People's Pilot, Volume 4, Number 10, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 August 1894 — THE OLD MILL MYSTERY [ARTICLE]

THE OLD MILL MYSTERY

By Arthur W. Marchmont, B. A, . .father of “ Miser Hoadley’a Secret,” “ Madeline Pawer,” “By Whose Hand,” “Isa,” Ac , Ac. rCopyright, ISK. by the Author.l t CHAPTER XIX ’TWIXT LOVE AND DOUBT. Her heart beating high with itrangely mingled ' emotions, Mary tore the envelope open: “Dear Mary—l am very miserable. I have broken my promise to you about stopping to face out the trouble; but that is not the worst. I wish now with all my heart that I had taken your advice; but there—l cannot tell you all that has happened. Some day I will. I am going away either to America or Australia. I cannot stay in the country after what has happened; but I must see you if I can before I go. Can you forgive me enough to come and meet me? lam here in Manchester, living at 19 Bolton street. Will you come and meet me, if only for the last time before I go? I am utterly wretched. I want to know that you can forgive me, and I want to hear it from your own lips. Then I can go across the sea with a lighter heart. Come Tuesday. I’ll meet all the chief trains that you can come by at Exchange station. Do come. Tom.” “Across the sea!” That was the sentence which at first held her, and the thought of it stabbed the poor girl to the heart. She sat for a minute or two perfectly still in dumb misery. “Across the sea!” —he to all out his life in one world; she to live in another—a life of work, hopeless, wearying, void of love. After a time she read th® letter again, and the second reading was not so fruitful of emotion. Her reasoning faculties were less deadened by her feelings; and she was surprised that Tom did not refer to what had happened at the mill, nor did he give the cause of his having left Walkden Bridge. With this thought uppermost, she read it again, and found that although there were one or two vague sentences which might or might not be taken to refer to the tragedy at the mill, they were not such as he would have written.

“I cannot tell you all that has happened. ... I wish now with all my heart I had taken your advice. . . . . 1 cannot stay in the country after what has happened.” These sentences were just what anyone might have written who was referring to some other reason for leaving the town, and not to the tragedy. What was it, then, that he could not tell? That Tom would not stay *in the country when he felt that he had been branded as a suspected thief, was a natural enough decision for him to make; but what if the letter did mean that he had heard the news and was going away in consequence? How was it possible that he had not heard? All of the evening papers on Saturday had been full of it; the morning papers that day had had long reports; the very fact of the murder having taken place in such a spot as a mill was enough to make everyone in Lancashire talk about it. She could get to no solution, except that she would go and see him the very first thing next day. She took out paper and began a letter to tell him so. But she did not finish it, as she reflected that now it might not be safe to write to him by name. Then she destroyed the letter. She was tearing it up when some one came to the cottage and knocked. It was Reuben Gorringe, and as soon as he entered the door Mary saw by the expression on his face that he had important news. •‘You have Dews?” she said, glancing at him, somewhat nervously. “Savannah h back.” he said. “I know. I have seen her,” answered Mary. “You know that she has not seen Tom. then?” he asked. “Yes, 1 am glad of it,” replied the girl. “Glad?” echoed Gorringe. “Very glad,” said Mary, confidently. “Do you know what it means?’ - ‘Yes. It means that Tom has beeu wronged in regard to her.” ‘Why did he ni» away if not with

herT’ asked Gorringe, eharply, looking at her as he delivered the thrust. “Because Mr. Coode and you told him to go if he wished to avoid proceeding against him on the other matter. You drove him to go away,” she answered, readily. “You believe, then, that his only object in going away was this desire to avoid the consequences which Mr. Coode mentioned?* he asked, after a pause. “I have no reason to believe anything *lse.” “My poor lass!” he said, sighing as he spoke. The girl looked up questioningly and anxious. “Yes,” he said in answer to her look. “I have news, bad news. ’Tis hard on me to have t 6 be the hearer of bad news to you; it will turn you against me,"Mary:” “Nay! I would never turn against anyone for the sake of the truth,” answered the girl. “What is the had news?” “Something that seems to give the motive for that deed at the mill,” he answered. “Against whom does it point?” she asked, almost breathlessly, her eyes wide open in apprehension. “Against Tom Roylance.” “What is it?” she asked, brave but pale, and facing the man. “Something was taken away which concerned no one but Tom,” he answered. He paused, and then added: “Papers that related to that money business.” It was a heart-thrust, and the girl want cold. “What papers were they?” she asked after awhile, her voice hoarse and low, and her lips quivering. “They were the papers which proved the case,” answered Gorringe. “There were the accounts, on separate sheets, the receipts given by Tom for the money he had had and the receipts he had taken from others for what he had paid. The former included those for which no account was ever given in by him.”

“Who missed them?” she asked, when she had time to understand wnat this meant. “The police, when they searched,” answered Gorringe. The use of the word was another sharp stab; “How did the —how did they know the papers were there?” “They went over all the papers, and these were missing.” “Yes, but who missed them? Who knew that they were ever in Mr. Coode’s possession, and on that night particularly?” “I did. I gave them myself into Mr. Coode’s hands.” The girl thought she could see a glimpse of hope in this. “But you have not told the—anyone of this, have you? You are Tom’s friend and mine,” she spoke, eagerly, and a light flashed in her eyes as she touched his hand. “No, I have told no one yet,” was his answer. Mary took his hand and pressed it, and then carried it to her lips, and looked at him with a light of sweet gratitude. “You are good indeed—a true friend —a staunch friend. It is not such bad news if only you and I know it.” She spoke with a smile so wistful and sad that it touched his heart. He tried to respond so as to reassure her; but he could not. He had what he knew would be much worse news than any yet told. She was quick to read his manner; and then sought to buoy up the hope she had expressed. “You will not tell anyone, will you?” she asked, almost pleading to him. “You will promise me this?” “I will promise, if it be possible; and,” he added in a low warning voice, “if it be of any use.” “What do you mean? Ah, there is more behind. What is it? Please, what is the worse? Tell me the worst,” she cried, in a voice through which the pain and dread were audible. “The police have found a witness who saw Tom go into the mill at about ten o’clock on Friday night,” answered the man, in slow, distinct tones. She tried bravely to keep up an appearance of indifference, even to Reuben Gorringe, friend though he said was was. “What does that prove?” she asked, glancing up at him with almost as much fear as if he had been a judge. “It shows that he was in the mill that night—on the last that Mr. Coode was seen alive—almost at the hour when he was thought to have been—to have died,” he said, checking himself and changing the expression he was going to use. “But does anyone suppose that if Tom Roylance went to the mill to—to do any such act as—as this, he would have gone publicly for all the world to see? People, when they go to do wrong, don’t carry a lamp to show others what they are doing, I suppose, do they?” She spoke fast, trying to feel as she spoke. “I don’t say he went publicly,” answered the man “Mary, my lass,” he said, suddtfily, taking her hand and clasping it firmly. “It’s no use struggling against this. Heaven knows, I’d spare you the knowledge of it all, if I could. Tom Was seen to break into the mill from the back—round by Watercourse lane; you know the spot. The police know it all now: and as if that were not enough, the traces of the window having been forced have been seen easily enough, while close by the window inside the miU this was found.” As he spoke he took out of his pocket a thin neck scarf, with Tom’s name on it. Mary recognized it instantly. She herself had given it to him “Who found that?” she asked, just in a whisper. “I did,” said Gorringe. “I have not shown it to anyone yet," he added, as if anticipating her next question. The girl buried her face in her hands agair, profoundly moved by what had t'dd her - too fall of distress to

speak Thcu sne rose and held our her hand. “I cannot yet understand all that you have told me. lam bewildered. Forgive me if I ask you to leave me i.lone now—unless, that is,” with sudden wistful pain and fear in her voice, ‘•unless there is anything else to tell me.” “No, Mary, I have nothing more to tell yon. I have brought enough bad news for one visit. But 1 have something I should like to say before I go. You know where Tom is. Go to him.” “What do you mean?” asked Mary, in sudden alarm, showing the man by the expression or her face that he had guessed aright. “I thought you would be sure to know. I will not ask you. If you do not know, never mind; if you do, then think of it. Go to him, ask him to tell you frankly what all this means, to give you the fullest information of every movement of his on that night, and to say whether he can at once face an inquiry. If he can let him come back at once; if he cannot, then we, his friends here, can help him to a place of safety until the time comes when all can be cleared.” When she was alone Mary gave herself up, without restraint, to the storm of feeling that swept over her. The terror, inspired by the news which Reuben Gorringe had brought, was intensified by the air of reluctance with which he had told it, and by the infinite kindness and friendliness with which he had spoken at the end, and had offered his advice that she should go and question her lover. But to go and question him on all the points of doubt and suspicion which Reuben Gorringe had suggested would seem like accusing him and doubting him at the same time. Did she doubt him? She told herself over and over again that he could not have done anything so atrocious; but one after another the accusing facts which Gorringe had told her rose up and refused to he explained away. Thus it was with fear, and yet hope, that she looked forward to the Interview with mother or Tom now.

CHAPTER XX THE ARREST. On the following morning Mary felt much calmer and was able to take a more hopeful view of the facts which overnight had seemed so black and so threatening. Her faith in her lover had strengthened, and although she could not see her way definitely to meet the charges, her confidence in Tom’s ability to do that was increased. If the police were, as Reuben Gorringe had said, really beginning to suspect Tom, he must come back and give the lie to the accusation. At the same time it was possible for innocent men to need time to prove their innocence; and it was therefore necessary that she should see Tom without at the same time doing anything that would be likely to hasten any steps being taken against him. She looked out, therefore, at the Walkden Bridge station, as well as at Presburn, where she had to change carriages, to see that she was not followed; and this act of itself made her somewhat nervous and flurried. At Manchester, being quite unused to the rush and crowd of a big station, the girl felt bewildered, and gazed about her in every direction, trying to catch a glimpse of her lover. Her heart gave a great leap as she caught sight of him. They clasped hands and stood still in silence for fully a minute; and the girl’s heart was sad to see the change which even three days had wrought in him. He looked haggard, and worn, and worried; while there was a dejected, anxious look of suffering in his face that filled her with infinite pain. At first she longed to let her pity and sympathy find vent in words; but then her woman’s wit checked her and she forced all the expression of alarm and concern out of her face and smiled. “lam so glad to see you, Tom,” she said. “So glad, dear. I was fpeling quite lost in this great crowd. But now I feel safe and contented when my hand rests again on your arm.” Then she pressed closely to his side. “Let us get out of this lot of pushing folks and go where we can be by ourselves and have one of our long talks;’ and thus she drew him out of the crowd and away from the station. “I don’t know where to go to, lass,” he said, after they had gone some distance. “I have an idea,” she answered. “Let us get on the tram and go to the Botanical gardens.” On the tramcar she talked and laughed about what they saw in the streets as they passed, so that the man might overcome the reserve and confusion which she could see were disturbing him; and when they reached the gardens the change in his manner told her that he was somewhat more at ease. They walked arm in arm through some of the walks in the place, until they came to a seat in a quiet side* walk, and there they sat down. Then her forced courage gave way a little and she did not know how to begin. But the man had a question which he had been longing to ask her from the moment of their meeting; and with a return of the anxious worried look to his face, he turned his head this way and that, as if to make sure that they were not overheard, and said in a low, nervous voice: “Is it true, Mary?” “Is what true?” “What I read in the newspapers yesterday about about Mr. Coode — that he was—that he was killed in tae mill?” The question let a bright light of happy relief into the girl’s heart and filled her with an absolute reassurance of her confidence in him. “Yes, it is true; terribly true, dear. When did you sec it?” “Yesterday morning, just after I had posted my letter to yon. Who did it? Is it known yet?” “No; nobody knows yet!” “When did it happen? Is anyone suspected?" he asked In a quick, bnrried voW

' Some tame on Friday night it happened. It is not quite certain when. He was seen alive somewhere about eight o’clock on Friday evening; and when Jake Farnworth went to the mill to fettle up something in the engine shed, he found him dead.” She did not answer his second question, hut he re peated it. “Do they suspect anyone?” “They’ve hardly begun to make any inquiries yet,” she answered, evading it. “Are you sure of that, lass?” he asked, anxiously. “1 thought they might perhaps suspect me." He said this with a forced and uneasy laugh that grated painfully on the girl’s ear. “Why you. Tom? Why should they suspect you? Did you go to the mill that night, as we arranged you should? I have often wondered whether you did." “No, lass. I didn’t go. I started to go, hut I never went.” “I wish now you had.” she said. “You might have saved his life. This might never have happened if you’d gone there. Why didn’t you go?” “I don’t know. I suppose I was a bit afraid of facing him, or I didn't think any good would come of it. He was so dead sure of my having tampered with his money.” “Is that why you came away, then?” “Yes, mostly, that and other things.” “What other things?" “Oh, I don’t want to talk about them. Never mind them now. I did come away, and ever since I saw what had happened that night, I’ve been downright afraid lest they should think I’d cut it on account of—of old Coode’s death.” “I wish you'd tell me what other things led to your coming away, dear,” said Mary, gently. “Why? It can’t do any good that I can see,” he answered, somewhat sharply. “I’ve been a fool, Mary,” he said, in a low, rather ashamed voice, “but I’ve given it the go-by now. Don’t ask me any questions about that; anyway not yet. I’ll tell you some day I’ve been a mad fool, hut it’s all over, if you can forgive me. I’m going away, as I told you in the letter, and I don’t want you to think hardly of me, lass: but I’d rather you didn’t ask ma anything about that,” he said, dejectedly. “I’ll only ask you one thing. You’re sure you weren’t in the mill that night, Tom?” “Sure? Of course, I’m sure! Who says different? I wasn’t far away from the mill, but I didn’t go into it.” “Then if anyone says they saw you going into the place that night about ten o’clock from the Watercourse-lane, it wouldn’t be true, would it?” “No, it would be a thundering lie, whoever said it,” he answered, vehemently. Then he added, quickly and shrewdly: “Then I’m right. They do suspect me, eh?” “What scarf had you on that night, Tom?” she asked, passing over his last question. “Why, just what I have on now, to be sure,” he answered, readily. “But what do you mean by such a question as that?” [TO BB CONTINUED.]