she hardly knew, but to assuage her conscience by telling
him how much she pitied him. In her present state she felt herself unfit
to counsel, or restrain, or assist, or do ought else but sympathise and
weep. The people of the inn said such a person had been there; had
arrived only the day before; had gone out soon after his arrival, leaving
his luggage in their care; but had never come back. Norah asked for
leave to sit down, and await the gentleman's return. The landlady—pretty
secure in the deposit of luggage against any probable injury—showed her
into a room, and quietly locked the door on the outside. Norah was
utterly worn out, and fell asleep—a shivering, starting, uneasy slumber,
which lasted for hours.
The detective, meanwhile, had come up with her some time before she
entered the hotel, into which he followed her. Asking the landlady to
detain her for an hour or so, without giving any reason beyond showing
his authority (which made the landlady applaud herself a good deal for
having locked her in), he went back to the police-station to report his
proceedings. He could have taken her directly; but his object was, if
possible, to trace out the man who was supposed to have committed the
robbery. Then he heard of the discovery of the brooch; and consequently
did not care to return.
Norah slept till even the summer evening began to close in. Then up.
Some one was at the door. It would be Mr. Frank; and she dizzily pushed
back her ruffled grey hair, which had fallen over her eyes, and stood
looking to see him. Instead, there came in Mr. Openshaw and a policeman.
"This is Norah Kennedy," said Mr. Openshaw.
"O, sir," said Norah, "I did not touch the brooch; indeed I did not. O,
sir, I cannot live to be thought so badly of;" and very sick and faint,
she suddenly sank down on the ground. To her surprise, Mr. Openshaw
raised her up very tenderly. Even the policeman helped to lay her on the
sofa; and, at Mr. Openshaw's desire, he went for some wine and
sandwiches; for the poor gaunt woman lay there almost as if dead with
weariness and exhaustion.
"Norah!" said Mr. Openshaw, in his kindest voice, "the brooch is found.
It was hanging to Mrs. Chadwick's gown. I beg your pardon. Most truly I
beg your pardon, for having troubled you about it. My wife is almost
broken-hearted. Eat, Norah,—or, stay, first drink this glass of wine,"
said he, lifting her head, pouring a little down her throat.
As she drank, she remembered where she was, and who she was waiting for.
She suddenly pushed Mr. Openshaw away, saying, "O, sir, you must go. You
must not stop a minute. If he comes back he will kill you."
"Alas, Norah! I do not know who 'he' is. But some one is gone away who
will never come back: someone who knew you, and whom I am afraid you
cared for."
"I don't understand you, sir," said Norah, her master's kind and
sorrowful manner bewildering her yet more than his words. The policeman
had left the room at Mr. Openshaw's desire, and they two were alone.
"You know what I mean, when I say some one is gone who will never come
back. I mean that he is dead!"
"Who?" said Norah, trembling all over.
"A poor man has been found in the Thames this morning, drowned."
"Did he drown himself?" asked Norah, solemnly.
"God only knows," replied Mr. Openshaw, in the same tone. "Your name and
address at our house, were found in his pocket: that, and his purse, were
the only things, that were found upon him. I am sorry to say it, my poor
Norah; but you are required to go and identify him."
"To what?" asked Norah.
"To say who it is. It is always done, in order that some reason may be
discovered for the suicide—if suicide it was. I make no doubt he was
the man who came to see you at our house last night. It is very sad, I
know." He made pauses between each little clause, in order to try and
bring back her senses; which he feared were wandering—so wild and sad
was her look.
"Master Openshaw," said she, at last, "I've a dreadful secret to
him how much she pitied him. In her present state she felt herself unfit
to counsel, or restrain, or assist, or do ought else but sympathise and
weep. The people of the inn said such a person had been there; had
arrived only the day before; had gone out soon after his arrival, leaving
his luggage in their care; but had never come back. Norah asked for
leave to sit down, and await the gentleman's return. The landlady—pretty
secure in the deposit of luggage against any probable injury—showed her
into a room, and quietly locked the door on the outside. Norah was
utterly worn out, and fell asleep—a shivering, starting, uneasy slumber,
which lasted for hours.
The detective, meanwhile, had come up with her some time before she
entered the hotel, into which he followed her. Asking the landlady to
detain her for an hour or so, without giving any reason beyond showing
his authority (which made the landlady applaud herself a good deal for
having locked her in), he went back to the police-station to report his
proceedings. He could have taken her directly; but his object was, if
possible, to trace out the man who was supposed to have committed the
robbery. Then he heard of the discovery of the brooch; and consequently
did not care to return.
Norah slept till even the summer evening began to close in. Then up.
Some one was at the door. It would be Mr. Frank; and she dizzily pushed
back her ruffled grey hair, which had fallen over her eyes, and stood
looking to see him. Instead, there came in Mr. Openshaw and a policeman.
"This is Norah Kennedy," said Mr. Openshaw.
"O, sir," said Norah, "I did not touch the brooch; indeed I did not. O,
sir, I cannot live to be thought so badly of;" and very sick and faint,
she suddenly sank down on the ground. To her surprise, Mr. Openshaw
raised her up very tenderly. Even the policeman helped to lay her on the
sofa; and, at Mr. Openshaw's desire, he went for some wine and
sandwiches; for the poor gaunt woman lay there almost as if dead with
weariness and exhaustion.
"Norah!" said Mr. Openshaw, in his kindest voice, "the brooch is found.
It was hanging to Mrs. Chadwick's gown. I beg your pardon. Most truly I
beg your pardon, for having troubled you about it. My wife is almost
broken-hearted. Eat, Norah,—or, stay, first drink this glass of wine,"
said he, lifting her head, pouring a little down her throat.
As she drank, she remembered where she was, and who she was waiting for.
She suddenly pushed Mr. Openshaw away, saying, "O, sir, you must go. You
must not stop a minute. If he comes back he will kill you."
"Alas, Norah! I do not know who 'he' is. But some one is gone away who
will never come back: someone who knew you, and whom I am afraid you
cared for."
"I don't understand you, sir," said Norah, her master's kind and
sorrowful manner bewildering her yet more than his words. The policeman
had left the room at Mr. Openshaw's desire, and they two were alone.
"You know what I mean, when I say some one is gone who will never come
back. I mean that he is dead!"
"Who?" said Norah, trembling all over.
"A poor man has been found in the Thames this morning, drowned."
"Did he drown himself?" asked Norah, solemnly.
"God only knows," replied Mr. Openshaw, in the same tone. "Your name and
address at our house, were found in his pocket: that, and his purse, were
the only things, that were found upon him. I am sorry to say it, my poor
Norah; but you are required to go and identify him."
"To what?" asked Norah.
"To say who it is. It is always done, in order that some reason may be
discovered for the suicide—if suicide it was. I make no doubt he was
the man who came to see you at our house last night. It is very sad, I
know." He made pauses between each little clause, in order to try and
bring back her senses; which he feared were wandering—so wild and sad
was her look.
"Master Openshaw," said she, at last, "I've a dreadful secret to
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