THE MESSENGER WITH GOOD NEWS
Eric Darrell might have been frozen—he seemed so petrified with surprise.
Instead of Lillian’s sweet face, marked by horror, he saw that of the
dashing widow, Mrs. Collingwood, she with whom Prescott had communicated
in the opium joint.
It dawned upon the detective.
All along there had been a great mistake—many things remained to be
explained away, but the one main point was assured—Lillian must be
innocent of the charge.
He was a man of extraordinary sense, as well as a man of action.
Recovering himself, he turned gracefully to Paul Prescott, who was
glaring at him.
“Mr. Prescott, there has been a grave mistake here on my part. I thought
this lady was some one else. I beg your pardon. Let the ceremony
proceed. I withdraw my objection. When it is over we will have a mutual
understanding.”
These words restored everyone to good humor. The artist dropped his
frown, the dominie found his place in the book, and the bride again stood
up beside the man she was taking for better or worse and the ceremony
went on.
Now was a chance for Eric to do some tall thinking, and he did so.
He saw many things in a new light, and had about arranged all he wanted
to say when the marriage service was over.
“I pronounce you man and wife,” said the minister, and, bending over, the
artist kissed his bride.
Then the three females retired again, the preacher hurried away, and Eric
found himself alone with the man whom he had had under surveillance for
so long a time.
The artist eyed him.
“Who are you, sir?”
“I am a detective, Mr. Prescott—I have been in your presence before.”
“By Jove! you are the man who bearded me in my studio.”
“Yes, and the man who rode up in the hack with you to Eighty-fifth
Street.”
“That old gent with the cane?”
“Also the friend of your driver who came up here with you.”
“And you are hired by Colonel Rogers—but if so, why the deuce did you
stop the ceremony and then allow it to go on?”.
The artist was amazed.
Well he might be.
The detective knew he had good reason for surprise, and was in a measure
ready to gratify that curiosity.
In return he hoped the artist would reveal certain strange things to him.
So Eric told all that was necessary—he did not even mention the lady’s
name.
Prescott smiled—he thought he could guess who it referred to.
“If you go to that house from here, my friend, you will learn something,”
he said, quietly.
“But what does all this singular action of yours mean, sir? You must
admit everything seemed to prove you guilty, even to the lady’s initial,
L.”
“Her name is Laura. As I said before, I was at the burial of her first
husband. The story is a long one and I can only give you an outline of
it—I might not do that only that I feel in such a jolly humor on this, my
wedding night.
“Jerry Collingwood and I were rivals—he won Laura by a trick, and she
found it out after her marriage, despising him for it. Then came his
tragic death, perhaps you remember it.
“After that, Laura went to live with her uncle, Colonel Rogers—she found
him a stern man, and he was soon plotting against her.
“She was strangely influenced by him—he had a power over her, which he
magnified in her mind, and she obeyed him unquestioningly until by
accident we met again.
“I need not tell you all we passed through—Rogers wished her to marry his
son, and we finally realized that he would give us trouble unless we took
the bull by the horns.
“So we arranged this elopement—how well it has been carried out I leave
to you to decide.
“Laura is now my wife—any man who dares to whisper a word against her
good name, were he a dozen times a colonel, shall answer to me for it at
the muzzle of the revolver. We have outwitted the wily Rogers, and he
will have to give an account of his stewardship.”
“That is all?”
“Yes.”
“It is enough. Prescott, even when I had reason to believe you guilty of
the most heinous sin on the calendar—that of stealing the affection of an
honest man’s wife—there were points about you I admired. Since learning
what your true work was, I can say without flattery that I am sincerely
glad to know you—glad that you have accomplished what you set out to
perform, and trust that your future as a Benedict may be free from
clouds.”
“Thank you, sir. I have waited a long time for Laura, but she is mine at
last. Won’t you stay and break a bottle of champagne?”
“Thanks, but I must be off. I have another engagement I must fill.”
“I can imagine where.”
“Yes,” dryly, “and probably this will be as happy a night to another man
as it is to you—he has found a wife as well as yourself.”
“And the lady you refer to is the sweetest and best little woman in the
world—save one”—hastily correcting himself—“the man must be a fool who
could doubt her constancy.”
“You don’t know all, Prescott. Her husband is the truest, noblest man I
know. He rejected it all again and again, but he is human and he saw and
heard things that would convince a skeptic.”
“Probably he understands all by this time, and he will eat humble pie
too.”
“I hope so. Good night, Mr. Prescott. Bring the doughty colonel to his
knees.”
“I’ll wring his nose if he gives me any further trouble, the old
nuisance.”
“Success to you.”
Eric Darrell left the vine-embowered cottage with feelings greatly
differing from his entrance. He was light of heart.
Not only was this on account of Joe and his wife, but his faith in
womankind had been saved.
Had Lillian been guilty Eric was determined never again to believe in a
woman.
This would have made him a cynic and a scoffer all of his days—now he
could remember with a delicious thrill that Marian was at Joe’s house,
and he would soon meet the original of the picture that had charmed him
so.
He did not remember of having felt so good for a long time back.
That was the result of the reaction.
As yet he could form no distinct idea of the true state of affairs—all
was chaotic confusion, but above everything he saw the prime fact that
Lillian was innocent.
That covered all.
How Joe must rejoice.
It would be a new lease of life to him.
So the detective walked out to the street, and found the hack waiting.
The driver greeted him.
“Glad to see you on deck—it was a mistake after all. Now drive me to the
corner you brought me from and the fee is yours.”
“Good.”
Away they rattled.
The detective felt inclined to smoke, and was soon puffing a cigar out of
the window, as he did not want to saturate his clothes with the strong
odor, fearing lest Marian might be one with her sister in objecting to
tobacco.
Then he wondered what time it was.
They had started at ten minutes to ten and made wonderful time, so that
it could not be very late, he thought.
Taking out his watch as they crossed the bridge over the Harlem, he found
that it was fifteen minutes after eleven.
Would he be in time?
He did not know how long these informal affairs were apt to last, but at
a rough guess figured that they would still be on hand at midnight and he
ought to be there before that.
He urged the driver on.
Finally the vehicle drew up. They had arrived. When Eric found that it
lacked fifteen minutes of twelve, he was satisfied, handed the driver his
fee, and hurried along the street.
He drew near the house.
Lights still shone in every window. Something caused him to feel very
queerly—he could not say what it was.
Did Joe know all?
Perhaps not—he might still be in a fog and wondering why all the plans
had miscarried. Eric did not hesitate.
He immediately ran up the steps.
Then he noticed that the parlor was deserted—the good people could not
have gone, for he could hear the laughter and buzz of voices—ah! they
were doubtless in the diningroom below.
He rang the bell.
A colored man answered it.
“1 wish to see Mr. Leslie on important business. Take my card to him.”
The man knew his business, closed the door and went away with the card.
One, two minutes passed.
Then Eric heard footsteps within.
The door opened.
There could be no mistaking that figure—it was Joe who stood there.
Eric’s eyes sought his face instantly—he saw a look of mute pain there
which told him better than words that Joe did not yet know the truth.