So, as I say, instead of indulging in the usual heroics with which—when the heroine by word of mouth, or by letter, informs the hero that there is some occult reason why she "can never be his"—we are all familiar in the pages of a novel, or on the stage, I merely stirred the fire meditatively.
"Now for Miss Clara's epistle," I said, opening the second letter. "Let us see if she can throw any light on the mystery."
My dear Boy (it ran),—I have some very bad news for you. I kept it to myself while you were telling us your adventures the other morning, for I did not want to upset you, until the actual necessity for action had come. It concerns myself and Clara, very nearly and very terribly—how nearly and how terribly Clara does not know, for I wish to spare her as much pain as I can. All the time you and she and I were together that morning I knew, though she and you did not, that it would be our last meeting for, perhaps, a long time. During that time it will be a great relief to Clara and to me to be assured of your personal safety; and that you are safe—so long as you are engaged in detective work—neither she nor I can ever be sure. In all probability you noticed that before leaving you and Clara together, I took her aside for a moment to give her some instructions. These instructions were that she was to use all her influence to get you to promise to abandon the dangerous pursuit in which you are engaged, and to devote yourself instead to novel-writing. As Clara failed to obtain such a promise, I returned, to see if I could not obtain that promise myself. You were very good to me. You always have been good to me, and gave me the required promise at once. I am very grateful, my dear boy, for that and for all the consideration and affection you have shown to an ugly old woman.
Then I went back to Clara and told her that for the present she and you must not meet again. I did not tell her the truth; for the truth—of which she has no suspicion—is too horrible to tell. All she knows is that something terrible has happened, and that for some time—whether long or short I cannot now say—you and she must not meet again. Knowing me and my affection for you as you do, you will realise that I should not say this were the necessity not absolute and imperative. Please God, all will come right one day. Good-bye, my dear boy. God bless you. Your affectionate and faithful friend,—C.C.
As I read this extraordinary letter, the explanation of Miss Clara's and Kate's inexplicable attitude came to me in a flash. Dolt, blockhead, addle-brained idiot that I was! I—a detective! It was well for me—it was high time, indeed—that I had decided to give up detective work. Fool that I was not to have seen it before!
The Dumpling and Kate's father, the elder Miss Carleton's brother, were one and the same man!
CHAPTER XXV.
JOHN CARLETON'S DOUBLE.
That Kate and her aunt were now aware of the identity of John Carleton with the Dumpling, I was absolutely sure. I could point back, even, to the moment when—to the latter, at least—the suspicion which afterwards became certainty was first aroused.
It was when I was repeating, word for word, as they had fallen from his lips, the Dumpling's expressions about the poor, that the first sign of agitation had been noticeable in the elder woman. Then, when I went on to speak of his mania in regard to his being none other than Napoleon—then it was, as I clearly remembered, that the self-possessed and by no means impressionable Miss Clara had astonished and alarmed me by looking as if she were about to faint.