"Under ordinary circumstances," says the secretary to himself when he
gets back to his private office, "I should describe it as the act of
a dirty dog to open another man's letter, especially a letter
addressed to a lady. But, having regard to, well, having regard to
that curious ornament so skilfully concealed beneath the flat foot of
our extremely morose friend, I think on the whole that the dirty dog
business becomes an unpleasant duty."
With which reflection he turns the letter over in his hands, and
inspects it closely from the outside.
"Now, if it should turn out to be just an ordinary letter, saying
that he has got a couple of stalls for the Coliseum, or asking her to
come and have a cocktail as it's his birthday, or something of that
sort, I shall feel rather a fool," he muses, "but in any case," he
continues with a smile, becoming more of the complete villain as he
warms to his task, "she won't know anything about it."
This at least is true. The function of censor, forced on him by the
exigencies of war, has at least taught Dimsdale the art of opening
even the most carefully stuck down envelope and sealing it up again
in such a manner that the recipient would never suspect that such an
operation has been performed.
Very deliberately and carefully he makes use of the skill he has
acquired, and the methods he employs are so delicate and so efficient
that in a few minutes the letter opens as if by a magic touch, and
the message lies spread out on the table before him.
It is a very short letter, no more than a few words. Dimsdale reads
them over and over again, until he has got them off by heart; and in
truth this is not a matter of much difficulty, for all that he has to
learn is just this:
"DEAR NORAH,
"_There is to be a court of enquiry to-morrow morning. They want me
at it, and I shall have to be there. There is no need for you to
come, for you cannot tell them any more than I can, and it will only
upset you after all you have been through. Tell Netta that she must
not dream of coming as she is in far too weak a state to do any such
thing. I am sure they will excuse you both. You had better stay in
bed and rest yourselves until we leave. Mind, you are not on any
account to risk coming to-morrow._
"_Your affect. Cousin,_
PATRICK."
A very carefully worded letter, thinks Dimsdale; the man must have
been a good deal more sober than he looked when he wrote it; he has
his wits about him, at all events, and if he is really a wrong 'un he
will require some pretty careful handling to-morrow.
"And now to deliver the letter," he says aloud. And in spite of the
fact that darkness has now fallen he at once sets about getting the
boat called away to take him to the island.
Almost as soon as he has started he overtakes in the darkness a skiff
pulled by a single man, and the wash of the steamboat nearly swamps
the small craft, so that Dimsdale labouring at the sculls curses the
coxswain for an unhandy bat-eyed lubber. But the steamboat goes
unheeding on its way, and is starting back again before Stapleton has
got halfway to the landing-place.
Arriving at the hut, Dimsdale is greeted by Mrs. Shaw--the only
feminine creature who does not inspire him overwhelmingly with fear;
and on his saying that he wishes to see Miss Sheridan, lays himself
open to the good creature's bantering remarks:
"I suppose you mean Miss Netta Sheridan? You appeared to be getting
along very nicely with her a little while ago! And now you have
scarcely been a couple of hours away from the place and must needs
come gallivanting after her again. Mr. Dimsdale, I'm pleased to note
this reformation in you. But, as it happens, you can't see her just
now; she is engaged with another admirer, a fine, handsome young
bluejacket, a much better-looking man than you are!"
Dimsdale disclaims any desire to speak with Miss Netta. It is Miss
Norah he desires to see--he has a note for her which he has promised
to deliver as soon as possible.
"That being the case," observed Mrs. Shaw, "you can see her at once;
she doesn't happen to have any young man hanging about her at the
present moment; though if you had been here an hour or so ago----!
Well, well, go in there; you'll find her alone in that room--and I
only hope you'll come out of it alive!"
With this parting thrust at his well-known timidity, she motions him
to the door of the room and leaves him.
But Dimsdale's timidity falls from him, even in the unaccompanied
presence of a beautiful girl, when he has a definite object to
pursue; and in this case he certainly has such an object, namely to
try and sift the mystery of Patrick Sheridan in order to find out
whether there has been any mischief afoot.
Explaining the purpose for which he has come at such an hour, he
hands the letter to Norah, and watches her very closely while she
reads it.
Will she betray any secret knowledge, anything to give him a hint, a
clue, by the tremor of her eyelids or the quiver of her lips?
She gives no such sign, but reads the short missive to its close
without changing in the slightest degree the expression of her
features, and deliberately folds the letter up and places it again in
the envelope.
"Is there any answer you would like to send?" asks the secretary.
"None, thank you," she replies briefly, and waits in silence,
evidently expecting him to go.
This is not encouraging. Dimsdale did not expect that there would be
any answer to the letter, knowing that it required none; but he hoped
for something a little more illuminating than this.
He casts about in his mind for something to say which shall appear
natural and at the same time lead to a more fruitful conversation.
One thing causes him embarrassment; he is in the dark as to whether
the girls have yet heard of the loss of the _Marathon_ or not; the
admiral, it is true, enjoined silence on the subject, but that was in
the early part of the afternoon, and a good many people may have been
talking since then. Besides, Norah seems to understand Sheridan's
letter, with its reference to a court of enquiry.
"Have you heard any news to-day, Miss Sheridan?" It is a lame start,
but better than nothing.
"Do you mean the terrible news of the loss of the ship which rescued
us last night? Yes, I have heard of it, and am more shocked and
distressed than I can possibly tell you," she replies.
Her answer sounds frank enough, but in reality she is fencing with
him. Norah is beginning to feel afraid. Why does this man sit
there, with his questions and the look of an inquisitor in his
piercing eyes?
"Ah, you have heard of it then," he remarks sympathetically: "I am
sorry--we hoped to have kept it from you, at least till to-morrow
morning."
"Why till to-morrow morning only?" she asks.
"Because there is a sort of enquiry to be held about the unfortunate
occurrence then, and it may be necessary to ask you and your cousin
to be present."
"I will certainly be there," comes the frank, almost eager reply,
"and shall be glad if I can be of any use. So will Netta too, if she
is well enough, though you must have seen for yourself this afternoon
that she is in a very weak state."
"I did notice it, and was very sorry to see it, though not at all
surprised," he makes answer; and then subsides into silence again.
The affair is not progressing! This girl shows no disinclination to
making a statement and undergoing examination at the court of
enquiry. It is all very perplexing, and Dimsdale begins again to
hate himself for being such a cad as to venture false suspicions.
But then that little enamelled badge falling from Sheridan's
waistcoat pocket!
In the lull of conversation is heard the sound of a door opening and
closing again and footsteps on the gravel path outside diminishing
into the distance. "Perhaps you would like to see my cousin before
you go?" invites Norah. "I hear her visitor going, so you will find
her alone if you care to go into the room opposite."
Nothing but the utmost frankness, she feels, can save them now.
Netta may betray something, but that risk has to be taken; the main
thing is not to appear to wish to hide anything or to have anything
to hide.
"Thank you. I think I should like to, if you are sure she won't
mind," he says; and after a courteous farewell finds himself a moment
later knocking gently at the door of Netta's room.
He enters, after having waited a while with no reply to his knocking,
thinking that she has probably left to join Mrs. Shaw, but wishing to
make certain of the fact.
But Netta is still in the room when Dimsdale goes in. He discovers
her lying prone upon the couch with her head buried in her arms,
sobbing as if her heart would break.
"Oh, why are you crying?" he exclaims, overcome with surprise and
some other emotion--at the sight. "I--I don't want you to cry like
that!"
This is not at all what he meant to say!
There is no answer, except more sobbing.
Dimsdale approaches the weeping girl with slow and hesitating steps.
He feels that he ought to go away and leave her to her distress, but
some new and unaccustomed force seems to lead him in the other
direction.
Yet he does not know in the least what to say or what to do. He has
never before been placed in circumstances like these. And the queer
thing about it is that although he feels mightily uncomfortable and
ill at ease, yet at the same time he would not go away for worlds.
Well, something must be done, anyhow! It is to be feared that
Dimsdale has almost forgotten the fact that he came here in the
character of an investigator, determined on probing a mystery, or at
least on finding out whether a mystery existed.
But he is faced with a greater mystery--that of a woman's tears; and
something within him calls to him to make the attempt to fathom it,
though he has very little idea as to how to set to work.
He is standing now by the side of the couch, the girl sees him and
recognises him, but gives no hint of it. Her fierce sobs shake her
frail body still, and the ashen-gold luxuriance of her hair hides all
her face as she buries her head again in the cushion.
He is kneeling now by her side, and calling to her softly in broken
and disjointed sentences, beseeching her to still her grief and tell
him its cause. The sobs come fainter as he continues speaking his
distressed appeals, fainter until they almost cease. He is taking
her into his arms now, and his lips are pressed ever so gently upon
the clustering gold of her hair, while his words formulate themselves
with meaning more distinct and complete.
"Oh, my dear, my dear, don't cry any more! Indeed there is no need!"
Thus for the second time within a quarter of an hour Netta finds
herself clasped within a lover's arms. But this time she does not
shrink away suffering herself to be held in an embrace which is
infinitely more tender and comforting than the passionate clasp of
the other; and although she presently repeats her former dismissal
with a softly uttered, "Oh, go, please go!" yet there is a very
different tone underlying the words this time.
And Dimsdale takes her at her word and departs. He is very new to
this sort of thing, be it remembered.
But where is the keen prober of mysteries, the unofficial detective,
that entered the room only a few minutes ago?
Ah, Dimsdale, it is a good thing that Mrs. Shaw does not see you as
you take your departure!