“And now,” said she, with a total change of manner, “I wish to address you on a subject which may strike you as ill-timed, but which, nevertheless, I must mention, if the purpose I have at heart is ever to be accomplished. My uncle, as you know, was engaged at the time of his death in writing a book on Chinese customs and prejudices. It was a work which he was anxious to see published, and naturally I desire to carry out his wishes; but, in order to do so, I find it necessary not only to interest myself in the matter now—Mr. Harwell’s services being required, and it being my wish to dismiss that gentleman as soon as possible—but to find someone competent to supervise its completion. Now I have heard—I have been told—that you were the one of all others to do this; and though it is difficult if not improper for me to ask so great a favor of one who but a week ago was a perfect stranger to me, it would afford me the keenest pleasure if you would consent to look over this manuscript and tell me what remains to be done.”
The timidity with which these words were uttered proved her to be in earnest, and I could not but wonder at the strange coincidence of this request with my secret wishes; it having been a question with me for some time how I was to gain free access to this house without in any way compromising either its inmates or myself. I did not know then that Mr. Gryce had been the one to recommend me to her favor in this respect. But, whatever satisfaction I may have experienced, I felt myself in duty bound to plead my incompetence for a task so entirely out of the line of my profession, and to suggest the employment of someone better acquainted with such matters than myself. But she would not listen to me.
“Mr. Harwell has notes and memoranda in plenty,” she exclaimed, “and can give you all the information necessary. You will have no difficulty; indeed, you will not.”
“But cannot Mr. Harwell himself do all that is requisite? He seems to be a clever and diligent young man.”
But she shook her head. “He thinks he can; but I know uncle never trusted him with the composition of a single sentence.”
“But perhaps he will not be pleased—Mr. Harwell, I mean—with the intrusion of a stranger into his work.”
She opened her eyes with astonishment. “That makes no difference,” she cried. “Mr. Harwell is in my pay, and has nothing to say about it. But he will not object. I have already consulted him, and he expresses himself as satisfied with the arrangement.”
“Very well,” said I; “then I will promise to consider the subject. I can at any rate look over the manuscript and give you my opinion of its condition.”
“Oh, thank you,” said she, with the prettiest gesture of satisfaction. “How kind you are, and what can I ever do to repay you? But would you like to see Mr. Harwell himself?” and she moved towards the door; but suddenly paused, whispering, with a short shudder of remembrance: “He is in the library; do you mind?”
Crushing down the sick qualm that arose at the mention of that spot, I replied in the negative.
“The papers are all there, and he says he can work better in his old place than anywhere else; but if you wish, I can call him down.”
But I would not listen to this, and myself led the way to the foot of the stairs.
“I have sometimes thought I would lock up that room,” she hurriedly observed; “but something restrains me. I can no more do so than I can leave this house; a power beyond myself forces me to confront all its horrors. And yet I suffer continually from terror. Sometimes, in the darkness of the night—But I will not distress you. I have already said too much; come,” and with a sudden lift of the head she mounted the stairs.
Mr. Harwell was seated, when we entered that fatal room, in the one chair of all others I expected to see unoccupied; and as I beheld his meagre figure bending where such a little while before his eyes had encountered the outstretched form of his murdered employer, I could not but marvel over the unimaginativeness of the man who, in the face of such memories, could not only appropriate that very spot for his own use, but pursue his avocations there with so much calmness and evident precision. But in another moment I discovered that the disposition of the light in the room made that one seat the only desirable one for his purpose; and instantly my wonder changed to admiration at this quiet surrender of personal feeling to the requirements of the occasion.
He looked up mechanically as we came in, but did not rise, his countenance wearing the absorbed expression which bespeaks the preoccupied mind.
“He is utterly oblivious,” Mary whispered; “that is a way of his. I doubt if he knows who or what it is that has disturbed him.” And, advancing into the room, she passed across his line of vision, as if to call attention to herself, and said: “I have brought Mr. Raymond upstairs to see you, Mr. Harwell. He has been so kind as to accede to my wishes in regard to the completion of the manuscript now before you.”
Slowly Mr. Harwell rose, wiped his pen, and put it away; manifesting, however, a reluctance in doing so that proved this interference to be in reality anything but agreeable to him. Observing this, I did not wait for him to speak, but took up the pile of manuscript, arranged in one mass on the table, saying:
“This seems to be very clearly written; if you will excuse me, I will glance over it and thus learn something of its general character.”
He bowed, uttered a word
