With a smile that betrayed unusual interest, the daughter of the Texas statesman read that letter on Thursday morning in her room at the Carlton.There was no question about it - the first epistle from the strawberry-mad one had caught and held her attention.All day, as she dragged her father through picture galleries, she found herself looking forward to another morning, wondering, eager.
But on the following morning Sadie Haight, the maid through whom this odd correspondence was passing, had no letter to deliver.The news rather disappointed the daughter of Texas.At noon she insisted on returning to the hotel for luncheon, though, as her father pointed out, they were far from the Canton at the time.Her journey was rewarded.Letter number two was waiting; and as she read she gasped.
DEAR LADY AT THE CARLTON: I am writing this at three in the morning, with London silent as the grave, beyond our garden.That I am so late in getting to it is not because I did not think of you all day yesterday; not because I did not sit down at my desk at seven last evening to address you.Believe me, only the most startling, the most appalling accident could have held me up.
That most startling, most appalling accident has happened.
I am tempted to give you the news at once in one striking and terrible sentence.And I could write that sentence.A tragedy, wrapped in mystery as impenetrable as a London fog, has befallen our quiet little house in Adelphi Terrace.In their basement room the Walters family, sleepless, overwhelmed, sit silent; on the dark stairs outside my door I hear at intervals the tramp of men on unhappy missions - But no; I must go back to the very start of it all:
Last night I had an early dinner at Simpson's, in the Strand - so early that I was practically alone in the restaurant.The letter I was about to write to you was uppermost in my mind and, having quickly dined, I hurried back to my rooms.I remember clearly that, as I stood in the street before our house fumbling for my keys, Big Ben on the Parliament Buildings struck the hour of seven.
The chime of the great bell rang out in our peaceful thoroughfare like a loud and friendly greeting.
Gaining my study, I sat down at once to write.Over my head Icould hear Captain Fraser-Freer moving about - attiring himself, probably, for dinner.I was thinking, with an amused smile, how horrified he would be if he knew that the crude American below him had dined at the impossible hour of six, when suddenly I heard, in that room above me, some stranger talking in a harsh determined tone.Then came the captain's answering voice, calmer, more dignified.This conversation went along for some time, growing each moment more excited.Though I could not distinguish a word of it, I had the uncomfortable feeling that there was a controversy on;and I remember feeling annoyed that any one should thus interfere with my composition of your letter, which I regarded as most important, you may be Sure.
At the end of five minutes of argument there came the heavy thump-thump of men struggling above me.It recalled my college days, when we used to hear the fellows in the room above us throwing each other about in an excess of youth and high spirits.But this seemed more grim, more determined, and I did not like it.- However, I reflected that it was none of my business.I tried to think about my letter.
The struggle ended with a particularly heavy thud that shook our ancient house to its foundations.I sat listening, somehow very much depressed.There was no sound.It was not entirely dark outside - the long twilight - and the frugal Walters had not lighted the hall lamps.Somebody was coming down the stairs very quietly - but their creaking betrayed him.I waited for him to pass through the shaft of light that poured from the door open at my back.
At that moment Fate intervened in the shape of a breeze through my windows, the door banged shut, and a heavy man rushed by me in the darkness and ran down the stairs.I knew he was heavy, because the passageway was narrow and he had to push me aside to get by.Iheard him swear beneath his breath.
Quickly I went to a hall window at the far end that looked out on the street.But the front door did not open; no one came out.Iwas puzzled for a second then I reentered my room and hurried to my balcony.I could make out the dim figure of a man running through the garden at the rear - that garden of which I have so often spoken.
He did not try to open the gate; he climbed it, and so disappeared from sight into the alley.
For a moment I considered.These were odd actions, surely; but was it my place to interfere? I remembered the cold stare in the eyes of Captain Fraser-Freer when I presented that letter.I saw him standing motionless in his murky study, as amiable as a statue.
Would he welcome an intrusion from me now?
Finally I made up my mind to forget these things and went down to find Walters.He and his wife were eating their dinner in the basement.I told him what had happened.He said he had let no visitor in to see the captain, and was inclined to view my misgivings with a cold British eye.However, I persuaded him to go with me to the captain's rooms.
The captain's door was open.Remembering that in England the way of the intruder is hard, I ordered Walters to go first.He stepped into the room, where the gas flickered feebly in an aged chandelier.
"My God, sir!" said Walters, a servant even now.
And at last I write that sentence: Captain Fraser-Freer of the Indian Army lay dead on the floor, a smile that was almost a sneer on his handsome English face!
The horror of it is strong with me now as I sit in the silent morning in this room of mine which is so like the one in which the captain died.He had been stabbed just over the heart, and my first thought was of that odd Indian knife which I had seen lying on his study table.I turned quickly to seek it, but it was gone.
And as I looked at the table it came to me that here in this dusty room there must be finger prints - many finger prints.
