"Very good," said the inspector. "You are free to go. But you must
understand that you are an important witness in this case, and if you
attempt to leave London you will be locked up."
So I came back to my rooms, horribly entangled in a mystery that is
little to my liking. I have been sitting here in my study for some time,
going over it again and again. There have been many footsteps on the
stairs, many voices in the hall.
Waiting here for the dawn, I have come to be very sorry for the cold
handsome captain. After all, he was a man; his very tread on the floor
above, which it shall never hear again, told me that.
What does it all mean? Who was the man in the hall, the man who had
argued so loudly, who had struck so surely with that queer Indian knife?
Where is the knife now?
And, above all, what do the white asters signify? And the scarab
scarf-pin? And that absurd Homburg hat?
Lady of the Carlton, you wanted mystery. When I wrote that first letter
to you, little did I dream that I should soon have it to give you in
overwhelming measure.
And--believe me when I say it--through all this your face has been
constantly before me--your face as I saw it that bright morning in the
hotel breakfast room. You have forgiven me, I know, for the manner
in which I addressed you. I had seen your eyes and the temptation was
great--very great.
It is dawn in the garden now and London is beginning to stir. So this
time it is--good morning, my lady.
THE STRAWBERRY MAN.