“I will ask you but one more question,” said our Reporter. “In what way do you account for the circumstance of your husband not writing to you after his return to London?”
“Do you forget,” asked Mrs. Holdfast, in return, “that he had injured his hand, and that he did not wish to disclose his private affairs to a stranger?”
Here the interview terminated; and here, with the exception of the statement of three facts, our narrative ends.
Mrs. Holdfast is mistaken in her belief that her husband did not write to her because he had injured his hand, and was unwilling to employ an amanuensis. Our Reporter, after he left Mrs. Holdfast, had an interview with the former landlady of 119 Great Porter Square, who has left the house, and would under no consideration return to it. The landlady states that, on three occasions, she entered Mr. Holdfast’s room when he was in it, and that on every occasion he was writing, and apparently writing freely. It did not appear to her that his hand was injured in the slightest degree. There was no bandage or plaister upon it, and he did not complain. We are in a position also to declare that, at the post-mortem examination, no recent injury of the right hand was perceptible.
The whole of Mr. Holdfast’s property has been left by him, in a properly attested will, to his widow. When he made this will his son Frederick was alive. Not a shilling, however, is left to the son.
Mrs. Holdfast has offered a reward of five hundred pounds for the discovery of the murderer of her husband.
We have no doubt our readers will appreciate our enterprise in presenting them with this circumstantial account of the latest phase of the Great Porter Square Mystery.
The question that now remains to be answered is – Where is Mr. Holdfast’s son?
CHAPTER XXI
RICHARD MANX MAKES LOVE TO “SWEET BECKY.”
ON the morning following the publication of the Supplement to the Evening Moon, Becky had occasion to observe that her mistress, Mrs. Preedy, was earnestly engaged in the perusal of a newspaper. A great deal of house-work had to be done on this morning; there was a general “cleaning-up;” floors and stairs to be scrubbed, chairs and tables to be polished, and looking-glasses and windows to be cleaned; and as the greater portion of this work fell to Becky’s share, she was kept busily employed until the afternoon. She was, therefore, in ignorance of the publication of the statement in the Evening Moon, and her curiosity was but languidly aroused by Mrs. Preedy’s pre-occupation, until, by mere chance, she caught sight of the heading, “The Murder in Great Porter Square.” She turned hot and cold, and her pulses quickened.
“Is that something fresh about the murder next door?” she ventured to ask.
“Yes, Becky,” replied Mrs. Preedy, but did not offer any explanation of the contents.
It was not Becky’s cue to exhibit more than ordinary interest in the matter, and she merely remarked,
“I thought it might be something about the houses being haunted.”
She noted that the paper was the Evening Moon, and she determined to purchase a copy before she went to bed. She did not until the afternoon get an opportunity to leave the house, and even then, there was so much to do, she had to leave it secretly, and without Mrs. Preedy’s knowledge. There was another reason for her desire to go out. She expected a letter at the Charing Cross Post Office, and it was necessary she should be there before five o’clock to receive it. Mrs. Preedy generally took a half-hour’s nap in the afternoon, and Becky’s plan was to slip out the moment her mistress fell asleep, and leave the house to take care of itself. She felt the want of an ally at this juncture; the impression that she was fated to unravel the mystery of the murder, and thus clear the man she loved from suspicion, was becoming stronger; and to accomplish this it was necessary that she should keep her present situation. She needed help, and she could not take any person into her confidence.
During the day Becky noticed that a great many persons passed through the Square, and stopped before the house. “Now that the houses are haunted,” she thought, “we shall be regularly besieged. But if they look for a year they’ll not see a ghost.”
At four o’clock in the afternoon Mrs. Preedy arranged herself comfortably in an arm chair in her kitchen, and in a few moments was asleep. Now was Becky’s opportunity. She quietly slipped out of the house by way of the basement, tying her hat strings as she mounted the steps, and walked quickly in the direction of Charing Cross. She was so intent upon her mission that she scarcely noticed the unusual number of persons in the Square. At Charing Cross Post Office she received the letter she expected. She did not stop to read it; she simply opened it as she retraced her steps, and, glancing hurriedly through it, put it into her pocket. She heard the boys calling out “Hevenin’ Moon! More about the murder in Great Porter Square! Wonderful discovery! Romance in real life! A ’Underd Thousand Pounds!” and she stopped and purchased two copies. Although she was animated by the liveliest curiosity, she did not pause even to open the paper, she was so anxious to get back to the house before Mrs. Preedy awoke. Shortly before turning into the Square, she was overtaken, fast as she herself was walking, by their young man lodger, Richard Manx. He touched her arm, and smiling pleasantly at her, walked by her side.
“My pretty one,” he said, “your little feet walk fast.”
“I am in a hurry,” she replied, her nostrils dilating at his touch; but instantly remembering the part she was playing, she returned his pleasant smile.
“You have been – a – out while the amiable Mrs. Preedy sleeps.”
This observation warned her that Richard Manx knew more about the household movements than she expected. “I have no fool to deal with,” she thought. “He shall have as much of my confidence as I choose to give him; he will find me his match.”
“Yes,” she said aloud, with a bright look; “but don’t tell Mrs. Preedy; she might be angry with me.”
“You speak,” he said in a tone of lofty satisfaction, “to a gentleman.”
“I wanted to buy a ribbon,” said Becky, artlessly, “and it isn’t easy to choose the exact colour one would like at night, so I thought I would steal out, just as I am, while Mrs. Preedy took her nap.”
“Steal out – ah, yes, I understand – just as you are, charming!”
“And now, although I couldn’t match my ribbon – it was a very light pink I wanted – I must get back quickly.”
All the while they were talking he was sucking and chewing a sweetmeat; having disposed of it, he popped another into his mouth.
“Quickly,” he repeated, bending down, so that his face was on a level with hers. “That is – a – soon. Will you?”
This question was accompanied by the offer of a little packet of acid drops, half of which he had already devoured. She took a couple with the remark that she liked chocolate creams best.
“You shall have some,” he said, “to-morrow. I shall walk with you; I myself am on my way to my small apartment. It is the – a – fashion for a gentleman to offer a lady one