“'"Let me drink,—no, from the water-jug; they surely have not drugged that! What are you doing there?”
“'"I was decanting the tea into a small bottle, that I might take it home and test it.”
“'"And so,” said he, sighing, “with all your boasted skill, it is only after death you can pronounce. It is to aid the law, not to help the living, you come. Be it so. But mind, sir,” cried he, with a wild energy, “they are all in it,—all. Let none escape. And these were my friends!” said he, with a smile of inexpressible sorrow. “Oh, what friends are a bad man's friends! You swear to me, doctor, if there has been foul play it shall be discovered. They shall swing for it Don't you screen them. No mumbling, sir; your oath,—your solemn sworn oath! Take those keys and open that drawer there,—no, the second one; fetch me the papers. This was my will two months ago,” said he, tearing open the seals of an envelope. “You shall see with your own eyes how I meant by her. You will declare to the world how you read in my own hand that I had left her everything that was not Clara's by right. Call her here; send for her; let her be present while you read it aloud, and let her see it burned afterwards.”
“'It was long before I could calm him after this paroxysm. At length he said: “What a guilty conscience will be yours if this crime pass unpunished!”
“'"If there be a crime, it shall not,” said I, firmly.
“'"If it were to do,” muttered he, in a low voice, “I 'd rather they 'd have shot me; these agonies are dreadful, and all this lingering too! Oh! could you not hasten it now? But not yet!” cried he, wildly. “I have to tell you about Clara. They may rob her of all here, but she will be rich after all. There is that great tract in America, in Ohio, called 'Peddar's Clearings;' don't forget the name. Peddar's Clearings, all hers; it was her mother's fortune. Harvey Winthrop, in Norfolk, has the titles, and is the guardian when I am dead.''”
“Why, I know that 'ere tract well; there's a cousin of mine, Obadiah B. Quackinboss, located there, and there ain't finer buckwheat in all the West than is grown on that location. But go on, let's hear about this sick fellow.”
“This is an account of chemical tests, all this here,” said Alfred, passing over several leaves of the diary. “It seems to have been a difficult investigation, but ending at last in the detection of corrosive sublimate.”
“And it killed him?”
“Yes; he died on the third evening after this was written. Here follows the whole story of the inquest, and a remarkable letter, too, signed 'T. Towers.' It is addressed to my father, and marked 'Private and Secret': 'The same hand which delivers you this will put you in possession of five hundred pounds sterling; and, in return, you will do whatever is necessary to make all safe. There is no evidence, except yours, of consequence; and all the phials and bottles have been already disposed of. Be cautious, and stand fast to yours,—T. T.' On a slip wafered to this note was written: 'I am without twenty shillings in the world; my shoes are falling to pieces, and my coat threadbare; but I cannot do this.' But what have we here?” cried Alfred, as a neatly folded note with deep black margin met his eyes. It was a short and most gracefully worded epistle in a lady's hand, thanking Dr. Layton for his unremitting kindness and perfect delicacy in a season of unexampled suffering. “I cannot,” wrote she, “leave the island, dearly associated as it is with days of happiness, and now more painfully attached to my heart by the most terrible of afflictions, without tendering to the kindest of physicians my last words of gratitude.” The whole, conveyed in lines of strictly conventional use, gave no evidence of anything beyond a due sense of courtesy, and the rigid observance of a fitting etiquette. It was very polished in style, and elegant in phraseology; but to have been written amid such scenes as she then lived in, it seemed a perfect marvel of unfeeling conduct.