also how he prepared such alibi. It is a long story, Allen. I shall tell it to you, and then we will read the manuscript together.
I am all attention, cried Allen, settling himself on the sofa. "Go on, you most wonderful girl."
I am a most unfortunate girl, said Dora sadly. "By my discovery I have saved you from arrest, and perhaps condemnation, and myself from a marriage which revolted me. But what is left after all, my dear? Nothing, nothing. We can never be anything but friends to one another, for our lives have been ruined by the sins of other people. It is cruelly hard."
You speak only too truly, Dora, said Allen, taking her hand. "And I can give you no comfort; I can give myself no consolation. Your father's crime has parted us, and we must suffer vicariously for his guilt."
For a moment or so they remained silent, thinking over the hopelessness of their position. But matters were too important and pressing to admit of much time being wasted in useless lamentations. Dora was the first to recover her speech, and forthwith related the events of the day, from the conversation of Meg Gance down to the visit to Carver. Allen interrupted her frequently with exclamations of surprise.
You are right, Dora! he cried when she had ended. "How wonderfully you have worked out the matter! Without doubt Joad was hidden in the house while Lady Burville saw Edermont. After she left, he must have killed his friend, and secured the manuscript. No doubt he hid again when he heard me coming, and saw me, not in the road, as he alleges, but in the study. Oh, the villain! and he would have saved his neck at the expense of mine!"
He had not even that excuse, Allen; for, owing to his manipulation of the hall clock, there was absolutely no suspicion that he was guilty. He accused you to gain me, but now I have caught him in his own trap, and no doubt Mr. Carver will have him arrested this night.
I hope so, said Dr. Scott angrily; "he is a wicked old ruffian! But I cannot understand why he killed Mr. Edermont."
The manuscript may inform us, said Dora, taking it up. "Let us read it at once."
Allen consented eagerly, and Dora, smoothing the pages, began to read what may be termed the confession of Julian Dargill, alias Edermont. Some parts of the narrative were concisely told, others expanded beyond all due bounds; and as a literary attempt the story was a failure. But for style or elegance of language the young couple cared little. They wished to learn the truth, and they found it in the handwriting of the dead man.
'My name is Julian Dargill,' began the manuscript abruptly. "'I was born at Christchurch, in Hants, where my family lived for many generations. My parents died whilst I was at Oxford, and at the age of twenty I found myself my own master. For ten years I travelled in the company of a young man whom I had met at the University. He was not a gentleman, but he had a clever brain, and was an amusing companion, so I paid his expenses for the pleasure of his conversation and company. When I returned home, I left Mallison--for such was his name, John Mallison--in my London rooms, and came down to my house at Christchurch. Here I took up my residence, and here I fell in love with Laura Burville. She was a charming blonde, delicate and tiny as a fairy, full of life and vivacity. Her face was singularly beautiful, her figure perfection, and she had the gift of bringing sunshine wherever she went. Needless to say, I fell deeply in love with her, and would have made her my wife but for the foolish behaviour of her parents. These were religious fanatics of peculiarly rigid principles, and they disapproved of my tendency to a gay life. How they came to have so charming a daughter I could never understand. Miss Treherne--or shall I call her by the fonder name of Laura?--had three suitors--myself, Dr. Scott, a widower, and Captain George Carew, of the merchant service. Scott was a handsome and clever man, but poor, and reckless in his way of life. His wife had died when his son Allen was born, and Scott left the child to be brought up by the nurse while he went flirting with all the pretty girls in the country. Mr. and Mrs. Treherne disapproved of him also on account of this behaviour. So far as I saw, neither Dr. Scott nor myself had any chance of marrying Laura, for her parents favoured the suit of her third admirer, George Carew. I hated and feared that man. He was a brutal sailor, with a vindictive spirit and an unusually violent temper. Everybody yielded to his imperious spirit, and he rode rough-shod over any opposition that might be made to his wishes. He fell in love with Laura, and determined to marry her. At my pretensions and those of Scott he laughed scornfully, and warned both that he would permit neither of us to interfere with his design. He was cunning enough to ingratiate himself with the parents of Laura by pretending to be religious, and ostensibly became more of a fanatic than the Trehernes themselves. Laura was carried away by the violence of his wooing; her parents were delighted with his pretended conversion; and against their support and Laura's timidity--I can call her yielding by no other name--Scott and myself could do nothing. Carew married her. I omitted to state that Carew was not rich. He was part owner in a ship called the Silver Arrow, which traded to the Cape of Good Hope, and sometimes went as far as Zanzibar. When the marriage took place Carew was forced to take command of his ship for a voyage to the Cape. He wished Laura to go also, but this she refused to do, and by offering a dogged resistance to his violent temper she managed to get her own way for once. This I learnt from her afterwards. Alas! had she only been as determined over refusing marriage with Carew, all this sorrow might not have come upon us. But she was quite infatuated with the insolent sailor, and while he was with her I believe she loved him after a fashion. Nevertheless, I do not think her passion either for Carew or for myself was very strong. Leaving then for his voyage, Carew established his wife in a cottage near my house, and went away almost immediately after the honeymoon. Her parents had left Christchurch shortly before to take possession of some property in Antrim, Ireland, which had been left to them. Laura was quite alone, and found her state of grass-widowhood sufficiently tiresome. She wished for distraction, and encouraged myself and Dr. Scott to call upon her. As we were still in love with her, we accepted her invitation only too gladly, and for six months we devoted ourselves to her amusement. Then came the news that the Silver Arrow had been wrecked on the coast of Guinea. The information was brought by the first mate, who had been picked up in an open boat by a passing ship. His companions were dead of hardship and suffering, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that he was brought round again.
'On his return to England he told his tale to the owners of the ship, and then communicated the news to Mrs. Carew. Without doubt her husband was drowned, and so after six months of married life she found herself a widow, but ill-provided with money. As part owner of the Silver Arrow, the dead Carew had some claim to a portion of the insurance; but, owing to some commercial and legal trickery, no money was obtainable from this source. Laura had barely sufficient to live on. It may be guessed what effect poverty had upon her refined and pleasure-loving nature. She refused to go to her parents in Ireland, as their gloomy religious views were alien to her more æsthetic leanings; yet she could not remain in Christchurch with hardly sufficient to sustain life. Dr. Scott offered to marry her, but he was too poor to give her the luxuries of life, and she refused to become his wife or step-mother to his little boy. Then I offered myself, and was accepted. I was not so handsome as Scott, or so manly and daring as her first husband; but I was rich, and while pretending to love me but little, she married me for my fortune. I was content to take her even on such terms, and we arranged to become husband and wife. Owing to the recent death of Carew, we could not marry openly in Christchurch; and as Laura had never truly loved the sailor, she did not care to pay a tribute to his hated memory by a year of mourning. Rather was she anxious to marry me at once, and for this purpose she went up to London. After a decent interval, to avert suspicion, I followed, and we were married shortly afterwards by special license in the church of St. Pancras. John Mallison was the best man, and arranged all the details for me. These things happened some months after Carew's supposed death. Then we travelled for a year, and at the end of it came back with our child Dora to Christchurch, where----
Our child? said Dora, interrupting her reading. "What does that mean, Allen?"
No doubt that Dargill adopted you as his child after the death of Carew.
But I was his ward here; why does he not call me his ward in this manuscript?
Read on, said Allen. "You may discover the reason."
'We took up our abode at my mansion in Christchurch,' read Dora swiftly, "'and for a time we were fairly happy. But I was not altogether pleased with my wife. She did not love me, nor did she make any pretence to do so. Indeed, I believe she despised me for my weakness of body and amiability of temper. Dr. Scott began to call again, and Laura encouraged his visits. I forbade him the house, but my wife and himself defied me, and I was powerless to control their behaviour. One evening, after a scene with Laura, I left the house. Scott was in the habit of crossing the lawn at dusk and entering the drawing-room, to flirt with my wife while I was reading in the library. I also came the same way at times in preference to going round by the door; and one evening, entering thus, I chanced upon them. The discovery resulted in a violent scene; and next morning I left for London, vowing never to return until my wife dismissed Scott from her thoughts. The departure saved my life.
"
'While I was away, Carew returned to Christchurch. He had been saved by some negroes on the Guinea Coast, and had been detained in captivity by them for over a year. Finally he escaped, managed to get to England, and came to claim his wife. When he heard of our marriage he went mad with rage. He accused me of corrupting his wife, of spreading a false report of his death, and finally swore that he would not rest until he had killed me. I verily believe that he was bent on doing so, notwithstanding my innocence in the matter; and had I not been absent in London, he would have shot me without mercy. As it was, he committed a murder in the hope of killing me. 'My wife--as I must still call her--had no opportunity of warning me, as Carew kept such a close watch on her. He expected me to return, and took up his quarters in the house with the avowed intention of killing me. Laura sent for Scott to see how she could save me--rather for her own sake than for mine--and he came to see her one evening by stealth. Carew had heard from one of the servants that I was in the habit of crossing the lawn and entering the drawing-room. When he saw Scott approaching in the same direction he thought it was me; and, being provided with a pistol, which he always carried, he shot the man through the heart. When he found out whom he had killed, he fled, to escape being arrested; but his last words to Laura were that he would hunt me down and kill me.
"
'All this came out at the inquest, which was reported in the Morning Planet under the heading of A Romantic Tragedy." On hearing how my life was sought by Carew--still at large--I left my lodgings and went into hiding. What else could I do? I am a weak and puny man, and, morally speaking, I am a coward. It is not my fault. I was born so. I dared not face this brute in his ungoverned rage, and so I hid. Then John Mallison came to my rescue. He was rather like me, and he proposed to adopt my name and go to America, letting Carew know in some way how he had fled. Mallison was a brave man, and I knew that he could hold his own better than I against Carew. He assumed my name, and I supplied him with funds. Carew saw him by chance in Regent Street, and in the distance took him for me. Mallison, to encourage this false recognition, fled to America, and Carew followed. Then I prepared for my own safety.
'I took the name of Julian Edermont, and transferred my property in the funds to that name. I bought, through Carver, the Red House, near Canterbury, and I made it secure against robbers and my enemy Carew. Then I went to live there. I was afraid to go back to Laura--for whom I provided amply--lest Carew should hear of it. And I wrote to her about our child. Laura was not a good mother, and I was afraid she would neglect Dora. Some letters passed between us--while I was in London, for I did not give her my new address or name--and she ultimately sent Dora to me. Since then Dora has lived with me as my ward, for I was afraid to say that she was my daughter, lest Carew should find out.'
His adopted daughter, of course, interrupted Allen. "He was afraid your father might kill him, and take you away."
'Later on I found my old college companion, Joad, starving in London, and took him to live with me,' Dora went on. "'Mallison came back from America, and I provided for him likewise. So far I felt safe; but all these years I have had a belief that Carew would find me out, in spite of all my precautions, and kill me. If I am found murdered, George Carew will be the culprit, as no one else has any reason to wish for my death. I am at peace with all men. To punish him I leave by will the bulk of my fortune to him or her who finds out and punishes George Carew for his villainy. I hope my daughter Dora may be so fortunate. She need have no compunction in doing so, for Carew is not her father. She is my child, born of my marriage with Laura, and I only called her Carew, and my ward, to do away with any possible discovery by Carew. The certificate of her birth is with my family lawyer in Lincoln's Inn Fields.'"
Dora! cried Allen, starting up, "you are not Carew's daughter--not the daughter of the man who killed my father!"
Edermont--Dargill--my father! stammered Dora. "What does it mean?"
Mean! cried Allen, taking her in his arms--"that your father did not kill mine--and we can marry!"
There was also a short note to the manuscript, stating that Edermont had found out and helped the son of his old enemy, Dr. Scott, on the ground that he felt himself to be the cause indirectly of the man's death. Allen took occasion to explain this particular matter.
Now I come to look back on it, he said reflectively, "I believe that Edermont must have supplied most of the funds for my education. I understood they came from moneys left by my dead father; but from this story"--touching the manuscript--"it would appear that he died poor. Certainly Mr. Edermont behaved generously in inviting me to settle in Canterbury when I qualified for a doctor, and in helping me with a loan. I am afraid I acted badly to him on that day," added Allen, in a penitent tone, "but I was not myself; the news of my father's terrible death maddened me."
And he was my father, after all! sighed Dora. "Poor soul! I never cared over-much for him, as I did not like his personality. And, as I thought I was living on my own money, I did not realize his generosity. I am glad to know that I am not the daughter of Carew."
It is strange that Mrs. Tice did not know Edermont was your father, said Allen, after a pause, "for you must have been born shortly before the Dargills returned to Christchurch. Ah, here is Mrs. Tice," he added, as the housekeeper entered. "Come here, nurse; we have good news for you."
And what may that be? asked the old dame, smiling.
Dora and I intend to fulfil our engagement, and marry.
The face of Mrs. Tice grew stern with dismay and disapproval.
Impossible, Mr. Allen! How can you marry the daughter of your father's murderer?
That is just it, nurse; Dora is not the daughter of Carew, but of Julian Dargill.
Oh, she was adopted by Mr. Dargill, I know, said Mrs. Tice, still unconvinced, "and was called by his name in Christchurch. Why he changed her name to Carew I do not know, though, to be sure, she was his ward, and not his daughter, and Carew was her real name."
So we all thought, said Dora impetuously; "but we have just discovered that I am really and truly the daughter of Mr. Dargill and his wife Laura. Listen, Mrs. Tice, and I'll tell you the story."
The narrative greatly surprised Mrs. Tice, who was forced to sit down and lift up her hands in her surprise. She was forced to believe that Dora was Dargill's daughter by Laura Carew's second marriage, and--as Mrs. Tice mentally noted--illegitimate, owing to Carew still being alive after her birth. But the housekeeper was too wise and kind-hearted to touch upon so delicate a point.
Deary, deary me! she ejaculated. "And no one knew it in Christchurch! I never saw you myself, Miss Dora, or I should have known that so young a child could not have been the daughter of a man dead over a year. I am surprised no one else guessed it. How blind we all are!"
Oh, you may be sure Lady Burville told some story to account for the appearance and size of the child, said Allen cynically. "She is an adept at trickery. But I cannot understand, Dora, why she did not tell you the name of your real father."
She did not wish to inculpate herself more than was necessary, said Dora, in a bitter tone. "She told me she was my mother only because she believed I would denounce her as guilty of the crime. And you know those letters Pallant wanted, Allen? Well, I have no doubt that those were the letters she wrote to Edermont--I can hardly bring myself to call him father--giving him permission to take me to live with him. Probably he paid her for doing so."
After all, she is your mother, Miss Dora, said Mrs. Tice reprovingly.
She has not acted a mother's part, retorted Dora. "She deserted me, she deceived me, she lied to me; I never wish to set eyes on her again."
I think that will be rather a relief to her than otherwise, said Allen. "She is determined to keep her position as Sir John's wife, and will refuse to make any explanation likely to endanger it. However, it does not matter to us, my dear. The bar to our marriage is removed; indeed, I wonder your father did not tell me the truth."
The poor soul was a coward, Allen. He admits as much in his confession. Few men would have behaved as he did, especially in the face of the fact that Captain Carew was in danger of arrest for the murder of your father. All Mr. Edermont's elaborate precautions were dictated solely by his lifelong dread. I can see no other reason why he should have passed me off as his ward. However, now that we know the truth, I can marry you.
We will marry as soon as you like, dearest. And I am glad for your sake, Dora, that you will inherit the fifty thousand pounds left by your father.
But how is that, Mr. Allen? cried Mrs. Tice in amazement. "That money was only left to the person who discovered the murderer."
Well, nurse, Dora has done so. Joad is the culprit.
You don't say so! Well, I always did think he was a bad man. And he had the boldness to say you were guilty of his own wickedness! cried Mrs. Tice indignantly. "I am glad he has fallen into his own trap. But why did he kill Mr. Dargill?"
Ah, said Allen, "that is just what I should like to know. No motive is assigned in the manuscript. It is a mystery at present."
Mr. Carver may force him to confess his reason, suggested Dora, "or perhaps he may guess it."
What! Mr. Carver?
Yes, Mrs. Tice. I believe Mr. Carver knows a great deal more about my unhappy father than he chooses to confess. From the reference in the manuscript to my father's family lawyers, I am inclined to think that Mr. Carver knows who they are. If he does, he knows also that Mr. Edermont's real name was Julian Dargill.
I wonder if he knows anything about John Mallison, said Allen abruptly.
I don't see what there is to know about him, replied Dora carelessly; "the man did his work well, and inveigled Carew to America. When he returned my father recompensed him, as he says in his confession. I dare say John Mallison is settled somewhere in England, happy and content. Why do you ask, Allen?"
I was thinking that failing Joad's confession Mallison might know his motive. Depend upon it, Dora, the reason is mixed up somehow with that dark story of the past.
Well, well, said Dora with a sigh, "we shall know all when Mr. Carver comes. In the meantime, let us enjoy our present happiness."
Mrs. Tice approved of this sentiment, and brought in tea. The two lovers, with confidence restored between them, lingered over their simple meal, and made plans for the future. It was after six before they awoke to the fact that twilight was waning; and as Dora had to return to the Red House on her bicycle, Allen suggested that she should start at once. She demurred to this, as she was anxious to hear the lawyer's report of his interview with Joad, and while they were arguing the matter Mr. Carver arrived.
For so unemotional a man, he seemed greatly excited, and shook hands heartily with Dora, although he had seen her but a few hours before. Mr. Carver explained the meaning of that second salute.
I congratulate you, young lady, he said heartily. "Through your cleverness and tact we have found out the truth. You are a heroine, Miss Carew."
Not Miss Carew, interposed Allen brightly, "but Miss Dargill."
I beg your pardon, said Mr. Carver in a stiff manner. "I am aware that Mr. Edermont's real name was Dargill, as you have no doubt learnt from the manuscript. But this young lady----"
Is the daughter of your late client, interrupted Dora. "Captain Carew was not my father, Mr. Carver. I am the child of Julian Edermont--or rather, Dargill."
In that case I congratulate you again, Miss Dora, said Carver, compromising the matter by calling her by her Christian name; "you can now marry Dr. Scott, since your father did not kill his father."
Do you know that story? asked Allen with a start.
Oh dear, yes! I was told it by my late client. But he did not inform me that this young lady was his daughter. I was always under the impression that she was the child of Captain Carew, and the ward of the late Mr. Dargill. Strange he should have kept that from me, mused the lawyer; "but I never yet knew a client to tell the whole truth."
But this is all very well, broke in Dora. "What has Joad done--fled to London?"
No. He has been with me for the last two hours; and by this time--Mr. Carver glanced at his watch--"he is no doubt back in his cottage."
Back in his cottage? echoed the doctor. "Did he not make a confession?"
Certainly. It was written out and signed in my presence, with two witnesses--myself and one of my clerks--to testify to the signature.
Then he confesses the murder?
Oh dear me, no! said Carver dryly; "he does nothing of the sort; but he confesses as to who committed the murder."
Didn't he do it himself?
No, Miss Dora, he did not. Our friend Joad is innocent; although, added the lawyer with an afterthought, "he may be described as an accessory after the fact."
Then who killed my father? cried Dora in blank amazement.
Aha! that is a long, long story, replied Carver with a nod. "All in good time, my dear young lady. You tell me briefly what is contained in the manuscript, and I shall supply the sequel. Thus," added Mr. Carver, rubbing his dry hands, "we shall arrive at a clear and logical understanding of the whole complicated matter."
Both lovers protested against this proposal, but Carver firmly refused to speak a word until the gist of the manuscript was communicated to him. In the end they were reluctantly compelled to give way to the lawyer's obstinacy, and postpone the satisfaction of their own curiosity. Assisted by Allen, the young girl communicated all the details, but succeeded little in moving the emotions of Mr. Carver. Perhaps the sequel he referred to was more exciting than what they told him. But on this point the pair had a speedy opportunity of judging.
It's a queer story, said Carver reflectively, "but I've heard queerer. It is the sequel that is the odd thing about this. Here is a man who for twenty years goes in dread of his life, and takes all manner of precautions to look after it. Yet, a few days after he has learnt that his enemy is dead and his life is safe, he is foully murdered. I am not a superstitious man, Miss Dora, but I see the finger of Fate in this. Your father was doomed to die a violent death, and his lifelong fears were justified by the result."
But he was not killed by the man whom he expected to be his murderer.
Quite true, Dr. Scott. He was killed by the man whom he did not expect to be his murderer.
What do you mean? cried Dora, rising. "Did my father know this man?"
Intimately. He was the man who at one time saved Mr. Edermont from being caught by Captain Carew.
You don't mean John Mallison? shouted Allen in wide-eyed surprise. Mr. Carver nodded.
That's the man. He killed Edermont. You must admit that there is something ironical in the fact?
I don't understand it at all, said Dora helplessly. "Will you be so kind as to tell us how and why the crime was committed?"
Willingly, replied Carver, and commenced forthwith. "My late client, as you know, went for years in fear of his life," he said in his dry way; "but shortly before the murder his fears were ended by a communication from a Mr. Pallant. This gentleman told him that Captain Carew had died in San Francisco, and as a reward for his intelligence asked Mr. Edermont for a packet of letters written by Lady Burville to her second husband. Mr. Edermont was unwilling to give them up, as he saw that Pallant wanted to blackmail the unfortunate woman--your mother, Miss Dora. He refused to comply with Mr. Pallant's request, and wrote to Lady Burville at Hernwood Hall, asking her to come to his study in the Red House on the night of the second of August between eleven and twelve o'clock, when he undertook to give her up the letters."
But why did he choose so late an hour?
Because he did not wish to compromise Lady Burville's position; nor did he wish Pallant to know. This letter he posted himself. But Joad--who was afraid of losing his home with his patron, and thinking something was wrong--obtained the letter in some way from the village post-office, and made himself master of its contents. Those he communicated to me as I have told them. So you see, continued Mr. Carter, "that Edermont expected a visit from Lady Burville on that night. He also expected a visit from Scott."
Yes, said Allen eagerly; "he wrote to me, and appointed almost the same hour. But why?"
I will tell you, doctor. He wished to give Lady Burville the letters, but only conditionally that in your presence she admitted that Dora was her child.
Oh! so he repented telling me that Carew killed my father?
No; but he repented letting you remain under the impression that Dora was the child of your father's murderer. That, as he knew, was a bar to your marriage, and to do away with it he asked you to meet Lady Burville.
But I did not meet her!
No; because you were late, and she would not wait. But let us continue. Edermont also wrote a letter to Mallison, telling him that now Carew was dead, and his fears at an end, he would no longer pay him the pension he had hitherto allowed him. That letter was the cause of his death.
But how? asked Dora and Allen together.
You shall hear. Joad, learning, as I have said, about the appointment with Lady Burville, made up his mind to overhear the conversation. He knew by the letter he had opened that the postern-gate and the glass-door were to be left ajar, so about eleven o'clock he got into the house that way.
Without being seen by Mr. Edermont?
Yes. Mr. Edermont at that moment was in his bedroom, so Joad slipped through the study and hid in the darkness of the hall. Here he altered the clock by putting it on an hour.
But why did he do that?
In case Edermont should suspect him the next day, explained Carver; "then he could prove an alibi by saying he was in his cottage. He did this with success to clear himself of the murder, but primarily it was to make himself safe in the eyes of Edermont."
Well, we know that he altered the clock. What happened then?
Lady Burville arrived, and Edermont, returning to the study, gave her the letters. Joad, hidden behind the door, saw and heard all. Edermont showed her the manuscript, which he took out of the bureau, and told her he was going to burn it and alter his will. Afterwards, when Dr. Scott did not come, she refused to wait, and went off. Edermont saw her to the glass-door at the end of the deserted drawing-room. He left the manuscript on the desk; and, seeing a way to get a hold over Edermont, Joad stepped into the room during his absence and secured it.
The scoundrel! cried Dora excitedly. "Go on, Mr. Carver."
Hardly had Joad hidden himself again when Edermont came back in a state of terror, with Mallison at his heels. Mallison reproached him for cutting off his income, and swore he would obtain the manuscript, which he knew was in the bureau, and reveal the whole story. He began to pull out the drawers, smash the desk, and toss the papers all out. Edermont raved and implored and threatened. Ultimately he took out a pistol to shoot Mallison, in the extremity of his terror. Mallison, to defend himself, caught the knobkerrie from the wall. The first barrel of the revolver proved empty, and before Edermont could fire again, Mallison killed him by smashing in his head with the club.
Horrible! And Joad?
When he saw the murder he rushed in, and tried to raise an alarm. Mallison caught him by the throat, and swore he would kill him also if he did not hold his tongue. Joad, in terror, promised to do so. Then the clock struck one. Mallison looked at his watch and found it was only twelve. Seeing a chance of proving an alibi for them both, he dragged Joad out of the house into his cottage; and so he was safe. It was shortly after they entered the cottage that Dr. Scott came down the road. He entered, saw the evidence of the crime, and fled.
And why did Joad hold his tongue?
Because Mallison found out he had the manuscript, which Joad hid and would not give up. He swore he would say that Joad had committed the crime if he did not keep quiet. You can see for yourself the position in which Joad was placed. Of two evils he chose the least, and held his peace. But when he found that the manuscript was gone, he thought Mallison had taken it, and, fearful for his life lest Mallison should denounce him to gain the fifty thousand pounds, he came in to-day and confided all to me.
I understand all, said Dora--"all but one point. Who is John Mallison?"
Why, said Carver quietly, "none other than your polite friend, Mr. Pride."
And now that the mysterious criminal has been discovered, nothing remains but to relate the end of some and the future of others--meaning all those persons who, directly or indirectly, have been connected in any way with the tragic death of Julian Edermont.
In the first place, Joad died of heart disease. This organ had been affected for some considerable period, and he had always been told to live quietly and to avoid excitement. For years he had taken this advice, and had vegetated at the Red House; but the dread of what Mallison might do to him, and the excitement of the subsequent arrest, proved too much for him. He fell dead on his own doorstep on the very night on which the murderer was arrested.
Although, said the Morning Planet, commenting on this event, "it was perhaps as well that he did not live. He might have been arrested for keeping silence as to his knowledge of the assassin. He was an accessory after the fact, and in his terror he compounded a felony; so, probably, if he had lived the law would have taken cognisance of his behaviour. But as it was, Lambert Joad died worth fifty thousand pounds. By the will of Julian Edermont, this amount was left to the person who should bring his murderer to justice. Mr. Joad did this, as it was through his instrumentality that the criminal Mallison, alias Pride, was secured by the police. He was arrested in Joad's cottage, whither in the evening he had gone to see the old man, and owing to the excitement of the struggle and subsequent capture, Joad fell dead of heart disease. His gaining of the reward did him but little good. But it will now go to his relatives, if he has any, and should prove a lucky windfall for them."
Although Lady Burville's name was kept out of the papers, a rumour got about that she was connected in some way with the case. Nothing very definite was known as to how she was implicated, but it was hinted that in some vague way the death was due to her influence. Alarmed at this hint of publicity, and tired of being blackmailed by Pallant, the little woman plucked up her small portion of courage, and confessed the whole story to Sir John. Needless to say, the millionaire was deeply shocked, but as he recognised that his wife was one of those weak fools of women who bring trouble on themselves and on everyone else, he forgave her. He trusted to the influence of his strong nature to keep her in the right path for the future, and, indeed, as Laura Burville had an assured position--for Sir John insisted upon marrying her again after he knew that Carew was really dead--and plenty of money, she had no temptation to behave badly. After the confession and second marriage and forgiveness, she felt much happier than she had done since the tragedy at Christchurch. Her fate was a better one than she had a right to expect.
With Pallant, who knew that Lady Burville had not been actually married, seeing that Carew still lived, when the first ceremony took place, Sir John came to a compromise. He paid him a handsome sum of money, for which he received a receipt. Then he turned the blackmailer out of the house, made him leave England, and swore if he ever set foot in London again that he would prosecute him for blackmailing. As Pallant knew that Sir John was a man of his word, and, moreover, as he had reaped a rich harvest by his blackguardly conduct, he willingly went abroad. Ultimately he returned to San Francisco, and was shot in a Chinese gambling shop while playing fan-tan. No one regretted him when he died, and the only people who gave him a thought were the Burvilles, who breathed more freely when they saw an account of the tragedy. So Augustus Pallant was punished in the long-run for his many villainies.
And the still greater villain, John Mallison, came to his right end also. He refused to admit his guilt, but, thanks to the evidence of Meg Gance, who deposed as to the alteration of the clock, and to the confession of Joad, he was arrested, and tried for the murder of his quondam friend. The jury brought him in guilty, and he was condemned to death. At the last moment he confessed that the charge was true.
I did kill Julian Dargill, he confessed, the night before his execution, "and I am glad that I rid the world of the crawling little ingrate. Twenty and more years ago I saved his life from the bullet of Carew at the risk of my own. I took his name, and led Carew off to America on a false trail; and had it not been for the dexterity with which I avoided him, I should have been killed by my pursuer in mistake for Dargill. And for this service Julian allowed me only a paltry two hundred a year. I turned tutor and took the name of Pride at Chillum to keep Dargill under my eye; and I had to have some excuse for remaining in so dull a hole.
Julian was afraid to tell me face to face that he intended to cut off my pension. The coward wrote, although I was at Chillum at the time. It was no coincidence that I was in the study between the visits of Lady Burville and Scott. I learnt from Joad, who opened the letter to Lady Burville, that Edermont expected those two at midnight on the second of August. I wanted to go and taunt him before them with his mean conduct. I did not intend to kill him, but only to taunt him, and to get possession of the manuscript, so as to force him to continue my pension. But he threatened me with a pistol, and in self-defence I killed him. The blow was unpremeditated, but, since it killed him, I refuse to say that I am sorry. I knew that Joad had secured the manuscript, but he refused to give it up, and I could not find out where he had hidden it. If I had secured the manuscript, no one would have known that John Mallison was in existence, and I would then have denounced Joad as the assassin and gained the fifty thousand pounds. It was his belief that I had taken it instead of Miss Dora that made him tell Carver the truth. But he is dead, too, the miserable traitor! I shall have one satisfaction in going to the scaffold in knowing that the man who injured me and the man who betrayed me have gone before. Both their deaths, directly and indirectly, can be laid at my door. I'm glad of it.
As to Dora, there was some difficulty over her marriage--this time through her own scruples about her birth. She reminded Allen of the blot upon her life--that she had not even a right to the name of Dargill, much less that of Carew. But Allen laughed away her scruples and kissed away her tears, and swore that she should be his wife in the spring. Dora yielded to his persuasions and to those of Mrs. Tice, and surrendered herself to the full tide of happiness which was bearing her along to a prosperous future. So all was settled, and then came a final surprise from no less a person than Mr. Carver.
Shortly after Mallison, alias Pride, had paid the penalty of his crime, the lovers were seated on the lawn of the Red House, under the shadow of the mighty cedar. It was a quiet and beautiful evening, just after sunset, and the sky was resplendent with colours like the hues of a butterfly's wing. Allen's arm was round the waist of Dora, and they were talking of their future.
I think it will be best for you to come to Canterbury, Dora, he was saying. "After the tragedy which has taken place in this house, you can never live in it without a shudder. Marry me, live in Canterbury, and we will keep on Mrs. Tice as housekeeper."
But I lose what little fortune I have if I leave it, remonstrated the girl.
What of that? I can give you a comfortable home, dearest. My practice is increasing, and in a few years we shall be quite opulent. Give up your father's bequest, my own, and let us begin our new life without dwelling within the shadow of a crime.
While Dora was reflecting what answer to make, the gate opened--it was never locked now--and Mr. Carver, as black as a raven and as lean as a stick, made his appearance. He saw the couple on the lawn, and walked directly towards them, with what was meant for a smile on his grim face. Indeed, he had taken a great fancy to the young couple--to Dora in particular--and they both welcomed him heartily.
Well, my young friends, said he, when the first greetings were over, "I have come to learn your plans."
We were just making them, said Dora with a blush. "Allen wants me to give up the Red House and live in Canterbury when we are married."
I agree with him there, Miss Dora. The Red House is what the Scotch call uncanny. I should not like to live in it myself, with the knowledge that a brutal murder had been committed within its walls.
I feel the same as you do, replied Dora. "All the same, if I give it up I lose my poor two hundred a year, and shall go to Allen a pauper."
Dearest, as if that mattered! I can provide a home for you, and Mrs. Tice shall look after it.
Be comforted, Miss Dora, said Carver, smiling. "You will not go to Allen a pauper. You are entitled to fifty thousand pounds--your father's money."
But why, Mr. Carver? I did not find out who killed my father.
No; but Joad did, and the money came to him. On the day that he made his confession--as if anticipating his untimely end--he made his will, and left all the money to you.
All the money to Dora? cried Allen joyfully. "Then she inherits her father's money, after all!"
Every penny of it, replied Carver gravely; "and I'm glad to say so."
But--but can I take it? said Dora in a hesitating manner.
Tut, tut! Why not? You need have no compunction in doing so, my dear. As your father's daughter and sole offspring, he should have left it to you. It has only passed through Joad's hands on its way to your pockets. Take it by all means. I kept the telling of this for you as a pleasant surprise. Do not spoil my little plot by a refusal.
What do you say, Allen?
I say with Mr. Carver, my dear, take it--it is lawfully yours.
Then I shall accept it. Fifty thousand pounds! O Allen! Dora flung her arms round his neck. "You can go to London--we can take a house in Harley Street--you can become a famous physician--and--and----"
And all your geese will be swans! laughed Carver kindly.
But Allen did not laugh. He held Dora to his breast and kissed her.
My dearest, he said in a grave tone, "the money is not unwelcome; but a greater gift has come to me than that--the gift of a true-hearted, stanch woman, who will be a noble wife."
Hear, hear! said Carver the misogamist. And so that disturbed chapter in their lives came to an end.