A SCRAP OF PAPER.
THE sudden death of Mrs. Verschoyle so appalled everyone, that the
trial was adjourned. A great sensation was created when the report
came out in the papers, and numerous were the theories as to how the
trial would end, now the principal witness was dead.
As a matter of fact, according to public opinion, the only thing that
could prove the innocence of Vassalla, was the production of the
letter written by the dead man, and alleged to have been stolen by
Mrs. Verschoyle, and after the body had been removed, Ronald, in
company with Foster and Vassalla's lawyer, went to look for it.
"What shall we do if she has destroyed it?" said Ronald, as they
walked along.
"Oh, she hasn't destroyed it," replied Vassalla's lawyer, whose name
was Winks; "she would have produced it at the eleventh hour."
"Then you think such a paper is in existence?" said Foster.
"I'm certain of it, and Mrs. Verschoyle knew the Marchese was
innocent. She only accused him out of jealousy."
"But why did he not deny the charge at once, instead of letting
himself be placed in such a perilous position?"
"I don't know," said Winks; "he never gave me any explanation. But he
knew he was safe, for even should the paper not be forthcoming, the
evidence of the deceased, that Vassalla had given him the dagger,
would save him. If he hadn't the stiletto, he couldn't have killed him
with it, that's flat."
"But Verschoyle distinctly denied to me that he had any intention of
committing suicide," said Ronald.
Winks shrugged his shoulders.
"Changed his mind, I suppose. He evidently did it on the spur of the
moment. But here we are, at last."
They went into the hotel, and were shown into the late Mrs.
Verschoyle's room by the landlady, who had heard of her lodger's
death, and was much scared thereat.
"I knew she'd break a blood-vessel," she said, smoothing her black
silk dress; "the rages she got into were awful. They won't bring the
corpse here, I hope?"
"No," replied Ronald, "it has been taken to Sir Mark Trevor's town
house."
"Didn't know he had one," said Foster; "he stops at the Langham."
"Oh, yes; he dislikes his town house immensely, and being a student of
human nature, likes the life of an hotel. I don't think he's far
wrong, myself."
They went to Mrs. Verschoyle's room and hunted everywhere for the
paper so much required, but in vain. Ransacked her desk, looked
through her trunks, but without any satisfactory result.
"Perhaps she's left it about for greater safety," said Foster,
referring to Poe's queer story of the "Purloined Letter."
The landlady was called up and questioned, but denied ever seeing the
paper.
"Perhaps she had it with her," she suggested, as the three gentlemen
looked blankly at one another.
No, the body had been searched, so they left the hotel in despair.
"Looks had for Vassalla," said Ronald.
"Not a bit!" retorted the stout-hearted Winks, "the stiletto evidence
will get him off; but Mrs. Verschoyle evidently intended he should
swing, and has perhaps destroyed the paper."
He went off, so Ronald invited Foster to dine with him at the
"Tavistock," an invitation which that gentleman accepted. All the
newsboys along the Strand were calling out sensational sentences about
the case, and Ronald bought some papers to read. When they entered the
hotel the clerk handed Ronald a letter that had been waiting for him
all day. It was addressed in a woman's handwriting, and Monteith
opened it carelessly, but on glancing at the contents he gave a shout
which startled Foster.
"What's the matter, old chap?"
"The missing paper!" gasped Ronald, holding it out; and so it was.
Foster took it and read it.
"My dear Monteith--I'm sick of life, and as I've no one to consult
about staying in it, I'm going into the next world, straight off.
Lionel Ventin."
"This puts Vassalla's innocence beyond all doubt," said Foster, "but
the signature will have to be proved--can you do it?"
"No," replied Monteith; "but there's Mrs. Taunton."
"Yes!--we'll have to see her," said the barrister, putting the letter
in his pocket; "but how the deuce did it come to you?"
"I don't know," said Ronald blankly, "unless she never intended
Vassalla should suffer, but sent me this to-day and the case would
have been squashed to-morrow. I believe she was mad."
Foster thought so also, especially when they went back to the hotel
and found how the letter had been posted. Mrs. Verschoyle had placed
it in an envelope and directed it to Ronald, but, evidently changing
her mind, went out leaving it on the table. A waiter coming in had
seen it, so posted it at once thinking it was an oversight on Mrs.
Verschoyle's part.
There was no difficulty in proving the document to be authentic, as
Mrs. Taunton affirmed at once that both the writing and the signature
were in her brother's handwriting, and supported her assertion by
producing his letters to her, which put the whole question beyond a
doubt.
This curious ending to a curious case made a great sensation, but
Vassalla took his acquittal very coolly. He was more annoyed at
Carmela's refusal to marry him than anything else, as that young lady
not only refused to see him, but wrote a letter and upbraided him for
the falsehood he had told, regarding her sister's guilt, to gain her
hand.
Vassalla did not answer the letter, but seeing there was no hope for
him, went off to America, and found among the passengers the Bishop of
Patagonia and his wife, accompanied by Mrs. Pellypop, who had insisted
on coming. The Bishop yielded, in the secret hope that some benevolent
cannibal might eat the old lady, but she evidently did not look
inviting enough, as she is still alive and hearty.
Mrs. Verschoyle, whose unhappy fate no one particularly deplored, was
buried in Kensal Green Cemetery, and lies there at rest, with all her
loves, her hates, and ambitions. Carmela could not honestly pretend to
mourn, but she regretted that the last interview she had with her was
such a stormy one.
Ronald went down again to Hurley, and spent the summer months on the
river in the delightful company of Carmela, who, now that the cloud,
so long overshadowing her life, had passed away, was perfectly happy.
They were wrapped up in one another, and paid no attention to the
other guests at Bellfield.
This was decidedly selfish, and would have been resented, only it so
happened that two other couples under Sir Mark Trevor's hospitable
roof were doing precisely the same thing.
In the first place, Mr. Patrick Ryan had persuaded Kate Lester to
agree to change her name for his own.
"A fair exchange is no robbery," observed Pat when he proposed. "I
give you my name and you give me yourself."
"And you call that a fair exchange," retorted his lady-love. "I think
you're getting the best of the bargain--I'm marrying a poor man."
"Of course," said Pat cheerfully, "that's where my self-sacrifice
comes in. I can't support myself, so I'm going to support you--we can
live on bread-and-cheese and----
"Well?"
"If you've no objection, we'll have an acting charade on the last
word."
They did!
Sir Mark was resigned to the infliction of two loving couples staying
with him, but he did feel rather crushed when Gerald Foster asked him
to bestow Bell's hand upon him.
"Good gracious!" ejaculated the astonished baronet, "it's a catching
disease--I'm glad Mrs. Pellypop isn't here, or I'd fall a victim to
matrimony myself."
He liked Foster, however, and moreover saw he was a man likely to make
his mark in the world, so agreed to the engagement, and resigned
himself, in a Christian spirit, to the awful fact of living in the
same house with three young men engaged to the same number of young
women.
"I feel like an elderly Cupid," he said plaintively; "the only remedy
for this epidemic of love-making is to get them married as soon as
possible."
So as soon as possible the marriages took place all at the same time
in the church at Marlow, and the excitement was great over the treble
event, as such a thing had not occurred in the neighbourhood within
the memory of man.
It will be interesting news to all matrimonial pessimists that none of
these marriages have as yet turned out failures, or does there seem
the least chance of any such possibility.
Foster, with the assistance of his father-in-law, soon got plenty of
briefs, and is now a brilliant Q.C., cherishing dreams of the Bench
and the Woolsack.
Miss Lester's uncle dying, left her all his money, which Pat devoted
to restoring the home of his ancestors, where he lives now with his
pretty wife, and is not much troubled, except by his tenants, who
won't pay any rent.
And Ronald?
Oh, Ronald is in far-off Australia, and by his side stands the Girl
from Malta.
FINIS.