“And her mother——”
“Is equally well acquainted with them,” said Charles. “Even to save you a pang,—and heaven knows I would now do much to spare you any additional uneasiness,—I will not deceive nor mislead you in a single detail.”
“No—this is not a time nor a case for trifling, Charles,” observed Mr. Hatfield. “Then both these women know who I am?” he added, in a low and hoarse voice.
“Oh! my God!” cried Charles, giving vent to his deep vexation and obeying the impulse of his self-accusing spirit: “to what humiliations have I not exposed you, my dearest father? Can you—will you ever forgive me for all this?”
“Have we not had much to pardon—much to explain, on either side, already?” asked Mr. Hatfield, his voice now regaining its mildness—a mildness that was, however, mournfully subdued. “Well, then, my dear boy, give not way to these self-reproaches; for if I be anxious to obtain a certain knowledge of the full extent of these evils, it is only with the view of falling into no error and committing no oversight in extricating both yourself and me from the embarrassments that surround us. To return, then, to the immediate subject of our discourse—those women know all?”
“All—every thing,” replied Charles. “In that blind infatuation——”
“Compose yourself, my dear boy,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a voice slightly indicative of paternal authority. “Respecting the promissory note you gave the money-lender Percival——”
“Oh! now I shrink indeed from telling you the truth,” interrupted Charles, his countenance glowing with shame and confusion; “and yet—faithful to my promise—I will not mislead you. The note of hand to which you allude was signed—Viscount Marston!”
“If I recollect aright,” said Mr. Hatfield, “the account of the murder, as reported in the newspapers, states distinctly that no papers nor documents of any kind were found in the victim’s house—the tin-box, in which such things were probably kept, having been emptied of its contents. The assassin or assassins, then, whoever they may be, possessed themselves of all the poor man’s papers—and your note doubtless amongst the rest. In this case, we shall probably never hear of it again. But—knowing the two women as you do—can you believe that they were the murderesses?”
“No—I cannot think it!” exclaimed Charles. “What motive could they have had? Certainly not to recover my promissory note, since they believed me to be the heir to immense wealth;—and as they no doubt fancied that their connexion with me would place ample resources at their command, they were not likely to peril their lives by killing the man for the sake of the money which he might have had in the house. Besides, when I saw them on the following morning, there was no confusion—nothing on their part to denote that they had so recently committed a horrible crime; and, depraved—wicked—unscrupulous as they evidently are, I cannot bring myself to imagine that they could meet me with calm and unruffled countenances, only a few hours after having accomplished a midnight murder.”