In White Raiment

by William Le Queux

and, taking a copy of the _Globe_from his pocket, he handed it to me, indicating the paragraph.

  I read the four bare lines aloud, both my well-beloved and the deadman's widow standing in rigid silence.

  The elucidation of the bewildering mystery and its tragic _denouement_held us speechless. It staggered belief.

  My explanation to Bullen, or our subsequent conversation, need not behere recounted. Suffice it to say that from that moment, when the truthbecame apparent, the Major's widow, who had once sought to take both ourlives, became our firmest and most intimate friend, while Graham, havingexpressed regret at his association in the conspiracy, and declared hisintention of leading an honest life in future, was allowed to escapeabroad, where he still remains.

  And Beryl? She is my wife. Ah! that small word, which is synonymouswith peace and happiness. Several years have passed, and I have risenrapidly in my profession--far beyond my deserts, I fear--yet we arestill lovers. We are often visitors at Atworth and at GloucesterSquare, while there is no more welcome guest at our own table in HarleyStreet than the ever-erratic Bob Raymond.

  The original copy of the ponderous ancient Florentine treatise with itsrusty lock, which the Major left in possession of La Gioia, had beenpresented by the latter to the Bodleian Library at Oxford, where it cannow be seen, while Hoefer's re-discovery of the vayana having opened upan entirely new field to toxicologists, the deadly vegetable, likestrychnine and atropia, is to-day used as one of the most powerful andvaluable medicines, many lives being saved yearly by its administrationin infinitesimal doses.

  All the bitterness of the past has faded. What more need I say?

  To-night as I sit here in my consulting-room, writing down this strangehistory for you, my friendly reader, my wife lingers beside me, sweetand smiling in white raiment--a dead-white dress that reminds me vividlyof that June day long ago when we first met within the church of StAnn's, Wilton Place, while at her throat is that quaint little charm,the note of interrogation set with diamonds, a relic of her ill-fatedmother.

  She has bent, and, kissing me tenderly upon the brow, has whispered intomy ear that no man and wife in all the world are half as happy asourselves.