Nothing that can happen now will ever, of course, repair what he has lost--his lost youth, his lost healthy outlook on life--but to set him free, even now! To give him his liberty once again! To feel the clasp of his hand on mine! Ah, I nearly go mad at times with longing, but thank G.o.d, thank the Providence which is above us all, I do believe I have found a clue at last."

"Tell me what it is," said the doctor, in a kind voice. "I know," he added, "you will make your story as brief as possible."

"I will, my good friend," she replied. She stood up now, her somewhat long arms hung at her sides, she turned her face in all its intense purpose full upon the doctor.

"You know my restless nature," she continued. "I can seldom or never sit still--even my sleep is broken by terrible dreams. All the energy which I possess is fixed upon one thought, and one only--I want to find the real murderer of Horace Frere."

"Yes," said Dr. Rumsey.

"A fortnight ago I made up my mind to do a queer thing. I determined to visit Grandcourt--I mean the village of that name."

The doctor started.

"You are surprised?" said Mrs. Everett; "nevertheless I can account for my longings."

"You need not explain. I quite understand."

"I believe you do. I felt drawn to the place--to the Inn where my son stayed, to the neighborhood. I travelled down to Grandcourt without announcing my intention to any one, and arrived at the Inn just as the dusk was setting in. The landlord, Armitage by name, came out to interview me. I told him who I was. He looked much disturbed, and by no means pleased. I asked him if he would take me in. He went away to consult his wife. She followed him after a moment into the porch with a scared face.

"'I wonder, ma'am, that you like to come here,' she said.

"'I come for one purpose,' I replied. 'I want to see the spot where Horace Frere met his death. I am drawn to this place by the greatest agony which has ever torn a mother's heart. Will you take me in, and will you give me the room in which my son slept?'

"The landlady looked at me in anything but a friendly manner. Her husband whispered something to her--after a time her brow cleared--she nodded to him, and the next moment I was given to understand that my son's old room would be at my disposal. I took possession of it that evening, and my meals were served to me in the little parlor where my boy and the unfortunate Horace Frere had lived together.

"The next day I went out alone at an early hour to visit the Plain. I had never ventured on Salisbury Plain before. The day was a gloomy and stormy one. There were constant showers of rain, and I was almost wet through by the time I reached my destination. I had just got upon the borders of the Plain when I saw a young woman walking a little ahead of me. There was something in the gait which I seemed to recognize, although at first I had only a dim idea that I had ever seen her before.

Hurrying my footsteps I came up to her, pa.s.sed her, and as I did so looked her full in the face. I started then and stopped short. She was the girl who had seen the murder committed, and who had given evidence of the most d.a.m.natory kind against my son on the day of the trial. In that one swift glance I saw that she was much altered. She had been a remarkably pretty girl. She had now nearly lost all her comeliness of appearance. Her face was thin, her dress negligent and untidy, on her brow there was a sullen frown. When she saw me she also stood still, her eyes dilated with a curious expression of fear.

"'Who are you?' she said, with a pant.

"'I am Mrs. Everett,' I replied, slowly. 'I am the mother of the man who once lodged in your uncle's house, and who is now expiating the crime of another at Portland prison.'

"She had turned red at first, now she became white.

"'And your name,' I continued, 'is Hetty Armitage.'

"'Why do you say that your son is expatiating the crime of another?' she asked.

"'Because I am his mother. I have looked into his heart, and there is no murder there. But tell me, is not your name Hetty Armitage?'

"'It is not Armitage now,' she answered. 'I am married. I live about three miles from Grandcourt, over in that direction. I am going home now. My husband's name is Vincent. He is a farmer.'

"'You don't look too well off,' I said, for I noticed her shabby dress and run-to-seed appearance.

"'These are hard times for farmers,' she answered.

"'Have you children?' I asked.

"'No,' she replied fiercely, 'I am glad to say I have not.'

"'Why are you glad?' I asked. 'Surely a child is the crown of a married woman's bliss.'

"'It would not be to me,' she cried. 'My heart is full to the brim. I have no room for a child in it.'

"'A full heart generally means happiness,' I said. 'Are you happy?'

"She gave me a queer glance.

"'No, ma'am,' she answered, 'my heart is full of bitterness, of sorrow.'

Her eyes looked quite wild. She pressed one of her hands to her forehead,--then stepping out, she half turned round to me.

"'I wish you good-morning, Mrs. Everett,' she said. 'My way lies across here.'

"'Stay a moment before you leave me,' I said. 'I am coming to this plain on a mission which you perhaps can guess. If you are poor you will not despise half a sovereign. I'll give you half a sovereign if you'll show me the exact spot where the murder was committed.'

"She turned from white to red, and from red to white again.

"'I don't like that spot,' she said. 'That night was a terrible night to me; my nerves ain't what they were--I sleep bad, and sometimes I dream.

Many and many a time I've seen that murder committed over again. I have seen the look on the face of the murdered man, and the look on the face of the man who did it--Oh, my G.o.d, I have seen----'

"She pressed her two hands hard against her eyes.

"I waited quietly until she had recovered her emotion; then I held out the little gold coin.

"'You will take me to the spot?' I asked.

"She clutched the coin suddenly in her hand.

"'This will buy what I live for,' she cried, with pa.s.sion. 'I can drown thought with this. Come along, ma'am, we are not very far from the place here. I'll take you, and then go on home.'

"She started off, walking in front of me, and keeping well ahead. She went quickly, and yet with a sort of tremulous movement, as though she were not quite certain of herself. We crossed the Plain not far from the Court. I saw the house in the distance, and the curling smoke which rose up out of the trees.

"'Don't walk so fast,' I said. 'I am an old woman, and you take my breath away.' She slackened her steps, but very unwillingly.

"'The family are not often at the Court?' I queried.

"'No,' she answered with a start--'since the old Squire died the place has been most shut up.'

"'I happen to know the present Squire and his wife,' I said.

"She flushed when I said this, gave me a furtive glance, and then pressing one hand to her left side, said abruptly:

"'If you know you can tell me summ'at--he is well, is he?'

"'They are both well,' I answered, surprised at the tone of her voice.

'I should judge them to be a happy couple.'

"'I thank the good G.o.d that Mr. Robert is happy,' she said, in a hoa.r.s.e whisper.