The Greatest Works of Anna Katharine Green. Анна Грин

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      “Go on,” said I.

      “Meeting the gaze of those imploring eyes, I started up. Instantly the face and all vanished, and I became conscious, as we sometimes do in dreams, of a certain movement in the hall below, and the next instant the gliding figure of a man of imposing size entered the library. I remember experiencing a certain thrill at this, half terror, half curiosity, though I seemed to know, as if by intuition, what he was going to do. Strange to say, I now seemed to change my personality, and to be no longer a third party watching these proceedings, but Mr. Leavenworth himself, sitting at his library table and feeling his doom crawling upon him without capacity for speech or power of movement to avert it. Though my back was towards the man, I could feel his stealthy form traverse the passage, enter the room beyond, pass to that stand where the pistol was, try the drawer, find it locked, turn the key, procure the pistol, weigh it in an accustomed hand, and advance again. I could feel each footstep he took as though his feet were in truth upon my heart, and I remember staring at the table before me as if I expected every moment to see it run with my own blood. I can see now how the letters I had been writing danced upon the paper before me, appearing to my eyes to take the phantom shapes of persons and things long ago forgotten; crowding my last moments with regrets and dead shames, wild longings, and unspeakable agonies, through all of which that face, the face of my former dream, mingled, pale, sweet, and searching, while closer and closer behind me crept that noiseless foot till I could feel the glaring of the assassin’s eyes across the narrow threshold separating me from death and hear the click of his teeth as he set his lips for the final act. Ah!” and the secretary’s livid face showed the touch of awful horror, “what words can describe such an experience as that? In one moment, all the agonies of hell in the heart and brain, the next a blank through which I seemed to see afar, and as if suddenly removed from all this, a crouching figure looking at its work with starting eyes and pallid back-drawn lips; and seeing, recognize no face that I had ever known, but one so handsome, so remarkable, so unique in its formation and character, that it would be as easy for me to mistake the countenance of my father as the look and figure of the man revealed to me in my dream.”

      “And this face?” said I, in a voice I failed to recognize as my own.

      “Was that of him whom we saw leave Mary Leavenworth’s presence last night and go down the hall to the front door.”

Chapter XXI.

       A Prejudice

       Table of Contents

      “True, I talk of dreams,

       Which are the children of an idle brain

       Begot of nothing but vain phantasy.”

      —Romeo and Juliet.

      For one moment I sat a prey to superstitious horror; then, my natural incredulity asserting itself, I looked up and remarked:

      “You say that all this took place the night previous to the actual occurrence?”

      He bowed his head. “For a warning,” he declared.

      “But you did not seem to take it as such?”

      “No; I am subject to horrible dreams. I thought but little of it in a superstitious way till I looked next day upon Mr. Leavenworth’s dead body.”

      “I do not wonder you behaved strangely at the inquest.”

      “Ah, sir,” he returned, with a slow, sad smile; “no one knows what I suffered in my endeavors not to tell more than I actually knew, irrespective of my dream, of this murder and the manner of its accomplishment.”

      “You believe, then, that your dream foreshadowed the manner of the murder as well as the fact?”

      “I do.”

      “It is a pity it did not go a little further, then, and tell us how the assassin escaped from, if not how he entered, a house so securely fastened.”

      His face flushed. “That would have been convenient,” he repeated. “Also, if I had been informed where Hannah was, and why a stranger and a gentleman should have stooped to the committal of such a crime.”

      Seeing that he was nettled, I dropped my bantering vein. “Why do you say a stranger?” I asked; “are you so well acquainted with all who visit that house as to be able to say who are and who are not strangers to the family?

      “I am well acquainted with the faces of their friends, and Henry Clavering is not amongst the number; but——”

      “Were you ever with Mr. Leavenworth,” I interrupted, “when he has been away from home; in the country, for instance, or upon his travels?”

      “No.” But the negative came with some constraint.

      “Yet I suppose he was in the habit of absenting himself from home?”

      “Certainly.”

      “Can you tell me where he was last July, he and the ladies?”

      “Yes, sir; they went to R——. The famous watering-place, you know. Ah,” he cried, seeing a change in my face, “do you think he could have met them there?”

      I looked at him for a moment, then, rising in my turn, stood level with him, and exclaimed:

      “You are keeping something back, Mr. Harwell; you have more knowledge of this man than you have hitherto given me to understand. What is it?”

      He seemed astonished at my penetration, but replied: “I know no more of the man than I have already informed you; but”—and a burning flush crossed his face, “if you are determined to pursue this matter—” and he paused, with an inquiring look.

      “I am resolved to find out all I can about Henry Clavering,” was my decided answer.

      “Then,” said he, “I can tell you this much. Henry Clavering wrote a letter to Mr. Leavenworth a few days before the murder, which I have some reason to believe produced a marked effect upon the household.” And, folding his arms, the secretary stood quietly awaiting my next question.

      “How do you know?” I asked.

      “I opened it by mistake. I was in the habit of reading Mr. Leavenworth’s business letters, and this, being from one unaccustomed to write to him, lacked the mark which usually distinguished those of a private nature.”

      “And you saw the name of Clavering?”

      “I did; Henry Ritchie Clavering.”

      “Did you read the letter?” I was trembling now.

      The secretary did not reply.

      “Mr. Harwell,” I reiterated, “this is no time for false delicacy. Did you read that letter?”

      “I did; but hastily, and with an agitated conscience.”

      “You can, however, recall its general drift?”

      “It СКАЧАТЬ