Maitland had asked them to send to the station for a woman to search Gwen and she had just arrived. We all requested that a most thorough examination should now be made to assure the officers that no one of us possessed the missing weapon. This done, the officers and departed for the night, assuring Gwen that there was nothing further to be done till morning, and Osborne, doubtless with a view to consoling her, said: “It may be a relief to you, miss, to know that there is scarcely a doubt that your father took his own life.” This had an effect upon Gwen very different from that which had been intended. Her face contracted, and it was plain to see she was beginning to think everyone was determined to force a falsehood upon her. Herne and Browne also prepared to take their leave. A glance from Maitland told me he wished me to remain with him a moment after the others had departed, and I accordingly did so.
When we were alone with Gwen he said to her: “I think I understand your feeling with regard to Mr. Osborne’s remark, as well as your conviction that it does not represent the truth. I foresaw they would come to this conclusion, and know very well the pains they will take to prove their hypothesis.” “Can nothing be done?” she asked beseechingly. “It is that of which I wish to speak,” he replied. “If you have sufficient confidence in me to place the case in my hands, I will do everything in my power to establish the truth,—on one condition,” and he glanced at her face, now pale and rigid from her long-continued effort of self-control. “And that condition is?” she said quickly. “That you follow my directions and permit me to order your movements in all things, so long as the case remains in my hands; if at any time I seek to abuse your faith, you are as free to discharge me as if I were a paid detective.” Gwen looked searchingly at him; then, extending her hand to him, she said impulsively: “You are very kind; I accept the condition. What shall I do?”
I tried to catch Maitland’s eye to tell him what he should counsel her, but a man with his ability to observe conditions and grasp situations can very well do without prompting. “First,” he said, “you must return home with the Doctor and spend the rest of the night with his sister; I shall stay here until morning; and second, I desire that you use your utmost endeavour to keep the incidents of this evening out of your mind. You cannot, of course, forget your loss, unless you sleep,”—and he gave me a look which said: “I depend on you to see to that,”—“but you must not continually re-enact the scene in imagination, In the morning the Doctor will come here to bring me my camera, microscope, and a few things I shall require “—and he passed me a list he had written. “If you have slept well you can be of considerable service, and may accompany him—if not, you must remain quietly at his house.” With this he turned to me, and said: “She is making a condenser of herself, Doctor, and will soon break through the insulation. Sparks will be dangerous—you must secure the brush effect.” He spoke quickly, and used electrical terms, that she might not understand him, but either he failed of his purpose, or the observation she immediately made was a strange coincidence. I believe she understood, for, while young women educated by their mothers are usually ignorant upon all the more masculine subjects, those who have long been their father’s companions are ever prone to startle one with the most unexpected flashes of intelligence. “I am in rather a high state of tension now,” she said, turning calmly to Maitland; “but when alone the expression which has been denied me here will afford relief.” Maitland glanced at her quickly, and then at me, and I knew he was wondering if she had understood. Then he said: “It is getting late. I shall expect you to sleep well and to come in the morning. Please say to the servants as you go that I shall stay here all night, and that no one must enter without permission. Good-night.” She held out her hand to him, but made no reply; then she fervently kissed her father’s lips, and together we left the chamber of death.
Death speaks with the tongue of Memory, and his ashen hand reachesout of the great unknown to seize and hold fast our plighted souls.
What Maitland’s reason was for spending the night with the dead body of Darrow, or how he busied himself until morning, I do not know. Perhaps he desired to make sure that everything remained untouched, or, it may be, that he chose this method of preventing Gwen from performing a vigil by the body. I thought this latter view very probable at the time, as I had been singularly impressed with the remarkable foresight my friend had displayed in so quickly and adroitly getting Gwen away from everything connected with her father’s sad and mysterious death.
Arriving at my house my sister took an early opportunity to urge upon Gwen a glass of wine, in which I had placed a generous sedative. The terrible tension soon began to relax, and in less than half an hour she was sleeping quietly. I dreaded the moment when she should awake and the memory of all that had happened should descend like an avalanche upon her. I told my sister that this would be a critical moment, cautioning her to stay by Gwen and to give her, immediately upon her arising, a draught I had prepared for the purpose of somewhat deadening her sensibilities. I arose early, and went to Maitland’s laboratory to collect the things he desired. When I returned Gwen was awake, and to my intense gratification in even a better condition than I had dared to hope.
It was quite late when we reached her house, and Maitland had evidently been at work several hours. He looked sharply at Gwen when she entered, and seemed much pleased at her condition. “You have obeyed my instructions, I see, and slept,” he said, as he gave her his hand. “Yes,” she replied, “I was very tired, and the doctor’s cordial quite overcame me;” and she cast an inquiring glance at the network of white string which Maitland had stretched across the carpet, dividing it into squares like an immense checker-board. In reply to her questioning look, he said: “French detectives are the most thorough in the world, and I am about to make use of their method of instituting an exhaustive search. Each one of the squares formed by these intersecting strings is numbered, and represents one square foot of carpet, the numbers running from one to two hundred and eighty-eight. Every inch of every one of these squares I shall examine under a microscope, and anything found which can be of any possible interest will be carefully preserved, and its exact location accurately marked upon this chart I have prepared, which, as you will see, has the same number of squares as the room, the area of each square being reduced from one square foot to one square inch. You will note that I have already marked the location of all doors, windows, and furniture. The weapon, if there be one, may be very minute, but if it be on the floor we may be assured the microscope will find it. The walls of the room, especially any shelving projections, and the furniture, I shall examine with equal thoroughness, though I have now some additional reasons for believing the weapon is not here.”
“Have you discovered anything new?” Gwen exclaimed, unable to control the excitement caused by this last remark. “You must pardon me,” Maitland rejoined, “if I ask you and the Doctor a question before replying.” She nodded assent, and he continued: “I wish to know if you agree with me that we shall be more likely to arrive at a solution of the problem before us if we keep our own counsel than if we take the officers of the law, or, for that matter, anyone else, into our confidence. You undoubtedly noticed how carefully M. Godin kept his own counsel. Official methods, and the hasty generalisations which form a part thereof—to say nothing of the petty rivalries and the passion for notoriety—can do much to hinder our own work, and, I believe, nothing to help it. What say you?” “That we keep our work to ourselves,” Gwen quickly rejoined, and I signified that I was of the same opinion. “Then,” Maitland continued, “I may say this in answer to your question. I have ascertained something which may bear upon the case in hand. You will remember that part of the gravel for redressing the croquet ground was dumped under the east window there. The painters, I learn, finished painting that side of the house yesterday forenoon before the gravel was removed and placed upon the ground, so that any footprints they may have made in it while about their work were obliterated. As you see, there was loose gravel left under the window to the depth of about two inches. I carefully examined this gravel this morning—there were no footprints.”
I glanced at Gwen; her face had a set expression, and she was deathly pale. “There were, however,” he continued, “places where the gravel had been tamped down as if by the pressure of a rectangular board. I examined these minutely and, by careful measurement and close scrutiny of some peculiar markings suggestive of the grain of wood, satisfied myself that the depressions in the gravel were made by two, and not, as I had at first thought, by one small piece of wood. I found further that these two boards had always borne certain relative relations to each other, and that when one had been turned around the other had undergone a similar rotation. This last is, in my mind, a most important point, for, when coupled with the fact that between any two impressions of the same board the distance was sensibly constant, and was that of a short stride, there could be no reasonable doubt but these boards had been worn upon some person’s feet. They could not have been thrown down merely to be stepped upon, for, in that case, they would not have borne fixed relations to each other—probably would not have been turned end for end at all—and certainly, both would not always have happened to get turned at the same time. I procured a board of the combined area of the two supposed to have made the impressions in the gravel, and weighted it down until, as nearly as I could measure, it impacted the soil to the same extent the others had. The weight was one hundred and thirty-five pounds, which is about right for a man five feet five inches tall. The position of the depressions in the gravel indicated a stride just about right for a man of that height.
“There was one other most important discovery which I made after I had divided the impressions into two classes—according as they were produced by the right or left board—which was that when the right foot was thrown forward the stride was from three to four inches longer than when the left foot led. Directly under the window there was a deep impression in the sand. I took a plaster cast of it, and here it is,” he said, producing an excellent facsimile of a closed hand. “There can be little doubt,” he continued, “from the position occupied by the depression, of which this is a reverse copy, that it was either accidentally made by someone who, stooping before the east window to avoid obstructing its light, suddenly lost his balance and regained his equilibrium by thus thrusting out his hand, or—and this seems far more likely to me—that the hand was deliberately placed in the gravel in order to steady its possessor while he performed some peculiar operation.”
At this point I ventured to ask why he regarded the latter view as so much more tenable than the former. “There are several reasons,” he replied, “which render the view I prefer to take all but certain. First, the impression was made by the left hand. Second, it is the impression of a closed hand, with the upper joints of the fingers undermost. Did you ever know one to save himself from falling by thrusting out a closed hand? Certainly not. There is a certain amount of fear, however slight, invariably associated with losing one’s balance. This sentiment, so far as the hand is concerned, is expressed by opening it and spreading the fingers. This he would instinctively have done, if falling. Then there is the position of the impression relative to the window and some slight testimony upon the sill and glass, for the thorough investigation of which I have been obliged to await my microscope. I have worked diligently, but that is all I have been able to accomplish.”
“All!” exclaimed Gwen, regarding him with ill-concealed admiration. “It seems to me a very great deal. The thoroughness, the minuteness of it all, overwhelms me; but, tell me, have your discoveries led you to any conclusion?” “No,” he replied, “nothing definite yet; I must not allow myself to become wedded to any theory, so long as there is anything further to be learned. If I were to hazard a few idle guesses, I should say your father was murdered in some mysterious way—by a person about five feet five inches tall, weighing, say, one hundred and thirty-five pounds, and having a lame leg, or, perhaps, one limb shorter than the other,—at all events having some deformity or ailment causing a variation in the length of the strides. I should guess also that this person’s feet had some marked peculiarity, since such pains had been taken to conceal the footprints. Then the cast of the hand here encourages speculation. Fingers long, slim, and delicate, save at the nails, where, with the exception of the little finger, are to be found unmistakable signs of the habit of biting the nails,—see, here are the hang-nails,—but, strange to say, the nail of the little finger has been spared, and suffered to grow to an unusual length. I ask myself why this particular nail has been so favoured, and can only answer, ‘because it has some peculiar use.’ It is clear this is not the hand of a manual labourer; the joints are too small, the fingers too delicate, the texture of the skin, which is clearly visible, much too fine—in short, wouldn’t it pass anywhere for a woman’s hand? Say a woman who bit her nails. If it were really such there would be a pair of feminine feet also to be concealed, and boards would do it very nicely—but this is all guesswork, and must not be allowed to affect any subsequent conclusions. If you will excuse me a few minutes I will use the microscope a little on the sill of the east window before we are interrupted by our friends the officers, who will be sure to be here soon.”
While Maitland was thus engaged I did all in my power to distract Gwen’s attention, as much as possible, from her father’s body. Whenever she regarded it, the same intense and set expression overspread her countenance as that which at first had alarmed me. I was glad when Maitland returned from the window and began mixing some of the chemicals I had brought him, for Gwen invariably followed all his movements, as if her very existence depended upon her letting nothing escape her. Maitland, who had asked me for a prescription blank, now dipped it in the chemicals he had mixed and, this accomplished, put the paper in his microscope box to dry.
“I have something here,” he said, “which I desire to photograph quite as much as this room and some of its larger objects,” and he pinned a tiny, crumpled mass against the wall, and made an exposure of it in that condition. “Do you know what this is?” he said, as he carefully smoothed it out for another picture. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” I said. “It is plain enough under the microscope,” he continued, placing it upon the slide, and adjusting the focus. “Would you like to examine it, Miss Darrow?” Gwen had scarcely put her eye to the instrument before she exclaimed: “Why, it’s a piece of thin outside bark from a twig of alder.” Maitland’s face was a study... “Would you mind telling me,” he said deliberately, “how you found that out so quickly?” She hesitated a moment, and then said methodically, pointing toward the water, “I know the alder well—our boat is moored near a clump of them.” “You are a keen observer,” he replied, as he took the prepared paper from his box and spread the film of bark upon it to take a blue print of it. “There is one other object upon the sill which, unfortunately, I cannot take away with me,” he continued, “but shall have to content myself with photographing. I refer to a sinuous line made in the paint, while green, and looking as if a short piece of rope, or, more properly, rubber tubing, since there is no rope-like texture visible, had been dropped upon it, and hastily removed—but see, here are Osborne and Allen looking for all the world as if they were prepared to demonstrate a fourth dimension of space. Now we shall see the suicide theory proved—to their own satisfaction, at least. But, whatever they say, don’t forget we are to keep our own work to ourselves.”
The two officers were alone. M. Godin had apparently decided to work by himself. This did not in the least surprise me, since I could easily see that he had nothing to gain by working with these two officers.
“We’ve solved the matter,” was the first thing Osborne said after passing the time of day. “Indeed?” replied Maitland in a tone which was decidedly ambiguous; “you make it suicide, I suppose?” “That’s just what we make it,” returned the other. “We hadn’t much doubt of it last night, but there were some things, such as the motive, for example, not quite clear to us; but it is all as plain as daylight now.”
“And what says M. Godin?” asked Maitland.
Mr. Osborne burst into a loud guffaw.
“Oho, but that’s good! What says M. Godin? I say, Allen, Maitland wants to know what ‘Frenchy’ says,” and the pair laughed boisterously. “It’s plain enough you don’t know,” he continued, addressing Maitland. “He’s tighter ‘n any champagne bottle you ever saw. The corkscrew ain’t invented that’ll draw a word out of M. Godin. You saw him making notes here last night. Well, the chances are that if this were a murder case, which it isn’t, you’d see no more of M. Godin till he bobbed up some day, perhaps on the other side of the earth, with a pair of twisters on the culprit. He’s a ‘wiz,’ is M. Godin. What does he think? He knows what he thinks, and he’s the only individual on the planet that enjoys that distinction. I say, Allen, do you pump ‘Frenchy’ for the gentleman’s enlightenment,” and again the pair laughed long and heartily.
“Well, then,” said Maitland, “since we can’t have M. Godin’s views we shall have to content ourselves with those of your more confiding selves. Let’s hear all about the suicide theory.”
“I think,” said Osborne in an undertone, “you had better ask Miss Darrow to withdraw for a few moments, as there are some details likely to pain her.” This suggestion was intended only for Maitland, but the officer, used to talking in the open air, spoke so loudly that we all overheard him. “I thank you for your consideration,” Gwen said to him, “but I would much prefer to remain. There can be nothing connected with this matter which I cannot bear to hear, or should not know. Pray proceed.”
Osborne, anxious to narrate his triumph, needed no further urging. “We felt sure,” he began, “that it was a case of suicide, but were perplexed to know why Mr. Darrow should wish to make it appear a murder. Of course, we thought he might wish to spare his daughter the shame such an act would visit upon her, but when this was exchanged for the horrible notoriety of murder, the motive didn’t seem quite sufficient, so we looked for a stronger one—and found it.” “Ah! you are getting interesting,” Maitland observed.
Osborne cast a furtive glance at Gwen, and then continued: “We learned on inquiry that certain recent investments of Mr. Darrow’s had turned out badly. In addition to this he had been dealing somewhat extensively in certain electric and sugar stocks, and when the recent financial crash came, he found himself unable to cover his margins, and was so swept clean of everything. Nor is this all; he had lost a considerable sum of money in yet another way—just how my informant would not disclose—and all of these losses combined made his speedy failure inevitable. Under such conditions many another man has committed suicide, unable to face financial ruin. But this man had a daughter to consider, and, as I have already said, he would wish to spare her the disgrace which the taking of his own life would visit upon her, and, more than all, would desire that she should not be left penniless. The creditors would make away with his estate, and his daughter be left a beggar. We could see but one way of his preventing this, and that was to insure his life in his daughter’s favour. We instituted inquiries at the insurance offices, and found that less than a month ago he had taken out policies in various companies aggregating nearly fifty thousand dollars, whereas, up to that time, he had been carrying only two thousand dollars insurance. Why this sudden and tremendous increase? Clearly to provide for his daughter after his act should have deprived her of his own watchful care. And now we can plainly see why he wished his suicide to pass for murder. He had been insured but a month, and immediate ruin stared him in the face. His death must be consummated at once, and yet, by our law, a man who takes his life before the payment of his second annual insurance premium relieves the company issuing his policy of all liability thereunder, and robs his beneficiary of the fund intended for her. Here, then, is a sufficient motive, and nothing more is required to make the whole case perfectly clear. Of course, it would be a little more complete if we could find the weapon, but even without it, there can be no doubt, in the light of our work, that John Darrow took his own life with the intentions, and for the purposes, I have already set forth.”
“Upon my soul, gentlemen,” exclaimed Maitland, “you have reasoned that out well! Did you carefully read the copies of the various policies when interrogating the companies insuring Mr. Darrow?” “Hardly,” Osborne replied. “We learned from the officials all we needed to know, and didn’t waste any time in gratifying idle curiosity.” A long-drawn “hm-m” was the only reply Maitland vouchsafed to this. “We regret,” said Osborne, addressing Gwen, “that our duty, which has compelled us to establish the truth in this matter, has been the means of depriving you of the insurance money which your father intended for you.” Gwen bowed, and a slight enigmatical smile played for a moment about her lips, but she made no other reply, and, as neither Maitland nor I encouraged conversation, the two officers wished us a good-morning, and left the house without further remark.
“I wish to ask you a few questions,” Maitland said to Gwen as soon as the door had closed behind Osborne and his companion, “and I beg you will remember that in doing so, however personal my inquiries may seem, they have but one object in view—the solution of this mystery.” “I have already had good proof of your singleness of purpose,” she replied. “Only too gladly will I give you any information in my possession. Until this assassin is found, and my father’s good name freed from the obloquy which has been cast upon it, my existence will be but a blank,—yes, worse, it will be an unceasing torment; for I know my father’s spirit—if the dead have power to return to this earth—can never rest with this weight of shame upon it.” As she spoke these words the depth of grief she had hitherto so well concealed became visible for a moment, and her whole frame shook as the expression of her emotion reacted upon her. The next instant she regained her old composure, and said calmly:
“You see I have every reason to shed whatever light I can upon this dark subject.”
“Please, then, to answer my questions methodically, and do not permit yourself to reason why I have asked them. What was your father’s age?”
“Sixty-two.”
“Did he drink?”
“No.”
“Did he play cards?”
“Yes.”
“Poker?”
“Yes, and several other games.”
“Was he as fond of them as of croquet?”
“No; nothing pleased him as croquet did—nothing, unless it were chess.”
“Hum! Do you play chess?”
“Yes; I played a good deal with father.”
“What kind of a game did he play?”
“I do not understand you. He played a good game; my father did not enjoy doing anything that he could not do well.”
“I mean to ask if his positions were steadily sustained—or if, on the other hand, his manoeuvres were swift, and what you might call brilliant.”
“I think you would call them brilliant.”
“Hum! How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Tell me your relations with your father.”
“We were most constant companions. My mother—she and my father—they were not altogether companionable—in short, they were ill-mated, and, being wise enough to find it out, and having no desire to longer embitter each other’s lives, they agreed to separate when I was only four. They parted without the slightest ill-feeling, and I remained with father. He was very fond of me, and would permit no one else to teach me. At seven I was drawing and painting under his guidance. At eight the violin was put into my hands and my studies in voice began. In the meantime father was most careful not to neglect my physical training; he taught me the use of Indian clubs, and how to walk easily. At eight I could walk four miles an hour without fatigue. The neighbours used to urge that I be put to school, but my father would reply—many a time I have heard him say it—‘a child’s brain is like a flower that blossoms in perceptions and goes to seed in abstractions. Correct concepts are the raw material of reason. Every desk in your school is an intellectual loom which is expected to weave a sound fabric out of rotten raw material. While your children are wasting their fibre in memorising the antique errors of classical thought my child is being fitted to perceive new truths for herself.’ It is needless to say his friends considered these views altogether too radical. But for all that I was never sent to school. My father’s library was always at my disposal, and I was taught how to use it. We were constantly together, and grew so into each other’s lives that “—but her voice failed her, and her eyes moistened. Maitland, though he apparently did not notice her emotion, so busy was he in making notes, quickly put a question which diverted her attention.
“Your father seemed last night to have a presentiment of some impending calamity. Was this a common experience?”
“Of late, yes. He has told me some six or seven times of dreaming the same dreams—a dream in which some assassin struck him out of the darkness.” “Did you at any of these times notice anything which might now lead you to believe this fancied repetition was the result of any mental malady?”
“No.”
“Was his description of the dreams always the same?”
“No; never were they twice alike, save in the one particular of the unseen assassin.”
“Hum!, Did the impression of these dreams remain long with him?”
“He never recovered from it, and each dream only accentuated his assurance that the experience was prophetic. When once I tried to dissuade him from this view, he said to me: ‘Gwen, it is useless; I am making no mistake. When I am gone you will know why I am now so sure—I cannot tell you now, it would only ‘—here he stopped short, and, turning abruptly to me, said with a fierceness entirely alien to his disposition: ‘Hatred is foreign to my nature, but I hate that man with a perfect hell of loathing! Have I been a kind father to you, Gwen? If so, promise me ‘—and he seized me by the wrist—’ promise me if I’m murdered—I may as well say when I’m murdered—you will look upon the man who brings my assassin to justice—the thought that he may escape is damning—as your dearest friend on earth! You will deny him nothing. You will learn later that I have taken care to reward him. My child, you will owe this man a debt you can never repay, for he will have enabled your father’s soul to find repose. I dreamed last night that I came back from the dead, and heard my avenger ask you to be his wife. You refused, and at your ingratitude my restless soul returned to torment everlasting. Swear to me, Gwen, that you’ll deny him nothing, nothing, nothing!’ I promised him, and he seemed much reassured. ‘I am satisfied,’ he said, ‘and now can die in peace, for you are an anomaly, Gwen,—a woman who fully knows the nature of a covenant,’ and he put his arm about me, and drew me to him. His fierceness had subsided as quickly as it had appeared, and he was now all tenderness.”
Maitland, who appeared somewhat agitated by her recital, said to her: “After the exaction of such a promise you have, of course, no doubt that your father was the victim of a mental malady—at least, at such times as those of which you speak?”
Gwen replied deliberately: “Indeed, I have grave doubts. My father was possessed by a strange conviction, but I never saw anything which impressed me as indicating an unsound mind. I am, of course, scarcely fitted to judge in such matters.”
Maitland’s face darkened as he asked: “You would not have me infer that you would consider your promise in any sense binding?”
“And why not?” she ejaculated in astonishment.
“Because,” he continued, “the request is so unnatural as to be in itself sufficient evidence that it was not made by a man in his right mind.”
“I cannot agree with you as to my father’s condition,” Gwen replied firmly; “yet you may be right; I only know that I, at least, was in my right mind, and that I promised. If it cost me my life to keep that pledge, I shall not hesitate a moment. Have you forgotten that my father’s last words were, ‘remember your promise’?” She glanced up at Maitland as she said this, and started a little as she saw the expression of pain upon his face. “I seem to you foolishly deluded,” she said apologetically; “and you are displeased to see that my purpose is not shaken. Think of all my father was to me, and then ask yourself if I could betray his faith. The contemplation of the subject is painful at best; its realisation may, from the standpoint of a sensitive woman, be fraught with unspeakable horror,—I dare not think of it! May we not change the subject?”
For a long time Maitland did not speak, and I forbore to break the silence. At last he said: “Let us hope, if the supposed assassin be taken, the discovery may be made by someone worthy the name of man—someone who will not permit you to sacrifice either yourself or your money.” Gwen glanced at him quickly, for his voice was strangely heavy and inelastic, and an unmistakable gloom had settled upon him. I thought she was a little startled, and I was considering if I had not better call her aside and explain that he was subject to these moods, when he continued, apparently unaware of the impression he had made: “Do you realise how strong a case of suicide the authorities have made out? Like all of their work it has weak places. We must search these in order to overthrow their conclusion. The insurance policies they were ‘too busy’ to read we must peruse. Then, judging from your story, there seems little doubt that your father has left some explanation of affairs hitherto not confided to you—some document which he has reserved for your perusal after his death. No time should be lost in settling this question. The papers may be here, or in the hands of his attorney. Let us search here first.”
“His private papers,” Gwen said, rising to lead the way, “are in his desk in the study.”
“One moment, please,” Maitland interrupted, calling her back, “I have something I have been trying to ask you for the last hour, but have repeatedly put off. I believe your father’s death to have resulted from poisoning. You know the result of the post-mortem inquest. It is necessary to make an analysis of the poison, if there be any, and an absolutely thorough microscopic examination of the wound. I—I regret to pain you—but to do this properly it will be necessary to cut away the wounded portion. Have we your permission to do so?”
For a moment Gwen did not answer. She fell upon her knees before her father’s body, and kissed the cold face passionately. For the first time since the tragedy she found relief in tears. When she arose a great change had come over her. She was very pale and seized a chair for support as she replied to Maitland’s question between the convulsive sobs which she seemed powerless to check: “I—I have bidden him good-bye. We shall but obey his command in sparing no pains to reach the assassin. You—you have my permission to do anything—everything—that may be—necessary to that end. I—I know you will be as gentle—” But she could not finish her sentence. The futility of gentleness—the realisation that her father was forever past all need of tenderness, fell like a shroud about her soul. The awakening I had dreaded had come. Her hand fell from the chair, she staggered, and would have fallen to the floor had not Maitland caught her in his arms.
Father of all surveyors, Time drags his chain of rust throughevery life, and only Love—unaging God of the Ages—immeasurable,keeps his untarnished youth.
Maitland carried the unconscious girl into the study, and for some time we busied ourselves in bringing her to herself. When this task was accomplished we did not feel like immediately putting any further tax upon her strength. Maitland insisted that she should rest while he and I ransacked the desk, and, ever mindful of her promise to obey his instructions, she yielded without remonstrance. Our search revealed the insurance policies, and a sealed envelope bearing the inscription: “To Miss Gwen Darrow, to be opened after the death of John Darrow,” and three newspapers with articles marked in blue pencil. I read the first aloud. It ran as follows:
I have reason to believe an attempt will sooner or later be made upon my life, and that the utmost cunning will be employed to lead the authorities astray. The search for the assassin will be long, expensive, and discouraging—just such a task as is never successfully completed without some strong personal incentive. This I propose to supply in advance. My death will place in my daughter’s hands a fund of fifty thousand dollars, to be held in trust by her, and delivered, in the event of my being murdered, to such person or persons as shall secure evidence leading to the conviction of the murderer.
(Signed) JOHN HINTON DARROW.
I glanced at the other two papers—the marked article was the same in each. “I wonder what your friend Osborne would say to that,” I said to Maitland.
“How old are the papers?” he replied.
“March 15th,—only a little over a month,” I answered.
“Let me see them, please,” he said. “Hum! All of the same date, and each in the paid part of the paper! It is clear Mr. Darrow inserted these singular notices himself. I will tell you what Osborne will say when he learns of these articles. He will say they strengthen his theory; that no sane man would publish such a thing, except as a weak attempt to deceive the insurance companies. As for the money all being paid to the discoverer of the assassin, instead of to his daughter, he will simply dispose of that by saying: ‘No assassin, no reward, and the fund remains intact.’ If now, the other papers permit Miss Darrow to use the interest of this fund while holding the principal in trust, we do not at present know enough of this matter to successfully refute Osborne’s reasoning. This mystery seems to grow darker rather than lighter. The one thing upon which we seem continually to get evidence is the question of sanity. If Mr. Darrow’s suspicions were directed against no one in particular, then it is clear his dreams, and all the rest of his fears for that matter, had a purely subjective origin, which is to say that upon this one subject, at least, he was of unsound mind.”
“I cannot think so,” Gwen interrupted. “He was so rational in everything else.”
“That is quite possible,” I replied. “I have known people to be monomaniacs upon the subject of water, and to go nowhere without a glass of it in their hands. There is also a well-authenticated case of a man who was as sane as you or I until he heard the words ‘real estate.’ One day while quietly carving the meat at a dinner to which he had invited several guests, a gentleman opposite him inadvertently spoke the fatal words, when, without a word of warning, he sprang at him across the table, using the carving-knife with all the fury of the most violent maniac; and yet, under all other conditions, he was perfectly rational.”
“If, on the other hand,” said Maitland, continuing his remarks as if unaware of our interruption, “Mr. Darrow’s suspicions had any foundation in fact, it is almost certain they must have been directed against some specific person or persons. If so, why did he not name them?—but, stay—how do we know that he did not? Let us proceed with our examination of the papers,” and he began perusing the insurance policies. Neither Gwen nor I spoke till he had finished and thrown them down, when we both turned expectantly toward him.
“All in Osborne’s favour so far,” he said. “Principal to be held in trust by Miss Darrow under the terms of a will which we have yet to find; the income, until the discharge of the trust, to go to Miss Darrow. Now for this,” and he passed Gwen the sealed envelope addressed to her.
She broke the seal with much agitation. “Shall I read it aloud?” she asked.
We signified our desire to hear it, and she read as follows:
MY DEAR GWEN:
My forebodings have seemed to you strange and uncalled for, but when this comes to your hand you will know whether or not they were groundless. Of one episode in my career which shook the structure of my being to its foundation stone, you have been carefully kept in ignorance. It is necessary that you should know it when I am gone, and I have accordingly committed it to this paper, which will then fall into your hands. My early life, until two years after I married your mother, was spent in India, the adult portion thereof being devoted to the service of the East India Company. I had charge of a department in their depot at Bombay. You have seen Naples. Add to the beauties of that city the interesting and motley population of Cairo and you can form some idea of the attractions of Bombay. I was very happy there until the occurrence of the event I am about to narrate.
One morning, my duties calling me to one of the wharves, my attention was attracted by a young girl dancing upon the flags by the water’s edge. The ordinary bayadere is so common an object in India as to attract but little notice from anyone of refined tastes, but this girl, judging from the chaste beauty of her movements, was of a very different type. As my curiosity drew me nearer to her she turned her face toward me, and in that instant I knew my hour had come.
Though many years her senior she was still my first love,—the one great passion of my life.
I do not attempt to describe her ineffable loveliness, for, like the beauty of a flower, it was incapable of analysis. Nothing that I could write would give you any adequate idea of this girl’s seraphic face, for she was like unto no one you have ever seen in this cold Western world. I watched in a wild, nervous transport, I know not how long—time and space had no part in this new ecstasy of mine! I could think of nothing, do nothing—only feel,—feel the hot blood deluge my brain only to fall back in scalding torrents upon my heart with a pain that was exquisite pleasure.
Suddenly she changed her step and executed a quick backward movement toward the water, stopping just as her heels touched the curb at the edge of the wharf; then forward, and again a quick return to the backward movement, but this time she mistook the distance, her heels struck the curb forcibly, and she was precipitated backward into the water. For a moment I stood as one petrified, unable to reason, much less to act; then the excited voices of the crowd recalled me. They had thrown a rope into the water and were waiting for her to come to the surface and grasp it. The wall from which she had fallen must have been at least fifteen feet above the water, which was littered with broken spars, pieces of timber, and other odd bits of wood. It seemed as if she would never come to the surface, and when at length she did, she did not attempt to seize the rope thrown to her, but sank without a movement. The truth flashed upon me in an instant. She had struck her head against some of the floating drift and was unconscious! Something must be done at once. I seized the rope and sprang in after her, taking good care to avoid obstructions, and although, as you know, I never learned to swim, I succeeded in reaching her, and we were drawn up together. I bore her in my arms into one of the storerooms close by, and, laying her upon a bale of cotton, used such restoratives as could be quickly procured.
I was kneeling by her, my arm under her neck, in the act of raising her head, when she opened her eyes, and fastened them, full of wonderment, upon my face. A moment more, her memory returning to her, she made a little movement, as if to free herself. I was too excited then to heed it, and continued to support her head. She did not repeat the movement, but half closed her eyes and leaned back resignedly against my arm. If, I thought, these few minutes could be expanded into an eternity, it would be my idea of heaven. She was recovering rapidly now and soon raised herself into a sitting posture, saying, in very good English, “I think I can stand now, Sahib.” I gave her my arm and assisted her to her feet. Her hand closed upon my sleeve as if to see how wet it was, and glancing at my dripping garments, she said simply: “You have been in the water, Sahib, and it is to you I owe my life. I shall never forget your kindness.” She raised her eyes to my face and met my gaze for a moment, as she spoke. We are told that the eye is incapable of any expression save that lent it by the lids and brow,—that the eyeball itself, apart from its direction, and the changes of the pupil resulting from variations in the intensity of light, can carry no message whatsoever. This may be so, but, without any noticeable movement of the eyes that met mine, I learned with ineffable delight that this young girl’s soul and mine were threaded upon the same cord of destiny. My emotion so overpowered me that I could not speak, and when my self-possession returned the young girl had vanished.
From the height of bliss I now plunged into the abyss of despair. I had let her go without a word. I did not even know her name. I had caught her to myself from the ocean only to suffer her to drown herself among the half-million inhabitants of Bombay. What must she think of me? I asked the wharfinger if he knew her, but he had never seen her before. All my other inquiries proved equally fruitless. I wondered if she knew that I loved her, but hardly dared to hope she had been able to correctly interpret my boorish conduct. I could think of but one thing to do. If I did not know her name, neither did she know mine, and so if she desired a further acquaintance, she, like myself, must rely upon a chance meeting. If she had detected my admiration for her she must know that I too would strive to meet her again. Where would she be most likely to expect me to look for her? Clearly at the same place we had met before, and at the same time of day. She might naturally think my duties called me there daily at that hour. I determined to be there at the same time the next day.
I arrived to find her there before me, anxiously peering at the passers-by. She was certainly looking for me,—there was ecstasy in the thought!
It is not necessary, my dear child, that I should describe the details of our love-making, for my present purpose is not merely to interest you, but rather to acquaint you with certain occurrences which I now deem it wise you should know. Time only intensified our love for each other, and for several months all went well. One serious obstacle to our union presented itself,—that of caste. Her people, Lona said, would never permit her to marry outside her own station in life, besides which there was another ground upon which we might be equally sure of their opposition. They had already chosen for her and she was betrothed to Rama Ragobah. It is of this man that I have chiefly to speak. By birth he was of the same Vaisya caste as Lona. Early in life his lot had fallen among fakirs and he had acquired all their secrets. This did not satisfy his ambitions, for he wished to be numbered among the rishis or adepts, and subjected himself to the most horrible asceticism to qualify himself for adeptship. His indifference to physical pain was truly marvellous. He had rolled his naked body to the Ganges over hundreds of miles of burning sands! He had held his hands clinched until the nails had worn through the palm and out at the back of the hand. He had at one time maintained for weeks a slow fire upon the top of his head, keeping the skin burned to the skull.
When he came wooing Lona, his rigid asceticism had much relaxed, but he would still seek to amuse her by driving knives into his body until she would sicken at the blood, a condition of affairs which, she said, afforded him great enjoyment. Ragobah was a man of gigantic build and immense physical strength. His features were heavy and forbidding. You are familiar with pictures of Nana Sahib. If I had not known this fiend to have died while beset in a swamp, I should have mistaken Ragobah for him. It was to such a being that Lona was betrothed in spite of the loathing her parents knew she felt for him. She told me all this one night at our accustomed tryst on Malabar Hill. We had chosen to meet here on account of the beauty of the place and the seclusion it offered. There, on bright moonlit nights, with the sea and the city below me, the “Tower of Silence” in the Parsees’ burial plot ablaze with reflected glory, the majestic banyan over me rustling gently in the soft sea breeze, while Lona nestled close beside me,—the exquisite perfume of the luxuriant garden less welcome than the delicious fragrance of her breath,—hours fraught with years of bliss would pass as if but pulse-beats. In the world of love the heart is the only true timepiece. On one or two occasions Lona had thought she had been followed when coming to meet me, and she began to conceive a strange dislike for a little cavelike recess in the rocks just back of the tree by which we sat. I tried on one occasion to reassure her by telling her it was so shallow that, with the moonlight streaming into it, I could see clear to the back wall, and arose to enter it to convince her there was no one there, but she clung to me in terror, saying: “Don’t go! Don’t leave me! I was foolish to mention it. I cannot account for my fear,—and yet, do you know,” she continued in a low, frightened tone, “there is a shaft at the back of the cave that has, they say, no bottom, but goes down,—down,—down,—-hundreds of feet to the sea?” It is useless, as you know only too well, to strive to reason down a presentiment, and so, instead, I sought to make use of her fear in the accomplishment of my dearest wish. “Why need we,” I urged, “come here; why longer continue these clandestine meetings? Let us be brave, darling, in our loves. Your people have chosen another husband for you,—my people another wife for me; but we are both quite able to choose for ourselves. We have done so, and it is our most sacred duty to adhere to and consummate that choice. Let us, I beseech you, do so without further delay. Dearest, meet me here to-morrow night prepared for a journey. We will take the late train for Matheron Station, where I have friends who can be trusted. We will be married immediately upon our arrival, and can communicate by post with our respective families, remaining away from them until they are glad to welcome us with open arms.”
She raised some few objections to my plan and expressed some misgivings, but she loved me and I was able to reason away the one and kiss away the other, and with our souls upon our lips we parted for the night. The last thing I had said to her,—I remember it as if it all happened yesterday,—was: “Think of it, dear heart, there will be no more such partings between us after to-night!” and she had replied by silently nestling closer to me and twining her arms about my neck. And so we parted on that never-to-be-forgotten night more than a score of years ago.
The twenty-four hours intervening between this parting and our next meeting may be passed over in silence, as nothing occurred during that time at all essential to the purpose this narrative subserves. The longed-for time came at last and, with a depth of happiness I had never known before—a peace passing all understanding—I set out for Malabar Hill. The night was perfect and the moonlight so bright I could distinctly see the air-roots of our trysting tree when more than a quarter of a mile away. I thought at the time how this tree, with its crown of luxuriant foliage and its writhing roots, might well pass for some gigantic Medusa-head with its streaming serpent-hair. As I neared the tree Lona stepped from behind it and awaited my approach. She was even more impatient than I, I thought, and my heart beat more wildly than ever. “Sweet saint, have I kept you waiting?” I asked, as I came within speaking distance of her. She stood motionless against the tree and apparently did not hear me. I waited till I was within ten feet of her and repeated the question, but, although she fixed her unfathomable eyes full upon mine, she made no reply, and gave no evidence of having heard me. I stood as if petrified. A nameless dread was settling upon me, paralysing my faculties. She had always before sprung forward at sight of me and thrown herself with a bewitching little pirouette into my arms, now she stood coldly aloof, silent and motionless, on this, our wedding night! I waited for some word of explanation, but none came. The suspense became unbearable—I could endure it no longer!
“For God’s sake, what has happened?” I cried, rushing forward to seize her in my arms. She raised her right hand above her head and, as I had almost reached her, threw something full in my face! Instinctively I struck at it with my walking-stick, and it fell in the grass at my feet,—it was a young Indian cobra—Naja tripudians—a serpent of the deadliest sort. I did not pause to reason how this sweet angel had been so quickly changed into a venomous fiend, although the thought that somehow she had been led to think me false to her, and that this act was the swift vengeance of her hot Eastern blood, flashed momentarily through my mind,—all that could be explained as soon as I had her nestling in my arms. I reached forward to embrace her, but she struck me in the face and fled! For an instant my heart stood still. It seemed to me it would never start, but it soon began to throb again like a thing of lead, and the blood it pumped was cold, for the winter had closed in upon it. The elasticity of my life, that ineffable resiliency of the soul which makes us more than beasts of burden, was gone forever. An automaton, informed only with the material life, remained,—the spirit followed that fleeting figure down the hill. More than twenty years have passed and still the unrewarded chase continues!
But it is to facts I have to call your attention, rather than to their effects. A flutter of white muslin in the moonlit distance was all that was visible of the retreating girl when I started mechanically, and without any particular purpose in view, in pursuit of her. My path lay by the banyan tree under which we had so often sat, but every air-root seemed changed to a writhing serpent. As I threaded my way among them, a man stepped from behind the trunk and disputed my passage. His gigantic form was silhouetted against the mass of rock forming the entrance to the little cave. The bright moonlight did what it could to illumine that sinister face. It was Rama Ragobah! For fully a minute we stood silently face to face, each expecting the assault of the other. It was Ragobah who spoke first. “She is mine, body and soul; and the English cur may find a mate in his own kennel!” He bent toward me and hissed these words in my very face. His hot breath seemed to poison me. It made me beside myself. I knew he meant to take advantage of his physical superiority and attack me, by the narrow watch he kept upon the heavy walking-stick I still carried in my right hand. He had expected I would attempt to strike with this, but my constant practice at boxing had made my fists the more natural weapon. I was so enraged I did not notice he was too close to use my stick to advantage. I simply acted without any thought whatever. His attitude was such, as he hissed his venom into my face, as to enable me to give him a powerful “upper cut” under the jaw. This, as I was so much lighter than he, was the most effective blow I could deliver; yet, although it took him off his feet, it did not disable him. I had not succeeded in placing it as I had intended, and it had only the effect of rendering him demoniacal. In an instant he was again upon his feet, and unsheathing a long knife. I knew it meant death for me if he were able to close with me. It was useless for me to call for help, for in those days this part of Malabar Hill was as deserted as a wilderness. Now, the very spot on which we stood is highly cultivated, and forms a part of the garden of the Blasehek villa. There, early in the eighties, as the guest of the hospitable Herr Blasehek, Professor Ernst Haeckel botanised a week, on his way to Ceylon. Now, in response to a cry from his intended victim, an assassin might be frustrated by assistance from a dozen bungalows, but at the time of which I write, the victim, if he were wise, saved his breath for the struggle which he knew he must make unaided.