THE LETTER OF MY DEAD WIFE.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 1480, 25 November 1872, Page 3

THE LETTER OF MY DEAD WIFE.

(From London Societ/.) (Concluded.) This was a clue, at all events. I should bo only a few hour 3 behiud him, and, unless he w us on some mission of life aud death, the cha- CC3 were iv favour of his stopping in Paris. To detail my sensation whilst waife, ing for the train, and during the subsequent journey, were to enter into a psychological analysis for which the reader would scarcely thank me; sulfice it to say, I reached Paris in a state of fever, with a gloomy fear beating at my heart that I should be forced to yield to its tightening grasp ere the newlycreated object of my life could he attained. What cared I for the sunlight of glorious summer morning ? What cared I for the beauty of the Boulevards ? The lebter of my dead wife was lying against my bounding heart. The shade of my dead wife was calling upon me to have the clouds envelop-:-ing it dispelled. My whole being, was con r centrated in this one fixed idea, und I was as dead to outward influence as the stalest mummy in the pyramids of the Piolemys.. Ou arrival at Paris, I made inquiries of. , the most respectable looking official on the platform relative to the passenger I wa3 jn search of. The official in question called a sort .of council of war of sous official's^ which;.sesul ed in my being in formed that the part\ in question had alighted fr<>ni the. English mail' train of the previous evening, and had dri% r en in coach No. $34 to the Hotel dn Louvre, i ue Rivsli. If I.ilesired furthecinformation I should apply to the Prefect of Police. In a whirlwind of triumphant f salwg. I entered a coach, direciiug the driver to proceed to the hotel in- question. I entered. There was no one to attend to me; I crawled up tho steps leading N to the salon. 1> stopped a waiter who was hurrying past me. " Did a tall geatleman in a grey suit, psiiiitid mousfachs, and yellow glovqa arrive here la«t night?'': '• Ytuis, M onsisv.r " " his name ? Ilia name?' 1- " Beneson, raonsieur." " Show me xo h s room, quick I: quick !" I almost screamed. " Monsieur cannot go to. see him. He am gone cut dune grande v.iesse. lie- forget dis." The waiter producsd from bis pocket a Russian leather cigar «?ase, and on the cigar c '30, ia burnished fetters, the initials C. B. shone like light. \i was his. I was on the right. track. " Show me to bsp, room. Quick ! quick 1" " Monsieur cannot to see him. He am goae out." " Whore has. lie gone ? Tell me. Here is a sovereign. Where has he gone to ?" i "He 1 aye- direction mit Gustavo, me tir,k. I vill to see," and tho waiter left me in search, of Gustavo In a moment he returned, carrying a slip of paper, on which was written— " If Mon r sicur de Crut calls upon Mr Charles Benson bsforo ten o'clock, say that Mr Bensoa has g.'N&to 13, Hue — , where he will remain until Monsieur de O. returns." Snatching the paper from the hands of the astonished waiter, and forgetful of my aching frame, I hurried down the staircase — into the couri yard — re-entered the coach, which was still iv waiting, and shouted to the driver — "Numero treize, Rue . Vite ! Vite !" The agony I endured of mind and body during tho journey from the Hotel dv Louvre to the Rue will never be effaced from my memory. While I write this the recollection of my sufferings is causing every nerve to quiver, every joint to ache. I could not conceive that physical agony could reach so high a pitch without killing that upon which it fed. Arrived at the Rue , the coachman experienced little difficulty in discovering No. 13. I alighted, and having inquired at the porter's lodge for the object of my search, was informed that I should ring at the first door oa my right, as the gentleman I had

described was TisitiDg the family who resided au premier. I rang the bell as directed. "Monsieur Benson ?" " i >vi. Monsieur." " Peut on voir?" " " Uui, Monsieur." I brushed past her, tried the handle cf a door opposite me. It yielded, the door openea, and I saw— my travelling companion, in the sains grey suit, standing at a window .Beside him a young girl, his right arm eueirchng her waist... I entered softly, and neither of tliem were aware of my presence, r.ger-hke I lay waiting for a spring. Tigerlike I glared at my prey ere I burst upon it. He was talking about me. "Ho must have been smashed into a mummy." The girl shuddered. Little did he imagine that 1 stood Avithin three paces of him. "Why did you not seize him, Charles ?"• They were conversing in English. • " I tried to do so, but ho seemed possessed of the strength of three ordinary men lie knocked me into the corner of the carria-m hue a racket ball." "* " Poor creature I You should have giveu him the letter,- said the girl compassionately " Not i£ he was going to jump again; poor devil I it's not giving him much trouble now." " More, perhaps, than you think," said I. He tnmed- rapidly round, to did therritl. He blanched. She screamed. ° 1 Good God !" he said, and threw his arm round, as -if to protect her. I glanced at myself in the opposite mirror. I was a ghastly eight. My hair clotted with blood; blood upon my livid face, and where the dark-red stain did not show broad streaks of caked grime and dust; my eyes sunk and fiery, as- those of a ferret; my apparel in disorder;, my right hand in my breast-pocket grasping the letter of my dead wife. 1 glared at my own image. " Good God !" said he ; " what's . the meaning of this ?" " I want to have an explanation with you, sir," I replied. I saw he was preparing for a springs ; " You said I was possessed of the.stfength of jthcee ordinary men; don't try it. now; I am armed;" ' "For heaven's sake," sobbed the girl, throwing herself between Benson _ and me, " don't harm him ; he has dene you no wrong; he will give you money, I will give you money; take anything you like—everything.** " Hush I" said Benson to the -girl ;•" there is no danger; I have only to shout, and half-a-dozen gendarmes will spring into this room." ' 'J his was brag. "3j have no desire to frighten this young lady, and I apologise for entsriogthus unexpectedly into her presence;. -my business is with you, sir; and as to your bravado, it's too- absurd." 1 had brought him to ba}-. "What do you require of me? I do not know you; you can have no claim on me; ; you are labouring under-, some terrible delusion; my name is Benson; I am a barristeiy .living in the Middle Temple, London; if you •'think to frighten me by your threats you :are mistaken in your man; I am willing to. 'make every allowance,, on account of the terrible accident you have met with, and " • He was coming towards. the door. 1 placed, my back against it. " You don't leave thiaroom until you. tell me how you came by thi9." ■ And as- Z spoke I drew the letter from my breasfe-paci.liet. Thinking it was iv.weapon, the gii'l, with a dashing bravery, caught my arm,, while Benson jumped aside. He did not recognise it. "Tell me how you came by this. letter.." " What letter ?'J " This is the letter I risked my life to gain ; this is the letter, you refused to, part with; you see I am not a man to be turned aside from a purposaj tell me how you came by it." He seemed intensely astonished*, feewildered. " I received it by the post- the morni-og I left London," he replied. " It's a lie," said I. " I state the truth," hereplied. " Whan was it written^?" " Tha day before I received it." " It's a lie ! That letter must hare been writttiv.before the 19th of last Jaauary, and it was written by the hand. of my dead wife." " You are mad," he said; "that letter was written in this house on the day before yesterday, and was written by this lady," turning, as he spoke,, to. the young girl. " Thia ready call on your imagination will .not serve your purpose. I know the writing well ; and. by heaven I am not to be trified with. There is that contained in it which demaads an explanation, and I will tear it from you^ tongue.'* "Oh ! sir," cried the girl ; " this is indeed my letter. As I hope for salvation, that letter in your h«nd was written by me." Truth shone from out her eyes. I felt as if I had received a, blow. I seized her hand, drew her towards an open Davenport, and, with a husky voice, cried—" Copy that letter." She opened the desk, drew out a sheet of pink paper, and prepared to write. I watched her as she dipped the pen into the ink, I watched her as she wrote the first word. I watched her with unerring, unfaltering exactitude. She copied the letter, copied it as if 'twere done by a machine. The same large letters, the aame officiallooking margin, the same word " Eannie." She looked up at me, truth in her eyes. I saw my error. I saw that on account of the strange similarity in the writing I had mistaken her letter to her lover for a letter written by my dead wife. **■ ■ » * During the fever that ensued I found Samaritanism in the hearts of Charles Btuson and of the young girl, whose banJwiiiiug bore such a fatal resembigpee to that pf my dead wife,