“There’s no Inverslain on any railway line,” Tom discovered, busily turning over an old “Bradshaw.” Thereupon Lucy gave him a sovereign and despatched him to the post office to discover how a sufficiently lucid message could best reach a remote Highland hamlet, bidding him not grudge any charge which might be made for porterage.
He brought her back her change, having had to make a liberal deduction from the sovereign, since “Inverslain” was reported to be a tiny Highland “clachan,” twelve miles from any telegraph office.
Tom had also bought an evening paper, and had privately scanned its columns with great care to see whether they might contain any item which could possibly refer to the hapless Clementina. He found none. But he found something he did not expect, to wit, a paragraph relating the finding of the spar and sail of the absentee Slains Castle. The sad suggestion had now become public property.
Mr. Somerset had arrived in Pelham Street while Tom was at the telegraph office. He and the two ladies discussed the conversation which had gone on the evening before, and the probabilities of Clementina having taken alarm at Tom’s idle suggestion that some of the “professors” of “clairvoyance” should have a chance to cover themselves with glory by discovering the origin of the mysteries. Of course, the Highland woman’s own faith in second-sight and prenatural powers would make such an idea very terrible to her, since she knew the mysteries were of her own making.
“But if she be mad, could she realise this?” asked Lucy.
“Oh, dear, yes,” said Mr. Somerset. “You must remember that madness seldom attacks the whole of the brain at once. Generally it leaves part in perfect working order for awhile, so that those in ignorance of the peculiar groove taken by the disease might long remain unwitting of it. Generally, of course, the malady slowly increases its conquest, though its progress may be very slow, and maybe occasionally arrested at special stages. It is quite probable that Clementina may not remember all she has done, and also that she may believe her actions to have been quite intelligible and praiseworthy. Dr. Ivery explained all this to me yesterday, when we had little idea where the trouble lay.”
They were sitting dismally enough taking their tea when a telegram arrived. It was far too soon for it to be a possible response to Lucy’s message to Inverslain. It was addressed to “Mrs. Challoner,” and by the sudden flash of light and life across her face, the watchers could see that a wild hope sprung up within her that it might concern the great anxiety and sorrow which she was holding in such resolute silence. But no. The light and life died out. Yet she said with a sigh of relief, “Let us be thankful for this,” and handed the telegram to Mr. Somerset who read aloud—
“‘Clementina Gillespie here. Very unwell. Will write to-morrow about box and wages.—Micklewrath, Dock Street, Hull.’”
“Then she is safe with those relations of whom Rachel telegraphed,” said Miss Latimer, drawing a long breath. “At any rate, the terrible responsibility is removed from us.”
Lucy had already risen from the table and gone to her desk.