Part 17 (1/2)

”It was a coincidence,” I said lamely.

Seizing my hands, she actually fell on her knees before me, flas.h.i.+ng into my eyes all the loveliness of her pallid, upturned face.

”It was not a coincidence!” she pa.s.sionately sobbed. ”Why can't you be frank with me, and tell me how it is that I have killed him? He said long ago--do you not remember?--that I was fatal to him. He was getting better--you yourself said so--till I came, and then he died.”

What could I reply? The girl was uttering the thoughts which had haunted me for days.

I tried to smile a rea.s.surance, and raising her as gently as I could, I led her back to her chair. It was on my part a feeble performance.

”You are suffering from a nervous crisis,” I said, ”and I must prescribe for you. My first prescription is that we do not talk about Alresca's death.”

I endeavored to be perfectly matter-of-fact in tone, and gradually she grew calmer.

”I have not slept since that night,” she murmured wearily. ”Then you will not tell me?”

”What have I to tell you, except that you are ill? Stop a moment. I have an item of news, after all. Poor Alresca has made me his heir.”

”That was like his kind heart.”

”Yes, indeed. But I can't imagine why he did it!”

”It was just grat.i.tude,” said she.

”A rare kind of grat.i.tude,” I replied.

”Is no reason given in the will?”

”Not a word.”

I remembered the packet which I had just received from the lawyer, and I mentioned it to her.

”Open it now,” she said. ”I am interested--if you do not think me too inquisitive.”

I tore the envelope. It contained another envelope, sealed, and a letter. I scanned the letter.

”It is nothing,” I said with false casualness, and was returning it to my pocket. The worst of me is that I have no histrionic instinct; I cannot act a part.

”Wait!” she cried sharply, and I hesitated before the appeal in her tragic voice. ”You cannot deceive me, Mr. Foster. It is something. I entreat you to read to me that letter. Does it not occur to you that I have the right to demand this from you? Why should he beat about the bush? You know, and I know that you know, that there is a mystery in this dreadful death. Be frank with me, my friend. I have suffered much these last days.”

We looked at each other silently, I with the letter in my hand. Why, indeed, should I treat her as a child, this woman with the compelling eyes, the firm, commanding forehead? Why should I pursue the silly game of pretence?

”I will read it,” I said. ”There is, certainly, a mystery in connection with Alresca's death, and we may be on the eve of solving it.”

The letter was dated concurrently with Alresca's will--that is to say, a few days before our arrival in Bruges--and it ran thus:

”My dear Friend:--It seems to me that I am to die, and from a strange cause--for I believe I have guessed the cause. The nature of my guess and all the circ.u.mstances I have written out at length, and the doc.u.ment is in the sealed packet which accompanies this. My reason for making such a record is a peculiar one. I should desire that no eye might ever read that doc.u.ment. But I have an idea that some time or other the record may be of use to you--possibly soon. You, Carl, may be the heir of more than my goods. If matters should so fall out, then break the seal, and read what I have written. If not, I beg of you, after five years have elapsed, to destroy the packet unread. I do not care to be more precise.

Always yours, ”Alresca.”

”That is all?” asked Rosa, when I had finished reading it.