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Updated: May 16, 2025
"When first I come to The Grange, miss, you see, your mother'd been buried a year; there was only you and Mr. Callingham in family. And I never saw that photograph, neither, till I picked it out of the box locked up in the attic. The little girl might be you, like enough, when you look at it sideways; and yet again it mightn't. But the lady I don't know. I never saw your mother."
What you yourself told me just now chimes in exactly with what I discovered elsewhere, by inquiry and by letters from Australia. The baby that died was the real Una Callingham. Shortly after its death, your stepfather and your mother left the colony. All your real father's money had been bequeathed to his child: and your mother's also was settled on you. Mr.
I clapped my hands to my ears, and stood back, all horrified. What I should have done, I don't know, but for a very kind man in a big rough overcoat, who had jumped on board at the same time, and made over to me like the reporters. He stepped up to me at once, pushed aside the young men, and said in a most friendly tone: "Miss Callingham, I think? You'd better come with me, then.
One morning, after I'd been four whole years at Aunt Emma's, I heard a ring at the bell, and, looking over the stairs, saw a tall and handsome man in a semi-military coat, who asked in a most audible voice for Miss Callingham. Maria, the housemaid, hesitated a moment. "Miss Callingham's in, sir," she answered in a somewhat dubious tone; "but I don't know whether I ought to let you see her or not.
Callingham had been murdered by the man whom the servants saw escaping from the window. "The rest, my child, you know pretty well already. In a panic on your account, I scrambled over the wall, tearing my hands as I went with that nasty-bottle glass, reached my bicycle outside, and made off, not for the country, but for the inn where they were holding the coroner's inquest.
His companion must deliberately have suppressed the other's existence, and pretended to be alone by himself on the island. "And his name?" Jack asked of the poor old man, horrified. The stranger answered without a moment's pause: "His name, if you want it was Vivian Callingham." "And yours?" Jack continued, as soon as he could recover from his first shock of horror.
It will be fresh in everyone's memory, as one of the most romantic episodes in that extraordinary tragedy, that at the precise moment of her father's death, Miss Callingham, who was present in the room during the attack, and who alone might have been a witness capable of recognising or describing the wretched assailant, lost her reason on the spot, owing to the appalling shock to her nervous system, and remained for some months in an imbecile condition.
For various reasons of his own, he called first on Jack, and proceeded to detail to him this terrible family story. At first hearing, Jack could hardly believe such a tale was true of his Una's father, as he still thought Vivian Callingham. But a strange chance happened to reveal a still further complication. It came out in this way.
My mistress is out; and I've strict orders that no strangers are to call on Miss Callingham when her aunt's not here." And she held the door ajar in her hand undecidedly. The tall man smiled, and seemed to me to slip a coin quietly into Maria's palm. "So much the better," he answered, with unobtrusive persistence; "I thought Miss Moore was out. That's just why I've come.
It was the very first time I had seen my own name in a printed newspaper. I didn't know then how often it had figured there. Vivian Callingham at The Grange, at Woodbury, some four years since, may be tracked down and punished at last for his cowardly crime.
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