saying, that since these disasters, no one has seen or heard of him. His agency is, therefore, a mystery still unsolved.”
I readily complied with his request, and related as distinctly as I could, though in general terms, the events transacted in the summerhouse and my chamber. He listened without apparent surprise to the tale of Pleyel’s errors and suspicions, and with augmented seriousness, to my narrative of the warnings and inexplicable vision, and the letter found upon the table. I waited for his comments.
“You gather from this,” said he, “that Carwin is the author of all this misery.”
“Is it not,” answered I, “an unavoidable inference? But what know you respecting it? Was it possible to execute this mischief without witness or coadjutor? I beseech you to relate to me, when and why Mr. Hallet was summoned to the scene, and by whom this disaster was first suspected or discovered. Surely, suspicion must have fallen upon someone, and pursuit was made.”
My uncle rose from his seat, and traversed the floor with hasty steps. His eyes were fixed upon the ground, and he seemed buried in perplexity. At length he paused, and said with an emphatic tone, “It is true; the instrument is known. Carwin may have plotted, but the execution was another’s. That other is found, and his deed is ascertained.”
“Good heaven!” I exclaimed, “what say you? Was not Carwin the assassin? Could any hand but his have carried into act this dreadful purpose?”
“Have I not said,” returned he, “that the performance was another’s? Carwin, perhaps, or heaven, or insanity, prompted the murderer; but Carwin is unknown. The actual performer has, long since, been called to judgment and convicted, and is, at this moment, at the bottom of a dungeon loaded with chains.”