"She was my—"
John Lawrence did not finish the sentence; his face was twitching and he was evidently suffering from the keenest nervous excitement.
"Tell me about it, John," said Hooker kindly. "You seem to know something of it."
"I do, Mr. Hooker. You'll forgive me, won't you? I didn't mean to do anything wrong."
"Why, what do you mean?"
"Well, years ago, on your return from Europe, you questioned me about that book. I was the only one who had access to the safe and knew the combination. I told you I knew nothing about it—that perhaps it had been mislaid before your departure for London. I lied, for I had taken it. I'd no intention of stealing it; I did not even know it was particularly valuable. I read the story one day when I was alone, with no work to do. It was the best tale I'd ever read. I was absorbed by it. I could not get the horrible plot out of my head."
"Yes, John, go on. Where does Marie come in?"
"I was engaged to her. I had known her for years. She came from Montpelier, Vermont, where we both were born. One day I told her of the story. She wanted to read it. Not thinking it any harm, I loaned it to her. She stopped for it one evening on her way home. I never saw her after that. I tried every way to find her, without avail. She had disappeared from her rooms on Eighth Street and I never heard of her again until the frightful news came out. Detectives came to see me. My name was in the papers once or twice at the time, and the questions they asked me were terrible. I proved an alibi; they had fixed the crime on Tomlinson, who, unknown to me, was uppermost in her affections. It was a bitter awakening. I've never been the same since. I think of her every night of my life—I've now told you all and I shall resign and leave you at once. You can have no more need of me."
"Stay, John. I forgive you. You've suffered enough. Go home—and come down to-morrow, as usual."
The book still lay upon the desk. This time he would take it home to keep it in his library among his most valuable possessions. For surely it was the most interesting copy of the "Murders in the Rue Morgue" in existence! Hooker turned the leaves to see whether, after its wanderings, all the pages were intact—"collating" it, as bibliophiles love to term this delightful occupation. Yes, it was perfect—just as when it had so mysteriously disappeared years ago. But, hold,—what were the brown, reddish finger-marks on the back cover? Hooker did not have to be told that it was the life-blood of poor Marie Perrin.