David Blake sat down at his table and spread out old Mr. Mottisfont's letter upon the desk in front of him. It was a long letter, written in a clear, pointed handwriting, which was characteristic and unmistakable.
“My dear David,”-wrote old Mr. Mottisfont,-“My dear David, I have just written a letter to Edward-a blameless and beautiful letter-in which I have announced my immediate, or, as one might say, approximate intention of committing suicide by the simple expedient of first putting arsenic into a cup of tea and then drinking the tea. I shall send Edward for the tea, and I shall put the arsenic into it, under his very nose. And Edward will be thinking of beetles, and will not see me do it. I am prepared to bet my bottom dollar that he does not see me do it. Edward's letter, of which I enclose a copy, is the sort of letter which one shows to coroners, and jurymen, and legal advisers. Of course things may not have gone as far as that, but, on the other hand, they may. There are evil-minded persons who may have suspected Edward of having hastened my departure to a better world. You may even have suspected him yourself, in which case, of course, my dear David, this letter will be affording you a good deal of pleasurable relief.” David clenched his hand and read on. “Edward's letter is for the coroner. It should arrive about a fortnight after my death, if my valued correspondent, William Giles, of New York, does as I have asked him. This letter is for you. Between ourselves, then, it was that possible three years of yours that decided me. I could n't stand it. I don't believe in another world, and I 'm damned if I 'll put in three years' hell in this one. Do you remember old Madden? I do, and I 'm not going to hang on like that, not to please any one, nor I 'm not going to be cut up in sections either. So now you know all about it. I 've just sent Edward for the tea. Poor Edward, it will hurt his feelings very much to be suspected of polishing me off. By the way, David, as a sort of last word-you 're no end of a damn fool-why don't you marry the right woman instead of wasting your time hankering after the wrong one? That 's all. Here 's luck.
“Yours.
“E.M.M.”
David read the letter straight through without any change of expression. When he came to the end he folded the sheets neatly, put them back in the envelope, and locked the envelope away in a drawer. Then his face changed suddenly. First, a great rush of colour came into it, and then every feature altered under an access of blind and ungovernable anger. He pushed back his chair and sprang up, but the impetus which had carried him to his feet appeared to receive some extraordinary check. His movement had been a very violent one, but all at once it passed into rigidity. He stood with every muscle tense, and made neither sound nor movement. Slowly the colour died out of his face. Then he took a step backwards and dropped again into the chair. His eyes were fixed upon the strip of carpet which lay between him and the writing-table. A small, twisted scrap of paper was lying there. David Blake looked hard at the paper, but he did not see it. What he saw was another torn and twisted thing.
A man's professional honour is a very delicate thing. David had never held his lightly. If he had violated it, he had done so because there were great things in the balance. Mary's happiness, Mary's future, Mary's life. He had betrayed a trust because Mary asked it of him and because there was so much in the balance. And it had all been illusion. There had been no risk-no danger. Nothing but an old man's last and cruelest dupe. A furious anger surged in him. For nothing, it was all for nothing. He had wrenched himself for nothing, forfeited his self-respect for nothing, sold his honour for nothing. Mary had bidden him, and he had done her bidding, and it was all for nothing. A little bleak sunlight came in at the window and showed the worn patches upon the carpet. David could remember that old brown carpet for as long as he could remember anything. It had been in his father's consulting room. The writing-table had been there too. The room was full of memories of William Blake. Old familiar words and looks came back to David as he sat there. He remembered many little things, and, as he remembered, he despised himself very bitterly. As the moments passed, so his self-contempt grew, until it became unbearable. He rose, pushing his chair so that it fell over with a crash, and went into the dining-room.
Half an hour later Sarah put her head round the corner of the door and announced, “Mr. Edward Mottisfont in the consulting room, sir.” David Blake was sitting at the round table with a decanter in front of him. He got up with a short laugh and went to Edward.
Edward presented a ruffled but resigned appearance. He was agitated, but beneath the agitation there was plainly evident a trace of melancholy triumph.
“I 've had a letter,” he began. David stood facing him.
“So have I,” he said.
Edward's wave of the hand dismissed as irrelevant all letters except his own. “But mine-mine was from my uncle,” he exclaimed.
“Exactly. He was obliging enough to send me a copy.”
“You-you know,” said Edward. then he searched his pockets, and ultimately produced a folded letter.
“You 've had a letter like this? He 's told you? You know?”
“That he 's played us the dirtiest trick on record? Yes, thanks, Edward, I 've been enjoying the knowledge for the best part of an hour.”
Edward shook his head.
“Of course he was mad,” he said. “I have often wondered if he was quite responsible. He used to say such extraordinary things. If you remember, I asked you about it once, and you laughed at me. But now, of course, there is no doubt about it. His brain had become affected.”
David's lip twitched a little.
“Mad? Oh, no, you need n't flatter yourself, he was n't mad. I only hope my wits may last as well. He was n't mad, but he 's made the biggest fools of the lot of us-the biggest fools. Oh, Lord!-how he 'd have laughed. He set the stage, and called the cast, and who so ready as we? First Murderer-Edward Mottisfont; Chief Mourner-Mary, his wife; and Tom Fool, beyond all other Tom Fools, David Blake, M.D. My Lord, he never said a truer word than when he wrote me down a damn fool!”
David ended on a note of concentrated bitterness, and Edward stared at him.
“I would much rather believe he was out of his mind,” he said uncomfortably. “And he is dead-after all, he 's dead.”
“Yes,” said David grimly, “he 's dead.”
“And thanks to you,” continued Edward, “there has been no scandal-or publicity. It would really have been dreadful if it had all come out. Most-most unpleasant. I know you did n't wish me to say anything.”
Edward began to rumple his hair wildly. “Mary told me, and of course I know it 's beastly to be thanked, and all that, but I can't help saying that-in fact-I am awfully grateful. And I 'm awfully thankful that the matter has been cleared up so satisfactorily. If we had n't got this letter, well-I don't like to say such a thing-but any one of us might have come to suspect the other. It does n't sound quite right to say it,” pursued Edward apologetically, “but it might have happened. You might have suspected me-oh, I don't mean really-I am only supposing, you know-or I might have suspected you. And now it 's all cleared up, and no harm done, and as to my poor old uncle, he was mad. People who commit suicide are always mad. Every one knows that.”
“Oh, have it your own way,” said David Blake. “He was mad, and now everything is comfortably arranged, and we can all settle down with nothing on our minds, and live happily ever after.”
There was a savage sarcasm in his voice, which he did not trouble to conceal.