twomen and the woman were lying upon the floor, all three had been shotdead. Paulton had received no fewer than three bullet wounds."
There was much more, but I had read enough. I let the newspaper dropfrom my nerveless fingers.
Somehow, in spite of these terrible happenings, I felt happy--strangelyhappy.
At the moment, I had no time to analyse my feelings and discover areason for the sense of restfulness that had come over me at last, afterthose weeks of hot, feverish excitement. Later, I knew it was theknowledge that all who could harm my well-beloved had mercifully beenremoved.
Lady Thorold, Whichelo and Vera were the only people living, besidesmyself, who knew the grim secret of Sir Charles' past life. No morewould Lady Thorold, kind, gentle, sympathetic woman that she was, behaunted by the fear of blackmail, or terrorised by those human vultureswho had so often threatened to reveal what had happened in the house inBelgrave Street in the dead of night years before. And, blessedthought, no more would my darling be harassed, bullied, or made to goalmost in fear of her life.
And the gold--those bags of base coin found hidden so carefully atHoughton Hall, hidden there by Whichelo after their removal fromBelgrave Street? And the mysterious body discovered in the house inBelgrave Street? Both had been pounced upon by the police.
But my only thought, my only care was of Vera--Vera, my beloved.
No doubt expert men from Scotland Yard were at that moment using alltheir intelligence, evolving endless abstruse theories, straining everynerve to pierce the mystery surrounding these remarkable discoveries.
I smiled maliciously, as these thoughts occurred to me, and I realisedhow fruitless all the well-meant endeavours must prove. For never,never now would any one find the true solution. The whole of thestrange affair would be written down as a mystery.
Not until three months after poor Sir Charles had been laid to rest atHighgate, did our wedding take place, in Brompton Parish Church. And inthe same week, at the same church, another wedding was solemnised.Frank Faulkner and Violet were married on the Tuesday, and I was presentin the church beside Vera, who looked so sweet and smart in a prettyafternoon gown.
"Dick, dear, how happy they both are," she whispered, as Faulkner andhis handsome bride passed down the aisle after the service, while thegreat organ pealed forth the strains of the old, yet ever new and neverhackneyed, wedding march of Mendelssohn.
"And how perfectly lovely Violet looks," I answered.
Whichelo, who was beside us, and whose immense height had occasionedconsiderable comment among the invited guests, as well as some laughteramongst the crowd gathered together in the street, overhearing myremark, laughed aloud.
"A few more outbursts of unrestrained admiration of that kind," hegrowled, in his deep voice, "and I may hear from Thursday's prospectivebride that my services as best man will not be needed!"
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Well--what more is there to tell?
We were married two days later, at the same church as Faulkner andViolet--and spent a delightful honeymoon in Denmark and in Norway. Thenwe returned to dear old London, Lady Thorold having taken up her abodein a small house in Upper Brook Street.
Our most devoted friend to-day is Henry Whichelo--Harry, as he likes usboth to call him. He knows everything of the past, yet no syllable ofour secret will ever pass his lips. Not a week goes by but he dines atour table, full of his quiet humour, yet sometimes as we sit smokingtogether in the evening, the subject of those strange happenings--howfresh they still are in the memory of both of us--comes uppermost in ourconversation.
"Ah, my dear old Dick," Harry said to me the other night, as we talkedincidentally of the fire at Chateau d'Uzerche, "how I should have lovedto see you sliding down that rope! Young Faulkner has often told me ofyour really wonderful sang-froid!"
My "sang-froid in moments of crisis" is now a standing joke against me!Vera, it was, who first started it, I believe. Well--I forgive her. Ibrought it on myself entirely, and must bear the consequences of myoverweening conceit in the past!
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A warm evening in August. The end of a stifling day.
As I sit writing the final lines of this strange narrative in my cosylittle study in our new home--no, our home is not in tiny Rutland, butoverlooking Hampstead Heath, a part of London that my wife loves--thecrimson sun sinks slowly in the grey haze lying over the great citybelow. Vera is here with me, in her pale pink dinner-gown, and her fairhair brushes my cheek as she bends over me. Now her soft cheek ispressed to mine.
The blood-red afterglow burns and dies. The summer light is fading.The only sound is the whirr of a car going towards the Spaniards. Theair outside is breathless, for the day has been terribly oppressive.
I raise my smiling face to her sweet countenance, and now, all at once,she stoops lower still, until on a sudden access of emotion, shepassionately kisses my lips.
"Vera, my love!" I exclaim, looking up into her great blue eyes."Why--why, what's the matter, my darling?"
Her eyes are brimming with tears. Her red lips move, but no wordsescape them. The corners of her mouth are twitching.
"My darling--my own darling, what is it?" I cry, rising to my feet, andfolding my arms tenderly about her. Her head is upon my shoulder. Sheis weeping bitterly.
"Dick," she exclaims, hardly above a whisper. "Oh, Dick--my darling, myown darling boy, I have been sitting here thinking--dreaming of thepast, of all we have been through--of those awful days and nights ofanxiety and of dread terror. And now," the words came with a sob, "oh!I am so completely happy with you, my dearest--so absolutely happy. Ican't describe it. I hardly know--"
The twilight deepens. I hold her closely in my arms, but I cannot trustmyself to speak. Our hearts beat in unison.
Dusk grows into darkness. Still no word passes between us. We are toofull of our own reflections, of our own thoughts, of our perfecthappiness, now rid as we are for ever, of the grim shadow of evil onceplaced upon us by "The Mysterious Three."
The End.
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