XXV

It is not my intention, and I am sure it is not your wish, that I should give all the
details leading up to the inevitable inquest which followed the discoveries of the
physicians and the action of the police.
In the first place my pride, possibly my self-respect held me back from any open
attempt to acquaint myself with them. My interview with the Inspector of which I
have just made mention, added much to his knowledge but very little to mine. To his
questions I gave replies as truthful as they were terse. When I could, I confined myself
to facts and never obtruded sentiment unless pressed as it were to the wall. He was
calm, reasonable and not without consideration; but he got everything from me that he
really wanted and at times forced me to lay my soul bare. In return, I caught, as I
thought, faint glimmers now and then of how the mind of the police was working,
only to find myself very soon in a fog where I could see nothing distinctly. When he
left, the strongest impression which remained with me was that in the terrible hours I
saw before me my greatest need would be courage and my best weapon under attack
the truth as I knew it. In this conclusion I rested.
But not without a feeling which was as new to me as it was disturbing. I could not
leave my room without sensing that somewhere, unseen and unheard, there lingered a
presence from whose watchfulness I could not hope to escape. If in passing towards
the main hall, I paused at the little circular staircase outside my door for one look
down at the marble-floored pavement beneath, it was with [Pg 134] the consciousness
that an ear was somewhere near which recognized the cessation of my steps and
waited to hear them recommence.
So in the big halls. Every door was closed, so slight the movement, so unfrequent any
passing to and fro in the great house during the two days which elapsed before the
funeral. But to heave a sigh or show in any way the character or trend of my emotions
was just as impossible to me as though the walls were lined with spectators and every
blank panel I passed was a sounding-board to some listener beyond.
Once only did I allow myself the freedom natural to a mourner in the house of the
dead. Undeterred by an imaginary or even an actual encounter with unsympathetic
servant or interested police operative, I left my room on the second day and went
below; my goal, the court, my purpose, to stand once more by the remains of all that
was left to me of my great-hearted uncle.
If I met any one on the way I have no memory of it. Had Orpha flitted by, or Edgar
stumbled upon me at the turn of a corner, I might have stayed my step for an instant in
outward deference to a grief which I recognized though I was not supposed to share it.
But of others I took no account nor do I think I so much as lifted my eyes or glanced
to right or left, when having crossed the tessellated pavement of the court, I paused by
the huge mound of flowers beneath which lay what I sought, and thrusting my hand
among these tokens of love and respect till I touched the wood beneath, swore that
whatever the future held for me of shame or its reverse, I would act according to what
I believed to be the will of him now dead but who for me was still a living entity.
This done I returned as I had come, only with a lighter step, for some portion of the
peace for which I longed had[Pg 135] fallen upon me with the utterance of that solemn
promise.
I shall give but one incident in connection with the funeral. To my amazement I was
allotted a seat in the carriage with Edgar. Orpha rode with some relatives of her
mother—people I had never seen.
Though there was every chance for Edgar and myself to talk, nothing more than a nod
passed between us. It was better so; I was glad to be left to my own thoughts. In the
church I noted no one; but at the grave I became aware of an influence which caused
me to turn my head a trifle aside and meet the steady look of a middle-aged man who
was contemplating me very gravely.
Taking in his lineaments with a steady look of my own, I waited till I had the
opportunity to point him out to one of the undertaker’s men when I learned that he
was a well-known lawyer by the name of Jackson, and instantly became assured that
he was no other than the man who had drawn up the second will—the will which I
had been led to believe was strongly in my favor.
As his interest in me was to all appearance of a kindly sort untinged by suspicion, I
felt that perhaps the odds after all, were not so greatly against me. Here was a man
ready to help me, and should I need a friend, Providence had certainly shown me in
what direction to look.
That night I slept the best of any night since the shock which had unhinged the nerves
of every one in the house. I had ascertained that the full name of the lawyer who had
been instrumental in drawing up the second will was Frederick W. Jackson, and while
uttering this name more than once to myself, I fell into a dreamless slumber.