Arriving at the cottage, Doctor Allday discovered a gentleman, who was
just closing the garden gate behind him.
“Has Miss Emily had a visitor?” he inquired, when the servant admitted
him.
“The gentleman left a letter for Miss Emily, sir.”
“Did he ask to see her?”
“He asked after Miss Letitia’s health. When he heard that she was dead,
he seemed to be startled, and went away immediately.”
“Did he give his name?”
“No, sir.”
The doctor found Emily absorbed over her letter. His anxiety to
forestall any possible discovery of the deception which had concealed
the terrible story of her father’s death, kept Doctor Allday’s vigilance
on the watch. He doubted the gentleman who had abstained from giving
his name; he even distrusted the other unknown person who had written to
Emily.
She looked up. Her face relieved him of his misgivings, before she could
speak.
“At last, I have heard from my dearest friend,” she said. “You remember
what I told you about Cecilia? Here is a letter--a long delightful
letter--from the Engadine, left at the door by some gentleman unknown. I
was questioning the servant when you rang the bell.”
“You may question me, if you prefer it. I arrived just as the gentleman
was shutting your garden gate.”
“Oh, tell me! what was he like?”
“Tall, and thin, and dark. Wore a vile republican-looking felt hat.
Had nasty ill-tempered wrinkles between his eyebrows. The sort of man I
distrust by instinct.”
“Why?”
“Because he doesn’t shave.”
“Do you mean that he wore a beard?”
“Yes; a curly black beard.”
Emily clasped her hands in amazement. “Can it be Alban Morris?” she
exclaimed.
The doctor looked at her with a sardonic smile; he thought it likely
that he had discovered her sweetheart.
“Who is Mr. Alban Morris?” he asked.
“The drawing-master at Miss Ladd’s school.”
Doctor Allday dropped the subject: masters at ladies’ schools were not
persons who interested him. He returned to the purpose which had brought
him to the cottage--and produced the Handbill that had been sent to him
in Emily’s letter.
“I suppose you want to have it back again?” he said.
She took it from him, and looked at it with interest.
“Isn’t it strange,” she suggested, “that the murderer should have
escaped, with such a careful description of him as this circulated all
over England?”
She read the description to the doctor.
“‘Name not known. Supposed age, between twenty-five and thirty years.
A well-made man, of small stature. Fair complexion, delicate features,
clear blue eyes. Hair light, and cut rather short. Clean shaven, with
the exception of narrow half-whiskers. Small, white, well-shaped hands.
Wore valuable rings on the two last fingers of the left hand. Dressed
neatly--’”
“That part of the description is useless,” the doctor remarked; “he
would change his clothes.”
“But could he change his voice?” Emily objected. “Listen to this:
‘Remarkably good voice, smooth, full, and persuasive.’ And here
again! ‘Ingratiating manners.’ Perhaps you will say he could put on an
appearance of rudeness?”
“I will say this, my dear. He would be able to disguise himself so
effectually that ninety-nine people out of a hundred would fail to
identify him, either by his voice or his manner.”
“How?”
“Look back at the description: ‘Hair cut rather short, clean shaven,
with the exception of narrow half-whiskers.’ The wretch was safe from
pursuit; he had ample time at his disposal--don’t you see how he could
completely alter the appearance of his head and face? No more, my dear,
of this disagreeable subject! Let us get to something interesting. Have
you found anything else among your aunt’s papers?”
“I have met with a great disappointment,” Emily replied. “Did I tell you
how I discovered the Handbill?”
“No.”
“I found it, with the scrap-book and the newspaper cuttings, under
a collection of empty boxes and bottles, in a drawer of the
washhand-stand. And I naturally expected to make far more interesting
discoveries in this room. My search was over in five minutes. Nothing
in the cabinet there, in the corner, but a few books and some china.
Nothing in the writing-desk, on that side-table, but a packet of
note-paper and some sealing-wax. Nothing here, in the drawers, but
tradesmen’s receipts, materials for knitting, and old photographs. She
must have destroyed all her papers, poor dear, before her last illness;
and the Handbill and the other things can only have escaped, because
they were left in a place which she never thought of examining. Isn’t it
provoking?”
With a mind inexpressibly relieved, good Doctor Allday asked permission
to return to his patients: leaving Emily to devote herself to her
friend’s letter.
On his way out, he noticed that the door of the bed-chamber on the
opposite side of the passage stood open. Since Miss Letitia’s death the
room had not been used. Well within view stood the washhand-stand
to which Emily had alluded. The doctor advanced to the house
door--reflected--hesitated--and looked toward the empty room.
It had struck him that there might be a second drawer which Emily had
overlooked. Would he be justified in setting this doubt at rest? If
he passed over ordinary scruples it would not be without excuse. Miss
Letitia had spoken to him of her affairs, and had asked him to act (in
Emily’s interest) as co-executor with her lawyer. The rapid progress
of the illness had made it impossible for her to execute the necessary
codicil. But the doctor had been morally (if not legally) taken into her
confidence--and, for that reason, he decided that he had a right in this
serious matter to satisfy his own mind.
A glance was enough to show him that no second drawer had been
overlooked.
There was no other discovery to detain the doctor. The wardrobe only
contained the poor old lady’s clothes; the one cupboard was open
and empty. On the point of leaving the room, he went back to the
washhand-stand. While he had the opportunity, it might not be amiss
to make sure that Emily had thoroughly examined those old boxes and
bottles, which she had alluded to with some little contempt.
The drawer was of considerable length. When he tried to pull it
completely out from the grooves in which it ran, it resisted him. In his
present frame of mind, this was a suspicious circumstance in itself. He
cleared away the litter so as to make room for the introduction of his
hand and arm into the drawer. In another moment his fingers touched
a piece of paper, jammed between the inner end of the drawer and the
bottom of the flat surface of the washhand-stand. With a little care, he
succeeded in extricating the paper. Only pausing to satisfy himself
that there was nothing else to be found, and to close the drawer after
replacing its contents, he left the cottage.
The cab was waiting for him. On the drive back to his own house, he
opened the crumpled paper. It proved to be a letter addressed to
Miss Letitia; and it was signed by no less a person than Emily’s
schoolmistress. Looking back from the end to the beginning, Doctor
Allday discovered, in the first sentence, the name of--Miss Jethro.
But for the interview of that morning with his patient he might have
doubted the propriety of making himself further acquainted with the
letter. As things were, he read it without hesitation.
“DEAR MADAM--I cannot but regard it as providential circumstance that
your niece, in writing to you from my house, should have mentioned,
among other events of her school life, the arrival of my new teacher,
Miss Jethro.
“To say that I was surprised is to express very inadequately what I felt
when I read your letter, informing me confidentially that I had employed
a woman who was unworthy to associate with the young persons placed
under my care. It is impossible for me to suppose that a lady in your
position, and possessed of your high principles, would make such a
serious accusation as this, without unanswerable reasons for doing so.
At the same time I cannot, consistently with my duty as a Christian,
suffer my opinion of Miss Jethro to be in any way modified, until proofs
are laid before me which it is impossible to dispute.
“Placing the same confidence in your discretion, which you have placed
in mine, I now inclose the references and testimonials which Miss Jethro
submitted to me, when she presented herself to fill the vacant situation
in my school.
“I earnestly request you to lose no time in instituting the confidential
inquiries which you have volunteered to make. Whatever the result may
be, pray return to me the inclosures which I have trusted to your care,
and believe me, dear madam, in much suspense and anxiety, sincerely
yours,
“AMELIA LADD.”
It is needless to describe, at any length, the impression which these
lines produced on the doctor.
If he had heard what Emily had heard at the time of her aunt’s last
illness, he would have called to mind Miss Letitia’s betrayal of her
interest in some man unknown, whom she believed to have been beguiled
by Miss Jethro--and he would have perceived that the vindictive hatred,
thus produced, must have inspired the letter of denunciation which the
schoolmistress had acknowledged. He would also have inferred that Miss
Letitia’s inquiries had proved her accusation to be well founded--if
he had known of the new teacher’s sudden dismissal from the school. As
things were, he was merely confirmed in his bad opinion of Miss Jethro;
and he was induced, on reflection, to keep his discovery to himself.
“If poor Miss Emily saw the old lady exhibited in the character of an
informer,” he thought, “what a blow would be struck at her innocent
respect for the memory of her aunt!”