“He never ‘gained’ my heart by unfair means,” said the girl, speaking proudly. “I gave him what he had of it—and he never knew how large a part that was. I wish he had known, poor Richard! for I still believe that you are all wronging him cruelly. I am his friend, James, and it hurts me to hear you speak so of him. But that would not prevent my being your friend, too, cousin—”
“You must not say ‘cousin,’ again, Mary. I’m worn out, now, and half mad with my feelings—and it makes me desperate. One thing is certain: I can not stay any longer where you are, if you continue so undecided. I want a final answer tonight. If it is unpropitious, I shall go away tomorrow, and seek for such poor fortune as may be mine, in some other part of the world.”
“But what will father do without you, James?”
There was distress and a half-yielding cadence in Mary’s voice.
“That is for you to think of.”
“His health is failing so rapidly of late; and he leans so much upon you—trusts everything to you. I am afraid it would kill him to have all his hopes and plans again frustrated. He has never recovered from the shock of Henry’s death, and Richard’s—going away.”
“If you think so, Mary, why do you any longer hesitate? You acknowledge that you love me as a cousin—let me teach you to love me as a lover. My sweetest, it will make us all so happy.”
But why should I try to repeat here the arguments which I heard?—the main burden of which was the welfare and wishes of her father and sister—mingled with bursts of tender entreaty—and, what was more powerful than all, the exercise of that soft yet terrible will which had worked its way, thus far, against all obstacles. Suffice it, that when the cousins at last—after what seemed to me an age, though it could not have been twenty minutes—returned through the window, I had heard the promise of Mary to become the wife of James before the beginning of another year.
Never was a man more glad to release himself from an unpleasant predicament than I was to descend from my perch when the two figures had passed within the house. My fear of discovery had become absorbed in my keen shame and regret at being compelled to play the eavesdropper to a conversation like that which I had overheard. Moving a few paces in the shadow of the trees, I whispered—“Burton.”
“Got yourself into a pretty scrape,” was instantly answered, in a low tone, as my friend took my arm and we moved forward to the gate. “I didn’t know but we should have a tragico-comedy upon the spot, impromptu and highly interesting.”
“I almost wonder that you are not too greatly out of patience with waiting to jest about the matter.”
“I’ve told you my motto—‘learn to wait,’ Richard. The gods will not be hurried; but have you the knife?”
“Ay!” was my grim answer; I felt grim, as I grasped the treacherous, murderous thing which had wrought such deadly mischief. The sound of shutters drawn together startled us into a quicker pace; we looked back and saw the lower part of the house dark—hurried forward, and without any molestation, or our presence in Blankville being known to a single acquaintance, took the night-train back to New York, which we reached about two a.m. and were at Mr. Burton’s house, ringing up the surprised servants, shortly after.
It was not until we were in the library, with the doors closed, and the full blaze of a gas-burner turned on, that I took from my pocket the weapon, and handed it to my companion.
Both of us bent curiously forward to examine it.
“This,” said the detective, in a surprised and somewhat agitated tone, “is a surgical instrument. You see, it is quite unlike a common knife. It corroborates one of my conclusions. I told you the blow was dealt by a practiced hand—it has been dealt by one skilled in anatomy. There’s another link in my chain. I hope I shall have patience until I shall have forged it together about the guilty.”
“There is no longer any doubt about the dead-letter referring to the murder. You see the instrument is broken,” I remarked.
“No doubt, indeed,” and Mr. Burton went to a drawer of a secretary standing in the room, and took out the little piece of steel which had been found in Henry Moreland’s body.
“You see it is the very fragment. I obtained this important bit of evidence, and laid it away, after others had given up all efforts to make it available. How fortunate that I preserved it! So, the wedding is to take place within three months, is it? Richard, we must not rest now. A great deal can be done in three months, and I would give all the gold I have in bank to clear this matter up before that marriage takes place. Should that once be consummated before we are satisfied with our investigations, I shall drop them forever. A doctor—a doctor”—he continued, musingly—“I knew the fellow had half-studied some profession—he was a surgeon—yes! By George!” he exclaimed, presently, leaping from his chair as if he had been shot, and walking rapidly across the room and back.
I knew he was very much excited, for it was the first time I had heard him use any expression like the above. I waited for him to tell me what had flashed into his mind
