In sight of this new danger I was speechless. I had no power to define its nature or to examine it with a clear mind, but I could not resist the foreboding that a grievous burden was added to my pack of woe. There was an airy insolence, a light-hearted mockery in Maxwell's voice which betokened that he had reached a haven for which he had been searching; and I knew from old experience that this was a sign of evil.

"You don't appear to recognize me, dear John. Am I so changed, or is it that you have not recovered from the shock of the loss we have sustained? Our poor Barbara! Lost to us forever. She had her faults, but she has atoned for them, and is now in a better world. Let that be our consolation. Find your voice, old man, and bid me welcome."

"You are not welcome," I said, endeavoring to keep command of myself. "You have brought misery enough upon me. No living link gives you now a place in my life."

"True; but dead links are stronger and more binding. How they drop away, those who are dear to us! One burnt to death, another murdered in cold blood!"

Everything swam before me. The paper rustled in my trembling hand; the shouts of the newsboy: "Horrible discovery in Liverpool! Horrible murder!" fell upon my ears with a muffled sound, though he was but a few yards away, charged with dread import. I knew that Maxwell continued to speak, but I did not hear what he was saying till he shook me by the shoulder.

"You are inattentive, dear John. The latest murder the newsboy is calling out fascinates you. I see you have bought a newspaper off him; they are selling like wildfire. All over London they are screaming—'Murder, murder; horrible murder!' But you are shaking with cold. It will be better—and safer—to converse in your room, where we can read the news you have waited for so long. How true is the old adage, 'Murder will out!' After you, brother-in-law. The host takes the lead, you know. Tread softly, softly!"

He spoke with the air of one who holds the man he is addressing in the hollow of his hand, but he was always a braggart. In the midst of my terror and despair that thought came—this man Maxwell was always a braggart. I would hear what he had to say, and speak myself as little as possible till he was done. Thus much made itself intelligible to my dazed senses. So I led the way into the house, and up the stairs to my room, Maxwell following at my heels. Safe within, he turned the key gently in the lock.

"We can't be too careful, John, when life and liberty are at stake. And you would have sent me away—me, your only friend, the one man in the world who can save you from the gallows!"

"You speak in enigmas," I managed to say.

"Nonsense, brother-in-law—nonsense. Drop the mask; you are not in the criminal court; the police are not yet on your track. Your voice is husky. Are you still a teetotaller? Yes? Astonishing. Drink this glass of water—it will clear your throat. But, as my host, you will allow me something stronger. If I ring the bell the slavey will come, I suppose. I must trouble you for a few shillings, John. I am in my chronic state, dead broke, as usual. Bad luck sticks to me, but I would not change places with you for all that. My pockets are empty, but my neck is safe. What does the paper say about it?"

He took it from my hand, and took also the purse I had thrown on the table. The servant had answered the bell, and was waiting in the passage. He opened the door, and giving her money sent her for a bottle of brandy.

"Any other lodgers on this floor, John? No? That's fortunate. The less risk of our being overheard. What name do you go by here? Your own? No? What then? Tush! You can't conceal it from me; I have but to ask the slavey or the landlady. There is no need even for that, except by way of confirmation. Shall we say Fletcher—John Fletcher? A great mistake. Will tell fatally against you if they run you down, or if you make me your enemy. You should have kept to Fordham; it would have been a point in your favor. Poor Louis! He wasn't half a bad sort of fellow; but you never loved him. You almost killed him when you were boys together, and you only waited your opportunity to finish him. Well it's done, and badly done. I don't set myself up as a particularly moral or virtuous party, but my hands are free from blood. Ah, there's the slavey with the liquor, and I'm perishing for a drink."

I kept my eyes from him while he helped himself and drank; my fear was lest some look in my eyes should betray me; my cue was to ascertain from his own lips the extent of his knowledge, and how he came by it. His thirst assuaged he re-locked the door, and drew a chair close to that in which I was sitting at the table. Then he spread the newspaper upon the table, so that the revelation I dreaded could be read by both at the same time.

"Shall I read it aloud, John?"

"No."

"As you please."

We bent our heads over the paper, and this is what I read. I copy it from the cutting I have kept by me since that night:

"HORRIBLE DISCOVERY IN LIVERPOOL."

"A horrible discovery was made last night in an empty house in Rye Street, Liverpool. A couple of years ago the house was taken on lease by a corn merchant, who used the lower floors for storage, and let the upper floors for residence. Five or six months afterwards the tenants left, the reason being that they considered the building unsafe. Then the merchant furnished the first floor, and occasionally slept there. At the end of the year he had no further occasion for it, and he gave the keys to a house agent, with instructions to let the whole or part of the house to the best advantage, in order that he might be relieved of some portion of the rent, for which he was responsible. For eleven months it remained uninhabited, and then a gentleman giving the name of Mollison offered to take it for a month to see if it would suit him to become a permanent tenant. The agent closed with the offer; a month's rent was paid in advance, and the keys delivered over. It may be mentioned that Mr. Mollison was a stranger to the agent, who saw him only once, the arrangement being made at the first interview between them. A London reference was given, and the agent received a reply in due course which he considered satisfactory. Meanwhile, although the month's rent had been paid, the house seemed to remain uninhabited, no persons being seen to enter or issue from it, but there is some kind of circumstantial evidence that on one or more occasions the new tenant was there, either alone or with companions, there being a back entrance in a blind alley which after sunset was practically deserted. Candles and lamps have certainly been burnt in the room on the first floor facing the front entrance, but these were not seen from the street, for the reason that well-fitting shutters masked the windows, and that over the shutters hung heavy tapestry curtains.

"For some time past the Liverpool police have been seeking a clue towards the discovery of a gang of coiners who were supposed to be carrying on their unlawful occupation in that city, and two or three days ago their attention was directed to this house, which, from its situation and circumstances, offered facilities for these breakers of the law. A close watch was set upon the front and back entrances, but no one was observed to enter the premises. There being a likelihood that coiners' implements, if not the coiners themselves, might be found in the house, it was decided to break into it last night. This was done at midnight, but no implements of any kind were found. The efforts of the police, however, were not unrewarded, and a horrible discovery was made. In the passage from the street door to the first flight of stairs traces were seen of some frightful struggle having taken place there. Proceeding upstairs were further traces of the struggle, and upon the floor of the first floor front room—the shutters of which were closed and the curtains drawn across—was discovered the body of a man who had been ruthlessly murdered. It was not a quite recent murder; at least a fortnight must have passed between its perpetration and discovery. The room was in great disorder. The furniture was thrown in all directions, and proved the desperate nature of the struggle. Upon the face of the victim a heavy table had fallen or been dashed, with the evident intention of rendering the features unrecognizable.

"That this object was accomplished will not, perhaps, increase the mystery which surrounds the affair, for the clothes of the murdered man should provide means of identification. No cards or documents of any kind were found upon the body. In one of the pockets was an empty purse. A watch chain was found on the floor, but no watch. The chain appeared to have been torn away, and the absence of watch, money, and jewelry points to robbery. Death was caused by a stab in the heart, but a careful search through the house failed in the discovery of the weapon. The house agent states that the deceased is not the man to whom the place was let, of whom he has furnished a description to the police, but he seems not to be confident as to its correctness. From the stale remains of food and the lees of liquor at the bottom of glasses and bottles in the apartment it is presumed that the murder was committed thirteen or fourteen days ago, probably on the night of the snowstorm which did so much damage in the city. The police are busy investigating the horrible affair, which is at present enveloped in mystery. A subsequent additional statement has been made by the house agent, who says, though still speaking with uncertainty, that there are points of resemblance in the body to the man to whom the house was let."

Maxwell finished the reading of this, to me, fatal news, before I had, and when I looked up from the paper he was smoking one of my cigars, to which he had helped himself from my cigar case. What now remained was to hear from him how he had learned of my connection with the murder. He was sitting with folded arms, a glass of liquor before him, puffing at the cigar, and with his eyes fixed on my face.

"Rather startling, John," were his first words.

I returned his gaze without answering, and so we sat for several minutes, staring at each other. At length he spoke again.

"I am waiting, John."

"For what?" I asked.

My voice was strange to me; it was as if another man had spoken.

"Well, I thought you would like to make some comment on this newspaper report of the discovery of the crime. I do not wish you to incriminate yourself. No need for that. Any fool looking at you now, would jump at the right conclusion. We know who the murdered man is; the police don't, and may never discover. It depends upon me."

"Upon you?"

"Upon me. I hold the threads, and the evidence upon which you would be convicted. I make a shrewd guess that there is other evidence in your possession which would bring the guilt home to you." He rose and went into my bedroom; I followed his movements with my eyes, and made no effort to arrest them. Presently he returned. "I have taken the liberty to look over your clothing. There is no mistake about one article—Louis' ulster. Why do you keep it by you? Man alive, it is fatal—fatal!"

"How do you know it is his ulster?"

"Well, it may not be, but the last time I saw the poor fellow—let me see, it was about five weeks ago, here in London—he wore one suspiciously like it. Of course, it is easy of proof. Do you deny it was his?"

"I deny nothing; I admit nothing."

"Politic, but weak and useless. I will make another shrewd guess. The missing watch—Louis's watch. A search warrant would probably find it on your person or in these rooms. It may be difficult to identify unmarked clothing—I beg your pardon, you were about to speak."

I drank a second glass of water to clear my throat.

"It does not state here," I said, pointing to the newspaper, "that the clothing is unmarked."

"No, it does not, but I assume it, for if his handkerchief, or shirt, or any of his underclothing, bore his initials, the fact would be at once made public to expedite discovery. The reasonable conclusion, therefore, is that there are no initials on his clothing to assist the police. A fortunate thing for you. L. F. It would be all over the country. Some woman with whom he is connected—not his mother—would say to herself, 'L. F., Louis Fordham.' For the best of all reasons the man she is interested in does not make his appearance. Away she goes to the police, examines the clothes, examines the body, and declares the name of the murdered man."

"Why would not his mother do this?"

"Again, for the best of all reasons. She is dead."

"My stepmother dead!"

"As a doornail. You are in luck. Alive, and the body proved to be that of her son, she would argue it out. 'Who was my son's bitterest enemy—who has always been his bitterest enemy? Who but John Fordham?' She would swear to bring the murderer to justice; she would leave no stone unturned; she would hunt you down, John; she would tell the story of your life, with embellishments, in the public court, and make your very name infamous. Lucky for you, therefore, that she is dead. As I was saying, it may be difficult to identify unmarked clothing, but not so with a watch. It is almost a living witness, and found in your possession would send you to the gallows without a tittle of other evidence. What on earth made you run off with it, and what on earth made you leave your own behind? Your health, John. Talking is dry work. Wouldn't you like to ask me a few questions?"

"Tell me what you know, and how you know it. I cannot ask questions."

"Anything to oblige, and in any way you please. I will a round, unvarnished tale deliver. These are capital cigars of yours; you were always a good judge of tobacco. Well, then, to begin, with the prefatory remark that one part of it might be called a chapter of accidents. I won't dwell much on the past; it isn't by any means an agreeable subject, and I am quite aware that there was no love lost between us. But one thing I will say—I think we were all unjust to one another, all a little too hard on one another, making the worst of everything instead of endeavoring to smooth it over. You had provocation; Barbara had hers. She got the idea of another woman in her head, and it drove her to excesses. You can't deny that she was mistaken in her idea; another woman there was, another woman there is—and then, there's the child. That sort of thing is enough to drive a wife mad, so you can't call yourself blameless for poor Barbara's death, because you see, John, one thing leads to another. By a process of reasoning you might be proved to be the direct cause of your wife's death, and therefore her murderer. No doubt you can justify yourself to your own satisfaction, and I am not going to argue with you, but as Barbara's brother it is due to her memory that I should say a few words on her behalf. Of course you know, through your solicitor, that when you disappeared I tried to discover your whereabouts. You were too clever for me, and for some time I was at fault; at length I found out—never mind how—that you had gone to Australia. Then came the question, had you taken the other woman with you? I found an answer to it. You had not."

I pause here to say all the time Maxwell was speaking he was watching my face, as if for confirmation of certain of his statements. I did not observe it during the interview; it occurred to me afterwards when, in a calmer mood, I thought of what had taken place between us. He continued:

"Of your life in Australia I know little or nothing. It is more than likely you made a fortune there; you were always a lucky devil, with a handful of trumps in your hand that ensured a winning game. Even now—with me for a partner—the game is not lost. Now let us see what brought you back to England. It was not, perhaps, because you were tired of Australian life and longed for London pleasures, though that motive is sufficiently strong. But there was Barbara to reckon with. What an encumbrance! Too bad altogether. (Your way of thinking, John; it is your point of view.) By a fortunate fatality—your view again, John—the encumbrance is removed. Barbara is dead; the road is cleared for you. The winning game is in your hand. You lose no time; home you come—to marry the other woman. Am I right? Silence gives consent."

He threw away the stump of his cigar and lit another.

"Now begins the chapter of accidents. On the 30th of November I happened to be in Liverpool; business called me there for just one day, and of all days in the year just that day. In the night my business finished, and not to my satisfaction (all my life I have been robbed right and left, but that's a detail which will not arouse your sympathy), I walked back to my hotel in no very agreeable frame of mind. What a night it was! You remember it, John—you will remember it all your life. It was the most awful snowstorm in my recollection—a record. My way to my hotel lay through Rye Street. The wind cut me in pieces, the snow blinded me; I give you my word I could not get along. I was literally blown back every step I took, actually and literally blown into a house the street door of which was open when I was trying to pass it. I stood in the passage to recover my breath, and then going to the door saw the madness of endeavoring to reach my hotel through such a frightful storm. I did the sensible thing.

"'Here is a house,' thought I, 'the street door of which has been accidentally left or blown open; the inmates will surely accord me shelter for the night; if not a bed, at least a seat by the fire."

"I was so nipped and frozen with cold, that after closing the door, it took me some time to get my matchbox from my pocket and strike a light, for the passage was in intense darkness. Then the fear came over me that I might be mistaken for a burglar. So I called out at the top of my voice without receiving a reply. Thinking it very strange I made my way upstairs to the first floor, and entered a room in which there was no light. I called out again, and still received no reply. I must make the people hear, thought I, and I left the room and ascended the second flight of stairs. To cut a long story short, I went all over the house, and came to the conclusion that it was uninhabited. But I had observed in the room on the first floor signs of some person having been there, but whether recently or not I could not judge without further examination. So I groped back to that room, and by good luck happened to put my hand on a small piece of candle on a sideboard. This I lighted, and you will understand how startled I was at what I saw.

"The furniture seemed to have been violently hurled in all directions, a table at the further end of the room was upset, and an object which I did not immediately distinguish lay beneath it. My first impulse was to fly from the house; there had evidently been a desperate fight in the room, and I might be implicated in what had taken place. Upon second thoughts I became reassured. I could account for every minute of my time during the day and night, up to the moment I had entered this strange house; and my curiosity led me to ascertain the nature of the proceeding which had brought about such confusion. That done I could proceed to the police station and report what I had seen. I will not attempt to describe my horror when I saw the body of a dead man beneath the table, and when, examining the mutilated features, I discovered that the murdered man was Louis Fordham. It makes me sick to think of it. I must have another drink."

He tossed off a full glass of brandy and water, and rose and paced the room. I sat in silent agony, waiting for what was to come.

"Let me make an end of it as quickly as possible," he said. "Louis lay there before me, stone dead. Who was the murderer? At whose cowardly hand had he met his death? The newspaper report says that his features were unrecognizable, but though his face, when I saw it, was dreadfully disfigured, I could not mistake it. Then, the fortnight that has elapsed may have made some change in him; then again, there may be some exaggeration in the report. Such sensations are always made the worst of; newspaper writers like to pile up the agony. I searched for some evidence that would help to bring the guilt home to the murderer. It is curious, John, that they generally leave something behind that proves fatal. You did. The first thing I found was the knife with which the deadly stab had been inflicted. There was blood upon it. Now, why should the discovery of that knife have directed my thoughts in your direction? A kind of lame explanation can be given, but it doesn't quite account for it. Perhaps it was what we call Providence, perhaps it was because the knife was not one which a man living in England ordinarily carries about with him. It was such a knife as gold-diggers use, and carry in a sheath. Do you see the connection? A gold-digger's knife. You have been in Australia, and most likely on the goldfields. A steamer from Australia had that very day arrived at Liverpool. That formed a sequence, which I accepted all the more readily because I had no cause to love you. I am frank, you see; I am always frank. I detest duplicity.

"Continuing my search I found a watch. It was like a watch you used to wear in happier days, but of this I could not be sure. However, as I have said, the history of a watch can be traced. It was not such a watch as Louis was in the habit of wearing. Still continuing my search, I found a matchbox, and on the lid the initials, J. F. They stand for John Fordham. They stand also for John Fletcher. Did it strike you when you assumed that name that the initials were the same? Your having been in Australia, the arrival of an Australian vessel, the gold-digger's knife, the watch, the matchbox with the initials, J. F., formed a complete chain. I said to myself, 'My brother-in-law, John, is the murderer.'"

He had spoken all through with zest, and as he went on his enjoyment of the story he was relating seemed to increase. Having now reached a dramatic point he paused again to give it greater weight.

"What now remained to me to do?" he continued. "To denounce you—to put the rope round your own neck? Undoubtedly that would have been the right course, and had I acted upon the impulse of the moment the whole country would be howling at you for a cold-blooded monster, who had since boyhood nursed his vindictive hatred of his brother, and only waited a favorable opportunity to barbarously murder him. For it was a murder of the most savage kind, John; poor Louis' body was frightfully battered and bruised. But second thoughts deterred me. You were related to me by marriage; disgrace to you meant, in some small measure, disgrace to me; I might, after all, be mistaken in the conclusions I had drawn; it would only be fair, before proceeding to extremities, to give you a chance of saying a word in your own defense; and, though it may be hard to believe, I have really a sneaking regard for you. Upon the top of this came the reflection that you might invent some sort of story, upon the strength of which you would give yourself up and take the chances of the law. A voluntary surrender would go far in your favor, and you might issue from the trial a free man, or if not free, with a nominal punishment for manslaughter. It was perhaps foolish of me to allow these considerations to prevail, but it was the course I adopted. So, bearing away with me the articles which prove your guilt, I stole from the house unobserved. The next day I was in London. A week passed by, and no news relating to the murder appeared in the papers, nor was there any notice of your giving yourself up. This deepened my conviction that you were the murderer. Innocence proclaims itself, guilt hides its head. And every hour that was passed fixed the rope more firmly round your neck in case of discovery. Then I set myself to the task of finding you, and here you behold me with my round, unvarnished tale delivered. I think I am entitled to ask a question. Innocent or guilty, John?"

"Both," I answered.

"Ah. You have heard my story. Let me hear yours."

I related it to him without distortion or exaggeration. As I related the events of that fatal night I was filled with dismay at the weakness of the only defense I could make. Conscious of my innocence, I recognized that my silence and concealment had made the web in which I was entangled so strong that there was no human hope of escape. At the conclusion of my tale Maxwell shook his head and smiled.

"It won't do, John. You will have to invent something more plausible than that."

"You don't believe me?"

"Ask yourself whether a jury would. The clumsiest lawyer would sweep away such a cobweb. 'Your story true,' he would say, 'why did you not come forward immediately and relate it?' Your answer,' I was afraid it would not be believed.' 'Exactly,' he would say, 'it would not be believed.' I see the jury putting their heads together; I hear the judge pronouncing sentence, 'to be hanged by the neck till you are dead, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul!' No, no, John, it will not hold water. Capital cigars, these of yours; wish I could afford to buy a box or two. Well, it may be. I am a very worldly man, John; I sigh for the fleshpots of Egypt. You would like to know, perhaps, how I found you out. It wasn't easy. I may thank your lawyer for the information."

"Did he give you my address?"

"Oh, no. I have held no communication with him. He hasn't a high opinion of me, I am afraid. Believing that you were in London, and that you had business to transact with him in connection with Barbara's money, which ought to have been settled absolutely upon her, and which, by her will, would have fallen to me—we were very short-sighted not to have insisted upon the settlement—I kept watch upon him, and followed him, among other places, to this house. He paid his second visit to you this evening, but I was not sure you were here till you made your appearance at the door to purchase a newspaper. The rest you know."

"Is it the first time you have seen me?"

"The first time since you left England."

It was a great relief to hear this, and to be convinced—as I was—that he spoke the truth. I was afraid he might have followed me, earlier in the day, to Ellen's lodgings. He would not spare her; whether he intended to spare me I had yet to learn. It was to this end I now spoke.

"Having tracked me down," I said, "what do you intend to do?"

"It depends upon you, John," he answered. "I am disposed to stand your friend."

"In what way?"

"By keeping silence. It is just on the cards that the body may not be identified, in which case the secret is yours and mine. If I don't appear against you, if I destroy the evidence in my possession, you are safe."

I did not stop to consider. My one, my only thought, was how to secure Ellen's peace of mind. The means were at my disposal, the opportunity was offered to me, and I availed myself of it. It was cowardly, the confession I have made now might as well have been made then, but I did not foresee the use which Maxwell made of the power he held over me. He needed money; I gave it to him. He needed more money; I gave it to him; more, and I still gave it to him. At first I submitted to his exactions without remonstrance, but as they became more oppressive I offered resistance. Then he threatened, and I became a coward again. The honest course was before me and I stepped aside. At all hazards I should have taken it, and submitted to the ordeal. Too late I see my error.

Alas, those fatal words—too late! How often have they wrecked life and honor and happiness; how often have they brought misery and shame not only upon the cowardly doer of wrong, but upon those who trusted and believed in him! And yet it was to save Ellen and my son from the misery and shame which my punishment would have brought to them that I did as I have done. I have no other excuse to offer.

Again and again has Maxwell pointed out that the arguments he used were not fallacious, and in this he was right. Up to the present moment the body of Louis has not been identified. For a few weeks after the discovery of the murder the newspapers continued to give their readers such information as was supplied by the police—meagre and unsatisfactory enough, and leading to no solution of the mystery—until another tragic sensation thrust it from the public mind. All this time I have been in hiding, with Maxwell ever dogging and robbing me; all this time I have been sending letters to Ellen in the care of my solicitor, making false excuses for my detention in Australia; all this time I have been receiving letters from her, every line in which proved the faith and trust she had in me, and her confidence that what I did was right. The sweetest, the dearest letters! With eyes over-brimming I have read and re-read them—read them with shame, with terror, with remorse, with the distracting thought eternally in my mind, "If she but knew—if she but knew!"

Would it have been better for me had Louis' mother been alive? This reflection has frequently occurred to me. She loved him and hated me, and this love and hate linked us together in her mind. His disappearance would have brought into play the full power of her malignity and love. She would have moved heaven and earth to unravel the mystery, and I do not doubt that she would have dragged me from the frightful haven of unrest in which I have been lurking. Would it have been better for me? Perhaps.

Not much that Maxwell says deserves to be remembered, but certain words he spoke have burnt themselves into my heart. "Innocence proclaims itself; guilt hides its head." It is not always true. Proclaiming myself guilty I protest my innocence of evil intent.

And now I am ruined and a beggar. Maxwell's exactions have brought me to this pass; all that remains is Ellen's pitiful allowance. Maxwell, by some means, has discovered this, and has repeatedly threatened to denounce me if I do not hand it over to him. If I were weak enough to yield he would devise some new form of torture when that small sum was squandered.

It shall not be. Hope is dead; my life is desolate. Despairing days, sleepless nights—I live in purgatory. The end has come, my confession is made. Solemnly I declare that every word I have written is true. Dear Ellen, forgive me, comfort me, console me!