Meanwhile Vassalla, quite unconscious of the storm that was about to break over his head, was enjoying himself in London, and had made arrangements to go to Marlow and see Carmela. He thought he had quite subdued Mrs. Verschoyle, and that every impediment to his marriage was removed. So he sat in his room at the Langham, smoking a cigar and moralizing complacently on the state of affairs.
"Fortune favours me," he said, aloud, idly watching the blue wreaths of smoke curling round his head. "I have silenced that devilish Bianca, and won my beautiful Carmela--both at the same time. But, how wonderful it is that the death of Verschoyle should have been the means of winning me both a wife and a fortune Now, when I am married, I must be quiet. I will take my charming wife to Malta, and live on the estate. She does not care for me now; but she will grow fond--yes--she will grow fond."
And so he went on building castles in the air, and dreaming vain dreams, that were destined never to become true, for at that moment there came a knock at the door, which, if he had known its full purport, would have alarmed him as much as the knocking at the gate did Macbeth. But, as he did not know, he merely called out, "Come in," and went on smoking.
Enter a puzzled-looking waiter, showing in Mrs. Verschoyle, Ronald Monteith, Gerald Foster, and a stranger. Vassalla, turning his head, saw them, and sprang to his feet in astonishment.
"What the devil--" he began, but Mrs. Verschoyle interrupted him.
"That is the Marchese Vassalla," she said, pointing to the dumb-foundered Maltese gentleman; whereat the stranger advanced and produced a warrant.
"Matteo Vassalla, I arrest you in the Queen's name----"
"Arrest me!" interrupted the Marchese.
"For the murder of Leopold Verschoyle," finished the detective.
"Is this a joke?" asked Vassalla, angrily.
"You will not find it so," said Ronald.
"It is my duty to inform you," said the detective, stolidly, "that whatever you say will be used in evidence at your trial."
"Bah!" snarled Vassalla, with a gesture of contempt, turning his back on the officer of the law. "Who accuses me of this crime?"
"I do," said Mrs. Verschoyle, stepping forward.
"You!" he cried out, recoiling; "you are mad to do such a thing."
"No, I am not mad," retorted Mrs. Verschoyle, "but I would have been if I had let you marry Carmela."
"Oh!" he said, viciously, looking at Ronald; "so this is a plot to rob me of my promised wife."
"She is not your promised wife," cried Ronald, boldly; "she made the promise under compulsion--now she is free."
"To marry you," said Vassalla, savagely.
"If she'll have me--yes," retorted Monteith.
The Marchese turned to Foster.
"Mr.--whatever your name is," he said, "do you believe this charge?"
"Mrs. Verschoyle says you committed the murder;" returned Foster.
"Mrs. Verschoyle," said Matteo, contemptuously, "is a madwoman."
"Am I?" she returned quietly; "you'll find there's some method in my madness."
"I can disprove the whole charge," said Vassalla, moving towards his writing-table.
"Come, sir," said the detective, "we must be going."
"Going----with you?" retorted Vassalla, in an angry tone, "are you mad? I can disprove this charge," and he threw open the desk and took his portfolio from it.
"Try," said Mrs. Verschoyle, laconically.
Muttering a curse, the Marchese opened his portfolio, and ran through a number of letters. Suddenly he turned round with a ghastly face:
"Where is the paper?" he asked.
"What paper?" said Mrs. Verschoyle, calmly.
"What paper? Curse you!" he cried; "you know the paper I mean--the one written by your husband, whom you accuse me of killing."
"I know of no paper," she said, quietly, with a sneer; "this is a fabrication to delay justice.
"I tell you it's false," cried Vassalla, in despair; "I did not kill the man. I defy you to press this charge. When the time comes I can prove my innocence, and I decline to make any statement now."
"Prove your innocence," she said, sarcastically, "with the missing paper, I suppose?"
"Yes; and you know where it is," he said.
"Maltese dog," she shrieked, "you lie," and she would have sprung forward, only Ronald her back.
"I have to thank you for this," said Vassalla to Ronald, as he put on his hat and coat, "but, I do not forget, I will repay you; and as for you, jade that you are, I'll prove myself innocent and then punish you."
"Bah! I defy you," she said, contemptuously; "you'll never marry Carmela, but hang--hang, like the dog you are!"
"Confound it, Mrs. Verschoyle, leave the man alone," said Ronald, rather annoyed at the way she was behaving.
Vassalla walked to the door with the detective beside him, and faced round as he was going out.
"As sure as there's a God in heaven," he said, proudly, "I am innocent, and that woman only brings this accusation against me to satisfy her absurd jealousy. I can prove my innocence, and she"--pointing to Mrs. Verschoyle--"holds the proof."
When the door closed, Foster turned to Mrs. Verschoyle.
"What does he mean?" asked the lawyer.
"I don't know," she said. "I possess no proof of his innocence, and I'm ready to go into the witness box, and swear he killed my husband."
"He says he is not guilty," said Ronald.
"He'll say anything to save his neck, but he is guilty; I'll see him hanged, till he is dead."
There was something so repulsive in the vindictiveness of this woman, that both the young men were disgusted, and left the room followed by Mrs. Verschoyle, who was laughing to herself in a satisfied manner.
"Why don't you thank me?" she said, savagely, to Ronald; "I have prevented Carmela from marrying another man, and secured your happiness."
"I don't care for happiness that is founded on the ruin of another man," said Monteith, coldly.
"Bah! you are a fool; he is guilty."
"That," said Foster, quietly, "has yet to be proved."
She flashed a look of anger at him, then went out of the hotel door, and stepped into a hansom.
"I will see you to-morrow," she called out, "and then I can prove that what I say is true."
The cab drove off, leaving Foster and Ronald looking at one another.
"What do you think?" asked the Australian.
"I don't know what to think," said Foster: "the Marchese says he is innocent."
"All men accused of a crime say that."
"Yes; but I fancy in this case it's true."
"Then, who killed Verschoyle?"
"I believe his wife did."
"What!"
"Yes; I think she's accusing Vassalla out of jealousy."
"But he did not accuse her of the crime."
"No, he certainly did not," said Foster, musingly. "It's a queer case. What was the paper he was talking about?"
"I don't know," said Ronald. "It is, as you say, a very queer case. I'm going down to Marlow to-morrow."
"What for?"
"I want to see Carmela, and tell her all about the affair."
"Yes, it will be best for you to do that," said Foster. "Perhaps she may throw some light on the affair."
"I don't think so; we know everything she knows."
"I expect the real reason you want to go down is, to tell her she is free?" said Foster, quizzically.
"She's not free yet," retorted Ronald.
"To all intents and purposes she is."
"I want to hear from her own lips that she considers herself free."
"But you don't think she'll marry Vassalla now--a man accused of murder?"
"I don't know," said Ronald, with a sigh, "women are such queer creatures. She may consider herself doubly bound, now he's down on his luck."
"I'll bet you she don't!"
"I'll bet you she does!"
"Very well," said Foster, philosophically, "the wager will be decided to-morrow night."
Meanwhile, quite unaware of the troubles in which Vassalla was involved, Carmela was enjoying herself very much at Bellfield. She was in much better spirits than she had been previously, as her conversation with Foster and Ronald had relieved her mind of a great weight, and she had come to the conclusion that her sister was not guilty, in which case she would not have to marry her cousin. Everyone stopping at Bellfield was in excellent spirits, and so Carmela felt the influence of merry company, and was as gay and joyous as anyone present.
It being Bell's birthday, they decided to celebrate it with a picnic at Medmenham Abbey, and were all down at Hurley Lock, embarking in the boats. Pat was especially exuberant, as he had discovered, beyond all doubt, that Miss Lester was in love with him, and he was only waiting for a good opportunity to propose. A merrier party were never on the river than the young people from Hurley.
And what a delightful morning it was on the river in this glowing July weather. They had no servants with them, as Sir Mark preferred full freedom for once, and the young men rowed the boats quickly up, passing other gay parties on the way.
Up the placid stream they went, past Lady Place, with its quaint old roof and mellow-tinted walls, under the arched wooden bridge that springs over the Thames; up through the still waters with the broad green meadows on each side, filled with quiet cattle, until the gables of the Ferry Hotel at Medmenham came in sight, and here they went on shore. They found the lawn crowded with young men in flannels, and young ladies in boating costumes; went to the ruins of the old Abbey, with all its memories of the Hell-fire Club, and the orgies they held therein.
It is said that the present Abbey is a pinchbeck affair, and the only genuine ruins of the old Abbey are to be found in the solitary pillar which stands at the back, near the haystacks; but surely the great building, with its ruined tower, overgrown with ivy; its quaint windows, scribbled all over with names, and its low-roofed door, with the famous motto, "Fay ce que voudrais," are genuine enough.
After they had explored the Abbey, all the party strolled away inland to see the lions of the locality. An old-fashioned street it is that leads through the village of Medmenham, with the flint-built houses on either side, overgrown with ivy, and one can imagine a cavalier, after the defeat of unlucky Charles Stuart, spurring swiftly down the lonely road, in his wild flight for safety.
Then the church, with the square Norman tower, around which the rooks are always wheeling and cawing, casting its mighty shadow over the green grass, beneath which the quiet dead sleep soundly, as they have done for so many hundred years. Opposite the church stands the "Dog and Badger," a very old hostel, with mellow-tinted roofs and numerous gables, and within, low-ceilinged rooms with great beams overhead, and queer, twisted staircases and unexpected cupboards all over the house.
At the back, high up on the hill, and commanding a magnificent view of the Thames Valley, stands the stern-looking old farm-house, said to have been mentioned in the Domesday Book, and where Charles II. and pretty, witty Nell Gwynne are reported to have stayed for a night. Then, farther on, the quiet little village of Hambledon, through which it is said Charles I. rode with a brilliant train of gallant cavaliers, on his way to meet his rebellious subjects. The whole neighbourhood is full of antiquities and traditions, which lend a peculiar charm to the place.
When they grew weary of sight-seeing, the whole party went down again to the river, and getting into the boats, rowed up the stream for a considerable distance, and ultimately decided to hold their picnic just below Hambledon Lock, with the pleasant murmur of the Weir in their ears.
Such a scene of confusion, getting out the luncheon--everyone seated round in attitudes graceful and otherwise, with the clatter of dishes, the popping of champagne corks, and a perfect Babel of voices.
"This is jolly," said Pat, with his mouth full. "I'm fond of Arcadian simplicity."
"Especially when it's accompanied by champagne," cried Bubbles, raising his glass to his lips.
"Begad, you're not slow in finding out what I mean," said Ryan, laughing, and filling his glass.
"Imitation's the sincerest flattery," observed Miss Lester, gaily, trying to cut up a rather wiry chicken. "I believe this fowl was a pedestrian, his legs are so tough."
"Try some of the breast," said Sir Mark; "at all events, it hasn't got eight legs, like the birds you get on board ship."
"That's true enough," cried Pat; "everyone seems to get legs of fowls on board--perhaps they're like Manx men,--got three legs."
"Or a hundred, like a centipede," said Bubbles.
"Oh, this conversation is frivolous," said Pat, raising his glass, "so I'll propose a toast: to the health of Miss Trevor, and many happy returns of the day."
This was, of course, drank by everyone with acclamation, and then the male portion of the company sang, "She's a jolly good fellow," rather incongruously, it must be confessed.
"I wish Monteith were here," said Pat, when this was done.
Carmela said nothing, but looked much, for in her secret heart, that is just what she had been wishing. At this moment they heard a wild whoop from the river, and saw a boat coming quickly up the stream, rowed by a single man.
"Gad," cried Bubbles, who had the sharpest eyes of anyone; "it's Monteith himself. Speak of the Devil----"
"Hold your tongue," said Pat, "don't be personal."
It was Ronald, looking happy and jolly in his flannels, quite a different being from the gloomy youth of the previous week. He soon brought his light little craft to shore, and sprang on to the green turf, to be welcomed.
"My dear lad," said Sir Mark, "I am delighted to see you, especially as your arrival is so unexpected."
"How did you find us out?" asked Carmela, giving him her hand.
"Oh, easily enough," replied Ronald, gaily. "I came down to Maidenhead, drove over to Bellfield, and finding it was deserted, learnt from the servants where you were, so here I am."
"Hurrah for that," cried Pat; "is drink a curse?"
"Egad, I'm not sure. I'll try, if you've no objection," said Ronald.
Whereat, Mr. Ryan grinned, and handed his friend a glass and a bottle, all to himself.
The luncheon was resumed, and then the party began to break up into little groups. Pat, of course, going with Miss Lester, while Bell went under the wing of Bubbles, though she secretly sighed for the society of Gerald Foster. So, in a short time, Ronald found himself alone with Carmela, whose eyes turned on him with eager expectation.
"Well," she asked, "is there anything new?"
"Yes; I've seen your sister."
"And she is innocent?"
"Yes, and moreover, has told us who committed the crime."
Carmela was startled.
"Does she know who did it?"
"She says so. Your cousin!"
"What, Matteo!" rising to her feet. "Oh, impossible!"
"Of course that's what he says, also," said Ronald, shrugging his shoulders; "but your sister accused him and he has been arrested."
"Will they hang him?"
"If they prove him guilty, no doubt; but first, they must prove the case."
"I cannot believe it of my cousin, he had no motive."
"Mrs. Verschoyle says he had--that he was in love with her."
"Yes, he was, seven years ago," said Carmela, not without a certain feminine spite, "but that would not have induced him to kill poor Leopold Verschoyle now. Maltese gentlemen don't avenge themselves in such a cowardly way."
"Well, Vassalla says he can prove his innocence, but there's one thing to be said, the whole secret of Verschoyle's death lies between your sister and Vassalla."
"How on earth will it all end?" said Carmela, in a bewildered tone; "but," with a sudden thought, "if Vassalla is guilty I am not bound to marry him now."
"Of course not," said Ronald, taking one of her hands, "I want you to marry me."
She snatched her hand away.
"How can you talk so at such a time?" she cried, her face flushing.
"Because I love you," he replied, "and I want to have the assurance from your lips that you love me."
"How can you marry the cousin of a possible criminal?"
"I don't care a bit about that: I want to marry you."
"Wait till this affair is ended."
"Oh, I don't mind that; Vassalla will be brought to his trial in a few weeks, and then it will be decided one way or another. But, Carmela," taking her hand once more, "when it is all over will you marry me?"
She paused a moment, then said simply--
"Yes."
Ronald took her in his arms and kissed her.
Of course it is not to be wondered at that the arrest of Vassalla made a great sensation. True Vassalla was not a very well known man; but then the strangeness of the case, which was reported with numerous embellishments in all the papers, attracted everybody's notice. And then the way the crime had been brought home to him by the divorced wife of the dead man--in fact, it was quite a romance.
The curious part of the whole case was that Vassalla obstinately refused to say anything in his own defence, and his persistent silence was taken as an acknowledgment of his guilt. But the Marchese only smiled grimly when spoken to, and said he could defend himself well enough when the time came, and, moreover, would be in a position to punish Mrs. Verschoyle.
As for that lady, she was quite the heroine of the hour--not exactly in a complimentary sense, perhaps--but everybody wanted to see a woman with such an exciting history, who had divorced her husband, and then accused her cousin of being his murderer. Plenty of papers wanted to interview her, but she declined to allow herself to be seen, and generally sat at home in a quiet, private hotel off the Strand, where she exulted over the downfall of Vassalla.
"He wouldn't marry me," she said to herself, vindictively; "well, we'll see how he likes being in prison for murder."
Carmela came up to town, and had an interview with her, in which Mrs. Verschoyle lost her temper, as usual.
"He wanted to marry you--he wanted to marry you," she hissed repeatedly.
"I couldn't help that," retorted Carmela, angrily; "I certainly did not want to marry him, and would never have become engaged to him if it had not been to save you."
"Ha! ha! to save me from the gallows, I suppose--bah. I do not believe it? he would have accused me of the murder of my husband, the Maltese dog; but he shall die for it--yes, he shall die."
"Are you sure he committed this--this crime?" said Carmela, hesitatingly.
"Yes, I am sure. Did I not meet him coming out of the cabin on that night; was the stiletto in the dead man's breast not the one you gave him years ago? am I sure--bah! if he is innocent, let him prove it."
There was nothing to be got out of Mrs. Verschoyle, who was simply mad with anger, and grew purple in the face, till Carmela thought she would break a blood-vessel.
"You ought to be grateful to me," she said, furiously; "but for me you would have married Vassalla, and then what of your Australian lover?"
"You can leave my Australian lover out of the question," said Carmela, with great spirit. "I am only waiting for this unhappy affair to be settled, in order to marry him."
"Yes, do, do," cried Mrs. Verschoyle; "and go with him to Australia. Put the ocean between us. I never wish to see your face again. If it had not been for you, my husband would have loved me."
"He did love you," said Carmela, "but your temper drove him away."
At this Mrs. Verschoyle burst out into a storm of anger; so, in order to put a stop to the scene, Carmela left the room, and went back to the Langham, where Sir Mark Trevor waited her.
"I don't want to see my sister again," she said, firmly, and she never did.
Of course, when the trial came on, the court was crowded with the most noted people in London, anxious to see the end of this strange case. It ended more dramatically than they thought it would.
Vassalla entered the dock in a calm, cool manner, and glanced quickly round the court, of course everyone thinking he was a hardened scoundrel for not exhibiting more emotion. He had engaged a famous lawyer to defend him, and this gentleman was smiling quietly to himself, and by no means looking as if he thought the case a grave one. Foster was in the court, together with Ronald and Sir Mark Trevor, all listening eagerly to the introductory address of the prosecuting counsel.
He stated the whole story, which had already appeared in the papers, but with some slight variations:--
That Leopold Verschoyle had been married to Miss Bianca Cotoner seven years before, with whom the prisoner was also very much in love. When she married the deceased, the prisoner had sworn he would kill him. The prisoner, however, did not carry his resolution into effect at that time, but went travelling about Europe, and Miss Cotoner married the deceased. They did not live happily together, and separated, which separation was afterwards followed by a divorce, owing to the deceased's infidelity with another woman called Elsie Macgregor.
The deceased then travelled all over the world, and was coming to England on board the P. and O. steamer "Neptune," which stopped at Malta. While there the deceased went on shore, and was recognised by his wife, who went on board to speak to him, The prisoner was also on board with the sister of the deceased, called Miss Carmela Cotoner, and then--according to Mrs. Verschoyle, who was the principal witness--recognised deceased, and heard him tell Mr. Monteith, another witness, the number of his cabin.
The prisoner then disappeared from Mrs. Verschoyle's side, and when she went to speak to her husband, she met the prisoner coming out of the cabin, and though he tried to prevent her, she looked in and saw her husband--or rather her husband that had been, lying dead with a stiletto in his breast. The stiletto, as will appear from the evidence of Miss Carmela Cotoner, was given by that lady to the prisoner, and was used in the commission of this crime.
With a few concluding remarks, the counsel for the prosecution sat down, and the witnesses were called. During all the discourse the Marchese never moved a muscle, but sat in the dock as still as death.
The first witness called was Ronald, who repeated the story the dead man had told him, and, during his examination, the paper written by Carmela was put in evidence.
He was followed by Carmela, who deposed that she had given the stiletto in question to the prisoner, and also said that the letter produced was written by her, and not by the wife of the deceased, Mrs. Verschoyle.
Q. You were on board when Mrs. Verschoyle came?
A. Yes.
Q. Was she alone?
A. At first, yes. Afterwards she was escorted by the Marchese Vassalla.
Q. Did you see her again?
A. No.
Q. When the Marchese saw you again, what time was it?
A. About a quarter-past nine: just after the boat started.
Q. Did he make any remark?
A. None, except that my sister could not find me in the crowd, and had to go ashore without saying good-bye.
Q. Was he agitated?
A. No; he was in his usual spirits.
This closed Carmela's examination; and the next to go into the witness-box was Mrs. Verschoyle, pale and haggard, but who glanced angrily at the prisoner, as she kissed the book. She repeated the story she had told to Ronald and Foster. That she was with Vassalla, and wanted to see her husband. Both herself and her cousin heard him tell the number of his cabin; and though she tried to get near her husband, she was prevented by the crowd. Afterwards she missed Vassalla, and on going along to see her husband in the cabin, she found Vassalla coming out. He tried to prevent her going in, but she insisted, and found her husband lying dead with a stiletto in his breast.
Q. You know to whom the stiletto belonged?
A. Yes, to the prisoner; it was given to him by my sister.
Q. What did the prisoner say when you met him?
A. He implored me not to tell, and for the sake of the honour of our family I complied.
Q. Do you know by doing so you run the risk of being taken as an accomplice?
A. (Mrs. Verschoyle getting angry). I know nothing of English customs. I am a Maltese lady.
Q. Did you ever hear the prisoner threaten the deceased?
A. Yes, very many times; he wanted to marry me, and when I married the deceased, he swore he would revenge himself.
Q. That was seven years ago; did he do so lately?
A. Many times. (Here Vassalla shrugged his shoulders).
This was the close of Mrs. Verschoyle's examination, and was supposed by the people present to be conclusive evidence of the prisoner's guilt. There was no evidence for the prosecution, and so the counsel for the defence arose to make his speech, a speech which considerably startled everyone.
In the first place, he said Mrs. Verschoyle was guilty of perjury--(sensation)--gross perjury; it was true the prisoner was once in love with her, but that was seven years ago, and he had long since forgotten his passion. The prisoner was on board the "Neptune" on the night in question, going to England, and Mrs. Verschoyle also came on board; she wanted to see her husband, and the prisoner, hearing the number of the cabin, volunteered to look for him; he was considerably delayed in the crowd, and did not reach the cabin for some time, particularly as he met one of the stewards, who asked him about his luggage, and engaged his attention for nearly ten minutes.
When he reached the cabin, he knocked, and, getting no reply, entered. He found the deceased dead (sensation), having committed suicide, and on the washstand by the berth was a letter directed to Mr. R. Monteith, a friend of the deceased, stating that he had committed suicide. This paper the prisoner took charge of, and was coming out with it, when he met Mrs. Verschoyle. He told her what had occurred, and she was so shocked with the news that she went straight on shore.
The prisoner was blameable in not producing the paper at the inquest, but had anyone been accused of the crime, he would have produced it. With regard to the stiletto, it was once the property of the prisoner, but he had given it to the deceased as a parting gift before he left for Australia, for both the deceased and prisoner were good friends then.
The wife of the deceased, Mrs. Verschoyle, knew that the deceased had the dagger in his possession, as the prisoner showed a letter to her from deceased, acknowledging the gift of stiletto (letter produced). She was in love with prisoner, who refused to marry her, being in love with Miss Carmela Cotoner, to whom he was engaged to be married. Mrs. Verschoyle, hearing of this, came here from Valletta, and had a private interview with prisoner. During his absence from his room at the Langham Hotel she stole the confession made by the deceased, and it is now in her possession--she----
"That's a lie!" cried Mrs. Verschoyle, mad with fury, rising from her seat.
"Silence in the court!" cried the usher.
"I will not be silent. It is an infamous lie. That man is guilty of murder. He killed my husband, and by God!--by God!----"
All at once she stopped speaking, her face turned to a ghastly pallor, and appeared convulsively drawn to one side as if by a stroke of paralysis. Every eye in the Court was fastened on that solitary figure, and there was an awful pause of expectancy. Another moment and she fell prone on the floor with a heavy thud.
The Court was in an uproar at the strange occurrence, and at first it was thought she had merely fainted through excitement. A doctor, however, being present, came forward, and knelt down by Mrs. Verschoyle, who was now breathing stertorously.
He glanced at her pain-drawn face, felt her pulse, and while he was doing so the heavy breathing stopped.
"What is the matter?" asked the judge, bending forward; "is it a faint?"
The doctor raised his head.
"No, my Lord--it is death!"
"Death!" echoed several voices, and the Court arose in confusion.
"Yes--she has burst a blood vessel in the brain."
Dead! Dead! Yes, Mrs. Verschoyle was dead--in the very moment of her triumph!
THE sudden death of Mrs. Verschoyle so appalled everyone, that the trial was adjourned. A great sensation was created when the report came out in the papers, and numerous were the theories as to how the trial would end, now the principal witness was dead.
As a matter of fact, according to public opinion, the only thing that could prove the innocence of Vassalla, was the production of the letter written by the dead man, and alleged to have been stolen by Mrs. Verschoyle, and after the body had been removed, Ronald, in company with Foster and Vassalla's lawyer, went to look for it.
"What shall we do if she has destroyed it?" said Ronald, as they walked along.
"Oh, she hasn't destroyed it," replied Vassalla's lawyer, whose name was Winks; "she would have produced it at the eleventh hour."
"Then you think such a paper is in existence?" said Foster.
"I'm certain of it, and Mrs. Verschoyle knew the Marchese was innocent. She only accused him out of jealousy."
"But why did he not deny the charge at once, instead of letting himself be placed in such a perilous position?"
"I don't know," said Winks; "he never gave me any explanation. But he knew he was safe, for even should the paper not be forthcoming, the evidence of the deceased, that Vassalla had given him the dagger, would save him. If he hadn't the stiletto, he couldn't have killed him with it, that's flat."
"But Verschoyle distinctly denied to me that he had any intention of committing suicide," said Ronald.
Winks shrugged his shoulders.
"Changed his mind, I suppose. He evidently did it on the spur of the moment. But here we are, at last."
They went into the hotel, and were shown into the late Mrs. Verschoyle's room by the landlady, who had heard of her lodger's death, and was much scared thereat.
"I knew she'd break a blood-vessel," she said, smoothing her black silk dress; "the rages she got into were awful. They won't bring the corpse here, I hope?"
"No," replied Ronald, "it has been taken to Sir Mark Trevor's town house."
"Didn't know he had one," said Foster; "he stops at the Langham."
"Oh, yes; he dislikes his town house immensely, and being a student of human nature, likes the life of an hotel. I don't think he's far wrong, myself."
They went to Mrs. Verschoyle's room and hunted everywhere for the paper so much required, but in vain. Ransacked her desk, looked through her trunks, but without any satisfactory result.
"Perhaps she's left it about for greater safety," said Foster, referring to Poe's queer story of the "Purloined Letter."
The landlady was called up and questioned, but denied ever seeing the paper.
"Perhaps she had it with her," she suggested, as the three gentlemen looked blankly at one another.
No, the body had been searched, so they left the hotel in despair.
"Looks had for Vassalla," said Ronald.
"Not a bit!" retorted the stout-hearted Winks, "the stiletto evidence will get him off; but Mrs. Verschoyle evidently intended he should swing, and has perhaps destroyed the paper."
He went off, so Ronald invited Foster to dine with him at the "Tavistock," an invitation which that gentleman accepted. All the newsboys along the Strand were calling out sensational sentences about the case, and Ronald bought some papers to read. When they entered the hotel the clerk handed Ronald a letter that had been waiting for him all day. It was addressed in a woman's handwriting, and Monteith opened it carelessly, but on glancing at the contents he gave a shout which startled Foster.
"What's the matter, old chap?"
"The missing paper!" gasped Ronald, holding it out; and so it was. Foster took it and read it.
"My dear Monteith--I'm sick of life, and as I've no one to consult about staying in it, I'm going into the next world, straight off. Lionel Ventin."
"This puts Vassalla's innocence beyond all doubt," said Foster, "but the signature will have to be proved--can you do it?"
"No," replied Monteith; "but there's Mrs. Taunton."
"Yes!--we'll have to see her," said the barrister, putting the letter in his pocket; "but how the deuce did it come to you?"
"I don't know," said Ronald blankly, "unless she never intended Vassalla should suffer, but sent me this to-day and the case would have been squashed to-morrow. I believe she was mad."
Foster thought so also, especially when they went back to the hotel and found how the letter had been posted. Mrs. Verschoyle had placed it in an envelope and directed it to Ronald, but, evidently changing her mind, went out leaving it on the table. A waiter coming in had seen it, so posted it at once thinking it was an oversight on Mrs. Verschoyle's part.
There was no difficulty in proving the document to be authentic, as Mrs. Taunton affirmed at once that both the writing and the signature were in her brother's handwriting, and supported her assertion by producing his letters to her, which put the whole question beyond a doubt.
This curious ending to a curious case made a great sensation, but Vassalla took his acquittal very coolly. He was more annoyed at Carmela's refusal to marry him than anything else, as that young lady not only refused to see him, but wrote a letter and upbraided him for the falsehood he had told, regarding her sister's guilt, to gain her hand.
Vassalla did not answer the letter, but seeing there was no hope for him, went off to America, and found among the passengers the Bishop of Patagonia and his wife, accompanied by Mrs. Pellypop, who had insisted on coming. The Bishop yielded, in the secret hope that some benevolent cannibal might eat the old lady, but she evidently did not look inviting enough, as she is still alive and hearty.
Mrs. Verschoyle, whose unhappy fate no one particularly deplored, was buried in Kensal Green Cemetery, and lies there at rest, with all her loves, her hates, and ambitions. Carmela could not honestly pretend to mourn, but she regretted that the last interview she had with her was such a stormy one.
Ronald went down again to Hurley, and spent the summer months on the river in the delightful company of Carmela, who, now that the cloud, so long overshadowing her life, had passed away, was perfectly happy. They were wrapped up in one another, and paid no attention to the other guests at Bellfield.
This was decidedly selfish, and would have been resented, only it so happened that two other couples under Sir Mark Trevor's hospitable roof were doing precisely the same thing.
In the first place, Mr. Patrick Ryan had persuaded Kate Lester to agree to change her name for his own.
"A fair exchange is no robbery," observed Pat when he proposed. "I give you my name and you give me yourself."
"And you call that a fair exchange," retorted his lady-love. "I think you're getting the best of the bargain--I'm marrying a poor man."
"Of course," said Pat cheerfully, "that's where my self-sacrifice comes in. I can't support myself, so I'm going to support you--we can live on bread-and-cheese and----
"Well?"
"If you've no objection, we'll have an acting charade on the last word."
They did!
Sir Mark was resigned to the infliction of two loving couples staying with him, but he did feel rather crushed when Gerald Foster asked him to bestow Bell's hand upon him.
"Good gracious!" ejaculated the astonished baronet, "it's a catching disease--I'm glad Mrs. Pellypop isn't here, or I'd fall a victim to matrimony myself."
He liked Foster, however, and moreover saw he was a man likely to make his mark in the world, so agreed to the engagement, and resigned himself, in a Christian spirit, to the awful fact of living in the same house with three young men engaged to the same number of young women.
"I feel like an elderly Cupid," he said plaintively; "the only remedy for this epidemic of love-making is to get them married as soon as possible."
So as soon as possible the marriages took place all at the same time in the church at Marlow, and the excitement was great over the treble event, as such a thing had not occurred in the neighbourhood within the memory of man.
It will be interesting news to all matrimonial pessimists that none of these marriages have as yet turned out failures, or does there seem the least chance of any such possibility.
Foster, with the assistance of his father-in-law, soon got plenty of briefs, and is now a brilliant Q.C., cherishing dreams of the Bench and the Woolsack.
Miss Lester's uncle dying, left her all his money, which Pat devoted to restoring the home of his ancestors, where he lives now with his pretty wife, and is not much troubled, except by his tenants, who won't pay any rent.
And Ronald?
Oh, Ronald is in far-off Australia, and by his side stands the Girl from Malta.