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Mansion of Mystery

<h2 id="id02334" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XXIX</h2> <h5 id="id02335">A GLASS OF POISON</h5> Margaret could do nothing but stare at the man before her. He was heavy-set and powerful, and wont to having his own way. "Mr. Styles—" she began, but he put his hand over her mouth. "You are sick—out of your head," he interrupted. "I know what is best, and you must do as I say. Come on." And he pulled her forward by the hand. "Where to?" "Not very far." "I—I do not wish to go to your home." "I'll not take you there, don't fear." "You are going to hand me over to the—the authorities." "Never! Come. I won't hurt you." He led the way through the woods, across a small stream and past a spot where some wild berries grew. Then they struck a trail leading up a hillside. The place was new to her. "I want to know where you are taking me," she said presently, and came to a halt. "To a place where you will be safe." "That isn't answering the question." "We'll be there in a few minutes, and then you can see for yourself, Margaret. Cannot you trust me, girl? I'm not going to hurt you. I love you, and I'll do all I can to help you. Come!" And again he made her move on. At last they came in sight of a tumbled-down cottage on the edge of what had once been a clearing, but which was now overgrown with weeds and brushwood. As they came up, Margaret's strength gave out, and suddenly she sank down on her knees. "All in, are you?" he said, not unkindly, and, stooping, he picked her up bodily. She tried to resist, but could not, and he took her into the cottage and placed her on a couch. "I'll get you a nurse," he said, noting her extreme paleness. "You need one." "A—a woman?" "Yes." "Thank you," she murmured, and then closed her eyes, for she was too far gone to say more, or to make a move. He was as good as his word, and when she roused up once more an old woman was at Margaret's side. She had administered some sort of drug—what, the girl did not know—and it had put her into a sound sleep. When Margaret looked around again, she was surprised to see that it was morning. She tried to think, but her mind was almost a blank. Outside of the broken window a wild bird was singing gayly. She looked around. The old woman was not in sight. She had been put to bed, and sat there, trying to think for several minutes. Then she gave a low call, and the old woman appeared in the doorway. "Come awake, have ye, miss?" said she. "Where am I?" asked Margaret feebly. "You're safe enough, never fear." Margaret said no more and the woman went about some little work. Presently the girl arose and dressed herself. She felt much stronger than when at the home of Martha Sampson, in spite of what she had experienced in running away. She sank down in a rocking chair, to think matters over. How far was she from Sidham? She knew she must have come a long distance, but could not tell if it was five miles or fifty. She looked out of the window, but the scenery was strange to her. As she sat there she reviewed what had passed, her mind becoming clearer as she thought. She remembered the scene at the inquest, and remembered how she had fainted, and how Raymond had supported her and taken her to the nurse's house. Then she remembered how the coroner's jury had accused her of the terrible crime, and she gave a deep shudder. "Poor, dear father," she murmured. "Who could have been so wicked as to take your life?" An hour went by, and she prepared to leave the cottage, when a shadow fell across the window, and Matlock Styles appeared. He spoke a few low words to the old woman, and the latter walked away. As the man entered the room, Margaret arose and faced him. The Englishman was well dressed, and newly shaven, and wore a rosebud in his buttonhole. Evidently, he had spent some time over his toilet in honor of the occasion. "I'm glad to see you up and looking so well," he said pleasantly. "I was afraid your running away would hurt you." "I—I must thank you for what you have done for me, Mr. Styles," she answered. "Oh, that's all right, Miss Margaret. I'd do as much for you any day. I think it's a bloomin' shame the way you have been treated." "Well, I suppose it cannot be helped. But I must be getting back soon. You will show me the road?" "Don't be in a hurry to go. You're not strong enough to go. Besides—" the Englishman paused impressively. "What's the use of going back? Don't you know things look beastly black for you?" "Perhaps, but I am not afraid—now. I am not guilty, Mr. Styles." "Of course not! Of course not! I knew that from the start. But things do look black, no use of talking. I want to help you." He came closer, at which she retreated a step. "Thank you, but I do not see what you can do. I must go back and give myself up. I—I was not myself when I ran away. It was a very foolish thing to do." "If you go back, do you know what they will do? They will surely hang you?" "Oh, merciful Heaven? Do not say that!" "I wouldn't if it wasn't so. But I've been talking to the coroner and the chief of police, and they have all of the evidence as straight as a string." "I am innocent." "I feel that you are, and that is why I side with you. Besides, you know my feeling for you. I've loved you for a long time—I told you so before." He took hold of her arm. "If you'll do what I wish, I'll see to it that you escape—that you are never bothered any more." "How can you do that?" "Never mind how it can be done. Promise to give up Case, and be my wife, and I will attend to all of the rest. And I'll promise you more than that. Listen, do you know that I am immensely wealthy? It is so, and I can easily prove it. Look here." He drew a big roll of bank bills from his pocket, each bill of a large denomination. "I have ten thousand dollars here. It shall be yours for the taking—if you will marry me. I can easily raise five times this amount in forty-eight hours. We can go to Europe, or Australia, or anywhere we wish. Isn't that far better than to stay here, to be hung by a lot of country bumpkins, who don't understand the matter at all?" She put up her hands, and waved him away. Then she burst into tears. "Don't speak so, please don't! I—I cannot bear it, I have gone through so much already!" "Won't you listen to reason?" Matlock Styles' face darkened. "I am giving you everything I have, my wealth, my honor, everything! Can a man do more than that? I love you—love you more than Raymond Case ever did, or will." She wrung her hands and his dark eyes seemed to pierce her very soul. She felt faint and sank on a bench. "Come, will you accept, Margaret?" "No, no, I cannot!" "But think of what is before you." "If I tried to escape, they would soon be on my track—" "No, I can prevent that." "How?" "Because the world will know that you are innocent." She gave a start and looked at him wildly, pleadingly. "Then you know the real murderer?" she panted. "If I answer that question, will you become my wife?" Again she shrank back. "You know the murderer," she repeated. "Perhaps you committed the foul deeds yourself." He took a step back as if struck a blow. Then he recovered quickly and smiled a bitter smile. "No, I was not near the place, I can prove it. Besides, your folks and myself were on good terms. There is somebody else, who was around the house when the affair happened—somebody you know well, a person who would know all about the drug with which your father and Mrs. Langmore were killed." "Who was it?" "Will you consent to marry me?" "Tell me first." "No, afterwards." "You are fooling me." "I swear I am not, Margaret. Marry me, and I will clear you as surely as the sun is shining." "And if I refuse?" He came and caught her by the arm, his face blazing with sudden passion. "Do not dare to do that! Don't you understand the matter? You are in my power—in my power absolutely. I can hand you over to the police whenever I will." "That will not be such a hardship. I said I was going back." "Bah! If I tell them that I caught you, that you begged me to let you get away—that you even said you would marry me, if I would aid you, what then? Everybody will think you guilty, and Raymond Case will never come near you again." "You—you monster!" "Perhaps I am a monster when aroused. You had better think this matter over." "I do not want to think it over. My mind is made up. I shall never marry you, never, no matter what happens. I loathe and despise you!" There was a moment of silence, and his dark face turned a sickly white and then red. He breathed heavily through his set teeth. "You mean that?" he said finally, his eyes shining like those of a serpent. "I do." He glared at her steadily. Then, in a burst of rage, he caught her by the throat and threw her backward to the floor. She offered no resistance, and pausing in his madness he realized that she had swooned away. "Fainted!" he hissed between his set teeth. "I wish she was dead! Curse her and her beauty!" He waited, and as she did not return to consciousness, he picked her up, and placed her on the bed. Then he hurried outside: "Go back to the house," he said to the old woman. "You'll not be needed here any more. And see that you keep your jaw closed over this," he added harshly. And the woman slunk away as if struck, like a dog. Once inside of the cottage, he took up a glass of water standing on the table, and to this added a powder taken from his pocket, stirring it up well. Then he looked around to see that there was no other water around the building. "When she rouses up she will be dry, and she will drink this," he muttered to himself. "Half a glass will do the work and she will never bother me or anybody else any more." He paused again and took from his pocket several sheets of paper, closely and carelessly written upon in pencil. The first sheet was headed: Dying Confession of Margaret Langmore. "A fine forgery, if I do say so myself," he mused. "Mat, you always were a plum with the pen. I'll add a line telling where she can be found and then send it to the coroner. That will be better than leaving it around here. She might find it before she drank that dose." He paused again. "Perhaps she won't drink it after all. I'll give her some of it now, and make sure." He raised up the almost lifeless girl, and forced open her lips. Then he took the glass, and poured half the contents down her throat. She spluttered, but swallowed, and he let her form drop back on the bed. He was in a cold perspiration now, and in sudden fear, he fairly rushed out of the cottage and down the hillside in the direction of his home. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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