But as things are, I am delighted to see my charming, delightful little friend so happy.
Often I am their guest at the fine, historic, sixteenth-century mansion standing in its broad park, a few miles out of Monmouth. Indeed, it is beneath their roof that, on this bright summer evening, while the crimson after-glow is shining over the tops of the distant belt of dark firs across the park, that I am setting down the concluding lines of this strange story of daring and ingenious crime, this drama which so nearly cost all three of us our lives at the hands of that unscrupulous gang of dastardly malefactors.
Edward Craig, and his wife, Lola, who returned from their honeymoon, spent first in Khartoum, and afterwards in India, six months ago, and have now quite settled, have just come in from tennis. As they stand together, upon the threshold of the big oak-panelled library, a handsome pair in white, hand-in-hand, hot and flushed from playing, Lola says, with a merry smile upon her bright, open countenance and a pretty accent in her voice—
"In your narrative of what has recently happened, M'sieur Vidal, please tell the reader, man and woman, that the long, grim night has at last passed, the dawn has broken, yet 'The Nightingale' still sings on more blithely than ever, for she is at last supremely happy. At last, Edouard!" she adds, throwing her white arms about her husband's neck. "At last!"
And the tall, handsome fellow in flannels bent until his lips met hers.
"Ah, yes, Lola, darling!" he whispered earnestly. "You are mine—mine—mine, for always. We have, as the Psalmist of old has put it, passed through the Place of Dragons, and been covered with the Shadow of Death. But God in His justice has smitten the transgressors, and we have been delivered from the hand of the ungodly, into a world of peace, of happiness, and of love."
THE END