I remember seeing it there a little while before I came away."
"How was it addressed? Do not think me inquisitive, but I cannot help thinking that that letter may yet be of some great importance."
Frank smiled, a sad smile enough, as he answered: "By the pet name I had for Fenella-Mrs Right. I used to chaff her because she always defended her position when we argued, and so, when I wanted to tease her, I called her Mrs Right."
"Was it written on hotel paper?"
"No. I was going to write on some, but I thought it would be better to use the sort we had when-when we were first married. There were a few sheets in my writing case, so I took one."
"That was headed somewhere in Surrey, was it not?"
"Yes; Chiddingford, near Haslemere. It was a pretty place, too, called The Grange. Fenella fell in love with it, and made me buy it right away."
"Is anyone living there now?"
"It is let to someone. I don't think that I heard the name. The agent knows. When the trouble came I told him to do what he could with it, and not to bother me with it any more. After a while he wrote and asked if I would mind it being let to a foreigner? I told him he might let it to a devil so long as he did not worry me."
Lord Castleton paused awhile, and asked the next question in a hesitating way. He felt embarrassed, and showed it:
"Tell me one thing more, old fellow-if-if you don't mind."
"My dear Castleton, I'll tell you anything you like."
"How did you sign the letter?" Onslow's face looked sad as he answered:
"I signed it by another old pet name we both understood. We had pet names-people always have when they are first married," he added with embarrassment.
"Of course," murmured the sympathetic Castleton.
"One such name lasted a long time. An old friend of my father's came to see us, and in a playful moment he said I was a 'sad dog'. Fenella took it up and used to call me 'Doggie,' and I often signed myself 'Frank Doggie'-as men usually do."
"Of course," again murmured Castleton, as if such a signature was a customary thing. Then he added, "And on this occasion?"
"On this occasion I used the name that seemed full of happiest memories. 'Frank Doggie' may seem idiotic to an outsider, but to Fenella and myself it might mean much."
The two men sat silent awhile, and then Castleton asked softly:
"I suppose it may be taken for granted that Lady Francis never got the letter?"
"I take it, it is so; but it is no matter now, I refused to speak with her just before I met you. I did not know then what I know now-and she will never speak to me again." He sighed as he spoke, and turned away. Then he went to the rail of the yacht and leaned over with his head down, looking into the still blue water beneath him.
"Poor old Frank!" said Castleton to himself. "I can't but think that this matter may come right yet. I must find out what became of that letter, in case Lady Francis never got it. It would prove to her that Frank-"
His train of thought suddenly stopped. A new idea seemed to strike him so forcibly that it quite upset him. Onslow, who had come over from the rail, noticed it. "I say, Castleton, what is wrong with you? You have got quite white about the gills."
"Nothing-nothing," he answered hastily, "I am subject to it. They call it heart. Pardon me for a bit, I'll go to my bunk and lie down," and he went below.
In truth, he was overwhelmed by the thought which had just struck him. If his surmise were true, that Onslow, in a hypnotic trance, as he had almost proved by its recurrence, had killed De Murger, where, then, was Fenella's heroism after all? True that she had taken the blame on herself; but might it not have been that she was morally guilty all the same? Why, then, had she taken the blame? Was it not because she feared that her husband might have refused to screen her shame; or because she feared that if any less heroic aspect of the tragedy was presented to the public, her own fair fame might suffer in greater degree? Could it indeed be that Fenella Onslow was not a heroine, but only a calculating woman of exceeding smartness? Then, again, if Frank Onslow believed that his wife had avenged her honour, was it wise to disturb such belief? He might think, if once the suggestion were made to him, that his honour was preserved only by his own unconscious act.
Was it then wise to disturb existing relations between the husband and wife, sad though they were? Did they come together again, they might in mutual confidence arrive at a real knowledge of the facts, and then-and then, what would be the result? And besides, might there not be some danger in any suggestion made as to his suspicion of who struck the blow? It was true that Lady Francis had been acquitted of the crime, although she confessed to the killing; but her husband might still be tried-and if tried? What then would be the result of the discovery of the missing letter on which he had been building such hopes?
The problem was too much for Lord Castleton. His life had been too sunny and easy-going to allow of familiarity with great emotions, and such a problem as this was to him overwhelming. The issue was too big for him; and revolving in his own mind all that belonged to it, he glided into sleep.
*End*