The Dead Letter

I heard of the murder⁠—I believed I had discovered the perpetrator, I could not allow the matter to sink into silence. You remember, of course, our last interview. Some ideas were there presented which I then opposed. You know how the discussion of all the facts then known ended. Your suspicions fell upon one who had been an honored and favored member of your family⁠—you feared, although you were not certain, that Richard Redfield committed the deed. You gave me all the reasons you had for your opinions⁠—good reasons, too, some of them were; but I then combated the idea. However, I was more or less affected by what you said, and I told you, before parting, that, if you had such feelings toward the young man, you ought not to allow him to be, any longer, a member of your family. I believe he came to understand the light in which you regarded him, and shortly after left the place, and since has been most of the time, in Washington, employed there as a clerk in the dead-letter office. I believe now, Mr. Argyll, that you were not far wrong in your conjectures. I have discovered the murderer of Henry Moreland, and can give you positive proof of it!”

This assertion, deliberately uttered, caused the sensation which might be expected. Eleanor, with all her long habit of self-control, gave a slight shriek, and began to tremble like a leaf. Exclamations came from the lips of all⁠—I believe James uttered an oath, but I am not certain; for I, perhaps more than any other in the room, was at that moment confounded. As the idea rushed over me that Mr. Burton had been acting a part toward me, and had taken these precautions to get me utterly in his power, where I could not defend myself, I started to my feet.

“Sit still, Mr. Redfield,” said the detective to me, sternly. “There is no avenue of escape for the guilty,” and rising, he took the key of the door and put it in his pocket, giving me a look difficult to understand.

I did sit down again, not so much because he told me, as that I was powerless from amazement; as I did so, I met the eyes of James, which laughed silently with a triumph so hateful that, at the moment, they seemed to me the eyes of a devil. All the feelings which, at various times, had been called up by this terrible affair, were nothing to those which overwhelmed me during the few moments which followed. My thought tracked many avenues with lightning rapidity; but I could find no light at the end of any of them. I began to believe that George Thorley, in his confession, had criminated me⁠—who knew him not⁠—who never had spoken with him⁠—and that this was the reason why Mr. Burton had withheld that document from me⁠—falsely professing friendship, while leading me into the pit! If so, what secret enemy had I who could instruct him to lay the murder at my door? If he had accused me, I was well aware that many little circumstances might be turned so as to strengthen the accusation.

I sat there dumb. But there is always strength in innocence⁠—even when betrayed by its friends! So I remained quiet and listened.

“When a crime like this is committed,” proceeded the detective, quite calm in the midst of our excitement, “we usually look for the motive. Next to avarice come the passions of revenge and jealousy in frequency. We know that money had nothing to do with Henry Moreland’s death⁠—revenge and jealousy had. There lived in Blankville three or four years ago, a young fellow, a druggist, by the name of George Thorley; you remember him, Mr. Argyll?”

Mr. Argyll nodded his head.

“He was an adventurer, self-instructed in medicine, without principle. Shortly after setting up in your village, he fell in love with this woman here⁠—Miss Sullivan. She rejected him; both because she had a dim perception of his true character, and because she was interested in another. She allows me to say, here, what she once before confessed to us, that she loved Henry Moreland⁠—loved him purely and unselfishly, with no wish but for his happiness, and no hope of ever being anything more to him than his mother’s sewing-girl, to whom he extended some acts of kindness. But George Thorley, with the sharpness of jealousy, discovered her passion, which she supposed was hidden from mortal eyes, and conceived the brutal hate of a low nature against the young gentleman, who was ignorant alike of him and his sentiments. So far, no harm was done, and evil might never have come of it, for Henry Moreland moved in a sphere different from his, and they might never have come in contact. But another bosom was also possessed of the fiend of jealousy. An inmate of your family had learned to love your daughter Eleanor⁠—not only to love her, but to look forward to the fortune and position which would be conferred by a marriage with her as something extremely desirable. He would not reconcile himself to the engagement which was formed between Miss Argyll and Mr. Moreland. He cherished bad thoughts, which grew more bitter as their happiness became more apparent. Once, he was standing at the gate of this lawn, when the young couple passed him, going out for a walk together. He looked after them with a dark look, speaking aloud, unconsciously, the thought of his heart; he said, ‘I hate him! I wish he were dead!’ Instantly, to his surprise and dismay, a voice replied, ‘I’m with you there⁠—you don’t wish it so much as I do!’ The speaker was Thorley, who, passing, had been arrested by the young couple going out of the gate, and who had remained, also, gazing after them. It was an unfortunate coincidence. The first speaker looked at the second with anger and chagrin; but he had betrayed himself, and the other knew