"To bring Emily to her senses?" the doctor asked.
"To do what Mirabel has not done--and then to let her choose between us."
"Ay? ay? Your good opinion of her hasn't altered, though she has treated you so badly?"
"My good opinion makes allowance for the state of my poor darling's mind, after the shock that has fallen on her," Alban answered quietly. "She is not my Emily now. She will be my Emily yet. I told her I was convinced of it, in the old days at school--and my conviction is as strong as ever. Have you seen her, since I have been away at Netherwoods?"
"Yes; and she is as angry with me as she is with you."
"For the same reason?"
"No, no. I heard enough to warn me to hold my tongue. I refused to help her--that's all. You are a man, and you may run risks which no young girl ought to encounter. Do you remember when I asked you to drop all further inquiries into the murder, for Emily's sake? The circumstances have altered since that time. Can I be of any use?"
"Of the greatest use, if you can give me Miss Jethro's address."
"Oh! You mean to begin in that way, do you?"
"Yes. You know that Miss Jethro visited me at Netherwoods?"
"Go on."
"She showed me your answer to a letter which she had written to you. Have you got that letter?"
Doctor Allday produced it. The address was at a post-office, in a town on the south coast. Looking up when he had copied it, Alban saw the doctor's eyes fixed on him with an oddly-mingled expression: partly of sympathy, partly of hesitation.
"Have you anything to suggest?" he asked.
"You will get nothing out of Miss Jethro," the doctor answered, "unless--" there he stopped.
"Unless, what?"
"Unless you can frighten her."
"How am I to do that?"
After a little reflection, Doctor Allday returned, without any apparent reason, to the subject of his last visit to Emily.
"There was one thing she said, in the course of our talk," he continued, "which struck me as being sensible: possibly (for we are all more or less conceited), because I agreed with her myself. She suspects Miss Jethro of knowing more about that damnable murder than Miss Jethro is willing to acknowledge. If you want to produce the right effect on her--" he looked hard at Alban and checked himself once more.
"Well? what am I to do?"
"Tell her you have an idea of who the murderer is."
"But I have no idea."
"But I have."
"Good God! what do you mean?"
"Don't mistake me! An impression has been produced on my mind--that's all. Call it a freak or fancy; worth trying perhaps as a bold experiment, and worth nothing more. Come a little nearer. My housekeeper is an excellent woman, but I have once or twice caught her rather too near to that door. I think I'll whisper it."
He did whisper it. In breathless wonder, Alban heard of the doubt which had crossed Doctor Allday's mind, on the evening when Mirabel had called at his house.
"You look as if you didn't believe it," the doctor remarked.
"I'm thinking of Emily. For her sake I hope and trust you are wrong. Ought I to go to her at once? I don't know what to do!"
"Find out first, my good fellow, whether I am right or wrong. You can do it, if you will run the risk with Miss Jethro."
Alban recovered himself. His old friend's advice was clearly the right advice to follow. He examined his railway guide, and then looked at his watch. "If I can find Miss Jethro," he answered, "I'll risk it before the day is out."
Tile doctor accompanied him to the door. "You will write to me, won't you?"
"Without fail. Thank you--and good-by."
BOOK THE SEVENTH--THE CLINK.
CHAPTER LVIII.
A COUNCIL OF TWO.
Early in the last century one of the picturesque race of robbers and murderers, practicing the vices of humanity on the borderlands watered by the river Tweed, built a tower of stone on the coast of Northumberland. He lived joyously in the perpetration of atrocities; and he died penitent, under the direction of his priest. Since that event, he has figured in poems and pictures; and has been greatly admired by modern ladies and gentlemen, whom he would have outraged and robbed if he had been lucky enough to meet with them in the good old times.
His son succeeded him, and failed to profit by the paternal example: that is to say, he made the fatal mistake of fighting for other people instead of fighting for himself.
In the rebellion of Forty-Five, this northern squire sided to serious purpose with Prince Charles and the Highlanders. He lost his head; and his children lost their inheritance. In the lapse of years, the confiscated property fell into the hands of strangers; the last of whom (having a taste for the turf) discovered, in course of time, that he was in want of money. A retired merchant, named Delvin (originally of French extraction), took a liking to the wild situation, and purchased the tower. His wife--already in failing health--had been ordered by the doctors to live a quiet life by the sea. Her husband's death left her a rich and lonely widow; by day and night alike, a prisoner in her room; wasted by disease, and having but two interests which reconciled her to life--writing poetry in the intervals of pain, and paying the debts of a reverend brother who succeeded in the pulpit, and prospered nowhere else.
In the later days of its life, the tower had been greatly improved as a place of residence. The contrast was remarkable between the dreary gray outer walls, and the luxuriously furnished rooms inside, rising by two at a time to the lofty eighth story of the building. Among the scattered populace of the country round, the tower was still known by the odd name given to it in the bygone time--"The Clink." It had been so called (as was supposed) in allusion to the noise made by loose stones, washed backward and forward at certain times of the tide, in hollows of the rock on which the building stood.
On the evening of her arrival at Mrs. Delvin's retreat, Emily retired at an early hour, fatigued by her long journey. Mirabel had an opportunity of speaking with his sister privately in her own room.
"Send me away, Agatha, if I disturb you," he said, "and let me know when I can see you in the morning."
"My dear Miles, have you forgotten that I am never able to sleep in calm weather? My lullaby, for years past, has been the moaning of the great North Sea, under my window. Listen! There is not a sound outside on this peaceful night. It is the right time of the tide, just now--and yet, 'the clink' is not to be heard. Is the moon up?"
Mirabel opened the curtains. "The whole sky is one great abyss of black," he answered. "If I was superstitious, I should think that horrid darkness a bad omen for the future. Are you suffering, Agatha?"
"Not just now. I suppose I look sadly changed for the worse since you saw me last?"
But for the feverish brightness of her eyes, she would have looked like a corpse. Her wrinkled forehead, her hollow cheeks, her white lips told their terrible tale of the suffering of years. The ghastly appearance of her face was heightened by the furnishing of the room.