“Amen,” said the child.
It was while I was at home this time—this last time for many years—that a very curious thing happened. A sailor died at Cardiff, and on his death-bed called a priest and confessed to him that he alone had been the murderer of Roderigo, the Spanish sailor and companion of Adriano, who had suffered so long in prison.
I felt extremely happy about this, and so did auntie. She, of course, had not known the story of the man at the time when he was instrumental in saving Jill and me from probably an ugly fate. I had told her afterwards, however, when I knew Adriano had gone out of the country. And, with some show of reason perhaps, both auntie and Mummy Gray connected him and the murdered Roderigo with the mystery that enshrouded Mattie’s life.
“He will come again some day,” auntie said, “and we will know all.”
“Yes,” said Mummy Gray, solemnly, “I hope so.”
The Queen granted Adriano a free pardon. Auntie was disloyal enough to laugh when she read that piece of intelligence in the newspaper.
“Pardon for what?” she said, “after having kept the poor dear sailor in prison and bondage for so many terrible years. It sounds like adding hideous insult to awful injury.”