That old Thomas had seen his master, and thought he had seen the
Sunnyside ghost, there could be no doubt. Of that story of Thomas',
about seeing Jack Bailey in the footpath between the club and
Sunnyside, the night Liddy and I heard the noise on the circular
staircase--that, too, was right. On the night before Arnold Armstrong
was murdered, Jack Bailey had made his first attempt to search for the
secret room. He secured Arnold's keys from his room at the club and got
into the house, armed with a golf-stick for sounding the walls. He ran
against the hamper at the head of the stairs, caught his cuff-link in
it, and dropped the golf-stick with a crash. He was glad enough to get
away without an alarm being raised, and he took the "owl" train to town.
The oddest thing to me was that Mr. Jamieson had known for some time
that Alex was Jack Bailey. But the face of the pseudo-gardener was
very queer indeed, when that night, in the card-room, the detective
turned to him and said: "How long are you and I going to play our little comedy, MR. BAILEY?"
Well, it is all over now. Paul Armstrong rests in Casanova churchyard,
and this time there is no mistake. I went to the funeral, because I
wanted to be sure he was really buried, and I looked at the step of the
shaft where I had sat that night, and wondered if it was all real.
Sunnyside is for sale--no, I shall not buy it. Little Lucien Armstrong
is living with his step-grandmother, and she is recovering gradually
from troubles that had extended over the entire period of her second
marriage. Anne Watson lies not far from the man she killed, and who as
surely caused her death. Thomas, the fourth victim of the conspiracy,
is buried on the hill. With Nina Carrington, five lives were
sacrificed in the course of this grim conspiracy.
There will be two weddings before long, and Liddy has asked for my
heliotrope poplin to wear to the church. I knew she would. She has
wanted it for three years, and she was quite ugly the time I spilled
coffee on it. We are very quiet, just the two of us. Liddy still
clings to her ghost theory, and points to my wet and muddy boots in the
trunk-room as proof. I am gray, I admit, but I haven't felt as well in
a dozen years. Sometimes, when I am bored, I ring for Liddy, and we
talk things over. When Warner married Rosie, Liddy sniffed and said
what I took for faithfulness in Rosie had been nothing but mawkishness.
I have not yet outlived Liddy's contempt because I gave them silver
knives and forks as a wedding gift.