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Updated: May 18, 2025
On those rare evenings when they did not meet the girl was conscious of a little feeling of disappointment which she was too shy to own, even to her own heart. Walter Fetherston owned it freely enough. In that bright springtime the day was incomplete unless he saw her; and he knew that, even now, every hour was making her grow dearer to him.
Thank Heaven!" he gasped, much relieved. "Then I can again face the world a free man. God knows how terribly I suffered through all those years of the war. I paid for my fault very dearly I assure you, Fetherston." WHAT remains to be related is quickly told, though the public have, until now, been in ignorance of the truth. Out of evil a great good had come.
"His curious end was a problem which, of course, attracted you as a writer of fiction. The world believed his death to be due to natural causes, in view of the failure of Professors Dale and Boyd, the Home Office analysts, to find a trace of poison or of foul play." "You believe, then, that he was poisoned?" asked Fetherston quickly.
The female police agent in all countries works independently, at the orders of the Director of Criminal Investigation, and is known to him and his immediate staff. Whatever information that wrinkled-faced old Frenchwoman in shabby black had imparted to Fetherston it was of an entirely confidential character.
The Rector, the Reverend Charles Fetherston, nodded his head with solemnity, and made a conscientious effort to remember what she was speaking of. He was not much in the habit of attending to what was said to him, finding his own thoughts more interesting than those of his parishioners.
Mother and I had been to his chambers to tea several times before; therefore, realising the urgency of his message, I found a taxi and went at once to him." She broke off short, and with difficulty swallowed the lump which arose in her throat. "Well?" asked Fetherston in a low, sympathetic voice. "When I arrived," she said, "I I found him lying dead! He had expired just as I ascended the stairs."
"The two men who stopped the car and demanded to speak with him," she said; and, continuing, described to him that remarkable midnight incident close to the château. "No doubt he went to Paris upon some important business," Fetherston said, reassuring her. "It was, I think, foolish of his wife to follow. At least, that's my opinion."
Yet, however it happened, the result was the same; she killed him, even though she was the first friend to whom he sent in his distress killed him because she had somehow learnt of his secret engagement to Lady Blanche Herbert." "Yours is certainly a remarkable theory," admitted Walter Fetherston. "May I ask the name of the woman to whom you refer?"
"Then Enid Orlebar killed him?" "That if she actually did not kill him with her own hand, she at least knew well who did," was the other's cold, hard reply. "She killed him for two reasons; first, because by poor Harry's death she prevented the exposure of some great secret!" Walter Fetherston made no reply.
It was past one o'clock in the morning when Walter Fetherston stood alone with Enid in the pretty drawing-room in Hill Street. They stood together upon the vieux rose hearthrug, his hand was upon her shoulder, his deep, earnest gaze fixed upon hers. In her splendid eyes the love light showed.
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