Tells the Truth.

In the rich glow of the autumn evening we sat together for some time, our hearts too full of grief for words. The future of both of us was filled with blank despair. My presence there brought back to her all the sweet recollections of those long-past days when she was free, and when to save her father from ruin she had so nobly sacrificed her love.

Presently the whirr of the motor-car announced Mr Murray’s return, and rising we went into the house to greet him. He welcomed me, but none too warmly I noticed. Probably he did not approve of my calling upon Ella now that she was engaged to marry the man who had so firmly established himself in his confidence.

Nevertheless, he asked me to remain to dinner, which I did gladly. He was a slow-speaking gentlemanly man, dark-eyed and dark-bearded, whom I had always liked.

From him I learned that Ella’s marriage was to take place in the village church of Wichenford in the first week in October, and that the honeymoon was to be spent in St. Petersburg. His words cut me like a knife.

“Gordon-Wright is down at his country place just now,” he remarked an hour later, as we all three sat at table in the great old panelled dining-room with the wax candles burning in the antique Sheffield candelabra. “We go to town next week, and he meets us there. He’s a good fellow. Do you know him?”

“I met him quite casually once,” I replied, glancing across at my well-beloved who had now exchanged her white dress for a black lace dinner gown, in the corsage of which was a single red rose—her favourite flower.

Ah! as I looked at her my heart was aflame. I loved her better than my life. Alas! She could never now be mine—never.

I left early and drove back to Worcester through the pelting rain—with her rose that she had slipped into my hand at parting, a silent pledge that spoke volumes to me.

“Good-bye, dear heart!” she whispered. “We shall perhaps meet again in London.”

“Yes,” I said earnestly. “We must meet once again before your marriage. Promise me you will—promise?”

“I’ll try. But you know how very difficult it is to see you when I’m at Porchester Terrace. Aunt Henrietta is such an impossible person.”

“You must,” I whispered. And I would have clasped her to my heart and kissed her in adieu had not the statuesque man-servant stood by to hand me the mackintosh which Murray had lent me.

“Adieu!” she said again, and then touching her hand I mounted into the cart and went forth into the rain and darkness—into the night that was so like my own life.

After my return to Shepherd’s Bush ten weary days passed—each day bringing my love nearer that odious union. One morning I received an unexpected note from Lucie Miller, saying that she and her aunt were in London again, at the Hotel Russell, in order to see her late father’s lawyers.

I called and left a card, for they were out.

Next day, just as I rose from Mrs Gilbert’s luncheon table and was about to enjoy a pipe in Sammy’s den—he being away at the club—visitors were announced.

It was Lucie, flushed and agitated, and with her was Ella, who, the instant the door of the little sitting-room was closed, fell upon my neck, and without a word burst into a passion of tears.

“What does this mean?” I asked of Lucie, utterly taken aback.

“This will explain it.” And she drew out a green evening newspaper, one of those editions published at eleven o’clock in the morning. “Read for yourself,” she added, pointing to a bold headline.

I swiftly scanned the lines, and stood staring at them both.

What was printed there was utterly bewildering. I held my breath. Could it actually be true?

I cried aloud for joy, and pressing my love to my breast covered her pale sweet face with passionate kisses.

“Is this a fact?” I cried. “Is it really true?”

“Yes,” answered Lucie. “I have been to Half Moon Street myself and made inquiries. Mr Gordon-Wright, it appears, returned home late last night after supper at the Savoy. He must have met some friends afterwards, for the hall-porter says he did not return till nearly two o’clock, and then seemed dazed and incoherent in his speech. He frequently saw gentlemen like that, and therefore pretended to take no notice. At eight o’clock this morning, when his valet took him his early tea, he found him half-dressed doubled up on the bed quite dead. Death from poisoning, the doctor has declared. To us the truth is quite plain. He is another victim of Himes’ terrible revenge!”

“And you, my darling, are free—actually free!” I cried, again kissing my dear heart’s face and beside myself with an unexpected joy.

Himes was evidently keeping his vow to exterminate all Miller’s friends—for what reason, however, was still an enigma.

The situation now became utterly bewildering. In an instant I recognised the exact position. My well-beloved was not so enthusiastic as myself. She seemed terrified at the man’s terribly sudden end, and at the same time she held herself aloof from me. She held a secret, one which, as she had frankly told me, she would never divulge—not even to me. How could there be perfect love without perfect confidence? Again another difficulty was presented.

“I saw the report upon the posters in the streets, bought a paper, and learnt the truth,” explained Lucie. “I then took a cab at once to Porchester Terrace in search of Ella, and brought her straight here to you.”

“The fellow has got his deserts,” I said, in triumph. “He richly deserved such an ignominious end.”

“He supped with my father and myself at the Savoy last night, and drove home with us,” Ella said. “He left us about one o’clock, and promised to call and take me shopping in Bond Street at ten this morning, but never came.”

“And he will never trouble you more, darling,” I exclaimed, amazed that Himes should have acted with such daring so quickly after his terrible revenge upon Miller. It showed how unscrupulous and determined he was to carry out the threat that had escaped his lips. “You are mine at last—mine! mine!” I cried, pressing her again to me and covering her lips with kisses.

But she did not return my caresses. She only pushed me forcibly from her, saying huskily:—

“It is true that man is dead, Godfrey—that I have no further fear of him—that my secret is safe. But you must give me time to think, Godfrey.”

“Yes,” urged her friend. “You must allow her time. The news of the fellow’s sudden end has upset her. The release has been so sudden that she cannot yet realise it. Release has also come to me,” she added. “Ah! you do not know the truth, Mr Leaf—it is surely stranger than any fiction ever written.”

“And may I not know it?” I asked quickly. “Remember that you have taken me into your confidence up to a certain point. Is Ella aware of the truth?”

“I think not,” she faltered, with a hard expression on her face. “It is a disgraceful truth. Since my poor father’s death I have made certain startling discoveries that place matters in an entirely new light. I have been examining his private papers, and they have revealed to me facts which, so infamous, cause me to hide my face from you in shame. I—I am not fit to be your associate or friend of Ella,” she added, in a hoarse painful whisper. “I confess to you both, because you have been my friends. I confess everything, even the fact that I learnt only three days ago.”

“What’s that?” I inquired.

“That I am, after all, what the world calls an adventuress—the daughter of an international thief!” was her low answer, her chin sunk upon her breast in an attitude of shame. “My poor father, whom I adored, was only a thief!” and she burst into tears.

For some moments I was silent. The door opened behind us, and Sammy, who had returned, stood upon the threshold, surprised that I had visitors.

I motioned to him to enter and close the door. Then I said:—

“Mr Sampson is my friend; we can speak before him, Miss Miller. Were you entirely unaware of your father’s real profession?”

“I swear that I was. I had no idea of it until three days ago, when I discovered proof positive that he was in association with certain men who were expert thieves.”

“Then your association with the fugitive Nardini was in no way connected with your father’s dishonesty?” I asked. “You have just said that Gordon-Wright’s death has set you at liberty. Will you not now tell us the truth, so that all may be open and straightforward?”

She hesitated, and I saw that she naturally felt disinclined to condemn the man of whom she had all her life been so fond, and in whom she had so implicitly trusted. Many fathers act mysteriously in the eyes of their children. Mr Miller had ever been a mystery, and yet with filial affection she had never once suspected him of leading a double life.

“Yes,” urged Ella, “tell us all. Half an hour ago you told me that you are at last free—that the man who held me so entirely in his power also held you............