We three men remained long, talking over each particular of our strange story, for we could not feel like sleeping. And before we parted for the night, Mr. Argyll had humbled himself to confess that he was led to condemn me without sufficient cause.
“I loved you as a son, Richard,” he said, in a broken voice, “better than I ever loved James, for I was aware that he had many faults of heart and head. And when I was induced to believe you the author of the crime which had broken all our hearts, I was still further downcast. My health has failed, as you see; and I was urgent upon Mary to marry her cousin, for I felt as if she would soon be left friendless, and I wanted the girls to have a protector. I might better have left them to the care of a viper,” he added, with a shudder. “Poor Mary, dear girl! she was right all the time. She never did love that man—though, of course, she had no idea of the truth. Thank God, it is no worse!”
I knew he was thinking of the marriage, and I, too, murmured, “Thank God.”
“Mr. Argyll,” said Mr. Burton, laying his hand on that of the other, “this terrible affair is now brought to a close, as far as it can be. Let me advise you to brood over it as little as possible. Your health is already affected. I acknowledge it is enough to shake one’s reason; but, for that, I would bid you to drop it all from your mind—to banish the thought of it—never to refer to it again. You can yet be tolerably happy. A fair future lies before all of you, except dear Miss Eleanor. Adopt Richard as your son, make him your partner, as you first intended. I will give you my warrant for what it is worth, that he will relieve you both of business and household cares—and that you will feel, during your declining years, as if you, indeed, had a son to comfort you.”
“But I do not believe that Richard would take such a place, after what has passed,” said Mr. Argyll, doubtfully.
I hesitated; for a moment pride rebelled; but since all is forgiven, ought it not to be forgotten? When I spoke it was with heartiness.
“If you need a partner in your office, and wish me to take the place, I will do so.”
“Then the compact is signed,” said Mr. Burton, almost gayly. “And now I will try to find a bed at the hotel.”
“Of course you will not,” said our host; “this house is yours as much as mine, Mr. Burton, always. How much I thank you for all the time, money and thought you have lavished in our behalf, I will not try to say to-night. Our gratitude is unspoken because it is boundless.”
“Don’t thank me for following out the instincts of my nature,” said the detective, affecting carelessness; and with that we shook Mr. Argyll’s hand, and retired to the rooms assigned us.