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THE STORY TOLD BY WALTER HARTRIGHT

 

The gravestone

On 13th October I850 I left the wild forests of Central America and returned to England. I had escaped death by disease, death by war, and death by drowning, and hoped that these experiences had strengthened me to face my future - a future without Laura Fairlie. I still remembered her as Laura Fairlie, and could not think of her by her husband's name.

The first thing I did was to visit my mother and sister in their Hampstead cottage. The joy of our meeting, however, soon turned to sadness. I have no secrets from my mother, and when I saw the loving pity in her eyes, I feared the worst.

The news was soon told. I tried hard not to let my sorrow spoil the happiness of my return for my mother and sister, but by the third day I knew I had to go away alone for a while.

'Let me go up to Limmeridge,' I begged my mother. 'I can bear it better when I have seen her grave.'

It was a warm autumn afternoon when I arrived at the station and walked down the familiar road, seeing in the distance the high white walls of Limmeridge House, In the churchyard I found the grave -and knelt down beside the gravestone, closing my eyes.

Oh my love! My love! My dear, dear love!

Hours passed, and the evening sunlight threw long shadows among the sleeping places of the dead. J had lost all sense of time, kneeling there. Then, in the silence, I heard the soft sound of footsteps on the grass.

I looked up.

Beyond me, standing together by the churchyard wall, were two women, their veils down, hiding their faces. They were looking towards the grave, looking towards me.

Two.

They came closer, and stopped. One of them lifted her veil, and in the still evening light I saw the face of Marian Halcombe. A changed face. Thin and pale, full of pain and fear.

The woman with the veiled face came towards me slowly. Marian Halcombe sank to her knees, murmuring, 'Oh God, help him! Please, please help him, God!'

The veiled woman came on, slowly and silently. I looked at her - at her, and at no one else, from that moment. She had possession of me, body and soul. She stopped by the side of the gravestone, and we stood face to face with the grave between us.

'Oh God, help him, help him!'

The woman lifted her veil.

In Loving Memory of Laura, Lady Clyde . . .

Laura, Lady Glyde, was standing by the gravestone, looking at me over her grave.

 

***

 

A life suddenly changed. A new future before me, like the sunlit view from a mountain top. I leave my story in the quiet shadow of Limmeridge church, and begin again, one week later, in the noise and rush of a London street.

I have rented rooms under a different name. Marian and Laura, using the same name, are said to be my sisters. I earn our bread by doing drawings for cheap magazines. We employ no servant; my elder sister, Marian, does the housework with her own hands. Marian and I are known to be the friends of mad Anne Catherick (address unknown), who falsely claims the identity of Lady Glyde. To the rest of the world, Laura, Lady Glyde, is dead. Dead to her uncle, who has refused to recognize her; dead to the lawyers, who have passed her fortune to her husband and aunt.



But to Marian and me she is alive! Penniless and sadly changed - her beauty faded, her mind confused - but alive, with her poor drawing teacher to fight her battles and to win her way back to the world of living beings. She is mine at last — mine to support to protect, to defend. And mine to love.

 

I0

The rescue

At the first opportunity we had, Marian told me everything that had happened to her and Laura. The hardest part for her was after she had returned to Limmeridge House.

I was in despair, Walter,' she said. Mr. Kyrle's investigation was finished, and had shown nothing, he said. Mr. Fairlie was no help at all - I heard that he didn't even leave his room to go to the funeral! But he did show me a letter he'd received from Count Fosco, which contained news of Anne Catherick. The Count said that Anne Catherick had been found and put back in the asylum from which she had escaped. But because she hated Sir Percival and wanted to make trouble for him, she was now claiming that she was not Anne Catherick at all, but Lady Clyde. The Count warned Mr. Fairlie that if she escaped again, she might try to annoy members of Lady Clyde's family.

I wasn't well enough to do anything for about a month after returning to Limmeridge, but when I felt stronger, I decided to make some investigations myself. First, I planned to visit the asylum in London and talk to poor Anne Catherick, to find out why she was claiming to be Laura. I knew the address because you had given it to me, all those months ago.

'Well, Walter, you can guess what's coming, I'm sure. The director of the asylum, who seemed an honest person, told me that Anne Catherick had been brought back on 27th July. He was puzzled by some odd personal changes in her, but assumed they were caused by her mental illness. He then called a nurse to take me to Anne Catherick, who was walking in the gardens.

'Imagine the shock, Walter — seeing my dead sister walking towards me in that garden! We just ran into each other's arms, unable to say a word. How the nurse stared at us!'

I think I know how you must have felt,' I said. 'I shall never forget in the churchyard at Limmeridge ... But tell me, however did you get Laura out of the asylum?

'Bribery, Walter. I didn't want to risk a legal battle and all the delay that would involve, so I persuaded the nurse that a terrible mistake had been made and she would be doing a good thing in helping Anne Catherick escape. And I offered her £400. The plan went smoothly, and by early afternoon the next day Laura and I were on the train to Cumberland.'

'And Laura?' I asked. 'What actually happened on the day she left Blackwater Park and came to London?'

Marian sighed. 'Oh, Walter, it's not at all clear. Poor Laura's mind is so confused now that her memory of events is very unreliable. She can't even remember the date she left Blackwater. All she has been able to tell me is this. The Count met her at the station, and said that I was still in London and that he would take her to sec me at once. She doesn't remember where the cab went, but it was clearly not to his house in St John's Wood. She was taken to a house in a narrow street, where people came and went, asking her questions she didn't understand. At this point the Count told her I was now very ill; she was so frightened by this news she nearly fainted. Someone then gave her a glass of water, which she said tasted odd - and after that she lost consciousness.

'Poor, poor Laura,' I murmured.

'She woke up,' Marian continued, 'in the asylum, unable to leave, unable to make contact with the outside world. She was called by Anne Catherick's name and found she was wearing clothes with Anne Catherick's name on them. She was told Lady Glyde was dead and buried, and that she was Anne Catherick, Anne Catherick, Anne Catherick . . . Day in, day out, from 27th July to I5th October, she was made to feel that she was mad. It's hardly surprising her mind is so confused now.'

'And what happened at Limmeridge?' I asked.

Marian turned her face away. 4 can't bear to think about it,' she said. 'The worst part was taking Laura into Mr. Fairlie's room. He looked straight into Laura's face and said, "My niece is buried in Limmeridge churchyard. I don't recognize this woman. Remove her from my house before I call on the law to protect me." Even the servants were doubtful about her identity, because she was so much changed and so confused by her experiences. Perhaps people would have been persuaded if we'd stayed longer, but I didn't dare risk it. At any minute the people from the asylum might come looking for us, so I decided to return to London at once and hide. Then, as we were passing the churchyard, Laura insisted on a last look at her mother's grave. And . . . well, that moment changed our three lives.'

'I think God was guiding Laura's footsteps I said.

How well I remember that day - that moment when Laura laid her poor head innocently and trustingly on my shoulder, and said, 'They have tried to make me forget everything, Walter, but

I remember Marian, and I remember you.''

 

***

 

The plot against Laura was now clear. Anne Catherick had been taken into Count Fosco's house as Lady Glyde, and Lady Glyde had taken the dead woman's place in the asylum. It was also clear that the three of us could expect no mercy from Count Fosco and Sir Percival, who between them had gained £30,000 from the plot. They would do everything in their power to prevent their crime being discovered, and would hunt for their victim to separate her from her only friends — Marian and myself. This is why I had chosen a poor and crowded part of London to live in. It is easier to hide in a place where people are always coming and going.

Our life quickly took on a regular pattern - work, watching out for our enemies, and care of Laura, whom we surrounded with a gentle, protective love, helping her slowly but steadily to recover her balance of mind and her self-confidence.

Meanwhile, Marian and I began the battle. We studied the statements that Mr. Kyrle had taken from witnesses - the doctor, and the servants and cook in Count Fosco's house. I obtained a copy of Lady Glyde's death certificate, and Marian wrote to Mrs. Michelson, who replied, saying that she could not remember the exact date of Laura's departure from Blackwater Park. Nor could she remember when the letter announcing Laura's death, which was undated, had arrived from Madame Fosco.

I also arranged to visit Mr. Kyrle, to ask for his help. After listening to my long explanation, the lawyer shook his head.

'My legal opinion, Mr. Hartright, is that you won't win this case in a court of law. I accept, of course, that the identity of Lady Clyde as a living person is a proved fact to Miss Halcombe and yourself. But there is no evidence. If you could prove that the date on the death certificate was earlier than the date of Lady Glyde's journey to London, then you might have a case.'

As I left, he gave me a letter that had been delivered to him for Marian, and told me, in answer to my question, that Sir Percival Clyde had returned to London.

Outside in the street I soon noticed two men following me, and realized too late that the Count's spies must have been watching the lawyer's office, in the hope that Marian or I would go there. I went home by a very long route and managed to lose them, but it was a warning to me to be more careful.

Marian was very worried when I told her about the two men. Then I gave her the letter. She recognized the writing instantly.

'It's from Count Fosco."

Dear and admirable woman, do not be afraid! Stay bidden, with your gentle companion, and nothing will happen to you. Challenge nothing, threaten nobody. Do not, I beg you, force me into action. If Mr. Hartright returns to England, do not speak to him. If he crosses my path, he is a lost man.

'Walter!' Marian said, her eyes flashing with anger. 'If ever the Count and Sir Percival are at your mercy and you must spare one of them, don't let it be the Count.'

'I'll keep this letter to remind me when the time comes I said. 'But tomorrow I will go to Blackwater, to try and find out the date of Laura's journey to London. It's the one weak point in their plot.'

'You mean that perhaps Laura did not leave for London until after the date on the death certificate?'

Exactly I think she left on 26th July. The Director of the asylum said she was taken there on the 27th. I doubt if they could have kept her drugged more than one night. We know from Mrs. Michelson that Sir Percival left on the same day as Laura. I'll ask everyone in the village if they remember when he left.'

'And if that fails?'

'If that fails, Marian, I'll force a confession from Sir Percival. We have one weapon against him - his secret. Anne Catherick said that if his secret was known, it would ruin him. I intend to find out that secret. The woman in white, though dead in her grave, is still with us and is showing us the way!'

 

The investigation

The story of my first enquiries in Hampshire is soon told. Not a single person in the village of Blackwater could remember exactly when Sir Percival Clyde had left. Even the gardener at the house could only say it was some time in the last ten days of July.

So, on to the next plan,' I said to Marian back in London, 'which is to pursue the secret. I need to talk to Anne Catherick's mother, but first I must find out something about her from Mrs. Clements, Anne's friend. But how do I find Mrs. Clements?'

Marian had the answer to that. 'You remember the farm she and Anne stayed at near Limmeridge? We'll write to them - they might know Mrs. Clements' address.'

We were lucky. The farmer's wife did know the address, and wrote back by return to tell us. It was in London, not far from our rooms, and the next morning I was knocking at the door.

Mrs. Clements was anxious to know if I had brought her any news of Anne, and very sad to learn that I had not. However, she was willing to tell me everything she knew.

'After leaving Limmeridge, sir,' she said, 'Anne and I went to live in the north east of England, and that's when Anne started to suffer from heart disease. She wasn't at all well, but she insisted on travelling to Hampshire, because she wanted to speak to Lady Glyde. So we went there and stayed in a village near Blackwater — not too close as Anne was so frightened of Sir Percival.

'Each time Anne went to the lake to try to speak to Lady Glyde, I followed her at a distance. But the long walks made her so exhausted that she became ill again, so finally Ă went to the lake in her place to meet Lady Glyde. She didn't come that day, but a very fat man came instead with a message from her. The message was that we should return to London immediately, as Sir Percival would certainly find us if we stayed longer. Lady Glyde was going to London herself very soon and if we sent her our address, she would contact us.'

'Bur she didn't, did she?' I said, thinking how cleverly Count Fosco had lied to this kind woman.

'No, sir. I found lodgings and sent the address to Lady Glyde, but after two weeks we'd still heard nothing. Then one day a lady called in a cab. She said she came from Lady Glyde, who was staying at a hotel and wanted to arrange an interview with Anne. I agreed to go with this lady to make the arrangement, leaving Anne alone in our lodgings. But it was a wicked plot, sir. On the way the lady stopped the cab, saying she just had to collect something from a shop and would I wait for a few minutes. She never came back, sir. I waited for some time, and then I hurried home - and found Anne gone. Just disappeared.'

I asked Mrs. Clements to describe this 'lady, and it seemed clear from her description that it was Madame Fosco. So I now knew how the Count had got Anne Catherick to London and separated her from Mrs. Clements.

'I never found out what happened to Anne,' Mrs. Clements said sadly. 'I made enquiries. I even wrote to her mother, but she didn't know anything. I miss poor Anne so much. She was like a daughter to me, you see, sir.'

'And Pm sure you were a kind mother to her I said. A better mother than her own mother.'

'That wasn't difficult,' said Mrs. Clements. 'Mrs. Catherick is a hard woman. She seemed to hate the child, and was only too pleased when I offered to bring her up. Then one day she took Anne to Limmeridge to stay with a sister, and after that she kept Anne from me. I didn't see Anne again till she escaped from the asylum — with your help, sir. And then she was always talking about a secret her mother had which could ruin Sir Percival. But you know, sir, I don't think Anne really knew what this secret was. If she had known, I'm sure she would have told me.'

I had wondered about that myself, and now I tried to turn the conversation on to Mrs. Catherick.

'Did you know Mrs. Catherick before Anne was born?'

'Yes, for about four months. We were neighbour’s in Welmingham. Mr. and Mrs. Catherick had just got married, and Mr. Catherick’s had a job as clerk at Welmingham church. Before that, Mrs. Catherick’s had been a servant at a large house. She was a selfish, heartless woman, and treated her poor husband very badly. Before long, there was a lot of talk about her and a young gentleman, who was staying at a hotel nearby. And Mr. Catherick told my husband that he'd found expensive presents, gold rings and suchlike, hidden in his wife's drawer.'

'And who was this gentleman?' I asked.

'You know him, sir. And so did my poor dear Anne.'

Sir Percival Clyde?' My heart began to beat faster. Was I getting close to the secret?

'That's right. His father had recently died abroad, and Sir Percival had just arrived in the neighborhood. People thought, you see, that maybe Mrs. Catherick had known Sir Percival before, and had married Mr. Catherick just to save her reputation, because of, well, you know . . . Anyway, one night Mr. Catherick found his wife whispering with Sir Percival outside the vestry of the church. They had a fight, but Sir Percival beat him and Mr. Catherick left the village, never to return again. And in spite of all the talk in the village, Airs Catherick stayed. She said she was innocent and that no one would drive her away. But most people thought that the money she lived on came from Sir Percival.

The secret was here somewhere. But where? That Sir Percival was Anne's father was hardly a secret since everyone already thought that. No, there was another mystery somewhere.

'And what did you think, Mrs. Clements?'

'Well, sir, if you worked out time and place, it was obvious that Mr. Catherick wasn't Anne's father. But Anne wasn't at all like Sir Percival; and nor was she like her mother.'

I wondered about the house where Mrs. Catherick had worked as a servant. Perhaps I would make some enquiries later.

'You've been very kind, Mrs. Clements I said, 'answering all my questions. One last request. Will you tell me Mrs. Catherick's address? I have to find out this secret, and only she can tell me.'

Mrs. Clements gave me the address, but shook her head. 'Take care, sir. She's an awful woman. You don't know her as I do.'

Back at our rooms I announced my intention to Marian of going to Welmingham. She was very uneasy about the plan.

'Are you sure it's wise, Walter? Sir Percival is a violent man.' Tm more afraid for you and Laura,' I said, 'left alone in

London, with the Count as your enemy.'

We arranged to write to each other every day; and if no letter came from her, I would take the first train back to London.

 

***

 

Three days later I was standing in Mrs. Catherick's sitting room, face to face with a grey-haired woman, dressed in black silk. Her dark eyes looked straight at me with a hard, cold stare.

'You say you have come to speak to me about my daughter,' she said. 'Please say what you have to say.'

Her voice was as hard as the expression in her eyes. Shepointed to a chair, and looked at me carefully as I sat down.

'You know,' I said, 4hat your daughter is lost?'

'I know that perfectly well.'

'Don't you worry that she might not be just lost, but that she might have met with her death?'

'Yes. Have you come to tell me that she is dead?'

'I have.

'Why?'

She asked that extraordinary question without the slightest change in her voice, face, or manner. I might have been talking about the death of a cat in the street.

I thought Anne's mother might be interested in knowing if she was alive or dead.'

'Just so,' she said. 'But what is your interest in her, or in me? Have you no other reason for coming here?'

'Yes, I do,' I said. 'Your daughter's death has caused someone I love to be harmed - by a man called Sir Percival Glyde.'

She did not react at all at the mention of his name.

'I want to make him confess to his crime. You know certain things about him from the time when your husband was the church clerk. I want you to tell me about them.'

At last I saw the anger burning in her eyes.

'What do you know about those events?'

'Everything that Mrs. Clements could tell me.'

'Mrs. Clements is a foolish woman.' She bit back her anger, and her lips curled in an unpleasant little smile. 'Ah, I begin to understand. You want your revenge on Sir Percival Glyde, and you want my help. That's why you've come here. Well, you don't know me. I've spent years getting back my reputation in this village. Now everyone respects me. I won't help you/

'If you're afraid of Sir Percival, that's quite understandable,' I said. 'He's a powerful man, and comes from a great family—'

To my amazement, she suddenly burst out laughing.

From a great family! Yes, indeed! Especially from his mother's side,' she said with disgust.

Whatever did she mean by that, I wondered?

'The secret between you and Sir Percival was not guilty love,' I insisted. 'It was something else that brought you and him to those stolen meetings outside the vestry of the church.'

As I said the words vestry of the church, I saw a wave of terror pass across her face.

'Go!' she said. 'And never come back. Unless' —and she gave a slow, cruel smile — 'unless you bring news of his death.'

 

***

 

It was now late, and I made my way to the nearest hotel. There was much to think about. Why should mention of the church vestry cause terror? Why the disgust at Sir Percival's family, especially his mother? Was there something unusual about his parents' marriage? Perhaps the local marriage register was kept in the vestry of Welmingham church . . .

The next day I went to the church. I had been aware of being followed the previous evening, and now I caught sight of the same two men I had seen outside Mr. Kyrle's office in London. It seemed that Sir Percival had expected me to visit Mrs. Catherick, and was now expecting me to visit Welmingham church - proof, surely, that my investigation was going in the right direction.

I found the church clerk, who fetched his keys and took me to the vestry. It could only be entered from the outside of the church, and the clerk had great difficulty opening the lock, which was very old. Once inside, I asked to see the marriage register. It was kept in a cupboard which could easily be forced open.

(Is that a safe enough place to keep the register?' I said.

'Safe enough,' the clerk said. 'A copy is kept by a lawyer in the next village – Mr. Wansborough's office in Knowlesbury.'

I worked backwards in the register from Sir Percival's year of birth and there, under September of the previous year, squashed into a small space at the bottom of the page, was the record of the marriage of Sir Felix Clyde and Cecilia Elster of Knowlesbury. Just the usual information. Nothing apparently peculiar about Sir Percival's mother. The secret seemed further away than ever.

But on to Knowlesbury, and Mr. Wansborough's office - a five-mile walk, but possible to get there and back by the end of the day. It was worth checking the copy of the register, and perhaps the lawyer would know something that might be useful.

 

I2

The secret

Sir Percival’s spies attacked me on the road to Knowlesbury. One of them came up beside me, and bumped into me with his shoulder. I pushed him away, hard, and he immediately shouted for help. The other man ran up and the two of them held me between them. The first man accused me of attacking him, and they said they would take me to the police station in the town.

What could I do? I couldn't fight both of them and hope to get away, so I had to go with them.

At the police station the first man accused me of a violent attack, and the second man said he was a witness. I was locked up until the next magistrate's court, which was three days away. I could be released on bail, I was told, but how could I, a total stranger in the town, find a responsible person willing to pay money for my temporary- freedom? The whole plan was now-clear - to get me out of the way for three days, while Sir Percival did whatever was necessary to prevent his secret being discovered.

At first I was too angry to think clearly. Then I remembered Mr. Dawson, the doctor. I had been to his house on my previous visit to Blackwater, so I knew his address. I wrote him a letter, explaining what had happened and begging for his help, and then asked for a messenger to deliver it. Two hours later the good doctor appeared, paid the required money and I was set free.

There was no time to lose. The news of my being free would doubtless reach Sir Percival within hours. I hurried to the lawyer's office where I asked if I could see the copy of the Welmingham marriage register. Mr. Wansborough was a pleasant man and agreed to show me the copy. In fact, he was quite amused. No one had asked to see it since his father (now dead) had locked it away in the office more than twenty years before.

As I opened the register, my hands trembled. I turned the pages to the year and month. I found the names I remembered just before, and just after, the marriage of Sir Percival’s parents. And between these entries at the bottom of the page . . .?

Nothing! The marriage of Sir Felix Glyde and Cecilia Elster was not there! I looked again, to be sure. No, nothing. Not a doubt about it. Sir Percival must have seen the space in the Welmingham register and written in the marriage himself.

I had never once suspected this. He was not Sir Percival Glyde at all! His parents had not been married, so he had no right to the inheritance of Blackwater Park, no right to the rank of Baronet, no right even to the name of Glyde! This was his secret — and it was now mine to use against him!

The copy of the register would be safe enough in the lawyer's office, but I decided to go back to Welmingham and make a copy of the false record from the church register. It was dark now and I ran all the way to the church clerk's house. I knocked on his door, but when he appeared, he looked suspicious and confused.

Where are the keys?' he asked. 'Have you taken them?'

'What keys do you mean?' I said. I’ve just this minute arrived from Knowlesbury.'

'The keys of the vestry,' he said. 'The keys arc gone! Someone's broken in and taken the keys.'

'Get a light,' I said, 'and let's go to the vestry. Quick!'

We ran to the church. On the path we passed a man who looked at us with frightened eyes. He seemed to be a servant of some kind. We did not stop ro question him, but ran on.

As we came in sight of the vestry, I saw a high window brilliantly lit from within. There was a strange smell on the night air, a sound of cracking wood, and the light grew brighter and brighter. I ran to the door and put my hand on it. The vestry was on fire!

I heard the key working violently in the lock — I heard a man's voice behind the door, raised in terror, screaming for help.

'Oh, my God!' said the servant, who had followed us it's Sir Percival!'

'God help him!' said the clerk. 'He's damaged the lock.'

 

***

 

At that moment I forget the man's crimes and see only the horror of his situation. Several people are now running towards the church and I call to them to help me break down the door. We look desperately for something to use, and at last someone finds a long heavy piece of wood.

By now the flames are shooting up out of the window, and the screams have stopped. We get the wood into position and run at the door with it. Again, and again! At last the door crashes down, but a wave of heat hits our faces and drives us back - and in the room we see nothing but a sheet of living fire.

 

***

 

The church itself was saved as the fire engine arrived soon afterwards and managed to put out the fire before it spread. They carried out the body of Sir Percival Glyde and laid it on the wet ground. I looked down on his dead face and this was how, for the first and last time, I saw him.

He must have heard that I was free and on my way back to Welmingham, so he hurried to the church, stealing the keys and locking himself in to prevent anyone coming in and finding him. All he could do was tear the page out of the register and destroy it. If the false record no longer existed, I could produce no evidence to threaten him with. He must have dropped his lamp by accident, which started the fire. Then in his urgency to get out. the lock had become damaged and the key unmovable.

I could not leave the town. There would be a legal enquiry into the accident the next day, which I had to attend, and in any case I had to report back to the police station in Knowlesbury. I returned to the hotel and wrote to Marian, telling her everything that had happened and warning her to keep the news from Laura for the moment. With Sir Percival's death, my hopes of establishing Laura's identity had also died, and I could see no way forward at present.

The next day an envelope with my name on was delivered to the hotel. The letter inside was neither dated nor signed, but before I had read the first sentence, I knew who had written it – Mrs. Catherick.

Sir - I thought you were my enemy. Now that he is dead, because of you, I consider you my friend. To thank you for what you have done, I will now tell you the things you wanted to know about my private life.

Twenty-three years ago I was a beautiful young woman living in Welmingham, married to a fool of a husband. I also knew a gentleman -I shall not call him by his name. Why should I? It was not his own. I was born with expensive tastes. This man gave me expensive presents. Naturally he wanted something in return -all men do. And what did he want? Just a little thing. The key to the church vestry, when my husband's back was turned. I liked my presents, so I got him the key. I watched him in the vestry without his knowing, and saw what he was doing. I did not know then how serious a crime it was. I said I would not tell anyone about the marriage he had added to the register if he told me about his private life. He agreed -why, you will see in a moment.

He said that he only found out that his parents were not married after his mother's death. His father confessed to it and promised to do what he could for his son. But he died having done nothing. The son came to England and took possession of the property. There was no one to say he could not. In fact, the right person to claim the property was a distant relation away at sea. However, to borrow money on the property, he needed a certificate of his parents' marriage. This was a problem - a problem which brought him to Welmingham.

As his parents had mostly lived abroad and had had no social life in England, who was to say (the priest being dead) that a private marriage had not taken place at Welmingham church? His plan was to tear out a page from the marriage register in the year before his birth and destroy it. Then he would tell his lawyers in London to get the necessary certificate, innocently referring them to the date on the page that was gone. At least no one could say that his parents were not married.

However, when he saw there was a small space at the bottom of the page in the right year, he changed his plan and took the opportunity to write in the marriage himself. It took him some time, though, to practise the handwriting and to mix the right colour of ink, so that it looked the same.

After my husband caught me talking secretly to him and after their fight together, I asked my fine gentleman to clear my name and to say there had been nothing between us. But he refused. He wanted everyone to believe something false, so that they would never suspect the truth. He then told me that the punishment for his crime, and anyone who helped him, was life in prison. He frightened me! \f I spoke out, I was just as lost as he was. He then agreed to make me a yearly payment if I said nothing and stayed in Welmingham, where he could always find me and where there was no danger of my making friends and talking. This was hard, but I accepted.

Many years later, when my daughter was with me at home, I received a letter from him which made me very angry. I lost control of myself and said, in her presence, that 'I could destroy him if I let out his secret'. Then one day he came to our house and called her a fool. Immediately she shouted, 'Ask for my pardon, now, or I'll let out your secret and destroy your life. My own words! He went white. Then he swore at us. It ended, as you know, by his shutting her up in an asylum. I tried to tell him she knew nothing. But he did not believe me. My daughter knew that she had frightened him and that he was responsible for shutting her up because he believed she knew his secret. That's why she hated him. But she never to her dying day knew what his secret actually was.

I will end by saying that you insult me if you think my husband was not my daughter's father. Please do not ask further questions about that. To protect myself, I mention no names in this letter, nor do I sign it.

 

The threat

Mrs. Catherick's extraordinary and shameless letter filled me with disgust. My interest in Sir Percival Glyde's crime was now at an end, but I decided to keep the letter in case it might help me find out who Anne's father really was.

Later in the morning I went to the legal enquiry into Sir Percival's death. I was only asked to say what had happened. I was not asked how I thought the keys had been taken, how the fire had been caused, or why Sir Percival had gone into the vestry. As no one could explain any of these things, the verdict at the end of the enquiry was 'death by accident'.

Afterwards, a gentleman who was also at the enquiry walked back to the hotel with me. He had heard from Sir Percival's lawyer that a distant relation abroad would now inherit Blackwater Park. This was obviously the person who should have inherited it twenty-three years before. If I made Sir Percival's crime public, it would be to no one's advantage now. If I kept the secret, the true character of the man who had cheated Laura into marrying him would remain hidden. And for her sake, I wished to keep it hidden.

I still could not leave Hampshire, as I had to report to the police station in Knowlesbury the next day. I spent another night at the hotel and in the morning went to the post office to collect the letter from Marian. As promised, we had written to each other every day, and Marian's letters had been full of cheerful news. This morning's letter was short, and terrified me.

Come back as soon as you can. We have had to move. Come to Gower's Walk, Fulham (number five). I will look out for you. Don't be alarmed about us, we are both safe and well. But come bakh — Marian

What had happened? What dreadful thing had Count Fosco done while I was away? In spite of my anxiety, I had to wait. I paid my bill at the hotel and took a cab to Knowlesbury.

At the police station, as I expected, no one appeared to continue the action against me and I was allowed to go. Half an hour later I was on the train back to London.

I got to Gower's Walk in Fulham at about nine o'clock. Both Laura and Marian came to the door to let me in. Laura was much brighter and happier, full of plans for the future and for her drawing and painting. Marian's face was tired and anxious. ] could see that she had spared Laura the knowledge of the terrible death in Welmingham and the true reason for moving to new lodgings. When Laura had left us and we could speak freely, I tried to give some expression to my feelings and told Marian how much I admired her for the courage and love she had shown.

She was too generous to listen to me, and turned the conversation to my worries.

I’m so sorry for my letter — it must have alarmed you.

'Yes, it did,' I admitted. 'Was I right in thinking that you moved because of a threat by Count Fosco?'

'Perfectly right,' she said. I saw him yesterday, and worse than that, Walter - I spoke to him.

'Spoke to him? Did he come to the house?'

'He did. Yesterday, when I was passing the window, I saw him in the street. Then there was a knock on the door. I rushed out and there he was, dressed in black, with his smooth face and his deadly smile. I closed the door behind me so that Laura would not see or hear him.'

'What did he say?' I asked anxiously.

'He greeted me then repeated the warning in his letter to me. He said he had not been able to prevent Sir Percival's violence towards you, and he had found out our address in order to protect his own interests. You were followed, Walter, on your return home after your first journey to Hampshire. He used this information only when he heard of Sir Percival's death, because he believed yon would act against him next.

'And he was right I said. 'What did he say about me?' 'He was very cool, very polite, and very threatening,' said Marian. 'He said, "Warn Mr. Hartright! He has an intelligent and powerful man to deal with. Let him be content with what he has got. Say to him, if he attacks me, I will use all my power to destroy him. There is nothing I will not do. Dear lady, good morning." Then he just looked at me with his cold grey eyes, and walked away.

'I ran back inside, and told Laura we had to move. We needed a quieter neighborhood with better air for the sake of her health. I said you'd wanted us to do that, and why didn't we do it now to surprise you when you got back. She liked that idea, and was quite happy to move. I found these lodgings through an old school friend. I did the right thing, didn't I, Walter?'

I answered her warmly and gratefully, as I really felt.

But the anxious look remained on her face, and I saw in her eyes her continuing fear of the Count's cleverness and energy.

'What do you think of his message, Walter? What do you plan to do next?'

'I decided weeks ago that Laura will be received in her uncle's house again,' I answered. 'And my decision remains the same. Count Fosco will answer for his crime to ME.'

Marian's eyes lit up. She said nothing, but I could see how strongly she supported this plan.

'I know the risks are great,' I said, 'but it must be done. I'm not foolish enough to try this before I'm well prepared. I can wait. Let him think his message has produced its effect. He will start to feel safe. Also, my position towards you and Laura ought to be a stronger one than it is now.'

'How can it be stronger?' she asked, surprised.

'Marian, I would like you to say to Laura, gently, that her husband is dead.

Oh, Walter so soon? You have a reason for this, don you?'

Yes. I cannot speak to Laura yet. But one day, not too distant I want to tell her that I love her.'

Marian looked at me for a time then gave a sad, gentle smile. 'Yes, I understand. I think I owe it to her and to you. Walter to tell her of her husband's death.

The next day Laura knew that death had released her from her marriage, and her husband's name was never mentioned among us again.

 

***

 

Our life returned to its usual pattern, but I did not forget the Count. I discovered that he had rented his house in St John's Wood for another six months, so I was fairly sure he would still be in London, within my reach, when the time came to act.

We finally solved the puzzle of who Anne Catherick's father was. When I went again to see Mrs. Clements and to tell her about Anne's death, she remembered where Mrs. Catherick had worked as a servant. Her employer had been a Mr. Donthorne.

We wrote to Mr. Donthorne, who replied with some very interesting information. Philip Fairlie, Laura's father, had been a great friend of his when they were young, and a frequent house guest. He was a handsome man and fond of female company, Mr. Donthorne was fairly certain that Philip Fairlie had been staying At his house when Mrs. Catherick was employed as a servant, in the year before Anne was born.

When Marian and I checked the dates; when we considered that Anne and Laura looked so alike; and when we took into account the fact that Laura looked very much like her father, we were in no doubt that here was the solution. Philip Fairlie was Anne's father, and so Anne was Laura's half-sister.

Now, at last, the woman in white, that strange sad shadow walking in the loneliness of the night, could rest in peace.

 

***

 

Four months passed. Laura grew stronger in body and in mind. She was almost her old self, and when we talked, it was as we used to talk at Limmeridge. If I touched her by accident, I felt my heart beating fast, and I saw the answering colour in her face. In April, we went for a holiday at the seaside. While we were there I told Alarian that when we returned to London, I was determined to force a confession from Count Fosco — to make him tell me the real date of Laura's journey to London.

'But if lam to challenge the Count, for Laura's safety, I think I should challenge him as her husband. Do you agree, Marian?'

'With every word,' she said. 'I parted you both once. Wait here, my brother, my best and dearest friend! till Laura comes, and tells you what I have done now!'

She kissed my forehead and left the room. J waited by the window, staring out at the beach, seeing nothing, hardly able to breathe. The door opened, and Laura came in alone. When we parted at Limmeridge, she had come into the room slowly, in sorrow and hesitation. Now she ran to me, with the light of happiness shining in her face. She put her arms around me, and her sweet lips came to meet mine.

My darling! she whispered, 'may we say we love each other now? Oh, I am so happy at last!'

Ten days later we were even happier. We were married.

 

The confession

A fortnight later, we returned to London, and I began to prepare for my battle with the Count, was now early May and the rental agreement for his house ended in June. In my new happiness with Laura (to whom we never mentioned the Count's name), I was sometimes tempted to change my mind and to leave things as they were. But she still had dreams, terrible dreams that made her cry out in her sleep, and I knew I had to go on.

First, I tried to find out more about the Count. Marian told me that he had not been back to Italy for many years. Had he been obliged to leave Italy for political reasons, I wondered? But Marian also said that at Blackwater Park he had received official-looking letters with Italian stamps on, which would seem to contradict this idea. Perhaps he was a spy, I thought. That might explain why he had stayed in England so long after the successful completion of his plot. Who could I ask who might know something? Another Italian, perhaps - and I suddenly thought of my old friend, Professor Pesca.

Before I did that, I decided to have a look at the Count, as up to this time I had never once set eyes on him. So one morning I went to Forest Road, St John's Wood, and waited near his house. Eventually, he came our and I followed behind him as he walked towards the centre of London. Marian had prepared me for his enormous size and fashionable clothes, but not for the horrible freshness and cheerfulness and energy of the man.

Near Oxford Street he stopped to read a sign announcing an opera, and then went into the opera ticket office, which was nearby. I went over to read the sign. The opera was being performed that evening, and it seemed likely that the Count would be in the audience.

If I invite Pesca to the opera, I thought, I can point the Count out to him and find out if he knows him. So I bought two tickets myself, sent Pesca a note, and that evening called to take him with me to the opera.

The music had already started when we went in, and all the seats were filled. However, there was room to stand at the sides. I looked around and saw the Count sitting in a seat half-way down, so I placed myself exactly on a line with him, with Pesca standing at my side. When the first part finished, the audience, including the Count, rose to look about them.

When the Count was looking in our direction, I nudged Pesca with my elbow. 'You see that tall fat man? Do you know him?'

'No,' said Pesca. 'Is he famous? Why do you point him out?

Because I have a reason for wanting to know more about him. He's an Italian, and his name is Count Fosco. Do you know that name? Look — stand on this step so that you can see him better.'

A slim, fair-haired man, with a scar on his left cheek, was standing near us. I saw him look at Pesca, and then follow the direction of his eyes to the Count. Pesca repeated that he did not know him, and as he spoke, the Count looked our way again.

The eyes of the two Italians met.

In that second I was suddenly convinced that, while Pesca may not have known the Count, the Count certainly knew Pesca!

Not only knew him, but - more surprising still - feared him as well. The Count's face had frozen into a dreadful stillness, the cheeks as pale as death, the cold grey eyes staring in terror.

Nearby, the man with the scar also seemed to be watching with interest the effect that Pesca had had on the Count.

'How the fat man stares!' Pesca said, looking round at me. 'But I've never seen him before in my life.'

As Pesca looked away, the Count turned, moving quickly towards the back of the theatre, where the crowd was thickest. I caught Pesca's arm and, to his great surprise, hurried him with me after the Count. The slim man with the scar had apparently also decided to leave, and was already ahead of us. By the time Pesca and I reached the entrance neither the Count nor the slim man was in sight.

'Pesca,' I said urgently, I must speak to you in private. May we go to your lodgings to talk?'

'What on earth is the matter?' cried Pesca.

I hurried him on without answering. The way the Count had left the theatre, his extraordinary anxiety to avoid Pesca, made me fear that he might go even further - and out of my reach.

In Pesca's lodgings, I explained everything as fast as I could, while Pesca stared at me in great confusion and amazement.

'He knows you - he's afraid of you. He left the theatre to escape you/ I said. 'There must be a reason, Pesca! Think of your own life before you came to England. You left Italy for political reasons. I don't ask what they were. But could that man's terror be connected with your past in some way?'

To my inexpressible surprise, these harmless words seemed to terrify Pesca. His face went white and he started to tremble.

'Walter!' he whispered. 'You don't know what you ask.'

I stared at him. 'Pesca, forgive me, I didn't mean to cause you pain. I spoke only because of what my wife has suffered from that man's cruel actions. You must forgive me.'

I rose to go. He stopped me before I reached the door.

'Wait/ he said. 'You saved my life once. You have a right to hear from me what you want to know, even though I could be killed for it. I only ask that, if you find the connection between my past and that man Fosco, you do not tell me.1

Then, his face still pale as the memories of the past crowded in on him, he told me the story.

'In my youth I belonged - and still belong - to a secret political society. Let's call it the Brotherhood, I can't tell you its real name. But I took too many risks and did something which put other members in danger. So I was ordered to go and live in England and to wait, I went — I have waited — I still wait. I could be called away tomorrow, or in ten years. I cannot know.

'The purpose of the Brotherhood is to fight for the rights of the people. There is a president in Italy, and presidents abroad. Each of these has his secretary. The presidents and secretaries know the members, but members don't know each other, until it's considered necessary. Every member of the Brotherhood is identified by a small round mark burnt into the skin, high up on the inside of their left arm.'

He rolled up his sleeve and showed me his own mark.

'If anyone betrays the Brotherhood,' he went on, 'he is a dead man. Another member, a distant stranger or a neighbour, will be ordered to kill him. No one can leave the society — ever.'

Pesca paused then continued. 'In Italy I was chosen to be secretary. The members at that time were brought face to face with the president, and were also brought face to face with me. You understand me - I see it in your face. But tell me nothing, I beg you! Let me stay free of a responsibility which horrifies me.

I do not know the man at the opera,' he said finally. 'If he knows me, he is so changed, or disguised, that I do not know him. Leave me now, Walter. I have said enough.'

'T thank you with all my heart, Pesca,' T said. 'You will never, never regret the trust you have placed in me.'

Walking home, my heart beat with excitement. Here at last, surely, was my weapon against the Count! I was convinced he was a member of the Brotherhood, had betrayed it, and believed that he had been recognized tonight. His life was now in danger. What else could explain his extreme terror at seeing Pesca?

And what would he do next? Leave London as fast as he could. If I went to his house and tried to stop him, he would not hesitate to kill me. To protect myself, I had to make his safety depend on mine. I hurried home and wrote this letter to Pesca:

The man at the opera, Fosco, is a member of your society and has betrayed it. Go instantly to his house at 5 Forest Road, St John's Wood. I am already dead. Use your power against him without delay.

I signed and dated the letter, and wrote on the envelope: Keep until nine o'clock tomorrow morning. If you do not hear from me before then, open the envelope and read the contents.

I then found a messenger, told him to deliver the letter and bring back a note from Professor Pesca to say he had received it. Twenty minutes later I had the note, and as I was leaving, Marian came to the door, looking anxious.

'It's tonight, isn't it?' she said. 'You're going to the Count.'

'Yes, it's the last chance, and the best.'

Oh, "Walter, not alone! Let me go with you. Don't go alone!'

No, Marian. You must stay here and guard Laura for me. Then I will be easy in my mind when I face the Count.'

 

***

As I approached the Count's house, I passed the man with the scar on his cheek whom I had noticed earlier at the opera. What was he doing here, I wondered?

I sent in my card, and I still do not know why the Count let me into his house at half past eleven at night. Was he just curious to see me? He would not have known that I was at the opera with Pesca, and I suppose he thought he had nothing to fear from me.

He was still in his evening suit, and there was a travelling case on the floor, with books, papers, and clothes all around him. My guess had been right.

'You come here on business, Mr. Hartright?' he said, looking at me with curiosity. 'I cannot think what that might be.'

'You are obviously preparing for a journey,' I said. 'That is my business. I know why you are leaving London.'

'So you know why I am leaving London?' He went over to a table and opened a drawer. 'Tell me the reason, if you please.'

'I can show you the reason,' I said. 'Roll up the sleeve on your left arm, and you will see it.'

His cold grey eyes stared into mine. There was a long heartbeat of silence. I was as certain as if I had seen it that he had a gun hidden in the drawer, and that my life hung by a thread.

'Wait a little,' I said. 'Before you act, I advise you to read this note.' Moving slowly and carefully, I passed him Pesca's note.

He read the lines aloud.

Your letter is received. If I don't hear from you before nine o'clock, I will open the envelope when the clock strikes.

Another man might have needed an explanation, but not the Count. His expression changed, and he closed the drawer.

'You are cleverer than I thought, he said. 'I cannot leave before nine as I have to wait for a passport to be delivered. Your information may be true or may be false - where did you get it?'

'I refuse to tell you.'

'And that unsigned note you showed me — who wrote it?'

'A man whom you have every reason to fear.'

A pause 'What do you want of me, Mr. Hartright? Is it to do with a lady, perhaps?'

'Yes, my wife I answered.

He looked at me in real amazement, and I saw at once that he no longer considered me a dangerous man. He folded his arms and listened to me with a cold smile.

'You are guilty of a wicked crime,' I went on. 'But you can keep the money. All I want is a signed confession of the plot and a proof of the date my wife travelled to London.'

'Good!' he said. 'Those are your conditions; here are mine. One, Madame Fosco and I leave the house when we please and you do not try to stop us. Two, you wait here until my agent comes early tomorrow morning and you give him an order to get back your letter unopened. You then allow us half an hour to leave the house. Three, you agree to fight me at a place to be arranged later abroad. Do you accept my conditions — yes or no?'

His quick decision, his cleverness and force of character amazed me. For a second I hesitated. Should I let him escape? Yes, the evidence I needed to prove Laura's identity was far more important than revenge.

I accept your conditions,' I said.

At once, he called for coffee and sat down to write. He wrote quickly for quite some time. Finally, he jumped up, declared that he had finished and read out his statement, which I accepted as satisfactory. He gave me the address of the company from whom he had hired the cab to collect Laura, and also gave me a letter signed by Sir Percival. It was dated 25th July, and announced the journey of Lady Glyde to London on 26th July. So there it was. On 25th July, the date of her death certificate in London, Laura was alive in Hampshire, about to make a journey the next day.

The Count then called in Madame Fosco to watch me while he slept. Early in the morning his agent arrived and I wrote a note for Pesca. An hour later, the agent returned with my unopened letter and the Count's passport.

'Remember the third condition!' the Count said as he left. 'You will hear from me, Mr. Hartright.' Then he and the Countess got into the agent's cab with their bags and drove away, leaving the agent with me to make sure I did not follow.

As I watched them leave, another cab went by and I saw inside the man with the scar on his cheek. What was his business with the Count, I wondered? I had seen him too often now for it to be chance. Perhaps I had fought my own battle with the Count just in time. You cannot get a signed confession out of a dead man.

While I waited for the agreed half hour, I read the document that the Count had written for me.

Statement by Isidor Ottavio Baldassare Fosco

In the summer of I850 I arrived in England on delicate political business and stayed with my friend. Sir Percival Glyde. We both urgently needed large amounts of money. The only person who had such money was his wife, from whom not a penny could be obtained until her death. To make matters worse, my friend had other private problems. A woman called Anne Catherick was hidden in the neighborhood, was communicating with Lady Glyde, and knew a secret which could ruin him. And if he was ruined, what would happen to our financial interests?

The first thing to do was to find Anne Catherick, who, I was told, looked very much like Lady Glyde and who had escaped from a mad-house. I had the fantastic idea of changing the names, places and lives of Lady Giyde and Anne Catherick, the one with the other. The wonderful results of this change would be the gain of £30,000 and the keeping of Sir Percival's secret.

I found Anne Catherick and persuaded her and her friend to return to London. I rented a house in St John's Wood for myself, and obtained from Mr. Fairlie in Limmeridge an invitation for Lady Glyde to visit. For my plan to work, it was necessary for Lady Glyde to leave Blackwater Park alone and stay a night at my house on her way to Limmeridge. This plan was made easier by Miss Halcombe's illness. I returned to Blackwater Park, and when Miss Halcombe was out of danger, I got rid of the doctor and instructed Sir Perivale to get rid of the servants.

Next, we sent Mrs. Michelson away for a few days, and one night Madame Fosco, Mrs. Rubelle and I moved the sleeping Miss Halcombe to an unused part of the house. I left for London in the morning with my wife, leaving Sir Percival to persuade Lady Glyde that her sister had gone to Limmeridge and that she should follow her, breaking her journey in London at my house.

On 24th July, with my wife's help, I got hold of Anne Catherick, and took her to my house as Lady Glyde. However, when she saw no one she recognized, she screamed with fear and, to my horror, the shock to her weak heart caused her to collapse. By the end of the following day, she was dead. Dead on the 25th, and Lady Glyde was not due to arrive in London till the 26th!

It was too late to change the plan. I remained calm and carried on. On the 26th, leaving the false Lady Glyde dead in my house, I collected the true Lady Glyde from the railway station and took her to Mrs. Rubelle's house. The two medical men I had hired (shall we say) were easily persuaded to certify the confused and frightened Lady Glyde as mentally ill. Then I gave her a drug and had Mrs. Rubelle dress her in Anne Catherick's clothes. The next day, the 27th, she was delivered to the asylum, where she was received with great surprise, but without suspicion. The false Lady Glyde was buried at Limmeridge. I attended the funeral with suitable expressions of deep sympathy.

One final question remains. If Anne Catherick had not died when she did, what would I have done? I would, of course, have given her a happy release from the prison of life.

 

I5

The proof

When the half hour had passed, I returned home. After a brief explanation to Laura and Marian, I hurried back to St John's Wood to find the cab-driver whom the Count had hired to collect Laura at the station. He wrote me a statement, which he and a witness signed, saying that on 26th July I850 he had driven a Count Fosco to the railway station where they had collected a Lady Glyde. He remembered Lady Glyde's name, he said, from the labels on her luggage.

Then I went to Mr. Kyrle's office and presented him with the proof of Laura's identity - the letter from Sir Percival, the statement by the cab-driver, the confession by the Count, and she death certificate. Amazed, he congratulated me, and agreed to accompany us to Limmeridge the next day, where I intended to have Laura publicly received and recognized.

Early the next morning Laura, Marian, Mr. Kyrle and I took the train to Limmeridge. Laura and Marian stayed at first in a hotel while Mr. Kyrle and I went to the house to deal with Mr. Fairlie. He complained like a child, saying how was he to know his niece was alive when he was told she was dead? Between us, the lawyer and I made him sign letters calling all those who had attended the false funeral to come to the house the next day.

As I led Laura into her childhood home the following morning, there was a murmur of surprise and interest from the waiting crowd of villagers and neighbour’s. The business was soon done. I read out the story of the plot against Laura, and Air Kyrle announced that everything I had said was proved by the strongest evidence. I put my arm around Laura, raised her up, and called to the crowd:

'Are you all agreed that this is the Laura Fairlie you knew?'

'There she is, alive and well - God bless her!' It was an old man at the back of the room who began it, and in an instant everybody was shouting and cheering together.

Later, in the churchyard, we watched a stone worker remove Laura's name from the gravestone. In its place he put this:

Anne Catherick

25th July I850

We returned to London the following day, happy in the thought that the long struggle was now over.

 

***

 

Several days later Pesca came to see me, and asked for a quiet word in my ear. He had just returned from Paris.

'I have news for you, my friend,' he said. 'You need not worry-any more about the man at the opera. His body was found in the river Seine yesterday and now lies in the morgue in Paris. He was killed by knife wounds to the heart.'

'Count Fosco is dead?' I said, amazed. 'Are you sure?'

'I saw the body with my own eyes. He was wearing a French workman's clothes, and had a different name, of course, but he was the fat man we saw at the opera that night. No question.'

'But how do you know this?' I asked.

Pesca hesitated. A man brought me some information," he said. 'I had to see the body, and send a report about it.'

'A man I said. 'What kind of man?'

'A stranger,' said Pesca. I didn't know him. A man with a scar on his left cheek.' He saw the understanding in my face, and held up his hand. 'No more questions, my friend. Please!'

We never spoke about it again, but I think Pesca was telling me that the Brotherhood had taken their revenge. And so Count Fosco, that extraordinary, evil man, passed from this world.

***

The following year our first child was born — a son. Six months later my newspaper sent me to Ireland and, when I returned, I found a note from my wife saying she and Marian and little Walter had gone to Limmeridge House. She begged me to follow as soon as possible. Very surprised, I caught the next train. When I got there, Marian and Laura told me Mr. Fairlie was dead and that Mr. Kyrle had advised them to go to Limmeridge House.

Laura came close to me and I half realized some great change was happening in our lives.

'Do you know who this is, Walter?' Marian asked, holding up my little son, with tears of happiness in her eyes. 'This is the boy who


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