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The Secret Passage

by Fergus Hume · English · Gutenberg #4531 · 501,775 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Secret Passage

Author: Fergus Hume


        
Release date: October 1, 2003 [eBook #4531]
                Most recently updated: December 28, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4531

Credits: Produced by an anonymous volunteer.  HTML version by Al Haines.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECRET PASSAGE ***




Produced by an anonymous volunteer.  HTML version by Al Haines.









THE SECRET PASSAGE


by

Fergus Hume




CONTENTS

CHAPTER

     I.  THE COTTAGE
    II.  THE CRIME
   III.  A MYSTERIOUS DEATH
    IV.  DETAILS
     V.  LORD CARANBY'S ROMANCE
    VI.  A PERPLEXING CASE
   VII.  THE DETECTIVE
  VIII.  THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE
    IX.  ANOTHER MYSTERY
     X.  THE PARLOR-MAID'S STORY
    XI.  ON THE TRACK
   XII.  JENNINGS ASKS QUESTIONS
  XIII.  JULIET AT BAY
   XIV.  MRS. OCTAGON EXPLAINS
    XV.  A DANGEROUS ADMISSION
   XVI.  JULIET'S STORY
  XVII.  JULIET'S STORY CONTINUED
 XVIII.  THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS
   XIX.  SUSAN'S DISCOVERY
    XX.  BASIL
   XXI.  AN EXPERIMENT
  XXII.  THE SECRET ENTRANCE
 XXIII.  A SCAMP'S HISTORY
  XXIV.  REVENGE
   XXV.   NEMESIS
  XXVI.  CUTHBERT'S ENEMY






THE SECRET PASSAGE




CHAPTER I

THE COTTAGE


"What IS your name?"

"Susan Grant, Miss Loach."

"Call me ma'am.  I am Miss Loach only to my equals.  Your age?"

"Twenty-five, ma'am."

"Do you know your work as parlor-maid thoroughly?"

"Yes, ma'am.  I was two years in one place and six months in another,
ma'am.  Here are my characters from both places, ma'am."

As the girl spoke she laid two papers before the sharp old lady who
questioned her.  But Miss Loach did not look at them immediately.  She
examined the applicant with such close attention that a faint color
tinted the girl's cheeks and she dropped her eyes.  But, in her turn,
by stealthy glances, Susan Grant tactfully managed to acquaint herself
with the looks of her possible mistress.  The thoughts of each woman
ran as follows,--

Miss Loach to herself.  "Humph!  Plain-looking, sallow skin, rather
fine eyes and a slack mouth.  Not badly dressed for a servant, and
displays some taste.  She might turn my old dresses at a pinch.  Sad
expression, as though she had something on her mind.  Honest-looking,
but I think a trifle inquisitive, seeing how she examined the room and
is stealing glances at me.  Talks sufficiently, but in a low voice.
Fairly intelligent, but not too much so.  Might be secretive. Humph!"

The thoughts of Susan Grant.  "Handsome old lady, probably nearly
sixty.  Funny dress for ten o'clock in the morning. She must be rich,
to wear purple silk and old lace and lovely rings at this hour.  A hard
mouth, thin nose, very white hair and very black eyebrows.  Got a
temper I should say, and is likely to prove an exacting mistress.  But
I want a quiet home, and the salary is good.  I'll try it, if she'll
take me."

Had either mistress or maid known of each other's thoughts, a
conclusion to do business might not have been arrived at.  As it was,
Miss Loach, after a few more questions, appeared satisfied.  All the
time she kept a pair of very black eyes piercingly fixed on the girl's
face, as though she would read her very soul.  But Susan had nothing to
conceal, so far as Miss Loach could gather, so in the end she resolved
to engage her.

"I think you'll do," she said nodding, and poking up the fire, with a
shiver, although the month was June.  "The situation is a quiet one.  I
hope you have no followers."

"No, ma'am," said Susan and flushed crimson.

"Ha!" thought Miss Loach, "she has been in love--jilted probably.  All
the better, as she won't bring any young men about my quiet house."

"Will you not read my characters, ma'am?"

Miss Loach pushed the two papers towards the applicant.  "I judge for
myself," said she calmly.  "Most characters I read are full of lies.
Your looks are enough for me.  Where were you last?"

"With a Spanish lady, ma'am!"

"A Spanish lady!"  Miss Loach dropped the poker she was holding, with a
clatter, and frowned so deeply that her black eyebrows met over her
high nose.  "And her name?"

"Senora Gredos, ma'am!"

The eyes of the old maid glittered, and she made a clutch at her breast
as though the reply had taken away her breath. "Why did you leave?" she
asked, regaining her composure.

Susan looked uncomfortable.  "I thought the house was too gay, ma'am."

"What do you mean by that?  Can any house be too gay for a girl of your
years?"

"I have been well brought up, ma'am," said Susan quietly; "and my
religious principles are dear to me.  Although she is an invalid,
ma'am, Senora Gredos was very gay.  Many people came to her house and
played cards, even on Sunday," added Susan under her breath.  But low
as she spoke, Miss Loach heard.

"I have whist parties here frequently," she said drily; "nearly every
evening four friends of mine call to play.  Have you any objection to
enter my service on that account?"

"Oh, no, ma'am.  I don't mind a game of cards.  I play 'Patience'
myself when alone.  I mean gambling--there was a lot of money lost and
won at Senora Gredos' house!"

"Yet she is an invalid I think you said?"

"Yes, ma'am.  She was a dancer, I believe, and fell in some way, so as
to break her leg or hurt her back.  She has been lying on a couch for
two years unable to move.  Yet she has herself wheeled into the
drawing-room and watches the gentlemen play cards.  She plays herself
sometimes!"

Miss Loach again directed one of her piercing looks at the pale face of
the girl.  "You are too inquisitive and too talkative," she said
suddenly, "therefore you won't suit me. Good-day."

Susan was quite taken aback.  "Oh, ma'am, I hope I've said nothing
wrong.  I only answered your questions."

"You evidently take note of everything you see, and talk about it."

"No, ma'am," said the girl earnestly.  "I really hold my tongue."

"When it suits you," retorted Miss Loach.  "Hold it now and let me
think!"

While Miss Loach, staring frowningly into the fire, debated inwardly as
to the advisability of engaging the girl, Susan looked timidly round
the room.  Curiously enough, it was placed in the basement of the
cottage, and was therefore below the level of the garden.  Two fairly
large windows looked on to the area, which had been roofed with glass
and turned into a conservatory.  Here appeared scarlet geraniums and
other bright-hued flowers, interspersed with ferns and delicate
grasses.  Owing to the position of the room and the presence of the
glass roof, only a subdued light filtered into the place, but, as the
day was brilliant with sunshine, the apartment was fairly well
illuminated.  Still, on a cloudy day, Susan could imagine how dull it
would be.  In winter time the room must be perfectly dark.

It was luxuriously furnished, in red and gold.  The carpet and curtains
were of bright scarlet, threaded with gold.  The furniture, strangely
enough, was of white polished wood upholstered in crimson satin fringed
with gold.  There were many pictures in large gilded frames and many
mirrors similarly encircled with gilded wood.  The grate, fender and
fire-irons were of polished brass, and round the walls were numerous
electric lamps with yellow shades.  The whole room represented a
bizarre appearance, flamboyant and rather tropical in looks.
Apparently Miss Loach was fond of vivid colors.  There was no piano,
nor were there books or papers, and the only evidence as to how Miss
Loach passed her time revealed itself in a work-basket and a pack of
cards.  Yet, at her age, Susan thought that needlework would be rather
trying, even though she wore no glasses and her eyes seemed bright and
keen.  She was an odd old lady and appeared to be rich.  "I'll engage
you," said Miss Loach abruptly; "get your box and be here before five
o'clock this afternoon.  I am expecting some friends at eight o'clock.
You must be ready to admit them. Now go!"

"But, ma'am, I--"

"In this house," interrupted Miss Loach imperiously, "no one speaks to
me, unless spoken to by me.  You understand!"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Susan timidly, and obeyed the finger which
pointed to the door.  Miss Loach listened to the girl's footsteps on
the stairs, and sat down when she heard the front door close.  But she
was up again almost in a moment and pacing the room.  Apparently the
conversation with Susan Grant afforded her food for reflection.  And
not very palatable food either, judging from her expression.

The newly-engaged servant returned that same afternoon to the suburban
station, which tapped the district of Rexton.  A trunk, a bandbox and a
bag formed her humble belongings, and she arranged with a porter that
these should be wheeled in a barrow to Rose Cottage, as Miss Loach's
abode was primly called.  Having come to terms, Susan left the station
and set out to walk to the place.  Apart from the fact that she saved a
cab fare, she wished to obtain some idea of her surroundings, and
therefore did not hurry herself.

It was a bright June day with a warm green earth basking under a blue
and cloudless sky.  But even the sunshine could not render Rexton
beautiful.  It stretched out on all sides from the station new and raw.
The roads were finished, with asphalt footpaths and stone curbing, the
lamp-posts had apparently only been lately erected, and lines of white
fences divided the roads from gardens yet in their infancy.  Fronting
these were damp-looking red brick villas, belonging to small clerks and
petty tradesmen.  Down one street was a row of shops filled with the
necessaries of civilization; and round the corner, an aggressively new
church of yellow brick with a tin roof and a wooden steeple stood in
the middle of an untilled space.  At the end of one street a glimpse
could be caught of the waste country beyond, not yet claimed by the
ferry-builder.  A railway embankment bulked against the horizon, and
closed the view in an unsightly manner.  Rexton was as ugly as it was
new.

Losing her way, Susan came to the ragged fringe of country environing
the new suburb, and paused there, to take in her surroundings.  Across
the fields to the left she saw an unfinished mansion, large and
stately, rising amidst a forest of pines.  This was girdled by a high
brick wall which looked older than the suburb itself.  Remembering that
she had seen this house behind the cottage of Miss Loach, the girl used
it as a landmark, and turning down a side street managed to find the
top of a crooked lane at the bottom of which Rose Cottage was situated.
This lane showed by its very crookedness that it belonged to the
ancient civilization of the district.  Here were no paths, no lamps, no
aggressively new fences and raw brick houses.  Susan, stepping down the
slight incline, passed into quite an old world, smacking of the
Georgian times, leisurely and quaint.  On either side of the lane,
old-fashioned cottages, with whitewash walls and thatched roofs, stood
amidst gardens filled with unclipped greenery and homely flowers.
Quickset hedges, ragged and untrimmed, divided these from the roadway,
and to add to the rural look one garden possessed straw bee-hives.
Here and there rose ancient elm-trees and grass grew in the roadway.
It was a blind lane and terminated in a hedge, which bordered a field
of corn.  To the left was a narrow path running between hedges past the
cottages and into the country.

Miss Loach's house was a mixture of old and new.  Formerly it had been
an unpretentious cottage like the others, but she had added a new wing
of red brick built in the most approved style of the jerry-builder, and
looking like the villas in the more modern parts of Rexton.  The
crabbed age and the uncultured youth of the old and new portions,
planted together cheek by jowl, appeared like ill-coupled clogs and
quite out of harmony.  The thatched and tiled roofs did not seem meet
neighbors, and the whitewash walls of the old-world cottage looked
dingy beside the glaring redness of the new villa.  The front door in
the new part was reached by a flight of dazzling white steps.  From
this, a veranda ran across the front of the cottage, its rustic posts
supporting rose-trees and ivy.  On the cottage side appeared an old
garden, but the new wing was surrounded by lawns and decorated with
carpet bedding.  A gravel walk divided the old from the new, and
intersected the garden.  At the back, Susan noted again the high brick
wall surrounding the half-completed mansion.  Above this rose tall
trees, and the wall itself was overgrown with ivy.  It apparently was
old and concealed an unfinished palace of the sleeping beauty, so
ragged and wild appeared the growth which peeped over the guardian wall.

With a quickness of perception unusual in her class, Susan took all
this in, then rang the bell.  There was no back door, so far as she
could see, and she thought it best to enter as she had done in the
morning.  But the large fat woman who opened the door gave her to
understand that she had taken a liberty.

"Of course this morning and before engaging, you were a lady," said the
cook, hustling the girl into the hall, "but now being the housemaid,
Miss Loach won't be pleased at your touching the front bell."

"I did not see any other entrance," protested Susan.

"Ah," said the cook, leading the way down a few steps into the thatched
cottage, which, it appeared was the servants' quarters, "you looked
down the area as is natural-like.  But there ain't none, it being a
conservitery!"

"Why does Miss Loach live in the basement?" asked Susan, on being shown
into a comfortable room which answered the purpose of a servants' hall.

The cook resented this question.  "Ah!" said she with a snort, "and why
does a miller wear a white 'at, Miss Grant, that being your name I take
it.  Don't you ask no questions but if you must know, Miss Loach have
weak eyes and don't like glare. She lives like a rabbit in a burrow,
and though the rooms on the ground floor are sich as the King might
in'abit, she don't come up often save to eat.  She lives in the
basement room where you saw her, Miss Grant, and she sleeps in the room
orf. When she eats, the dining-room above is at her service.  An' I
don't see why she shouldn't," snorted the cook.

"I don't mean any--"

"No offence being given none is taken," interrupted cook, who seemed
fond of hearing her own wheezy voice.  "Emily Pill's my name, and I
ain't ashamed of it, me having been cook to Miss Loach for years an'
years and years.  But if you had wished to behave like a servant, as
you are," added she with emphasis, "why didn't you run round by the
veranda and so get to the back where the kitchen is.  But you're one of
the new class of servants, Miss Grant, 'aughty and upsetting."

"I know my place," said Susan, taking off her hat.

"And I know mine," said Emily Pill, "me being cook and consequently the
mistress of this servants' 'all.  An' I'm an old-fashioned servant
myself, plain in my 'abits and dress." This with a disparaging look at
the rather smart costume of the newly-arrived housemaid.  "I don't 'old
with cockes feathers and fal-de-dals on 'umble folk myself, not but
what I could afford 'em if I liked, being of saving 'abits and a
receiver of good wages.  But I'm a friendly pusson and not 'ard on a
good-lookin' gal, not that you are what I call 'andsome."

Susan seated beside the table, looked weary and forlorn, and the
good-natured heart of the cook was touched, especially when Susan
requested her to refrain from the stiff name of Miss Grant.

"You an' me will be good friends, I've no doubt," said Emily, "an' you
can call me Mrs. Pill, that being the name of my late 'usband, who died
of gin in excess.  The other servants is housemaid and page, though to
be sure he's more of a man-of-all-work, being forty if he's a day, and
likewise coachman, when he drives out Miss Loach in her donkey
carriage.  Thomas is his name, my love."  The cook was rapidly becoming
more and more friendly, "and the housemaid is called Geraldine, for
which 'eaven forgives her parents, she bein' spotty and un'ealthy and
by no means a Bow-Bell's 'eroine, which 'er name makes you think of.
But there's a dear, I'm talking brilliant, when you're dying for a cup
of tea, and need to get your box unpacked, by which I mean that I sees
the porter with the barrer."

The newly-arrived parlor-maid was pleased by this friendly if
ungrammatical reception, and thought she would like the cook in spite
of her somewhat tiresome tongue.  For the next hour she was unpacking
her box and arranging a pleasant little room at the back.  She shared
this with the spotty Geraldine, who seemed to be a good-natured girl.
Apparently Miss Loach looked after her servants and made them
comfortable.  Thomas proved to be amiable if somewhat stupid, and
welcomed Susan to tea affably but with sheepish looks.  As the servants
seemed pleasant, the house comfortable, and as the salary was
excellent, Susan concluded that she had--as the saying is--fallen on
her feet.

The quartette had tea in the servants' hall, and there was plenty of
well-cooked if plain victuals.  Miss Loach dined at half-past six and
Susan assumed her dress and cap.  She laid the table in a handsome
dining-room, equally as garish in color as the apartment below.  The
table appointments were elegant, and Mrs. Pill served a nice little
meal to which Miss Loach did full justice.  She wore the same purple
dress, but with the addition of more jewellery.  Her sharp eyes
followed Susan about the room as she waited, and at the end of the
dinner she made her first observation.  "You know your work I see," she
said.  "I hope you will be happy here!"

"I think I will, ma'am," said Susan, with a faint sigh.

"You have had trouble?" asked Miss Loach quickly.

"Yes, ma'am!"

"You must tell me about it to-morrow," said the old lady rising.  "I
like to gain the confidence of my servants.  Now bring my coffee to the
room below.  At eight, three people will arrive--a lady and two
gentlemen.  You will show them into the sitting-room and put out the
card-table.  Then you can go to the kitchen and wait till I ring.  Be
sure you don't come till I do ring," and Miss Loach emphasized this
last order with a flash of her brilliant eyes.

Susan took the coffee to the sitting-room in the basement and then
cleared the table.  Shortly before eight o'clock there was a ring at
the front door.  She opened it to a tall lady, with gray hair, who
leaned on an ebony cane.  With her were two men, one a rather rough
foolish-looking fellow, and the other tall, dark, and well-dressed in
an evening suit.  A carriage was just driving away from the gate.  As
the tall lady entered, a breath of strong perfume saluted Susan's
nostrils.  The girl started and peered into the visitor's face.  When
she returned to the kitchen her own was as white as chalk.




CHAPTER II

THE CRIME


The kitchen was rather spacious, and as neat and clean as the busy
hands of Mrs. Pill could make it.  An excellent range polished to
excess occupied one end of the room; a dresser with blue and white
china adorned the other.  On the outside wall copper pots and pans,
glittering redly in the firelight, were ranged in a shining row.
Opposite this wall, a door led into the interior of the house, and in
it was the outer entrance.  A large deal table stood in the center of
the room, and at this with their chairs drawn up, Geraldine and the
cook worked.  The former was trimming a picture-hat of the cheapest and
most flamboyant style, and the latter darned a coarse white stocking
intended for her own use.  By the fire sat Thomas, fair-haired and
stupid in looks, who read tit-bits from the Daily Mail for the
delectation of Mrs. Pill and Geraldine.

"Gracious 'eavens, Susan," cried the cook, when Susan returned, after
admitting the visitors, "whatever's come to you?"

"I've had a turn," said Susan faintly, sitting by the fire and rubbing
her white cheeks.

At once Mrs. Pill was alive with curiosity.  She questioned the new
parlor-maid closely, but was unable to extract information.  Susan
simply said that she had a weak heart, and set down her wan appearance
to the heat.  "An' on that accounts you sits by the fire," said Mrs.
Pill scathingly. "You're one of the secret ones you are.  Well, it
ain't no business of mine, thank 'eaven, me being above board in
everythink.  I 'spose the usual lot arrived, Susan?"

"Two gentlemen and a lady," replied Susan, glad to see that the cooks
thoughts were turning in another direction.

"Gentlemen!" snorted Mrs. Pill, "that Clancy one ain't.  Why the missus
should hobnob with sich as he, I don't know nohow."

"Ah, but the other's a real masher," chimed in Geraldine, looking up
from her millinery; "such black eyes, that go through you like a
gimlet, and such a lovely moustache.  He dresses elegant too."

"Being Miss Loach's lawyer, he have a right to dress well," said Mrs.
Pill, rubbing her nose with the stocking, "and Mr. Clancy, I thinks, is
someone Mr. Jarvey Hale's helpin', he being good and kind."

Here Geraldine gave unexpected information.

"He's a client of Mr. Hale's," she said indistinctly, with her mouth
full of pins, "and has come in for a lot of money.  Mr. Hale's
introducing him into good society, to make a gent of him."

"Silk purses can't be made out of sows' ears," growled the cook, "an'
who told you all this Geraldine?"

"Miss Loach herself, at different times."

Susan thought it was strange that a lady should gossip to this extent
with her housemaid, but she did not take much interest in the
conversation, being occupied with her own sad thoughts. But the next
remark of Geraldine made her start.  "Mr. Clancy's father was a
carpenter," said the girl.

"My father was a carpenter," remarked Susan, sadly.

"Ah," cried Mrs. Pill with alacrity, "now you're speaking sense.  Ain't
he alive?"

"No.  He was poisoned!"

The three servants, having the love of horrors peculiar to the lower
classes, looked up with interest.  "Lor!" said Thomas, speaking for the
first time and in a thick voice, "who poisoned him?"

"No one knows.  He died five years ago, and left mother with me and
four little brothers to bring up.  They're all doing well now, though,
and I help mother, as they do.  They didn't want me to go out to
service, you know," added Susan, warming on finding sympathetic
listeners.  "I could have stopped at home with mother in Stepney, but I
did not want to be idle, and took a situation with a widow lady at
Hampstead.  I stopped there a year.  Then she died and I went as
parlor-maid to a Senora Gredos.  I was only there six months," and she
sighed.

"Why did you leave?" asked Geraldine.

Susan grew red.  "I wished for a change," she said curtly.

But the housemaid did not believe her.  She was a sharp girl and her
feelings were not refined.  "It's just like these men--"

"I said nothing about men," interrupted Susan, sharply.

"Well, then, a man.  You've been in love, Susan, and--"

"No.  I am not in love," and Susan colored more than ever.

"Why, it's as plain as cook that you are, now," tittered Geraldine.

"Hold your noise and leave the gal be," said Mrs. Pill, offended by the
allusion to her looks, "if she's in love she ain't married, and no more
she ought to be; if she'd had a husband like mine, who drank every day
in the week and lived on my earnings.  He's dead now, an' I gave 'im a
'andsome tombstone with the text: 'Go thou and do likewise' on it,
being a short remark, lead letterin' being expensive.  Ah well, as I
allays say, 'Flesh is grass with us all.'"

While the cook maundered on Thomas sat with his dull eyes fixed on the
flushed face of Susan.  "What about the poisoning?" he demanded.

"It was this way," said Susan.  "Father was working at some house in
these parts--"

"What! Down here?"

"Yes, at Rexton, which was then just rising into notice as a place for
gentlefolks.  He had just finished with a house when he came home one
day with his wages.  He was taken ill and died.  The doctor said he had
taken poison, and he died of it. Arsenic it was," explained Susan to
her horrified audience.

"But why did he poison himself?" asked Geraldine.

"I don't know: no one knew.  He was gettin' good wages, and said he
would make us all rich."

"Ah," chimed in Thomas suddenly, "in what way, Susan?"

"He had a scheme to make our fortunes.  What it was, I don't know.  But
he said he would soon be worth plenty of money. Mother thought someone
must have poisoned him, but she could not find out.  As we had a lot of
trouble then, it was thought father had killed himself to escape it,
but I know better.  If he had lived, we should have been rich.  He was
on an extra job down here," she ended.

"What was the extra job?" asked Thomas curiously.

Susan shook her head.  "Mother never found out.  She went to the house
he worked on, which is near the station.  They said father always went
away for three hours every afternoon by an arrangement with the
foreman.  Where he went, no one knew.  He came straight from this extra
job home and died of poison. Mother thought," added Susan, looking
round cautiously, "that someone must have had a wish to get rid of
father, he knowing too much."

"Too much of what, my gal?" asked Mrs. Pill, with open mouth.

"Ah!  That's what I'd like to find out," said Susan garrulously, "but
nothing was ever known, and father was buried as a suicide.  Then
mother, having me and my four brothers, married again, and I took the
name of her new husband."

"Then your name ain't really Grant?" asked Geraldine.

"No!  It's Maxwell, father being Scotch and a clever workman. Susan
Maxwell is my name, but after the suicide--if it was one--mother felt
the disgrace so, that she made us all call ourselves Grant.  So Susan
Grant I am, and my brothers of the old family are Grant also."

"What do you mean by the old family?"

"Mother has three children by her second husband, and that's the new
family," explained Susan, "but we are all Grants, though me and my four
brothers are really Maxwells.  But there," she said, looking round
quietly and rather pleased at the interest with which she was regarded,
"I've told you a lot.  Tell me something!"

Mrs. Pill was unwilling to leave the fascinating subject of suicide,
but her desire to talk got the better of her, and she launched into a
long account of her married life.  It seemed she had buried the late
Mr. Pill ten years before, and since that time had been with Miss Loach
as cook.  She had saved money and could leave service at once, if she
so chose.  "But I should never be happy out of my kitchen, my love,"
said Mrs. Pill, biting a piece of darning-cotton, "so here I stay till
missus goes under."

"And she won't do that for a long time," said Thomas.  "Missus is
strong.  A good, kind, healthy lady."

Geraldine followed with an account of herself, which related chiefly to
her good looks and many lovers, and the tyranny of mistresses.  "I will
say, however, that after being here a year, I have nothing to complain
of."

"I should think not," grunted Thomas.  "I've been twenty years with
Miss Loach, and a good 'un she is.  I entered her service when I was
fifteen, and she could have married an earl--Lord Caranby wanted to
marry her--but she wouldn't."

"Lor," said Mrs. Pill, "and ain't that his lordship's nephew who comes
here at times?"

"Mr. Mallow?  Yes!  That's him.  He's fond of the old lady."

"And fond of her niece, too," giggled Geraldine; "not but what Miss
Saxon is rather sweet."

"Rather sweet," growled the cook, "why, she's a lovely gal, sich as
you'll never be, in spite of your fine name.  An' her brother, Mr.
Basil, is near as 'andsome as she."

"He ain't got the go about him Miss Juliet have," said Thomas.

"A lot you know," was the cook's retort.  "Why Mr. Basil quarrelled
with missus a week ago and gave her proper, and missus ain't no easy
person to fight with, as I knows.  Mr. Basil left the house and ain't
been near since."

"He's a fool, then," said Thomas.  "Missus won't leave him a penny."

"She'll leave it to Miss Juliet Saxon, which is just the same. I never
did see brother and sister so fond of one another as those two.  I
believe she'd put the 'air of 'er head--and lovely 'air it is,
too--under his blessed feet to show him she loves him."

"She'd do the same by Mr. Mallow," said Geraldine, tittering.

Here Susan interrupted.  "Who is the old lady who comes here?"

"Oh, she's Mrs. Herne," said the cook.  "A cross, 'aughty old thing,
who fights always.  She's been coming here with Mr. Jarvey Hale and Mr.
Clancy for the last three years.  They play whist every evening and go
away regular about ten. Missus let's 'em out themselves or else rings
for me.  Why, there's the bell now," and Mrs. Pill rose.

"No!  I go," said Susan, rising also.  "Miss Loach told me to come when
she rang."

Mrs. Pill nodded and resumed her seat and her darning.  "Lor bless you,
my love, I ain't jealous," she said.  "My legs ain't as young as they
was.  'Urry, my dear, missus is a bad 'un to be kept waitin'."

Thus urged, Susan hastened to the front part of the house and down the
stairs.  The door of the sitting-room was open.  She knocked and
entered, to find Mr. Clancy, who looked rougher and more foolish than
ever, standing by the table.  Miss Loach, with a pack of cards on her
lap, was talking, and Susan heard the concluding sentence as she
entered the room.

"You're a fool, Clancy," said Miss Loach, emphatically.  "You know Mrs.
Herne doesn't like to be contradicted.  You've sent her away in a fine
rage, and she's taken Hale with her.  Quite spoilt our game of--ah,
here's Susan.  Off with you, Clancy. I wish to be alone."

The man would have spoken, but Miss Loach silenced him with a sharp
gesture and pointed to the door.  In silence he went upstairs with
Susan, and in silence left the house.  It was a fine night, and Susan
stopped for a moment at the door to drink in the fresh air.  She heard
the heavy footsteps of a policeman draw near and he passed the house,
to disappear into the path on the opposite side of the road.  When
Susan returned to the kitchen she found supper ready.  Soon the
servants were seated at the table and talking brightly.

"Who does that house at the back belong to?" asked Susan.

"To Lord Caranby," said Thomas, although not directly addressed.  "It's
unfinished."

"Yes and shut up.  Lord Caranby was in love with a lady and built that
house for her.  Before it was ready the lady died and Lord Caranby left
the house as it was and built a high wall round it.  He then went
travelling and has been travelling ever since.  He never married
either, and his nephew, Mr. Cuthbert Mallow, is heir to the title."

"I thought you said Lord Caranby loved Miss Loach?"

"No, I didn't.  I said she could have married him had she played her
cards properly.  But she didn't, and Lord Caranby went away.  The lady
who died was a friend of missus, and they were always together.  I
think missus and she were jealous of Lord Caranby, both loving him.
But Miss Saul--that was the other lady--died, and Lord Caranby left the
house as it stands, to go away."

"He won't allow anyone to set a foot in the house or grounds," said
Mrs. Pill, "there ain't no gate in the wall--"

"No gate," echoed Susan astonished.

"Not a single 'ole as you could get a cat through.  Round and round the
place that fifteen-feet wall is built, and the park, as they calls it,
is running as wild as a cow.  Not a soul has set foot in that place for
the last fifteen years.  But I expect when Mr. Mallow comes in for the
title he'll pull it down and build 'ouses.  I'm sure he ought to: it's
a shame seeing land wasted like that."

"Where is Lord Caranby now?"

"He lives in London and never comes near this place," said Thomas.

"Is Miss Loach friendly with him now?" "No, she ain't.  He treated her
badly.  She'd have been a better Lady Caranby than Miss Saul"--here
Thomas started and raised a finger.  "Eh! wasn't that the front door
closing?"

All listened, but no sound could be heard.  "Perhaps missus has gone to
walk in the garding," said cook, "she do that at times."

"Did you show 'ern out?" asked Thomas, looking at Susan.

"Only Mr. Clancy," she answered, "the others had gone before. I heard
what Miss Loach was saying.  Mr. Clancy had quarrelled with Mrs. Herne
and she had gone away with Mr. Hale.  Then Miss Loach gave it to him
hot and sent him away.  She's all alone."

"I must have been mistaken about the door then," said he.

"Not at all," chimed in Mrs. Pill.  "Missus is walking as she do do in
the garding, singing and adornin' self with flowers."

After this poetic flight of fancy on the part of the cook, the supper
ended.  Thomas smoked a pipe and the housemaid cleared away.  Mrs. Pill
occupied her time in putting her few straggling locks in curl-papers.

While Susan was assisting Geraldine, the bell rang.  All started.  "I
thought missus had gone to bed," cried the cook, getting up hurriedly.
"She'll be in a fine rage if she finds us up.  Go to bed, Geraldine,
and you, Thomas.  Susan, answer the bell.  She don't like us not to be
gettin' our beauty sleep.  Bless me it's eleving."

The clock had just struck as Susan left the kitchen, and the three
servants were bustling about so as to get to bed before their
sharp-eyed old mistress found them.  Susan went down the stairs.  The
door of the sitting-room was closed.  She knocked but no voice told her
to enter.  Wondering if the bell had been rung by mistake, Susan
knocked again, and again received no answer.  She had a mind to retreat
rather than face the anger of Miss Loach.  But remembering that the
bell had rung, she opened the door, determined to explain.  Miss Loach
was seated in her usual chair, but leaning back with a ghastly face.
The glare of the electric lamp fixed in the ceiling, shone full on her
white countenance, and also on something else.  The bosom of her purple
gown was disarranged, and the lace which adorned it was stained with
blood.  Startled by her looks Susan hurried forward and gazed
searchingly into the face.  There was no sign of recognition in the
wide, staring eyes.  Susan, quivering with dread, touched Miss Loach's
shoulder.  Her touch upset the body and it rolled on the floor.  The
woman was dead.  With a shriek Susan recoiled and fell on her knees.
Her cry speedily brought the other servants.

"Look!" cried Susan pointing, "she is dead--murdered!"

Geraldine and Mrs. Pill shrieked with horror.  Thomas preserved his
stolid look of composure.




CHAPTER III

A MYSTERIOUS DEATH


To be the husband of a celebrated woman is not an unmixed blessing.
Mr. Peter Octagon found it to be so, when he married Mrs. Saxon, the
widow of an eminent Q.C.  She was a fine Junoesque tragic woman, who
modelled herself on the portraits of the late Mrs. Siddons.  Peter, on
the contrary, was a small, meek, light-haired, short-sighted man, who
had never done anything in his unromantic life, save accumulate a
fortune as a law-stationer.  For many years he lived in single
blessedness, but when he retired with an assured income of three
thousand a year, he thought he would marry.  He had no relatives,
having been brought up in a Foundling Hospital, and consequently, found
life rather lonely in his fine Kensington house.  He really did not
care about living in such a mansion, and had purchased the property as
a speculation, intending to sell it at a profit.  But having fallen in
with Mrs. Saxon, then a hard-up widow, she not only induced him to
marry her, but, when married, she insisted that the house should be
retained, so that she could dispense hospitality to a literary circle.

Mrs. Octagon was very literary.  She had published several novels under
the nom-de-plume of "Rowena."  She had produced a volume of poems; she
had written a play which had been produced at a matinee; and finally
her pamphlets on political questions stamped her, in the opinion of her
immediate circle, as a William Pitt in petticoats.  She looked upon
herself as the George Eliot of the twentieth century, and dated events
from the time of her first success.  "That happened before I became
famous," she would say.  "No, it was after I took the public by storm."
And her immediate circle, who appreciated her cakes and ale, would
agree with everything she said.  The Kensington house was called "The
Shrine of the Muses!" and this title was stamped on her envelopes and
writing-paper, to the bewilderment of illiterate postmen.  It sounded
like the name of a public-house to them.

Peter was quite lost in the blaze of his wife's literary glory.  He was
a plain, homely, small man, as meek as a rabbit, fond of his garden and
fireside, and nervous in society.  Had he not committed the fatal
mistake of wedding Mrs. Saxon, he would have taken a cottage in the
country and cultivated flowers.  As it was, he dwelt in town and was
ordered to escort Mrs. Octagon when she chose to "blaze," as she put
it, in her friends' houses.  Also there was a reception every Friday
when literary London gathered round "Rowena," and lamented the decline
of Art.  These people had never done anything to speak of, none of them
were famous in any wide sense, but they talked of art with a big "A,"
though what they meant was not clear even to themselves.  So far as
could be ascertained Art, with a big "A," was concerned with something
which did not sell, save to a select circle.  Mrs. Octagon's circle
would have shuddered collectively and individually at the idea of
writing anything interesting, likely to be enjoyed by the toilers of
modern days.  Whatever pictures, songs, books or plays were written by
anyone who did not belong to "The Circle," these were considered
"pretty, but not Tart!" Anything successful was pronounced "Vulgar!"
To be artistic in Mrs. Octagon's sense, a work had to possess
obscurity, it had to be printed on the finest paper with selected type,
and it had to be sold at a prohibitive price. In this way "Rowena" had
produced her works, and her name was not known beyond her small
coterie.  All the same, she intimated that her renown was world-wide
and that her fame would be commensurate with the existence of the
Anglo-Saxon race.  Mrs. Lee Hunter in the Pickwick Papers, also labored
under the same delusion.

With Peter lived Mrs. Saxon's children by the eminent Q.C. Basil, who
was twenty-five, and Juliet age twenty-two.  They were both handsome
and clever, but Juliet was the more sensible of the two.  She detested
the sham enthusiasm of The Circle, and appreciated Peter more than her
mother did.  Basil had been spoilt by his mother, who considered him a
genius, and had produced a book of weak verse.  Juliet was fond of her
brother, but she saw his faults and tried to correct them. She wished
to make him more of a man and less of an artistic fraud, for the young
man really did possess talents.  But the hothouse atmosphere of "The
Shrine of the Muses!" would have ruined anyone possessed of genius,
unless he had a strong enough nature to withstand the sickly adulation
and false judgments of those who came there.  Basil was not strong.  He
was pleasant, idle, rather vain, and a little inclined to be
dissipated.  Mrs. Octagon did not know that Basil was fond of
dissipation.  She thought him a model young Oxford man, and hoped he
would one day be Laureate of England.

Afternoon tea was just ended, and several of Mrs. Octagon's friends had
departed.  Basil and Mr. Octagon were out, but the latter entered with
a paper in his hand shortly after the last visitor took her leave.
Mrs. Octagon, in a ruby-colored velvet, looking majestic and
self-satisfied, was enthroned--the word is not too strong--in an
arm-chair, and Juliet was seated opposite to her turning over the
leaves of a new novel produced by one of The Circle.  It was
beautifully printed and bound, and beautifully written in "precious"
English, but its perusal did not seem to afford her any satisfaction.
Her attention wandered, and every now and then she looked at the door
as though expecting someone to enter.  Mrs. Octagon disapproved of
Juliet's pale cheeks and want of attention to her own fascinating
conversation, so, when alone, she took the opportunity to correct her.

"My child," said Mrs. Octagon, who always spoke in a tragic manner, and
in a kind of blank-verse way, "to me it seems your cheeks are somewhat
pale."

"I had no sleep last night," said Juliet, throwing down the book.

"Your thoughts concerned themselves with Cuthbert's face, no doubt, my
love," said her mother fondly.

"No, I was not thinking of him.  I was worried about--about--my new
dress," she finished, after vainly casting about for some more sensible
reason.

"How foolish children are.  You trouble about your dress when you
should have been thinking of the man who loves you."

"Does Cuthbert love me?" asked Juliet, flushing.

"As Romeo loved your namesake, sweetest child.  And a very good match
it is too," added Mrs. Octagon, relapsing into prose.  "He is Lord
Caranby's heir, and will have a title and a fortune some day.  But I
would not force you to wed against your will, my dear."

"I love Cuthbert and Cuthbert loves me," said Juliet quickly, "we quite
understand one another.  I wonder why he did not come to-day."

"Ah," said her mother playfully, "I saw that your thoughts were
otherwhere.  Your eyes wandered constantly to the door. He may come
late.  By the way, where is my dearest son?"

"Basil?  He went out this morning.  I believe he intended to call on
Aunt Selina."

Mrs. Octagon lost a trifle of her suave manner, and became decidedly
more human.  "Then I wish he would not call there," she said sharply.
"Selina Loach is my own sister, but I do not approve of her."

"She is a poor, lonely dear, mother."

"Poor, my child, she is not, as I have every reason to believe she is
well endowed with this world's goods.  Lonely she may be, but that is
her own fault.  Had she behaved as she should have done, Lady Caranby
would have been her proud title.  As to dear," Mrs. Octagon shrugged
her fine shoulders, "she is not a woman to win or retain love.  Look at
the company she keeps.  Mr. Hale, her lawyer, is not a nice man.  I
have espied something evil in his eye.  That Clancy creature is said to
be rich.  He needs to be, if only to compensate for his rough way.
They visit her constantly."

"You have forgotten Mrs. Herne," said Juliet, rising, and beginning to
pace the room restlessly and watch out of the window.

"I have never met Mrs. Herne.  And, indeed, you know, that for private
reasons I have never visited Selina at that ridiculous house of hers.
When were you there last, Juliet, my child?"

The girl started and appeared embarrassed.  "Oh, a week ago," she said
hurriedly, then added restlessly, "I wonder why Basil does not come
back.  He has been away all day."

"Do you know why he has called on your aunt, my dear?"

"No," said Juliet, in a hesitating manner, and turned again to look out
of the window.  Then she added, as though to escape further
questioning, "I have seen Mrs. Herne only once, but she seemed to me a
very nice, clever old woman."

"Clever," said Mrs. Octagon, raising her eyebrows, which were as
strongly marked as those of her sister, "no.  She does not belong to
The Circle."

"A person can be clever without that," said Juliet impatiently.

"No.  All the clever people in London come here, Juliet.  If Mrs. Herne
had been brilliant, she would have found her way to our Shrine."

Juliet shrugged her shoulders and curled her pretty lip.  She did not
appreciate her privileges in that house.  In fact, a word distinctly
resembling "Bother!" escaped from her mouth. However, she went on
talking of Mrs. Herne, as though to keep her mother from questioning
her further.

"There is a mystery about Mrs. Herne," she said, coming to the fire;
"for I asked Aunt Selina who she was, and she could not tell me."

"That is so like Selina," rejoined Mrs. Octagon tartly, "receiving a
person of whom she knows nothing."

"Oh, she does know a little.  Mrs. Herne is the widow of a Spanish
merchant, and she struck me as being foreign herself. Aunt Selina has
known her for three years, and she has come almost every week to play
whist at Rose Cottage.  I believe she lives at Hampstead!"

"It seems to me, Juliet, that your aunt told you a great deal about
this person.  Why did you ask?"

Juliet stared into the fire.  "There is something so strange about Mrs.
Herne," she murmured.  "In spite of her gray hair she looks quite
young.  She does not walk as an old woman.  She confessed to being over
fifty.  To be sure, I saw her only once."

Mrs. Octagon grew rather cross.  "I am over fifty, and I'm sure I don't
look old, you undutiful child.  When the soul is young, what matters
the house of clay.  But, as I was saying," she added hastily, not
choosing to talk of her age, which was a tender point with her, "Selina
Loach likes low company.  I know nothing of Mrs. Herne, but what you
say of her does not sound refined."

"Oh, she is quite a lady."

"And as to Mr. Clancy and Mr. Jarvey Hale," added Mrs. Octagon, taking
no notice, "I mistrust them.  That Hale man looked as though he would
do a deed of darkness on the slightest provocation."

So tragic was her mother's manner, that Juliet turned even paler than
she was.  "Whatever do you mean?" she asked quickly.

"I mean murder, if I must use so vulgar and melodramatic a word."

"But I don't understand--"

"Bless me," cried Mrs. Octagon, becoming more prosaic than ever, "there
is nothing to understand.  But Selina lives in quite a lonely house,
and has a lot of money.  I never open the papers but what I expect to
read of her death by violence."

"Oh," murmured Juliet, again crossing to the window, "you should not
talk like that, mother!"

Mrs. Octagon laughed good-naturedly.  "Nonsense, child.  I am only
telling you my thoughts.  Selina is such a strange woman and keeps such
strange company that she won't end in the usual way.  You may be sure
of that.  But, after all, if she does die, you will come in for her
money and then, can marry Cuthbert Mallow."

Juliet shuddered.  "I hope Aunt Selina will live for many a long day,
if that is what you think," she said sharply.  "I want none of her
money.  Cuthbert has money of his own, and his uncle is rich also."

"I really hope Cuthbert has enough to justify him gambling."

"He does not gamble," said Juliet quickly.

"Yes he does," insisted Mrs. Octagon.  "I have heard rumors; it is but
right you should hear about--"

"I want to hear nothing.  I thought you liked Cuthbert."

"I do, and he is a good match.  But I should like to see you accept the
Poet Arkwright, who will yet be the Shakespeare of England."

"England has quite enough glory with the Shakespeare she has," rejoined
Juliet tartly, "and as to Mr. Arkwright, I wouldn't marry him if he had
a million.  A silly, ugly, weak--"

"Stop!" cried Mrs. Octagon, rising majestically from her throne.  "Do
not malign genius, lest the gods strike you dumb. Child--"

What Mrs. Octagon was about to say further must remain ever a mystery,
for it was at this moment that her husband hurried into the room with
an evening paper in his hand.  "My dear," he said, his scanty hair
almost standing on end with horror, "such dreadful news.  Your aunt,
Juliet, my dear--"

"Selina," said Mrs. Octagon quietly, "go on.  There is nothing bad I
don't expect to hear about Selina.  What is it?"

"She is dead!"

"Dead!" cried Juliet, clasping her hands nervously.  "No!"

"Not only dead, but murdered!" cried Mr. Octagon.  His wife suddenly
dropped into her throne and, being a large fleshly woman, her fall
shook the room.  Then she burst into tears. "I never liked Selina," she
sniffed, "even though she was my own sister, but I am sorry--I am
dreadfully--oh, dear me! Poor Selina!"

By this time all the dramatic posing of Mrs. Octagon had gone by the
wall, and she showed herself in her true colors as a kind-hearted
woman.  Juliet hurried to her mother and took one of her hands.  The
elder woman started, even in the midst of her tears.  "My child, your
hand is as cold as ice," she said anxiously.  "Are you ill."

"No," said the girl hurriedly and evidently trying to suppress her
emotion, "but this dreadful news!  Do you remember what you said?"

"Yes--but I never expected I would be a true prophetess," sobbed Mrs.
Octagon.  "Peter," with sudden tartness, "why don't you give me the
details.  Poor Selina dead, and here am I in ruby velvet!"

"There are not many details to give," said Peter, reading from the
newspaper, "the police are keeping quiet about the matter."

"Who killed her?"

Juliet rose suddenly and turned on the electric light, so that her
step-father could see to read more clearly.  "Yes," she said in a firm
voice, belied by the ghastly whiteness of her face, "who killed her?"

"It is not known," said Mr. Octagon.  "Last night she entertained a few
friends--to be precise, three, and she was found by her new parlor-maid
dead in her chair, stabbed to the heart.  The weapon has not been
found, nor has any trace of the murderer been discovered."

"Entertained friends," muttered Mrs. Octagon weeping, "the usual lot.
Mr. Hale, Mrs. Herne and Mr. Clancy--"

"Yes," said Peter, somewhat surprised, "how do you know?"

"My soul, whispered me," said Mrs. Octagon tragically, and becoming
melodramatic again, now that the first shock was over.  "One of those
three killed her.  Who struck the fatal blow?--the villain Hale I doubt
not."

"No," cried Juliet, "it was not Mr. Hale.  He would not harm a fly."

"Probably not," said her mother tartly, "a fly has no property--your
Aunt Selina had.  Oh, my dear," she added, darting away at a tangent,
"to think that last night you and Basil should have been witnesses of a
melodrama at the Marlow Theatre, at the very time this real tragedy was
taking place in the rural country."

"It's a most dreadful affair," murmured Peter, laying aside the paper.
"Had I not better go down to Rose Cottage and offer my services?"

"No," said Mrs. Octagon sharply, "don't mix yourself up in this
dreadful affair.  Few people know that Selina was my sister, and I
don't want everyone to be condoling with me on this tragedy."

"But we must do something," said Juliet quickly.

"We will wait, my dear.  But I don't want more publicity than is
necessary."

"But I have told some of our friends that Aunt Selina is a relative."

"Then you should not have done so," replied her mother, annoyed.
"However, people soon forget names, and the thing may not be noticed."

"My dear," said Octagon, seriously, "you should not be ashamed of your
sister.  She may not have your renown nor rank, still--"

"I know my own knowing," interrupted the lady rather violently, and
crushing her meek husband with a look.  "Selina and I are strangers,
and have been for years.  What are the circumstances of the case?  I
have not seen Selina for over fifteen years.  I hear nothing about her.
She suddenly writes to me, asking if my dear children may call and see
her--that was a year ago.  You insisted that they should go, Peter,
because relatives should be friendly.  I consented, as I heard from Mr.
Hale that Selina was rich, and fancied she might leave her money to my
children.  Juliet has called several times--"

"More than that," interrupted Juliet in her turn, "both Basil and I
have called nearly every month.  We sometimes went and did not tell
you, mother, as you seemed so annoyed that we should visit her."

"I consented only that you might retain her goodwill and get what money
she might leave," said Mrs. Octagon obstinately. "There is nothing in
common between Selina and me."

"There was nothing in common," put in Octagon softly.

"I know she is dead.  You need not remind me of that unpleasant fact,
sir.  And her death is worthy of her strange, and I fear not altogether
reputable life."

"Oh, mother, how can you?  Aunt Selina was the most particular--"

"There--there," said her mother who was much agitated, "I know more
than you do.  And between ourselves, I believe I know who killed her.
Yes!  You may look.  And this death, Juliet, ends your engagement with
Cuthbert."




CHAPTER IV

DETAILS


What Mrs. Octagon meant by her last enigmatic remark it is impossible
to say.  After delivering it in her usual dramatic manner, she swept
from the room, leaving Juliet and her step-father staring at one
another.  Peter was the first to break the silence.

"Your mother appears to be very positive," said he.

"About my giving up Cuthbert?" asked Juliet sharply.

"About the crime.  She hinted that she guessed who killed the poor
lady.  I never knew Miss Loach myself," added Mr. Octagon, seating
himself and ruffling his scanty locks, a habit with him when perplexed,
"but you said you liked her."

"Yes, Aunt Selina was always very nice to me.  She had strange ways,
and, to tell you the truth, father," Juliet always addressed Peter
thus, to his great delight, "she was not so refined as mother--"

"Few people are so refined as my wife, my dear."

"As to mother knowing who killed her," pursued Juliet, taking no notice
of this interpolation, "it's nonsense.  She said she believed Mr. Hale
or Mr. Clancy--"

"Surely not," interposed Mr. Octagon anxiously, "both these gentlemen
have participated in the delights of our literary Circle, and I should
be loath to credit them with violence."

"I don't believe either has anything to do with the matter. Mother
doesn't like them because they were such good friends to Aunt Selina.
Can you guess why mother quarrelled with aunt, father?"

"No, my dear.  Your mother has some grudge against her.  What it is I
do not know.  She never told me.  But for over fifteen years your
mother spoke little of your aunt and never called to see her.  I was
quite astonished when she consented that you and Basil should call.
Did your aunt ever speak of your mother?"

"Very little, and then she was cautious--what she said.  But this is
not the question," continued the girl, leaning her chin on her hand and
staring into the fire; "why does mother say I must break my engagement
with Cuthbert on account of this death?"

"Perhaps she will explain."

"No; she left the room to avoid an explanation.  Cuthbert certainly saw
Aunt Selina once or twice, but he did not care for her.  But he can
have nothing to do with the matter.  Then again, mother, up till now,
was always pleased that I should marry Cuthbert."

"Yes," said Octagon, twiddling his thumbs; "she has known Mr. Mallow
ever since he was a child.  Both your aunt and your mother were great
friends of Lord Caranby's in their youth, over twenty years ago.  I
believe at one time Selina was engaged to him, but he was in love with
a young lady called Miss Saul, who died unexpectedly."

"I know," said Juliet; "and then Lord Caranby abandoned the house he
was building at Rexton, and it has been shut up all these years.  Aunt
Selina told me the story.  When I asked mother for details, she refused
to speak."

"Your mother is very firm when she likes."

"Very obstinate, you mean," said Juliet, undutifully. "However, I am
not going to give up Cuthbert.  I love him and he loves me.  I intend
to marry him whatever mother may say."

"But if your mother refuses her consent?"

"I am over age."

As she spoke her brother entered the room hurriedly.  Basil Saxon was
as fair and weak-looking as his sister was dark and strong in
appearance.  He was smartly dressed, and in a rather affected way.  His
hair was long, he wore a moustache and a short imperial, and talked in
a languid way in a somewhat obscure manner.  These were the traits
Juliet disliked in Basil.  She would rather have seen him a spruce
well-groomed man about town like Cuthbert.  But at the present moment
Basil's face was flushed, and he spoke hurriedly, evidently laboring
under great stress of emotion.

"Have you heard the news?" he said, dropping into a chair and casting a
side look at the evening paper which Peter still held.

"If you mean about the death--"

"Yes; Aunt Selina has been murdered.  I called to see her this morning,
and found the house in the possession of the police. All day I have
been down there with Mallow."

"With Cuthbert," said Juliet, starting and growing red.  "What was he
doing there?"

"He came down to Rexton to see about the unfinished house. Lord Caranby
has returned to England, and he has thoughts of pulling it down.
Mallow came to have a look at the place."

"But he can't get in.  There is a wall round the grounds."

"He climbed over the wall," said Basil, quickly, "and after looking
through the house he came out.  Then he saw me, and I told him what had
happened.  He appeared dreadfully shocked."

Juliet shivered in spite of the heat of the day and the fire, near
which she was seated.  "It is strange he should have been there."

Her brother threw a keen glance at her.  "I don't see that!" he
exclaimed.  "He gave his reason for being in the neighborhood.  He came
up with me, and is coming on here in a few moments.  This is why he did
not turn up this afternoon."

Juliet nodded and appeared satisfied with this explanation. But she
kept her eyes on her brother when he entered into details about the
crime.  Her emotions during the recital betrayed themselves markedly.

"I saw the detective," said Basil, with quicker speech than usual.  "He
is a first-rate chap called Jennings, and when he heard I was Miss
Loach's nephew he didn't mind speaking freely."

"What did you learn?" asked Mr. Octagon.

"Enough to make the mystery surrounding the death deeper than ever."

"What do you mean?" asked his sister, restlessly.  "Can't the murderer
be found?"

"Not a trace of him can be discovered."

"Why do you say 'him.'  It might have been a woman."

"No," rejoined Basil positively, "no woman could have struck so hard a
blow.  Aunt Selina was stabbed to the heart.  She must have been killed
as she was rising from her chair, and death, so the doctor says, must
have been instantaneous."

"Has the weapon been found?" asked Juliet in a low voice.

Basil turned quickly in his chair, and looked at her sharply. "No!" he
said, "not a sign of any weapon can be found, nor can it be discovered
how anyone got into the house.  Though to be sure, she might have
admitted her visitor."

"Explain! explain," cried Mr. Octagon, ruffling his hair.

"Well, to tell the story in detail," said his step-son, "the way it
happened is this.  Aunt Selina had Mr. Hale and Mr. Clancy and Mrs.
Herne to their usual game of whist.  Clancy, as it appears from the
report of what the new parlor-maid overheard, quarrelled with Hale and
Mrs. Herne.  They left before ten o'clock.  At all events, when she
entered the room in answer to my aunt's summons, she found only Mr.
Clancy, and aunt was scolding him for having provoked Mrs. Herne by
contradicting her.  Apparently Mrs. Herne had gone away under the wing
of Hale.  Then aunt sent Clancy away at ten o'clock. The parlor-maid
returned to the kitchen and there had supper. She heard the bell ring
at eleven, and found aunt dead in the sitting-room, stabbed to the
heart."

"Heard the bell ring?" echoed Juliet.  "But how could aunt ring if she
had been killed?"

"She might have rung as she was dying," said Basil, after a pause.  "It
seems she was seated near the button of the bell and could have touched
it without rising.  She might have rung with a last effort, and then
have died before the parlor-maid could get to the room."

"Or else," said Mr. Octagon, anxious to prove his perspicuity, "the
assassin may have stabbed her and then have touched the bell."

"What!" cried his step-son derisively, "to summon a witness. I don't
think the assassin would be such a fool.  However, that's all that can
be discovered.  Aunt Selina is dead, and no one knows who killed her."

"Was the house locked up?" "The front door was closed, and the windows
were bolted and barred.  Besides, a policeman was walking down Crooked
Lane a few minutes before eleven, and would have seen anyone leaving
the house.  He reported that all was quiet."

"Then the assassin might have rung the bell at eleven," said Peter.

"Certainly not, for he could never have escaped immediately afterwards,
without the policeman seeing him."

"He might have got out by the back," suggested Juliet.

"My dear girl, what are you thinking of.  That wall round Lord
Caranby's mansion blocks any exit at the back.  Anyone leaving the
house must go up the lane or through that part at the bottom.  The
policeman was near there shortly before eleven and saw no one leaving
the house."

"But, look here," said Mr. Octagon, who had been ruminating; "if, as
the doctor says, death was instantaneous, how could your aunt have rung
the bell?"

"Yes," added Juliet.  "And even had death not taken place at once, it
could not have been more than a few minutes before eleven when the blow
was struck.  Aunt might have had strength to crawl to the bell and
touch it, but the assassin could not have escaped from the house,
seeing--as you say--the policeman was on guard."

"Aunt died instantaneously," insisted Basil.

"Then she could not have sounded the bell," said Juliet triumphantly.

"The assassin did that," said Peter.

"And thus called a witness," cried Basil.  "Ridiculous!"

"Then how do you explain the matter?"

"I can't explain.  Neither can the detective Jennings.  It's a mystery."

"Could any of the servants--" began Peter.

"No," interrupted Saxon.  "The four servants were having supper in the
kitchen.  They are innocent.  Well, we'll see what the inquest reveals.
Something may be found before then likely to elucidate the mystery.
But here comes Mallow.  He questioned Jennings also, so you can
question him if you like. Does mother know?"

"Yes.  And she doesn't want the fact of her relationship to your aunt
talked about."

Basil understood at once.  "No wonder," he said, shrugging his
shoulders.  "It is not a pleasant affair for a woman of mother's
celebrity to be mixed up with."

Meantime, Juliet having heard the ring at the front door, escaped from
the room to see her lover.  She met him divesting himself of his
overcoat in the hall, and ran to him with outstretched hands.  "But why
have you got on an overcoat this warm day?" she asked.

"I have a cold.  I caught one last night," said Cuthbert, kissing her.

"Where were you last night?" asked Juliet, drawing him into a side
room.  "I thought you were coming to the Marlow Theatre with Basil and
me."

"Yes.  But my uncle arrived unexpectedly in England and sent for me to
his hotel in Guelph street--the Avon Hotel, you know.  He will insist
on a fire even in June, and the room was so hot that I caught cold when
I came out.  I had to go down to Rexton to-day on his business, and put
on a coat so as to avoid catching further cold.  But why this room,
Juliet?"

"Father and Basil are in the drawing-room.  They are talking of the
murder, and I don't want to hear any more about it."

"There are pleasanter things to talk about," said Mallow.  "I knew
Basil would come crammed with news.  Has he told you--"

"He told us everything he could gather from the detective.  It seems
that the crime is quite a mystery."

"Quite.  Why your aunt should be killed, or how the assassin escaped,
after killing her, cannot be discovered.  Jennings is in high glee
about it.  He loves a puzzle of this sort."

"Do you know him?" asked Juliet anxiously.

"Oh, yes.  Jennings is a gentleman.  He was at Eton with me. But he ran
through his money and took up the detective business.  He is very
clever, and if anyone will learn the truth, he will.  Now, my theory--"

Juliet put her hand over his mouth.  "Don't," she said.  "I have had
enough horrors for this afternoon.  Let us talk of ourselves."

"I would rather do this," said Mallow, and kissed her.

Mallow was a handsome fellow, tall and slim, with a rather military
carriage.  His face was clean-shaven save for a small straw-colored
moustache, which showed up almost white against the bronze of his face.
He was more of an athlete than a student, and this was one reason why
Juliet was fond of him. She had seen so much of literary circles that
she always vowed she would marry a man who never opened a book.
Cuthbert nearly fulfilled this requirement, as he read little, save
novels and newspapers.  He was well known in sporting circles, and
having a good private income, owned race-horses.  He was always
irreproachably dressed, good-humored and cheerful. Consequently he was
popular, and if not overburdened with brains, managed to make himself
agreeable to the world, and to have what the Americans call "a good
time."  He had travelled much and was fond of big-game shooting.  To
complete his characterization, it is necessary to mention that he had
served in the Boer War, and had gained a D.S.O.  But that was in the
days before he met Juliet or he might not have risked a life so
precious to her.

Juliet was dark and rather little, not at all like her Junoesque
mother.  She was extremely pretty and dressed to perfection.  Having
more brains and a stronger will than Mallow, she guided him in every
way, and had already succeeded in improving his morals.  With so gentle
and charming a mentor, Cuthbert was quite willing to be led into the
paths of virtue.  He adored Juliet and she loved him, so it appeared
that the marriage would be quite ideal.

"Much as we love one another," said Cuthbert when the lovers were
seated on the sofa.  "I wonder you can talk of anything but this horrid
murder."

"Because there is nothing to talk of," rejoined the girl impatiently;
"according to Basil, the case is most mysterious, so it is useless for
us to worry over it until something tangible is discovered.  But I want
to speak to you seriously--" here Juliet hesitated.

"Well, go on," said Cuthbert, taking her hand.

"Mother says--" began Juliet, then hesitated again.  "Promise me you
will keep to yourself what I am about to tell you."

"Certainly.  I never was a fellow to chatter."

"Then mother says that this murder will put a stop to our marriage."

Mallow stared, then flushed up to his ears.  "What on earth does she
mean by that?" he asked aghast.

Juliet looked searchingly at him.  "Do you know of any impediment?"

"I?  Of course I don't.  I am sorry for the death of your aunt, but I
really don't see what it has to do with you and me."

Juliet drew a breath of relief.  "Mother hints that she knows who
committed the crime, and--"

"What!  She knows.  How does she know?"

"I can't say.  She refuses to speak.  She was not on good terms with
Aunt Selina and they never saw one another for over fifteen years.  But
mother is much disturbed about the murder--"

"That is natural.  A sister is a sister however much one may have
quarrelled.  But why should this death stop our marriage?"

"I know no more than you do.  Here is mother.  Ask her yourself."

It was indeed Mrs. Octagon who entered the room.  She looked very pale,
but otherwise was perfectly composed.  In silence she gave her hand to
Cuthbert, and kept her black eyes fixed steadily on his face.  The
young man flushed and turned away, whereat Mrs. Octagon sighed.  Juliet
broke an embarrassed silence.

"Mother," she said, "I have told Cuthbert what you said."

"Then you had no right to," said Mrs. Octagon sternly.

"Oh, I think she had," said Mallow, rather annoyed.  "Seeing you hint
that this crime will stop our marriage."

Mrs. Octagon did not answer.  "Is your uncle in town?" she asked.

"Yes.  He arrived from the continent a day or two ago."

"I thought so," she said, half to herself, and strove to repress her
agitation.  "Mr. Mallow, my daughter can't marry you."

"Why not?  Give your reason."

"I have no reason to give."

"But you must.  Is it on account of this murder?"

"It is.  I told Juliet so.  But I cannot explain."

The lovers looked at one another in a dazed fashion.  The woman's
objection seemed to be senseless.  "Surely you don't think Cuthbert
killed Aunt Selina?" said Juliet, laughing in a forced manner.

"No.  I don't suspect him."

"Then whom do you suspect?" demanded Mallow.

"That I decline to say."

"Will you decline to say it to the police?"

Mrs. Octagon stepped back a pace.  "Yes, I should," she faltered.

Cuthbert Mallow looked at her, wondering why she was so agitated, and
Juliet stole her hand into his.  Then he addressed her seriously.

"Mrs. Octagon," he said, "your remark about my uncle leads me to think
you suspect him."

"No I don't.  But you can't marry Juliet on account of this crime."

"Then you hear me," said Mallow, driven into a corner, "from this
moment I devote myself to finding out who killed your unfortunate
sister.  When the assassin is discovered you may consent to our
marriage."

But he spoke to empty air.  Mrs. Octagon had left the room, almost
before the first words left his mouth.




CHAPTER V

LORD CARANBY'S ROMANCE


Cuthbert was considerably perplexed by the attitude of Juliet's mother.
She had always been more than kind to him. On the announcement that he
wished to marry her daughter, she had expressed herself well pleased,
and during the engagement, which had lasted some six months, she had
received him as Juliet's intended husband, with almost ostentatious
delight. Now, for some inexplicable reason, she suddenly changed her
mind and declined to explain.  But rack his brains as he might,
Cuthbert could not see how the death of a sister she had quarrelled
with, and to whom she had been a stranger for so long, could affect the
engagement.

However, there was no doubt in his mind that the refusal of Mrs.
Octagon to approve of the marriage lay in the fact that her sister had
met with a violent end.  Therefore Mallow was determined to see
Jennings, and help him to the best of his ability to discover the
assassin.  When the criminal was brought to justice, either Mrs.
Octagon's opposition would be at an end, or the true reason for its
existence would be revealed.  Meantime, he was sure that she would keep
Juliet out of his way, and that in future he would be refused
admittance to the "Shrine of the Muses."  This was annoying, but so
long as Juliet remained true, Cuthbert thought he could bear the
exclusion.  His betrothed--as he still regarded the girl--could meet
him in the Park, at the houses of mutual friends, and in a thousand and
one places which a clever woman like her could think of.  And although
Cuthbert knew that Mrs. Octagon had frequently regretted the refusal of
her daughter to marry Arkwright, and would probably try and induce her
to do so now that matters stood thus, yet he was not afraid in his own
heart.  Juliet was as staunch as steel, and he was certain that Mr.
Octagon would be on his side.  Basil probably would agree with his
mother, whose lead he slavishly followed. But Mallow had rather a
contempt for Basil, and did not count his opposition as dangerous.

On leaving the "Shrine of the Muses," the young man's first intention
was to seek out Jennings and see what progress he was making in the
matter.  But on reflection he thought he would call again on his uncle
and question him regarding his knowledge of Mrs. Octagon.  It seemed to
Cuthbert that, from the woman's question as to whether Lord Caranby had
returned from abroad, and her remark on hearing that he had, some
suspicion was in her mind as to his being concerned in the crime.  Yet,
beyond the fact that the unfinished house stood behind the cottage
where the crime had been committed and belonged to Lord Caranby who had
known the dead woman in the past, Cuthbert could not see how Mrs.
Octagon could constitute a latter-day connection between her dead
sister and her old friend.  But Lord Caranby might be induced to
talk--no easy matter--and from what he said, the mystery of Mrs.
Octagon's attitude might be elucidated.  Only in the past--so far as
the perplexed young man could conjecture--could be found the reason for
her sudden change of front.

Cuthbert therefore sent a wire to his uncle, stating that he wished to
see him after eight o'clock on special business, and then went home to
dress.

While thus employed, he thought over means and ways to make Caranby
open his mouth.  The old lord was a silent, grave man, who never
uttered an unnecessary word, and it was difficult to induce him to be
confidential.  But invariably he had approved of his nephew's
engagement, although he had never seen Juliet, so it might be that he
would speak out--if there was anything to say--in order to remove any
impediment to the match.  It depended upon what information he received
as to how Mallow would act.

At half-past eight he drove to the Avon Hotel and was shown up at once
to his uncle's sitting-room.  That he should live in an hotel was
another of Caranby's eccentricities.  He had a house in town and three
in the country, yet for years he had lived--as the saying is--on his
portmanteau.  Even the villa at Nice he owned was unoccupied by this
strange nobleman, and was usually let to rich Americans.  When in
England he stopped at the Avon Hotel and when in the country remained
at any inn of the neighborhood in which he might chance to find himself
wandering.  And wandering is an excellent word to apply to Lord
Caranby's peregrinations.  He was as restless as a gipsy and far more
aimless.  He never appeared to take an interest in anything: he was
always moving here, there and everywhere, and had--so far as Cuthbert
knew--no object in life.  His reason for this Cainlike behavior,
Caranby never condescended to explain.

When his nephew entered the room, looking smart and handsome in his
accurate evening suit, Caranby, who was seated near the fire, stood up
courteously to welcome him, leaning on his cane.  He suffered from
sciatica, and could not walk save with the assistance of his stick.
And on this account also, he always insisted on the room being heated
to an extraordinary degree.  Like a salamander he basked in the heat,
and would not allow either door or window to be opened, even in the
midst of summer, when a large fire made the apartment almost
unendurable.  Cuthbert felt as though he were walking into a Turkish
bath, and sat as far away from the fire as he could. After saluting
him, his uncle sank back into his seat and looked at him inquiringly.

Lord Caranby was tall and thin--almost emaciated--with a lean, sallow,
clean-shaven face, and a scanty crop of fair hair mixed with gray.  His
eyes were sunken but full of vitality, although usually they were grave
and somewhat sad. His hands were deformed with gout, but for all that
he wore several costly rings.  He was perfectly dressed, and as quiet
and composed as an artist's model.  When he spoke it was in an
unemotional way, as though he had exhausted all expression of his
feelings early in life.  Perhaps he had, for from what Cuthbert had
heard from his uncle, the past of that nobleman was not without
excitement.  But Caranby's name was rarely mentioned in London.  He
remained so much abroad that he had quite dropped out of the circle to
the entry of which his rank entitled him.  His age was sixty-five.

"You are surprised at seeing me again to-night," said Cuthbert.

"I am never surprised at anything," replied his uncle dryly, "but we
exhausted all we had to say to one another before eight o'clock last
night, at which time you left.  I therefore don't know why you have
come this evening.  Our conversation is bound to be dull, and--excuse
me--I can't afford to be bored at my age."

"I cannot say that our conversation was particularly agreeable last
night," rejoined Mallow, equally dryly, "we talked business and money
matters, and about your will."

"And about your engagement also," said Caranby without a vestige of a
smile.  "That should interest a young man of your ardent temperament.
I certainly thought the subject amused you."

"Would you be surprised to learn that my engagement has been broken off
since our conversation," said Cuthbert, crossing his legs.

"No!  Who can account for the whims of a woman.  After all, perhaps you
are to be congratulated on not marrying a weathercock."

"Juliet has nothing to do with the breaking of our engagement. Her
mother objects."

"I understood for the last six months that her mother not only
approved, but was delighted."

"That is the strange part, sir.  On hearing of the death of her sister,
Mrs. Octagon suddenly changed her mind, and told me that the marriage
could not take place."

"Did she give any reason?"

"She declined to do so."

"The same woman," muttered Caranby, "always mysterious and
unsatisfactory.  You say her sister is dead?"

Cuthbert cast a look at the Globe, which lay on a small table near
Caranby's elbow.  "If you have read the papers, sir--" "Yes!  I have
read that Miss Loach has been murdered.  You went down to Rexton
to-day.  I presume you heard something more than the details set forth
by the press."

Cuthbert nodded.  "It appears to be a mystery."

Caranby did not reply, but looked into the fire.  "Poor Selina!" he
said half to himself.  "A sad end for such a charming woman."

"I should hardly apply that word to Miss Loach, sir.  She did not
appear to be a lady, and was by no means refined."

"She must have changed then.  In her young days she and her sister were
the handsomest women in London."

"I believe you were engaged to one of them," said Mallow politely.

"Yes," replied his uncle grimly.  "But I escaped."

"Escaped?"

"A strange word is it not, but a suitable one."

Cuthbert did not know what to make of this speech.  "Have I your
permission to smoke?" he asked, taking out his case.

"Yes!  Will you have some coffee?"

"Thank you.  I had some before I came here.  Will you--" he extended
the case of cigarettes, which Caranby declined.

"Ring for Fletcher to get me my chibouque."

"It is in the corner.  We will dispense with Fletcher with your
permission."  And Cuthbert brought the chibouque to his uncle's side.
In another minute the old man was smoking as gravely as any Turk.  This
method of consuming tobacco was another eccentricity.  For a few
moments neither spoke.  Then Caranby broke the silence.

"So you want me to help you to find out Mrs. Octagon's reason?"

"I do," said Mallow, rather surprised by Caranby's perspicuity.

"What makes you think I can explain?"

Cuthbert looked at his cigarette.  "I asked you on the chance that you
may be able to do so," he said gravely.  "The fact is, to be frank,
Mrs. Octagon appears to think you might have something to do with the
crime."

Caranby did not seem surprised, but smoked imperturbably.  "I don't
quite understand."

The young man related how Mrs. Octagon had inquired if the Earl was
back from the Continent, and her subsequent remark. "Of course I may be
unduly suspicious," said he.  "But it suggested--"

"Quite so," interrupted the old gentleman gravely.  "You are quick at
putting two and two together.  Isabella Octagon hates me so much that
she would gladly see me on the scaffold.  I am not astonished that she
suspects me."

"But what motive can she impute--"

Caranby laid aside the long coil he was holding and laughed quietly to
himself.  "Oh, she'll find a motive if it suits her.  But what I cannot
understand is, why she should accuse me now.  She has had ample
opportunity during the past twenty years, since the death of Miss Saul,
for instance."

"She did not exactly accuse you."

"No, a woman like that would not.  And then of course, her sister dying
only last night affords her the opportunity of getting me into trouble.
But I am afraid Mrs. Octagon will be disappointed of her revenge, long
though she has waited."

"Revenge! remember, sir, she is the mother of Juliet."

"I sincerely hope Juliet does not take after her, then," said Lord
Caranby, tartly.  "To be perfectly plain with you, Cuthbert, I could
never understand why Mrs. Octagon sanctioned your engagement with her
daughter, considering you are my nephew."

"I don't understand," said Mallow, staring and uneasily.

Caranby did not answer immediately.  He rose and walked painfully up
and down the room leaning heavily on his cane. Mallow offered his arm
but was impatiently waved aside.  When the old man sat down again he
turned a serious face to his nephew.  "Do you love this girl?"

"With all my heart and soul."

"And she loves you?"

"Of course.  We were made for one another."

"But Mrs. Octagon--"

"I don't like Mrs. Octagon--I never did," said Mallow, impetuously,
"but I don't care two straws for her opposition. I shall marry Juliet
in spite of this revenge she seems to be practising on you.  Though why
she should hope to vex you by meddling with my marriage, I cannot
understand."

"I can put the matter in a nutshell," said Caranby, and quoted
Congreve--

        "'Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned
          Nor Hell a fury like a woman scorned.'"

"Oh," said Mallow, dropping his cigarette, and a whole story was
revealed to him in the quotation.

"A gentleman doesn't talk of these things," said Caranby abruptly, "and
for years I have held my tongue.  Still, as Mrs. Octagon does not
hesitate to strike at me through you, and as your happiness is at
stake, and the happiness of the girl you love, I shall tell you--so far
as I can guess--why the woman behaves in this way."

"If you please, sir," and Cuthbert settled himself to listen.

"About twenty years ago," said Caranby, plunging headfirst into his
subject, "Isabella and Selina Loach were well-known in society.  They
were the daughters of a country squire--Kent, I remember--and created a
sensation with their beauty when they came to town.  I fell in love
with Selina, and Isabella--if you will pardon my vanity--fell in love
with me.  She hated her sister on my account.  I would have married
Selina, but her father, who was hard up, wished her to marry a wealthy
American.  Isabella, to part Selina from me, helped her father.  What
arguments they used I do not know, but Selina suddenly changed in her
manner towards me.  Out of pique--you may think this weak of me,
Cuthbert, but I was a fool in those days--I became engaged to a girl
who was a singer.  Her name was Emilia Saul, and I believe she was of
Jewish extraction.  I liked her in a way, and she had a wonderful power
over me.  I proposed and was accepted."

"But if you had really loved Miss Loach--"

"I should have worn the willow.  I told you I was foolish, and,
moreover, Miss Saul fascinated me.  Selina was cold, Emilia was
charming, and I was weak.  Therefore, I became engaged to Emilia, and
Selina--as I heard, arranged to marry her wealthy American.  I believe
she was angry at my apparently forgetting her so soon.  But she was in
fault, not I."

Cuthbert looked at his smart shoes.  "Had I loved Selina," said he
slowly, "I should have remained true to her, and have married her in
spite of the objection of her father--"

"And of her sister Isabella--Mrs. Octagon that is; don't forget that,
Cuthbert.  And I could scarcely run away with a girl who believed
stories about me."

"What sort of stories?" asked Mallow, remembering certain rumors.

"The sort that one always does tell of an unmarried man," retorted
Caranby.  "Scandalous stories, which Isabella picked up and retailed to
Selina.  But I never pretended to be a saint, and had Selina really
loved me she would have overlooked certain faults.  I did love her,
Cuthbert.  I did all in my power to prove my love.  For a time I was
engaged to her, and when she expressed a wish that I should build her a
house after her own design, I consented."

"The house at Rexton!" exclaimed the young man.

"Exactly.  I got an architect to build it according to designs
suggested by Selina.  When our engagement was broken and I became--out
of pique, remember--engaged to Miss Saul, I still went on building the
house.  Selina, I believe, was very angry.  One week when I was out of
London she went down with her sister to see the house, and there met
Emilia."

"Ah! then there was trouble?"

"No; there was no time for a quarrel, if that is what you mean.  When
the three met, Emilia was walking across a plank on the unfinished
second story.  On seeing the Loach girls--this is Isabella's
tale--Emilia lost her footing and fell thirty feet.  She was killed
almost instantaneously, and her face was much disfigured.  This took
place during the dinner hour when the workmen were absent.  When they
returned, the body was found and recognized by the clothes."

"Did not the girls remain?"

"No.  They took fright at the accident and returned home.  But here a
fresh disaster awaited them.  Mr. Loach was dead.  He died suddenly of
heart disease.  Selina at once broke her engagement with the American,
and--"

"And returned to you?"

"Strangely enough she did not.  I never saw her again.  After the death
of the father the girls went to the Continent, and only came back after
two years abroad.  Then Isabella, after vainly trying to get me to
marry her, became the wife of Saxon, then a rising barrister.  Selina
went to Rexton and shut herself up in the house she now has."

"The house she did have," corrected Cuthbert, "you forget she is dead."

"Yes.  I tried to see her, but she refused to look on my face again,
alleging that I had treated her badly by becoming engaged to Miss Saul.
That poor soul was buried, and then I shut up the house and left it as
it is now.  I travelled, as you know, for years, and I am travelling
still, for the matter of that," added Caranby with a sigh, "all
Selina's fault.  She was the only woman I ever loved."

"But was there not an inquest held on Emilia's body?"

"Oh yes, and Isabella gave evidence as to the accident. Selina was too
ill to appear.  But there was no need.  The cause of the death was
plain enough.  Moreover, Emilia had no relatives who cared to make
inquiries.  She left very little money, so those she had, did not
trouble themselves."

"It is a strange story," said Cuthbert, looking puzzled.  "Had you an
idea that Emilia may have been pushed off the plank by Selina?"

"Certainly not," rejoined Caranby indignantly.  "She was a good and
kind girl.  She would not do such a thing."

"Humph!" said Mallow, remembering the eagle nose and thin lips of Miss
Loach.  "I'm not so sure of that."

"Isabella, who was passionate, might have done it," resumed Caranby,
"often did I wish to speak to her on the subject, but I never did.  And
after all, the jury brought in a verdict of accidental death, so there
was no use making trouble."

"Had Emilia no relatives who might have made inquiries?"

"I believe she had a brother who was a clerk in an office, but, as I
said, she left no money, so he did not bother himself.  I saw him after
the death, and the sight of him made me glad I had not married his
sister.  He looked a thorough blackguard, sly and dangerous.  But, as I
said, Emilia came of low people.  It was only her fine voice and great
talents that brought her into the society where I met her.  I have
never heard of her brother since.  I expect he is dead by this time. It
is over twenty years ago.  But you can now understand why Mrs. Octagon
objects to the marriage.  She has never forgiven me for not making her
my wife."

Cuthbert nodded again.  "But I can't understand why she should have
consented at all, only to alter her mind when Selina died."

"I can't understand that myself.  But I decline to mix myself up in the
matter.  You will have to learn the reason yourself."

"I intend to," said Mallow rising, "and the reason I am certain is
connected with the violent death of her sister!"  A speech to which
Caranby replied by shaking his head.  He did not agree with the idea.

"And you see, in spite of Mrs. Octagon's hint, I had no reason to kill
Selina," said Caranby gravely.  "I cannot understand why Isabella
should accuse me--"




CHAPTER VI

A PERPLEXING CASE


The morning after his visit to Lord Caranby, Mallow was unexpectedly
called to Devonshire on account of his mother's illness.  Mrs. Mallow
was a fretful hypochondriac, who always imagined herself worse than she
really was.  Cuthbert had often been summoned to her dying bed, only to
find that she was alive and well.  He expected that this summons would
be another false alarm, but being a dutiful son, he tore himself away
from town and took the mid-day express to Exeter.  As he expected, Mrs.
Mallow was by no means so bad as she hinted in her wire, and Cuthbert
was vexed that she should have called him down, but she insisted that
he should remain, and, unwilling to cause her pain, he did so.  It was
four days before he returned to London.  But his visit to Exeter was
not without results, for he asked his mother about Caranby's romance.
Mrs. Mallow knew all about it, and highly disapproved of her
brother-in-law.

"He's crazy," she said vigorously, when the subject was brought up one
evening.  "All his life he has been queer. Your father should have had
the title, Cuthbert!"

"Well, I shall have it some day," said her son soothingly. "Caranby is
not likely to marry."

"Yes, but I'll never be Lady Caranby," lamented Mrs. Mallow, who was
intensely selfish and egotistical.  "And I should have adorned the
title.  Such an old one as it is, too.  But I'm glad that horrid Selina
Loach never became his wife.  Even that Saul girl would have been
better."

"Don't speak evil of the dead, mother."

"I don't see why we should praise the bad dead," snapped Mrs. Mallow.
"I never liked either Isabella nor Selina.  They were both horrid girls
and constantly quarrelling.  They hardly ever spoke to one another, and
how you can contemplate marrying the daughter of Isabella, I really
don't know.  Such a slight to me.  But there, I've said all I had to
say on the subject."

To do her justice, Mrs. Mallow certainly had, and never ceased nagging
at Cuthbert to break the engagement.  Had she known that Mrs. Octagon
had forbidden the marriage she would have rejoiced, but to save making
awkward explanations to a woman who would not hold her tongue, Cuthbert
said nothing about the breach.

"Did you like Miss Saul, mother?" he asked.

"I only saw her on the concert platform," said Mrs. Mallow, opening her
eyes, "gracious, Cuthbert, I never associated myself with those sort of
people.  Caranby was infatuated with her.  To be sure, he got engaged
to spite Selina, and she really did treat him badly, but I believe Miss
Saul--such a horrid Hebrew name, isn't it--hypnotized him.  He forgot
her almost as soon as she died, in spite of his ridiculous idea of
shutting up that house.  And such valuable land as there is at Rexton
too.  Well, I hope this violent death of Selina will be a warning to
Caranby.  Not that I wish him any harm, in spite of your being next
heir to the title, and we do need money."

While Mrs. Mallow rambled on in this diffusive manner, Cuthbert was
thinking.  When she ended, "Why should this death be a warning to
Caranby?" he asked quickly.

"Good gracious, Cuthbert, don't get on my nerves.  Why?--because I
believe that Selina pushed Miss Saul off that plank and killed her.
She was just the kind of violent girl who would do a thing like that.
And Miss Saul's relatives have waited all these years to kill Selina,
and now she's dead, they will kill Caranby because he did not marry the
wretched girl."

Cuthbert stared.  "Mother, what are you talking about? Caranby told me
that Miss Saul had only one brother, and that probably he was dead."

"Ah," said Mrs. Mallow, "he didn't tell you that Miss Saul's father was
arrested for coining or passing false money, I forget which.  I believe
the brother was involved also, but I can't be sure.  But I only know
the girl was dead then, and the Saul family did not move in the matter,
as the police knew too much about them.

"Good gracious!" shuddered the lady, "to think if she had lived,
Caranby would have married into that family and have cheated you of the
title."

"Are you sure of what you say, mother?"

"Of course I am.  Look up any old file of newspapers and you'll read
all about the matter.  It's old history now.  But I really won't talk
any more of these things, Cuthbert.  If I do, there will be no sleep
for me to-night.  Oh dear me, such nerves as I have."

"Did you ever see Miss Saul, mother?"

"I told you I did on the platform.  She was a fine, large, big girl,
with a hook nose and big black eyes.  Rather like Selina and Isabella,
for I'm sure they have Jewish blood in their veins.  Miss Saul--if that
was her real name--might have passed as a relative of those horrid
Loach girls."

"Mrs. Octagon and her sister who died are certainly much alike."

"Of course they are, and if Miss Saul had lived they would have been a
kind of triplets.  I hate that style of beauty myself," said Mrs.
Mallow, who was slim and fair, "so coarse. Everyone called those Loach
girls pretty, but I never did myself.  I never liked them, and I won't
call on Mrs. Octagon--such a vulgar name--if you marry fifty of her
wretched daughters, Cuthbert."

"Don't say that, mother.  Juliet is an angel!"

"Then she can't be her mother's daughter," said Mrs. Mallow obscurely,
and finished the discussion in what she considered to be a triumphant
manner.  Nor would she renew it, though her son tried to learn more
about the Loach and Saul families. However, he was satisfied with the
knowledge he had acquired.

While returning next day to London, he had ample time to think over
what he had been told.  Miss Selina Loach had certainly shut herself up
for many years in Rose Cottage, and it seemed as though she was afraid
of being hurt in some way.  Perhaps she even anticipated a violent
death.  And then Mrs. Octagon hinted that she knew who had killed her
sister.  It might not have been Caranby after all, whom she meant, but
one of the Saul family, as Mrs. Mallow suggested.

"I wonder if it is as my mother thinks," mused Cuthbert, staring out of
the window at the panorama of the landscape moving swiftly past.
"Perhaps Selina did kill Miss Saul, and shut herself up to avoid being
murdered by one of the relatives.  Caranby said that Selina did not go
to the inquest, but pretended she was ill.  Then she and her sister
went to the continent for two years, and finally, when they returned,
Selina instead of taking her proper place in society as Isabella did,
shut herself up as a recluse in Rose Cottage. The Saul family appear to
have been a bad lot.  I should like to look up that coining case.  I
wonder if I dare tell Jennings."

He was doubtful of the wisdom of doing this.  If he told what he knew,
and set Jennings on the track, it might be that a scandal would arise
implicating Mrs. Octagon.  Not that Cuthbert cared much for her, but
she was Juliet's mother, and he wanted to avert any trouble likely to
cause the girl pain. A dozen times on the journey Cuthbert altered his
mind.  First he thought he would tell Jennings, then he decided to hold
his peace.  This indecision was not like him, but the case was so
perplexing, and such serious issues were involved, that the young man
felt thoroughly worried.

Hitherto he had seen nothing new about the case in the papers, but on
reaching Swindon he bought a few and looked through them.  His search
was rewarded by finding an article on the crime.  The inquest had been
held, and the jury had brought in a verdict of "Murder against some
person or persons unknown!" But it was plainly stated that the police
could not find a clue to the assassin.  The article in question did not
pretend to solve the mystery, but collocated the facts so as to put the
case in a nutshell.

"The facts are these," said the journal, after a preliminary
introduction.  "A quiet maiden lady living at Rose Cottage, Rexton,
received three friends to a card-party.  Difference arising--and such
things will arise amongst the best when cards are in question--two of
the friends, Mrs. Herne, an old lady and life-long friend of the
deceased, and Mr. Hale, a lawyer of repute and the legal adviser of
Miss Loach, depart before ten o'clock.  In her evidence Mrs. Herne
stated that she and Mr. Hale left at half-past nine, and her assertion
was corroborated by Mr. Hale himself.  Mr. Clancy, the third friend,
left at ten, being shown out by the maid Susan Grant, who then returned
to the kitchen.  She left Miss Loach seated in her usual chair near the
fire, and with a pack of cards on her lap.  Probably the deceased lady
intended to play a game of 'Patience'!

"The four servants, three women and a man, had their supper. During the
supper the man asserted that he heard the front door open, but as Miss
Loach was in the habit of walking in the garden before retiring, it was
thought that she had gone out to take her usual stroll.  Whether the
man heard the door open or shut he was not quite sure.  However,
thinking his mistress was walking in the garden as usual, the man paid
no further attention to the incident.  At eleven (precisely at eleven,
for the kitchen clock struck), the sitting-room bell rang.  Susan Grant
entered the room, and found Miss Loach seated in her chair exactly as
she had left her, even to the fact that the cards were in her lap.  But
she had been stabbed to the heart with some sharp instrument and was
quite dead. The front door was closed and the windows barred.

"Now it is certain that Miss Loach met her death between the hours of
ten and eleven.  Susan Grant saw her alive at ten, seated in her usual
chair with the cards on her lap, and at eleven, she there found her
dead, still with the cards.  It would seem as though immediately after
the servants left the room someone had stabbed the deceased to the
heart, before she had time to rise or even alter her position.  But
Susan Grant asserts that no one was in the room.  There was only one
door, out of which she departed.  The bedroom of Miss Loach on the
basement floor had a door which opened into the passage, as did the
sitting-room door.  No one could have entered until the servant
departed.  The passage was lighted with electricity, but she did not
observe anyone about, nor did she hear a sound. She showed out Mr.
Clancy and then returned to the kitchen. Certainly the assassin may
have been concealed in the bedroom and have stolen into the
sitting-room when Susan Grant was showing out Mr. Clancy.  Perhaps then
he killed the deceased suddenly, as we said before.  He could have then
come up the stairs and have escaped while the servants were at supper.
It might have been the murderer who opened the door, and was overheard
by Thomas.

"The policeman was on duty about ten, as he was seen by Susan Grant
when she showed Mr. Clancy to the door.  The policeman also asserted
that he was again on the spot--i.e., in the roadway opposite the
cottage--at eleven.  At these times the assassin could not have escaped
without being seen.  There is no exit at the back, as a high wall
running round an unfinished house belonging to the eccentric Lord
Caranby blocks the way.  Therefore the assassin must have ventured into
the roadway.  He could then have walked up the lane into the main
streets of Rexton, or have taken a path opposite to the gate of Rose
Cottage, which leads to the railway station. Probably, after executing
the crime, he took this latter way. The path runs between quickset
hedges, rather high, for a long distance, past houses, and ends within
fifty yards of the railway station.  The criminal could take the first
train and get to town, there to lose himself in the wilderness of
London.

"So far so good.  But the strangest thing about this most mysterious
affair is that the bell in the sitting-room rang two minutes before
Susan Grant entered the room to find her mistress dead.  This was some
time after the closing of the door overheard by Thomas; therefore the
assassin could not have escaped that way.  Moreover, by this time the
policeman was standing blocking the pathway to the station.  Again, the
alarm was given immediately by the other servants, who rushed to the
sitting-room on hearing Susan's scream, and the policeman at once
searched the house.  No one was found.

"Now what are we to make of all this?  The doctor declares that Miss
Loach when discovered had been dead half an hour, which corresponds
with the time the door was heard to open or shut by Thomas.  So far, it
would seem that the assassin had escaped then, having committed the
crime and found the coast inside and outside the house clear for his
flight.  But who rang the bell?  That is the question we ask.  The
deceased could not have done so, as, according to the doctor, the poor
lady must have died immediately.  Again, the assassin would not have
been so foolish as to ring and thus draw attention to his crime,
letting alone the question that he could not have escaped at that late
hour.  We can only offer this solution.

"The assassin must have been concealed in the bedroom, and after Susan
ascended the stairs to let Mr. Clancy out, he must have stolen into the
sitting-room and have killed the old lady before she could even rise.
She might have touched the bell, and the button (the bell is an
electric one) may have got fixed.  Later on, the heat of the room,
warping the wood round the ivory button, may have caused it to slip
out, and thus the bell would have rung.  Of course our readers may say
that when pressed down the bell would have rung continuously, but an
examination has revealed that the wires were out of order.  It is not
improbable that the sudden release of the button may have touched the
wires and have set them ringing.  The peal is described as being short
and sharp.  This theory is a weak one, we are aware, but the whole case
is so mysterious that, weak as it is, we can offer no other solution.

"Mrs. Herne, the servants, and Messrs. Hale and Clancy were examined.
All insist that Miss Loach was in her usual health and spirits, and had
no idea of committing suicide, or of being in any danger of sudden
death.  The weapon cannot be discovered, nor the means--save as we
suggest above--whereby the assassin can have made his escape.  The
whole affair is one of the most mysterious of late years, and will
doubtless be relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes. The police
have no clue, and apparently despair of finding one.  But the discovery
of the mystery lies in the bell.  Who rang it? or did it ring of
itself, as we suggest above."

Cuthbert laid down the paper with a shrug.  The article did not commend
itself to him, save as the means of making a precis of the case.  The
theory of the bell appeared excessively weak, and he could not
understand a man being so foolish as to put it forward.

"If the button was pressed down by Miss Loach, the bell would have rung
at once," argued Cuthbert; "and when it slipped up, even with the heat,
the ringing would have stopped.  But the bell rang at eleven, and the
girl was in the room two minutes later.  Someone must have rung it.
But why did someone do this, and how did someone escape after ringing
in so fool-hardy a manner?"

He could not find an answer to this question.  The whole case was
indeed most perplexing.  There seemed absolutely no answer to the
riddle.  Even supposing Miss Loach had been murdered out of a
long-delayed revenge by a member of the Saul family--and that theory
appeared ridiculous to Mallow--the question was how did the assassin
escape?  Certainly, having regard to the cards still being on the lap
of the deceased, and the closing of the door at a time when the
policeman was not in the vicinity, the assassin may have escaped in
that way.  But how did he come to be hidden in the bedroom, and how did
he kill the old lady before she had time to call out or even rise,
seeing that he had the whole length of the room to cross before
reaching her?  And again, the escape of the assassin at this hour did
not explain the ringing of the bell. Cuthbert was deeply interested,
and wondered if the mystery would ever be solved.  "I must see Jennings
after all," he thought as the train steamed into Paddington.

And see Jennings he did, sooner than he expected.  That same evening
when he was dressing to go out, a card was brought. It was inscribed
"Miles Jennings."  Rather surprised that the detective should seek him
out so promptly, Cuthbert entered his sitting-room.  Jennings, who was
standing with his back to the window, saluted him with a pleasant
smile, and spoke to him as to an equal.  Of course he had every right
to do so since he had been at school with Mallow, but somehow the
familiarity irritated Cuthbert.

"Well, Jennings, what is it?"

"I came to ask you a few questions, Mallow."

"About what?"

"About the murder at Rose Cottage."

"But, my dear fellow, I know nothing about it."

"You knew Miss Loach?"

"Yes.  I saw her once or twice.  But I did not like her."

"She is the aunt of the young lady you are engaged to marry?"

Mallow drew himself up stiffly.  "As a matter of fact she is," he said
with marked coldness.  "But I don't see--"

"You will in a minute," said Jennings briskly.   "Pardon me, but are
you in love with another woman?"

Mallow grew red.  "What the devil do you mean by coming here to ask me
such a question?" he demanded.

"Gently, Mallow, I am your friend, and you may need one."

"What do you mean.  Do you accuse me of--"

"I accuse you of nothing," said Jennings quickly, "but I ask you, why
did you give this photograph, with an inscription, to the servant of
the murdered woman."

"I recognize my photograph, but the servant--"

"Susan Grant.  The picture was found in her possession.  She refuses to
speak," here the detective spoke lower, "in case you get into trouble
with the police."




CHAPTER VII

THE DETECTIVE


The two men looked at one another, Jennings searchingly, and Cuthbert
with a look of mingled amazement and indignation. They were rather like
in looks, both being tall, slim and fair-haired.  But Mallow wore a
mustache, whereas the detective, possibly for the sake of disguising
himself on occasions, was clean-shaven.  But although Jennings'
profession was scarcely that of a gentleman, he looked well-bred, and
was dressed with the same quiet taste and refinement as characterized
Mallow.  The public-school stamp was on both, and they might have been
a couple of young men about town discussing sport rather than an
officer of the law and a man who (it seemed from Jennings' hints) was
suspected of complicity in a crime.

"Do you mean this for a jest?" said Cuthbert at length.

"I never jest on matters connected with my profession, Mallow. It is
too serious a one."

"Naturally.  It so often involves the issues of life and death."

"In this case I hope it does not," said Jennings, significantly.

Cuthbert, who was recovering his composure, sat down with a shrug.  "I
assure you, you have found a mare's nest this time. Whatever my follies
may have been, I am not a criminal."

"I never thought you were," rejoined the other, also taking a seat,
"but you may have become involved with people who are criminals."

"I dare say half of those one meets in society are worthy of jail, did
one know what is done under the rose," returned Cuthbert; "by the way,
how did you come so opportunely?"

"I knew you had gone out of town, as I came a few days ago to see you
about this matter, and inquired.  Your servant said you were in
Devonshire--"

"I went to see my mother who was ill," said Mallow quickly.

"I guessed as much.  You said something about your mother living in
Exeter when we met last.  Well, I had Paddington watch for your return,
and my messenger--"

"Your spy, you mean," said Mallow angrily.

"Certainly, if you prefer the term.  Well, your spy--I mean my spy,
reported that you were back, so I came on here.  Are you going out?"

"I was, but if you wish to arrest me--"

"Nonsense, man.  I have only come to have a quiet chat with you.
Believe me, I wish you well.  I have not forgotten the old Eton days."

"I tell you what, Jennings, I won't stand this talk from any man.  Are
you here as a gentleman or as a detective?"

"As both, I hope," replied the other dryly, "but are we not wasting
valuable time?  If you wish to go out this evening, the sooner we get
to business the better.  Will you answer my questions?"

"I must know what they are first," said Cuthbert defiantly.

Jennings looked irritated.  "If you won't treat me properly, I may as
well leave the matter alone," he said coldly.  "My position is quite
unpleasant enough as it is.  I came here to an old schoolfellow as a
friend--"

"To try and implicate him in a crime.  Thanks for nothing."

Jennings, whose patience appeared to be exhausted, rose. "Very well,
then, Mallow.  I shall go away and hand over the matter to someone
else.  I assure you the questions must be answered."

Cuthbert made a sign to the other to be seated, which Jennings seemed
by no means inclined to obey.  He stood stiffly by his chair as Mallow
paced the room reflectively.  "After all, I don't see why we should
quarrel," said the latter at length.

"That's just what I've been driving at for the last ten minutes."

"Very good," said Mallow soothingly, "let us sit down and smoke.  I
have no particular engagement, and if you will have some coffee--"

"I will have both cigarette and coffee if you will help me to unravel
this case," said Jennings, sitting down with a smoother brow.

"But I don't see what I can--"

"You'll see shortly.  Will you be open with me?"

"That requires reflection."

"Reflect as long as you like.  But if you decline, I will hand the case
over to the next man on the Scotland Yard list.  He may not deal with
you so gently."

"I don't care how he deals with me," returned Mallow, haughtily;
"having done no wrong, I am not afraid.  And, what is more, Jennings, I
was coming to see you as soon as I returned.  You have only forestalled
our interview."

"What did you wish to see me about?"

"This case," said Cuthbert, getting out a box of cigarettes and
touching the bell. "The deuce!" said Jennings briskly, "then you do
know something?"

Cuthbert handed him the box and gave an order for coffee. "Any
liqueur?" he asked in friendly tones.

"No.  I never drink when on--ah--er--pleasure," said the other,
substituting another word since the servant was in the room.  "Well,"
he asked when the door closed, "why did you wish to see me?"

"To ask if you remember a coining case that took place some twenty
years ago?"

"No.  That was before my time.  What case is it?"

"Some people called Saul were mixed up in it."

"Humph!  Never heard of them," said Jennings, lighting his cigarette,
"but it is strange you should talk of coining.  I and several other
fellows are looking for a set of coiners now.  There are a lot of false
coins circulating, and they are marvellously made.  If I can only lay
my hands on the coiners and their factory, there will be a sensation."

"And your reputation will be enhanced."

"I hope so," replied the detective, reddening.  "I want a rise in my
salary, as I wish to marry.  By the way, how is Miss Saxon?"

"Very well.  You met her, did you not?"

"Yes!  You took me to that queer house.  What do they call it?
the--'Shrine of the Muses'--where all the sham art exists. Why do you
look so grave, old boy?"

The two men, getting more confidential, were dropping into the language
of school-days and speaking more familiarly.  Mallow did not reply at
once, as his servant had just brought in the coffee.  But when each
gentleman was supplied with a cup and they were again alone, he looked
gravely at Miles.  "I want to ask your advice," he said, "and if you
are my friend--"

"I am, of course I am."

"Well, then, I am as interested in finding out who killed Miss Loach as
you are."

"Why is that?" demanded Jennings, puzzled.

"Before I answer and make a clean breast of it, I should like you to
promise that you will get no one I know into trouble."

Jennings hesitated.  "That is a difficult matter.  Of course, if I find
the assassin, even if he or she is one of your friends, I must do my
duty."

"Oh, I don't expect anything of that sort," said Mallow easily, "but
why do you say 'he' or 'she'?"

"Well, the person who killed Miss Loach might be a woman."

"I don't see how you make that out," said Cuthbert reflectively.  "I
read the case coming up in the train to-day, and it seems to me from
what The Planet says that the whole thing is a mystery."

"One which I mean to dive into and discover," replied Miles. "I do not
care for an ordinary murder case, but this is one after my own heart.
It is a criminal problem which I should like to work out."

"Do you see your way as yet?" asked Cuthbert.

"No," confessed Jennings, "I do not.  I saw the report you speak of.
The writer theorizes without having facts to go on. What he says about
the bell is absurd.  All the same, the bell did ring and the assassin
could not have escaped at the time it sounded.  Nor could the deceased
have rung it.  Therein lies the mystery, and I can't guess how the
business was managed."

"Do you believe the assassin rang the bell?"

Miles shrugged his shoulders and sipped his coffee.  "It is impossible
to say.  I will wait until I have more facts before me before I venture
an opinion.  It is only in detective novels that the heaven-born Vidocq
can guess the truth on a few stray clues.  But what were you going to
tell me?"

"Will you keep what I say to yourself?"

"Yes," said Jennings, readily enough, "so long as it doesn't mean the
escape of the person who is guilty."

"I don't ask you to betray the confidence placed in you by the
authorities to that extent," said Mallow, "just wait a moment."

He leaned his chin on his hand and thought.  If he wished to gain the
hand of Juliet, it was necessary he should clear up the mystery of the
death.  Unaided, he could not do so, but with the assistance of his old
schoolfellow--following his lead in fact--he might get at the truth.
Then, when the name of the assassin of her sister was known, the reason
of Mrs. Octagon's strange behavior might be learned, and, moreover, the
discovery might remove her objection.  On the other hand, Cuthbert
could not help feeling uneasy, lest Mrs. Octagon had some secret
connected with the death which made her refuse her consent to the
match, and which, if he explained to Jennings what he knew, might
become known in a quarter which she might not approve of.  However,
Mallow was certain that, in spite of Mrs. Octagon's hint, his uncle had
nothing to do with the matter, and he had already warned her--although
she refused to listen--that he intended to trace the assassin.  Under
these circumstances, and also because Jennings was his friend and more
likely to aid him, than get anyone he knew and respected into trouble,
the young man made up his mind to tell everything.

"The fact is, I am engaged to Juliet Saxon," he began, hesitatingly.

"I know that.  She is the daughter of that absurd Mrs. Octagon, with
the meek husband and the fine opinion of herself."

"Yes.  But Juliet is the niece of Miss Loach."

"What!" Jennings sprang from his chair with a look of surprise; "do you
mean to tell me that Mrs. Octagon is Miss Loach's sister."

"I do.  They quarrelled many years ago, and have not been friendly for
years.  Mrs. Octagon would never go and see her sister, but she did not
forbid her children being friendly. As you may guess, Mrs. Octagon is
much distressed about the murder, but the strange thing is that she
declares this death renders it impossible for me to marry her daughter."

Jennings looked searchingly at his friend.  "That is strange. Does she
give no reason?"

"No.  But knowing my uncle knew her when she was a girl, I thought I
would ask him what he thought.  He told me that he had once been
engaged to Miss Loach, and--"

"Well, go on," said Miles, seeing Cuthbert hesitating.

"There was another lady in the case."

"There usually is," said Jennings dryly.  "Well?"

"The other lady's name was Saul--Emilia Saul."

"Oh," Miles sat down again.  He had remained standing for a few
moments.  "Saul was the name you mentioned in connection with the
coining case of twenty years ago."

Cuthbert nodded, and now, being fully convinced that he badly needed
Jennings' aid, he told all that he had heard from Caranby, and detailed
what his mother had said.  Also, he touched on the speech of Mrs.
Octagon, and repeated the warning he had given her.  Miles listened
quietly, but made no remark till his friend finished.

"You have told me all you know?" he asked.

"Yes.  I want you to help me.  Not that I think what I have learned has
anything to do with the case."

"I'm not so sure of that," said Jennings musingly, his eyes on the
carpet.  "Mrs. Octagon bases her refusal to allow the marriage on the
fact of the death.  However, you have warned her, and she must take the
consequence."

"But, my dear Jennings, you don't think she has anything to do with the
matter.  I assure you she is a good, kind woman--"

"With a violent temper, according to your mother," finished Jennings
dryly.  "However, don't alarm yourself.  I don't think she is guilty."

"I should think not," cried Mallow, indignantly.  "Juliet's mother!"

"But she may have something to do with the matter all the same.
However, you have been plain with me, and I will do all I can to help
you.  The first thing is for us to follow up the clue of the portrait."

"Ah, yes!  I had quite forgotten that," said Mallow, casting a look on
the photograph which lay near at hand.  "Just pass it, will you."

Miles did so.  "You say you recognize it," he said.

"I recognize my own face.  I had several portraits done like this.  I
think this one--" Mallow looked at the inscription which he read for
the first time, and his face grew pale.

"What is it?" asked Miles eagerly.

"I don't know," faltered the other uneasily.

"You recognize the inscription?"

"Yes, I certainly wrote that."

"It is quite a tender inscription," said Miles, his eyes on the
disturbed face of the other.  "'With my dear love,' it reads."

Cuthbert laid down the portrait and nodded.  "Yes!  That is the
inscription," he said in low tones, and his eyes sought the carpet.

"You wrote that to a servant."

"What servant?"

"The new parlor-maid engaged by Miss Loach on the day of her
death--Susan Grant."

"I remember the name.  I saw it in the papers."

"Do you know the girl well?" asked Jennings.

"I don't know her at all."

"Come now.  A man doesn't give a portrait with such an inscription to
any unknown girl, nor to one he is not in love with."

"Jennings," cried Mallow indignantly, "how can you think--" his voice
died away and he clenched his hands.

"What am I to think then?" demanded the detective.

"What you like."

"That you love this Susan Grant?"

"I tell you I never set eyes on her," said Cuthbert violently.

"Then how does she come into possession of your portrait?" asked the
other.  Then seeing that Mallow refused to speak, he laid a persuasive
hand on his shoulder.  "You must speak out," he said quickly, "you have
told me so much you must tell me all.  Matters can't stand as they are.
No," here Jennings looked straight into Mallow's eyes, "you did not
give that portrait to Susan Grant."

"I never said so."

"Don't be an ass, Mallow.  You say you don't know the girl, therefore
you can hardly have given her the photograph.  Now the inscription
shows that it was given to a woman you are in love with.  You told me
when you introduced me to Miss Saxon that she was the only woman you
ever loved.  Therefore you gave this portrait with its tender
inscription to her."

"I--I can't say."

"You mean you won't trust me," said Jennings.

Cuthbert rose quickly and flung off his friend's arm.  "I wish to
Heaven I had never opened my mouth to you," he said.

"My dear fellow, you should show more confidence in me.  I know quite
well why you won't acknowledge that you gave this photograph to Miss
Saxon.  You think it will implicate her in the matter."

"Jennings!" cried Cuthbert, his face growing red and fierce.

"Wait a moment," resumed the other calmly and without flinching.  "I
can explain.  You gave the photograph to Miss Saxon.  She gave it to
Miss Loach, and Susan Grant falling in love with your face, took
possession of it.  It was found in her trunk."

"Yes--yes, that's it!" cried Mallow, catching at a straw. "I did give
the photograph to Juliet, and no doubt she gave it to her aunt.  It
would be easy for this girl to take it. Though why she should steal
it," said Cuthbert perplexed, "I really can't say!"

"You don't know her?" asked Jennings.

"No.  Really, I don't.  The name is quite unknown to me.  What is the
girl like in appearance?"  Jennings described Susan to the best of his
ability, but Cuthbert shook his head.  "No, I never saw her.  You say
she had this photograph in her trunk?" Then, on receiving an
affirmative reply, "She may have found it lying about and have taken
it, though why she should I can't say."

"So you said before," said Jennings dryly.  "But strange as it may
appear, Mallow, this girl is in love with you."

"How do you know that?"

"Well, you see," said Miles, slowly.  "After the murder I searched the
boxes of the servants in the house for the weapon."

"But there was no danger of them being accused?"

"No.  Nor would I have searched their boxes had they not insisted.  But
they were all so afraid of being accused, that they wished to exonerate
themselves as much as possible.  The fact that the whole four were in
the kitchen together at the time the crime was committed quite clears
them.  However, they insisted, so I looked into their boxes.  I found
this photograph in the box of the new housemaid.  She refused to state
how it came into her possession, and became so red, and wept so much,
that I soon saw that she loved you."

"But I tell you it's ridiculous.  I don't know the girl--and a servant,
too.  Pshaw!"

"Well, then, I must get her to see you, and possibly some explanation
may be made.  I took possession of the photograph--"

"Why?  On what grounds should my photograph interest you, Jennings?"

"On the grounds that you are a friend of mine, and that I knew your
face the moment I saw it.  I naturally asked the girl how it came into
her possession, as I know your tastes don't lie in the way of pretty
parlor-maids, however attractive.  It was her reply which made me take
the portrait and come to ask you for an explanation."

"What reply did she make?" demanded Cuthbert, exasperated by the false
position he was placed in.

"She said that she would explain nothing in case you should get into
trouble with the police.  Can you explain that?"

"No," said Mallow, perplexed.  "I really cannot be responsible for the
vagaries of a parlor-maid.  I don't know the name Susan Grant, and from
your description of her appearance, I never set eyes on her.  I am
quite sure your explanation is the correct one.  Juliet gave it to her
aunt, and for some ridiculous reason this girl stole it."

"But her remark about the police."

Mallow made a gesture of helplessness, and leaned his elbow on the
mantelpiece.  "I can't guess what she means.  Well, what will you do
now, Jennings?"

"First, I shall get the girl to come here and see you.  Then I shall
ask Miss Saxon why she gave the photograph to Miss Loach.  You were not
a favorite with the old lady, I gather."

"On the contrary, she liked me much more than I did her."

"You see.  She liked you so much that she insisted on having your
photograph.  I must ask Miss Saxon when she gave it. Will you let me
bring this girl to see you to-morrow?"

"Certainly.  But it's all very unpleasant."

The detective rose to go.  "Most matters connected with a crime are, my
dear fellow," said he calmly.  "I only hope there will not be any more
unpleasantness."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't say what I mean--yet."

"You are mysterious, Jennings."

"I am perplexed.  I don't seem to advance.  However, I intend to follow
up the clue of your photograph, though if the explanation I suggest is
the true one, there's nothing more to be said.  But the girl, Susan
Grant, has not the look of a thief."

"That means, I gave her the photograph," said Cuthbert haughtily.

"Not necessarily," rejoined Jennings, putting on his overcoat. "But I
will not theorize any more.  Wait till I confront the girl with you in
a few days.  Then we may force her to speak."

Cuthbert shrugged his shoulders.  "As you please.  But I really am at a
loss to think what she will say."

"So am I," said Jennings, as they walked to the door.  "That is why I
am anxious to see her and you together.  And, after all, I may have
found only a mare's nest."

"You certainly have so far as I am concerned.  By the way, when is the
body to be buried?"

"The day after to-morrow.  Then the will has to be read.  I hope the
old lady will leave you some money, Mallow.  She was reported to be
rich.  Oh, by the way, I'll look up that Saul coining case you speak
of."

"Why?" asked Mallow, bluntly and uneasily.

"It may have some bearing on this matter.  Only in the past will we
find the truth.  And Miss Selina Loach certainly knew Miss Saul."

As Jennings departed the postman came up the stairs with the late
letters.  Cuthbert found one from Juliet and opened it at once.  It
contained one line--

"Don't see the police about aunt's death--JULIET."

Cuthbert Mallow slept very badly that night.




CHAPTER VIII

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE


The most obvious thing for Cuthbert to do was to seek Juliet and ask
for an explanation of her mysterious note.  He went to the "Shrine of
the Muses" the very next day, but was informed that Miss Saxon and her
mother had gone out of town and would not be back for a few days.  He
could not learn where they were, and was leaving the house somewhat
disconsolately when he met Basil.

"You here, Mallow," said that young gentleman, stopping short, "have
you been to see my mother?"

"I went to see Juliet," replied Cuthbert, not sorry that the meeting
had taken place, "but I hear she is out of town."

"Well, not exactly.  The fact is, she and my mother have gone down to
Rose Cottage and intend to stop there until the funeral is over and the
will is read."

"The will?" echoed Mallow.

"Yes.  Aunt Selina is likely to leave a great deal of money. I expect
it will all go to Juliet.  She never liked me."

"Yet you were frequently at her house."

"I was," confessed Basil candidly.  "I tried to make myself as civil as
possible, so that she might remember me.  Between ourselves, Mallow, I
am deuced hard up.  My mother hasn't much money, I have none of my own,
and old Octagon is as stingy as he well can be."

This sounded well coming from an idler who never did a stroke of work,
and who lived on the charity of his step-father.  But Basil had
peculiar views as to money.  He considered himself a genius, and that
Peter should be proud to support him until, as he phrased it, he had
"stamped his name on the age"!  But the stamping took a long time, and
Basil troubled himself very little about the matter.  He remarked that
genius should not be forced, and loafed away the greater portion of his
days. His mother kept him in pocket-money and clothes, Peter supplied
board and lodging, and Basil got through life very pleasantly.  He
wished to be famous, to have his name in every mouth and his portrait
in every paper; but the work that was necessary to obtain these
desirable things he was unwilling to do.  Cuthbert knew that the young
fellow had been "born tired"! and although something of an idler
himself, liked Basil none the more for his laziness.  Had Mallow been
poor he would certainly have earned his bread, but he had a good income
and did not work.  And, after all, he only pursued the way of life in
which he had been brought up.  But Basil was poor and had his career to
make, therefore he certainly should have labored.  However, for
Juliet's sake, Cuthbert was as polite as possible.

"If I were you, Saxon, I should leave cards alone," said Mallow.

"Nonsense!  I don't play high.  Besides, I have seen you at Maraquito's
also losing a lot."

"I can afford to lose," said Cuthbert dryly, "you can't."

"No, by Jove, you're right there.  But don't preach, Mallow, you ain't
such a saint yourself."

"Can I help you with a cheque?"

Basil had good breeding enough to color.

"No!  I didn't explain myself for that," he said coldly, "and besides,
if Juliet comes in for Aunt Selina's money, I'll get some.  Juliet and
I always share."

This meant that Juliet was to give the money and Basil to spend it.
Mallow was disgusted with this candid selfishness. However, he did not
wish to quarrel with Basil, as he knew Juliet was fond of him, and
moreover, in the present state of affairs, he was anxious to have
another friend besides Mr. Octagon in the house.  "Perhaps Miss Loach
may have left you some money after all," he remarked.

"By Jove, I hope so.  I'll be in a hole if she has not. There's a
bill--" here he stopped, as though conscious of having said too much.
"But that will come into Juliet's possession," he murmured.

"What's that?" asked Cuthbert sharply.

"Nothing--nothing--only a tailor's bill.  As to getting money by the
will, don't you know I quarrelled with Aunt Selina a week before her
death.  Yes, she turned me out of the house."  Here Basil's face
assumed what may be described as an ugly look.  "I should like to have
got even with the old cat. She insulted me."

"Gently, old fellow," said Mallow, seeing that Basil was losing his
temper, and having occasionally seen him in fits of uncontrollable
passion, "we're in the public street."

Basil's brow cleared.  "All right," he said, "don't bother, I'll be all
right when Juliet gets the money.  By the way, mother tells me you are
not going to marry her."

"Your mother is mistaken," rejoined Mallow gravely.  "Juliet and I are
still engaged.  I do not intend to give her up."

"I told mother you would not give in easily," said Basil, frowning,
"but you can't marry Juliet."

"Why not?" asked Cuthbert sharply; "do you know the reason?"

Basil appeared about to say something, then suddenly closed his mouth
and shook his head.

Cuthbert pressed him.  "If you know the reason, tell me," he said, "and
I'll help you out of your difficulties.  You know I love Juliet, and
your mother does not seem to have any excuse to forbid the marriage."

"I would help you if I could, but I can't.  You had better ask Juliet
herself.  She may tell you the reason."

"How can I find her?"

"Go down to Rose Cottage and ask to see her," suggested Basil.

"Your mother will not admit me."

"That's true enough.  Well, I'll tell you what, Mallow, I'll speak to
Juliet and get her to make an appointment to see you."

"I could write and ask her for one myself."

"Oh, no, you couldn't.  Mother will intercept all letters."

"Upon my word--" began Mallow angrily, then stopped.  It was useless to
show his wrath before this silly boy, who could do no good and might do
a deal of harm.  "Very well, then," he said more mildly, "ask Juliet to
meet me on the other side of Rexton, under the wall which runs round
the unfinished house."

Basil started.  "Why that place?" he asked nervously.

"It is as good as any other."

"You can't get inside."

"That's true enough.  But we can meet outside.  I have been inside
though, and I made a mess of myself climbing the wall."

"You were inside," began Basil, then suddenly appeared relieved.  "I
remember; you were there on the day after Aunt Selina was killed."

"I have been there before that," said Cuthbert, wondering why the young
man avoided his eye in so nervous a manner.

"Not at--at night?" murmured Saxon, looking away.

"Once I was there at night.  Why do you ask?"

"Oh, nothing--nothing.  I was just thinking it's a wild place in which
to find one's self at night.  By the way," added Basil, as though
anxious to change a disagreeable subject, "do you think Jarvey Hale a
nice fellow?"

"No, I don't.  I have met him at Maraquito's, and I don't like him.
He's a bounder.  Moreover, a respectable lawyer has no right to gamble
to the extent he does.  I wonder Miss Loach trusted him."

"Perhaps she didn't know of his gambling," said Basil, his eyes
wandering everywhere but to the face of his companion; "but, should you
think Hale would be hard on a fellow?"

"Yes, I should.  Do you owe him money?"

"A few pounds.  He won't give me time to pay.  And I say, Mallow, I
suppose all Aunt Selina's affairs will be left in Hale's hands?"

"I can't say.  It depends upon the will.  If everything is left to
Juliet, unconditionally, she may take her affairs out of Hale's hands.
I should certainly advise her to do so. He's too intimate with
Maraquito and her gambling salon to be a decent lawyer."

"You do seem down on gambling," said Basil, "yet you gamble yourself a
lot.  But I expect Juliet will change her lawyer. I hope she will."

"Why?" asked Cuthbert sharply.

"Oh," replied Basil, confused, "because I agree with you. A gambler
will not make a good lawyer--or a good husband either," he added in an
abrupt tone.  "Good-day.  I'll tell Juliet," and he was off before
Mallow could find words to answer his last remark.

Cuthbert, walking back to his rooms, wondered if it was on account of
the gambling that Mrs. Octagon objected to the marriage.  He really did
not gamble much, but occasionally he dropped into Maraquito's house,
and there lost or won a few pounds.  Here he had often met Basil, and
without doubt the young man had told his mother.  But he could hardly
do this without incriminating himself.  All the same, Basil was a
thorough liar, and a confirmed tattler.  He might have blackened
Mallow's character, and yet have told a story to exonerate himself.
His friendship appeared feigned, and Cuthbert doubted if he would
really tell Juliet of the appointment.

"That young man's in trouble," thought Mallow, "he is anxious about
Hale, and I shouldn't wonder if that respectable person had lent him a
large sum of money.  Probably he counts on getting the money from
Juliet, should she inherit the fortune of Miss Loach.  Also he seems
annoyed that I should have been in Caranby's unfinished house at night.
I wonder what he would say if he knew my reason for going there.
Humph!  I must keep that quiet.  The only person I dare tell is Juliet;
but I can't speak to her about the matter just yet.  And after all,
there is no need to mention my visit.  It does not concern her in the
least.  I wonder," here Cuthbert stopped, struck with an idea.  "By
George! can it be that Basil was near Rose Cottage on the night the
crime was committed? Juliet may know that, and so, fearful lest he
should be accused of the murder, asked me to stop proceedings.  Can
Basil Saxon be guilty?  No," Mallow shook his head and resumed his
walk, "he has not pluck enough to kill a fly."

After this he dismissed the matter from his thoughts and waited
expectant of a letter from Juliet.  None came, and he was convinced
that Basil had not delivered the message.  This being the case,
Cuthbert determined to act for himself, and one afternoon went down to
Rexton.  That same evening he had an appointment with Jennings, who was
to bring Susan Grant to Mallow's rooms.  But the young man quite
expected to be back in time to keep the appointment, and meantime he
spent an hour wandering round Rexton in the vicinity of Rose Cottage.
But afraid lest Mrs. Octagon should see him and keep Juliet within
doors, he abstained from passing in front of the house and waited on
the path which led to the station.

While watching the cottage, a young woman came along the path. She was
neatly dressed and looked like a servant.  Cuthbert pressed himself
against the quickset hedge to allow her to pass, as there was very
little room.  The girl started as she murmured her thanks, and grew
crimson on seeing his face. Cuthbert, not thinking, gave a passing
thought to her looks and wondered why she had blushed.  But when he saw
her enter the gate of Rose Cottage--she looked back twice--he recalled
the description of Jennings.

"By George!" he thought, "that was Susan Grant.  I wish I had spoken to
her.  I wonder why she blushed.  She can't be in love with me, as I
never saw her before.  All the same, it is strange about the portrait."

It was now about four o'clock, and Cuthbert fancied that after all it
would be best to boldly ring at the door and ask admission, in spite of
Mrs. Octagon.

But while hesitating to risk all his chances of seeing Juliet on one
throw of fortune's dice, the matter was decided for him by the
appearance of Juliet herself.  She came out of the gate and walked
directly towards the path.  It would seem as though she expected to
find Cuthbert, for she walked straight up to him and caught his hand.
There was no one about to see their meeting, but Juliet was not
disposed to behave tenderly.

"Why are you here?" she asked.  "Susan Grant told me you--"

"Susan Grant!" echoed Cuthbert, resolved not to know too much in the
presence of Juliet.  "I saw her name in the papers. How does she know
me?"

"I can't say," said Juliet quickly; "come along this way." She hurried
along the narrow path, talking all the time.  "She came in just now and
said you were waiting in the by-path.  I came out at once.  I don't
want my mother to see you."

"Really!" cried Cuthbert, rather nettled.  "I don't see that I have any
reason to avoid Mrs. Octagon."

"She will not allow me to see you.  If she knew I was meeting you she
would be very angry.  We are here only till to-morrow. Now that Aunt
Selina is buried and the will read, we return to Kensington at once.
Come this way.  Let us get into the open. I don't wish my mother to
follow and find me speaking to you."

They emerged into a waste piece of land, distant a stone-throw from the
railway station, but secluded by reason of many trees and shrubs.
These, belonging to the old Rexton estate, had not yet been rooted up
by the builder, and there ran a path through the heart of the miniature
wood leading to the station.  When quite screened from observation by
the friendly leafage, Juliet turned quickly.  She was pale and ill in
looks, and there were dark circles under her eyes which told of
sleepless nights.  But she was dressed with her usual care and behaved
in a composed manner.

"I wish you had not come, Cuthbert," she said, again taking his hand,
"at least not at present.  Later on--"

"I wanted to see you at once," said Mallow, determinedly. "Did not
Basil tell you so?"

Juliet shook her head.  "He said he met you the other day, but gave me
no message."

"Then he is not the friend I took him to be," said Mallow angrily.

"Don't be angry with Basil," said Juliet, gently.  "The poor boy has
quite enough trouble."

"Of his own making," finished Cuthbert, thoroughly annoyed. "See here,
Juliet, this sort of thing can't go on.  I have done nothing to warrant
my being treated like this.  Your mother is mad to behave as she is
doing.  I insist on an explanation."

Juliet did not pay attention to this hasty speech.  "How do you know
Basil has troubles?" she asked hurriedly.

"Because I know he's a dissipated young ass," returned Mallow roughly;
"and I daresay you know it also."

"Do you allude to his playing cards?" she asked quickly.

"Yes.  He has no right to tell you these things.  But I know he is in
debt to Hale--he hinted as much the other day.  I would say nothing of
this to you, but that I know he counts on your paying his debts.  I
tell you, Juliet, it is wrong for you to do so."

"How do you know I can?" she asked.

"I know nothing," said Cuthbert doggedly, "not even if you have
inherited the money of Miss Loach."

"I have inherited it.  She left everything to me, save legacies to
Thomas her servant, and to Emily Pill, the cook. It is a large fortune.
The will was read on the day of the funeral.  I have now six thousand a
year."

"So much as that?  How did your aunt make such a lot of money?"

"Mr. Hale speculated a great deal on her account, and, he is very
lucky.  At least so he told me.  But the money is well invested and
there are no restrictions.  I can easily pay the few debts Basil owes,
poor boy.  You are too hard on him."

"Perhaps I am.  But he is so foolish, and he doesn't like me. I believe
he puts you against me, Juliet."

The girl threw her arms round his neck.  "Nothing in the world would
ever put me against you, Cuthbert," she whispered vehemently.  "I love
you--I love you--with all my heart and soul, with every fibre of my
being do I love you.  I don't care what mother says, I love you."

"Well, then," said Cuthbert, between kisses, "since you are now rich
and your own mistress--not that I care about the money--why not marry
me at once?"

Juliet drew back, and her eyes dilated with fear.  "I dare not--I dare
not," she whispered.  "You don't know what you ask."

"Yes I do.  Juliet, what is all this mystery about?  I could not
understand the meaning of your letter."

"Did you do what I asked?" she panted.

"It was too late.  I had told Jennings the detective all I knew."

"You were not afraid?"

"Afraid!" echoed Cuthbert, opening his eyes.  "What do you mean?"

She looked into his eyes.  "No," she said to herself, "he is not
afraid."

Cuthbert lost his temper.  "I don't understand all this," he declared,
"if you would only speak out.  But I can guess why you wish me to stop
the proceedings--you fear for Basil!"

She stepped back a pace.  "For Basil?"

"Yes.  From what he hinted the other day I believe he was about this
place on the night of the--"

"Where are your proofs?" she gasped, recoiling.

"I have none.  I am only speaking on chance.  But Basil is in monetary
difficulties--he is in debt to Hale--he counted on you inheriting the
money of Miss Loach to pay his debts. He--"

"Stop! stop!" cried Juliet, the blood rising to her face, "this is only
supposition.  You can prove nothing."

"Then why do you wish me to hold my tongue?"

"There is nothing for you to hold your tongue about," she answered
evasively.  "You know nothing."

Cuthbert caught her hands and looked into her troubled eyes. "Do you,
Juliet--do you?  Put an end to this mystery and speak out."

She broke from him and fled.  "No," she cried, "for your sake I keep
silent.  For your own sake stop the action of the detective."




CHAPTER IX

ANOTHER MYSTERY


When Jennings arrived that evening according to appointment, he found
Mallow in a state of desperation.  Juliet's conduct perplexed the young
man to such an extent that he felt as though on the point of losing his
reason.  He was quite delighted when he saw Jennings and thus had
someone with a clear head in whom to confide.

"What's the matter?" asked Jennings, who at once saw that something was
wrong from Cuthbert's anxious face.

"Nothing, save that I am being driven out of my senses.  I am glad you
have come, Jennings.  Things are getting more mysterious every day.  I
am determined to get to the bottom of this murder case if only for my
own peace of mind.  I am with you heart and soul.  I have the detective
fever with a vengeance.  You can count on my assistance in every way."

"All right, my dear chap," said the other soothingly, "sit down and let
us have a quiet talk before this girl arrives."

"Susan Grant.  I saw her to-day."

"Did you speak to her?"

"No.  I only guessed that she was the girl you talked about from your
description and from the fact that she entered Rose Cottage."

"Ah," said Jennings, taking a seat, "so you have been down there?"

"Yes.  I'll tell you all about it.  I don't know if I'm sane or insane,
Jennings.  When does this girl arrive?"

The detective glanced at his watch.  "At half-past eight. She'll be
here in half an hour.  Go on.  What's up?"

"Read this," said Cuthbert, and passed along the note from Juliet.  "I
received that immediately after you went the other night."

Jennings read the note with a thoughtful look, then laid it aside and
stared at his friend.  "It is strange that she should write in that
way," said he.  "I should have thought she would wish to learn who
killed her aunt.  What does she mean?"

"I can't tell you.  I met her to-day," and Cuthbert gave details of his
visit to Rexton and the interview with Juliet. "Now what does she
mean," he added in his turn, "talking as though I had something to do
with the matter?"

"Someone's been poisoning her mind.  That brother of hers, perhaps."

"What do you know of him?" asked Cuthbert quickly.

"Nothing good.  He's an hysterical idiot.  Gambles a lot and falls into
rages when he loses.  At times I don't think he's responsible for his
actions."

Mallow threw himself back in his chair biting his moustache. Every word
Jennings spoke made him more confident that Basil had something to do
with the crime.  But why Juliet should hint at his own guilt Cuthbert
could not imagine.  Had he been calmer he might have hesitated to tell
Jennings about Basil. But, exasperated by Juliet's half confidence, and
anxious to learn the truth, he gave the detective a full account of his
meeting with the young man.  "What do you make of that?" he asked.

"Well," said Jennings doubtfully, "there's nothing much to go upon in
what he said.  He's in difficulties with Hale certainly--"

"And he seemed anxious about my having been in Caranby's grounds at
night." "Were you there?"

"Yes.  I did not intend to say anything about it, but I must tell you
everything so that you can put things straight between me and Juliet.
I can't understand her.  But I am sure her mother and Basil are trying
to influence her against me. I should not be surprised to learn that
they accused me of this murder."

"But on what grounds?" asked Jennings quickly.

"We'll come to that presently.  But I now see why neither Basil nor his
mother want the marriage to take place.  By the will of Miss Loach
Juliet comes in for six thousand a year, which is completely at her own
disposal.  Mrs. Octagon and her pet boy want to have the handling of
that.  They know if Juliet becomes my wife I won't let them prey on
her, so immediately Miss Loach died the mother withdrew her consent to
the marriage, and now she is being backed up by Basil."

"But I thought Mrs. Octagon was well off?"

"No.  Saxon, her late husband, left her very little, and Octagon, for
all his meekness, knows how to keep his money. Both mother and son are
extravagant, so they hope to make poor Juliet their banker.  In some
way they have implicated me in the crime, and Juliet thinks that I am
in danger of the gallows.  That is why she wrote that mysterious note,
Jennings. To-day she asked me to stop proceedings for my own sake,
which shows that she thinks me guilty.  I could not get a further
explanation from her, as she ran away.  Hang it!"  Cuthbert jumped up
angrily, "if she'd only tell me the truth and speak straight out.  I
can't understand this silence on her part."

"I can," said Jennings promptly, "in some way Basil is mixed up in the
matter, and his accusing you means his acknowledging that he was near
Rose Cottage on the night of the crime.  He funks making so damaging an
admission."

"Ah, I daresay," said Cuthbert, "particularly as he quarrelled with his
aunt a week before the death."

"Did he quarrel with her?"

"Of course.  Didn't I tell you what he said to-day.  He's in a fine
rage with the dead woman.  And you know what an uncontrollable temper
he has.  I've seen him rage at Maraquito's when he lost at baccarat.
Silly ass!  He can't play decently and lose his money like a gentleman.
How Juliet ever came to have such a bounder for a brother I can't
imagine.  She's the soul of honor, and Basil--bah!"

"He quarrelled with his aunt," murmured Jennings, "and he has a violent
temper, as we both knew.  Humph!  He may have something to do with the
matter.  Do you know where he was on that night?"

"Yes.  Juliet and he went to the Marlow Theatre to see a melodrama by a
new playwright."

"Ha!" said Jennings half to himself, "and the Marlow Theatre is not far
from Rexton.  I'll make a note of that.  Had they a box?"

"I believe so.  It was sent by the man who wrote the play."

"Who is he?"

"I can't say.  One of that lot who play at being poets in Octagon
House.  A set of idiots.  But what do you make of all this, Jennings?"

"I think with you that Mrs. Octagon and her cub of a son are trying to
stop the marriage by bringing you into the matter of the crime.  Were
you down there on that night?"

"Yes," said Cuthbert with hesitation, and to Jennings' surprise, "I did
not intend to say anything about it, as my uncle asked me to hold my
tongue.  But since things have come to this pass, you may as well know
that I was there--and about the time of the murder too."

Jennings sat up and stared.  "Great heavens!  Mallow, why didn't you
tell me this the other night?"

"You might have arrested me then and there," retorted Cuthbert.  "I
promised my uncle to hold my tongue.  But now--"

"You will tell me all.  My dear fellow, make a clean breast of it."

"Rest easy, you shall learn everything.  You know that the house at the
back of Rose Cottage has been deserted for something like twenty years
more or less."

"Yes.  You told me about it the other night."

"Caranby ran a fifteen-feet wall round it and the inside is a regular
jungle.  Well, the house is supposed to be haunted. Lights have been
seen moving about and strange noises have been heard."

"What kind of noises?"

"Oh, moans and clanking chains and all that sort of thing.  I heard
indirectly about this, through Juliet."

"Where did she hear the report?"

"From Miss Loach's cook.  A woman called Pill.  The cook asserted that
the house was haunted, and described the noises and the lights.  I
don't believe in spooks myself, and thought some tricks were being
played, so one day I went down and had a look."

"That day I was there?" asked Jennings, recalling Cuthbert's presence.

"Before that--a week or two.  I saw nothing.  The house is rotting and
nothing appeared to be disturbed.  I examined the park and found no
footmarks.  In fact, there wasn't a sign of anyone about."

"You should have gone at night when the ghost was larking."

"That's what Caranby said.  I told him when he came back to London.  He
was very annoyed.  You know his romance about that house--an absurd
thing it is.  All the same, Caranby is tender on the point.  I advised
him to pull the house down and let the land out for building leases.
He thought he would, but asked me to go at night and stir up the ghost.
I went on the night of the murder, and got into the grounds by climbing
the wall.  There's no gate, you know."

"At what time?"

"Some time between ten and eleven.  I'm not quite sure."

"Good heavens! man, that is the very hour the woman was killed!"

"Yes.  And for that reason I held my tongue; particularly as I got over
the wall near the cottage."

"Where do you mean?"

"Well, there's a field of corn nearly ready to be cut near the cottage.
It's divided from the garden by a fence.  I came along the foot-path
that leads from the station and jumped the fence."

"Did you enter Miss Loach's grounds?"

"No.  I had no right to.  I saw a light in the basement, but I did not
take much notice.  I was too anxious to find the ghost.  Well, I ran
along the fence--on the field-of-corn side, remember, and got over the
wall.  Then I dodged through the park, scratching myself a lot.  I
could find nothing.  The house seemed quiet enough, so after a quarter
of an hour I had enough of it.  I got out over the wall on the other
side and came home.  I caught a cold which necessitated my wearing a
great-coat the next day.  So there you have my ghost-hunting, and a
fine fool I was to go."

"I wish you had told me this before, Mallow."

"If I had, you would have thought I'd killed the old woman. But I tell
you now, as I want this matter sifted to the bottom.  I refused to
speak before, as I didn't wish to be dragged into the case."

"Did you see anything in the cottage?"

"Not a thing.  I saw no one--I heard no sound."

"Not even a scream?"

"Not even a scream," said Mallow; "had I heard anything I should have
gone to see what was the matter."

"Strange!" murmured Jennings, "can't you tell the exact time?"

"Not to a minute.  It was shortly after ten.  I can't say how many
minutes.  Perhaps a quarter of an hour.  But not suspecting anything
was going to happen, I didn't look at my watch."

Jennings looked thoughtfully at the carpet.  "I wonder if the assassin
escaped that way," he murmured.

"Which way?"

"Over the wall and through the park.  You see, he could not have gone
up the lane or through the railway path without stumbling against that
policeman.  But he might have slipped out of the front door at
half-past ten and climbed as you did over the wall to cross the park
and drop over the other.  In this way he would elude the police."

"Perhaps," said Cuthbert disbelievingly; "but it was nearly eleven when
I left the park.  If anyone had been at my heels I would have noticed."

"I am not so sure of that.  The park, as you say, is a kind of jungle.
The man might have seen you and have taken his precautions.  Moreover,"
added the detective, sitting up alertly, "he might have written to Miss
Saxon saying he saw you on that night.  And she--"

"Bosh!" interrupted Mallow roughly, "he would give himself away."

"Not if the letter was anonymous."

"Perhaps," said the other again; "but Basil may have been about the
place and have accused me."

"In that case he must explain his reason for being in the neighborhood
at that hour.  But he won't, and you may be sure Miss Saxon, for his
sake, will hold her tongue.  No, Mallow. Someone accuses you to Miss
Saxon--Basil or another.  If we could only make her speak--"

Cuthbert shook his head.  "I fear it's impossible."

"Why not let me arrest you," suggested Jennings, "and then, if at
anytime, she would speak."

"Hang it, no!" cried Mallow in dismay, "that would be too realistic,
Jennings.  I don't want it known that I was hanging about the place on
that night.  My explanation might not be believed.  In any case, people
would throw mud at me, considering I am engaged to the niece of the
dead woman."

"Yes! I can see that.  Well," Jennings rose and stretched himself.  "I
must see what Susan has to say"; he glanced at his watch; "she should
be here in a few minutes."

A silence ensued which was broken by Jennings.  "Oh, by the way," he
said, taking some papers out of his pocket, "I looked up the Saul case."

"Well, what about it?" asked Cuthbert indolently

Jennings referred to his notes.  "The Saul family" he said, "seem to
have been a bad lot.  There was a mother, a brother and a daughter--"

"Emilia!"

"Just so.  They were all coiners.  Somewhere in Hampstead they had a
regular factory.  Others were mixed up in the matter also, but Mrs.
Saul was the head of the gang.  Then Emilia grew tired of the life--I
expect it told on her nerves.  She went on the concert platform and met
Caranby.  Then she died, as you know.  Afterwards the mother and
brother were caught. They bolted.  The mother, I believe, died--it was
believed she was poisoned for having betrayed secrets.  The brother
went to jail, got out years afterwards on ticket-of-leave, and then
died also.  The rest of the gang were put in jail, but I can't say what
became of them."

Cuthbert shrugged his shoulders.  "This does not help us much."

"No.  But it shows you what an escape your uncle had from marrying the
woman.  I can't understand--"

"No more can Caranby," said Mallow, smiling; "he loved Miss Loach, but
Emilia exercised a kind of hypnotic influence over him.  However, she
is dead, and I can see no connection between her and this crime."

"Well," said Jennings soberly, "it appears that some other person
besides the mother gave a clue to the breaking up of the gang and the
whereabouts of the factory.  Supposing that person was Selina Loach,
who hated Emilia for having taken Caranby from her.  One of the gang
released lately from prison may have killed the old lady out of
revenge."

"What! after all these years?"

"Revenge is a passion that grows with years," said Jennings grimly; "at
all events, I intend to go on ferreting out evidence about this old
coining case, particularly as there are many false coins circulating
now.  I should not be surprised to learn that the factory had been set
up again; Miss Loach may have known and--"

"This is all supposition," cried Mallow.  "I can't see the slightest
connection between the coiners and this murder. Besides, it does not
explain why Juliet hints at my being implicated."

Jennings did not reply.  "There's the bell, too," he murmured, his eyes
on the ground, "that might be explained."  He looked up briskly.  "I
tell you what, Mallow, this case may turn out to be a bigger thing than
either of us suspect."

"It's quite big enough for me as it is," retorted Cuthbert, "although I
don't know what you mean.  All I desire is to get to the root of the
matter and marry Juliet.  Find Miss Loach's assassin, Jennings, and
don't bother about this dead-and-gone coining case."

"There's a connection between the two," said Jennings, obstinately;
"it's impossible to say how the connection comes about, but I feel that
a discovery in one case entails a discovery in the other.  If I can
prove that Miss Loach was killed by one of the old coiners--"

"What will happen then?"

"I may stumble on the factory that is in existence now."

He would have gone on to explain himself more fully, but that Mallow's
man entered with the information that a young person was waiting and
asked for Mr. Jennings.  Mallow ordered the servant to admit her, and
shortly Susan Grant, nervous and blushing, entered the room.

"I am glad to see you," said Jennings, placing a chair for her.  "This
is Mr. Mallow.  We wish to ask you a few questions."

"I have seen Mr. Mallow before," said Susan, gasping and flushing.

"At Rose Cottage?" said Mallow inquiringly.

"No.  When I was with Senora Gredos as parlor-maid."

"Senora Gredos?" said Jennings, before Cuthbert could speak. "Do you
mean Maraquito?"

"I have heard that her name was Maraquito, sir," said Susan calmly.  "A
lame lady and fond of cards.  She lives in--"

"I know where she lives," said Cuthbert, flushing in his turn. "I went
there occasionally to play cards.  I never saw you."

"But I saw you, sir," said the girl fervently.  "Often I have watched
you when you thought I wasn't, and--"

"One moment," said Jennings, interrupting.  "Let's us get to the pith
of the matter at once.  Where did you get Mr. Mallow's portrait?"

"I don't want to say," murmured the girl.

"But you must say," said Mallow angrily.  "I order you to confess."

"I kept silent for your sake, sir," she said, her eyes filled with
tears, "but if you must know, I took the portrait from Senora Gredos'
dressing-room when I left her house.  And I left it on your account,
sir," she finished defiantly.




CHAPTER X

THE PARLOR-MAID'S STORY


On hearing the confession of the girl, both men looked at one another
in amazement.  How could Cuthbert's photograph have come into the
possession of Senora Gredos, and why had Susan Grant stolen it?  And
again, why did she hint that she had held her tongue about the matter
for the sake of Mallow? Jennings at once proceeded to get at the truth.
While being examined Susan wept, with an occasional glance at the
bewildered Cuthbert.

"You were with Maraquito as parlor-maid?"

"With Senora Gredos?  Yes, sir, for six months."

"Do you know what went on in that house?"

Susan ceased her sobs and stared.  "I don't know what you mean," she
said, looking puzzled.  "It was a gay house, I know; but there was
nothing wrong that I ever saw, save that I don't hold with cards being
played on Sunday."

"And on every other night of the week," muttered Jennings. "Did you
ever hear Senora Gredos called Maraquito?"

"Sometimes the gentlemen who came to play cards called her by that
name.  But she told her maid, who was my friend, that they were old
friends of hers.  And I think they were sorry for poor Senora Gredos,
sir," added Miss Grant, naively, "as she suffered so much with her
back.  You know, she rarely moved from her couch.  It was always
wheeled into the room where the gambling took place."

"Ah.  You knew that gambling went on," said Jennings, snapping her up
sharply.  "Don't you know that is against the law?"

"No, sir.  Do you know?"

Cuthbert could not restrain a laugh.  "That's one for you, Jennings,"
said he, nodding, "you often went to the Soho house."

"I had my reasons for saying nothing," replied the detective hastily.
"You may be sure I could have ended the matter at once had I spoken to
my chief about it.  As it was, I judged it best to let matters remain
as they were, so long as the house was respectably conducted."

"I'm sure it was conducted well, sir," said Susan, who appeared rather
indignant.  "Senora Gredos was a most respectable lady."

"She lived alone always, I believe?"

"Yes, sir."  Then Susan hesitated.  "I wonder if she had a mother?"

"Why do you wonder?"

"Well, sir, the lady who came to see Miss Loach--"

"Mrs. Herne?"

"I heard her name was Mrs. Herne, but she was as like Senora Gredos as
two peas, save that she was older and had gray hair."

"Hum!" said Jennings, pondering.  "Did you ever hear Senora Gredos
speak of Mrs. Herne?"

"Never, sir.  But Mrs. Pill--the cook of Miss Loach--said that Mrs.
Herne lived at Hampstead.  But she was like my old mistress.  When I
opened the door to her I thought she was Senora Gredos.  But then the
scent may have made me think that."

Jennings looked up sharply.  "The scent?  What do you mean?"

"Senora Gredos," explained Susan quietly, "used a very nice scent--a
Japanese scent called Hikui.  She used no other, and I never met any
lady who did, save Mrs. Herne."

"Oh, so Mrs. Herne used it."

"She did, sir.  When I opened the door on that night," Susan shuddered,
"the first thing I knew was the smell of Hikui making the passage like
a hairdresser's shop.  I leaned forward to see if the lady was Senora
Gredos, and she turned her face away.  But I caught sight of it, and if
she isn't some relative of my last mistress, may I never eat bread
again."

"Did Mrs. Herne seem offended when you examined her face?"

"She gave a kind of start--"

"At the sight of you," said Jennings quickly.

"La, no, sir.  She never saw me before."

"I'm not so sure of that," muttered the detective.  "Did you also
recognize Mr. Clancy and Mr. Hale as having visited the Soho house?"

"No, sir.  I never set eyes on them before."

"But as parlor-maid, you must have opened the door to--"

"Just a moment, sir," said Susan quickly.  "I opened the door in the
day when few people came.  After eight the page, Gibber, took my place.
And I hardly ever went upstairs, as Senora Gredos told me to keep
below.  One evening I did come up and saw--" here her eyes rested on
Cuthbert with a look which made him turn crimson.  "I wish I had never
come up on that night."

"See here, my girl," said Mallow irritably, "do you mean to say--"

"Hold on, Mallow," interposed Jennings, "let me ask a question." He
turned to Susan, now weeping again with downcast eyes.  "Mr. Mallow's
face made an impression on you?"

"Yes, sir.  But then I knew every line of it before."

"How was that?"

Susan looked up surprised.  "The photograph in Senora Gredos'
dressing-room.  I often looked at it, and when I left I could not bear
to leave it behind.  It was stealing, I know," cried Miss Grant
tearfully, "and I have been brought up respectably, but I couldn't help
myself."

By this time Cuthbert was the color of an autumn sunset.  He was a
modest young man, and these barefaced confessions made him wince.  He
was about to interpose irritably when Jennings turned on him with a
leading question.  "Why did you give that photograph to--"

"Confound it!" cried Mallow, jumping up, "I did no such thing. I knew
Maraquito only as the keeper of the gambling house. There was nothing
between--"

"Don't, sir," said Susan, rising in her turn with a flush of jealousy.
"I saw her kissing the photograph."

"Then she must be crazy," cried Mallow: "I never gave her any occasion
to behave so foolishly.  For months I have been engaged, and--" he here
became aware that he was acting foolishly in talking like this to a
love-sick servant, and turned on his heel abruptly.  "I'll go in the
next room," said he, "call me when you wish for my presence, Jennings.
I can't possibly stay and listen to this rubbish," and going out, he
banged the door, thereby bringing a fresh burst of tears from Susan
Grant.  Every word he said pierced her heart.

"Now I've made him cross," she wailed, "and I would lay down my life
for him--that I would."

"See here, my girl," said Jennings, soothingly and fully prepared to
make use of the girl's infatuation, "it is absurd your being in love
with a gentleman of Mr. Mallow's position."

Miss Grant tossed her head.  "I've read Bow-Bells and the Family
Herald, sir," she said positively, "and many a time have I read of a
governess, which is no more than a servant, marrying an earl.  And that
Mr. Mallow isn't, sir."

"He will be when Lord Caranby dies," said Jennings, hardly knowing what
to say, "and fiction isn't truth.  Besides, Mr. Mallow is engaged."

"I know, sir--to Miss Saxon.  Well," poor Susan sighed, "she is a sweet
young lady.  I suppose he loves her."

"Devotedly.  He will be married soon."

"And she's got Miss Loach's money too," sighed Susan again, "what a
lucky young lady.  Handsome looks in a husband and gold galore.  A poor
servant like me has to look on and keep her heart up with the Church
Service.  But I tell you what, sir," she added, drying her eyes and
apparently becoming resigned, "if I ain't a lady, Senora Gredos is, and
she won't let Mr. Mallow marry Miss Saxon."

"But Mr. Mallow is not in love with Senora Gredos."

"Perhaps not, sir, but she's in love with him.  Yes.  You may look and
look, Mr. Jennings, but lame as she is and weak in the back and unable
to move from that couch, she loves him. She had that photograph in her
room and kissed it, as it I saw with my own eyes.  I took it the last
thing before I went, as I loved Mr. Mallow too, and I was not going to
let that Spanish lady kiss him even in a picture."

"Upon my word," murmured Jennings, taken aback by this vehemence, "it
is very strange all this."

"Oh, yes, you gentlemen don't think a poor girl has a heart. I couldn't
help falling in love, though he never looked my way.  But that Miss
Saxon is a sweet, kind, young lady put upon by her mother, I wouldn't
give him up even to her.  But I can see there's no chance for me," wept
Susan, "seeing the way he has gone out, banging the door in a temper,
so I'll give him up.  And I'll go now.  My heart's broken."

But Jennings made her sit down again.  "Not yet, my girl," he said
firmly, "if you wish to do Mr. Mallow a good turn--"

"Oh, I'll do that," she interrupted with sparkling eyes, "after all, he
can't help giving his heart elsewhere.  It's just my foolishness to
think otherwise.  But how can I help him, sir?"

"He wants to find out who killed Miss Loach."

"I can't help him there, sir.  I don't know who killed her. Mrs. Herne
and Mr. Clancy and Mr. Hale were all gone, and when the bell rang she
was alone, dead in her chair with them cards on her lap.  Oh," Susan's
voice became shrill and hysterical, "what a horrible sight!"

"Yes, yes," said Jennings soothingly, "we'll come to that shortly, my
girl.  But about this photograph.  Was it in Senora Gredos'
dressing-room long?"

"For about three months, sir.  I saw it one morning when I took up her
breakfast and fell in love with the handsome face. Then Gibber told me
the gentleman came to the house sometimes, and I went up the stairs
against orders after eight to watch. I saw him and found him more
good-looking than the photograph. Often did I watch him and envy Senora
Gredos the picture with them loving words.  Sir," said Susan, sitting
up stiffly, "if Mr. Mallow is engaged to Miss Saxon and doesn't love
Senora Gredos, why did he write those words?"

"He did not write them for her," said Jennings doubtfully, "at least I
don't think so.  It is impossible to say how the photograph came into
the possession of that lady."

"Will you ask him, sir?"

"Yes, when you are gone.  But he won't speak while you are in the room."

Susan drooped her head and rose dolefully.  "My dream is gone," she
said mournfully, "though I was improving myself in spelling and figures
so that I might go out as a governess and perhaps meet him in high
circles."

"Ah, that's all Family Herald fiction," said Jennings, not unkindly.

"Yes!  I know now, sir.  My delusions are gone.  But I will do anything
I can to help Mr. Mallow and I hope he'll always think kindly of me."

"I'm sure he will.  By the way, what are you doing now?"

"I go home to help mother at Stepney, sir, me having no call to go out
to service.  I have a happy home, though not fashionable.  And after my
heart being crushed I can't go out again," sighed Susan sadly.

"Are you sorry to leave Rose Cottage?"

"No, sir," Susan shuddered, "that dead body with the blood and the
cards will haunt me always.  Mrs. Pill, as is going to marry Thomas
Barnes and rent the cottage, wanted me to stay, but I couldn't."

Jennings pricked up his ears.  "What's that?  How can Mrs. Pill rent so
expensive a place."

"It's by arrangement with Miss Saxon, sir.  Mrs. Pill told me all about
it.  Miss Saxon wished to sell the place, but Thomas Barnes spoke to
her and said he had saved money while in Miss Loach's service for
twenty years--"

"Ah," said Jennings thoughtfully, "he was that time in Miss Loach's
service, was he?"

"Yes, sir.  And got good wages.  Well, sir, Miss Saxon hearing he
wished to marry the cook and take the cottage and keep boarders, let
him rent it with furniture as it stands.  She and Mrs. Octagon are
going back to town, and Mrs. Pill is going to have the cottage cleaned
from cellar to attic before she marries Thomas and receives the
boarder."

"Oh.  So she has a boarder?"

"Yes, sir.  She wouldn't agree to Thomas taking the cottage as her
husband, unless she had a boarder to start with, being afraid she and
Thomas could not pay the rent.  So Thomas saw Mr. Clancy and he is
coming to stop.  He has taken all the part where Miss Loach lived, and
doesn't want anyone else in the house, being a quiet man and retired."

"Ah! Ah! Ah!" said Jennings in three different tones of voice. "I think
Mrs. Pill is very wise.  I hope she and Thomas will do well.  By the
way, what do you think of Mr. Barnes?"

Susan did not leave him long in doubt as to her opinion.  "I think he
is a stupid fool," she said, "and it's a good thing Mrs. Pill is going
to marry him.  He was guided by Miss Loach all his life, and now she's
dead, he goes about like a gaby. One of those men, sir," explained
Susan, "as needs a woman to look after them.  Not like that gentleman,"
she cast a tender glance at the door, "who can protect the weakest of
my sex."

Jennings having learned all he could, rose.  "Well, Miss Grant," he
said quietly, "I am obliged to you for your frank speaking.  My advice
to you is to go home and think no more of Mr. Mallow.  You might as
well love the moon.  But you know my address, and should you hear of
anything likely to lead you to suspect who killed Miss Loach, Mr.
Mallow will make it worth your while to come to me with the
information."

"I'll do all I can," said Susan resolutely, "but I won't take a penny
piece, me having my feelings as other and higher ladies."

"Just as you please.  But Mr. Mallow is about to offer a reward on
behalf of his uncle, Lord Caranby."

"He that was in love with Miss Loach, sir?"

"Yes.  On account of that old love, Lord Caranby desires to learn who
killed her.  And Mr. Mallow also wishes to know, for a private reason.
I expect you will be calling to see Mrs. Pill?"

"When she's Mrs. Barnes, I think so, sir.  I go to the wedding, and me
and Geraldine are going to be bridesmaids."

"Then if you hear or see anything likely to lead to a revelation of the
truth, you will remember.  By the way, you don't know how Senora Gredos
got that photograph?"

"No, sir, I do not."

"And you think Mrs. Herne is Senora Gredos' mother?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Thank you, that will do for the present.  Keep your eyes open and your
mouth closed, and when you hear of anything likely to interest me, call
at the address I gave you."

"Yes, sir," said Susan, and took her leave, not without another
lingering glance at the door behind which Mallow waited impatiently.

When she was gone, Jennings went into the next room to find Cuthbert
smoking.  He jumped up when he saw the detective. "Well, has that silly
girl gone?" he asked angrily.

"Yes, poor soul.  You needn't get in a wax, Mallow.  The girl can't
help falling in love with you.  Poor people have feelings as well as
rich."

"I know that, but it's ridiculous: especially as I never saw the girl
before, and then I love only Juliet."

"You are sure of that?"

"Jennings"

"There--there, don't get angry.  We must get to the bottom of this
affair which is getting more complicated every day. Did you give that
photograph to Senora Gredos?"

"To Maraquito.  No, I didn't.  I gave it to Juliet."

"You are certain?"

"Positive!  I can't make out how it came into Maraquito's house."

Jennings pondered.  "Perhaps Basil may have given it to her. It is to
his interest on behalf of his mother to make trouble between you and
Miss Saxon.  Moreover, if it is as I surmise, it shows that Mrs.
Octagon intended to stop the marriage, if she could, even before her
sister died."

"Ah!  And it shows that the death of Miss Loach gave her a chance of
asserting herself and stopping the marriage."

"Well, she might have hesitated to do that before, as Miss Loach might
not have left her fortune to Juliet if the marriage did not take place."

Cuthbert nodded and spoke musingly: "After all, the old woman liked me,
and I was the nephew of the man who loved her in her youth.  Her heart
may have been set on the match, and she might have threatened to leave
her fortune elsewhere if Mrs. Octagon did not agree.  Failing this,
Mrs. Octagon, through Basil, gave that photograph to Maraquito in the
hope that Juliet would ask questions of me--"

"And if she had asked questions?" asked Jennings quickly.

Cuthbert looked uncomfortable.  "Don't think me a conceited ass," he
said, trying to laugh, "but Maraquito is in love with me.  I stayed
away from her house because she became too attentive.  I never told you
this, as no man has a right to reveal a woman's weakness.  But, as
matters are so serious, it is right you should know."

"I am glad I do know.  By the way, Cuthbert, what between Miss Saxon,
Susan Grant and Maraquito, you will have a hard time."

"How absurd!" said Mallow angrily.  "Juliet is the only woman I love
and Juliet I intend to marry."

"Maraquito will prevent your marriage."

"If she can," scoffed Cuthbert.

Jennings looked grave.  "I am not so sure but what she can make
mischief.  There's Mrs. Herne who may or may not be the mother of this
Spanish demon--"

"Perhaps the demon herself," ventured Mallow.

"No!" said the detective positively.  "Maraquito can't move from her
couch.  You know that.  However, I shall call on Mrs. Herne at
Hampstead.  She was a witness, you know?  Keep quiet, Mallow, and let
me make inquiries.  Meantime, ask Miss Saxon when she missed that
photograph."

"Can you see your way now?"

"I have a slight clue.  But it will be a long time before I learn the
truth.  There is a lot at the back of that murder, Mallow."




CHAPTER XI

ON THE TRACK


Professor Le Beau kept a school of dancing in Pimlico, and incessantly
trained pupils for the stage.  Many of them had appeared with more or
less success in the ballets at the Empire and Alhambra, and he was
widely known amongst stage-struck aspirants as charging moderately and
teaching in a most painstaking manner.  He thus made an income which,
if not large, was at least secure, and was assisted in the school by
his niece, Peggy Garthorne.  She was the manager of his house and
looked after the money, otherwise the little professor would never have
been able to lay aside for the future.  But when the brother of the
late Madame Le Beau--an Englishwoman--died, his sister took charge of
the orphan. Now that Madame herself was dead, Peggy looked after the
professor out of gratitude and love.  She was fond of the excitable
little Frenchman, and knew how to manage him to a nicety.

It was to the Dancing Academy that Jennings turned his steps a few days
after the interview with Susan.  He had been a constant visitor there
for eighteen months and was deeply in love with Peggy.  On a Bank
Holiday he had been fortunate enough to rescue her from a noisy crowd,
half-drunk and indulging in horse-play, and had escorted her home to
receive the profuse thanks of the Professor.  The detective was
attracted by the quaint little man, and he called again to inquire for
Peggy.  A friendship thus inaugurated ripened into a deeper feeling,
and within nine months Jennings proposed for the hand of the humble
girl.  She consented and so did Le Beau, although he was rather rueful
at the thought of losing his mainstay.  But Peggy promised him that she
would still look after him until he retired, and with this promise Le
Beau was content.  He was now close on seventy, and could not hope to
teach much longer.  But, thanks to Peggy's clever head and saving
habits, he had--as the French say--"plenty of bread baked" to eat
during days of dearth.

The Academy was situated down a narrow street far removed from the main
thoroughfares.  Quiet houses belonging to poor people stood on either
side of this lane--for that it was--and at the end appeared the
Academy, blocking the exit from that quarter.  It stood right in the
middle of the street and turned the lane into a blind alley, but a
narrow right-of-way passed along the side and round to the back where
the street began again under a new name.  The position of the place was
quaint, and often it had been intended to remove the obstruction, but
the owner, an eccentric person of great wealth, had hitherto refused to
allow it to be pulled down. But the owner was now old, and it was
expected his heirs would take away the building and allow the lane to
run freely through to the other street.  Still it would last Professor
Le Beau's time, for his heart would have broken had he been compelled
to move.  He had taught here for the last thirty years, and had become
part and parcel of the neighborhood.

Jennings, quietly dressed in blue serge with brown boots and a bowler
hat, turned down the lane and advanced towards the double door of the
Academy, which was surmounted by an allegorical group of plaster
figures designed by Le Beau himself, and representing Orpheus teaching
trees and animals to dance.  The allusion was not complimentary to his
pupils, for if Le Beau figured as Orpheus, what were the animals?
However, the hot-tempered little man refused to change his allegory and
the group remained.  Jennings passed under it and into the building
with a smile which the sight of those figures always evoked.  Within,
the building on the ground floor was divided into two rooms--a large
hall for the dancing lessons and a small apartment used indifferently
as a reception-room and an office.  Above, on the first story, were the
sitting-room, the dining-room and the kitchen; and on the third, under
a high conical roof, the two bedrooms of the Professor and Peggy, with
an extra one for any stranger who might remain.  Where Margot, the
French cook and maid-of-all-work, slept, was a mystery.  So it will be
seen that the accommodation of the house was extremely limited.
However, Le Beau, looked after by Peggy and Margot, who was devoted to
him, was extremely well pleased, and extremely happy in his light airy
French way.

In the office was Peggy, making up some accounts.  She was a pretty,
small maiden of twenty-five, neatly dressed in a clean print gown, and
looking like a dewy daisy.  Her eyes were blue, her hair the color of
ripe corn, and her cheeks were of a delicate rose.  There was something
pastoral about Peggy, smacking of meadow lands and milking time.  She
should have been a shepherdess looking after her flock rather than a
girl toiling in a dingy office.  How such a rural flower ever sprung up
amongst London houses was a mystery Jennings could not make out.  And
according to her own tale, Peggy had never lived in the country.  What
with the noise of fiddling which came from the large hall, and the fact
of being absorbed in her work, Peggy never heard the entrance of her
lover. Jennings stole quietly towards her, admiring the pretty picture
she made with a ray of dusky sunlight making glory of her hair.

"Who is it?" he asked, putting his hands over her eyes.

"Oh," cried Peggy, dropping her pen and removing his hands, "the only
man who would dare to take such a liberty with me. Miles, my darling
pig!" and she kissed him, laughing.

"I don't like the last word, Peggy!"

"It's Papa Le Beau's favorite word with his pupils," said Peggy, who
always spoke of the dancing-master thus.

"With the addition of darling?"

"No, that is an addition of my own.  But I can remove it if you like."

"I don't like," said Miles, sitting down and pulling her towards him,
"come and talk to me, Pegtop."

"I won't be called Pegtop, and as to talking, I have far too much work
to do.  The lesson will soon be over, and some of the pupils have to
take these accounts home.  Then dejeuner will soon be ready, and you
know how Margot hates having her well-cooked dishes spoilt by waiting.
But why are you here instead of at work?"

"Hush!" said Miles, laying a finger on her lips.  "Papa will hear you."

"Not he.  Hear the noise his fiddle is making, and he is scolding the
poor little wretches like a game-cock."

"Does a game-cock scold?" asked Jennings gravely.  "I hope he is not in
a bad temper, Peggy.  I have come to ask him a few questions."

"About your own business?" asked she in a lower tone.

Jennings nodded.  Peggy knew his occupation, but as yet he had not been
able to tell Le Beau.

The Frenchman cherished all the traditional hatred of his race for the
profession of "mouchard," and would not be able to understand that a
detective was of a higher standing.  Miles was therefore supposed to be
a gentleman of independent fortune, and both he and Peggy decided to
inform Le Beau of the truth when he had retired from business.
Meanwhile, Miles often talked over his business with Peggy, and usually
found her clear way of looking at things of infinite assistance to him
in the sometimes difficult cases which he dealt with. Peggy knew all
about the murder in Crooked Lane, and how Miles was dealing with the
matter.  But even she had not been able to suggest a clue to the
assassin, although she was in full possession of the facts.  "It's
about this new case I wish to speak," said Jennings.  "By the way,
Peggy, you know that woman Maraquito I have talked of?"

"Yes.  The gambling-house.  What of her?"

"Well, she seems to be implicated in the matter."

"In what way?"

Jennings related the episode of the photograph, and the incident of the
same perfume being used by Mrs. Herne and Maraquito.  Peggy nodded.

"I don't see how the photograph connects her with the case," she said
at length, "but the same perfume certainly is strange.  All the same,
the scent may be fashionable.  Hikui! Hikui!  I never heard of it."

"It is a Japanese perfume, and Maraquito got it from some foreign
admirer.  It is strange, as you say."

"Have you seen Mrs. Herne?"

"I saw her at the inquest.  She gave evidence.  But I had no
conversation with her myself."

"Why don't you look her up?  You mentioned you had her address."

"I haven't it now," said Jennings gloomily.  "I called at the Hampstead
house, and learned that Mrs. Herne had received such a shock from the
death of her friend, Miss Loach, that she had gone abroad and would not
return for an indefinite time.  So I can do nothing in that quarter
just now.  It is for this reason that I have come here to ask about
Maraquito."

"From Papa Le Beau," said Peggy, wrinkling her pretty brows. "What can
he know of this woman?"

"She was a dancer until she had an accident.  Le Beau may have had her
through his hands."

"Maraquito, Maraquito," murmured Peggy, and shook her head. "No, I do
not remember her.  How old is she?"

"About thirty, I think; a fine, handsome woman like a tropical flower
for coloring."

"Spanish.  The name is Spanish."

"I think that is all the Spanish about her.  She talks English without
the least accent.  Hush! here is papa."

It was indeed the little Professor, who rushed into the room and threw
himself, blowing and panting, on the dingy sofa.  He was small and dry,
with black eyes and a wrinkled face.  He wore a blonde wig which did
not match his yellow complexion, and was neatly dressed in black, with
an old-fashioned swallow-tail coat of blue.  He carried a small fiddle
and spoke volubly without regarding the presence of Miles.

"Oh, these cochons of English, my dear," he exclaimed to Peggy, "so
steef--so wood-steef in the limbs.  Wis 'em I kin do noozzn', no, not a
leetle bit.  Zey would make ze angils swear.  Ah, mon Dieu, quel
dommage I haf to teach zem."

"I must see about these accounts," said Peggy, picking up a sheaf of
papers and running out.  "Stay to dejeuner, Miles."

"Eh, mon ami," cried papa, rising.  "My excuses, but ze pigs make me to
be mooch enrage.  Zey are ze steef dolls on the Strasburg clock.  You
are veil--ah, yis--quite veil cheerup."

The Professor had picked up a number of English slang words with which
he interlarded his conversation.  He meant to be kind, and indeed liked
Miles greatly.  In proof of his recovered temper, he offered the young
man a pinch of snuff. Jennings hated snuff, but to keep Papa Le Beau in
a good temper he accepted the offer and sneezed violently.

"Professor," he said, when somewhat better, "I have come to ask you
about a lady.  A friend of mine has fallen in love with her, and he
thought you might know of her."

"Eh, wha-a-at, mon cher?  I understands nozzin'. Ze lady, quel nom?"

"Maraquito Gredos."

"Espagnole," murmured Le Beau, shaking his wig.  "Non.  I do not know
ze name.  Dancers of Spain.  Ah, yis--I haf had miny--zey are not steef
like ze cochon Englees.  Describe ze looks, mon ami."

Jennings did so, to the best of his ability, but the old man still
appeared undecided.  "But she has been ill for three years," added
Jennings.  "She fell and hurt her back, and--"

"Eh--wha-a-at Celestine!" cried Le Beau excitedly.  "She did fall and
hurt hersilf--eh, yis--mos' dredfil.  Conceive to yoursilf, my frien',
she slip on orange peels in ze streets and whacks comes she down.  Tree
year back--yis--tree year.  Celestine Durand, mon fil."

Jennings wondered.  "But she says she is Spanish."

Le Beau flipped a pinch of snuff in the air.  "Ah, bah!  She no Spain."

"So she is French," murmured Jennings to himself.

"Ah, non; by no means," cried the Frenchman unexpectedly. "She no
French.  She Englees--yis--I remembers.  A ver' fine and big
demoiselle.  She wish to come out at de opera. But she too large--mooch
too large.  Englees--yis--La Juive."

"A Jewess?" cried Jennings in his turn.

"I swear to you, mon ami.  Englees Jewess, mais oui!  For ten months
she dance here, tree year gone.  Zen zee orange peels and pouf!  I see
her no mores.  But never dance--no--too large, une grande demoiselle."

"Do you know where she came from?"

"No.  I know nozzin' but what I tell you."

"Did you like her?"

Le Beau shrugged his shoulders.  "I am too old, mon ami.  Les femmes
like me not.  I haf had mes affairs--ah, yis. Conceive--" and he
rattled out an adventure of his youth which was more amusing than moral.

But Jennings paid very little attention to him.  He was thinking that
Maraquito-Celestine was a more mysterious woman than he had thought
her.  While Jennings was wondering what use he could make of the
information he had received, Le Beau suddenly flushed crimson.  A new
thought had occurred to him. "Do you know zis one--zis Celestine
Durand?  Tell her I vish money--"

"Did she not pay you?"

Le Beau seized Jennings' arm and shook it violently.  "Yis. Tree pound;
quite raight; oh, certainly.  But ze four piece of gold, a
louis--non--ze Englees sufferin--"

"The English sovereign.  Yes."

"It was bad money--ver bad."

"Have you got it?" asked Jennings, feeling that he was on the brink of
a discovery.

"Non.  I pitch him far off in rages.  I know now, Celestine Durand.  I
admire her; oh, yis.  Fine womans--a viecked eye. Mais une--no, not
zat.  Bad, I tell you.  If your frien' love, haf nozzin' wis her.  She
gif ze bad money, one piece--" he held up a lean finger, and then,
"Aha! ze bell for ze tables.  Allons, marchons.  We dine--we eat," and
he dashed out of the room as rapidly as he had entered it.

But Jennings did not follow him.  He scribbled a note to Peggy, stating
that he had to go away on business, and left the Academy.  He felt that
it would be impossible to sit down and talk of trivial things--as he
would have to do in the presence of Le Beau--when he had made such a
discovery.  The case was beginning to take shape.  "Can Maraquito have
anything to do with the coiners?" he asked himself.  "She is English--a
Jewess--Saul is a Jewish name.  Can she be of that family?  It seems to
me that this case is a bigger one than I imagine.  I wonder what I had
better do?"

It was not easy to say.  However, by the time Jennings reached his
home--he had chambers in Duke Street, St. James'--he decided to see
Maraquito.  For this purpose he arrayed himself in accurate evening
dress.  Senora Gredos thought he was a mere idler, a man-about-town.
Had she known of his real profession she might not have welcomed him so
freely to her house.  Maraquito, for obvious reasons, had no desire to
come into touch with the authorities.

But it must not be thought that she violated the law in any very
flagrant way.  She was too clever for that.  Her house was conducted in
a most respectable manner.  It was situated in Golden Square, and was a
fine old mansion of the days when that locality was fashionable.  Her
servants were all neat and demure.  Maraquito received a few friends
every evening for a quiet game of cards, so on the surface no one could
object to that.  But when the doors were closed, high play went on and
well-known people ventured large sums on the chances of baccarat.
Also, people not quite so respectable came, and it was for that reason
Scotland Yard left the house alone.  When any member of the detective
staff wished to see anyone of a shady description, the person could be
found at Maraquito's. Certainly, only the aristocracy of crime came
here, and never a woman.  Maraquito did not appear to love her own sex.
She received only gentlemen, and as she was an invalid and attended
constantly by a duenna in the form of a nurse, no one could say
anything.  The police knew in an underhand way that the Soho house was
a gambling saloon, but the knowledge had not come officially, therefore
no notice was taken.  But Maraquito's servants suspected nothing,
neither did the gossips of the neighborhood.  Senora Gredos was simply
looked upon as an invalid fond of entertaining because of her weariness
in being confined to her couch.

Jennings had appointed a meeting with Mallow in this semi-respectable
establishment, and looked round when he entered the room.  It was a
large apartment, decorated in the Adams style and furnished as a
luxurious drawing-room.  At the side near the window there was a long
table covered with green baize.  Round this several gentlemen in
evening dress were standing.  Others played games of their own at
separate small tables, but most of them devoted themselves to baccarat.
Maraquito held the bank.  Her couch was drawn up against the wall, and
the red silk curtains of the window made a vivid background to her dark
beauty.

She was, indeed, a handsome woman--so much of her as could be seen.
Half-sitting, half-reclining on her couch, the lower part of her frame
was swathed in eastern stuffs sparkling with gold threads.  She wore a
yellow silk dress trimmed about the shoulders with black lace and
glittering with valuable jewels. Her neck and arms were finely moulded
and of a dazzling whiteness.  Her small head was proudly set on her
shoulders, and her magnificent black hair smoothly coiled in lustrous
tresses above her white forehead.  Her lips were full and rich, her
eyes large and black, and her nose was thin and high.  The most marked
feature of her face were the eyebrows, which almost met over her nose.
She had delicate hands and beautiful arms which showed themselves to
advantage as she manipulated the cards.  From the gorgeous coverlet her
bust rose like a splendid flower, and for an invalid she had a
surprising color.  She was indeed, as Jennings had remarked, like a
tropical flower.  But there was something sensual and evil about her
exuberance.  But not a whisper had been heard against her reputation.
Everyone, sorry for the misfortune which condemned this lovely woman to
a sickbed, treated her with respect.  Maraquito, as some people said,
may have been wicked, but no anchorite could have led, on the face of
it, a more austere life.  Her smile was alluring, and she looked like
the Lurline drawing men to destruction.  Fortunes had been lost in that
quiet room.

When Jennings entered, Maraquito was opening a fresh pack of cards,
while the players counted their losses or winnings and fiddled with the
red chips used in the game.  On seeing the newcomer, Senora Gredos gave
him a gracious smile, and said something to the pale, thin woman in
black who stood at the head of her couch.  The nurse, or duenna--she
served for both--crossed to Jennings as he advanced towards the buffet,
on which stood glasses and decanters of wine.

"Madame wishes to know why you have not brought Mr. Mallow."

"Tell madame that he will be here soon.  I have to meet him in this
place," said the detective to the duenna, and watched the effect of the
message on Maraquito.

Her face flushed, her eyes brightened, but she did not look again in
Jennings' direction.  On the contrary, she gave all her attention to
the game which was now in progress, but Jennings guessed that her
thoughts were with Mallow, and occasionally he caught her looking for
his appearance at the door.  "How that woman loves him," he thought, "I
wonder I never noticed it before.  Quite an infatuation."  For a time
he watched the players staking large amounts, and saw the pile of gold
at Maraquito's elbow steadily increasing.  She seemed to have all the
luck.  The bank was winning and its opponents losing, but the play went
on steadily for at least half an hour.  At the end of that time a
newcomer entered the room. Jennings, who had glanced at his watch,
quite expected to see Cuthbert.  But, to his surprise, he came face to
face with Lord Caranby.

"I did not expect to see you here," said the detective.

"I come in place of my nephew.  He is unwell," said Caranby; "present
me to Senora Gredos, if you please, Mr. Jennings."




CHAPTER XII

JENNINGS ASKS QUESTIONS


"Will you play, Lord Caranby?" asked Maraquito, when the introduction
had been accomplished.

"Pardon me, not at present: in a little time," said the old nobleman,
with a polite bow and his eyes on the beautiful face.

"As you like," she answered carelessly; "everyone who comes here does
just as he pleases.  Is your nephew coming?"

"I fear not.  He is unwell."

Maraquito started.  "Unwell.  Nothing serious, I hope?"

"A slight cold."

"Ah!  Everyone has colds just now.  Well, Lord Caranby, I hope to have
a conversation with you later when someone else takes the bank."

Caranby bowed and moved away slowly, leaning on his cane. Jennings, who
was beside him, threw a glance over his shoulder at Senora Gredos.

Maraquito's face was pale, and there was a frightened look in her eyes.
Catching Jennings' inquisitive look she frowned and again addressed
herself to the game.  Wondering why Lord Caranby should produce such an
effect, Jennings rejoined him at the end of the room, where they sat on
a sofa and smoked. "Have you been here before?" asked the detective.

"No," answered the other, lighting his cigar, "and it is improbable
that I shall come again.  My reason for coming--" he broke off--"I can
tell you that later.  It is sufficient to say that it has to do with
your conduct of this case."

"Hush!" whispered Jennings quickly, "my profession is not known here."

"I fear it will be if these two have tongues in their heads."

The detective glanced towards the door and saw Hale enter with Clancy
at his heels.  Jennings had not seen them since the inquest on the body
of Miss Loach, when they had given their evidence with great grief and
frankness.  He was annoyed at meeting them here, for although he had
seen them in Maraquito's salon before, yet at that time they had not
known his profession.  But since the inquest the knowledge was common
property, and doubtless they would tell Senora Gredos if they had not
done so already.  Jennings' chances of learning what he wished would
therefore be slight, as everyone is not willing to speak freely before
an officer of the law.

"It can't be helped," said Jennings with a shrug; "and, in any case,
Maraquito is too anxious to stand well with the police to make any
trouble about my coming here."

Caranby did not reply, but looked steadily at the two men who were
walking slowly up the room.  Hale was slender, tall, and dark in color,
with a nose like the beak of an eagle.  He was perfectly dressed and
had even an elegant appearance.  His age might have been forty, but in
the artificial light he looked even younger.  Clancy, on the other
hand, wore his clothes with the air of a man unaccustomed to evening
dress.  He was light in color, with weak blue eyes and a foolish
expression about his slack mouth.  Jennings wondered why a man like
Hale should connect himself with such a creature.  The men nodded to
Senora Gredos, who took little notice of them, and then repaired to the
buffet.  Owing to the position of the detective and Caranby, the new
arrivals did not see them.  Nor for the present was the detective
anxious to attract their notice.  Indeed, he would have stolen away
unperceived, but that he wished to question Hale as to the whereabouts
of Mrs. Herne.

"It is a long time since I have seen you," said Caranby, removing his
eyes from the newcomers, and addressing the detective; "you were not
an--er--an official when we last met."

"It is three years ago," said Jennings; "no.  I had money then, but
circumstances over which I had no control soon reduced me to the
necessity of earning my living.  As all professions were crowded, I
thought I would turn my talents of observation and deduction to this
business."

"Do you find it lucrative?"

Jennings smiled and shrugged his shoulders again.  "I do very well," he
said, "but I have not yet made a fortu

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