The Mysterious Mr. Miller

by William Le Queux

night-bird in the willows on the opposite bank.

  "Did you hear nothing more of Ella after that day at PorchesterTerrace--that 12th of November that was, alas! fatal to my happiness?"

  "She wrote to me twice. One letter I received in Rome a monthafterwards, and the second followed me about some weeks, and at lastfound me at Lindau, on the Lake of Constance. Both letters were full ofher own unhappiness. In the first she reproached herself bitterly forhaving lied to the man she really loved--though she never mentioned yourname--and said that she was back at Wichenford, but for her the worldwas dead. The man whom she had dismissed had left her in disgust anddespair and had gone abroad, whither she knew not. A friend of yourshad, it seemed, told her that you had gone to Algeria, and her letterconcluded with the words: `I am alone to blame for this, yet how couldI, in the circumstances, have acted otherwise?'"

  "And the second letter?" I asked eagerly.

  "It was written a month later, from Blumenthal's shooting-box near BlairAthol. She and her father were guests there at the great house-partyconsisting mostly of wealthy City men and their wives. She described itand said how she hated it all. She had, she told me, tried to escape.She had even thought of writing to you to tell you the truth and askyour counsel, yet what use was it when she knew that she must save herfather from the ruin that threatened. Wichenford Place had been thehome of the Murrays ever since the days of James the First, when theKing himself, granted it to his faithful partisan, Donald Murray ofParton, in Dumfriesshire. No Murray had ever before mortgaged it,therefore it was clearly her duty to her family to redeem it from thehands of usurers and vandals, even at cost of her own happiness."

  "A noble sacrifice!" I sighed.

  "Yes, Mr Leaf. She was a noble girl," declared my handsome companion."I, who knew her through ten years or so, knew her, perhaps, better thaneven you yourself did. The Little Madonna was never accused of anunkind or unjust action."

  "And after that letter?"

  "A few months later she came to visit us at Enghien. She and her fatherwere in Paris, where she was buying her trousseau. But she made nomention of Blumenthal. Afterwards we were continually moving from placeto place, and if she wrote, her letter never reached me. I heard nomore."

  A long deep silence fell between us. We were still standing there inthe grey twilight at a small gate that led into the next field, our pathstill continuing beside the stream.

  "Strange that it should be I who should tell you the truth," sheremarked, almost as though speaking to herself. "You, a perfectstranger, offered to do me a service--indeed you have done me a verygreat service by restoring that letter to me--and in return, I have beenable to tell you the truth regarding your lost love," and she lookedinto my face with her sad, serious eyes.

  "Yes, it is indeed curious," I said. "Our circumstances are, in ameasure, identical. We have both been the victims of dire misfortunes,both broken by the tragedy of an unhappy love. But you have told mehardly anything concerning yourself," I added.

  The laces of her muslin blouse rose slowly and fell again. In that dimlight I detected a hardness at the corners of her mouth, a hardnessthat, to me, was all-sufficient proof of the bitterness wearing out heryoung heart.

  "Myself!" she echoed sadly. "What need I say about myself? It is ofthe past, and the memory of it all is a very bitter one. Like you, Ibelieved that happiness was to be mine, the more so, because my fatherentirely approved of our union. He made confidential inquiriesconcerning him, and found that he was all that he represented himself tobe. But love and happiness were not for me. I, alas! am one of thosewho are debarred the sweetness of life," she added hoarsely, her smallwhite hands clenching themselves, as thoughts of the past crowded uponher.

  For some time we were again silent. I was anxious to know the truth ofthe love romance of my sweet-faced little friend--the girl whom Sammyhad denounced as an adventuress. Yet surely there was nothing of theadventuress about her as she stood there in her plain white frock amidthat purely English scene. I glanced at her countenance and saw that itwas pale and agitated, and that her nervous lips were trembling. Herchin had sunk upon her breast and she stood deep in thought as thoughunconscious of my presence.

  "Where did it occur? Here?"

  "No, abroad," she answered, in a thin, mechanical voice. "I met himwhen we were living at Enghien, and from the first moment of our meetingwe discovered that by some strange magnetism we were drawn irresistiblytogether. He was a foreigner, it is true, but his mother had beenEnglish, and his father was a Chilian."

  "Chilian!" I cried, in a voice of surprise. But she never guessed thereason of my amazement.

  "Yes. My father discovered that we met in secret, and then invited himto dine with us. From that evening he came daily out from Paris, and weused to spend each afternoon boating on the lake or playing tennis onthe island. Before long we had pledged our love, and then commenceddays of bliss such as I had never before experienced. I knew at lastwhat was meant by perfect happiness, for we adored each other. I lovedhim just as dearly as Ella loved you. I would have died for him. Yetin all too short a time the blow fell upon me--the blow that has crushedall life from me, that has already made me a world-weary woman before mytime."

  "And what was the end?" I asked with deep sympathy, yet, alas! knowingtoo well the story of the tragedy.

  "The end--ah?" she sighed. "How can I tell you? On the very night whenwe had secretly fixed the date of our marriage--a night when my fatherinvited several friends to dine--he returned to Paris, and--" but shebroke off short and burst into a wild passion of tears.

  For some time I waited, my hand placed tenderly upon her shoulder,striving to comfort her, and urging her to bear up against her heavyburden of trouble. Then at last when she grew calm again, she said in ahard tone:--

  "On his return to Paris he found that during his absence thieves hadobtained access to his room at the hotel, and securities for a verylarge amount, for the safe custody of which he was personallyresponsible, had been stolen. He saw that his own honour was at stake,that he alone was to blame for not leaving them in the bank, and in afit of despondency--a mad paroxysm of temporary insanity--he took outhis revolver and ended his life. I only knew of it four days after,when I chanced to read of it in the _Independance Belge_, for early onthe morning following the dinner, my father had received a telegram andbeen compelled to go to Brussels, and I accompanied him. Before I knewthe awful truth, poor Manuel was already dead and buried! Since thatday," she added bitterly, "all hope of happiness has been crushed withinme. I know now that the love of an honest man is not for me."

  I made no response. I was too absorbed in my own thoughts. Every wordof hers bore out Sammy's story, yet I saw that she herself was innocentof the foul plot which had, as a sequel, the suicide of the poor girl'slover.

  Miller knew the truth; he was, indeed, in all probability the instigatorof the ingenious theft that had had such a tragic sequel.

  In silence I held the small gate open for her, and together we passed onalong the path beside the winding stream. Both our hearts were too fullfor words after that unusual exchange of confidences.

  Of a sudden before us, advancing in our direction, there appeared thefigure of some one in the shadow beneath the trees.

  Lucie detected it at the same instant as myself, and halting drew backin quick alarm.

  "We must not be seen here together," she gasped. "People would talk,and it would quickly get to my father's ears."

  "And what harm if it did?" I asked, but ere she could reply a strangething happened--an incident more startling and more amazing than any Icould have ever imagined in my wildest dreams.

  I held my breath, and stood rooted to the spot.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

  BENEATH THE LOVE-LIGHT.

  What followed was amazing, mystifying.

  With a loud cry that startled me the grey figure had come swiftlytowards us, and I then saw that it was a woman.

  My
companion and she flew into each other's arms and exchanged wildjoyful greetings, while I, catching sight of her face, stood thereopen-mouthed, breathless in sheer astonishment.

  At that moment I doubted whether I were actually sane and in possessionof all my senses. I doubted even my own eyes. And had you been there,in my place, I think you also would have been dumbfounded.

  "Fancy you--of all persons in this whole world!" Lucie cried, thenturning to me after kissing the newcomer with wild enthusiasm, shelaughed, adding:--

  "This gentleman is not altogether a stranger, I believe?"

  The woman turned her flushed countenance to mine, and in the dimtwilight our eyes met.

  She started back with a loud cry, then, next instant, dashed forward tome, grasping both my hands.

  "Ella!" I