The Female Detective by Andrew Forrester Page A

husband after she was gone, for from the moment the doctor left her she never believed she would rise from her bed again. It was when she cried out that many a poor woman would be glad to find a home for her puny child, that the idea came upon me of the woman and infant I had seen pass the house about nine, as I came in at the south gate, and to whom I had spoken. I gave that poor woman some silver, pitying her much when she told me her child was barely a fortnight old.
    â€œPerhaps I had no right to speak of this mother and child to my sister, for she was not quite herself at any moment from the time the doctor left to the moment of her death—perhaps I should not have excited her already excited brain. But no sooner did she comprehend what I said than she cried that heaven had heard her prayer, and bade me go and seek the woman. I refused at first, but she looked so powerful that it seemed to me as though she was inspired, and so I said yes, I would go, and I went quickly from the house and down the road, in the direction which the poor woman had taken.
    â€œAnd when I heard the child crying from within that miserable common cab, I also thought that Heaven had had pity on us. I know now how guilty I was—how very guilty I was.
    â€œI had not left the house twenty minutes when I was returning with the child, and when I came into her room, carrying the infant, I found her still alone, though I had taken no precautions to keep her by herself. She cried out, saying Heaven had been kind, and declaring how a good angel had brought it to me.
    â€œThere was no one in the house to see my act. It was the free-school fête day, and the servants, with the exception of one, were at Velvet Dell, three miles away—the only girl that had remained at home had gone down to the surgery with the doctor.
    â€œBefore a quarter past ten, at which time the servants came trooping home—they had been given to ten, and there had been nobody to send for them during that terrible hour-and-a-half—before a quarter past ten she was dying in the presence of Dr. Ellkins, who looked much confused and puzzled.
    â€œEven then I felt the enormity of the crime in which I had engaged—I did indeed. Even then I felt that had I opposed my sister’s wild idea instead of having fostered it, she herself would never have laid such injunctions upon me as she did.
    â€œIt was before the doctor arrived for the second time—and the moment the lady’s maid returned with the medicine, I sent her back for the medical man—it was before Dr. Ellkins came again that she had commanded me to swear that I would never tell the truth about the child, she saying—‘Heaven sent it, Heaven sent it, though it was but a poor woman’s daughter.’
    â€œShe told me,” the poor lady continued, looking eagerly in my face—it was now half-past three, as I saw by the great French clock on the mantelpiece, so that if Sir Nathaniel had come up by the 1 p.m. train he would soon be at Shirley House—“she told me that it would break down Newton—Newton is Mr. Shedleigh—if he lost both her and his child together, and that he was doing the world good, and that nothing must stop his work. You know,” she continued, breaking off, “she married my brother because she rather admired his intellect than himself.
    â€œShe said also I should save a poor child from destitution, and finally she declared that she willed that her uncle should not have her property—that he was wicked and wasteful, and that her husband ought to have it to do good with.
    â€œAnd then, as I heard the ring at the hall-door, and as she knew it was the doctor returned, she raised her right hand, looked wildly at me, and said—‘I command—in the name of God.’
    â€œShe never spoke aloud again. She only whispered messages to her husband, and taking the doctor’s head between her hands, whispered