Dacre had strolled to the outbuildings to inspect a reaping-machine of new design which had been procured for harvesting work; so the room was otherwise untenanted when the son began to examine his mother’s last bequest. At first it seemed as if Mrs. Moore’s surmise was correct. The first few letters he glanced at were those he had despatched from New York and Newport. Then he came upon others posted at Racket, and a twinge of remorse shook him when he recalled the subterfuges and evasions they contained. Still it had been impossible to set forth the truth, and there was a crumb of comfort in the fact that he had written nothing untrue.
He was so disturbed by the painful memories evoked by each date that he was on the verge of tying the bundle together again when his eye was caught by one letter in a strange handwriting. The postmark showed that it hailed from New York, and the date was a curious one, being exactly six days after he and Nancy went from Newport.
Instantly he was aware of a strong impulse to burn that particular letter forthwith. Perhaps some psychic influence made itself felt in that instant. Perhaps a gentle and loving spirit reached from beyond the veil, and made one last effort to secure the fulfilment of a desire balked by the cruel urgency of death. But the forces of evil prevailed, and Power withdrew the written sheet from its covering.
“Madam.—Your son, John Darien Power, has probably represented to you that he is detained in the East by certain horse-dealing transactions. That is a lie. He has gone off with another man’s wife. But his punishment will be swift and sure. He cannot escape it. Its nature will depend on the decision arrived at by the woman he has wronged. I am telling you the facts so that you may be in a position to form a just judgment, whether or not you ever see him again. Keep this letter; although it is unsigned. If circumstances require its production, the writer will not shirk responsibility for either its statements or its threats.”
Dacre came in nearly an hour later. After witnessing an exhibition of the new reaper, he had gone with Jake to admire some of Power’s recent purchases in horse-flesh, and the time passed rapidly. When he entered the room, he found his friend sitting in the shadows.
“Hello!” he cried. “I didn’t know you had returned. I’ve been vetting those black Russians you bought at Newport. What a pair for a tandem!”
“Did Dr. Stearn ever tell you the exact cause of my mother’s death?” was the curiously inappropriate reply, uttered in a low tone.
“Y-yes; acute ulcerative endocarditis was the actual cause. But why in the world do you ask such a question now?”
“Because our worthy doctor was mistaken. I alone know why she died. I killed her. You recollect I said as much to you the day you arrived.”