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“Have you opened it?” I asked, eagerly.
“Not yet, sir,” said he, gravely. “I have reason to believe that itwould be well to have witnesses present when that door is opened. Youare a lawyer, and you are acquainted with the facts. Will you be presenton the occasion?”
“Most certainly.”
“You are employed during the day, and so am I. Shall we meet at nineo’clock at the house?”
“I will come with pleasure.”
“Then you will find us waiting for you. Good-bye, for the present.” Hebowed solemnly, and took his leave.
I kept my appointment that evening, with a brain which was weary withfruitless attempts to think out some plausible explanation of themystery which we were about to solve. Mr. Perceval and my youngacquaintance were waiting for me in the little room. I was not surprisedto see the young man looking pale and nervous, but I was ratherastonished to find the dry little City man in a state of intense, thoughpartially suppressed, excitement. His cheeks were flushed, his handstwitching, and he could not stand still for an instant.
Stanniford greeted me warmly, and thanked me many times for having come.“And now, Perceval,” said he to his companion, “I suppose there is noobstacle to our putting the thing through without delay? I shall be gladto get it over.”
The banker’s clerk took up the lamp and led the way. But he paused inthe passage outside the door, and his hand was shaking, so that thelight flickered up and down the high, bare walls.
“Mr. Stanniford,” said he, in a cracking voice, “I hope you will prepareyourself in case any shock should be awaiting you when that seal isremoved and the door is opened.”
“What could there be, Perceval? You are trying to frighten me.”
“No, Mr. Stanniford; but I should wish you to be ready ... to be bracedup ... not to allow yourself....” He had to lick his dry lips betweenevery jerky sentence, and I suddenly realized, as clearly as if he hadtold me, that he knew what was behind that closed door, and that it_was_ something terrible. “Here are the keys, Mr. Stanniford, butremember my warning!”
He had a bunch of assorted keys in his hand, and the young man snatchedthem from him. Then he thrust a knife under the discoloured red seal andjerked it off. The lamp was rattling and shaking in Perceval’s hands, soI took it from him and held it near the key hole, while Stanniford triedkey after key. At last one turned in the lock, the door flew open, hetook one step into the room, and then, with a horrible cry, the youngman fell senseless at our feet.
If I had not given heed to the clerk’s warning, and braced myself for ashock, I should certainly have dropped the lamp. The room, windowlessand bare, was fitted up as a photographic laboratory, with a tap andsink at the side of it. A shelf of bottles and measures stood at oneside, and a peculiar, heavy smell, partly chemical, partly animal,filled the air. A single table and chair were in front of us, and atthis, with his back turned towards us, a man was seated in the act ofwriting. His outline and attitude were as natural as life; but as thelight fell upon him, it made my hair rise to see that the nape of hisneck was black and wrinkled, and no thicker than my wrist. Dust lay uponhim—thick, yellow dust—upon his hair, his shoulders, his shrivelled,lemon-coloured hands. His head had fallen forward upon his breast. Hispen still rested upon a discoloured sheet of paper.
“My poor master! My poor, poor master!” cried the clerk, and the tearswere running down his cheeks.
“What!” I cried, “Mr. Stanislaus Stanniford!”
“Here he has sat for seven years. Oh, why would he do it? I begged him,I implored him, I went on my knees to him, but he would have his way.You see the key on the table. He had locked the door upon the inside.And he has written something. We must take it.”
“Yes, yes, take it, and for God’s sake, let us get out of this,” Icried; “the air is poisonous. Come, Stanniford, come!” Taking an armeach, we half led and half carried the terrified man back to his ownroom.
“It was my father!” he cried, as he recovered his consciousness. “He issitting there dead in his chair. You knew it, Perceval! This was whatyou meant when you warned me.”
“Yes, I knew it, Mr. Stanniford. I have acted for the best all along,but my position has been a terribly difficult one. For seven years Ihave known that your father was dead in that room.”
“You knew it, and never told us!”
“Don’t be harsh with me, Mr. Stanniford, sir! Make allowance for a manwho has had a hard part to play.”
“My head is swimming round. I cannot grasp it!” He staggered up, andhelped himself from the brandy bottle. “These letters to my mother andto myself—were they forgeries?”
“No, sir; your father wrote them and addressed them, and left them in mykeeping to be posted. I have followed his instructions to the veryletter in all things. He was my master, and I have obeyed him.”
The brandy had steadied the yo
ung man’s shaken nerves. “Tell me aboutit. I can stand it now,” said he.
“Well, Mr. Stanniford, you know that at one time there came a period ofgreat trouble upon your father, and he thought that many poor peoplewere about to lose their savings through his fault. He was a man who wasso tender-hearted that he could not bear the thought. It worried him andtormented him, until he determined to end his life. Oh, Mr. Stanniford,if you knew how I have prayed him and wrestled with him over it, youwould never blame me! And he in turn prayed me as no man has ever prayedme before. He had made up his mind, and he would do it in any case, hesaid; but it rested with me whether his death should be happy and easyor whether it should be most miserable. I read in his eyes that he meantwhat he said. And at last I yielded to his prayers, and I consented todo his will.
“What was troubling him was this. He had been told by the first doctorin London that his wife’s heart would fail at the slightest shock. Hehad a horror of accelerating her end, and yet his own existence hadbecome unendurable to him. How could he end himself without injuringher?
“You know now the course that he took. He wrote the letter which shereceived. There was nothing in it which was not literally true. When hespoke of seeing her again so soon, he was referring to her ownapproaching death, which he had been assured could not be delayed morethan a very few months. So convinced was he of this, that he only lefttwo letters to be forwarded at intervals after his death. She lived fiveyears, and I had no letters to send.
“He left another letter with me to be sent to you, sir, upon theoccasion of the death of your mother. I posted all these in Paris tosustain the idea of his being abroad. It was his wish that I should saynothing, and I have said nothing. I have been a faithful servant. Sevenyears after his death, he thought no doubt that the shock to thefeelings of his surviving friends would be lessened. He was alwaysconsiderate for others.”
