MR. CHARLTON SPEAKS.
For once in his life Lawrence was utterly taken aback. He could do no
more than stammer out an apology and assure the stern dark-eyed
stranger that nothing in the way of a liberty was intended.
"You see, I have found something out," he said. "I rather
hoped--indeed, I have still hopes--that the culprit----"
"What on earth are you talking about?" Charlton asked impatiently.
"But, surely, my dear sir, the tragedy that took place here so
recently----"
"So recently! Ah, this is a veritable house of tragedies. I must get
you to explain. I have come here direct from Paris to get certain
papers. Put the gas out and come into the dining-room where the
shutters are up. We don't want the police fussing about. You can tell
me everything. If I don't make a mistake you are Mr. Gilbert Lawrence,
the novelist."
"And I remember you now," Lawrence replied. "So you know nothing of
what has been happening lately?"
The story was told at length, Charlton listening with a certain amount
of interest. He looked like a man under the cloud of a great sorrow,
the contemplation of which was never far from his eyes.
"This is an accursed house," he said presently. "My father went mad
here and committed suicide. My wife did the same thing, but then she
was the victim of one of the greatest fiends that ever took mortal
guise."
Mr. Charlton's melancholy eyes seemed to be fixed on space. Just for
the moment he had forgotten that he was not alone. Lawrence gave a
sympathetic cough. As a matter of fact, he had not yet explained what
he was doing there, and the longer the explanation was postponed the
better he would be pleased.
"You remember the case of my wife?" Charlton asked suddenly. "Ah, I
see you do. Well, I am going to tell you my story. You are a man of
sentiment and feeling, or your novels greatly belie you. And a doctor
always respects confidence. When my wife died there was an inquiry
extending over many days. The great question was: Had she poisoned
herself, did she take poison by misadventure, or did I kill her? Nine
people out of every ten believed I was guilty. I let them believe it
at the risk of my neck, and why?"
The speaker asked the question quite fiercely.
"Because you loved your wife and respected her memory," said Lawrence.
"Correct. You are a man after my own heart, sir. My wife committed
suicide because she thought I no longer loved her, and that I had
transferred my affections to the woman who acted as her companion.
"That woman was perhaps the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.
We never dreamt the depth of her wickedness, that she was a gambler
and a forger. But she was. And when the gaol loomed before her she
took my wife's jewels to sell and so save herself from exposure.
"But she never got those jewels out of the house. She was found out by
a piece of good luck--whether good or bad luck I shall leave you to
guess. She had barely time to throw the gems down the well which is in
the little courtyard behind the house, and my wife saw it all. The
woman was informed that on my return from a journey I should be told
everything. She knew that investigation would follow. And what did
that fiend of a woman do. She forged a letter from me in which I made
the most violent love to her and asked her to fly with me. Mind you,
that letter was posted and delivered here. It was very easy to
contrive that it should find its way into the hands of my poor wife;
it was safe to reckon upon her emotional temperament. She read the
letter; she took from a drawer a phial of some sleeping draught, and
she poisoned herself."
Charlton paused and wiped his forehead. He spoke quite calmly and
collectedly, but the great drops stood on his face.
"I got home sooner than expected, got home in time to find my wife
dead and that fatal letter in her hand. The woman who was the cause of
all the mischief entered the room just too late to get the letter
back. She was off her guard for the instant, and I saw it all in a
flash. The part about the jewels I got later from one of the servants
who had been afraid to speak before.
"I said nothing--for my dear wife's sake I was silent. You see I could
prove nothing. No jury would have got anything out of the fiend who
brought this about. The letter I carefully concealed. I took the risk
of hanging, and as people blamed me my wife's good name was saved."
"I am afraid I don't follow your reasoning," Bruce said.
"I do," Lawrence observed. "At the time it was quite natural. But it
seemed a pity to let that woman get off scot free."
A queer, hard smile came over Charlton's face.
"Nemesis is slow but sure," he said. "My turn will come. That letter
is locked up in the safe yonder. Would you like to see it and compare
it with my own ordinary handwriting? Oh, that was a wonderful woman!"
Charlton proceeded to open a safe in the wall and took from it two
letters.
"There," he exclaimed. "That is the letter, the other sheet is my own
handwriting. Did you ever see a more marvellous imitation? There are
times when I feel as if I really must have written the letter myself.
Look at it, Mr. Lawrence."
Lawrence had pounced upon it eagerly. His lithe little frame was
thrilling with excitement. He held his head back as if sniffing at
some pungent odour.
"Here's a discovery," he said, excitedly. "Here's a perfect
revelation. Mr. Charlton, will you trust me for four and twenty hours
with this letter? I've found out something that fairly takes my breath
away."
"As you please," Charlton said, indifferently. "All discoveries are
the same to me now. But why do you smell that letter?"
"I'm on the scent," Lawrence laughed. "All the same, if I am correct
it will be no laughing matter for somebody before long."