The Mysterious Three

“And how perfectly lovely Violet looks,” I answered.

Whichelo, who was beside us, and whose immense height had occasioned considerable comment among the invited guests, as well as some laughter amongst the crowd gathered together in the street, overhearing my remark, laughed aloud.

“A few more outbursts of unrestrained admiration of that kind,” he growled, in his deep voice, “and I may hear from Thursday’s prospective bride that my services as best man will not be needed!”

Well – what more is there to tell?

We were married two days later, at the same church as Faulkner and Violet – and spent a delightful honeymoon in Denmark and in Norway. Then we returned to dear old London, Lady Thorold having taken up her abode in a small house in Upper Brook Street.

Our most devoted friend to-day is Henry Whichelo – Harry, as he likes us both to call him. He knows everything of the past, yet no syllable of our secret will ever pass his lips. Not a week goes by but he dines at our table, full of his quiet humour, yet sometimes as we sit smoking together in the evening, the subject of those strange happenings – how fresh they still are in the memory of both of us – comes uppermost in our conversation.

“Ah, my dear old Dick,” Harry said to me the other night, as we talked incidentally of the fire at Château d’Uzerche, “how I should have loved to see you sliding down that rope! Young Faulkner has often told me of your really wonderful sang-froid!”

My “sang-froid in moments of crisis” is now a standing joke against me! Vera, it was, who first started it, I believe. Well – I forgive her. I brought it on myself entirely, and must bear the consequences of my overweening conceit in the past!

A warm evening in August. The end of a stifling day.

As I sit writing the final lines of this strange narrative in my cosy little study in our new home – no, our home is not in tiny Rutland, but overlooking Hampstead Heath, a part of London that my wife loves – the crimson sun sinks slowly in the grey haze lying over the great city below. Vera is here with me, in her pale pink dinner-gown, and her fair hair brushes my cheek as she bends over me. Now her soft cheek is pressed to mine.

The blood-red afterglow burns and dies. The summer light is fading. The only sound is the whirr of a car going towards the Spaniards. The air outside is breathless, for the day has been terribly oppressive.

I raise my smiling face to her sweet countenance, and now, all at once, she stoops lower still, until on a sudden access of emotion, she passionately kisses my lips.

“Vera, my love!” I exclaim, looking up into her great blue eyes. “Why – why, what’s the matter, my darling?”

Her eyes are brimming with tears. Her red lips move, but no words escape them. The corners of her mouth are twitching.

“My darling – my own darling, what is it?” I cry, rising to my feet, and folding my arms tenderly about her. Her head is upon my shoulder. She is weeping bitterly.

“Dick,” she exclaims, hardly above a whisper. “Oh, Dick – my darling, my own darling boy, I have been sitting here thinking – dreaming of the past, of all we have been through – of those awful days and nights of anxiety and of dread terror. And now,” the words came with a sob, “oh! I am so completely happy with you, my dearest – so absolutely happy. I can’t describe it. I hardly know – ”

The twilight deepens. I hold her closely in my arms, but I cannot trust myself to speak. Our hearts beat in unison.

Dusk grows into darkness. Still no word passes between us. We are too full of our own reflections, of our own thoughts, of our perfect happiness, now rid as we are for ever, of the grim shadow of evil once placed upon us by “The Mysterious Three.”

The End.