“Have you the dates of those letters?”
“No.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“Yes, once or twice, when he came into Coombe Tracey. He wasa very retiring man, and he preferred to do good by stealth.”
“But if you saw him so seldom and wrote so seldom, how did heknow enough about your affairs to be able to help you, as you saythat he has done?”
She met my difficulty with the utmost readiness.
“There were several gentlemen who knew my sad history andunited to help me. One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbour andintimate friend of Sir Charles’s. He was exceedingly kind, and itwas through him that Sir Charles learned about my affairs.”
I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville had made Stapletonhis almoner upon several occasions, so the lady’s statement borethe impress of truth upon it.
“Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him to meet you?” Icontinued.
Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again.
“Really, sir, this is a very extraordinary question.”
“I am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it.”
“Then I answer, certainly not.”
“Not on the very day of Sir Charles’s death?”
The flush had faded in an instant, and a deathly face was beforeme. Her dry lips could not speak the “No” which I saw rather thanheard.
“Surely your memory deceives you,” said I. “I could evenquote a passage of your letter. It ran ‘Please, please, as you are agentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o’clock.’ ”
I thought that she had fainted, but she recovered herself by asupreme effort.
“Is there no such thing as a gentleman?” she gasped.
“You do Sir Charles an injustice. He did burn the letter. Butsometimes a letter may be legible even when burned. You acknowledgenow that you wrote it?”
“Yes, I did write it,” she cried, pouring out her soul in a torrentof words. “I did write it. Why should I deny it? I have no reason tobe ashamed of it. I wished him to help me. I believed that if I hadan interview I could gain his help, so I asked him to meet me.”
“But why at such an hour?”
“Because I had only just learned that he was going to Londonnext day and might be away for months. There were reasons why Icould not get there earlier.”
“But why a rendezvous in the garden instead of a visit to thehouse?”
“Do you think a woman could go alone at that hour to abachelor’s house?”
“Well, what happened when you did get there?”
“I never went.”
“Mrs. Lyons!”
“No, I swear it to you on all I hold sacred. I never went.
Something intervened to prevent my going.”
“What was that?”
“That is a private matter. I cannot tell it.”
“You acknowledge then that you made an appointment with SirCharles at the very hour and place at which he met his death, butyou deny that you kept the appointment.”
“That is the truth.”
Again and again I cross-questioned her, but I could never getpast that point.
“Mrs. Lyons,” said I as I rose from this long and inconclusiveinterview, “you are taking a very great responsibility and puttingyourself in a very false position by not making an absolutely cleanbreast of all that you know. If I have to call in the aid of the policeyou will find how seriously you are compromised. If your positionis innocent, why did you in the first instance deny having writtento Sir Charles upon that date?”
“Because I feared that some false conclusion might be drawnfrom it and that I might find myself involved in a scandal.”
“And why were you so pressing that Sir Charles should destroyyour letter?”
“If you have read the letter you will know.”
“I did not say that I had read all the letter.”
“You quoted some of it.”
“I quoted the postscript. The letter had, as I said, been burnedand it was not all legible. I ask you once again why it was that youwere so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy this letter whichhe received on the day of his death.”
“The matter is a very private one.”
“The more reason why you should avoid a public investigation.”
“I will tell you, then. If you have heard anything of my unhappyhistory you will know that I made a rash marriage and had reasonto regret it.”
“I have heard so much.”
“My life has been one incessant persecution from a husbandwhom I abhor. The law is upon his side, and every day I amfaced by the possibility that he may force me to live with him.
At the time that I wrote this letter to Sir Charles I had learnedthat there was a prospect of my regaining my freedom if certainexpenses could be met. It meant everything to me—peace ofmind, happiness, self-respect—everything. I knew Sir Charles’sgenerosity, and I thought that if he heard the story from my ownlips he would help me.”
“Then how is it that you did not go?”
“Because I received help in the interval from another source.”
“Why then, did you not write to Sir Charles and explain this?”
“So I should have done had I not seen his death in the papernext morning.”
The woman’s story hung coherently together, and all myquestions were unable to shake it. I could only check it by findingif she had, indeed, instituted divorce proceedings against herhusband at or about the time of the tragedy.
It was unlikely that she would dare to say that she had notbeen to Baskerville Hall if she really had been, for a trap wouldbe necessary to take her there, and could not have returned toCoombe Tracey until the early hours of the morning. Such anexcursion could not be kept secret. The probability was, therefore,that she was telling the truth, or, at least, a part of the truth. Icame away baffled and disheartened. Once again I had reachedthat dead wall which seemed to be built across every path by whichI tried to get at the object of my mission. And yet the more Ithought of the lady’s face and of her manner the more I felt thatsomething was being held back from me. Why should she turn sopale? Why should she fight against every admission until it was forcedfrom her? Why should she have been so reticent at the time of thetragedy? Surely the explanation of all this could not be as innocentas she would have me believe. For the moment I could proceedno farther in that direction, but must turn back to that other cluewhich was to be sought for among the stone huts upon the moor.
