"The writer could have done no great harm but for Edmund North's allowing himself to go into that fatal passion."
"An anonymous writer is a coward," rejoined Hepburn with scorn. "They say there'll not be an inquest."
"An inquest!" repeated the doctor, to whom the idea had never occurred. "There's no necessity for an inquest."
"Well, doctor, I suppose the law would in strictness exact it. But Mr. North is against it, and it's thought his wishes will be respected."
"Any of the medical men can furnish a certificate of the cause of death. I could do it myself."
"Yes, of course. But I've no time to stay talking," added the undertaker. "Good-day to you, sir."
The next to come forth from the house was Alexander, the surgeon. Dr. Rane rubbed his eyes, almost thinking they deceived him. The brother practitioners shook hands; and Mr. Alexander--a little man with dark hair--explained what had seemed inexplicable.
It seemed that the very same evening delivery which brought Mr. North the anonymous letter, had brought one to Mr. Alexander. His was from London, informing him that he had been appointed to a post connected with one of the hospitals, and requesting him to go up at once for a few hours. Mr. Alexander made ready, sent for a fly, and started with his wife for the station, bidding the driver halt at Mr. North's iron gates. As he was in attendance at that time on Edmund North, he wished to give notice of his temporary absence. To be furiously attacked by Edmund North the moment he entered the doors, and as it seemed to him, without rhyme or reason, put Mr. Alexander into somewhat of a passion also. There was no time for elucidation, neither was a single word he said listened to, and the surgeon hastened out to his fly. He had returned by the first train this morning--London was not much more than an hour's journey by rail--and found that Edmund North had died of that self-same passion. Half paralyzed with grief and horror, Mr. Alexander hastened to the Hall; and was now coming from it, having fully exculpated himself in all ways in the sight of its master. Almost as fully he spoke now to Dr. Rane; in his grief, in his straightforward candour, nothing selfish or sinister could hide itself.
The transaction in regard to drawing the bill had been wholly Edmund North's, Some months ago he had sought Mr. Alexander, saying he was in want of a sum of money--a hundred pounds; he did not know how to put his hands just then upon it, not wishing to apply to his own family; would he, the surgeon, like a good fellow, lend it? At first, Mr. Alexander had excused himself; for one thing he had not the money--fancy a poor country surgeon with a hundred pounds loose cash, he said; but eventually he fell in with Edmund North's pleadings. A bill was drawn, both of them being liable, and was discounted by Dale, the lawyer, of Whitborough. When the bill had become due (about a week ago) neither of them could meet it; and the matter was arranged with Dale by a second bill.
"What I cannot understand is, how Edmund North, poor fellow, could have pitched upon me as the writer of that letter," observed the surgeon to Dr. Rane, when he had finished his recital. "He must have gone clean daft to think it. I had no reason for disclosing it; I did not fear but he would eventually meet the bill."
"I told them you could not have written it," quietly rejoined the doctor.
Mr. Alexander lifted his hand with angry emphasis. "Rane, I'd give a thousand pounds out of my pocket--if I were a rich man and had it--to know who wrote the letter and worked the mischief. I never disclosed the transaction to a living soul; I don't believe Edmund North did; besides ourselves, it was known only to the discounter. Dale is a safe man; so it seems a perfect mystery. And mark you, Rane--that letter was written to damage me at the Hall, not Edmund North."
Dr. Rane gazed at the other in great surprise. "To damage you?"
"It is the view I take of it. And so, on reflection, does Richard North."
"Nonsense, Alexander!"
"If ever the hidden particulars come to light, you will find that it is not nonsense, but truth," was the surgeon's answer. "I must have some enemies in the neighbourhood, I suppose; most professional men have; and they no doubt hoped to do for me with Mr. North. The Norths in a degree sway other people here, and so I should have lost my practice, and been driven away."
Oliver had raised his cane, and was lightly flicking the shrub by which he stood, his air that of one in deep thought.
"I confess I do not follow you, Alexander. Your ill-doing or well-doing is nothing to Mr. North; his son's of course was. If you lived by drawing bills, it could be no concern of his."
"Drawing bills on my own score would certainly be of no moment to Mr. North; but drawing them in conjunction with his son would be. Upon which of us would he naturally lay the blame? Upon a young, heedless man, as Edmund North was; or upon me, a middle-aged, established member of society, with a home and a family? The case speaks for itself."
Oliver Rane did not appear quite to admit this. He thought the probability lay against Mr. Alexander's theory, rather than with it. "Of course," he slowly said, "looking at it in that light, the letter would tell either way. But I think you must be wrong."
"No, I am not. Whoever wrote that missive did it to injure me. I seemed to see it, as by instinct, the minute Mr. North gave me the letter to read. If the motive was to drive me from Dallory, it might have been spared, and Edmund North saved, for I am going to quit it of my own accord."
"To quit Dallory?"
"In a month's time from this I and mine will have left it for London. The situation now given to me I have been trying for, under the rose, these six months past."
"But why do you wish to leave Dallory?"
"To better myself, as the servants say," replied Mr. Alexander, "and the move will do that considerably. Another reason is that my wife dislikes Dallory. Madam turned up her nose at us socially when we first settled here; and that, in a degree, kept the best society closed to Mrs. Alexander. She is well-born, has been reared a lady; and of course it was: enough to set her against the place. Besides, all our friends are in London; and so, you see, if my exit into the wilderness was what that anonymous individual was driving at, he might have gained his ends without crime, had he waited only a short time."
"I hate Mrs. North," dreamily spoke Dr. Rane; "and I am sure she hates me, though the wherefore to me is incomprehensible."
"Look there," spoke the surgeon, dropping his voice.
Both had simultaneously caught sight of Mrs. North. She was passing the shrubbery close by, and looked out at them. They raised their hats. Mr. Alexander made a movement to approach her; she saw it, and turned from him back to the dark wall with her usual sweeping step. So he remained where he was.
"She asked to see me on Tuesday night when I was leaving; wanting to know if I could tell her who wrote the letter," said Dr. Rane.
"She suspected me, I suppose."
"She appeared to suspect--not you, but some one else; and that was Richard North."
"Richard North!" ironically repeated Mr. Alexander. "She knows quite well that he is above suspicion; perhaps she was only trying to divert attention from some other person: she is made up of craft. Who knows but she wrote the letter herself?"
"Mrs. North!"
"Upon my word and honour, the thought is in my mind, Rane. If the motive of the letter were as you think--to do Edmund North damage with his father--I know of only one person who would attempt it, and that is Mrs. North."
Their eyes met: a strange light shone momentarily in Oliver Rane's. In saying that he hated Mrs. North, he spoke truth; but there was every excuse for the feeling, for it was quite certain that Mrs. North had long been working him what ill she could. His marriage with Bessy was being delayed, and delayed entirely through her covert opposition.
"That