“Well,” thought Watson, “it relieves me from an awkward job. None of my witnesses seemed certain of anything except the young woman. She was clear and distinct enough; the porter at the railroad had seen a scuffle! or when he found it was likely to bring him in as a witness, then it might not have been a scuffle, only a little larking, and Leonards might have jumped off the platform himself;—he would not stick firm to anything. And Jennings, the grocer’s shopman—well, he was not quite so bad, but I doubt if I could have got him up to an oath after he heard that Miss Hale flatly denied it. It would have been a troublesome job and no satisfaction. And now I must go and tell them they won’t be wanted.”
He accordingly presented himself again at Mr. Hale’s that evening. Her father and Dixon would fain have persuaded Margaret to go to bed; but they, neither of them, knew the reason for her low continued refusals to do so. Dixon had learnt part of the truth—but only part. Margaret would not tell any human being of what she had said, and she did not reveal the fatal termination to Leonards’ fall from the platform. So Dixon’s curiosity combined with her allegiance to urge Margaret to go to rest, which her appearance, as she lay on the sofa, showed but too clearly that she required. She did not speak except when spoken to; she tried to smile back in reply to her father’s anxious looks and words of tender inquiry; but, instead of a smile, the wan lips resolved themselves into a sigh. He was so miserably uneasy that, at last, she consented to go into her own room, and prepare for going to bed. She was indeed inclined to give up the idea that the inspector would call again that night, as it was already past nine o’clock.
She stood by her father, holding on to the back of his chair.
“You will go to bed soon, papa, won’t you? Don’t sit up alone!”
What his answer was she did not hear; the words were lost in the far smaller sound that magnified itself to her fears, and filled her brain. There was a low ring at the doorbell.
She kissed her father and glided downstairs, with a rapidity of motion of which no one would have thought her capable, who had seen her the minute before. She put aside Dixon.
“Don’t come; I will open the door. I know it is him—I can—I must manage it all myself.”
“As you please, miss!” said Dixon, testily; but in a moment afterwards, she added, “But you’re not fit for it. You are more dead than alive.”
“Am I?” said Margaret, turning round and showing her eyes all aglow with strange fire, her cheeks flushed, though her lips were baked and livid still.
She opened the door to the Inspector, and preceded him into the study. She placed the candle on the table, and snuffed it carefully, before she turned round and faced him.
“You are late!” said she. “Well?” She held her breath for the answer.
“I am sorry to have given any unnecessary trouble, ma’am; for, after all, they’ve given up all thoughts of holding an inquest. I have had other work to do and other people to see, or I should have been here before now.”
“Then it is ended,” said Margaret. “There is to be no further enquiry.”
“I believe I’ve got Mr. Thornton’s note about me,” said the Inspector, fumbling in his pocketbook.
“Mr. Thornton’s!” said Margaret.
“Yes! he’s a magistrate—ah! here it is.”
She could not see to read it—no, not although she was close to the candle. The words swam before her. But she held it in her hand, and looked at it as if she were intently studying it.
“I’m sure, ma’am, it’s a great weight off my mind; for the evidence was so uncertain, you see, that the man had received any blow at all, and if any question of identity came in, it so complicated the case, as I told Mr. Thornton—”
“Mr. Thornton!” said Margaret again.
“I met him this morning, just as he was coming out of this house, and, as he’s an old friend of mine, besides being the magistrate who saw Leonards last night, I made bold to tell him of my difficulty.”
Margaret sighed deeply. She did not want to hear any more; she was afraid alike of what she had heard, and of what she might hear. She wished that the man would go. She forced herself to speak.
“Thank you for calling. It is very late. I dare say it is past ten o’clock. Oh! here is the note!” she continued, suddenly interpreting the meaning of the hand held out to receive it. He was putting it up, when she said, “I think it is a cramped, dazzling sort of writing. I could not read it; will you just read it to me?”
He read it aloud to her.
“Thank you. You told Mr. Thornton that I was not there?”
“Oh, of course, ma’am. I’m sorry now that I acted upon information, which seems to have been so erroneous. At first the young man was so positive; and now he says that he doubted all along, and hopes that his mistake won’t have occasioned you such annoyance as to lose their shop your custom. Good night, ma’am.”
“Good night.” She rang the bell for Dixon to show him out. As Dixon returned up the passage Margaret passed her swiftly.
“It is all right!” said she, without looking at Dixon; and before the woman could follow her with further questions she had sped upstairs, and entered her bedchamber, and bolted her door.
She threw herself, dressed as she was, upon her bed. She was too much exhausted to think. Half-an-hour or more elapsed before the cramped nature of her position, and the chilliness, supervening upon great fatigue, had
