CHAPTER XXIV.
I DISCOVER THE IDENTITY OF THE DUMPLING.
Theinquest over—for two mortal days I was kept hanging about Southend, to the mortuary of which the bodies had been taken—I returned to town, eager to see Kate, and to compel from her dear lips a second sweet admission that I was not without a place in her heart. Something there was in the look of the house—the drawn blinds of the reception rooms, the fact that, except for the hall and the basement, the place was in darkness—which turned me cold and sick with apprehension and with a sense of coming evil.
"Good evening, Metcalfe," I said, when the door was opened by that worthy. "Are the ladies in?—Miss Carleton, or Miss Kate?"
"No, sir," he said, looking at me queerly. "They have left town, but there's a letter—two letters—for you, sir. If you'll come in I'll get them."
"Left town?" I said, blankly. Then, recovering myself—for I did not desire toenliven theennuiof Metcalfe and his fellow-servants by providing them with matter for speculation and discussion concerning the relations which existed between their young mistress and myself—I added, unconcernedly:
"Oh, yes—of course. I had forgotten it was to be so soon, and I have been out of town myself. Where are the letters, Metcalfe?"
"On the library table, sir. Perhaps you'll walk in. Can I get you some coffee, sir?"
"No, thank you. I'm just up from the country, and haven't dined. But I'll go into the library to read my letters. If any answer should happen to be wanted, I could write it there, and so catch an early post. I shan't want you any more, Metcalfe. Don't wait."
The man withdrew, and I opened the first of my letters.
It was from Kate.
Good-bye, dear Max; good-bye for ever. Something horrible has happened, and you and I must never see each other again. So we have gone—my aunt and I. It was the only way. If you love me, do not try to find us. It will be quite useless. If you love me, keep your promise—the promise, I mean, that you refused to me. You will not refuse it to me now, I know—the first and last promise I shallever ask from you. One thing more, only, I will ask you—not to promise, but to believe; and that is that the answer I gave to your last question, as we stood together by the window, was true.—Kate.
Good-bye, dear Max; good-bye for ever. Something horrible has happened, and you and I must never see each other again. So we have gone—my aunt and I. It was the only way. If you love me, do not try to find us. It will be quite useless. If you love me, keep your promise—the promise, I mean, that you refused to me. You will not refuse it to me now, I know—the first and last promise I shallever ask from you. One thing more, only, I will ask you—not to promise, but to believe; and that is that the answer I gave to your last question, as we stood together by the window, was true.—Kate.
I suppose it was because I had opened it, prepared for some shock, some calamity, that I read this letter with such calmness, such impassiveness. Instead of springing up to stride the room, like one beside himself, instead of gasping "Gone!—and for ever! My God! What can it mean?" I rose quietly from my chair, and, thrusting the letter into my pocket, walked over leisurely to stir the fire. That there was an obstacle of some sort between Kate and me, I had realised the last time she and I had stood in this same room together, and she had confessed her love. But bogeys—most of all the bogeys of a woman's making and imagining, paralyse and appal her as they may—do not greatly alarm the average man. That which she pronounces to be an insurmountable obstacle, he first surveys on all sides to satisfy himself that it is an obstacle at all, and then calmly goes to work to discover how that obstacle can best be overcome. Kate loved me; I loved her. Given these facts, I saw no reason to despair.
So, as I say, instead of indulging in the usual heroics with which—when the heroine by word of mouth, or by letter, informs the hero that there is some occult reason why she "can never be his"—we are all familiar in the pages of a novel, or on the stage, I merely stirred the fire meditatively.
"Now for Miss Clara's epistle," I said, opening the second letter. "Let us see ifshecan throw any light on the mystery."
My dear Boy(it ran),—I have some very bad news for you. I kept it to myself while you were telling us your adventures the other morning, for I did not want to upset you, until the actual necessity for action had come. It concerns myself and Clara, very nearly and very terribly—how nearly and how terribly Clara does not know, for I wish to spare her as much pain as I can. All the time you and she and I were together that morning I knew, though she and you did not, that it would be our last meeting for, perhaps, a long time. During that time it will be a great relief to Clara and to me to be assured of your personal safety; and that you are safe—so long as you are engaged in detective work—neither she nor I can ever be sure. In all probability you noticed that before leaving you and Clara together, I took her aside for a moment to give her some instructions. These instructions were that she was to use all her influence to get you to promise to abandon the dangerous pursuit in which you are engaged, and to devote yourself instead to novel-writing. As Clarafailed to obtain such a promise, I returned, to see if I could not obtain that promise myself. You were very good to me. You always have been good to me, and gave me the required promise at once. I am very grateful, my dear boy, for that and for all the consideration and affection you have shown to an ugly old woman.Then I went back to Clara and told her that for the present she and you must not meet again. I did not tell her the truth; for the truth—of which she has no suspicion—is too horrible to tell. All she knows is that something terrible has happened, and that for some time—whether long or short I cannot now say—you and she must not meet again. Knowing me and my affection for you as you do, you will realise that I should not say this were the necessity not absolute and imperative. Please God, all will come right one day. Good-bye, my dear boy. God bless you. Your affectionate and faithful friend,—C.C.
My dear Boy(it ran),—I have some very bad news for you. I kept it to myself while you were telling us your adventures the other morning, for I did not want to upset you, until the actual necessity for action had come. It concerns myself and Clara, very nearly and very terribly—how nearly and how terribly Clara does not know, for I wish to spare her as much pain as I can. All the time you and she and I were together that morning I knew, though she and you did not, that it would be our last meeting for, perhaps, a long time. During that time it will be a great relief to Clara and to me to be assured of your personal safety; and that you are safe—so long as you are engaged in detective work—neither she nor I can ever be sure. In all probability you noticed that before leaving you and Clara together, I took her aside for a moment to give her some instructions. These instructions were that she was to use all her influence to get you to promise to abandon the dangerous pursuit in which you are engaged, and to devote yourself instead to novel-writing. As Clarafailed to obtain such a promise, I returned, to see if I could not obtain that promise myself. You were very good to me. You always have been good to me, and gave me the required promise at once. I am very grateful, my dear boy, for that and for all the consideration and affection you have shown to an ugly old woman.
Then I went back to Clara and told her that for the present she and you must not meet again. I did not tell her the truth; for the truth—of which she has no suspicion—is too horrible to tell. All she knows is that something terrible has happened, and that for some time—whether long or short I cannot now say—you and she must not meet again. Knowing me and my affection for you as you do, you will realise that I should not say this were the necessity not absolute and imperative. Please God, all will come right one day. Good-bye, my dear boy. God bless you. Your affectionate and faithful friend,—C.C.
As I read this extraordinary letter, the explanation of Miss Clara's and Kate's inexplicable attitude came to me in a flash. Dolt, blockhead, addle-brained idiot that I was! I—a detective! It was well for me—it was high time, indeed—that I had decided to give up detective work. Fool that I was not to have seen it before!
The Dumpling and Kate's father, the elder Miss Carleton's brother, were one and the same man!