A SHOAL OF VISITORS FOLLOWED BY ANOTHER MYSTERY.
In an agony of horror and despair he had flown from the
printing-office to my house.
I cannot say whether he chose my house premeditatedly; it is likely
that it was done without distinct intention, but it was a proof that
he regarded my friendship as genuine, and that he knew he could depend
upon my sympathy in times of trouble. As indeed he could. My heart
bled as I gazed upon him. The words issued with difficulty from his
trembling lips; his features were convulsed; he shook like a man in an
ague.
"O, my Lizzie!" he moaned. "My poor, poor Lizzie! O, my child, my
child!"
I took in regularly a penny daily newspaper, and I had read it on this
morning, but there was no mention in its columns of the dreadful
occurrence. The discovery had been made too late for the first
editions of the daily journals.
Mr. Melladew's story being told, disjointedly, and in fragments which
I had to piece together in order to arrive at an intelligible
comprehension of it, the unhappy man sat before me, moaning.
"O, my Lizzie! O, my poor child!"
"Was she at home?" I asked gently; I did not attempt to console him.
Of what avail were mere words at such a moment? "Was she at home when
you went from here last night?"
"Yes, she was there," he moaned. "When she went to bed I kissed her.
For the last time! For the last, last time!"
And then he broke down utterly. I could get nothing further from him.
When she went to bed, he kissed her. What kind of riddle was here, in
the midst of the horrible tragedy, that the hapless girl should have
wished her parents good-night and retired to rest, and be found
ruthlessly murdered a few hours afterwards in an open park at some
distance from her house? With such joyful news as Mr. Melladew had to
communicate to his daughter, the probability was that they had kept up
later than usual, talking of the brighter future that then seemed
spread before them. It made the tragic riddle all the more difficult.
There came a knock at the street-door, and a gentleman was admitted,
upon most urgent business he said. It turned out that he was a
newspaper reporter, who, in advance of the police, had tracked Mr.
Melladew to my house, and had come to obtain information from him for
his newspaper. I pointed out to him the condition of Mr. Melladew,
and said something to the effect that it was scarcely decent to
intrude upon him at such a time.
The reporter, who evidently felt deeply for the bereaved father, and
whose considerate manner was such as to completely disarm me, said
aside to me,
"Pray do not think that I am devoid of feeling; I am a father myself,
and have a daughter of the age of his poor girl. My mission is not one
of idle curiosity. A ruthless murder has been committed, and the
murderer is at large. I am not working only for my paper; I am
assisting the cause of justice. Every scrap of information we can
obtain will hasten the arrest of the wretch who has been guilty of a
crime so diabolical."
"He can tell you nothing," I said, compelled to admit that he was
right. "Look at him as he sits there, crushed and broken down by the
blow."
"I pity him from my heart," said the reporter. "Can you assist me in
any way? Did the poor girl live at home?"
"She lived at home certainly, but she had employment at Madame
Michel's, in Baker Street."
"Madame Michel's, in Baker Street. I must go there. Did she sleep
out?"
"No; she came home every night at half-past seven."
"Did she do so last night?"
"Yes."
"Did she not go to some place of amusement?"
"Not to my knowledge. Her father told me that before she went to bed
he kissed her good-night."
"Do you know at what hour?"
"I do not."
"But presumably not early."
"Not so early as usual, I should say, because her father had some good
news to communicate to her, and they would stop up late talking of it.
Understand, much of what I say is presumptive."
"But reasonable," said the reporter. "Did the poor girl have a
sweetheart?"
Words which Mr. Melladew had spoken on the previous night recurred to
me here. "There are so many scoundrels in the world ready with honeyed
words to turn a girl's head; and it hurts me to think that they have
their little secrets which they don't ask us to share." Did not this
point to a secret which was hidden from her parents? I said nothing of
this to the reporter, but answered that I was not aware that the poor
girl had a sweetheart.
"Some one must have been in love with her," said the reporter.
"Many, perhaps," I rejoined; "but not one courted her openly, I
believe--that is, to her parents' knowledge."
"That counts for very little. She was a beautiful girl."
"How?" I exclaimed. "Have you seen her?"
"I saw her this morning," he answered gravely, "within the last two
hours. She looked like an angel."
"Was there no trace of suffering in her face?" I asked wistfully.
"None. She was stabbed to the heart--only one, sharp, swift, devilish
blow, and death must have been instantaneous. To my unprofessional eye
it almost seems as if she must have died in sleep--in happy sleep."
"That, at least, is merciful. Hush!"
Mr. Melladew was rocking to and fro murmuring, "O, my Lizzie, my
darling child! O, my poor, poor Lizzie!" We had spoken in low tones,
and he evinced no consciousness of having heard what we said. During
our conversation the reporter was jotting down notes unobtrusively.
The conversation would doubtless have been continued had it not been
for the appearance of other persons, following rapidly upon each
other, policemen, and additional reporters, who had discovered that
Mr. Melladew was in my house. The last to appear was Mrs. Melladew,
who had heard rumours of the frightful crime, and who flew round to
me, not knowing that her husband was in the room. What passed from
that moment, while all these persons were buzzing around me, was so
confusing that I cannot hope to give an intelligible transcript of it.
I was, as it were, in the background, as one who had no immediate
interest in the unravelling of the terrible mystery. It was a most
agitating time to me and my wife, and when my visitors had all
departed I felt like a man who had been afflicted by a horrible
nightmare. How little did I imagine that the letter I had received by
the early morning's post, and which I had in my pocket, was vitally
connected with it, and that of all those present I was the man who was
destined to bring the mystery to light!
Before the day was over fresh surprises were in store for me in
connection with the dreadful deed. Needless to say that the whole
neighbourhood was in a state of great excitement; so numerous were my
idle visitors that I was compelled to tell my wife to admit into the
house no person but the Melladews, or relatives of theirs. In the
afternoon, however, one visitor called who would not be denied. He
sent in his card, which bore the name of George Carton, and I said I
would see him.
He was a young man, whose age I judged to be between twenty and
twenty-five, well dressed, and remarkably good-looking. His manners
were those of one who was accustomed to move in good society, and both
his speech and behaviour during the interview impressed me favourably.
I observed when he entered the room that he was greatly agitated.
"I have intruded myself upon you, sir," he said, "because I felt that
I should go mad if I did not speak to some person who was a friend
of--or----"
He could not proceed, and I finished the sentence for him. "Of the
poor girl who has been so cruelly murdered?"
He nodded his head, and, when he could control his voice, said, "You
were an intimate friend of hers, sir?"
"Mr. Melladew's family and mine," I replied, "have been on terms of
friendship for many years. I have known the poor girl and her sister
since their infancy."
"I did not dare to call upon Mr. Melladew," he said, and then he
faltered again and paused.
"Are you acquainted with him?" I asked.
"No," he said, "but I hoped to be. If I went now and told him what I
wish to impart to you, he might look upon me as responsible for what
has occurred." He put his hand over his eyes, from which the tears
were flowing.
"What is it you wish to impart to me?" I inquired, "and why should you
suppose you would be held responsible for so horrible a crime?"
"I scarcely know what I am saying," he replied. "But my secret
intimacy with Lizzie"--I caught my breath at his familiar utterance of
the name--"becoming known to him now for the first time, might put
wrong ideas into his head."
"Your secret intimacy with Lizzie?" I exclaimed.
"We have known each other for more than four months," he said.
"Secretly?"
"Yes, secretly."
"And the poor girl's parents were not aware of it?"
"They were not. It was partly my poor Lizzie's wish, and partly my
own, I think, until I was sure that I possessed her love. She kept it
from me for a long time. 'Wait,' she used to say, smiling--pardon me,
sir; my heart seems as if it would break when I speak of her--'Wait,'
she used to say, 'I am not certain yet whether I really, really love
you.' But she did, sir, all along."
"How do you know that?" I asked, in doubt now whether I should regard
him with favour or suspicion.
"She confessed it to me last Tuesday night as she walked home from
Baker Street."
"You were in the habit of meeting her, then?"
"Yes. I beg you to believe, sir, there was nothing wrong in it. I
loved and honoured her sincerely. I wanted then to accompany her home
and ask her parents' permission to pay my addresses to her openly: but
she said no, and that she would speak to them first herself. It was
arranged so. She was to tell them to-night, and I was to call and see
her father and mother to-morrow. And now--and now--" Again he paused,
overpowered by grief. Presently he spoke again. "See here, sir."
He detached a locket from his chain, and opening it, showed me the
sweet and beautiful face of Lizzie Melladew.
"It was taken for me," he said, "on Wednesday morning. She obtained
permission from her employers for an hour's absence, and we went
together to get it taken. The photographer hurried the picture on for
me, I was so anxious for it. I had my picture taken for her, and put
into a locket, which I was to give her to-morrow with this ring in the
presence of her parents." He produced both the locket and the ring.
The locket was a handsome gold ornament, set with pearls; the ring was
a half-hoop, set with diamonds. The gifts were such as only a man in a
good position could afford to give. "I shall never be happy again," he
said mournfully, as he replaced the locket on his chain, after gazing
on the beautiful face with eyes of pitiful love.
"Were you in the habit of writing to her?" I asked.
"No, sir. No letters passed between us; there was no need to write, I
saw her so often--four or five times a week. 'When father and mother
know everything,' she said on Tuesday night, 'you shall write to me
every day.' I promised that I would."
"I am not sorry you confided in me," I said, completely won over by
the young man's ingenuousness and undoubted sincerity; "but I can
offer you no words of comfort. You will have to make this known to
others."
"I shall do what is right, sir. It is not in your power, nor in any
man's, to give me any comfort or consolation. The happiness of my life
is destroyed--but there is still one thing left me, and I will not
rest till it is accomplished. As God is my judge, I will not!" He did
not give me time to ask his meaning, but continued: "You can do me the
greatest favour, sir."
"What is it?"
"I must see Mary--her sister, sir. Can you send round to the house,
and ask her to come and see me here? She _will_ come when she gets my
message. Will you do this for me, sir?"
"Yes," I replied, "there is no harm in it."
I called my wife, and bade her go to Mr. Melladew's house, and
contrive to see Mary Melladew privately, and give her the young man's
message. During my wife's absence George Carton and I exchanged but
few words. He sat for the chief part of the time with his head resting
on his hand, and I was busy thinking whether the information he had
imparted to me would be likely to afford a clue to the discovery of
the murderer. My wife returned with consternation depicted on her
face.
"Mary is not at home," she said.
"Where has she gone?" cried George Carton, starting up.
To my astonishment my wife replied, "They are in the greatest trouble
about her. She has not been home all the day."
"Have they not seen anything of her?" I asked, also rising to my feet.
"No," said my wife, "they have seen nothing whatever of her."
"Is it possible," I exclaimed, "that she can be still at her place of
business, in ignorance of what has taken place?"
"No," cried George Carton, in great excitement, "she is not there. I
have been to inquire. She went out last night, and never returned.
Great God! What can be the meaning of it?"
I strove in vain to calm him. He paced the room with flashing eyes,
muttering to himself words so wild that I could not arrive at the
least understanding of them.
"Gone! Gone!" he cried at last. "But where, where? I will not sleep, I
will not rest, till I find her! Neither will I rest till I discover
the murderer of my darling girl! And when I discover him, when he
stands before me, as there is a living God, I will kill him with my
own hands!"
His passion was so intense that I feared he would there and then
commit some act of violence, and I made an endeavour to restrain and
calm him by throwing my arms around him; but he broke from me with a
torrent of frantic words, and rushed out of the house.
Here was another mystery, added to the tragedy of the last few hours.
What was to be the outcome of it? From what quarter was light to come?