The Complete Works of Arthur Morrison (Illustrated). Arthur Morrison

      “Want to be the messenger? Well, that’s easily done; if you’re here at the time I’ll leave word. But why?”

      “Well, I’ve a sort of notion I know something about his family, and I want to make sure. Shall I be here at eight in the morning, or shall we say nine?”

      “Which you like; I expect he’ll be shouting for bail before eight.”

      “Very well, we will say eight. Goodnight.”

      And so Hewitt had to let yet another night go without an explanation of the mystery; but he felt that his hand was on the key at last, though it had only fallen there by chance. Prompt to his time at eight in the morning he was at the police-station, where another inspector was now on duty, who, however, had been told of Hewitt’s wish.

      “Ah,” he said, “you’re well to time, Mr. Hewitt. That prisoner’s as limp as rags now; he’s begging of us to send to his sister.”

      “Does he say anything about that child?”

      “Says he don’t know anything about it; all a drunken freak. His name’s Oliver Neale, and he lives at 10 Morton Terrace, Hampstead, with his sister. Her name’s Mrs. Isitt, and you’re to take this note and bring her back with you, or at any rate some money; and you’re to say he’s truly repentant,” the inspector concluded with a grin.

      The distance was short, and Hewitt walked it. Morton Terrace was a short row of pleasant old-fashioned villas, ivy-grown and neat, and No. 10 was as neat as any. To the servant who answered his ring Hewitt announced himself as a gentleman with a message from Mrs. Isitt’s brother. This did not seem to prepossess the girl in Hewitt’s favour, and she backed to the end of the hall and communicated with somebody on the stairs before finally showing Hewitt into a room, where he was quickly followed by Mrs. Isitt.

      She was a rather tall woman of perhaps thirty-eight, and had probably been attractive, though now her face bore lines of sad grief. Hewitt noticed that she wore a very high black collar.

      “Good-morning, Mrs. Isitt,” he said. “I’m afraid my errand is not altogether pleasant. The fact is your brother, Mr. Neale, was not altogether sober last night, and he is now at the police station, where he wrote this note.”

      Mrs. Isitt did not appear surprised, and took the note with no more than a sigh.

      “Yes,” she said, “it can’t be concealed. This is not the first time by many, as you probably know, if you are a friend of his.”

      She read the note, and as she looked up Hewitt said—

      “No, I have not known him long. I happened to be at the station last night, and he rather attracted my attention by insisting, in his intoxicated state, on giving himself up for kidnapping a child, Charles Seton.”

      Mrs. Isitt started as though shot. Pale of cheek, she glanced fearfully in Hewitt’s face and there met a keen gaze that seemed to read her brain. She saw that her secret was known, but for a moment she struggled, and her lips worked convulsively—

      “Charles Seton—Charles Seton?” she said.

      “Yes, Mrs. Isitt, that is the name. The child, as a matter of fact, was stolen by the person who bought these shoes for it. Do you recognise them?”

      He produced the shoes and held them before her. The woman sank on the sofa behind her, terrified, but unable to take her eyes from Hewitt’s.

      “Come, Mrs. Isitt,” he said, “you have been recognised. Here is my card. I am commissioned by the parents of the child to find who removed him, and I think I have succeeded.”

      She took the card and glanced at it dazedly; then she sank with a groaning sob with her face on the head of the sofa, and as she did so Hewitt could see a scar on the side of her neck peeping above her high collar.

      “Oh, my God!” the woman moaned. “Then it has come to this. He will die! he will die!”

      The woman’s anguish was piteous to see. Hewitt had gained his point, and was willing to spare her. He placed his hand on her heaving shoulder and begged her not to distress herself.

      “The matter is rather difficult to understand, Mrs. Isitt,” he said. “If you will compose yourself perhaps you can explain. I can assure you that there is no desire to be vindictive. I’m afraid my manner upset you. Pray reassure yourself. May I sit down?”

      Nobody could by his manner more easily restore confidence and trust than Hewitt, when it pleased him. Mrs. Isitt lifted her head and gazed at him once more with a troubled though quieter expression.

      “I think you wrote Mrs. Seton an anonymous letter,” Hewitt said, producing the first of those which Mrs. Seton had brought him. “It was kind of you to reassure the poor woman.”

      “Oh, tell me,” Mrs. Isitt asked, “was she much upset at missing the little boy? Did it make her ill?”

      “She was upset, of course; but perhaps the joy of recovering him compensated for all.”

      “Yes; I took him back as soon as I possibly could, really I did, Mr. Hewitt. And, oh! I was so tempted! My life has been so unhappy! If you only knew!” She buried her face in her hands.

      “Will you tell me?” Hewitt suggested gently. “You see, whatever happens, an explanation of some sort is the first thing.”

      “Yes, yes—of course. Oh, I am a wretched woman.” She paused for some little while, and then went on: “Mr. Hewitt, my husband is a lunatic.” She paused again.

      “There was never a man, Mr. Hewitt, so devoted to his wife and children as my husband. He bore even with the continual annoyance of my brother, whom you saw, because he was my brother. But a little more than a year ago, as the result of an accident, a tumour formed on his brain. The thing is incurable except, as a remote possibility, by a most dangerous operation, which the doctors fear to attempt except under most favourable conditions. Without that he must die sooner or later. Meantime he is insane, though with many and sometimes long intervals of perfect lucidity. When the disease attacked him there was little warning, except from pains in the head, till one dreadful night. Then he rose from bed a maniac and killed our child, a little girl of six, whom he was devotedly attached to. He also cut my own throat with his razor, but I recovered. I would rather say nothing more of that—it is too dreadful, though indeed I think about little else. There was another child, a baby boy, about a year old when his sister died, and he—he died of scarlet fever scarcely four months ago.

      “My husband was taken to a private asylum at Willesden, where he now is. I visited him frequently, and took the baby, and it was almost terrible to see—a part of his insanity, no doubt—how his fondness for that child grew. When it died I never dared to tell him. Indeed the doctors forbade it. In his state he would have died raving. But he asked for it, sometimes earnestly, sometimes angrily, till I almost feared to visit him. Then he began to demand it of the doctors and attendants, and his excitement increased day by day. I was told to prepare for the worst. When I visited him he sometimes failed to recognise me, and at others demanded the child fiercely. I should tell you that it was only just about this time that it was found that the tumour existed, and the idea of the operation was suggested; but of course it was impossible in his disturbed condition. I scarcely dared to go to see him, and yet I did so long to! Dr. Bailey did indeed suggest that possibly we might find he would be quieted by being shown another child; but I myself felt that to be very unlikely.

      “It was while things were in this state, and about six or seven weeks ago, that, walking toward Cricklewood one morning, I saw a little fellow trotting along all alone, who actually startled me—startled me very much—by his resemblance to our poor little one. The likeness was one of those extraordinary ones that one only finds among young children. This child was a little bigger and stronger than ours was when he died, but then it was older—probably very nearly the age and size our own would have been had it lived. Nobody else was in sight, and I fancied