“Did your friend declare Miss Grey to have written with a pencil and on a small
piece of unruled paper?”
“Yes, the pencil was at her bedside; the paper was torn from a book which lay
there. She did not put the note when written in an envelope, but gave it to the
valet just as it was. He is an old man and had come to her room for some final
orders.”
“The nurse saw all this? Has she that book?”
“No, it went out next morning, with the scraps. It was some pamphlet, I
believe.”
The inspector turned the morsel of paper over and over in his hand.
“What is this nurse’s name?”
“Henrietta Pierson.”
“Does she share your doubts?”
“I can not say.”
“You have seen her often?”
“No, only the one time.”
“Is she discreet?”
“Very. On this subject she will be like the grave unless forced by you to
speak.”
“And Miss Grey?”
“She is still ill, too ill to be disturbed by questions, especially on so
delicate a topic. But she is getting well fast. Her father’s fears as we heard
them expressed on one memorable occasion were ill founded, sir.”
Slowly the inspector inserted this scrap of paper between the folds of his
pocketbook. He did not give me another look, though I stood trembling before
him. Was he in any way convinced or was he simply seeking for the most
considerate way in which to dismiss me and my abominable theory? I could not
gather his intentions from his expression, and was feeling very faint and
heart-sick when he suddenly turned upon me with the remark:
“A girl as ill as you say Miss Grey was must have had some very pressing matter
on her mind to attempt to write and send a message under such difficulties.
According to your idea, she had some notion of her father’s designs and wished
to warn Mrs. Fairbrother against them. But don’t you see that such conduct as
this would be preposterous, nay, unparalleled in persons of their distinction?
You must find some other explanation for Miss Grey’s seemingly mysterious
action, and I an agent of crime other than one of England’s most reputable
statesmen.”
“So that Mr. Durand is shown the same consideration, I am content,” said I. “It
is the truth and the truth only I desire. I am willing to trust my cause with
you.”
He looked none too grateful for this confidence. Indeed, now that I look back
on this scene, I do not wonder that he shrank from the responsibility thus
foisted upon him.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Prove something. Prove that I am altogether wrong or altogether right. Or if
proof is not possible, pray allow me the privilege of doing what I can myself
to clear up the matter.”
“You?”
There was apprehension, disapprobation, almost menace in his tone. I bore it
with as steady and modest a glance as possible, saying, when I thought he was
about to speak again:
“I will do nothing without your sanction. I realize the dangers of this inquiry
and the disgrace that would follow if our attempt was suspected before proof
reached a point sufficient to justify it. It is not an open attack I meditate,
but one—”
Here I whispered in his ear for several minutes, when I had finished he gave me
a prolonged stare, then he laid his hand on my head.
“You are a little wonder,” he declared. “But your ideas are very quixotic,
very. However,” he added, suddenly growing grave, “something, I must admit, may
be excused a young girl who finds herself forced to choose between the guilt of
her lover and that of a man esteemed great by the world, but altogether removed
from her and her natural sympathies.”
“You acknowledge, then, that it lies between these two?”
“I see no third,” said he.