There lay scattered upon the table a deed relating to some property, and several letters of a private nature, upon which I had been engaged before taking my stroll on the previous night. With the object of placing them under lock and key I was thoughtfully collecting them when there fell from amongst the heap of papers a piece of red sealing-wax, about the size of a sixpence.
Rarely having occasion to use wax myself I took up the fragment, and found it had the appearance of being the rough corner of a seal that had chipped off the paper to which it had been affixed.
“Some one must have been here in my absence,” I exclaimed aloud, glancing at the taper which also lay upon the table, at the same time noticing a small spot of wax that had apparently been dropped upon the leather. Then I remembered that if any one had been in the study during the night they had, without doubt, made themselves acquainted with the contents of the paper, and with the rough copy of my will which I had carelessly left about.
I glanced at the scrap of wax again and found upon the margin, close to where it was broken, there was an impression of something.
This might give me a clue to the identity of the member of my household who required sealing-wax in the middle of the night.
Going to the window, the stronger light revealed a strange character, something of the shape of the letter B, but having a long excrescence in front.
In a moment I recognised it as one of the hieroglyphics of the mystic seal!
Nervousness is not one of my afflictions, yet I looked round that room involuntarily viewing the curtains with suspicion, as if half afraid I should witness something supernatural appear from behind them.
It was obvious that some one with the seal in his or her possession had come to my study in my absence during the dark hours of the night for the purpose of obtaining an impression in wax, and that the piece which had served as a clue had accidentally chipped off, alighting amongst the papers.
That some one in the house held the seal there could not be the slightest doubt, and my thoughts at once flew to the man whom Vera had clandestinely met – he whom I knew to be the murderer of Mrs Inglewood.
Who had he marked out as his next victim?
If he entertained affection for Vera, and she reciprocated it, what was more natural than that they should wish to rid themselves of me? I shuddered at the thought. My wife could surely never be an accessory to a murder – yet such things were not unknown, I told myself.
Yes; my surmise must be correct. My wife’s lover was only waiting for a favourable opportunity to strike the fatal blow.
He was not aware, however, that I had espied his presence, had recognised him; nor that by mere chance I had learned that an attempt was to be made upon my life.
“I can thwart their vile plot, even now!” I said bitterly, holding the piece of wax in my hand, and gazing upon it. “I will see Vera and first give her an opportunity to justify herself. If it is unsatisfactory I shall then give information to the police, and have the murderer arrested,” and I even smiled at the thought that, after all, I held the trump card.
Just at that moment the door opened, a head was poked in, and a voice exclaimed: “Halloa, old fellow, why you look as if you hadn’t been to bed! I heard somebody chattering, and thought there must be visitors, yet it’s rather early. Talking to yourself, it seems.”
“What’s the time?” I exclaimed rather brusquely, at the same moment taking out my watch.
“Half-past five,” he replied. “Coming out with me for a walk? A stretch at this hour of the morning will do you good.”
“No, thanks; I’m not an athlete,” I replied. “Very well. But, by Jove, what’s the matter with you this morning? If you’d had a bad night at baccarat and were stone broke you couldn’t look worse.”
“Matter with me? Nothing!” I replied, endeavouring to smile, “except that I’ve been very busy writing.”
“Take my tip and go to bed, old fellow. A couple of hours there will freshen you up wonderfully. But, good-bye, if you won’t come for a stroll.”
“Good-bye: see you at breakfast,” I replied abruptly, as the head withdrew and the door closed.
The intruder was Demetrius Hertzen, Vera’s cousin, a tall, broad-shouldered fellow about my own age, who had an abundance of spirits, which made him a most agreeable companion.
In response to my invitation he had arrived from Brussels a fortnight previously, and had signified his ability to remain my guest for another month. I had only met him once before, at our marriage, but when he had been with us a few days, I found he had many tastes in common with myself, – that he knew London quite as well as Paris or Brussels, and that although used to rather fast society perhaps, he was nevertheless a thoroughly good fellow.
Vera and he had been children together, and laughingly admitted they were sweethearts before they had gained their teens, but that when Demetrius arrived at the mature age of fifteen he transferred his affections. Cautiously I had approached my guest with a view to learn something of his cousin’s past, but he seemed remarkably shrewd, and carefully warded off every indirect question I put to him on the subject.
Possibly it was at Vera’s request that he would not tell me what he knew, yet upon this matter only was he silent, as he conversed freely of his own doings and acquaintances, and of his life since leaving the paternal roof, for though a Russian, he spoke English almost perfectly, and only in certain words could the accent be detected.
Somehow, though our acquaintance had been but brief, I had become greatly attached to him, such a mirthful cosmopolitan was he, brimming over with humour and good-fellowship and as light-hearted as his father was dark and sullen. He seemed to be untroubled by any thought or care, the sole object of his existence being to get the greatest amount of enjoyment out of life, and cause amusement to his companions.
Perplexed and uneasy, I longed for some one in whom to confide, and after he had gone, as I stood there brooding, I almost regretted I had not told him of my suspicions, and enlisted his sympathy and aid in tracking the murderer.
I knew, were I to tell him of my discovery of Vera’s faithlessness, he would readily render any assistance, and even give me advice that I might follow with advantage. I had no one else near to whom I could speak, and after considerable deliberation I at last determined to take him into my confidence, provided I obtained an opportunity of speaking with him alone after breakfast.
To my pocket-book I transferred the mysterious piece of sealing-wax, and then sadly and thoughtfully resumed the task of putting my papers in order.
It took some time, and when finished I set about making preparations for my journey.
First I drew a cheque in favour of myself for a good round sum, then I sat down and wrote a long letter to Vera, which I intended she should read after I had gone.
Full of sorrow and regret, it was a letter in which I told her of my dejection and my inconsolable grief, yet expressing a bitter hope that her life might be happier in the future than mine would be, and explaining the arrangements I proposed whereby she would have a fair income, and Elveham to reside in as long as she wished.
More than once in the course of writing I was so overcome I could scarce proceed, and throwing down my pen was tempted to tear the letter up. But it was a duty; the last communication between myself and she who had been dearest to me. I felt constrained to write on to the end, and append my signature.
After carefully reading it through, I placed it in an envelope, and addressed it to her, “to be opened after my departure.”
The hours had crept on unnoticed; the servant had long ago come in for the purpose of dusting the place, but, seeing me, had retired. Just as I had written the superscription on the envelope the door again opened, and I found myself face to face with Vera.