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“On the contrary, I should be exceedingly interested.”
“I think, after your kind attention to me, I cannot do less than relieveany curiosity that you may feel. You must know that my father wasStanislaus Stanniford, the banker.”
Stanniford, the banker! I remembered the name at once. His flight fromthe country some seven years before had been one of the scandals andsensations of the time.
“I see that you remember,” said my companion. “My poor father left thecountry to avoid numerous friends, whose savings he had invested in anunsuccessful speculation. He was a nervous, sensitive man, and theresponsibility quite upset his reason. He had committed no legaloffence. It was purely a matter of sentiment. He would not even face hisown family, and he died among strangers without ever letting us knowwhere he was.”
“He died!” said I.
“We could not prove his death, but we know that it must be so, becausethe speculations came right again, and so there was no reason why heshould not look any man in the face. He would have returned if he werealive. But he must have died in the last two years.”
“Why in the last two years?”
“Because we heard from him two years ago.”
“Did he not tell you then where he was living?”
“The letter came from Paris, but no address was given. It was when mypoor mother died. He wrote to me then, with some instructions and someadvice, and I have never heard from him since.”
“Had you heard before?”
“Oh, yes, we had heard before, and that’s where our mystery of thesealed door, upon which you stumbled to-night, has its origin. Pass methat desk, if you please. Here I have my father’s letters, and you arethe first man except Mr. Perceval who has seen them.”
“Who is Mr. Perceval, may I ask?”
“He was my father’s confidential clerk, and he has continued to be thefriend and adviser of my mother and then of myself. I don’t know what weshould have done without Perceval. He saw the letters, but no one else.This is the first one, which came on the very day when my father fled,seven years ago. Read it to yourself.”
This is the letter which I read:—
“MY EVER DEAREST WIFE,—
“Since Sir William told me how weak your heart is, and how harmful any shock might be, I have never talked about my business affairs to you. The time has come when at all risks I can no longer refrain from telling you that things have been going badly with me. This will cause me to leave you for a little time, but it is with the absolute assurance that we shall see each other very soon. On this you can thoroughly rely. Our parting is only for a very short time, my own darling, so don’t let it fret you, and above all don’t let it impair your health, for that is what I want above all things to avoid.
“Now, I have a request to make, and I implore you by all that binds us together to fulfil it exactly as I tell you. There are some things which I do not wish to be seen by any one in my dark room—the room which I use for photographic purposes at the end of the garden passage. To prevent any painful thoughts, I may assure you once for all, dear, that it is nothing of which I need be ashamed. But still I do not wish you or Felix to enter that room. It is locked, and I implore you when you receive this to at once place a seal over the lock, and leave it so. Do not sell or let the house, for in either case my secret will be discovered. As long as you or Felix are in the house, I know that you will comply with my wishes. When Felix is twenty-one he may enter the room—not before.
“And now, good-bye, my own best of wives. During our short separation you can consult Mr. Perceval on any matters which may arise. He has my complete confidence. I hate to leave Felix and you—even for a time—but there is really no choice.
“Ever and always your loving husband,
STANISLAUS STANNIFORD.
“June 4th, 1887.”
“These are very private family matters for me to inflict upon you,” saidmy companion, apologetically. “You must look upon it as done in yourprofessional capacity. I have wanted to speak about it for years.”
“I am honoured by your confidence,” I answered, “and exceedinglyinterested by the facts.”
“My father was a man who was noted for his almost morbid love of truth.He was always pedantically accurate. When he said, therefore, that hehoped to see my mother very soon, and when he said that he had nothingto be ashamed of in that dark room, you may rely upon it that he meantit.”
“Then what can it be?” I ejaculated.
“Neither my mother nor I could imagine. We carried out his wishes to theletter, and placed the seal upon the door; there it has been ever since.My mother lived for five years after my father’s disappearance, althoughat the time all the doctors said that she could not survive long. Herheart was terribly diseased. During the first few months she had twoletters from my father. Both had the Paris post-mark, but no address.They were short and to the same effect: that they would soon bereunited, and that she should not fret. Then there was a silence, whichlasted until her death; and then came a letter to me of so private anature that I cannot show it to you, begging me never to think evil ofhim, giving me much good advice, and saying that the sealing of the roomwas of less importance now than during the lifetime of my mother, butthat the opening might still cause pain to others, and that, therefore,he thought it best that it should be postponed until my twenty-firstyear, for the lapse of time would make things easier. In the meantime,he committed the care of the room to me; so now you can understand howit is that, although I am a very poor man, I can neither let nor sellthis great house.”
“You could mortgage it.”
“My father had already done so.”
“It is a most singular state of affairs.”
