“Have I told you who it was that hired George Thorley to murder Henry Moreland?” asked Mr. Burton, in the pause which followed.
It had been taken for granted who the person was, and as he asked the question the eyes of all turned to me—of all except James, who suddenly sprung with a bound against the door opening into the parlor, which was not locked. But another was too quick for him; the powerful hand of the detective was on his shoulder, and as he turned the attempted fugitive full to the light, he said, in words which fell like fire,
“It was your nephew—James Argyll.”
For a moment you might have heard a leaf drop on the carpet; no one spoke or stirred. Then Eleanor arose from her chair, and, lifting up her hand, looked with awful eyes at the cowering murderer. Her look blasted him. He had been writhing under Mr. Burton’s grasp; but now, as if in answer to her gaze, he said,
“Yes—I did it, Eleanor,” and dropped to the floor in a swoon.
IX
Joining the Missing Links
The scene which transpired in the next few minutes was harrowing. The revulsion of feeling, the shock, the surprise and the horror were almost too much for human nature to bear. Groan after groan burst from Mr. Argyll, as if his breast were being rent in twain. Mary tottered to her sister and threw herself at her feet, with her head buried in her lap; if she had not been so healthily organized, and of such an even temperament, I know not how she would have survived this frightful check to her hopes and affections. It seemed as if Eleanor, who had lived only to suffer for so many weary months, had now more self-possession than any of the others; her thin, white hand fell softly on her sister’s curls with a pitying touch; and after a time, she whispered to her some words. My own surprise was nearly as much as anyone’s; for, although many times I had felt that James was the guilty one, I had always tried to drive away the impression, and had finally almost succeeded.
In the meantime no one went to the unhappy man, who found a temporary relief from shame and despair in insensibility. All recoiled from him, as he lay upon the floor. Finally, Mr. Burton forced himself to raise him; consciousness was returning, and he placed him on the sofa, and gave him a handkerchief wet with cologne.
Presently Mary arose from her kneeling position, and looked around the room until her glance fell on me, when she came toward me, and grasped both my hands, saying,
“Richard, I never accused you—I always felt that you were innocent, and always said so. You must forgive the others for my sake. My father and sister will bear me witness that I always defended you from the accusations of one who, it is now proved, sought with double, with inconceivable baseness, to divert suspicion from himself to another”—her voice trembled with scorn. “I never wanted to marry him,” she added, bursting into tears, “but they overpersuaded me.”
“Quiet yourself, sister,” said Eleanor, gently, arising and approaching us. “We have all wronged you, Richard—I fear beyond forgiveness. Alas! we can now see what a noble enemy you have been!”
In that moment I felt repaid for all I had suffered, and I said with joy,
“Never an enemy, Miss Argyll; and I forgive you, wholly.”
Then there was another stir; James had risen to slip away from the company, now so distasteful to him; but Mr. Burton again stood between him and egress; as he did so, he said,
“Mr. Argyll, it is for you to decide the fate of this miserable man. I have kept all my proceedings a secret from the public; I even allowed George Thorley to remain in Mexico, for I thought your family had already suffered enough, without loading it down with the infamy of your nephew. If you say that he shall go unpunished by the law, I shall abide by your wish; this matter shall be kept by the few who now know it. For your sakes, not for his, I would spare him the death which he deserves; but he must leave the country at once and forever.”
“Let him go,” said the uncle, his back turned upon the murderer, toward whom he would not look. “Go, instantly and forever. And remember, James Argyll, if I ever see your face again, if I ever hear of your being anywhere in the United States, I shall at once cause you to be arrested.”
“And I, the same,” added Mr. Burton. “God knows, if it were not for these young ladies, whose feelings are sacred to me, I would not let you off so easily.”
He opened the door, and James Argyll slunk out into the night, and away, none knew whither, branded, expatriated, and alone—away, without one look at the fair, beautiful girl who was so soon to have been his bride—away, from the home he had periled his soul to secure.
When he had gone, we all breathed more freely. Mr. Burton had yet much to say, for he wished to close this horrible business forever. He took the surgical instrument which we had found in the tree, and fitted it to the piece which had been extracted from the body of the murdered man, and showed the family the initials of George Thorley upon it. He then produced the written confession of Thorley, which we all read for ourselves; but as it contained only, in a plain statement, the facts already given, I will not repeat them here. He then proceeded with the history of the Dead Letter, which, also, he had with him, and which proved to be in the same handwriting as the confession. In speaking of the curious manner in which this
