"Nonsense! a coincidence indeed! If you have credulity enough to believe
in such a 'coincidence' as that, you have certainly mistaken your
profession."
"If you were a lawyer," returned he, "you would know that there is no
limit to the strangeness of coincidences. But let me see the MS."
"It is there on the table, at your elbow."
Calbot turned and took it up.
"How's this--it's wet, soaking wet!" he exclaimed. "Drayton, I'm afraid
I must have cracked that old vase of yours. It has been leaking, and the
table is flooded."
It was too true. The precious water of life had been preserved through
so many generations merely for the sake of spoiling the morocco of my
study table at last. Vanished were my hopes of earthly immortality.
Cautiously lifting the vase, in the hope that somewhat of the precious
ichor might yet be saved, the whole bottom fell out. Calbot was sorry,
of course, but he had no conception of the extent of the misfortune. He
observed that the vase could easily be mended, as if the vase were the
chief treasure.
"Never mind," said I, rather soberly, after we had sopped up the
inestimable elixir, as well as we could, with our handkerchiefs. "I
shall die an eternity or two the sooner, and shall have to get my table
new covered, that's all. I hope, Calbot, that the good which your visit
here has done you, will be a small fraction as great as the loss it has
inflicted on me. Well, and how has the MS. come out of the scrape? All
washed out, I suppose."
With a penitent eye Calbot took it up once more, and ran his eye over
the last page. I saw his expression change. He knit his brows--looked
up at me with a quick questioning glance--looked back to the page, and
finally said: "Oh!"
"What?"
"It seems you had filled in the blanks before I came?"
"With the first four letters of the alphabet. Yes!"
"With the names in full!"
"What names?"
"Why, Drayton, the first thing I looked at was this record of 'ondyinge
Hatred,' &c. It contains all the four names--yours as one of the
witnesses of Armstrong's signature. They are written out in pale red
ink, as plain as can be----"
I had jumped from my chair and taken the MS. from Calbot's hand. It
was impossible--it was inconceivable, but it was true. The page was
thoroughly wetted through, but there were the three names--the _four_
names, for my own was added, in the character of compiler of the
work--plainly traced out in light red ink. Could I have done it in a fit
of abstraction? No, for the chirography was not mine--it was identical
with all the rest of the writing. In my utter bewilderment, I raised
my eyes to the wall, where hung the picture of my ecclesiastical
ancestor--he, the alchemist, the busybody, the death-bed confidant, the
suspected wizard--and my own namesake--we were the only two Toxophiluses
in all the line of Draytons. Once more, for the third or fourth time
that evening, it struck me that he looked excessively knowing and sly.
Who can analyse the lightning evolutions of human thought? I knew the
truth before I could explain it. It crystallised in my brain all in a
moment. A glance at the front of the MS., which had not been wetted,
confirmed me.
I threw down the MS., clapped Calbot on the shoulder, and burst into an
immoderate fit of laughter, which his astonished and concerned aspect
served only to aggravate. It was some minutes before I could speak.
"It is a simple matter after all," I said. "My old progenitor, there on
the wall, was a friend--confidential friend--of Armstrong's. It was he
who wrote that MS., and left the blanks, which are not blanks, but names
written in invisible ink. He prepared, then, the chemical reagent for
the purpose of making the invisible writing visible whenever the time
should come. Perhaps he meant to apply it himself some day; but,
unluckily, death snatched him all unawares from the scene of his pious
intrigues. The MS. got into the hands of Armstrong's heirs (from whom
I this day received it). The reagent stayed with the Draytons. This
evening you came and brought the two together in your own inimitable
style. You see, wherever the paper is wet, the blanks are filled in:
the untouched parts are blanks still. Oh John, John! I wish this had
happened before I printed my article on 'Unrecognisable Truths:' it is
a peculiarly apt illustration."
"Didn't I tell you," said Calbot, after a pause, "that there was nothing
in the world so strange as coincidences?"
"There is the hobgoblin still unaccounted for," answered I; "but I have
done my part; I leave the rest to you."
* * * * *
The next day but one came a note from my friend. It ran:
"What did I do at your rooms last night? Was I queer at all? I had
intended calling on you that day, to tell you that Edna and I were
going to be married April 1st, and to get you for my best man. _Did_
I tell you? Because, if not, I do now. The fact is, you see, I had
been reading over some curious old family documents (I think I spoke
to you about them), and then I went up to Edna's and frightened her
half to death with telling her ghost stories about the locket I'd
given her as a betrothal gift (a queer little thing it is. Did I ever
mention it to you?) Well, going home I met young De Quincey, and he
proposed--he's always up to some devilry or other--he proposed doing
something which I shall never do again; I was a fool to try it at
all, but I had no notion how it would act. I'm afraid I may have
annoyed you. I have an idea I upset your ink-bottle, and that I got
it into my head that the ghost story I had been telling Edna was
true. How was it? I know I felt deathly sick the next morning; I'm
not certain whether it was the port-wine I drank, or that confounded
hasheesh that I took with young De Quincey. I promised Edna I'd never
take any more. Well, you won't object to being my best man, will you?
"J. C."
So far from explaining the essential mystery--the Ghostly Rival--this
letter of John's only makes it, to my mind, more inscrutable than ever.
Talk about coincidences! For my part, I prefer to believe in ghosts.