CHAPTER XXVIII.

A SCRAP OF PAPER.

THE sudden death of Mrs. Verschoyle so appalled everyone, that the trial was adjourned. A great sensation was created when the report came out in the papers, and numerous were the theories as to how the trial would end, now the principal witness was dead.

As a matter of fact, according to public opinion, the only thing that could prove the innocence of Vassalla, was the production of the letter written by the dead man, and alleged to have been stolen by Mrs. Verschoyle, and after the body had been removed, Ronald, in company with Foster and Vassalla's lawyer, went to look for it.

"What shall we do if she has destroyed it?" said Ronald, as they walked along.

"Oh, she hasn't destroyed it," replied Vassalla's lawyer, whose name was Winks; "she would have produced it at the eleventh hour."

"Then you think such a paper is in existence?" said Foster.

"I'm certain of it, and Mrs. Verschoyle knew the Marchese was innocent. She only accused him out of jealousy."

"But why did he not deny the charge at once, instead of letting himself be placed in such a perilous position?"

"I don't know," said Winks; "he never gave me any explanation. But he knew he was safe, for even should the paper not be forthcoming, the evidence of the deceased, that Vassalla had given him the dagger, would save him. If he hadn't the stiletto, he couldn't have killed him with it, that's flat."

"But Verschoyle distinctly denied to me that he had any intention of committing suicide," said Ronald.

Winks shrugged his shoulders.

"Changed his mind, I suppose. He evidently did it on the spur of the moment. But here we are, at last."

They went into the hotel, and were shown into the late Mrs. Verschoyle's room by the landlady, who had heard of her lodger's death, and was much scared thereat.

"I knew she'd break a blood-vessel," she said, smoothing her black silk dress; "the rages she got into were awful. They won't bring the corpse here, I hope?"

"No," replied Ronald, "it has been taken to Sir Mark Trevor's town house."

"Didn't know he had one," said Foster; "he stops at the Langham."

"Oh, yes; he dislikes his town house immensely, and being a student of human nature, likes the life of an hotel. I don't think he's far wrong, myself."

They went to Mrs. Verschoyle's room and hunted everywhere for the paper so much required, but in vain. Ransacked her desk, looked through her trunks, but without any satisfactory result.

"Perhaps she's left it about for greater safety," said Foster, referring to Poe's queer story of the "Purloined Letter."

The landlady was called up and questioned, but denied ever seeing the paper.

"Perhaps she had it with her," she suggested, as the three gentlemen looked blankly at one another.

No, the body had been searched, so they left the hotel in despair.

"Looks had for Vassalla," said Ronald.

"Not a bit!" retorted the stout-hearted Winks, "the stiletto evidence will get him off; but Mrs. Verschoyle evidently intended he should swing, and has perhaps destroyed the paper."

He went off, so Ronald invited Foster to dine with him at the "Tavistock," an invitation which that gentleman accepted. All the newsboys along the Strand were calling out sensational sentences about the case, and Ronald bought some papers to read. When they entered the hotel the clerk handed Ronald a letter that had been waiting for him all day. It was addressed in a woman's handwriting, and Monteith opened it carelessly, but on glancing at the contents he gave a shout which startled Foster.

"What's the matter, old chap?"

"The missing paper!" gasped Ronald, holding it out; and so it was. Foster took it and read it.

"My dear Monteith--I'm sick of life, and as I've no one to consult about staying in it, I'm going into the next world, straight off. Lionel Ventin."

"This puts Vassalla's innocence beyond all doubt," said Foster, "but the signature will have to be proved--can you do it?"

"No," replied Monteith; "but there's Mrs. Taunton."

"Yes!--we'll have to see her," said the barrister, putting the letter in his pocket; "but how the deuce did it come to you?"

"I don't know," said Ronald blankly, "unless she never intended Vassalla should suffer, but sent me this to-day and the case would have been squashed to-morrow. I believe she was mad."

Foster thought so also, especially when they went back to the hotel and found how the letter had been posted. Mrs. Verschoyle had placed it in an envelope and directed it to Ronald, but, evidently changing her mind, went out leaving it on the table. A waiter coming in had seen it, so posted it at once thinking it was an oversight on Mrs. Verschoyle's part.

There was no difficulty in proving the document to be authentic, as Mrs. Taunton affirmed at once that both the writing and the signature were in her brother's handwriting, and supported her assertion by producing his letters to her, which put the whole question beyond a doubt.

This curious ending to a curious case made a great sensation, but Vassalla took his acquittal very coolly. He was more annoyed at Carmela's refusal to marry him than anything else, as that young lady not only refused to see him, but wrote a letter and upbraided him for the falsehood he had told, regarding her sister's guilt, to gain her hand.

Vassalla did not answer the letter, but seeing there was no hope for him, went off to America, and found among the passengers the Bishop of Patagonia and his wife, accompanied by Mrs. Pellypop, who had insisted on coming. The Bishop yielded, in the secret hope that some benevolent cannibal might eat the old lady, but she evidently did not look inviting enough, as she is still alive and hearty.

Mrs. Verschoyle, whose unhappy fate no one particularly deplored, was buried in Kensal Green Cemetery, and lies there at rest, with all her loves, her hates, and ambitions. Carmela could not honestly pretend to mourn, but she regretted that the last interview she had with her was such a stormy one.

Ronald went down again to Hurley, and spent the summer months on the river in the delightful company of Carmela, who, now that the cloud, so long overshadowing her life, had passed away, was perfectly happy. They were wrapped up in one another, and paid no attention to the other guests at Bellfield.

This was decidedly selfish, and would have been resented, only it so happened that two other couples under Sir Mark Trevor's hospitable roof were doing precisely the same thing.

In the first place, Mr. Patrick Ryan had persuaded Kate Lester to agree to change her name for his own.

"A fair exchange is no robbery," observed Pat when he proposed. "I give you my name and you give me yourself."

"And you call that a fair exchange," retorted his lady-love. "I think you're getting the best of the bargain--I'm marrying a poor man."

"Of course," said Pat cheerfully, "that's where my self-sacrifice comes in. I can't support myself, so I'm going to support you--we can live on bread-and-cheese and----

"Well?"

"If you've no objection, we'll have an acting charade on the last word."

They did!

Sir Mark was resigned to the infliction of two loving couples staying with him, but he did feel rather crushed when Gerald Foster asked him to bestow Bell's hand upon him.

"Good gracious!" ejaculated the astonished baronet, "it's a catching disease--I'm glad Mrs. Pellypop isn't here, or I'd fall a victim to matrimony myself."

He liked Foster, however, and moreover saw he was a man likely to make his mark in the world, so agreed to the engagement, and resigned himself, in a Christian spirit, to the awful fact of living in the same house with three young men engaged to the same number of young women.

"I feel like an elderly Cupid," he said plaintively; "the only remedy for this epidemic of love-making is to get them married as soon as possible."

So as soon as possible the marriages took place all at the same time in the church at Marlow, and the excitement was great over the treble event, as such a thing had not occurred in the neighbourhood within the memory of man.

It will be interesting news to all matrimonial pessimists that none of these marriages have as yet turned out failures, or does there seem the least chance of any such possibility.

Foster, with the assistance of his father-in-law, soon got plenty of briefs, and is now a brilliant Q.C., cherishing dreams of the Bench and the Woolsack.

Miss Lester's uncle dying, left her all his money, which Pat devoted to restoring the home of his ancestors, where he lives now with his pretty wife, and is not much troubled, except by his tenants, who won't pay any rent.

And Ronald?

Oh, Ronald is in far-off Australia, and by his side stands the Girl from Malta.

FINIS.