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 “Lady Jane did not explain. She called me in, told me I could not remain, and that she wished me to depart at once. I could not quit the house without telling you, Lord Oakburn, and—and—if you please—giving you my address. I shall go to my father’s.”

“Shiver my timbers if you shall go out of my house in this way!” stormed the earl, striking his stick on the table. “My Lady Jane’s a cool hand when she chooses, I know; but you have a right to proper warning.”

Miss Lethwait extended her hand, and exhibited the money in its palm.

“Lady Jane has not forgotten to give me the warning’s substitute,” she said, with a proud, bitter smile.

“Then hark you, my dear! I am the house’s master, and I’ll let my lady know that I am. You shall not”

“Stay, Lord Oakburn—I beg your pardon,” she interrupted. I could not remain in the house in defiance of Lady Jane. You have not thought, perhaps, how impossible it would be for one in my subordinate capacity to enter the lists of opposition against her. Indeed it could not be.”

Lord Oakburn growled. But he made no answer. Possibly the good sense of the argument was forcing itself upon him.

“You belong to me now,” he presently said. “I won’t have you turned out like this.”

“I shall be happier at home,” she resumed. “In any case, I must have left shortly, if—if—I mean,” she broke off, stammering and hesitating, for she did not like openly to allude to her new prospects until they were more assured “I must have left your roof before”

“Before you’re-enter it as my wife,” interposed the earl, calming down. “Be it so. I don’t know but you are right. And when you do enter it, it will be your turn, you know, to cock-pit it over my Lady Jane.”

Miss Lethwait felt that Lady Jane was not one to allow her or anybody else to “cock-pit” it over her; and a dark shade seemed to rise up in her mind and shadow forth a troubled future. A question from Lord Oakburn interrupted its gloom.

“When shall you be ready?”

“In an hour’s time,” she answered. “I have not much luggage to put up.”

“Not for leaving here,” cried the earl, correcting her mistake somewhat hotly. “When shall you be ready for the splicing?”

“For the splicing?” she faltered.

“For the marriage. Don’t you understand? In a week?”

“Oh, Lord Oakham! Putting other and weightier considerations aside, I could not be ready in a week.”

“What are the weighty considerations?”

The—the seemliness—the fitness of things,” she answered, growing rather nervous. “My preparations would take me some weeks, Lord Oakburn.”

“Preparations take some weeks!” echoed the earl, opening his eyes in astonishment. “What, for a wedding? I never heard of such a thing. Why, I could fit out my sea-chest in a day for a three-years’ cruise! What d’ye mean, Miss Lethwait?”

Miss Lethwait did not feel equal to disputing the outfitting point with him. All that could be settled later. She gave him her father’s address at his country vicarage, Twifford; and Lord Oakburn told her he should be at it almost as soon as she was.

“Then, now that I have told you, will hasten my departure,” she said, turning to put aside the velvet curtain for her exit. “Lady Jane will not be pleased if I linger. Fare you well, Lord Oakburn.”

“Yes, I suppose it’s better that you should go,” acquiesced the earl. “I don’t mean to tell her, you see, until it’s done and over. Just come close, my dear.”

She went up to him. She supposed he had something particular to say to her; some direction to tender.

“Just give me a kiss.”

The gallant peer had not risen, and she would have to stoop to his up-turned face. It was certainly reversing the general order of such things. For a single moment her whole spirit rose up in rebellion; the next, she had bent her face passively to his.

With his single kiss upon her lips, with the red blood dyeing her brow, with a choking sob of emotion, she went from his presence and ascended to her chamber. Lucy ran out from the adjoining one ere she could enter it. The child, who had grown fond of her governess in spite of the dreadful German exercises, threw her arms round her.

“Oh, was it not a charming party! I wish we could have one every night! And how good you are, Miss Lethwait, to give me holiday to-day. What are you going to do?”

“Lucy, dear, the holiday is not of my giving. I am going from you. I am not to teach you any longer. I shall have departed in an hour’s time.”

“What’s that for?” exclaimed Lucy, in very astonishment.

And then, and not until then, did it recur to Miss Lethwait’s remembrance that Lady Jane had desired her not to see Lucy before she left. The request had brought its sting to Miss Lethwait: had her ladyship feared she would contaminate the child?—but she had


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 baby, while its father, in an opposite arm-chair, tried vainly to quieten the other with bread soaked in milk.

Mrs. Barton knew manners too well to do any thing but sit at the tea-table and make tea, though in her heart she longed to be able to superintend the frying of the ham, and cast many an anxious look at Mary as she broke the eggs and turned the ham, with a very comfortable portion of confidence in her own culinary powers. Jem stood awkwardly leaning against the dresser, replying rather gruffly to his aunt's speeches, which gave him, he thought, the air of being a little boy; whereas he considered himself as a young man, and not so very young neither, as in two months he would be eighteen. Barton vibrated between the fire and the tea-table, his only drawback being a fancy that every now and then his wife's face flushed and contracted as if in pain.

At length the business actually began. Knives and forks, cups and saucers made a noise, but human voices were still, for human beings were hungry, and had no time to speak. Alice first broke silence; holding her tea-cup with the manner of one proposing a toast, she said, "Here's to absent friends. Friends may meet, but mountains never."

It was an unlucky toast or sentiment, as she instantly felt. Every one thought of Esther, the absent Esther; and Mrs. Barton put down her food, and could not hide the fast dropping tears. Alice could have bitten her tongue out.

It was a wet blanket to the evening; for though all

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


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 had been said and suggested in the fields that could be said or suggested, every one had a wish to say something in the way of comfort to poor Mrs. Barton, and a dislike to talk about any thing else while her tears fell fast and scalding. So George Wilson, his wife and children, set off early home, not before (in spite of mal-à-propos speeches) they had expressed a wish that such meetings might often take place, and not before John Barton had given his hearty consent; and declared that as soon as ever his wife was well again they would have just such another evening.

"I will take care not to come and spoil it," thought poor Alice; and going up to Mrs. Barton she took her hand almost humbly, and said, "You don't know how sorry I am I said it."

To her surprise, a surprise that brought tears of joy into her eyes, Mary Barton put her arms round her neck, and kissed the self-reproaching Alice. "You didn't mean any harm, and it was me as was so foolish; only this work about Esther, and not knowing where she is, lies so heavy on my heart. Good night, and never think no more about it. God bless you, Alice."

Many and many a time, as Alice reviewed that evening in her after life, did she bless Mary Barton for these kind and thoughtful words. But just then all she could say was, "Good night, Mary, and may God bless you ."


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Page:Social Dancing of To-day (1914) Kinney.djvu/37

Rh Second bar: The space between the last place of the right foot in the first bar and its place in "I" in the second bar, does not represent proportionate progress across the floor; the steps of the three bars are diagrammed consecutively, to avoid the confusion of superimposed lines. On count "1" of the second bar, advance the right foot from its raised posterior position to anterior fifth position. Fill in the count of "2" with a slow advance of the left foot to fourth position, which it reaches on count "3"; upon which it receives the weight, the right foot simultaneously being raised from the floor in posterior fourth position on count "4."

Third bar: On "I," plant the right foot in posterior fourth position and slowly sink the weight back on it; on "2," glide the left foot back slowly (3) to reach third position on count "4."

The figure is executed in open position of the couple. Its manner is smooth, without dips. It is usually repeated several times in succession.

8. : a turn en arabesque.

The man crosses the right foot in front of the left, and transfers his weight to it (i. e., the right foot).


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In the middle of that same night a neighbour of the Bartons was roused from her sound, well-earned sleep, by a knocking, which had at first made part of her dream; but starting up, as soon as she became convinced of its reality, she opened the window, and asked who was there?

"Me, John Barton," answered he, in a voice tremulous with agitation." My missis is in labour, and, for the love of God, step in while I run for th' doctor, for she's fearful bad."

While the woman hastily dressed herself, leaving the window still open, she heard cries of agony, which resounded in the little court in the stillness of the night. In less than five minutes she was standing by Mrs. Barton's bed-side, relieving the terrified Mary, who went about, where she was told, like an automaton; her eyes tearless, her face calm, though deadly pale, and


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 uttering no sound, except when her teeth chattered for very nervousness.

The cries grew worse.

The doctor was very long in hearing the repeated rings at his night-bell, and still longer in understanding who it was that made this sudden call upon his services; and then he begged Barton just to wait while he dressed himself, in order that no time might be lost in finding the court and house. Barton absolutely stamped with impatience, outside the doctor's door, before he came down; and walked so fast homewards, that the medical man several times asked him to go slower.

"Is she so very bad?" asked he.

"Worse, much worser than ever I saw her before," replied John.

No! she was not—she was at peace. The cries were still for ever. John had no time for listening. He opened the latched door, stayed not to light a candle for the mere ceremony of showing his companion up the stairs, so well known to himself; but, in two minutes was in the room, where lay the dead wife, whom he had loved with all the power of his strong heart. The doctor stumbled up stairs by the fire-light, and met the awe-struck look of the neighbour, which at once told him the state of things. The room was still, as he, with habitual tip-toe step, approached the poor frail body, whom nothing now could more disturb. Her daughter knelt by the bed-side, her face buried in the clothes, which were almost crammed into her mouth, to keep down the choking sobs. The husband stood like one stupified. The doctor questioned


text:
Author:Valma Clark

Works

 * "Candlelight Inn" in Scribner's Magazine (Nov. 1926)
 * "Class" in Scribner's Magazine (Dec. 1927)
 * "Candlelight Inn" in Scribner's Magazine (Nov. 1926)
 * "Class" in Scribner's Magazine (Dec. 1927)

title: Author:Valma Clark


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Page:Mary Barton - 1848 - Volume 1.djvu/43

 the neighbour in whispers, and then approaching Barton, said, "You must go down stairs. This is a great shock, but bear it like a man. Go down."

He went mechanically and sat down on the first chair. He had no hope. The look of death was too clear upon her face. Still, when he heard one or two unusual noises, the thought burst on him that it might only be a trance, a fit, a—he did not well know what,—but not death! Oh, not death! And he was starting up to go up stairs again, when the doctor's heavy cautious creaking footstep was heard on the stairs. Then he knew what it really was in the chamber above.

"Nothing could have saved her—there has been some shock to the system—" and so he went on; but, to unheeding ears, which yet retained his words to ponder on; words not for immediate use in conveying sense, but to be laid by, in the store-house of memory, for a more convenient season. The doctor seeing the state of the case, grieved for the man; and, very sleepy, thought it best to go, and accordingly wished him good-night—but there was no answer, so he let himself out; and Barton sat on, like a stock or a stone, so rigid, so still. He heard the sounds above too, and knew what they meant. He heard the stiff, unseasoned drawer, in which his wife kept her clothes, pulled open. He saw the neighbour come down, and blunder about in search of soap and water. He knew well what she wanted, and why she wanted them, but he did not speak, nor offer to help. At last she went, with some kindly-meant words (a text of comfort, which fell upon a


text:
Author talk:Valma Clark

About
https://tellersofweirdtales.blogspot.com/2014/10/valma-clark-1894-1953.html says 1984 to 1953-- Beardo (talk) 17:54, 12 October 2023 (UTC)

title: Author talk:Valma Clark


text:
Author:Robert Routeledge

Works

 * "The Three Low Masses" (as translator)

title: Author:Robert Routeledge


text: The Man Inside (Smith's Magazine serial)


text: Talk:The Man Inside (Smith's Magazine serial)


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Page:Korean Romanization.pdf/21

{|style="width:100%"|
 * style="width:50%"|
 * style="width:50%"|
 * 그녀 의 웃는 모습 이
 * Kŭnyŏ ŭi unnŭn mosŭp i arŭmdapta
 * colspan=2|
 * 의지 가
 * Ŭiji ka kanghago kutseda
 * colspan=2|
 * 가을 하늘
 * Nopp’urŭn kaŭl hanŭl
 * colspan=2|
 * 쏭바강
 * Mŏnamŏn Ssongbagang
 * colspan=2|
 * }
 * colspan=2|
 * 쏭바강
 * Mŏnamŏn Ssongbagang
 * colspan=2|
 * }
 * colspan=2|
 * }
 * }

(b) Separate a noun from a compound adjective without doing harm to the original meaning.

title: Page:Korean Romanization.pdf/21


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Page:Korean Romanization.pdf/22

Write a simple inflection of the adjective form together with single syllable noun it modifies

3. Adnominal adjectives (관형사)

Guidelines

(a) Separate an adnominal adjective from other parts of speech.

title: Page:Korean Romanization.pdf/22


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Page:Korean Romanization.pdf/23

{|style="width:100%"|
 * style="width:50%"|
 * style="width:50%"|
 * colspan=2|
 * }
 * }

(b) Separate a single syllable native Korean or Sino-Korean adnominal adjective from the word it modifies. However, if a word is firmly established in common usage, prefer to treat it as a single lexical unit.

 * 새 : 새 책, 새 집, but 새해, 새색시, etc.

헌 : 헌 집, 헌 옷, but 헌신짝, etc.

뭇 : 뭇 백성, 뭇 나라, but 뭇매, etc.

온: 온 나라, but 온종일, etc.

맨: 맨 처음, 맨 나중, 맨 끝, but 맨주먹, 맨잎, 맨손, etc.

옛: 옛 자취, 옛 추억, 옛 친구, 옛 모습, but 옛이야기, 옛사랑, 옛동산, etc.

순 (純): 순 한국어, 순 우리 말, 순 거짓말, 순 엉터리, 순 보리밥 but 순이익, 순종, 순금, 순모, etc.

귀 (貴): 귀 회사, 귀 기관, but 귀공자, 귀금속, 귀부인, etc.

제 (諸): 제 문제, 제 비용, but 제군, etc.

각 (各): 각 가정, 각 학교, 각 지방, but 각국, 각자, etc.

매 (每): 매 회계 년도, but 每時間

별 (別): 별 해괴한 소리, but 別天地

본 (本): 본 한글 맞춤법, but 本會議

전 (全): 전 어린이들 을 동원, but 全速力

전 (前): 전 어머니회 회장, but 前男便

When in doubt, consult the suggested dictionaries

(c) Write a compound adnominal adjective as one word.
 * 온갖, 몇몇, 긴긴, 몹쓸

title: Page:Korean Romanization.pdf/23


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Page:Adam's reports on vernacular education in Bengal and Behar, submitted to Government in 1835, 1836 and 1838.djvu/155

Rh The school at (No. 34) affords a good specimen of the mode in which a small native community unite to support a school. At that place there are four families of Chaudhuris, the principal persons in the village; but they are not so wealthy as to be able to support a teacher for their children without the co-operation of others. They give the teacher an apartment in which his scholars may meet, one of the outer apartments of their own house in which business is sometimes transacted, and at other times worship performed and strangers entertained. One of those families further pays four annas a month, a second an equal sum, a third eight annas, and a fourth twelve annas, which include the whole of their disbursements on this account, no presents or perquisites of any kind being received from them, and for the sums mentioned their five children receive a Bengali education. The amount thus obtained, however, is not sufficient for the support of the teacher, and he, therefore, receives other scholars belonging to other families—of whom one gives one anna, another gives three annas, and five give each four annas a month, to which they add voluntary presents amounting per month to about four annas, and consisting of vegetables, rice, fish, and occasionally a piece of cloth, such as a handkerchief or an upper or under garment. Five boys of Kagbariya, the children of two families, attend the Dharail school, the distance being about a mile, which, in the rainy season, can be travelled only by water. Of the five, two belonging to one family give together two annas, and the three others belonging to the other family give together four annas a month, and thus the whole income of the master is made up. This case shows by what pinched and stinted contributions the class just below the wealthy and the class just above the indigent unite to support a school; and it constitutes a proof of the very limited means of those who are anxious to give a Bengali education to their children, and of the sacrifices which they make to accomplish that object.

I have spoken of the emoluments of the teachers as low; but I would be understood to mean that they are low, not in comparison with their qualifications, or with the general rates of similar labor in the district, but with those emoluments to which competent men might be justly considered entitled. The humble character of the men, and the humble character of the service they render, may be judged from the fact already stated, that some of them go about from house to house to receive their daily food. All, however, should not be estimated by this standard; and perhaps a generally correct opinion of their relative position in society may be formed by comparing them with those persons who have nearly similar duties to perform in other occupations of life, or whose duties the teachers of the common schools could probably in most instances perform if they were called on to do so. Such, for instance, are the


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The Terriford Mystery/Chapter 4

OOR Emily Garlett's funeral took place on a beautiful bright spring morning. The broad sunny street of Terriford was filled with motors and carriages, and quite a concourse of people had come out from Grendon, as well as from the surrounding villages, to testify their respect for popular Harry Garlett, both as famous cricketer and as a generous employer of labour.

Every one saw him, for he followed his wife's coffin on foot. So also did the various other people closely concerned with the departed lady.

Agatha Cheale was ashen pale, but looked very attractive in her close, nunlike bonnet and severely plain black dress. The few who knew him noticed that Miss Cheale's brother was not there; but Mrs. Warren could have told them that her lodger had left the farm two days ago, so recovered in health, so blithesome, so merry, that, though still unnaturally thin, he was scarcely the same man as the pale, coughing, queer, and clever gentleman who had come to her last February.

Dr. and Mrs. Maclean, accompanied by their niece, walked a little apart from Miss Prince and Miss Cheale. Lucy was not with the group of servants all clad in handsome black at their master's expense. She had left the Thatched House the afternoon after Mrs. Garlett's death, and to-day she had elected to stay at home to mind the farm. This had enabled Mrs. Warren to be present at the funeral, leaning on the arm of her brother, Enoch Bent, head clerk of Mr. Toogood the lawyer.

Little by little the mourners all passed through the lychgate into the ancient churchyard. The rector had a good voice, and tears rose to many eyes as he read the noble, solemn words of the burial service.

It was remembered afterward that Harry Garlett, though he looked sad, was absolutely composed. When the burial was over he lingered for a few minutes talking to the rector, doubtless in the hope that the crowd would disperse. Then he quietly walked down the short, broad village street, and so through into the beautiful garden of the house which somehow he had never quite regarded as his property, if only because it was there that he had first known his wife, and where, as people sometimes unkindly put it, he had “hung up his hat” when he married, instead of taking his bride to a new home.

It is fortunate indeed that men and women cannot read each other's thoughts, for, truth to tell, during the whole of his wife's funeral service, Harry Garlett's mind had been most uncomfortably full of another woman.

To this woman, none other than Agatha Cheale, he had written a formal note that morning saying he would like to see her after the funeral for a few minutes. And now he wondered whether she expected him to go to Miss Prince's house, where she had been staying the last few days, or whether he would find her waiting for him in the Thatched House in the room which, till his wife's death, had been known as “Miss Cheale's room.”

He went into the empty hall, took off his hat, but still wearing his great coat, hurried down the passage. Then, after a moment's pause, he knocked at the door.

A quiet voice said “Come in,” and as he entered the room he saw Agatha Cheale standing by the empty fireplace. All the little intimate possessions which cause a room to be associated with one personality had been cleared away. Already his late wife's companion looked, as well as felt, a stranger in this house where she had spent so secretly dramatic, while so openly calm, a year of her life.

And now she gazed with sunken, burning eyes at the man who stood before her. How well he looked, how young, how strong!—his life, which in the last few days she had come to realize would never be shared by her, open before him. Deep in her unhappy, tormented heart there had survived up to to-day a glimmer of hope. True, he had obviously avoided her during the last few days, but might not that be owing to his undoubted affection, or rather respect, for his late wife? Now that faint glimmer of hope died as she gazed into his set, almost stern, face.

There welled up in her heart a terrible tide of that acrid bitterness which is born of thwarted love and ambition. But being a brave as well as a proud woman, she only said: “I'm glad it was such a fine day—that makes such a difference to a funeral.” And he answered eagerly: “Yes, indeed!” grateful for her commonplace words.

With an obvious effort, he exclaimed: “I want to tell you how grateful I feel for all you did for my poor wife. Your being here has made all the difference this last year.”

She said nothing, and, speaking more quickly, he went on: “I have to thank you for myself, as well as for poor Emily. It was such an infinite comfort, each time I went away, to feel that I was leaving my wife with someone I could trust, as I knew I could trust you.”

He waited a moment, and as she still remained silent while looking at him with a terrible fixed look of—was it reproach?—he took an envelope out of his pocket.

“I have made up the enclosed cheque,” he said awkwardly, “to the end of the year. I am glad to say Emily left you a thousand pounds. So I do hope you'll manage to get a good rest before you start work again. From something Miss Prince said the other day, I gather you're taking a post connected with some kind of Russian business house.”

“Yes,” she said quietly, “they were the people I was with before I came here, and they've often asked me to come back. It's interesting work, and I'm in general sympathy with their objects.”

“Bolshevik objects?” he suggested with a half smile, and without meaning what he said. But she, without a glimmer of an answering smile, replied: “Yes, Bolshevik objects.”

A look of bewilderment came over his open face.

“I had no idea that you and your brother shared that sort of views!” he exclaimed, “deep as I know is your attachment for him.”

“We agree as to politics,” she answered, as if the words were being forced out of her.

And then at last, almost as if reluctantly, she took the envelope from his hand.

“Thank you for this,” she said coldly, “and for telling me of Mrs. Garlett's unexpected thought for me. I do not want a holiday, but now I may be able to send my brother abroad this next winter, if he lives as long.”

“I was coming to that,” said Harry Garlett quickly. “I'm going away for a long holiday—certainly till Christmas, perhaps longer. But I'm keeping the household here together, and I've been wondering whether your brother would come and stay at the Thatched House as my guest, at any rate through the summer.”

She shook her head.

“I think I ought to tell you, Mr. Garlett, that his coming here is out of the question. I'm afraid, nay, I'm certain, that he was the man Lucy Warren let into the drawing room that night”

A look of anger and disgust flashed into his face. So she had succeeded in rousing him at last?

She sighed, a weary, listless sigh.

“As I think I told you long ago, my brother's one real interest in life is what he calls 'falling in love'—and always with some entirely unsuitable person.”

Harry Garlett softened; he remembered very well his surprise when she had first told him about the unprincipled sickly brother whom she yet loved so dearly, and of whom she was, in a sense, proud.

“I feel grieved,” he said feelingly, “that you have this real anxiety always with you; I wish I could help you with it.”

“No one can help me with it. I knew he was bound to get into a scrape with some woman here.”

“What an extraordinary way to go on!”

“Extraordinary to you, no doubt. But you are a Galahad, Mr. Garlett.”

Her words were like the lash of a whip: he grew red under his tan, and looking at her straight for the first time during this, to him, most trying conversation, “I'm a very ordinary chap,” he said deliberately.

Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Harry Garlett turned and looked unseeingly out of the window. He was longing for the uncomfortable interview to end, and it was with relief that he heard her say:

“I must be going back to the Thatched Cottage now. Good-bye, Mr. Garlett, and thank you for all your kindness.”

“Good-bye and good luck!”

He tried to wring her hand, but it felt like a lump of dead, cold flesh.

All at once the door opened behind them. “Agatha? Oh, here you are!”

It was Miss Prince.

“I beg your pardon,” she exclaimed, glancing sharply from the one to the other.

“We were just saying good-bye,” said Harry Garlett quickly. “And I'll bid you good-bye, too, Miss Prince, for I'm going away this afternoon, and I don't expect to be back this side of Christmas.”

“Good gracious, man! Are you going round the world?”

“I haven't made up my mind what I'm going to do.”

“And who will look after the factory?”

“Dodson and Miss Bower. Come, Miss Prince”—his look challenged her—“you've never credited me with doing much of the work there, eh?”

title: The Terriford Mystery/Chapter 4


text:
The Terriford Mystery/Chapter 5

ARRY GARLETT was lying on the bank of a Norwegian fjord. It was a beautiful warm September day. He felt well in soul and body, and intended to give himself three more months' good holiday.

With just a touch of reluctance he opened a packet of letters which had followed him to this remote, delicious place. Old Dodson's letter, doubtless a brief dictated summary of what had been happening at the factory, was, as usual, addressed in the girlish handwriting of Jean Bower.

The sight of that handwriting made his thoughts stray for a while to the place which he still called “home.” He was indeed a lucky chap to have such a steady old soul as Dodson, and such a thoroughly nice, sensible young woman as was Jean Bower, looking after the business from which he drew part of his large income.

He opened the envelope and then, as he read the typewritten sheet, his face clouded with deep and even deeper dismay.

He got up from where he had been lying so luxuriously in the long grass, feeling as if he hadn't a care in the world. There was evidently nothing for it but to go home and face out a difficult and disagreeable situation. And yet he felt sharply annoyed with Jean Bower. No doubt she was exaggerating as to old Dodson's condition. But there it was; he couldn't neglect such a letter as that! He told himself that he had been a fool to leave a girl in so responsible a position.

This was why his friends and neighbours welcomed Harry Garlett back in their midst full three months before he had been expected home.

In such a place as Grendon everybody is interested in every other body's business. As soon as he had come back Harry Garlett had sent off Jean Bower for a short holiday, and soon, to his mingled amusement and annoyance, he found he could hardly take a step down the High Street without some good-natured gossip telling him how splendidly the girl had managed poor crazy old Dodson! Even his head foreman seemed quite lost without her, and, as a matter of fact, things didn't begin going right again till she came back, and in her quiet and diffident, yet competent, way, began to “put him wise” with regard to all those matters which Dodson had always tried to keep jealously in his own hands.

And then, as the days went on, Harry Garlett began to find himself taking a keen, even an excited, interest in his work. The business which had meant little to him in the old days now gripped and absorbed him, or so he honestly thought, to the exclusion of all else.

Times were bad, every one in the country economizing, going in more and more for the cheap, rather than for the good, and the china made in the Etna works had never been cheap, though always good. And soon it became known in the town that Harry Garlett was trying to prove what even now few people believe—that is, that homely, everyday objects can be cheap and beautiful at the same time.

Never had time gone by so quickly as with these two eager workers! In the old days time had hung sometimes very heavily on Harry Garlett's hands during the late autumn and winter months. But now he found there were not hours enough for all he wanted to do.

With the brain side of the business increasing at the rate it was doing, it became necessary to engage a new shorthand writer, and at the suggestion of Jean Bower, the daughter of a local solicitor killed in the war was given the coveted post. This was considered a kindly and generous act on Miss Bower's part. Most young women in the position in which she found herself would not have cared to have an other girl, younger, most people would have said prettier, than herself, sharing her secretarial position.

But, as a matter of fact, Jean no longer took down letters. Almost at once, though neither she nor Harry Garlett realized it, she had slipped into the position of a partner. They were a happy family at the Etna China works. “All jolly and friendly together,” as the head foreman expressed it.

And then, late in November, a word was uttered which changed, for ever, both their lives.

It was Sunday evening, and Harry Garlett was on his way to supper at Bonnie Doon. He went out often to dinner, having a large circle of acquaintances, but he generally had supper with the Macleans on Sunday, and as it was with him a dull, solitary day he used to look forward very eagerly to the evening. Since his return home, on the pretext that he was still in mourning, he no longer accepted invitations for week-end visits.

To-night, as he passed the Thatched Cottage, Miss Prince came running out of her door; it was almost as if she had been waiting for him.

“Harry!” she exclaimed. “May I walk a few yards with you? I want to ask you a favour.” Inconsequently, she added: “Your wife and I were lifelong friends, you know.”

She began walking along the road by his side, anxious to be quite out of earshot of her maid, who, by the way, was Lucy Warren. Lucy had always been a favourite of Miss Prince, and, to Agatha Cheale's indignation, after the girl's dismissal from the Thatched House, she had at once taken her back into her own service.

“Well, Miss Prince, what can I do for you?”

Harry Garlett never felt quite at ease with the gossiping spinster. They had once, years ago, had a real quarrel. He had caught her trying to make mischief between himself and his wife, and though they had formally “made it up” neither really liked the other.

“If and when Jean Bower gives up her job at the Etna works, I do beg you, Harry, to offer the position to Agatha Cheale.”

“Agatha Cheale?” Harry Garlett repeated the name mechanically.

His whole mind, aye, and his whole heart, were full of the first words she had spoken—“If and when Jean Bower gives up her job”

“Have you any reason for thinking that Miss Bower is going to give up her position?”

He felt—he could not see, for it was dark—that Miss Prince smiled. It was a smile he knew and had always hated, for it generally presaged on her part the saying of something spiteful and unpleasant. But, whatever it was she was about to say, she now seemed in no hurry to say it.

“Well,” she said at last, “you go to the Macleans so often I should have thought you must have guessed what's in the wind?”

It was not true that he went often to Bonnie Doon. As a matter of fact he had a curious distaste in seeing Jean Bower in the company of her uncle and aunt, for the reason that they two had now many interests in common that they could not share with outsiders—however kind those outsiders might be.

“In the wind, Miss Prince? I don't understand what you mean.”

“If you were living where I live, on the road, you'd notice how often Dr. Tasker goes in and out of Bonnie Doon. Why, it's as good as a play! There was a time when the man would hardly put his foot in Terriford village. We were supposed to belong to Dr. Maclean—and we did, too. There wasn't much love lost between them before Miss Jean came along—but now they're kissing kind! I'm expecting to hear of Jean's engagement to Dr. Tasker any day.”

Harry Garlett fenced with his tormentor. “I now see your point about Miss Cheale,” he said quietly, “but I doubt if she would give up her work in London.”

“She gave it up before to please you.” Her tone was significant, though he could not see her meaning look. She added hastily:

“Agatha is devoted to this place, and so I thought I would take time by the forelock. Once it's known that Jean Bower is leaving the factory, there'll be plenty of people anxious to work their idle, silly daughters into her pleasant job. If you are wise, Harry Garlett, you will bear Agatha Cheale in mind.”

“I will, indeed, Miss Prince. Thank you for mentioning her.”

Miss Prince turned back toward her house, while Harry Garlett walked on, in a turmoil of astonishment and, yes, of bitter, intolerable jealousy.

Jean Bower and that red-haired brute, Tasker? Why, the mere thought of their names being associated in the way he had just heard it done made him feel beside himself with anger.

He quickened his footsteps, even now unaware of what was the matter with him. Indeed, as he went up the drive leading to the Macleans' front door, he seriously told himself that his feeling of utter dismay was owing to the loss Jean would be to him from a business point of view.

A most miserable evening followed. Whenever Harry Garlett had a chance of doing so he would stare furtively, his heart full of jealousy and suspicious misery, at Jean Bower's bright, animated face.

He wondered whether Tasker had been there on Friday afternoon? The day before yesterday Miss Bower had asked for the afternoon off—a most unusual thing for her to do.

Jean? What a lovely unusual name! Till this evening she had been “Miss Bower” even in Harry Garlett's inmost thoughts. Henceforth she would always be Jean....

He was so silent, so constrained in his manner, that the doctor and Mrs. Maclean noticed that something was wrong. But they were, as Jean's aunt expressed it afterwards, a hundred miles from suspecting the truth. By both these good people Harry Garlett was still regarded as the newly made widower of “poor Emily,” and as for their dear little niece, they were secretly happy in the belief that she would soon be Mrs. Tasker, settled within a pleasantly easy distance of themselves, with her future assured, even if the young medical man, whom they had regarded with such very different feelings till a few months ago, were not exactly a hero of romance. Tasker was proceeding in his wooing in a leisurely, cautious manner, but neither of the onlookers suspected the truth—the truth being that he felt as if there were an invisible, but strong, barrier between the girl and himself.

The next morning Jean was ten minutes late in arriving at the factory. As a rule she was five minutes early. But some one had come to Bonnie Doon with a cut hand, and the doctor, who generally motored her into Grendon, had wished to attend to the injury himself.

Those ten minutes had seemed to Harry Garlett an eternity. That she who was always early should be late, seemed to his jealous, excited fancy to confirm Miss Prince's outspoken hint, and when at last she did come in, with a half-smiling apology, he turned on her roughly.

“I hope that you won't be delayed like this again, Miss Bower, however good the reason. It gives a bad example,” and she was frightened, cowed, by his look of mingled anger and contempt.

Each of them got through his and her morning work with difficulty—Jean often on the point of tears.

What had happened to her kind, considerate employer, the man with whom, in her guilelessness, she had thought herself almost on the terms of a younger sister?

At last, at about a quarter to one, he turned on her with: “And what do you see to admire, Miss Bower, in Dr. Tasker?”

It was a monstrous, an outrageous, question, and the colour flew into her face.

She turned away and answered in what she meant should be a cheerful, chaffing voice, though she felt not only astounded, but hot with anger.

“What makes you think I admire Dr. Tasker, Mr. Garlett?”

He said, “I'm told you do,” in a short, cutting voice.

This time she remained silent, and after pretending for a moment or two to be busily engaged in correcting the proofs of a new trade catalogue she put her pen down and turned to walk toward the door—no longer mistress of herself.

Harry Garlett leaped to his feet, and before she could reach the door he caught her up and masterfully—yet, oh how gently—took her in his arms.

“Jean! Don't be cruel,” he whispered. “Surely—surely you know I love you—adore you—worship you?”

For a long moment they gazed into each other's eyes, and then his lips sought and found her soft, quivering mouth....

Early that afternoon—it was the first of December—Jean went home and quietly told her dismayed aunt that she and Harry Garlett loved one another. She admitted that it was very strange that neither of them had known it before to-day, but she went on to say that now they did know it, they were very, very happy.

Poor Mrs. Maclean! For the first time in her life she felt as if she could not cope with a situation—and she prayed for the doctor's return home.

But when he did come in, tired out, from a difficult case, he only said grumpily: “So that was what was the matter with him yesterday? We were fools not to have foreseen it,” and telephoned to ask Harry Garlett to supper.

How different was this evening from that spent by them all the night before! Even Mrs. Maclean, staid Scots body that she was, caught fire at the great shaft of pure white flame which seemed to envelop those two who had now become lovers.

To her husband she might mutter that it was only just over six months since “poor Emily” died, but to herself she kept saying how wonderful, how uplifting, even only to watch, was this ecstatic passion between a man she had secretly imagined incapable of love, and her matter-of-fact, capable, merry little Jean.

Dr. Maclean was far from pleased. He kept wondering, ruefully, what he should say to Tasker. The man would undoubtedly be bitterly disappointed. Nay, more, he might feel that he hadn't been treated quite fairly.

The doctor was also uncomfortably aware that there would be “talk,” and almost as if his wife were able to see into his mind, just before Harry Garlett at last got up, Mrs. Maclean suddenly exclaimed:

“There's one thing I'm minded to say, Harry. I'm afraid Jean mustn't go to the factory any more—not till you're married, that is.”

As both the girl and her lover exclaimed against the cruel decision, Dr. Maclean clinched the matter.

“Your aunt's quite right,” he said firmly. “Grendon's the greatest place for gossip in England.”

“We don't mind gossip.”

Dr. Maclean looked gravely at the two fine-looking young people standing before him in the lamplight.

Harry Garlett had never looked his age, and now, to-night, he looked years younger than yesterday. As for Jean, not only her radiant face, but her supple, graceful figure seemed transfigured—she looked a lovely ageless nymph no sorrow or decay could touch.

“I fancy that even you would mind being spied on and sniggered at,” said the doctor dryly.

And so there began for those two who loved one another so dearly a strange period of mingled pain and bliss. They hated to be apart, and yet they were not allowed to be together in what seemed to them both the only seemly, natural way—that in their joint everyday work.

Mrs. Maclean showed what even Jean considered an almost absurd fear of what even the people of Terriford might say. She did not like the lovers to stray outside the large garden and paddock of Bonnie Doon, and she ordained that “for the present” the engagement should remain private.

Small wonder that at the end of about ten days Miss Prince asked inquisitively: “Why has Jean left off going to the factory?”

“Jean has only had a few days' holiday since she first went there,” answered Jean's aunt evasively.

But Miss Prince shook her head. “I don't know why you should hide the truth from me, Mrs. Maclean? It's been plain for a good while what was the matter with Harry Garlett. I knew it before he knew it himself! But I didn't believe that the girl liked him. I thought she preferred Dr. Tasker. Well, well! Poor Emily has soon been forgotten”

After some three weeks of this state of things had gone on, Dr. Maclean suddenly said to his wife: “There's nothing for it but to get them married! There'll only be more talk if they don't.”

And Mrs. Maclean answered with something like a groan: “There'll be a lot of talk if they do.”

“Yes, but what's to be done, my dear? The poor fellow has never been in love till now, so he doesn't know how to behave”

And so it was that at last it was decided that the two should be married on the nineteenth of December, by special license, very quietly, not to say secretly, in Terriford village church. They would then go to London for a week's honeymoon, and, during that week, Dr. and Mrs. Maclean would tell all their neighbours and friends what had happened.

The doctor and his wife reminded each other that there was something about Jean which attracted even cold people. She had such a bright, happy, eager nature. As for Harry Garlett, he was always ready to do anybody a good turn, and also, as a great cricketer, was very popular. Though some old-fashioned people might be shocked by so early a second marriage, every one knew that his late wife had been an invalid for years.

There was only one person to whom, for a reason he would have found it difficult to define even to himself, Harry Garlett felt bound to announce his forthcoming marriage. This was Agatha Cheale.

In answer to his brief letter, there came one even briefer:

 * I am interested in your news, and I trust you will be as happy as you deserve to be.

.

title: The Terriford Mystery/Chapter 5


text:
Page:Korean Romanization.pdf/24

 (d) When a demonstrative adnominal adjective 이, 그, 저, 요, 고, etc., modifies one of the following nominals, and changes to a definite pronoun or adnominal adjective, write them together as one word.
 * 것 : 이것, 그것, 저것, 요것, 고것

이 : 이이, 그이, 저이

애: 이애, 그애, 저애

분: 이분, 저분, 그분

번 : 이번, 요번, 저번

편 : 이편, 그편, 저편

쪽 : 이쪽, 저쪽, 그쪽, 요쪽

즈음 : 요즈음, 이즈음, 그즈음

(놈, 만큼, 대로, 자, 치, 따위, 만, etc.)

In all other cases, separate these adnominal adjectives from the words they modify.

4. Verbs (동사)

Guidelines

(a) Separate a verb from other parts of speech.

title: Page:Korean Romanization.pdf/24


text:
The Terriford Mystery/Chapter 6

AM the most fortunate man in England! I am the happiest man in the world!”

As he swung along in the bright winter sunshine on the field path which formed a short cut to the town, again and again these words seemed to hammer themselves, in joyful cadence, on Harry Garlett's brain.

What we call the human heart is full of the strangest twists and turnings, and so, though Garlett's heart was full of Jean Bower, he threw an affectionately retrospective thought to his late wife. He and “poor Emily” had never had a really cross word during those long, quiet years before the war, when, most fortunately for himself, he had not even dimly apprehended what the passion of love can mean in a human life, and how it will make beautiful, and intimately delicious, even the most prosaic facts of day-to-day existence.

He looked at his watch. It was a quarter past ten. In just twenty-four hours from now he and Jean would be starting for their one week's honeymoon in London.

His face softened. There came upon it a great awe. God! How he loved her. Every moment they spent together he seemed to discover some new, hitherto hidden beauty of mind, soul, or body in this wonderful, still mysterious, but wholly delightful young creature who not only allowed him to worship her but—miracle of miracles—returned his passion.

Such were the disconnected but wholly contented thoughts which filled half an hour of the last easy, unquestioning, and, as if for an immortal moment, ecstatic morning of Harry Garlett's life.

With no premonition of coming pain or evil Jean Bower's fortunate lover passed through the big paved courtyard of the Etna China factory. He walked quickly into the early Victorian marble-papered hall and so past the office where sat two clerks, into the high square room which had been for so long known to the good folk of Grendon as “Mr. Dodson's room.”

His letters lay unopened on the shabby leather-covered writing table, and as he sat down he saw that on the top of the pile was an unstamped envelope marked “Private.” Opening it, he read:

He stared down at the sheet of paper, trying to remember if he had ever heard the name Kentworthy before. But no, it meant nothing to him. Whoever this Kentworthy might be he had no business to take it for granted that he, Garlett, would be here, waiting his convenience, at eleven o'clock!

He got up and went into the outer office.

“If a Mr. Kentworthy calls, I will see him. But say that I can only spare him a few minutes, as I am very busy.”

As it was striking eleven, the door opened with: “Mr. Kentworthy, sir,” and at once, with some surprise, Harry Garlett recognized in his visitor a stranger he had seen walking about Terriford village during the last week or so.

The first time he, Garlett, had noticed him, this gray-haired stout man had been standing in the road just outside the gate of the Thatched House, chatting with one of the gardeners. On another occasion he had seen the same person looking at the inscriptions on the graves in the beautiful churchyard, of which the high-banked wall bounded the top of the broad village street. Also, this man whose name he now knew to be Kentworthy had passed him more than once on the narrow field path along which he had walked so joyously this morning.

“I have only just read your note, Mr. Kentworthy, for I was late this morning. What can I do for you? I'm afraid I cannot spare you much time, for, as you see, I haven't even opened my letters.”

His burly, substantial-looking visitor came forward and stood close to him.

“I may take it that you've no idea of the business which has brought me here, Mr. Garlett?”

He looked straight into the face of the man he was addressing, and Harry Garlett felt just a little disconcerted by that steady, steely stare.

“No,” he said frankly, “I have no idea at all of your business, but I have lately seen you walking about Terriford village, so I take it that you have some association with this part of the world?”

“This is my first visit to Grendon,” said the other slowly, and I was sent here, Mr. Garlett, on a most unpleasant errand.”

Again he looked searchingly at Garlett, and then he went on, speaking in a deliberate, matter-of-fact voice:

“I am a police inspector attached to the Criminal Investigation Department, and I was sent down here, about a week ago, to make inquiries concerning the death of Mrs. Emily Garlett, your late wife.”

Harry Garlett got up from his chair; he was so bewildered, so amazed, and yes, so dismayed, at what the other had just said, that he wondered whether he could have heard those strange, disturbing words aright.

“Concerning the death of my wife?” he repeated. “I don't understand exactly what you mean by that?”

James Kentworthy did not take his eyes off the other's face. Long and successful as had been his career in the Criminal Investigation Department, he had never had a case of which the opening moves interested and, in a sense, puzzled him so much as did this case. He asked himself whether the man now standing opposite to him, whose face had gone gray under its healthy tan, was an innocent man, or that most dangerous and vile of criminals, a secret poisoner?

“From some information recently laid before the Home Office, it seems desirable that the cause of Mrs. Garlett's death should be fully ascertained,” he said slowly.

Harry Garlett sat down again.

“On whose information are you acting?” he asked.

“That, for obvious reasons, we are not prepared to divulge,” answered the other coldly. And he also sat down.

Harry Garlett's mind was darting hither and thither. Curse the gossips of Terriford! He had known them to create much smoke where he had felt convinced there was no fire—but never, never so noisome a smoke as this.

His heart became suddenly full of Jean—his darling, innocent little love. Such a child, too, as regarded the evil side of human nature, with all her common sense and practical cleverness. The thought of Jean almost unmanned him, but, in a flash, he realized that if only for her sake he must face this odious inquiry with courage and frankness.

“What is it you desire to know concerning my late wife's death?” he asked.

“Although Mrs. Garlett's death was exceedingly sudden, there does not seem to have been any question of an inquest,” observed the man Garlett now knew to represent all the formidable and mysterious powers of the C.I.D.

“There was not the slightest necessity for an inquest,” was the quiet answer. “Dr. Maclean, who had been my wife's medical attendant for many years, saw her the day before she died.”

Mr. Kentworthy took a thick, small, notebook out of his coat pocket, and opening it, began reading it to himself.

“I am aware of that fact,” he said, without looking up, “and of course my next step will be to call on Dr. Maclean. But before doing that I thought it only fair to come and tell you of my inquiries, Mr. Garlett.” He looked up. “Have you any objection to giving me an account of your wife's death—as far as you can remember the circumstances? Let me see—it's only seven months ago, isn't it?”

Again Harry Garlett made a mighty effort to pull himself together. He had all your honest man's instinctive, absolute trust in justice. No one believed more firmly than himself that “truth will out, even in an affidavit,” but even so, though he was not exactly an imaginative man, he did feel as if the gods, envious of the wonderful happiness with which his cup had been filled up to brimming over till a few moments ago, had devised this cruel, devilish trick....

“I am quite willing to tell you everything you wish to know,” he said frankly. “But there is very little to tell, Mr. Kentworthy.”

“It is a fact, is it not, that your wife was a lady of considerable means, and that she gave over to you the greater part of her fortune quite early in your married life?”

Garlett flushed. “That is so. But I beg you to believe that that was by no wish of mine. In fact, as I can prove to you, I remade my will at once, leaving the money back to her in case I predeceased her.”

James Kentworthy smiled. In spite of himself he was beginning to like Harry Garlett, and even to feel inclined to believe, to hope, he had been sent to this sleepy, old-world country town on a wild-goose chase.

“Look here!” he exclaimed, “I don't want you to be on the defensive with me, Mr. Garlett. If, as I trust will be the case, these inquiries of mine show that everything occurred in—well, in a regular and proper manner, no one will be more pleased than I shall be. I am not trying to catch you out in any way.”

Garlett's face lightened. “Thank you for saying that. But—but I feel so bewildered, Mr. Kentworthy.”

“I understand that. Still, in your own interest I beg you to tell me, as clearly as possible, whatever details you may remember as to your wife's sudden death. I propose to make a shorthand note of all you say, and then, after I have transcribed it, to ask you to read it over and sign the statement.”

He waited a moment, then added:

“I need hardly say that if you would prefer to ask your solicitor to be present, I shall raise no objection.”

“I would far rather say the little I have to say to you alone,” exclaimed Harry Garlett eagerly. “I have a very strong reason for hoping that the matter will never be known to any one but to us two—and, I suppose I must add, to Dr. Maclean?”

“Of course I shall have to see Dr. Maclean,” answered the police inspector. “But now, Mr. Garlett, go ahead! I would, however, suggest that you give orders that we be not interrupted. A great deal depends on your statement, as well as on that of Mrs. Garlett's medical attendant. If they both prove satisfactory, the Home Office will not issue what it is always reluctant to do—an exhumation order.”

“An exhumation order?”

As he repeated those ominous words, there was a tone of utter dismay and horror in Harry Garlett's voice, and the older man threw him a quick, suspicious glance. Why did the suggestion of an exhumation order cause Emily Garlett's widower such unease? Then he reminded himself that, after all, an absolutely innocent man might well quail before an ordeal which, whatever the precautions taken, was bound to become public.

“That would obviously be the next step,” he said reluctantly.

Harry Garlett took up the telephone receiver which stood on his writing-table. “I am not to be disturbed on any account,” he called through.

And then, settling himself squarely in his chair, he faced his tormentor:

“Ask me any questions you like, Mr. Kentworthy,” he said, “and I promise to answer them fully and truthfully.”

The police inspector moved his chair a little nearer to the writing-table.

“I understand, from the few inquiries I have been able to make, that Mrs. Garlett was always in delicate health?”

“That is so; indeed my wife may be said to have been born delicate. She told me once that she never remembered feeling really well. Her parents made a very late marriage, and she was an only child.”

“She was a good deal older than you were, was she not?”

Harry Garlett reddened. The fact had always been a sensitive point with him.

“I was twenty-two when I married, and my wife, at twenty-seven, seemed in my eyes still quite a young woman. She was very slender, and, at that time of her life, did not look more than twenty.”

“And I suppose I may assume that it was a marriage of affection on both sides?”

A deeper flush came over Harry Garlett's face. Though he had an open, cheery manner, he was in some ways a very reserved man. It was, therefore, with obvious, though restrained, emotion that he answered, in a low voice:

“My mother died when I was a child, and I had no sister. My father failed in business when I was a lad of fourteen, and a godfather paid for my later education. Until I came to Grendon I had hardly ever spoken to a young lady of refinement. At once the Thatched House became to me what I had never known, a home, and its young mistress my—my ideal of womanhood.”

“I see,” said the other man, touched by the candid admissions. “Then I take it, Mr. Garlett, that yours was a love marriage?”

“In spite of my wife's ill-health, and our disappointment at not having children, I doubt if any married folk ever led a happier and more placid existence than we did—till the war,” answered Harry Garlett earnestly, but, as the other thought, a little evasively.

“My wife took the greatest pride and pleasure in my success as a cricketer. Yet she was so far from strong that, even in the old days, she could seldom sit out a match.”

“I know that you were the third man in Terriford to join up in August, '14,” observed Mr. Kentworthy, “but that, I take it, did not mean that you were not completely happy at home?”

“Indeed, it did not! I felt that every fit man, in a position to do so, ought to join up at once. As for my wife, she was one of those old-fashioned women who approve of everything their husbands do.”

“Very few of that sort about now,” said Mr. Kentworthy, smiling.

“Well, my wife was one of those few! I told her how I felt about it all, and she said no word to stop me. And yet I have every reason to believe that she went through a real martyrdom while I was at the front” He waited a moment, then concluded: “And when the war came to an end, and I settled down at home again, I realized that she had become a permanent invalid.”

“A terrible thing for a man of your age,” observed Mr. Kentworthy thoughtfully.

Harry Garlett made no answer to that comment. Had he ever felt for poor Emily a tithe of what he now felt for the girl who was to become his wife to-morrow, the condition in which he had found her on his return home would indeed have been a terrible thing. But with Emily, his relations, though good, kindly, even in a sense, gratefully affectionate, had not been such, even before the war, as greatly to affect him. But that, after all, was entirely his own and most secret business.

Thank God—he was thinking of Jean now, not of Emily—he had played fair in the great game of life. Tempted? Of course he had been tempted. Once, at least, more fiercely than he cared to remember now. But he had fought, beaten down temptation, remaining not only in deed but even in word, faithful to his marriage vow.

He came back with something of a mental start to the matter in hand.

This was the first time he had ever spoken, in an intimate sense, of his married life to any human being, and he was surprised to feel that, instead of finding it difficult, it was, in a sort of way, a relief.

“People may have told you, Mr. Kentworthy, that my wife was not a good-tempered woman,” he said earnestly, “but all I can say is, she was the most devoted and generous-natured of wives to me. I am aware that among my neighbours I was criticized for being a good deal away from home. No doubt I was selfish, absorbed in the game to which I give so much of my life during the summer months, but it was always with her eager encouragement that I went about and lived the kind of life I did live.”

“Mrs. Garlett must have been a most exceptional woman,” said the other, and he spoke with no sarcastic intent.

“She came of a long line of high-minded, God-fearing people—her old father was proud of the fact that he was descended from a man who at one moment had been Cromwell's right hand.”

He, Harry Garlett, hadn't thought of that for years. Yet, what was perhaps more singular, poor Emily's personality, at once so commonplace and yet, in a sense, forceful, became suddenly more present to him than it had ever been since the last time they had talked together, on the evening of their thirteenth wedding-day.

“I may take it that there was never even a passing cloud on your married life?”

“Never a cloud!”

Harry Garlett added impulsively, “I don't want you to think me a better man than I am. I did not always find it an easy situation”

The other cut him short: “I accept what you said just now—that you two were happier, if anything, than the average married couple?”

“Yes, I think we were—in fact, I'm sure we were.” He spoke with sober decision.

“Now, tell me something about last spring. Did you think Mrs. Garlett more ailing than usual?”

“No,” said Garlett frankly, “I did not. She always made an effort to appear bright during the comparatively short times we were alone together, but, as I have already told you, she had become a complete invalid.”

He went on in a rather lower tone: “I wonder if you will understand when I tell you that she treated me, of late years, more as a loving mother treats a dear son than as a wife treats her husband”

Both men remained silent for a moment, and the police inspector made a note in his book.

“Now, concerning the night your wife died? I understand the date was May the 28th, the time early on a Sunday morning.”

“The 27th of May was the thirteenth anniversary of our wedding-day,” began Harry Garlett. “And I'm ashamed to say I had forgotten it. But my wife remembered. And I found a gift, as a matter of fact, this gold cigarette case”—he took a small plain gold case out of his pocket—“waiting for me on my breakfast plate that Saturday morning. I then altered a plan I had made for going away for the weekend, and I decided to come home at one o'clock and spend as much of the day as was possible with my wife.”

“You were not alone during that walk back to your house?” suggested Mr. Kentworthy, in an indifferent tone. “You were, I believe, with a young lady.”

“A young lady?” echoed Harry Garlett, surprised. “I don't think so.” And then suddenly he exclaimed: “You're quite right—but how very odd that any one should have remembered it! I walked back with Miss Bower, the niece of my wife's medical attendant, Dr. Maclean. But she went on to her home—she lives with the Macleans—and I had a tray lunch upstairs, with my wife.”

“Were you at home all that afternoon?”

Again it was as if Harry Garlett were making an effort to remember.

“I think so,” he said slowly. “No, I'm wrong! I went to a tennis party. My wife generally rested in the afternoon. But I was back a little after six o'clock, and I sat with her for some time.”

He knitted his brows, trying hard to remember what had happened, and slowly half-forgotten incidents started into life.

“There was a question of some fruit, some forced strawberries that a friend had brought that morning. The lady who was then acting as our housekeeper and as my wife's nurse, thought I had given Mrs. Garlett the strawberries in question. But that was a mistake. She certainly ate them, so one of the maids must have given them to her. The matter is of some moment, for, as Dr. Maclean will, I think, tell you, it was this fruit which indirectly led to her death. Strawberries generally disagreed with her, but she was very fond of them, and as these were small Alpine strawberries I suppose she thought it would be all right.”

“When did you first become aware of your wife's serious condition?”

“It must have been about four o'clock in the morning when Mrs. Garlett's nurse-companion called me. She said my wife was in great pain and had asked if she could have some morphia. So I dressed and went at once for the doctor, who lives about a quarter of a mile from my place.”

“And then?”

“I had some trouble in rousing Dr. Maclean, but I think we were back in my house well under half an hour”

“Had Mrs. Garlett become worse?”

“My wife could not bear for me to see her in the sort of state in which I understood she was then. So I waited downstairs in my study, and about—well, I don't think it could have been more than twenty minutes after he had come into the house, Dr. Maclean came down and broke to me the fact that she was dead.”

“Had she died while you were fetching the doctor?”

“I don't know—I don't think so. I was terribly upset, and I asked no questions. Though she was an invalid, she always seemed, in a way, full of life—a steady, if a low, flame. And she had seemed so well, so happy, that afternoon! But wait a bit. I have forgotten something. My wife had had a disagreeable shock. One of our servants had admitted her sweetheart into the house the night before—as a matter of fact into the drawing room, which has a French window opening into the garden. Mrs. Garlett heard sounds, and thought there were burglars in the house. She actually went downstairs herself, and caught the girl red-handed, as it were. I remember suggesting to Dr. Maclean that the shock—for she was very particular about such things—might have affected her heart. But he didn't think so.”

He stopped speaking. Mr. Kentworthy was busily writing, and Harry Garlett stared at his visitor's bent head. Though assuring himself that it would be “all right,” he felt an eerie feeling of apprehension wrapping him round.

“I thank you for the straightforward way in which you have answered my questions,” said the police inspector, getting up from his chair, “and now I propose to see Dr. Maclean.”

“Would you like me to make a telephone appointment for you with him?” asked Garlett. “He's a very busy man.”

“Why, yes, I should. But I hope you won't think it unreasonable of me to ask you to give him no hint as to my business?”

“You will hear everything I say to him,” answered the other quickly.

He took his telephone receiver off. “Put me through to Dr. Maclean's house.”

James Kentworthy, who was now standing close to the writing-table, heard the answer: “Miss Bower is already on the line, sir; we told her you didn't want to be disturbed—shall I put her through?”

“Yes, please.”

And then, unmindful of the presence of a stranger, more unmindful no doubt because James Kentworthy was still so entirely a stranger to him, Harry Garlett put his whole heart into the question he breathed into the receiver.

“Is that you, my dearest?” And then—“I want to speak to the doctor.”

The other heard, as from afar off, a bright, happy voice exclaim: “He's in the meadow with Aunt Jenny! I'll run along and get him. But you'd better hang up the receiver, for I'm afraid it'll be full five minutes.”

Garlett hung up the receiver, and again faced his visitor.

“I should like to tell you, Mr. Kentworthy, that I am just about to be married.”

“Just about to be married?”

The police inspector wondered if he had kept out of his voice, not only the surprise, but the dismay which he felt at this to him astounding disclosure.

“My fiancée is the niece of Dr. Maclean. She was on the telephone just now.”

“The young lady who, for a while, was your secretary?”

In spite of himself, there was a note of deep disappointment in the voice in which Mr. Kentworthy asked the question.

Harry Garlett instinctively straightened himself.

“Miss Bower became secretary to the Etna China Company—not my personal secretary—just before my wife's death.”

There was an awkward silence between the two men.

“I see,” said Mr. Kentworthy at last. “I see, Mr. Garlett.”

But, as a matter of fact, he felt as if he had walked from the bright sunshine into an evil-smelling fog. Quite a number of pages in his thick little notebook bore the heading “Miss Jean Bower.”

“Is the date of your wedding fixed?”

“Well, yes, it is.” Harry Garlett hesitated, then exclaimed impulsively—“We are to be married to-morrow morning, by special license! No one, however, knows that fact excepting the vicar and his wife, and, of course, Dr. and Mrs. Maclean.”

Again there followed a strange, painful silence.

“I take it you will postpone your marriage till this matter is thoroughly cleared up?” said the police inspector at last.

As the younger man, dismayed, made no immediate answer, the other added: “I should do so, in your place, Mr. Garlett.”

Before he could speak the telephone bell rang and Harry Garlett took up the receiver and in a falsely cheerful tone—a tone with which, alas, James Kentworthy was painfully familiar as a result of his life work—he called out: “Is that you, Dr. Maclean? Garlett speaking. Would you be in if Mr. Kentworthy, a gentleman who wants to see you, on urgent private business, were to come along now? Yes? Right!”

He hung up the receiver. “Dr. Maclean will see you at once.”

Both men got up.

“One word before you go, Mr. Kentworthy.”

“Yes, Mr. Garlett?”

Try as he might, he could not bring back the kindly tone into which he felt he had been betrayed during the latter part of their conversation.

“I suppose the only thing that would set the matter absolutely at rest would be the exhumation of my wife's body?”

“That is so—obviously,” answered the other, briefly.

title: The Terriford Mystery/Chapter 6


text:
The Terriford Mystery/Chapter 7

ITHIN an hour of his having left the Etna factory, James Kentworthy got up from his chair in Dr. Maclean's consulting room.

The man who had come down to Terriford to make these delicate inquiries was honest and conscientious, set on finding out the truth and nothing but the truth. Also, this was to be his last official investigation, and he had every reason for hoping that it would be a short business. The moment it was over he was to retire from the service and start for himself as a private inquiry agent. He was, therefore, sincerely glad that the conversation he had had with the late Mrs. Garlett's medical man had been, from his point of view, thoroughly satisfactory.

During the first few minutes of his interview with Mr. Kentworthy, Dr. Maclean had been so indignant and so shocked when he realized his visitor's business, that he had been very unwilling to give the police inspector any information. But he had soon realized that this was a mistake on his part, and by the end of their conversation the two men were on excellent terms the one with the other.

And now that their long talk was, as they both thought, drawing to an end, Dr. Maclean said earnestly:

“I do hope, Mr. Kentworthy, that I have been able to convince you not only that Mrs. Garlett died a natural death, but that my friend Garlett himself was for long years an exceptionally good husband to the poor, sickly woman?”

“You have convinced me,” said the inspector frankly, “that Mrs. Garlett's death was almost certainly a natural death. But I cannot pledge my superiors in any way, and the best thing would be for you to come with me to London to-night and see the gentleman in charge of the case to-morrow morning.”

Dr. Maclean stood up.

“There's one more thing I feel you should know, though it has nothing directly to do with the matter in hand.”

Mr. Kentworthy stiffened into quick attention.

“My wife's niece, Jean Bower, is just about to be married to Harry Garlett. As a matter of fact, the wedding has been fixed to take place to-morrow”

A quick inward debate took place in the Inspector's mind. Should he imitate the other's frankness? He made up his mind that it was his duty to do so.

“I am aware of that, Dr. Maclean, for Mr. Garlett told me the fact himself. I hope you won't be offended when I say that I regret very much that he did not wait a little longer. After all, it's a very short time since Mrs. Garlett's death.”

“She died in May, and we are now in December!” exclaimed the doctor with some heat. “And remember—I speak as from man to man—that the woman had been Garlett's wife only in name for many a long year.”

“I do remember that,” said James Kentworthy slowly. “But ask yourself, Dr. Maclean, how so quick a second marriage would strike ordinary people—who knew nothing of the special circumstances of the case?”

“But every one here, in this neighbourhood, does know the circumstances,” objected the doctor.

Each word this stranger had uttered in the last few moments had been said again and again in the last month by Dr. Maclean to his wife. But he was not going to admit anything of the sort now, even to himself.

Hardly knowing what he was doing he sat down again, and Mr. Kentworthy did the same.

Leaning forward, the police inspector said earnestly: “You must remember, sir, that what we, in our line of inquiry, are always looking for, is—motive.”

“Motive?” repeated the doctor. “I don't quite follow what you mean, Mr. Kentworthy.”

“I need not tell you—a doctor—that in the vast majority of cases the death of a man or woman is always of interest, and very often of considerable benefit, to some human being?”

“I see your point,” said the other uneasily.

“In this case,” went on Mr. Kentworthy, “I soon realized that money had played no part at all in the matter I had been sent to investigate.”

He stopped abruptly, hardly knowing how to frame the unpleasant fact he wanted to convey.

At last he said frankly: “You must admit, doctor, that Mrs. Garlett's death released her husband from a very trying position. It made him a free man.”

“That's true. Yet I ask you to believe me, Mr. Kentworthy, when I tell you most solemnly that Harry Garlett never longed, even unconsciously, for that sort of freedom. He is a man's man in daily life; he never seemed in the least interested in women; and there was never the slightest breath of scandal about his name.”

The police inspector looked at him gravely.

“I am sorry to say that you are mistaken, Dr. Maclean. You are evidently not aware that there has been a great deal of gossip, not only since Mrs. Garlett's death, but even before her death, concerning Mr. Garlett and the young lady to whom he is now engaged.”

Dr. Maclean jumped up from his chair.

“I deny that! I deny it absolutely!”

His eyes flashed, he struck his writing-table with his hand.

“What devils some women are! Why, my poor little niece had only just become secretary to the Etna Company when Mrs. Garlett died”

“She took over her new duties on the 26th of last April,” observed the inspector quietly, “and, from what I can make out, there seems no doubt that Mr. Garlett, who up to then had much neglected his duties as managing director, leaving everything, it appears, to his partner, a certain Mr. Jabez Dodson, began going daily to the Etna China factory.”

Dr. Maclean sat down again. He felt far more disturbed than he would have cared to acknowledge, even to himself.

“I suppose,” he said slowly, “that it would not be fair to ask you the source of this absolutely untrue and poisonous gossip?”

“I don't say it would be unfair—but I am sure you will understand that it would not be right of me to oblige you.”

“Do you mind telling me exactly what it is you have heard?—narrowing down the point to what you have been told happened before Mrs. Garlett's death?”

Mr. Kentworthy began to feel sorry he had said anything about that side of his investigations. He had been tempted into indiscretion by his liking for this man, and his growing conviction that Harry Garlett's wife had died an absolutely natural death.

It was as a friend of these foolish, if honest, people that he had just said what he knew was true. After all, it was perhaps just as well that they should know the kind of gossip floating about.

“The most serious thing I have heard,” he said quietly, “is that your niece and Mr. Garlett occasionally met secretly, late at night, in a little wood which forms part of Mr. Garlett's property.”

Dr. Maclean stared at the speaker with growing anger and astonishment, and the other, pursuing his advantage, as even the kindest men are sometimes tempted to do, went on—

“I have actually spoken to the person who saw them there on at least two occasions.”

Again Dr. Maclean got up. “You have actually found a man or woman who declares that he or she saw my niece, Jean Bower, and Harry Garlett, under the compromising circumstances you have described?”

“No,” exclaimed the other quickly. “I cannot say that the person in question mentioned Miss Bower. What she said—I admit it is a woman—was that she had twice seen Mr. Garlett and a young lady in the wood forming part of the Thatched House property, and that, on the second occasion, she overheard something like an altercation between the two. Garlett's companion burst into, tears and reproached him, from what I can make out, for his coldness to her.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Dr. Maclean.

He sat down again, heavily. He felt suddenly years older.

“Having said so much, I think it is only fair to you to read the exact words I put down after seeing the young woman in question.”

“Young woman? Then the author of this infamous lie is not Miss Prince?” said the doctor to himself as he listened to the inspector beginning to read from his note-book.

“You must understand,” explained Mr. Kentworthy, looking up, “that the person in question did not give me this connected account that I have read out. I had more or less to drag out of her these apparently unimportant details.”

“There is nothing there about a quarrel or tears,” observed the doctor.

“We are coming to that,” said the other quietly.

“I may as well read you the impression the story made on me at the time,” said Mr. Kentworthy, and he went on with his note-book:

“You cannot be surprised,” he added looking up, “that I feel everything points to Mr. Garlett's companion in the wood having been the young lady with whom he is now on the eve of marriage.”

“I suppose I can't expect you to agree with me,” said Dr. Maclean, “when I say that I am convinced that the story is entirely false from beginning to end. I know my niece never met Harry Garlett secretly at night, or, for the matter of that, in the daytime. Only his own admission would make me believe that Garlett met any woman in such com promising and dangerous circumstances.”

Mr. Kentworthy remained silent. It was clear he did not accept the other man's view of the story.

Suddenly the doctor pressed the electric bell on his table, twice, sharply: “I'm going to send for my niece,” he exclaimed.

Mr. Kentworthy started up.

“That's not fair,” he cried. “That's not playing the game!”

“Bide a wee, man. I'm not going to do anything unfair. I simply want you to see the child. I'll give her a message for my wife.”

A moment later the door opened and Jean Bower ran in.

“Yes, Uncle Jock? What” and then she stopped short. “I beg your pardon. I did not know you had any one here.”

“Mr. Kentworthy—my niece.”

The two shook hands, and as he looked keenly into her fresh guileless face and noted, as only a trained eye would have done, the dozen little details which go to differentiate one type of modern girl from the other, James Kentworthy told himself that Dr. Maclean had shown a sure instinct in thus obliging him to see Harry Garlett's betrothed.

The experienced police inspector was not a susceptible man, and he was one whose work habitually caused him to see the ugliest side of feminine human nature. Yet he would have staked a great deal on the probability that the girl now before him was as pure and essentially simple-hearted as had been the mother whose memory he cherished. He made up his mind that Harry Garlett's mysterious companion had almost certainly not been this young woman.

“I want you to tell your aunt, my dear, that I have unexpectedly got to go to town to-night.”

“Oh, Uncle Jock!”

Jean looked very troubled and dismayed. “I'd better 'phone to Harry at once, hadn't I?”

“Yes, do, my dear. But first tell your aunt. She'd better send a note to the vicar—that is if you want me to be present at your wedding.”

She reddened deeply. How very strange and odd of Uncle Jock to speak of to-morrow's secret ceremony before a stranger.

“Of course we want you to be there. Why, we shouldn't feel married if you weren't there! We'll put the wedding off for a day or two.”

She tried to speak lightly and, turning, left the room.

“There!” exclaimed Dr. Maclean. “D'you see that girl meeting a married man in a wood at night? She's the most self-possessed, dignified little lassie I've ever met! Not that she is lacking in feeling. She's devoted now, to that man, and,” he went on, speaking with a good deal of emotion. “I hope to God she will never know of this horrible, if it was not so serious I should say this ridiculous, business.”

Suddenly the telephone bell on his table rang. He took up the receiver.

“I said I was not to be disturbed”—and then in a very different voice—“Garlett?”

“Has the man who called on me this morning gone? I feel I must see you.... Yes, I'm still at the office. Where else should I be?... Somehow the horror of it all seems to grow and grow on me.... For the first time in my life I feel as if I don't know what I ought to do!”

The doctor felt dismayed. It was clear that the invisible speaker was painfully excited and overwrought.

“I don't think there's anything to worry about,” he called back soothingly. “My interview with Mr. Kentworthy has been quite satisfactory, and I'm going up to London to-night to see the people concerned to-morrow morning. Best not say too much over the telephone, my dear fellow. Bad breaks will come in business, as we all know.”

He hung up the receiver.

“Garlett's thoroughly rattled!” he exclaimed. “D'you see any objection to his coming up with us to-night and going to the Home Office to-morrow morning?”

The other hesitated.

“Frankly, I shouldn't advise that. If you, as Mrs. Garlett's medical attendant, can convince my chiefs that she died a natural death, the whole matter will be dropped.”

“I understand that, and I'll make him follow your advice,” said the doctor. “But what I can't make cut—what I would give a good deal to know—I suppose you know and won't tell me?—is what started this damnable inquiry?”

The eyes of the two men crossed.

“There are such things as anonymous letters,” observed Mr. Kentworthy dryly.

“Anonymous letters?”

Surprised though he felt, he told himself that he had been a fool not to think of that solution of the mystery.

“I didn't know,” he muttered, “that poor Garlett had an enemy in the world. But I suppose you can't run any business without making some bad blood.”

“I suppose you can't,” agreed the other. “But one thing I will tell you. The letters in question were never written by a factory hand.”

He leant forward and instinctively lowering his voice, he went on:

“Can you think of any one who bears Mr. Garlett a grudge?” Having said so much I think I may go a step further and say that we have no doubt at all that it is a woman.”

“A woman?”

Again the doctor's suspicions swung around to Miss Prince.

“I understand that before his wife's death Mr. Garlett went about a great deal?” went on the other thoughtfully.

“That's true. Garlett's a very good fellow, and very popular. As a famous cricketer he knew people more or less all over England, and the only kind of business he really did for the Etna China works was that of sometimes acting as a sort of glorified commercial traveller.”

“That being so, Dr. Maclean, don't you think it possible that he may have formed some kind of connection which he gave up as, queerly enough, a good many men do give up such friendships after a wife's death?”

“In this strange world of ours,” said the doctor reluctantly, “everything is possible. But I would have staked a good deal that that particular thing was never true of Harry Garlett. I take it you have seen the anonymous letters in question?”

The police inspector quietly opened his black attaché case.

“I see no reason why I should not show the letters to you now!” he exclaimed. “I feel certain the originals will be submitted for your inspection at the Home Office. I, of course, have only a set of facsimiles.

The doctor's face, which had been very grave, livened into eager curiosity.

Mr. Kentworthy came up to the writing table.

“This was the first letter. It was not addressed to the Home Office. It was sent to Scotland Yard.”

While he was speaking he had put his hand over the sheet of paper; now he lifted it, and Dr. Maclean saw a large sheet of paper marked i. Drawn in pencil was a curious conventional design, under which ran the words—“Water-mark of the original (foreign) paper.”

Then, written in block letters in very black ink, he read the following:

 * THE WRITER FEELS IT HIS DUTY TO DRAW THE ATTENTION OF THE HEAD COMMISSIONER OF POLICE TO CERTAIN MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES SURROUNDING THE DEATH, ON THE 28TH OF LAST MAY, OF MRS. EMILY GARLETT AT THE THATCHED HOUSE, TERRIFORD VILLAGE. MRS. GARLETT WAS THE WIFE OF HENRY GARLETT, OWNER AND MANAGING-DIRECTOR OF THE WELL-KNOWN GRENDON ETNA CHINA FACTORY. THOUGH THE DEATH WAS VERY SUDDEN, NO INQUEST WAS HELD.

“This reads like a man's letter,” observed Dr. Maclean.

“It was meant to read like a man's letter,” said Mr. Kentworthy. “But we believe it to be the work of an educated woman.”

The doctor went on staring at the sinister epistle. What dread secret of love or hate—or was it only poisonous malice—lay behind these roughly ink-printed words?

“Here is the envelope. You will notice that the postmark, which by the way has been drawn in, for it was too obliterated for any other method to be of use, shows the letter to have been posted in London just a month ago. For what it is worth I may remind you that almost any educated man would realize that such a communication should be sent to the Criminal Investigation Department of the Home Office, and not to Scotland Yard.”

“What happens,” asked Dr. Maclean, “when such a thing as this is received?”

“By long experience we are well aware that such a letter is likely to be only one of a series—and sure enough, four days later, came this second letter!”

The speaker pushed aside the first sheet of paper he had laid down, and put in its place another.

“This surely is from an uneducated person?” exclaimed Dr. Maclean.

He was now gazing at a most peculiar looking script, marked 2.

“Not necessarily,” said Mr. Kentworthy. “But whether written by the same individual or not, this was undoubtedly written with the left hand. It is extremely difficult for any handwriting expert, however clever, to identify a letter written with the left hand with the writer's ordinary right-hand script. There are as a rule certain similarities, but those proceed from the brain rather than from the mechanical action of the hand.”

“I think I understand what you mean,” and, bending down, he read the following long comma-less sentence:

“What an abominable thing!”

Dr. Maclean's eyes flamed with anger. “I hope to God that neither my niece nor Harry Garlett will ever see this vulgar, hateful letter.”

“I can reassure you on that point,” said the other earnestly. “Under no consideration are these kinds of communications brought into a law case,” and, as he saw a shadow pass over the doctor's face:

“Not that I think there will be a law case. Since my talk with Mr. Garlett this morning, and with you during the last hour, I believe that all this trouble has been caused by some hysterical woman who has a grude [sic] against Mr. Garlett.”

Dr. Maclean muttered: “I only wish I had the writer of this letter here.”

“Perhaps you'd rather not see the other letter?” said his visitor, half smiling.

Human nature was always surprising James Kentworthy, and now he was amused in spite of himself. Dr. Maclean had taken the first anonymous letter calmly, but the moment he himself had been brought into the matter he had evidently felt very differently.

“Of course I'd rather see it!” he exclaimed brusquely, and the police inspector put it down before him.

No. 3 was written in block letters.

 * THE WRITER OF THE LETTER DATED NOVEMBER 25TH ADVISES THE HEAD COMMISSIONER OF POLICE TO ASK MR. HENRY GARLETT TO RENDER A FULL ACCOUNT OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES SURROUNDING HIS WIFE'S DEATH.

“I think,” said Dr. Maclean hesitatingly, “that I know who wrote two of those letters.”

“You do?” Mr. Kentworthy leaped to his feet.

“I suspect,” said the doctor, “that the writer is a certain Mary Prince, the daughter, I am sorry to say, of the medical man from whom I bought my practice.”

“The lady who lives at the Thatched Cottage?”

Mr. Kentworthy felt sadly disappointed. He was convinced the doctor was on a wrong track.

“I feel sure it is she,” Dr. Maclean spoke with growing energy and conviction. “Miss Prince is a most malicious woman. She has never liked Harry Garlett, and I know she has been genuinely shocked at his thought of remarriage. She actually guessed how things were between him and my poor little niece before they knew it themselves.”

“Believe me, you are on the wrong track, Dr. Maclean. I had a talk with this very lady two days ago, and though I don't think she has a pleasant disposition, if she is really the writer of these letters then she entirely took me in.”

“Did she know why you were here?” asked Dr. Maclean.

“Good heavens, no! I hope you won't be shocked when I confess that I told her I was distantly related, through her mother, to the late Mrs. Garlett. On the strength of this statement she asked me to tea, and we had a long talk. She is a shrewd, clever woman, though I admit a dangerous gossip. By the way, there is one person who, I gather, was actually with Mrs. Garlett when she died. I mean a certain Miss Agatha Cheale, who is a friend of this Miss Prince. How about her, Dr. Maclean?”

Unconsciously the doctor stiffened.

“I don't know that there is anything to say about Miss Cheale. She was distantly related to the Garletts. Mrs. Garlett's death was a real misfortune for her, for although the poor lady left her a thousand pounds, she was actually receiving a salary of three hundred pounds a year.”

“When was she here last?” asked Mr. Kentworthy suddenly.

“She came down for a week-end visit to Miss Prince about a month ago, and I think she is coming for Christmas. A capable, intelligent young woman, but I don't think she could add anything to what I have told you—the more so, that although she was in a war hospital in France, she is not a trained nurse.”

“Well, I'll be going now. Shall we meet at Grendon station at five o'clock and travel together?”

“By all means.” The two men shook hands cordially.

“I hope you will be able to forget all about this business after to-morrow,” said the police inspector earnestly.

But Dr. Maclean felt very sick at heart when he finally shut the door on his unwelcome visitor, and turned his steps reluctantly toward the dining room where he knew his wife, and probably Jean with her, was likely to be.

As he opened the dining-room door he saw with relief that Mrs. Maclean was alone.

“What signifies the message Jean brought me just now?” she exclaimed. “Why must the marriage be put off, even for one day, Jock? Surely you can' postpone going to London till to-morrow afternoon?”

“I'm the bearer of bad news,” he said heavily.

Mrs. Maclean stood up.

“What's the matter?” she asked in a frightened tone.

As her husband remained silent, she went up to him, and gave his arm a shake:

“Jock? You're frightening me! Have you found out anything about Harry Garlett? D'you mean you think the marriage will have to be broken off?”

She added, “The child's fair daft about him!”

“There's no question of breaking off the marriage,” he said quickly. “In fact, if I had my way Jean should not be told anything—beyond the bare fact that her wedding must be postponed for a day or two.”

And then, before he could say anything further, the door behind them burst open and Harry Garlett rushed into the room.

His face was drawn and haggard—he looked years older than he had done that morning.

“I hoped to catch that London detective here—but I hear he's gone. Look here, Maclean. I've had time to think over what I ought to do, and I've decided to go to London at once and clear the matter up.”

“What matter have you to clear up?” asked Mrs. Maclean.

Garlett walked straight over to where she was standing and looked at her fixedly:

“I am suspected of having murdered my wife, Aunt Jenny,” he said in a hard, matter-of-fact voice, “and from what I can make out that suspicion will never be laid to rest till they have dug up the poor creature and satisfied themselves that she died a natural death.”

The colour drifted from Mrs. Maclean's healthy face.

“Is what he says true?” she asked, turning to her husband.

“Yes and no,” he answered in a measured tone. It's true that Harry has some deadly enemy who is trying to fasten this awful charge on him. But my talk just now with a man named Kentworthy who was sent down from the Home Office”

“The Home Office?”

Mrs. Maclean was an intelligent woman, and the words struck a note of sharp fear in her breast.

The doctor went on: “I've just had the fellow here for over an hour, and I think I've convinced him that the—well, the suspicion, if you can go so far as to call it that, is absolutely groundless.”

Harry Garlett broke in: “But did Kentworthy tell you what I forced him to admit to me—that nothing short of an exhumation will really settle the matter, and that unless that takes place the matter may be raised again at any time?”

A tide of dismay welled up in Dr. Maclean's heart. He suddenly realized that what this wild-eyed man, who looked so little like the happy, still-young lover of this morning, was saying, was only too true.

Even so he forced himself to exclaim: “You take an exaggerated view, Harry. All I ask you to do is to await the result of my interview with the Home Office people.”

Harry Garlett was staring at the speaker, a look of terrible perplexity as well as acute suffering on his face.

“In any case, I suppose you would admit that our marriage will have to be postponed?” he said slowly.

“Well, yes, I'm afraid it must be—for a day or two.”

And then Mrs. Maclean broke in:

“Before you even decide on that I think you ought to consult Jean. After all, she's the person most nearly concerned, isn't she? Though perhaps—” she hesitated painfully, “we need not tell her the reason for the postponement?”

Garlett turned away and stared out into the wintry garden, and there was such a look of anguish on his face that Mrs. Maclean suddenly felt a rush of intense, overwhelming pity for him.

She went across to where he was standing and put her hand gently on his arm. But he made no response.

Dr. Maclean cleared his throat: “Perhaps I'd better go and tell Jean what has happened? I don't see how we can hope to keep it from her.”

But the unhappy man roused himself: “No!” he said violently, “I'll tell her myself—I'd rather she heard it from me.

He turned to the doctor. “I know how kind you are” his voice broke, “but I feel that she ought to hear this vile thing from me”

“I think that's true, Jock,” said Mrs. Maclean quietly. “So now I'll go and find the child.”

She was walking to the door when Garlett asked suddenly: “Where is Jean? Out of doors? I'd rather speak to her there.”

“I'll see you're not disturbed.”

Jean Bower was already on her way back to the house when Harry Garlett caught sight of her. She was walking quickly, her whole figure instinct with the joyous buoyancy and grace of happy youth.

When she saw her lover she stopped short, pleased and yet surprised, for he had told her that he was not coming back from the factory till late afternoon.

And then, as he hurried up to her, there swept over her a feeling of sharp misgiving.

“Is anything the matter?” she asked affrightedly.

He took hold of her arm and guided her to a bride path which was now, to them both, filled with delicious associations, for it was here that they had always come, during the few short weeks of their secret engagement, to be alone together. Closed in on either side by old yew hedges, it was the only part of the Bonnie Doon garden really sheltered from prying eyes. Often, nay almost always, their first, their only, kisses, on any given day, were taken and given here, between those high, impenetrable walls of living green. To Jean the yew hedge walk had become holy ground.

And so, as they turned the corner, the girl's heart began to beat quickly. Here it was that Harry always turned with a sudden, passionate movement, and took her in his arms. But to-day her lover hurried her along the uneven brick path until they reached the extreme end of the shadowed walk.

Then, and not till then, he stopped, and faced her with the words: “We can't be married to-morrow”

He had meant to add, “I am suspected of having poisoned my wife.” But he found he could not utter the hateful words. They would not come.

And Jean? Gazing up into his haggard face she felt a mingled rush of intense relief and deep, exultant love and tenderness. It moved her to the soul to think that the postponement of their marriage could make him look as he was looking now. But she was quickly, painfully, undeceived.

“A man came to see me at the works this morning to tell me that there seems to be some doubt as to the cause of Emily's death.”

Her face filled with deep surprise and dismay, but no suspicion of what his words implied crossed her mind. All she did understand was that what had happened had given this man who was so entirely her own, a terrible shock.

“Why should that make any difference to our being married to-morrow morning?” she asked in a low voice.

“Because neither your aunt nor your uncle would wish you to be married to a man suspected of murder.” He spoke with harsh directness.

“Murder?” Jean Bower's eyes flashed. She did not shrink, as he had thought she would do; instead she threw herself on his breast and pressed close up to him, putting her arms round his neck.

“If that is true, but I don't believe it is true, then I want to marry you at once—to-day rather than to-morrow, Harry. Oh, my love, my own dear love, don't look at me like that!”

His arms hungrily enfolded her, but he shook his head determinedly. “Till the whole thing is cleared up, we've got to face this trouble separately.”

“No! No! No!” she exclaimed, looking up eagerly, piteously, into his drawn face. “Not separately, but together, Harry.”

And it was he, not she, who broke down as she pressed up closer to him, for, to her agonized distress, he pushed her away and broke into short, gasping, hard sobs.

“I can't come back to the house,” he said at last. “Tell your uncle I'll meet him at the station, my darling.”

She saw he was making a great effort over himself, and very gallantly she “played up.”

“All right, I'll tell him. But Harry?”

“Yes?” he said listlessly.

“You'll go now and get something to eat. Promise?” and for the first time her lips quivered.

“I promise.”

Again he took her in his arms. Their lips met and clung together. At last, “Oh, Jean,” he whispered brokenly, “do you think we shall ever be happy again?”

“Of course we shall,” she said confidently.

And then she walked with him through the wintry, bare garden to the field where there was a gate which gave into the road leading to Grendon. There they did not kiss again. They only shook hands quietly.

title: The Terriford Mystery/Chapter 7