The Mysterious Three Part 41

No doubt expert men from Scotland Yard were at that moment using all their intelligence, evolving endless abstruse theories, straining every nerve to pierce the mystery surrounding these remarkable discoveries.

I smiled maliciously, as these thoughts occurred to me, and I realised how fruitless all the well-meant endeavours must prove. For never, never now would any one find the true solution. The whole of the strange affair would be written down as a mystery.

Not until three months after poor Sir Charles had been laid to rest at Highgate, did our wedding take place, in Brompton Parish Church. And in the same week, at the same church, another wedding was solemnised.

Frank Faulkner and Violet were married on the Tuesday, and I was present in the church beside Vera, who looked so sweet and smart in a pretty afternoon gown.

"d.i.c.k, dear, how happy they both are," she whispered, as Faulkner and his handsome bride pa.s.sed down the aisle after the service, while the great organ pealed forth the strains of the old, yet ever new and never hackneyed, wedding march of Mendelssohn.

"And how perfectly lovely Violet looks," I answered.

Whichelo, who was beside us, and whose immense height had occasioned considerable comment among the invited guests, as well as some laughter amongst the crowd gathered together in the street, overhearing my remark, laughed aloud.

"A few more outbursts of unrestrained admiration of that kind," he growled, in his deep voice, "and I may hear from Thursday's prospective bride that my services as best man will not be needed!"

Well--what more is there to tell?

We were married two days later, at the same church as Faulkner and Violet--and spent a delightful honeymoon in Denmark and in Norway. Then we returned to dear old London, Lady Thorold having taken up her abode in a small house in Upper Brook Street.

Our most devoted friend to-day is Henry Whichelo--Harry, as he likes us both to call him. He knows everything of the past, yet no syllable of our secret will ever pa.s.s his lips. Not a week goes by but he dines at our table, full of his quiet humour, yet sometimes as we sit smoking together in the evening, the subject of those strange happenings--how fresh they still are in the memory of both of us--comes uppermost in our conversation.

"Ah, my dear old d.i.c.k," Harry said to me the other night, as we talked incidentally of the fire at Chateau d'Uzerche, "how I should have loved to see you sliding down that rope! Young Faulkner has often told me of your really wonderful sang-froid!"

My "sang-froid in moments of crisis" is now a standing joke against me!

Vera, it was, who first started it, I believe. Well--I forgive her. I brought it on myself entirely, and must bear the consequences of my overweening conceit in the past!

A warm evening in August. The end of a stifling day.

As I sit writing the final lines of this strange narrative in my cosy little study in our new home--no, our home is not in tiny Rutland, but overlooking Hampstead Heath, a part of London that my wife loves--the crimson sun sinks slowly in the grey haze lying over the great city below. Vera is here with me, in her pale pink dinner-gown, and her fair hair brushes my cheek as she bends over me. Now her soft cheek is pressed to mine.

The blood-red afterglow burns and dies. The summer light is fading.

The only sound is the whirr of a car going towards the Spaniards. The air outside is breathless, for the day has been terribly oppressive.

I raise my smiling face to her sweet countenance, and now, all at once, she stoops lower still, until on a sudden access of emotion, she pa.s.sionately kisses my lips.

"Vera, my love!" I exclaim, looking up into her great blue eyes.

"Why--why, what's the matter, my darling?"

Her eyes are br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears. Her red lips move, but no words escape them. The corners of her mouth are twitching.

"My darling--my own darling, what is it?" I cry, rising to my feet, and folding my arms tenderly about her. Her head is upon my shoulder. She is weeping bitterly.

"d.i.c.k," she exclaims, hardly above a whisper. "Oh, d.i.c.k--my darling, my own darling boy, I have been sitting here thinking--dreaming of the past, of all we have been through--of those awful days and nights of anxiety and of dread terror. And now," the words came with a sob, "oh!

I am so completely happy with you, my dearest--so absolutely happy. I can't describe it. I hardly know--"

The twilight deepens. I hold her closely in my arms, but I cannot trust myself to speak. Our hearts beat in unison.

Dusk grows into darkness. Still no word pa.s.ses between us. We are too full of our own reflections, of our own thoughts, of our perfect happiness, now rid as we are for ever, of the grim shadow of evil once placed upon us by "The Mysterious Three."

The End.