After this last vehement assault by the newcomer I heard a door open above. A man, burning one match after another to light his way, came down the stairs. When he had reached the bottom, I saw that it was Estabrook. His face was illuminated by the little flame, but a hundredfold more by an expression of happiness, the equal of which I have never seen.
“Great Scott, Doctor,” he cried in sincere surprise. “I forgot you were here!”
“Come! Come!” said I. “Some one is wearing his thumb off on that bell.”
As he swung the door back, obeying me like a man in a dream, a voice outside mumbled indistinctly.
“Yes,” said Estabrook, “I am he.”
Then closing the door he came into the room, fumbling along the wall for the electric switch. The flood of light disclosed him trying to tear open an envelope.
As he read the contents, his face grew black as if with rage, then it brightened again. He uttered an exclamation of pleasure.
“Thank God!” he cried. “Here! Read this. It’s from Margaret Murchie.”
I took the paper.
“You will never see me again,” it said. “I have gone to Monty Cranch. You won’t ever see either of us again. He is going with me. We plan to finish life, what is left of it, together. We will never turn up again. You better not worry.