"Yes," said he at last, "he has got away."

But Dudley detected some reserve in his manner, or perhaps his own suspicions were aroused. He looked searchingly at Max, and asked abruptly:

"Is he dead?"

Max looked at him askance.

"Yes," he said at last.

Dudley lay back in his pillows.

"Thank G.o.d!"

And Max knew by the look of intense relief on his friend's face that he had done right in telling him the truth.

But, indeed, Max could not guess how intense the relief was from the burden of the secret which Dudley had had to bear for so long; and undoubtedly the discovery that it was a secret no longer, that the necessity for concealment was now over, helped his recovery materially.

Max told him, as briefly as possible, the details of the occurrence; but he neither asked nor invited any more questions.

It was not until some time afterward, when Dudley had left the sick-room, that the whole of the story became known to the family. But, in the meantime, the inquest on the body brought many facts to light.

Mrs. Edward Jacobs, the widow of the man who had been found drowned in the Thames off Limehouse some weeks before, had been, so it was discovered, the person to give information to the police against Dudley, as the suspected murderer of her husband. She had traced to him the weekly postal orders, which she looked upon as blood-money, and she had then hung about his chambers, and on one occasion followed him to Limehouse, without, however, penetrating farther than the entrance of the wharf.

Upon the information given by her a warrant was issued against Dudley; but in searching his chambers a number of letters were found, all addressed to Dudley, which threw a new and lurid light upon the affair.

The letters were written by the father to the son, and contained the whole story of his return to England a few months before; of his anxiety to see his son; his morbid fear of being recognized and shut up as a lunatic, and his equally morbid hankering after information concerning Edward Jacobs, the man who had ruined him.

All these letters, which were directed in a feigned handwriting, seemed sane and sensible enough, although they showed signs of eccentricity of character.

The next batch were written after the disappearance of Edward Jacobs, and in them the signs of morbid eccentricity were more apparent. The writer owned to having "put Jacobs out of the way," upbraided Dudley for interfering on behalf of such a wretch, and accused him of ingrat.i.tude in refusing to leave England with his father, who had done mankind in general and him in particular a service in killing a monster. The writer went on to accuse Dudley of siding with his father's enemies, of wishing to have him shut up, and told him that he should never succeed.

Some of these letters were directed to The Beeches, and some to Dudley's chambers, showing an intimate knowledge of his whereabouts.

The latest letters were wilder, more bitter, showing how insanity which had broken out into violence before was increasing in intensity, and how the feelings of regard which he had seemed to entertain for his son had given place to strong resentment against him.

After the reading of these letters, it was plain that the crime of murder which Mrs. Jacobs had laid to Dudley's charge had been really the work of his father; and Mrs. Jacobs herself, on being made acquainted with these facts, agreed with this conclusion.

There remained only the question of Dudley's complicity in the crime to be considered, and that was a matter which could be left until the sick man's recovery.

It was on the first day of Dudley's appearance in the family circle that the subject was broached, clumsily enough, by Mr. Wedmore, who was dying to know a great deal more than anybody had been willing to tell him.

Dudley had come into the drawing-room, which had been well warmed for the occasion with a roaring fire, and it was here that they found him after luncheon, with the professional nurse beside him.

The girls greeted him rather shyly, especially Doreen, but Mrs. Wedmore was motherly and gentle. Mr. Wedmore attacked him at once.

"I can't understand, Dudley, why you kept it all so dark. Couldn't you see for yourself that it was better for your father to be under restraint, as well as safer for other people?"

Mrs. Wedmore tried to interpose and to change the conversation to another subject, but Dudley said:

"I would rather explain now, once and for all. I shall be going away to-morrow, and there are several things which I should like to make clear first." He paused, and Mrs. Wedmore, her daughters and the nurse took the opportunity to leave the room. "Now, Mr. Wedmore, tell me what you want to know."

"Well, you told us nothing about your father's being alive and back in England, for one thing."

"It was by his wish that I kept it a secret. He persisted that he was sane; he seemed to be sane. But he believed that if it were known that he was in England he would be shut up."

"But the pa.s.sing himself off as an old woman, this living in a sort of underground way, didn't that look like madness?"

"I took it for eccentricity and nothing more, until--until he sent for me one day, and brought me suddenly into a room--a little dark, bare room--where there was a man lying on the ground asleep, as I thought. My father told me to bring him into the next room, and--when I stooped to touch him"--Dudley shuddered at the ghastly recollection--"my hands were covered with blood."

"Good gracious! He had murdered him?"

"Yes. And from that time he seemed a different man. I saw that he was mad. I tried to persuade him to give himself up, to let himself be put under restraint. I laid traps for him, trying to take him to an asylum.

But he was too cunning for me, and all I got by it was to rouse in him a bitter feeling of hatred of myself."

"Why didn't you give information--to the police, if necessary?"

"How could I? My own father! I believed he would be hanged if he was caught. I believe so still. The last time I saw him he seemed sane, except for a feeling of irritation against me and against Carrie, who, it seems, is my half-sister. But he attacked me suddenly, knocked me on the head, and tried to drown me. There, now you know as much as I do.

Can you wonder now that I was obliged to cut myself off from my friends, with such a burden as that on my mind?"

Mr. Wedmore was silent for a time.

"Poor lad!" he said at last. "Poor lad! I think you might have found some better way out of it than holding your tongue and shutting yourself up from all your friends; but, on the other hand, it was a jolly difficult position. Jolly difficult! And so you never even told Max?"

"No, though I more than once felt inclined to. But it was such a ghastly business altogether that I thought I'd better hold my tongue, especially as--I was afraid--it might filter through him to--to somebody else--somebody who couldn't be told a beastly secret like that."

Mr. Wedmore nodded.

"And this girl--this Carrie?" said he.

Dudley's face lighted up.

"That's my one comfort in all this," said he, "that it has led to my finding out the girl and doing something for her. I never heard of her before. But my father told me she was my half-sister, and they say there is something in our faces which confirms the story. Anyhow, she's a grand girl, and I'm going to look after her. She's gone away--"

"Gone away!" repeated Mr. Wedmore, disconcerted.

There had been a lull in the quarrel between him and his son for the last few days, during which Carrie had avoided Max and Max had avoided his father.

"Yes," said Dudley. "She would go, and she thought it best to go without any fuss, leaving me to say good-bye for her. She's all right. I'm going to look after her; and she's going into training as a hospital nurse."

"Oh, well, I'm sure I hope she'll get on," said Mr. Wedmore, rather vaguely.

He had been getting used, during the last few days, to the thought of the pretty, blue-eyed girl as a daughter-in-law, and he found himself now rather hoping than fearing that Max would stick to his choice.

"Well," said he at last, "I must send the ladies to have a look at you now, I suppose. I wouldn't let them talk my head off on the first day, if I were you."

Dudley sprang to his feet. He seemed restless and excited.

"I won't talk much. I won't let them talk much," said he, in an unsteady voice. "But may I see--may I speak to Doreen?"