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 theSilver 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 theSilver Arrowhad 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 theSilver 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----"
"Ourchild?" 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 theMorning Planetunder 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 didnotexpect 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 theMorning 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.