I could hear Mr. Royce's inarticulate exclamation of disgust and anger.
"But of course that's all moonshine," I added.
"Moonshine! I should say so! Now, Lester, I want you to stay there till you get this thing straightened out, if only for Curtiss's sake. I know you can prove that any such theory as that is all bosh."
"I'll try to," I answered him, and hung up the receiver; but I confess that I was not at all sure of my ability to accomplish the task.
As I left the booth, the clerk came toward me.
"There's a gentleman inquiring for you, Mr. Lester," he said. "He was here about noon asking for you, but wouldn't have you disturbed. He's over here in the parlour, waiting for you."
I followed him to the door of the parlour.
"This is Mr. Lester," he said to a white-haired old man who was pacing nervously up and down, and left us alone together.
For a moment I did not recognise him, then as he came forward into the clearer light, I found myself looking down into the face of Dr. Schuyler.
"My dear Mr. Lester," he said, advancing with outstretched hand, "I hope you will pardon this intrusion."
"It's not in the least an intrusion," I said, honestly glad to see him.
"Thank you. Let us sit down over here by the window, if you will. I do not wish to run any risk of being overheard," and he glanced about anxiously.
As I looked at him more closely, I saw that he was labouring under some deep trouble or anxiety. His face was pale and haggard, and he fingered his glasses with a nervousness which I knew was not habitual.
"The truth of the matter is," he went on, "that I feel the need of advice—legal advice. I have friends here, of course, to whom I could have gone; but I was told that you were interested in this case, and from what I saw of you the other evening, I felt that I should like to lay my difficulty before you. It is, as I said, a purely legal question, or I should not have felt the need of any earthly counsel."
I thanked him for his confidence and begged him to continue.
"As I understand the law," he went on, "an insane person cannot be punished for a crime."
"No," I said, "except by being confined in an asylum until cured—and even that is largely discretionary."
"And what, in law, is considered insanity—what is the test for it?"
"Inability to distinguish right from wrong is the usual test. No man is excused from responsibility for a crime, if he has the capacity and reason sufficient to enable him to distinguish between right and wrong, as to the particular act he is then doing."
I fancied I heard the clergyman breathe a sigh of relief.
"A person, then, may be sane as regards some things, and insane as regards others?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Would the fact that a person had at one time been confined in an asylum, and had occasional lapses from sanity afterward, tend to prove that he was insane at the time of committing a crime?"
"It would tend to prove it very strongly; especially if the circumstances under which the crime was committed were related in any way to the cause of the insanity."
He paused a moment in deep thought.
"I cannot go that far," he said slowly, at last. "And yet—and yet—it may be that you've hit upon the clue, Mr. Lester. I must have time to think it over. Will you come to see me this evening?"
"Gladly," I said; "I only hope I can be of service."
"Thank you. I shall look for you between seven and eight. It may be that I shall have something to tell you."
I watched him as he left the room, with a curious mixture of emotions. What was it he would have to tell me? Who was it was insane? Was it——
And suddenly I seemed to catch a glimmer of the truth; I felt that, however slowly and uncertainly, I was at last groping toward the light.
Godfrey was waiting for me at the desk, and I felt him glance at me keenly as I announced my readiness to accompany him.
"We'll go up to the Kingdon place," he said, "and see if the coroner has made any discoveries. The clerk told me you had a visitor," he added, as we reached the street.
"A client," I answered, with forced jocularity. "A clergyman in need of legal advice."
"I thought I recognised him as he came out. It was Dr. Schuyler, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
He glanced at me again, and then walked on in silence; but I felt the reproach he did not utter.
"He's in trouble of some kind," I explained.
"Connected with this affair?"
"I think so. But I don't want it blazed forth in theRecordtill I'm sure."
"TheRecorddoesn't blaze forth everything I know," he said quietly.
"I know it doesn't, but you'd give it this—it would have a right to this."
"Is it so important as all that?"
"I rather fancy it's the clue we've been looking for."
His eyes were shining now as he looked at me.
"Thatisimportant," he said. "I should like to have it."
"I'm not absolutely sure," I said, again. "But I'm going to see him again this evening. If there's anything I can tell you after that, I will."
"That's fair enough," he assented. "The story, whatever it is, is bound to be public property in a few days, I suppose?"
"It will probably come out at the inquest. When is the inquest?"
"It's been set for to-morrow; but it will probably be held open until Lucy Kingdon can testify."
"You'll beat the world a day, then."
"That's what I like to do. But here we are, and there's Haynes at the door."
We entered the yard, and Godfrey introduced me to the coroner. He impressed me at once as alert and efficient, and he led the way into the house, and asked that I tell him the story of the night before, which I did as circumstantially as I could.
"I hope your wound isn't a bad one," he said, when I had finished, glancing at my bandaged hand.
"Oh, no," I said; "a mere scratch. To tell the truth, I'd nearly forgotten it."
"Here's the weapon the bullet came from," he added, and produced from his pocket a small, pearl-handled revolver. "There are two chambers empty. The other bullet flew straighter than the one fired at you, Mr. Lester."
"You mean——"
"Yes, we probed for it and got it out. It had passed directly through the heart, and lodged in the muscles of the back. There can be no question that it came from this revolver."
"Whose revolver is it?" I asked.
"Presumably Miss Kingdon's. We've not been able to find any evidence on that point. It wasn't bought here in Elizabeth. You see it's a foreign make."
I could decipher upon the barrel the letters "C & I, Paris." Godfrey examined it with eyes which were gleaming strangely. I watched him with a curious sinking of the heart, but he handed it back to the coroner without comment.
"Anything else?" he asked. "No trace of the watch?"
"No," and Haynes shook his head.
"How is Miss Kingdon?"
"A little quieter, but still delirious. She won't be able to testify to-morrow. We've got a trained nurse for her—the doctor thinks she'd better not be moved for a day or two."
"And no light as to the identity of the victim?"
"Not the slightest. I've found a cabman who saw him get off the 10.30 train from New York on the morning of the tenth. Then he went into a drugstore near the depot, and asked to look at a directory, afterwards asking the way to North Broad Street. He probably spoke to no one else till he stopped to ask Clemley where the Kingdons lived."
"He'd never been here before, then."
"Evidently not. And he didn't know the Kingdons' address until he got here."
"No," agreed Godfrey; "no. Well, you've evidently done everything that could be done, Mr. Haynes. Perhaps something more will come out at the inquest. It opens at ten o'clock, doesn't it?"
"Yes; here are your subpœnas," and he handed us each a paper.
"Very well," said Godfrey. "We'll be present, of course. Where will it be held?"
"I thought it best to hold it right here," answered Haynes, "I want the jury to be on the scene."
"But won't it disturb Miss Kingdon?"
"Not at all. There's a large front room which will answer nicely—and I'll have the police keep everybody out who hasn't some business there. Here's the room," and he opened a door and led the way into the room beyond.
It was the one into which Miss Kingdon had shown me on the morning of my memorable interview with her, and involuntarily my eyes sought the portrait on the wall opposite the front windows. It was still there—as alluring, astonishing, compelling as ever. Indeed, as I gazed at it now, it seemed even more striking than it had when I saw it first.
"Look at that," I said, turning to Godfrey, but there was no need for me to call his attention to the portrait. He had already seen it, and was gazing at it in rapt admiration.
"Whose is it?" he demanded, at last. "Who painted it?"
I pointed to the name scrawled in the corner.
"'Ruth Endicott,'" he read slowly. "Well, and who was she?"
"That's her portrait," I said. "Does it remind you of any one?"
He looked at it for a moment in silence; then he shook his head.
"No, I can't say that it does. But who was Ruth Endicott?"
"Nobody in particular—a distant relative of the Kingdons."
Godfrey gazed at me sceptically.
"Really?" he asked.
"Really. This was the last picture she painted—of herself. You see how crude it is."
"Crude—yes; but it's got power, Lester. The woman'sthere, somehow, looking right out of the canvas. Did she die?"
"Yes; thirty years ago," and I told him the little I knew of Ruth Endicott and her history.
He listened without comment, his eyes still on the bewitching face gazing down from the wall at us.
"Well, it beats me," was his only remark, when I had ended, and with a visible effort he tore himself away from the portrait, and turned to the coroner, who had been waiting patiently until our inspection of the painting was ended. "Is this where the inquest will be held?"
"Yes, sir; I'll have some chairs brought in. It won't last very long. I'll have to adjourn it, of course, until Miss Kingdon can give her testimony."
Godfrey nodded.
"Yes, you'll have to do that. Well, you may depend upon us—but I doubt if our evidence will go very far toward solving the mystery."
If the town had been glowing the night before over the disappearance of Marcia Lawrence, it was fairly blazing now over this new mystery. In fact, the one had quite eclipsed the other, and I was mightily relieved to find that no one suspected any relation between them. I bought copies of both the local papers, and observed again their prodigal use of black type and exclamation points. Each of them devoted the whole front page to the case, without, however, throwing any new light upon it. On another page, one of them stated in a few lines that nothing further had been heard from Miss Lawrence; the other contained no reference whatever to the Lawrence affair, and had apparently forgotten all about it.
Could any good come of reviving it? Why need Dr. Schuyler interfere at all? If it was Marcia Lawrence who was insane, the law could not touch her, whatever she had done. Harriet Kingdon was dead, and the obloquy of the crime could do her no injury. Besides, whoever had fired the shot——
Then, suddenly, I remembered the revolver. That was going to prove an awkward piece of evidence. Godfrey had suspected instantly who its owner was; and he, certainly, would permit no sentimental considerations to interfere with placing the whole truth before the public.
But perhaps I was mistaken, after all. Granted that Marcia Lawrence had been subject to spells of derangement, that was no proof that she had committed this crime. It might be, indeed, that that very infirmity was the cause of her flight. She may have believed herself cured, and accepted Curtiss in good faith, only to discover at the last moment that she was not cured; or the impulse to flight may have seized her during a sudden aberration caused by the excitement of her wedding-day. Aversion to friends and kindred was, as I knew, one of the most common symptoms of such derangement. Was this the key to the mystery? Was this the explanation of her flight?
It was with my mind in this tumult that I approached Dr. Schuyler's house, that evening, and rang the bell. He opened the door himself.
"I was expecting you," he said, and led the way to his study. "Sit down, Mr. Lester. I've been thinking over what you told me, and it seems to me that the world should know the whole truth."
My heart sank at the words.
"But what good will it do?" I questioned. "Of course, Dr. Schuyler, I suspect what the secret is. What good will it do that the world should know it?"
"It will at least turn loathing into pity; it will show that she was justified, in so far as there can be justification for such an act. It will show that she was not mentally responsible—therefore neither legally nor morally guilty."
"I wasn't aware that she was regarded with loathing," I said. "In fact, I didn't know that she was connected with this case at all in any one's mind outside of ourselves and a friend of mine."
"Not connected with it!" Dr. Schuyler cried. "You astonish me!"
"The public doesn't know the facts, and I see no reason why they should. You will answer me, perhaps, that it's a duty to protect the memory of the dead; but the dead was guilty equally with the living."
"My dear sir," said Dr. Schuyler, staring at me in a way I found most puzzling, "you're speaking in riddles. I confess that I don't in the least understand you. What is it you propose?"
"What I propose," I said bluntly, "is this. Let Harriet Kingdon bear the obloquy of the crime—it can't harm her now—besides, she largely deserves it. My evidence and Godfrey's will show that Lucy Kingdon had no hand in it, so there'll be no danger of wronging her. Let us see that Marcia Lawrence is placed in proper hands and receives proper care. Perhaps she may yet——"
"Marcia Lawrence!" he repeated hoarsely. "What has she to do with this case, Mr. Lester?"
The question, the expression of his face, brought me to my feet. I was trembling so that I caught at the chair for support. I saw it all. In an instant, I saw it all!
"Then it wasn't Miss Lawrence——"
"Nonsense! Not at all!" he broke in testily. "It was Harriet Kingdon."
I sank back into my chair, overcome by such a flood of relief and thankfulness that I could not speak. But Dr. Schuyler laboured under no such disability.
"I cannot understand," he said, and I saw by his flushed face that he was genuinely angry, "how you could have got the preposterous idea that Marcia Lawrence was connected in any way with this affair. Any sane man would have seen the utter absurdity of such a theory."
"I see it now," I assented hoarsely.
"Why, Marcia Lawrence could no more be concerned in a thing like that," he went on hotly, "than—than a babe unborn. She could not be concerned in anything wrong, or mean, or criminal. I want you to understand, Mr. Lester, that she's absolutely spotless. If you knew her, I shouldn't need to tell you."
"I've always believed it," I protested. "In my heart of hearts, I've always believed it. We've been fools—we've been trying to make two things fit which didn't fit. We imagined they must fit because they happened so close together. I see now that it was merely a coincidence, and I'm glad from the very bottom of my heart."
"You believed, then, that Miss Lawrence was really concerned in this murder?"
"We thought her the active party in it."
"The active party! But on what grounds?"
"We thought the dead man was her husband—an adventurer who'd lured her into a marriage while she was abroad. You'll remember I mentioned this theory to you the other night."
"Yes, and I told you at the time how ridiculous I thought it."
"I've never wholly believed it," I repeated. "It wasn't mine. But it seemed to fit the facts so perfectly, and when you intimated this afternoon, as I thought, that Miss Lawrence was subject to spells of insanity, I imagined that I understood the whole story."
He sat for a moment silent, regarding me from half-closed eyes; I saw that he was considering whether he should speak or remain silent.
"I hope this mistake has gone no farther," he said, at last.
"No," I answered, and genuinely thankful I was that I could say so. "I kept it absolutely to myself."
He breathed a sigh of relief.
"Then no harm has been done. I'm glad of that. I see that you're glad, too."
"Yes," I said; "I am—more glad than I can say."
"And now that you understand the matter," he continued, "I suppose you see it in a different light?"
"In a different light?"
"At least, you'll hardly advise now that I keep silent?"
"By no means," I asserted heartily. "I think it is clearly your duty to tell all you know. You will absolve Harriet Kingdon from responsibility for her act—as you said, change loathing to pity. Besides, if the dead man deserved death, let the world know it."
"I don't know that he did," corrected my companion; "I know nothing about him."
"But you suspect?" I prompted.
"Perhaps I do," he admitted, "but suspicion uttered is such a deadly thing! What I do know came to me in the way so many things come to a minister. I was asked for advice—I received a confidence——"
He stopped and pondered for a moment.
"I came very near telling you night before last," he continued, "when you were asking me about the Kingdons—telling you, at least, as much as I could without violating that confidence. But on second thought, I did not see that any good would come of it, and so kept silent. Now, circumstances absolve me from any obligation of secrecy and I can speak freely.
"I told you the other evening that John Kingdon had died in an asylum for the insane, and that his family had a hard struggle for existence. After the mother's death, they had no means to maintain a home, and Lucy, who was only a girl, went to the Lawrence house to help her cousin, Ruth Endicott, who was housekeeper there, as I have said. The elder daughter, Harriet, secured a position in New York—I think as governess in a private family. She was called home, some time later, by the illness of her cousin Ruth, whom she took to Florida, where Ruth died. Mr. Lawrence was married soon afterwards, and Lucy Kingdon remained in his house as maid, first to his wife and afterwards to his daughter.
"Harriet Kingdon returned to New York and took up again her work of teaching. About six months later, there was a quarrel of some sort between her and her sister Lucy—a violent quarrel—and they ceased to correspond or hold communication of any kind. Just how long a time elapsed I don't know, but I should judge it was at least three years, when a letter came to Lucy Kingdon from Bloomingdale hospital, stating that her sister had been brought there a year before, violently insane, that she was practically well again and wished to be taken away. Lucy went after her at once and brought her home."
"Home?" I repeated.
"Yes; it was at that time that Mrs. Lawrence gave them the cottage in which they still live. She virtually supported them for some time, until Harriet was able to attend to the household duties, and Lucy to resume her place as maid."
"Was Mr. Lawrence living at the time?"
"Yes; but it was generally understood that he had no part in these benefactions. He was not a charitable man."
"And no reason was ever given for this generosity on Mrs. Lawrence's part?"
"None but her interest in the family. This was only one of her many charities."
I paused for a moment's thought. After all, there was nothing peculiar about it. Mrs. Lawrence would naturally be interested in a family whom she had known so well, and who had suddenly been reduced to such desperate straits.
"Did you ever hear any explanation of Harriet Kingdon's madness?" I asked at last.
"None but that of heredity—and that is an explanation I made to myself. I'm pretty sure that no one here except her sister and Mrs. Lawrence knew that she had been at Bloomingdale."
"Mrs. Lawrence knew it, then?"
"Oh, yes; it was from her I learned the story. She came to me for advice a few months after Harriet Kingdon had been brought home. I don't think she was ever wholly cured. She had slight relapses from time to time, and it was during one of these, rather more violent than usual, that Mrs. Lawrence came to me. I made an excuse for going to see her. But I saw no reason for advising that she be sent to an asylum. I did advise, however, that a specialist be brought down from New York to look at her, and Mrs. Lawrence did this. He also advised against the asylum; he said that rest, and quiet, and freedom from worry would, in time, afford permanent relief. She certainly grew better as time went on, and, though she was always somewhat peculiar, I have regarded her as wholly out of danger of relapse, for several years past."
"And yet," I objected, harking back, "heredity of itself would hardly be sufficient explanation. There must have been something to induce insanity—some shock or grave trouble."
"Yes, I agree with you there. I have a theory, Mr. Lester, which some chance words of yours this afternoon served greatly to strengthen. You remember, you remarked that a recurrence of insanity would be very likely if the circumstances attending it were related in any way to the original cause. My theory is that this man whom Harriet Kingdon killed was the cause of her insanity—that he'd wronged her."
"Yes," I agreed; "yes—and yet, how explain his presence here? If he'd wronged her, he'd hardly seek her again."
"I don't know; there are queer depths in human nature. Unfortunately, I see no way of proving the theory either right or wrong—of putting it to the test; not, at least, until Lucy Kingdon recovers and chooses to speak."
"I think I can put it to the test," I said, "if you'll permit me to lay it before a friend. I must tell you, though, that he's a reporter, and if the theory proves to be the right one, he'll use it."
"I see no objection to that," said Dr. Schuyler, after a moment's thought; "provided, of course, that he doesn't use it unless it's fully proved."
"I can promise that," I said.
"And whether it proves right or wrong, I should like to know."
"You shall, at the first moment. And, by the way," I added, "you were speaking the other evening of Ruth Endicott. There is a rather remarkable portrait belonging to the Kingdons which has her name in the corner."
"Yes; I've seen it."
"Did she really paint it?"
"Oh, I think there's no doubt of that."
"Did she paint anything else?"
"She painted three or four crude portraits for people here in town, but they've long since been banished to the garret—where they belong. She had talent, but she lacked training."
"She interests me, somehow," I said. "I don't know why. Is the portrait a good one?"
"It isn't a portrait—it's rather an impression of her. As an impression, it's very good."
He opened his mouth as though to say something more, then thought better of it.
"You haven't told me yet," he added, as I rose to go, "whether you've heard anything more from Miss Lawrence. To-day's tragedy has so far outdone yesterday's that I nearly forgot to ask you."
"I believe she's out in mid-ocean now," I said, and related briefly the incident of the telegram and of Burr Curtiss's starting in pursuit. "He'll meet her at Liverpool," I concluded, "and they can fight out their battle there."
"Yes," he nodded. "God grant they find it not too bitter."
Godfrey was awaiting me at the hotel, and I told him in detail of Dr. Schuyler's revelation, pointing out at the same time—not without some obvious exultation—how, at a breath, it overthrew his elaborately developed theory.
"Well, we're all liable to make mistakes at times," he said good-humouredly. "Now that we're on the right track, I don't think there'll be much difficulty in working the whole thing out."
"Dr. Schuyler hopes you'll be able to, and so do I—though I don't see just how you're going to do it."
"Oh, I think I'll be able to do it—you see, we've got a starting-point now. But I'll have to go to New York. Won't you come along?"
I was tempted.
"How long will it take?" I asked.
"Not over three or four hours. You ought to get to bed by midnight, and you can come down in the morning for the inquest."
I saw that he wanted me; the temptation was too strong to be resisted.
An hour later we were in the office of the Bloomingsdale asylum.
"It was about twenty years ago that Miss Kingdon was admitted," said Godfrey to the chief physician, whose interest he had enlisted, and who had been busy getting out the records, "and she remained here about a year before she was discharged as cured."
"There oughtn't to be any trouble finding it," said the chief. "In fact, there ought to be a voluminous record of a case like that. Let me see—Kingdon—Kingdon," and he ran his finger down an index. "No, I don't see it—this covers five years."
"Perhaps she was registered under another name," I suggested.
"Yes, that's very likely," Godfrey admitted. "May I see the record, doctor? Perhaps I'll be able to pick her out. Cases that stay here that length of time aren't very common, are they?"
"No; they're rather exceptional; besides, twenty years ago, we hadn't so many as we have to-day."
Godfrey was examining the index.
"If there's no other way, we can sift out the cases which answer in a general way to the one we want, and investigate all of them. But I hope that won't be necessary. Let me see—F—G—H——"
"There was an inquiry the other day about a case which was a good deal like yours—only that was for an Italian woman—a Harriet Parello."
Godfrey's lips were twitching and his finger trembled a little as he ran it down the column of names, but when he spoke, his tone was the most casual.
"Yes," he said, "here she is—Harriet Parello. She was brought here from West Twenty-seventh Street," and he named the number. "Not a very savoury locality, is it, doctor?"
"No; though one can't tell what it was twenty years ago."
"That's true. I don't suppose you remember anything about her?"
"No; I wasn't here at that time."
Godfrey was still running down the column of names, and was seemingly little interested in the Parello case.
"The husband rather impressed me," went on the chief. "Rather a handsome fellow in his day, but now evidently a wreck—and a perfect brute morally—or so I judge."
"What did he want?" inquired Godfrey negligently.
"He wanted to know what had become of her. I thought it peculiar he should have waited so long to make inquiries."
"Were you able to help him out?"
"Oh, yes; our records give the history of every case."
Godfrey closed the index, evidently disappointed.
"I don't see any trace here of the case I'm looking for," he said. "Maybe she didn't come here, after all. But I should like to look at the records, doctor, just out of curiosity. This Parello case, now——"
The chief pulled a big ledger down from a shelf, referred to a number in the index, and opened the book.
"Here it is," he said. "You see, she was suffering from emotional insanity—homicidal mania—stayed nearly a year—was very violent at first—gradually grew better and was finally discharged as cured. Her sister, Miss Lucy Kingdon—why, wasn't that the name you were looking for?"
"Yes; and this is the case. Please go ahead, doctor."
The chief looked at him for a moment in astonishment, then turned back to his book.
"Her sister, Miss Lucy Kingdon, of Elizabeth, New Jersey, was notified at her request," he continued, "and came after her. There have been no reports since."
"That's all we need to know," said Godfrey, permitting some of his satisfaction to appear in his face. "This record was shown to the husband, I suppose?"
"Yes; I had no reason for refusing to show it."
"Most certainly not," agreed Godfrey. "And I must compliment you, doctor, on the very thorough way in which your records are kept. Come, Lester, we haven't any time to lose.
"Our chain is complete in every link," he added, when we were in our cab again, rattling westward across the city. "Nothing can break it. All we need now is to learn the story of the Parellos."
"And that's what we're going after?"
"Yes—but it's a chance. Twenty years, in a neighbourhood like that, are certain to work great changes. It's a long chance. Ten to one, there'll be nobody there who remembers Parello."
And he was right. The block in which was the number we sought had been converted into a street-car barn. There were no longer any Italians in the neighbourhood—it had become an outskirt of the negro quarter.
Godfrey took out his watch and glanced at it.
"Lester," he said, "I'm sorry, but I'll have to leave you. I've got to set my subterranean machinery to work, and I'm afraid I can't take you with me, much as I'd like to. The agents I'll have to use are shy of strangers. Besides, I see you're getting sleepy."
"Yes," I confessed; "I am. I don't see how you hold up so well. Good-night, then; and good luck. I hope you'll win out."
"Oh, I shall," he said confidently. "You take the cab. I'll use the elevated. It's quicker, and every moment counts," and he waved me good-bye.
It was not until I unfolded myRecordat the breakfast table, next morning, that I fully appreciated Godfrey's tremendous activity. I had always known, of course, that he was energetic, indefatigable, and fertile of expedient, but his results, remarkable as they often were, were usually achieved with such apparent ease that I had never suspected the extent of the downright hard work which lay back of them. Now, as I looked over the paper before me, I understood and wondered.
I had left him at ten o'clock the night before, with the mystery still unsolved and seemingly unsolvable, for the only clue in his possession had led him to a blank wall. Yet here before me was the story. An entire page was devoted to it—and an astonishing story it was, written with verve and vividness, complete in every detail, and illustrated with photographs and sketches of all the scenes and characters. There was the Kingdon cottage, the grave in the cellar, the Kingdon sisters, the murdered man, the pearl-handled revolver—even the coroner and the chief of police. Many of the photographs had, of course, been collected the day before, and some of them, no doubt, had been used in the afternoon edition, but here they were welded into a homogeneous whole, complete and satisfying. I could fancy the city editors of the other morning papers turning green with envy as they read it.
And looking at the story, I understood, more clearly than I had ever done, the wide appeal of the yellow press—it paid for the best talent in the market; it handled its matter in a way to attract attention; it told its stories in a style incisive and easily comprehensible, and added the visual appeal of pictures, which gave the supreme touch of reality.Andit got the news. Abstractly, I am anything but an admirer of the yellow press; concretely, I have often found that to get the last detail of any event—more especially of any event with a sensational or mysterious side—I must have recourse to its columns, just as I had recourse to them now.
As I read on, I marvelled more and more at the system which rendered possible the securing of all these details in so short a time—subterranean, Godfrey had called it; superhuman, I would have said, and I determined that he should some day introduce me to it. He had run down Parello, unmasked him, laid him bare in all his treachery and vileness; the whole sordid, terrible story lay revealed—and as I thought of Harriet Kingdon's sufferings and abasement, I did not wonder that she had shot down the brute who was trying to drag her back to them. Some of the details, I knew, Godfrey must have filled in for himself, since there could be no way of verifying them at this late day; but they fitted so closely with the rest of the structure that there could be no doubt of their essential truthfulness.
Such, for instance, was the detail of their meeting. Parello had been a teacher of music, and Godfrey shrewdly guessed that he must have met Harriet Kingdon and become acquainted with her at the house where she was employed as governess. The rest of the story could be easily built up. He was a handsome and magnetic fellow, she a passionate and attractive woman. He had struck a chord in her which she could not but obey. He had seemed then to have a future before him; the brave exterior gave no hint of the rottenness within. He had that grandiloquent way of speaking of the future which is characteristic of the Latin races—that sublime faith in himself which needed no justification. He had impressed himself upon her as a genius who would one day astonish the world; and if he had certain assertive peculiarities which jarred disagreeably at times, why, was not all genius so? She began by admiring him; she ended by yielding to him. No doubt she fancied that she was hitching her wagon to a star.
Whether there had been a marriage was not certain; Godfrey believed there had been. At any rate, Parello had introduced her to his friends as his wife, and, for a time, all went well. Then the devil in the man cropped out. He was naturally indolent. He quit teaching under the pretext that he wished to compose a masterpiece, and forced her to support him. No doubt she even yet believed in him; but he dragged her down to depths unspeakable, trampling her into the very mire of the Italian colony.
At last, he brought his real wife from Italy to live with him. This swarthy vixen had added new torments to the unfortunate girl's position, had devised new insults for her, and the end had been Bloomingdale. Up to the very last, such was the nature of the woman, she had continued to love the man, contented to be his dog, his slave, for the privilege of being near him. Doubtless all this time her mind was weakening, and she clung to him out of old habit. But with the sudden accession of madness, hate had blazed up in her, white-hot, and she had attempted to stab him. He had called the police, and she had been dragged away, cursing, shrieking, a spectacle to shake the strongest nerves. It was in that struggle that he had lost the end of his little finger. She had seized it between her teeth and bitten it clean through. From a woman she had changed into a monster.
But insanity of this type usually yields to treatment; and though Harriet Kingdon's case proved to be of unusual obstinacy, patience and careful nursing triumphed in the end, and reason was restored to her. Restored, that is, as life is restored to a man stricken with heart disease; resting not on the firm foundation of assured health, but on a delicate balance which any shock may disturb.
Not until she was ready to leave the asylum, did her sister know her whereabouts; I doubt if she ever knew the whole story of the sufferings which went before. She had come for her, had taken her back to Elizabeth, to the home which Mrs. Lawrence's kindness and generosity had provided.
The Parellos had remained with the Italian colony, sinking lower and lower. Parello, driven by his wife, the target of her abuse now that she no longer had any other, endeavoured to resume his teaching, but he had so coarsened in habits and appearance that the old doors were shut to him. Still, he managed to scrape along, always on the verge of want. Then, in a fortunate hour, his wife had been run down and killed by a trolley car, he managed to exact damages for her death, and for the moment found himself in affluence.
It was at this time that his thoughts turned to Harriet Kingdon. Why? It is impossible to say. Perhaps he felt some revival of his old passion for her; perhaps he may even have had some twinges of remorse; more probably he realised that he was growing old; he wanted some one to wait on him and slave for him, some one upon whom he could wreak his gusts of passion. He had always believed himself irresistible to women; he knew the dog-like devotion which Harriet Kingdon had had for him; he believed that he had only to speak the word, and she would crawl back to him. But he would do more than that; he would be generous; he would offer to make her really his wife. Magnificent! Could she refuse such an offer as that? The wife of Parello!
So he had made inquiries at the asylum, had learned her address, and had taken the train for Elizabeth on the morning of that fatal tenth of June. He had made his way to the Kingdon cottage, had found Harriet Kingdon there alone, had entered, seated himself familiarly, perhaps attempted some endearment. He was confident, self-satisfied. It was better than he had hoped. Here was a comfortable home ready for him; a wife who seemed to be making a good living. If it should be necessary, he could no doubt find many pupils at Elizabeth, and if the pay was not quite metropolitan, why, neither was the work. Here was a golden future; yes, he would be generous; she should be his wife; he would forget all that had happened....
But the sight of him had brought back the memory of her old infamy, which her attack of madness and the years had partially blotted out; the cloud rolled down upon her brain again, that white hate leaped to life. She snatched up her revolver and shot him through the heart, even as he sat there confidently smiling. Then, with a strength born of insanity, she had dragged him to the cellar and dug a grave for him there.
The story was strong in every link; there could be no doubting it.
Not until the inquest was finished, and we entered the train together to return to New York, did I get the chance to talk quietly with Godfrey.
"You did great work," I said, as we sat down together.
"Yes," he agreed, smiling, "I was pleased with it myself. The story developed beautifully."
"And clearly. Even the coroner's jury couldn't question it. There's no possibility, now, of any one associating this affair with Miss Lawrence's disappearance. If it had to happen, I'm glad that it happened just when it did—it's served to make the public forget the other mystery. I'm pleased for another reason," I added. "Lucy Kingdon won't be called upon to tell that story on the stand. I don't like her nor trust her, but I'm glad she'll be spared that ordeal."
"It would have been a trying one," Godfrey agreed. "The coroner tells me that she's very ill. I feel guilty, in a way. I should have prepared her for that horror in the cellar. I shouldn't have taken her without warning to the brink of that grave."
"That wasn't the only cause of her illness," I said. "She had sins of her own on her conscience. I don't understand even yet," I added, "why that face should affect her so. She couldn't have recognised it, since she'd never seen Parello."
"How do you know she never saw him? I'm decidedly inclined to think she had—that he was the cause of that violent quarrel between her and her sister which Dr. Schuyler mentioned. Lucy Kingdon, looking at the man clear-eyed, saw him as he was and tried to dissuade her sister from the entanglement; the elder woman, blinded by passion, wouldn't listen, and the quarrel followed, in which both, no doubt, used words which they afterwards regretted."
"Yes," I agreed, "perhaps you're right."
"Even if she'd never seen him," Godfrey added, "she must have suspected who it was—there was only one man in the world whom her sister was capable of killing. Or she might have imagined that it was some one else. There's been nothing in all this, Lester, to disprove my original theory about Miss Lawrence."
"Godfrey," I said impulsively, "I'm going to disprove it once and for all. Look at this," and I thrust into his hands the photograph Burr Curtiss had entrusted to me.
He gazed at it for some moments in silence. At last he handed it back to me.
"Do you believe that theory now?" I asked.
"No," he answered, and sat staring straight before him, his lips compressed.
"I knew you'd say so," I said. "I knew you'd see how impossible it was that there should be any shameful secret in her life. I wavered once or twice when every discovery we made seemed to confirm your theory, but I never really believed it. I'd only to recall this photograph——"
"Why didn't you show it to me before?" he asked.
"Candidly, Godfrey," I answered, crimsoning a little, "I—I don't know."
"Oh, yes, you do!" he retorted. "You were afraid I'd chin it out of you."
"Well, yes, I was," I admitted.
He looked at me curiously for a moment.
"I see you don't know me very well, even yet, Lester," he said, at last. "I'm sorry you didn't let me see it. It would have saved me a wild-goose chase. But then," he added, with a grim little laugh, "I might not have stumbled upon this second tragedy. So perhaps it was as well, after all. I forgive you."
"You think the photograph would have made the mystery clearer?" I asked.
"Clearer?" he echoed. "My dear Lester, it makes it more unexplainable than ever. It converts it from a vulgar intrigue into the most puzzling problem I ever had to deal with!"
I was staring at him in astonishment.
"I don't see how it can do that!" I protested.
"Don't you? Well, I'll tell you. I've already pointed out to you that, so far as I could see, my theory was the only conceivable one which would explain Marcia Lawrence's flight. I look at that photograph and see at once that I must throw that theory aside. What have I left? Nothing! That photograph shows me a pure, cultured, innocent woman; I know that she loved devotedly the man she was to marry. Yet she deliberately deserts him. I should say it was incredible, if I didn't know it was true!"
"Then," I said, "while we've solved one mystery, the other is as deep as ever."
"Deeper!" he corrected. "Miles deeper. In fact, it hasn't any bottom at all, that I can see," and he sank back into his seat again, a deep line between his eyebrows.
The dusk of evening was falling as we were ferried across to the city. I bade Godfrey good-bye, and took a cab direct to my rooms, for I was weary in body and spirit. But a bath and dinner improved both, and at eight o'clock I was ringing at Mr. Royce's door, for I knew how anxious he would be to hear my story, and besides, I owed him some reparation for leaving him alone at the office.
He opened the door himself, and his face brightened at sight of me.
"Why, Lester!" he cried, and shook hands warmly. "Come in. I'm mighty glad to see you."
"I thought you'd like to hear about it," I said.
"Of course I shall. It was like you to think of it."
"I wanted to talk it over with you. It may help to straighten things out. I was afraid there wouldn't be time at the office."
"We are rushed there, and that's a fact. Suppose we go up to the den. We can talk our talk out, there. Though," he added, as he led the way up the stair, "we could do that anywhere to-night. I'm keeping bachelor's hall. That affair at Elizabeth so upset my wife that she's gone away to the mountains to get braced up. Here we are," and he threw open a door.
It was a cheery room, where he had gathered together the impedimenta which had marked his progress through bachelordom, mementoes of his college days, and such other possessions as were peculiarly his.
"Now," he said, when we were settled, "let's have the story. Of course I've read the papers, but I hope you won't take that into account."
So I told it step by step, while he listened silently, save for an occasional exclamation of astonishment.
"It's the most remarkable thing I ever heard," he said, when I had finished. "I don't wonder that you believed at first that it had some connection with the Lawrence affair."
"It was certainly a remarkable coincidence that they should happen together as they did."
"And the first affair is as deep a mystery as ever?"
"Godfrey says it's deeper than ever. I showed him Miss Lawrence's photograph as we came in on the train together, and after he'd looked at it, he said it was the strangest puzzle he'd ever encountered. It's absolutely unexplainable."
Mr. Royce smoked for a moment in silence.
"Of course there must be some explanation," he said, "and an adequate one. Marcia Lawrence wouldn't have run away without good and sufficient reason."
"No," I agreed, "but there's one thing certain—whatever the reason, it isn't of a nature to render the marriage impossible. She was probably overwrought when she wrote that note to Curtiss—something had upset her so suddenly and completely that she couldn't see clearly."
"How do you know that?"
"Don't you remember her mother's last words to me? She said it would be for Curtiss to decide."
"Yes, I remember. And I think there's no question as to what his decision will be."
"No," I agreed. "Most men would be glad to get Marcia Lawrence upon any terms."
"Not Curtiss—but then he's desperately in love. Maybe he'll be willing to recede a shade or two from his ideal."
"He won't have to recede," I asserted confidently. "She's spotless, whatever the secret."
"I hope so," agreed our junior slowly. "Well, they'll have to fight it out together when they meet on the other side. If I were Curtiss, I'd be mighty shaky about that meeting."
"And I. Of course," I added, "the whole mystery hinges on that letter from New York. Godfrey imagined he knew the contents, but the event showed how wide he was of the mark. He had a theory that the letter was written by a disreputable, blackmailing husband of the girl, whom she'd believed dead. That was his theory from the first—the only possible explanation, he called it. Then, when he found that a picturesque stranger had asked the way to the Kingdon cottage, he immediately concluded that the letter had appointed a rendezvous, and that Miss Lawrence had kept it. All of which was afterwards shown to be mere moonshine."
"Not the first part of it," Mr. Royce objected. "There's been nothing to disprove that."
"Nor anything to prove it."
"True—but it has a certain speciousness."
"Yes—all of Godfrey's theories have that. Do you remember what a perfect one he built up in the Holladay case, and how it fell to pieces? Well, I believe this is wilder yet. A look at Miss Lawrence's face will show you she hasn't any past of that kind. Godfrey himself admits that now."
My companion ran his fingers savagely through his hair.
"Of course I don't know anything about it," he said, "but I've already told you how the affair affects me. Trust me, Lester, there's some terrible secret just below the surface. I wanted to say as much to Curtiss, but didn't quite dare. That's why I shiver at the thought of that meeting. I pity him when he comes face to face with it. That reminds me—I found an old photograph of him the other day." He turned to his desk and, after a moment's search, brought out a card. "He gave it to me when we were chums together at college," he added, and handed it over to me.
It showed Curtiss as he was at twenty or twenty-one. The face was plumper than I knew it, and the skin much fairer. The hair was worn longer and the absence of beard or moustache revealed fully the singularly pure lines of the lower portion of the face—a poetic face, yet full of fire and vigour.
"We used to call him 'The Beaut.'," went on my companion. "I told you that he was rather girlish-looking. Well, see here—here he is as the soubrette, in a burlesque we got up in senior year."
He handed me a group picture including the whole company. The central figure was a charming girl, with admirable arms, hands, shoulders—an inimitable way of holding the head....
"Great Scott!" I shouted, springing to my feet. "Don't you see it? Don't you see it, man?"
"See it? See what, Lester?" repeated Mr. Royce, in amazement. "What's the matter, old fellow?"
"No, I haven't gone mad," I laughed, as he put a restraining hand on my arm. "It's the key to the mystery," I added, as calmly as I could. "I'm not going to tell you—I want you to see it for yourself. Come along."
He followed me down to the street without a word, though I could see how his hand trembled as he took down his hat. I myself was quivering from head to foot with excitement—with triumph. What a blind fool I had been not to suspect it long ago. Godfrey had never seen Curtiss, or he would have known the instant his eyes rested on that photograph!
Luckily, the journey was not a long one, or I could not have kept the secret.
"Sit there," I said, when we reached my room, and I motioned him to a chair near the table. I turned down the light and arranged my properties—let me confess at once to a secret liking for the dramatic—the unexpected. Then I turned up the light.
"Now look at them," I said, and pointed to the three photographs placed side by side before him.
He stared at them—at Marcia Lawrence; at Burr Curtiss, smooth-faced and girlish; at the soubrette....
I knew by the sudden deep breath he drew that he understood. There could be no mistaking. Feature for feature they would not match at all; but there was a tone, an expression, that little way of holding the head....
"Of course," he said slowly, at last. "Of course."
How easily it explained Marcia Lawrence's panic, her flight—there could be no marriage, no explanation—only flight!
"There's one crucial test," I said, glancing at my watch. "I'll make it this very evening."
An hour later, I was shown for the third time into the study of Dr. Schuyler at Elizabeth. He was sitting at his desk, just as I had found him once before.
"Ah, Mr. Lester," he began.
"Dr. Schuyler," I interrupted, "I've a photograph here which I'm very anxious for you to see. This is it—whose do you think it is?"
He took it with a glance of astonishment, moved over to the table, and held it beneath the rays of the lamp.
"Why," he faltered, "why—it reminds me very strongly of young Boyd Endicott, as he was when I knew him, thirty years ago."
My heart leaped.
"As a matter of fact, Dr. Schuyler," I said, "it's a photograph of Burr Curtiss, as he was ten years ago."
He stared at me for a moment without understanding, then I saw the light of comprehension in his eyes, and he sank heavily back into his chair.
"Poor woman!" he murmured hoarsely. "Poor woman!"
And all the way back to New York, I was wondering which of the women he had meant. Which was the more to be pitied—the woman who, thirty years before, had been whirled away from her lover by a trick of fortune; or the younger one, innocent and unsuspecting, discovering, only at the last moment, the horrible abyss yawning at her feet?
Which of the women had he meant?
Neither Mr. Royce nor myself was quite equal to the routine work of the office next morning. We had solved the mystery, indeed; but so far from bringing us relief, the solution had brought us a terrible unrest. Miss Lawrence had chosen her words well when she had said that the marriage was "quite, quite impossible." Yet who could have guessed a reason so dark, so terrifying, so unanswerable! Small wonder that she had fled, that her first thought had been to put the ocean between herself and her lover. How could she meet him, how look him in the eyes, with that secret weighing upon her? How would she face him when she found him awaiting her at Liverpool? I shuddered at thought of that meeting. We should have held Curtiss back; we should have known that it was no idle whim, no empty fear which had driven her over-sea.
Resolutely I tried to put such thoughts behind me, and to apply myself to the mass of work which had accumulated during my three days' absence. Was it only three days? It seemed weeks, months, since that moment when I opened the telegram from Mr. Royce which summoned me to Elizabeth.
But they would not be frowned down, for there were many questions still unanswered. What had been Lucy Kingdon's connection with the mystery? Above all, why had Mrs. Lawrence permitted the courtship to go on? Perhaps she had not known—only at the last moment, after her daughter's disappearance, had she suspected. No doubt, it was that sudden revelation, confirmed, perhaps, by Lucy Kingdon, coming to her after she had left us in the library, which had struck her white and tremulous, which had urged her to tell me that the search must cease. Yet, even then, she had spoken as though the marriage might be arranged, as though it were not impossible! She had said that Curtiss himself should choose! What had she meant by that? Was there some depth which we had not yet touched, some turn to the tragedy which we did not suspect? Had we really found the solution, after all?
My mind flew back to the Kingdon women, with a sort of fascination. What had Harriet Kingdon meant by that wild outburst of hers?
"There are others," she had said, "who have waived their rights and torn their hearts and withered in silence——"
What had she meant by that? What secret was it had torn her heart? Were the words merely a meaningless outburst, an incoherent cry, the result of a mind disordered? I could not bring myself to think so, but cudgel my brain as I might, I could read no meaning into them. Yet it was for her that Mrs. Lawrence had sent at that supreme moment when I revealed to her the secret of the letter; it was of her she had spoken when she cried, "I thought it was that woman!" Harriet Kingdon had known the secret, then, and had kept silence.
Then, suddenly, it burst upon me what a hideous thing it was that she had done by keeping silent. It was the letter, arriving at that last desperate moment, which had snatched Marcia Lawrence and Burr Curtiss from the horrible pit which yawned before them. The writing of that letter was not an act of enmity, but of mercy. Harriet Kingdon had stood by and uttered no word of warning—I shuddered at the utter fiendishness of it! But who had written the letter? Then, in a flash, I knew!
"What is it, Lester?" demanded Mr. Royce, wheeling suddenly around. I suppose some exclamation must have burst from me, though I was not conscious of uttering any sound. "What is it? I can guess what you're thinking of—I can't think of anything else."
"I believe," I answered, "that I know who it was wrote that letter to Miss Lawrence."
"You do!" he cried. "Who was it?"
"Wait!" I said, and closed my eyes and pressed my hands tight against my temples in the effort at recollection. "It was Mrs. Lawrence's aunt—her father's sister. It was to her house she came when she ran away. It was there, no doubt, that the child was born."
"And who is she?" asked our junior. "Where does she live?"
I made another desperate effort of memory. At last I had it.
"Her name is Heminway," I said. "I don't know her address, except that it's somewhere in New York. She was married to a banker."
"Oh, I knew him—Martin Heminway," and Mr. Royce jerked down a directory and ran feverishly through its pages. "Here it is—East Fifty-fourth Street."
He closed the book with a bang and took down his hat.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"I'm going to see her," he said. "You're coming, too. We'll get to the bottom of this, for Curtiss's sake. Either we'll prove it a mistake, or we'll prove beyond doubt that it's true."
Neither of us spoke during that long drive uptown. We were too depressed, too anxious. Nor did we speak as we mounted the steps of the old-fashioned brownstone and rang the bell. We were admitted. We were shown into a room on the second floor, after some delay, where, in a great padded chair, an old, old woman sat, thin and wrinkled, but with eyes preternaturally bright.
"Mrs. Heminway," Mr. Royce began directly, "we're representing Mr. Burr Curtiss. We feel that some explanation is due him of the sudden flight, three days ago, of Marcia Lawrence, whom he was to marry; and we believe that you're the one best fitted to tell us the whole story."
She did not answer for a moment, but sat peering up at us, plucking at the arms of her chair with nervous, skinny hands.
"Of course he has a right to know!" she cried, in a high, thin voice, like the note of a flute. "I thought the girl would tell him."
"But since she hasn't," said our junior, "I hope you will. I know it won't be a pleasant task——"
She stopped him with a quick, claw-like gesture.
"I have never shrunk from any duty," she said, "however unpleasant. Sit down, gentlemen. I will tell you the story."
I am sure there was no evil in either of them—Boyd Endicott or Mary Jarvis. They were rather another Mildred and Mertoun, caught in the grip of circumstance and whirled asunder, by one of those ironical tricks which fate sometimes loves to play. For, on the night of the elopement, while Boyd Endicott, leaving Princeton on the eve of his Christmas vacation, was waiting for his bride at Trenton, with every preparation made to whirl her away to a new home in the West, she was speeding away from him toward New York. She had taken the train at Fanwood and was to change at Elizabeth. There, half dazed by the noise, bewildered by the storm which was raging, tremulous with fright, confused in the tangle of tracks, she had taken the wrong train.
Boyd Endicott waited through the night, with what agony of doubt one can guess; then, when morning dawned, believing Mary Jarvis faithless—believing she loved her father more than him—hot-blooded and impetuous, he had boarded a train and journeyed alone into the West, where they had planned to build up a new home together. He was never to know the true story of that night, for there in the West, two days later, his life had been crushed out.
Meanwhile, almost paralysed with fear, the girl arrived at New York. She was ill, benumbed, chilled with the cold; darkness was coming on; she knew not where to turn, and finally, in an agony of desperation, she sought the home of Mrs. Heminway. The cause of her illness could not be long concealed; she asserted that she was married, that she had been Boyd Endicott's wife for nearly a year; but her father did not believe her. For she had no marriage lines, she did not even know the name of the minister before whom their vows had been uttered—she could tell only of a long drive through the dashing rain one night when her father had been detained in town; of a hasty ceremony; of the drive home again. It was an incoherent story, at the best, and she told it in a half-delirium which made it more incoherent still. Her father was nearly mad with rage; in his first white wrath, he was for sending her forth into the streets. But his sister reasoned with him—there was no need of a public disgrace; she would take the child, the sight of it should never offend him, nor should his daughter know aught concerning it. Doubtless they would have made some effort to verify her story, but the news of Boyd Endicott's death rendered that unnecessary. For their plan was laid.
So the child was born—a boy—and the mother lay for days and weeks hovering between life and death. When she came again to consciousness, they told her that the child was dead—had never lived, indeed. They told her, too—no doubt with a kind of fierce exulting—how Boyd Endicott had met his end—a fit punishment from the hand of God! The past was buried with him. It must be as though it had never been.
Mary Jarvis acquiesced. Life, it seemed, held nothing more for her. The future, no less than the past, was to her a dark and lifeless thing. She would have welcomed death, but it did not come. She grew slowly better, and at last she was able to go with her father to Scotland, for a long visit among his people there, while he hastened home for his revenge—his pound of flesh. Whatever fault she had been guilty of, she expiated by taking, without love—for she knew that love would never come into her life again—the husband of her father's choosing. And seemingly she had never suspected that her child was living; certainly she never dreamed that her instinctive tenderness for her daughter's lover was that of a mother for her son.
So the years passed, and cast a veil about this sorrow; not concealing it, but rendering it less sharp, less poignant. To her daughter no whisper of this secret ever came until that terrible moment when she opened the letter marked "Important—read at once." The blow, of course, must have fallen—it was right that it should fall—but oh! how it might have been tempered. Here is what she read, in that half-darkened library whither she had fled for refuge:
"Marcia Lawrence:—I suppose that you have never heard of me, yet I am your mother's only living relative, her father's sister. There are painful memories, perhaps, which have caused her to wish to forget me, and it is not to claim relationship or ask for love or sympathy that I write this letter, but to fulfil a sacred duty. A Merciful Providence turned my eyes, this morning, to an article in theTribune, describing your approaching marriage, of which I have hitherto been kept in ignorance. From the name, age, and circumstances given concerning the bridegroom's life, I am certain he is your brother, your mother's son, born in sin in this house thirty-one years ago. So are the iniquities of the parents visited upon the children. Ex. 34:7; 20:5. See also Le. 20:10; I. Cor. 6:13; Ro. 6:23. I thank God that He has enabled me to prevent this last iniquity. If any doubt remains to you, ask your mother for the story, or come to me and I will tell it you."Margaret Heminway."
"Marcia Lawrence:—I suppose that you have never heard of me, yet I am your mother's only living relative, her father's sister. There are painful memories, perhaps, which have caused her to wish to forget me, and it is not to claim relationship or ask for love or sympathy that I write this letter, but to fulfil a sacred duty. A Merciful Providence turned my eyes, this morning, to an article in theTribune, describing your approaching marriage, of which I have hitherto been kept in ignorance. From the name, age, and circumstances given concerning the bridegroom's life, I am certain he is your brother, your mother's son, born in sin in this house thirty-one years ago. So are the iniquities of the parents visited upon the children. Ex. 34:7; 20:5. See also Le. 20:10; I. Cor. 6:13; Ro. 6:23. I thank God that He has enabled me to prevent this last iniquity. If any doubt remains to you, ask your mother for the story, or come to me and I will tell it you.
"Margaret Heminway."
One can guess how this horrible letter palsied her; how this first face-to-face encounter with the world's sin and misery tortured and sickened her. But she shook the weakness off—they would be seeking her in a moment; she must flee, must hide herself, until she had time to think, to adjust herself to this new, corroding fact which had come into her life. So she sought the Kingdon cottage, the nearest, most convenient refuge, and there had written that hasty, despairing note and entrusted it to Lucy Kingdon, who had brought her a gown to replace that mockery of satin. She had remained there, hidden, during the long afternoon, secure in the knowledge that these women, whose devotion to her had a peculiar intensity which she had not quite understood, would not betray her.
Then, as soon as darkness fell, she had come to New York and sought Mrs. Heminway. She must be quite certain; she must know the whole truth. And that old, old woman, with all the grimness of her creed, told her the story bluntly and cruelly, as she told it to us. The child had not died, but had been placed with the family of the manager of her husband's estate on Long Island, who himself did not know its history; who had, in the end, adopted it and given it his name. There could be no mistaking.
I have called her merciless, for she seemed to glory in another's anguish, counting it fit retribution and a punishment from the Lord. Yet I trembled to think how more merciless she might have been had she withheld the truth!
And when she had heard the story, Marcia Lawrence could no longer doubt. But one great load was lifted from her, for she knew in her inmost heart that the story of that wild night drive was true—she knew that her mother had been guilty of no sin. There was a sweet comfort in the thought which made her burden less, though it did not alter the problem which she herself must face. She had been stabbed to the heart, and the wound was bleeding still. She had gone forth from the house white with agony; she wanted time to rest, to think, to grow accustomed to the world again. She had a battle to fight; and, hastily purchasing such clothing as she needed, she had taken the first boat for England, where she hoped to hide herself until the tumult in her heart subsided, and she had gathered courage to face the world and her lover.