“You speak very knowingly,” said Mr. Ferris. “May I ask where you received your information?”
It was Mr. Gryce who answered.
“From letters. Mrs. Clemmens was one of those women who delight in putting their feelings on paper. Fortunately for us, such women are not rare. See here!” And he pulled out before the District Attorney a pile of old letters in the widow’s well-known handwriting.
“Where did you find these?” asked Mr. Ferris.
“Well,” said Mr. Gryce, “I found them in rather a curious place. They were in the keeping of old Mrs. Firman, Miss Firman’s mother. Mrs. Clemmens, or, rather, Mrs. Orcutt, got frightened some two years ago at the disappearance of her marriage certificate from the place where she had always kept it hidden, and, thinking that Mr. Orcutt was planning to throw her off, she resolved to provide herself with a confidante capable of standing by her in case she wished to assert her rights. She chose old Mrs. Firman. Why, when her daughter would have been so much more suitable for the purpose, it is hard to tell; possibly the widow’s pride revolted from telling a woman of her own years the indignities she had suffered. However that may be, it was to the old lady she told her story and gave these letters—letters which, as you will see, are not written to any special person, but are rather the separate leaves of a journal which she kept to show the state of her feelings from time to time.”
“And this?” inquired Mr. Ferris, taking up a sheet of paper written in a different handwriting from the rest.
“This is an attempt on the part of the old lady to put on paper the story which had been told her. She evidently thought herself too old to be entrusted with a secret so important, and, fearing loss of memory, or perhaps sudden death, took this means of explaining how she came into possession of her cousin’s letters. ’Twas a wise precaution. Without it we would have missed the clue to the widow’s journal. For the old lady’s brain gave way when she heard of the widow’s death, and had it not been for a special stroke of good-luck on my part, we might have remained some time longer in ignorance of what very valuable papers she secretly held in her possession.”
“I will read the letters,” said Mr. Ferris.
Seeing from his look that he only waited their departure to do so, Mr. Gryce and his subordinates arose.
“I think you will find them satisfactory,” drawled Hickory.
“If you do not,” said Mr. Gryce, “then give a look at this telegram. It is from Swanson, and notifies us that a record of a marriage between Benjamin Orcutt—Mr. Orcutt’s middle name was Benjamin—and Mary Mansell can be found in the old town books.”
Mr. Ferris took the telegram, the shade of sorrow settling heavier and heavier on his brow.
“I see,” said he, “I have got to accept your conclusions. Well, there are those among the living who will be greatly relieved by these discoveries. I will try and think of that.”
Yet, after the detectives were gone, and he sat down in solitude before these evidences of his friend’s perfidy, it was many long and dreary moments before he could summon up courage to peruse them. But when he did, he found in them all that Mr. Gryce had promised. As my readers may feel some interest to know how the seeming widow bore the daily trial of her life, I will give a few extracts from these letters. The first bears date of fourteen years back, and was written after she came to Sibley:
“—In the same town! Within a stone’s throw of the courthouse, where, they tell me, his business will soon take him almost every day! Isn’t it a triumph? and am I not to be congratulated upon my bravery in coming here? He hasn’t seen me yet, but I have seen him. I crept out of the house at nightfall on purpose. He was sauntering down the street and he looked—it makes my blood boil to think of it—he looked happy.”
“—Clemmens, Clemmens—that is my name, and I have taken the title of widow. What a fate for a woman with a husband in the next street! He saw me today. I met him in the open square, and I looked him right in the face. How he did quail! It just does me good to think of it! Perk and haughty as he is, he grew as white as a sheet when he saw me, and though he tried to put on airs and carry it off with a high hand, he failed, just as I knew he would when he came to meet me on even ground. Oh, I’ll have my way now, and if I choose to stay in this place where I can keep my eye on him, he won’t dare to say No. The only thing I fear is that he will do me a secret mischief some day. His look was just murderous when he left me.”
“—Can I stand it? I ask myself that question every morning when I get up. Can I stand it? To sit all alone in my little narrow room and know that he is going about as gay as you please with people who wouldn’t look at me twice. It’s awful hard; but it would be worse still to be where I couldn’t see what he was up to. Then I should imagine all sorts of things. No, I will just grit my teeth and bear it.
