this brother of hers, running at us with a face on him like a madman.
He was just white with rage, and those light eyes of his were blazing
with fury. What was I doing with the lady? How dared I offer her
attentions which were distasteful to her? Did I think that because I
was a baronet I could do what I liked? If he had not been her brother
I should have known better how to answer him. As it was I told him
that my feelings towards his sister were such as I was not ashamed
of, and that I hoped that she might honour me by becoming my wife.
That seemed to make the matter no better, so then I lost my temper
too, and I answered him rather more hotly than I should perhaps,
considering that she was standing by. So it ended by his going off
with her, as you saw, and here am I as badly puzzled a man as any in
this county. Just tell me what it all means, Watson, and I'll owe you
more than ever I can hope to pay."
I tried one or two explanations, but, indeed, I was completely
puzzled myself. Our friend's title, his fortune, his age, his
character, and his appearance are all in his favour, and I know
nothing against him unless it be this dark fate which runs in his
family. That his advances should be rejected so brusquely without any
reference to the lady's own wishes, and that the lady should accept
the situation without protest, is very amazing. However, our
conjectures were set at rest by a visit from Stapleton himself that
very afternoon. He had come to offer apologies for his rudeness of
the morning, and after a long private interview with Sir Henry in his
study, the upshot of their conversation was that the breach is quite
healed, and that we are to dine at Merripit House next Friday as a
sign of it.
"I don't say now that he isn't a crazy man," said Sir Henry; "I can't
forget the look in his eyes when he ran at me this morning, but I
must allow that no man could make a more handsome apology than he has
done."
"Did he give any explanation of his conduct?"
"His sister is everything in his life, he says. That is natural
enough, and I am glad that he should understand her value. They have
always been together, and according to his account he has been a very
lonely man with only her as a companion, so that the thought of
losing her was really terrible to him. He had not understood, he
said, that I was becoming attached to her, but when he saw with his
own eyes that it was really so, and that she might be taken away from
him, it gave him such a shock that for a time he was not responsible
for what he said or did. He was very sorry for all that had passed,
and he recognized how foolish and how selfish it was that he should
imagine that he could hold a beautiful woman like his sister to
himself for her whole life. If she had to leave him he had rather it
was to a neighbour like myself than to anyone else. But in any case
it was a blow to him, and it would take him some time before he could
prepare himself to meet it. He would withdraw all opposition upon his
part if I would promise for three months to let the matter rest and
to be content with cultivating the lady's friendship during that time
without claiming her love. This I promised, and so the matter rests."
So there is one of our small mysteries cleared up. It is something to
have touched bottom anywhere in this bog in which we are floundering.
We know now why Stapleton looked with disfavour upon his sister's
suitor--even when that suitor was so eligible a one as Sir Henry. And
now I pass on to another thread which I have extricated out of the
tangled skein, the mystery of the sobs in the night, of the
tear-stained face of Mrs. Barrymore, of the secret journey of the
butler to the western lattice window. Congratulate me, my dear
Holmes, and tell me that I have not disappointed you as an
agent--that you do not regret the confidence which you showed in me
when you sent me down. All these things have by one night's work been
thoroughly cleared.
I have said "by one night's work," but, in truth, it was by two
nights' work, for on the first we drew entirely blank. I sat up with
Sir Henry in his rooms until nearly three o'clock in the morning, but
no sound of any sort did we hear except the chiming clock upon the
stairs. It was a most melancholy vigil, and ended by each of us
falling asleep in our chairs. Fortunately we were not discouraged,
and we determined to try again. The next night we lowered the lamp,
and sat smoking cigarettes without making the least sound. It was
incredible how slowly the hours crawled by, and yet we were helped
through it by the same sort of patient interest which the hunter must
feel as he watches the trap into which he hopes the game may wander.
One struck, and two, and we had almost for the second time given it
up in despair, when in an instant we both sat bolt upright in our
chairs, with all our weary senses keenly on the alert once more. We
had heard the creak of a step in the passage.
Very stealthily we heard it pass along until it died away in the
distance. Then the baronet gently opened his door and we set out in
pursuit. Already our man had gone round the gallery, and the corridor
was all in darkness. Softly we stole along until we had come into the
other wing. We were just in time to catch a glimpse of the tall,
black-bearded figure, his shoulders rounded, as he tip-toed down the
passage. Then he passed through the same door as before, and the
light of the candle framed it in the darkness and shot one single
yellow beam across the gloom of the corridor. We shuffled cautiously
towards it, trying every plank before we dared to put our whole
weight upon it. We had taken the precaution of leaving our boots
behind us, but, even so, the old boards snapped and creaked beneath
our tread. Sometimes it seemed impossible that he should fail to hear
our approach. However, the man is fortunately rather deaf, and he was
entirely preoccupied in that which he was doing. When at last we
reached the door and peeped through we found him crouching at the
window, candle in hand, his white, intent face pressed against the
pane, exactly as I had seen him two nights before.
We had arranged no plan of campaign, but the baronet is a man to whom
the most direct way is always the most natural. He walked into the
room, and as he did so Barrymore sprang up from the window with a
sharp hiss of his breath and stood, livid and trembling, before us.
His dark eyes, glaring out of the white mask of his face, were full
of horror and astonishment as he gazed from Sir Henry to me.
"What are you doing here, Barrymore?"
"Nothing, sir." His agitation was so great that he could hardly
speak, and the shadows sprang up and down from the shaking of his
candle. "It was the window, sir. I go round at night to see that they
are fastened."
"On the second floor?"
"Yes, sir, all the windows."
"Look here, Barrymore," said Sir Henry, sternly; "we have made up our
minds to have the truth out of you, so it will save you trouble to
tell it sooner rather than later. Come, now! No lies! What were you
doing at that window?"
The fellow looked at us in a helpless way, and he wrung his hands
together like one who is in the last extremity of doubt and misery.
"I was doing no harm, sir. I was holding a candle to the window."
"And why were you holding a candle to the window?"
"Don't ask me, Sir Henry--don't ask me! I give you my word, sir, that
it is not my secret, and that I cannot tell it. If it concerned no
one but myself I would not try to keep it from you."
A sudden idea occurred to me, and I took the candle from the
trembling hand of the butler.
"He must have been holding it as a signal," said I. "Let us see if
there is any answer." I held it as he had done, and stared out into
the darkness of the night. Vaguely I could discern the black bank of
the trees and the lighter expanse of the moor, for the moon was
behind the clouds. And then I gave a cry of exultation, for a tiny
pin-point of yellow light had suddenly transfixed the dark veil, and
glowed steadily in the centre of the black square framed by the
window.
"There it is!" I cried.
"No, no, sir, it is nothing--nothing at all!" the butler broke in; "I
assure you, sir--"
"Move your light across the window, Watson!" cried the baronet. "See,
the other moves also! Now, you rascal, do you deny that it is a
signal? Come, speak up! Who is your confederate out yonder, and what
is this conspiracy that is going on?"
The man's face became openly defiant.
"It is my business, and not yours. I will not tell."
"Then you leave my employment right away."
"Very good, sir. If I must I must."
"And you go in disgrace. By thunder, you may well be ashamed of
yourself. Your family has lived with mine for over a hundred years
under this roof, and here I find you deep in some dark plot against
me."
"No, no, sir; no, not against you!" It was a woman's voice, and Mrs.
Barrymore, paler and more horror-struck than her husband, was
standing at the door. Her bulky figure in a shawl and skirt might
have been comic were it not for the intensity of feeling upon her
face.
"We have to go, Eliza. This is the end of it. You can pack our
things," said the butler.
"Oh, John, John, have I brought you to this? It is my doing, Sir
Henry--all mine. He has done nothing except for my sake and because I
asked him."
"Speak out, then! What does it mean?"
"My unhappy brother is starving on the moor. We cannot let him perish
at our very gates. The light is a signal to him that food is ready
for him, and his light out yonder is to show the spot to which to
bring it."
"Then your brother is--"
"The escaped convict, sir--Selden, the criminal."
"That's the truth, sir," said Barrymore. "I said that it was not my
secret and that I could not tell it to you. But now you have heard
it, and you will see that if there was a plot it was not against
you."
This, then, was the explanation of the stealthy expeditions at night
and the light at the window. Sir Henry and I both stared at the woman
in amazement. Was it possible that this stolidly respectable person
was of the same blood as one of the most notorious criminals in the
country?
"Yes, sir, my name was Selden, and he is my younger brother. We
humoured him too much when he was a lad, and gave him his own way in
everything until he came to think that the world was made for his
pleasure, and that he could do what he liked in it. Then as he grew
older he met wicked companions, and the devil entered into him until
he broke my mother's heart and dragged our name in the dirt. From
crime to crime he sank lower and lower, until it is only the mercy of
God which has snatched him from the scaffold; but to me, sir, he was
always the little curly-headed boy that I had nursed and played with,
as an elder sister would. That was why he broke prison, sir. He knew
that I was here and that we could not refuse to help him. When he
dragged himself here one night, weary and starving, with the warders
hard at his heels, what could we do? We took him in and fed him and
cared for him. Then you returned, sir, and my brother thought he
would be safer on the moor than anywhere else until the hue and cry
was over, so he lay in hiding there. But every second night we made
sure if he was still there by putting a light in the window, and if
there was an answer my husband took out some bread and meat to him.
Every day we hoped that he was gone, but as long as he was there we
could not desert him. That is the whole truth, as I am an honest
Christian woman, and you will see that if there is blame in the
matter it does not lie with my husband, but with me, for whose sake
he has done all that he has."
The woman's words came with an intense earnestness which carried
conviction with them.
"Is this true, Barrymore?"
"Yes, Sir Henry. Every word of it."
"Well, I cannot blame you for standing by your own wife. Forget what
I have said. Go to your room, you two, and we shall talk further
about this matter in the morning."
When they were gone we looked out of the window again. Sir Henry had
flung it open, and the cold night wind beat in upon our faces. Far
away in the black distance there still glowed that one tiny point of
yellow light.
"I wonder he dares," said Sir Henry.
"It may be so placed as to be only visible from here."
"Very likely. How far do you think it is?"
"Out by the Cleft Tor, I think."
"Not more than a mile or two off."
"Hardly that."
"Well, it cannot be far if Barrymore had to carry out the food to it.
And he is waiting, this villain, beside that candle. By thunder,
