I returned to Welmingham with my mind composed, feeling more sure of myself and my resolution than I had felt yet.

On my way to the hotel I passed the end of the square in which Mrs. Catherick lived.  Should I go back to the house, and make another attempt to see her.  No.  That news of Sir Percival’s death, which was the last news she ever expected to hear, must have reached her hours since.  All the proceedings at the inquest had been reported in the local paper that morning—­there was nothing I could tell her which she did not know already.  My interest in making her speak had slackened.  I remembered the furtive hatred in her face when she said, “There is no news of Sir Percival that I don’t expect—­except the news of his death.”  I remembered the stealthy interest in her eyes when they settled on me at parting, after she had spoken those words.  Some instinct, deep in my heart, which I felt to be a true one, made the prospect of again entering her presence repulsive to me—­I turned away from the square, and went straight back to the hotel.

Some hours later, while I was resting in the coffee-room, a letter was placed in my hands by the waiter.  It was addressed to me by name, and I found on inquiry that it had been left at the bar by a woman just as it was near dusk, and just before the gas was lighted.  She had said nothing, and she had gone away again before there was time to speak to her, or even to notice who she was.

I opened the letter.  It was neither dated nor signed, and the handwriting was palpably disguised.  Before I had read the first sentence, however, I knew who my correspondent was—­Mrs. Catherick.

The letter ran as follows—­I copy it exactly, word for word:—­

THE STORY CONTINUED BY MRS. CATHERICK

Sir,—­You have not come back, as you said you would.  No matter—­I know the news, and I write to tell you so.  Did you see anything particular in my face when you left me?  I was wondering, in my own mind, whether the day of his downfall had come at last, and whether you were the chosen instrument for working it.  You were, and you have worked it.

You were weak enough, as I have heard, to try and save his life.  If you had succeeded, I should have looked upon you as my enemy.  Now you have failed, I hold you as my friend.  Your inquiries frightened him into the vestry by night—­your inquiries, without your privity and against your will, have served the hatred and wreaked the vengeance of three-and-twenty vears.  Thank you, sir, in spite of yourself.