WHOSE WAS THE WRITING?
After being practically dismissed from his father's sick-room Laurence went in search of Lena, whom he found in the garden with Mrs. Knox. The good lady had fallen off into a convenient doze in a comfortable deck-chair, so her niece welcomed the new-comer's arrival with pleasure.
"Let us come for a little stroll," suggested the girl. Needless to say, Laurence gladly concurred.
"Well," Lena began, "I am dying to hear if the Squire said anything to you—anything of importance, I mean, of course."
"Yes, he did. He satisfied me upon one point, concerning which I was much troubled. His inviolate secret has nothing to do with my mother, as I feared—though I did not mention it to you—that it might. One discovery of importance I have made. That is, though he didn't say it in so many words, he made it very evident to me that he had at some period or other been in India."
"Ah, then you still think that Mr. Meadows is responsible for these attacks on his life?"
"Oh, no, I don't go so far as that," was Laurence's reply; "but I argue thus. According to your friend, the person who presumably set fire to the Marquis's house was of black complexion; but whereas we believed that it must be a woman, because it wore garments like skirts, we now learn on Meadows' authority that it was a man—a man in coloured skirts. We therefore naturally concluded it must be some foreigner. Now I come to think of it, the face of the highwayman on the moor gave me the impression of being remarkably dark. The agility he displayed in the barn was further proof of his being semi-civilised, for you know that many of the coloured races can boast of agility that with us would seem nothing short of marvellous. Then we learn from Doctor Meadows that many years ago he knew my father—apparently intimately. One of the most noticeable features of Durley Dene is, you will agree, the Oriental fittings of the only room into which we have been shown. The conclusion one naturally draws is that Meadows has travelled, or more likely lived, in Oriental countries. Putting two and two together, I deemed it possible that Meadows might have made my father's acquaintance when abroad. Now, you will recollect my telling you that, on the occasion of my first visit to the Dene, Meadows mentioned that he once knew a Major Carrington at Madras. Nevertheless, when he learned that my father was not a soldier, he distinctly said he could not have ever met the Squire. On the other occasion he equally distinctly stated that he had known my father before. He was, as you will remember, even able to describe his appearance. What does all this lead you to presume—to deduct, as our friend Potter would say?"
"I must confess that I am stupid enough not to see what you are driving at, in spite of your lucid reasoning," replied Lena.
"Why, this, that Major Carrington, of Madras, and Squire Carrington, of the Manse, Northden, are not merely namesakes, but one and the same person!"
"Good gracious me!" exclaimed Lena. "You clever boy! And you mean to say that the Squire is an army man, and yet not even his son knows it?"
"That is so, according to reasoning in which I can see no flaw, at present. I asked him just now whether he had ever been in India, and, if so, whether he had met a certain Major Carrington at Madras."
"He could not answer. He was plainly terrified by the question, and without further parley dismissed me on the ground that I was tiring him by conversation. No; of this I am confident, there's something very deep and mysterious about the whole business. One thing has been bothering me a good deal. Were we right in making that promise to Doctor Meadows? Is he really unconnected with our mystery, as he would try to make out? Does it not seem most improbable that there should be two men with closely guarded secrets occupying houses adjoining one another in a peaceful little country village? Yet there was something so sincere about the way in which he spoke that one could not help believing him. Now, in the recent conversation I had with my father, he told me that the only person who ever knew anything about his secret (except, of course, the creature who is responsible for the attempt on his life) is dead. Yet Meadows claims a knowledge of that secret. One of the two is not adhering to the truth. Naturally, I am inclined to think that Meadows is this one, though I confess it appears possible that my father might not be too careful about speaking the whole truth if he feared by so doing to place in my hand a clue to the revelation of his secret. But, supposing that Meadows' knowledge of my father is not of such a kind as he would lead us to believe it to be, have we not, perhaps, acted unwisely in confiding in him to so great an extent? And the discovery that the servant's real name is Horncastle; what do you make of that?"
"I feel very much inclined," replied Lena, "to think that he is what Kingsford calls 'the' Horncastle, the man who was sent to prison for daring robbery about a year ago, and who escaped from Dartmoor six or eight months since. Oh, to think that you were in the clutches of such a creature, Laurence, and that you were practically alone with him in that dark house! Why, didn't they say that he was suspected of some murder out at Swiss Cottage? Yes, I'm sure they did. But what can he be doing in Durley Dene? Is he in hiding there? If so, perhaps that is the secret of the house. But it cannot be. There is something far deeper than that in the mystery of Durley Dene."
"I can easily prove that that is but a part of the mystery," said Laurence. "You remember how Horncastle said to me when I threatened to report him, 'Do you think I care whether you tell the doctor? He's nothing to me.' Well, to my mind, that remark implies that, instead of fearing his master (if he is actually such), he has the whip hand of Meadows. Why? Because he alone knows the doctor's mysterious secret. He realises, of course, that the master of Durley Dene dares not expose him or hand him over to justice as an escaped convict for fear that Horncastle, in his turn, will reveal to the world his secret, which, according to Meadows himself, would electrify the world and prove one of the greatest sensations of the day. Thus we now know why Horncastle wears a woman's disguise when walking abroad, because, were he not to do so, he might be identified by anyone who had seen his portrait, copies of which were posted outside every police-station in the kingdom, with a notice to the effect that anyone apprehending Thomas Horncastle or giving such evidence as shall lead to his apprehension will be amply rewarded!"
"Really, Laurence," said his companion gaily, "you're quite smart. We are, I am certain, at any rate well started in our investigation of this maze of mysteries. But what have we here?"
The last remark was caused by the fluttering of a scrap of white paper, on which Lena's eye chanced as the young pair strolled down a path bounded on one side by the palisade dividing the garden from that of Durley Dene.
It has already been mentioned that, in addition to this palisade, numerous bushes of stunted growth formed a substantial barrier between the grounds of the adjoining estates. It was on a prickly evergreen that the scrap of paper, to which the girl's attention had been drawn by its fluttering in the soft breeze, was impaled.
"Surely not another message from our neighbour?" queried Laurence, with a smile.
"Not exactly," replied Lena, "but something belonging to Mr. Meadows, under his military alias, for all that."
"Indeed!" Laurence bent over the scrap of paper, which the girl now held out for him.
It was the left-hand portion of a torn envelope. In fact it was entire, save that the part bearing the stamp and the last few letters of each line of the address were missing. Such of it as there was bore the following address, written in a firm lady-like handwriting—undoubtedly the work of an educated woman—
"Major Farnell-Jo....
"Durley Den....
"Northd....
"Yorksh....
"England."
"So the worthy Major has lady correspondents who address him by his pseudonym and write from abroad," remarked Lena.
"It's undoubtedly in a lady's handwriting," replied Laurence, "but how do you know it comes from abroad? The envelope is a thick one."
"That's simple enough. If the person who addressed that envelope had done so from England she would have been hardly likely to write 'England' at the foot of the address. Of course, in using the word 'abroad,' I include in this case Scotland and Ireland."
"I see. But surely that handwriting is familiar to me. Don't you know it? No? Well, I'm certain that I do. The peculiar formation of the 'J's' and 'Y's,' and the flourishing stroke to the 'N' of Northden, I know perfectly. Where have I seen that writing before?"
But, strive as he might, he could not recall whose it was.