The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Secret Passage, by Fergus Hume

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Title: The Secret Passage

Author: Fergus Hume

Posting Date: January 26, 2009 [EBook #4531]
Release Date: October, 2003
First Posted: February 2, 2002

Language: English

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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 fortune."

"Ah!  And Cuthbert told me you wished to marry."

"I do.  But when my fortune will allow me to marry, I don't know."

Caranby, without raising his voice or looking at his companion,
supplied the information.  "I can tell you that," said he, "when you
learn who killed Miss Loach."

"How is that?"

"On the day you lay your hand on the assassin of that poor woman I
shall give you five thousand pounds."

Jennings' breath was taken away.  "A large sum," he murmured.

"She was very dear to me at one time," said Caranby with emotion.  "I
would have married her but for the machinations of her sister."

"Mrs. Octagon?"

"Yes!  She wanted to become my wife.  The story is a long one."

"Cuthbert told it to me."

"Quite right," said Caranby, nodding, "I asked him to.  It seems to me
that in my romance may be found the motive for the death of Selina
Loach."

The detective thought over the story.  "I don't quite see--"

"Nor do I.  All the same--" Caranby waved his hand and abruptly changed
the subject.  "Do you know why I came here to-night?"

"No.  I did not know you ever came to such places."

"Nor do I.  My life is a quiet one now.  I came to see this woman you
call Maraquito."

"What do you call her?" asked Jennings alertly.

"Ah, that I can't tell you.  But she is no Spaniard."

"Is she a Jewess by any chance?"

Caranby turned to look directly at his companion.  "You ought to be
able to tell that from her face," he said, "can you not see the seal of
Jacob impressed there--that strange look which stamps a Hebrew?"

"No," confessed Jennings, "that is, I can see it now, but I came here
for many a long day before I did guess she was a Jewess.  And then it
was only because I learned the truth."

"How did you learn it?"

The detective related details of his visit to Monsieur Le Beau and the
discovery that Maraquito Gredos was one and the same as Celestine
Durand.  Caranby listened attentively.  "Yes, that is all right," he
said, "but her name is Bathsheba Saul."

"What?" said Jennings, so loud that several people turned to look.

"Hush!" said Caranby, sinking his voice, "you attract notice. Yes, I
made Cuthbert describe the appearance of this woman. His description
vaguely suggested Emilia Saul.  I came here to-night to satisfy myself,
and I have no doubt but what she is the niece of Emilia--the daughter
of Emilia's brother."

"Who was connected with the coining gang?"

"Ah, you heard of that, did you?  Exactly.  Her father is dead, I
believe, but there sits his daughter.  You see in her the image of
Emilia as I loved her twenty years ago."

"Loved her?" echoed Jennings, significantly.

"You are right," responded Caranby with a keen look.  "I see Cuthbert
has told you all.  I never did love Emilia.  But she hypnotized me in
some way.  She was one of those women who could make a man do what
pleased her.  And this Bathsheba--Maraquito--Celestine, can do the
same.  It is a pity she is an invalid, but on the whole, as she looks
rather wicked, mankind is to be congratulated.  Were she able to move
about like an ordinary woman, she would set the world on fire after the
fashion of Cleopatra.  You need not mention this."

"I know how to hold my tongue," said Jennings, rather offended by the
imputation that he was a chatterer, "can I come and see you to talk
over this matter?"

"By all means.  I am at the Avon Hotel."

"Oh, and by the way, will you allow me to go over that house of yours
at Rexton?"

"If you like.  Are you a ghost-hunter also?"

"I am a detective!" whispered Jennings quietly, and with such a look
that Caranby became suddenly attentive.

"Ah!  You think you may discover something in that house likely to lead
to the discovery of the assassin."

"Yes I do.  I can't explain my reasons now.  The explanation would take
too long.  However, I see Senora Gredos is beckoning to you.  I will
speak to Hale and Clancy.  Would you mind telling me what she says to
you?"

"A difficult question to answer," said Caranby, rising, "as a
gentleman, I am not in the habit of repeating conversations, especially
with women.  Besides, she can have no connection with this case."

"On the face of it--no," replied Jennings doubtfully, "but there is a
link--"

"Ah, you mean that she is Emilia's niece."

"Not exactly that," answered Jennings, thinking of the photograph.  "I
will tell you what I mean when we next meet."

At this moment, in response to the imperative beckoning of Maraquito's
fan, Caranby was compelled to go to her.  The couch had been wheeled
away from the green table, and a gentleman had taken charge of the
bank.  Maraquito with her couch retreated to a quiet corner of the
room, and had a small table placed beside her.  Here were served
champagne and cakes, while Lord Caranby, after bowing in his
old-fashioned way, took a seat near the beautiful woman.  She gazed
smilingly at Lord Caranby, yet there was a nervous look in her eyes.

"I have heard of you from Mr. Mallow," she said flushing.

"My nephew.  He comes here at times.  Indeed," said Caranby gallantly,
"it was his report of your beauty that brought me here to-night."

Maraquito sighed. "The wreck of a beauty," said she bitterly, "three
years ago indeed--but I met with an accident."

"So I heard.  A piece of orange peel."

The woman started.  "Who told you that?"

"I heard it indirectly from a professor of dancing.  You were a dancer,
I believe?"

"Scarcely that," said Senora Gredos, nervously playing with her fan; "I
was learning.  It was Le Beau who told you?"

"Indirectly," responded Caranby.

"I should like to know," said Maraquito deliberately, "who has taken
the trouble to tell you this.  My life--the life of a shattered
invalid--can scarcely interest anyone."

"I really forget to whom I am indebted for the information," said Lord
Caranby mendaciously, "and a lady of your beauty must always interest
men while they have eyes to see.  I have seen ladies like you in
Andalusia, but no one so lovely.  Let me see, was it in Andalusia or
Jerusalem?" mused Lord Caranby.

"I am a Spanish Jewess," said Maraquito, quickly and uneasily, "I have
only been in London five years."

"And met with an accident a year or two after you arrived," murmured
Caranby; "how very sad."

Maraquito did not know what to make of the ironical old gentleman.  It
seemed to her that he was hostile, but she could take no offence at
what he said.  Moreover, as he was Mallow's uncle, she did not wish to
quarrel with him.  With a graceful gesture she indicated a glass of
champagne.  "Will you not drink to our better acquaintance?"

"Certainly," said Caranby without emotion, and sipped a few drops of
the golden-colored wine.  "I hope to see much of you."

"I reciprocate the hope," said Maraquito radiantly, "and I'll tell you
a secret.  I have been consulting specialists, and I find that in a few
months I shall be able to walk as well as ever I did."

"Excellent news," said Caranby, "I hope you will."

"And, moreover," added Maraquito, looking at him from behind her fan;
"I shall then give up this place.  I have plenty of money, and--"

"You will go back to Spain?"

"That depends.  Should I leave my heart in England--"

"How I envy the man you leave it with."

Maraquito looked down moodily.  "He doesn't care for my heart."

"What a stone he must be.  Now I--upon my word I feel inclined to marry
and cut my nephew out of the title."

"Your nephew," stammered Maraquito, with a flash of her big eyes.

"You know him well, he tells me," chatted Caranby garrulously, "a
handsome fellow is Cuthbert.  I am sure the lady he is engaged to
thinks as much, and very rightly too."

"Miss Saxon!" cried Maraquito, breaking her fan and looking furious.

"Ah!" said Caranby coolly, "you know her?"

"I know of her," said Maraquito bitterly.  "Her brother Basil comes
here sometimes, and said his sister was engaged to--but they will never
marry--never!" she said vehemently.

"How can you tell that?"

"Because the mother objects to the match."

"Ah!  And who told you so?  Mr. Basil Saxon?"

"Yes.  He does not approve of it either."

"I fear that will make little difference.  Mallow is set on the
marriage.  He loves Miss Saxon with all his heart."

Maraquito uttered a low cry of rage, but managed to control herself
with an effort.  "Do you?" she asked.

Caranby shrugged his thin shoulders.  "I am neutral.  So long as
Cuthbert marries the woman he loves, I do not mind."

"And what about the woman who loves him?"

"Miss Saxon?  Oh, I am sure--"

"I don't mean Miss Saxon, and he will never marry her--never. You know
that Mr. Mallow is poor.  Miss Saxon has no money--"

"Pardon me.  I hear her aunt, Miss Loach, who was unfortunately
murdered at Rexton, has left her six thousand a year."

Senora Gredos turned quite pale and clenched her hands, but she managed
to control herself again with a powerful effort and masked the rage she
felt under a bland, false smile.

"Oh, that makes a difference," she said calmly.  "I hope they will be
happy--if they marry," she added significantly.

"Oh, that is quite settled," said Caranby.

"There's many a slip between the cup and the lip," said Maraquito
viciously.  "Yonder is Mr. Saxon.  Tell him to come to me."

Caranby bowed and crossed the room to where Basil was talking with a
frowning face to Hale.  "Don't bother me," he was saying, "it will be
all right now that the will has been read."

"For your own sake I hope it will be all right," replied Hale, and
Caranby caught the words as he came up.  After giving his message, he
sauntered round, watching the play, and seemingly listened to no one.
But all the time he kept his ears open to hear what Hale and Clancy
were talking about.

The two men were in a corner of the room, and Clancy was expostulating
angrily with Hale.  They held their peace when Caranby drifted near
them, he saw that they were on their guard.  Looking round, he espied
Jennings playing at a side table, and crossed to him.

"Permit me to take your place," said Caranby, and added in a low tone,
"watch Hale and Clancy!"

Jennings seized the idea at once and surrendered the chair to the old
nobleman.  Then he lighted a cigarette and by degrees strolled across
the room to where the two were again talking vigorously.  "I tell you
if Basil is pressed too hard he will--" Clancy was saying, but shut his
mouth as he saw Jennings at his elbow.  The detective came forward with
a smile, inwardly vexed that he had not been able to hear more.  As he
advanced he saw Clancy touch Hale on the arm.

"How are you?" said Jennings, taking the initiative, "we met at that
inquest, I believe."

"Yes," said Hale, polite and smiling, "I remember, Mr. Jennings!  I had
seen you here before, but I never knew your calling."

"I don't tell it to everyone," said Jennings, "How do you do, Mr.
Clancy?  I hope you are well.  An amusing place this."

"I need amusement," said Clancy, again assuming his silly smile, "since
the death of my dear friend.  By the way, have you found out who killed
her, Mr. Jennings?"

"No.  I fear the assassin will never be discovered."  Here the two men
exchanged a glance.  "I am engaged on other cases. There was only one
point I wished to learn in connection with Miss Loach's death."

"What is that?" asked Hale calmly.

"Was Mrs. Herne in Miss Loach's bedroom on that night?"

"I forget," said Clancy before Hale could speak.

"That's a pity," resumed Jennings.  "You see from the fact of the bell
having been sounded, it struck me that the assassin may have been
concealed in the bedroom.  Now if Mrs. Herne was in that room, she
might have noticed something."

"I don't think she did," said Hale hastily.  "Mrs. Herne and I left
early, owing to Clancy here having offended her. Besides, Mrs. Herne
told all she knew at the inquest."

"All save that point."

"The question was not asked," said Clancy.

"No.  I should like to ask Mrs. Herne now, but it seems she has gone
away from Hampstead."

"I don't care if she has," grumbled Clancy, "I hated Mrs. Herne.  She
was always quarrelling.  Did you call to see her?"

"Yes, but I could not learn where she was.  Now, as you are her lawyer,
Mr. Hale, you may know."

"She is at Brighton," replied Hale readily, "at the Metropolitan Hotel,
but she returns to Hampstead in a week."

Jennings was secretly astonished at his question being thus answered,
as he was inclined to suspect the men.  However, he took a note of the
address, and said he would attend to the matter.  "But, to tell you the
truth, it is useless," he said. "The assassin will never be discovered.
Moreover, there is no reward, and I should only work for no wages.  You
stay at Rose Cottage now, I believe, Mr. Clancy?"

"I do.  Mrs. Pill has taken the place.  Who told you?"

"I heard from Susan Grant.  She was witness, if you remember. And has
Mrs. Pill married Barnes yet?"

"I can't say," said Clancy, looking keenly at the detective. "I am not
yet a boarder.  I move in after a fortnight.  I expect the marriage
will take place before then.  Susan Grant told you that also?"

"She did.  But I don't expect I'll see her again.  Well, gentlemen, I
must go away.  I hope you will be lucky."

Jennings moved away and saw from the eager manner in which the two men
began to converse that he was the subject of the conversation.  He
looked round for Caranby, but could not see him.  When he was out of
the house, however, and on the pavement lighting a cigarette, he felt a
touch on his arm and found Caranby waiting for him.  The old gentleman
pointed with his cane to a brougham! "Get in," he said, "I have been
waiting to see you.  There is much to talk about."

"Maraquito?" asked Jennings eagerly.

"She has something to do with the matter.  Love for Cuthbert has made
her involve herself.  How far or in what way I do not know.  And what
of Clancy and Hale?"

"Oh, I have put them off the scent.  They think I have given up the
case.  But they and Maraquito are connected with the matter somehow.  I
can't for the life of me see in what way though."

"There is another woman connected with the matter--Mrs. Octagon."

"What do you mean?" asked Jennings quickly.

"I saw her enter Maraquito's house a few moments before you came down."




CHAPTER XIII

JULIET AT BAY


Caranby's reply took away Jennings' breath.  The case was one of
surprises, but he was not quite prepared for such an announcement.  He
was in the brougham and driving towards the Avon Hotel with the old
nobleman before he found his tongue.

"What can Mrs. Octagon have to do with Maraquito?" he asked amazed.

"Ah! that is the question," replied Caranby, affording no clue.

"I did not even know she was acquainted with her."

"Perhaps she gambles."

"Even if she did, Maraquito's salon would hardly be the place she would
choose for her amusement.  Moreover, Maraquito does not receive ladies.
She has no love for her own sex."

"What woman has?" murmured Caranby, ironically.  Then he added after a
pause, "You know that Mrs. Octagon was present when Emilia fell from
the plank in the Rexton house?"

"Yes.  She gave evidence at the inquest I understand.  But Selina did
not, if Cuthbert informed me rightly."

"Selina was ill in bed.  She could not come.  Afterwards she went
abroad.  I have often wondered," added Caranby, "why Selina didn't seek
me out when death broke my engagement to Emilia.  She loved me, and her
father being dead, there would have been no bar to our marriage.  As it
was, she threw over her American and dedicated herself to a hermit's
life at Rexton."

"You never saw her again?"

"Never.  I started to travel, and came to London only at rare
intervals.  I did write to Selina, asking her to see me, but she always
refused, so I became philosophic and took to celibacy also."

"Very strange," murmured Jennings, his thoughts elsewhere, "but this
does not explain Mrs. Octagon's visit to the house."

"I am not so sure of that, if you mean Maraquito's house. Mrs. Octagon
may know, as I do, that Maraquito is the niece of Emilia."

"Are you sure of that?" asked the detective eagerly.

"As sure as I am that she is no Spaniard, nor even a Spanish Jewess, as
she claims to be.  She doesn't even know the language.  Her name, to
fit a woman, should terminate in a feminine manner.  She should be
called Maraquita, not Maraquito.  That little grammatical error
doubtless escaped her notice.  But as I was saying, Maraquito--we will
still call her so--may have sent for Mrs. Octagon."

"Mrs. Octagon, so far as I have seen, is not the woman to obey such a
call," said Jennings grimly.

"Maraquito may have compelled her to come."

"For what reason?"

"Well, you see, Emilia was said by Isabella Loach--Mrs. Octagon that
is--to have fallen from the plank.  But Mrs. Octagon may have pushed
her off."

"May have murdered her in fact."

"Quite so.  Isabella loved me, and was, and is, a very violent woman.
It may be that she pushed Emilia off the plank, and Maraquito, through
her dead father, may have learned the truth.  This would give her a
hold over Mrs. Octagon."

"But Selina may have killed Emilia.  That would explain her hermit
life, inexplicable in any other way."

"No," said Caranby in a shaking voice, "I am sure the woman I loved
would never have behaved in that way.  Isabella killed Emilia--if it
was a murder--and then threatened to denounce Selina unless she gave up
the idea of marrying me. And that," added Caranby, as though struck
with a new idea, "may be the cause why Selina never answered my letter,
and always refused to see or marry me.  She may have been--no, I am
sure she was--under the thumb of Isabella.  Now that Selina is dead,
Isabella is under the thumb of Maraquito."

"This is all theory," said Jennings impatiently.

"We can only theorize in our present state of uncertainty," was the
reply of the nobleman.  "But my explanation is a reasonable one."

"I do not deny that.  But why should Maraquito send for Mrs. Octagon?"

"Why?" echoed Caranby in surprise, "in order to stop the marriage with
Cuthbert.  Maraquito loves Cuthbert and hates Juliet.  I daresay this
is the solution of Mrs. Octagon's strange behavior since the death.  It
is Maraquito who is stopping the marriage by threatening to denounce
Mrs. Octagon for the murder of her aunt.  Juliet knows this, and hence
her reticence."

"It might be so," murmured Jennings, more and more perplexed. "But Miss
Saxon won't be reticent with me.  I'll see her to-morrow."

"What means will you use to make her speak?"

"I'll tell her that Cuthbert may be arrested for the crime. You know he
was about the place on the night of the murder."

"Yes.  He went down to look after a possible ghost.  But I hope you
will not bring Cuthbert into the matter unless it is absolutely
necessary.  I don't want a scandal."

"Rest easy, Lord Caranby.  I have the complete control of this affair,
and I'll only use Cuthbert's presence at Rexton to make Miss Saxon
speak out.  But then, she may not be keeping silence for Cuthbert's
sake, as she can't possibly know he was at Rexton on that night.  My
own opinion is that she is shielding her brother."

"Do you suspect him?" asked Caranby quickly.

"He may not be guilty of the crime, but he knows something about it, I
am sure."  Here Jennings related how Clancy had said Basil would speak
out if pressed too hard.  "Now Basil, for some reason, is in
difficulties with Hale, who is a scoundrel.  But Basil knows something
which Hale and Clancy wish to be kept silent.  Hale has been using
threats to Basil, and the young man has turned restive.  Clancy, who is
by no means such a fool as he looks, warned Hale to-night. Therefore I
take it, that Basil has some information about the murder.  Miss Saxon
knows he has, and she is shielding him."

"But Clancy, Hale and Mrs. Herne were all out of the house when the
woman was stabbed," said Caranby, "they cannot have anything to do with
it."

"Quite so, on the face of it.  But that bell--" Jennings broke off.  "I
don't think those three are so innocent as appears.  However, Mrs.
Herne is coming back to her Hampstead house next week; I'll see her and
put questions."

"Which she will not answer," said Caranby drily.  "Besides, you should
have put them at the inquest."

"The case had not developed so far.  I had not so much information as I
have now," argued Jennings.

"Did you examine Mrs. Herne at the inquest?"

"No; she gave her evidence." Jennings hesitated.  "She also wore a veil
when she spoke, and refused to raise it on account of weak eyes.  By
the way, do you notice that Maraquito uses a strong scent?"

"Yes.  Clancy and Hale also use it."

"Ha!" said Jennings, surprised.  "I never knew that. Decidedly, I am
growing stupid.  Well, Mrs. Herne uses that scent also.  It is a rare
scent."  Then Jennings told what Susan Grant had said.  "Now I think
there is some significance in this scent which is connected with the
association of Clancy, Hale, Maraquito and Mrs. Herne."

"But Mrs. Herne doesn't know Maraquito."

"I am not so sure of that.  Susan Grant thinks she may be Maraquito's
mother, she is so like her in an elderly way.  Did you know this Mrs.
Saul?"

"No.  I knew the brother who came to speak to me after the death of his
sister, and who afterwards was put in jail for coining.  His wife I
never met.  I never even heard of her. But Maraquito takes after her
father in looks and he was like Emilia."

"It is a difficult matter to unravel," said Jennings.  "I think Mrs.
Herne refused to raise her veil at the inquest so that the likeness
between her and Maraquito might not be observed.  I was there, and if
Mrs. Herne is what I say, she would have been put on her guard by
Maraquito.  Though to be sure," added Jennings in a vexed tone,
"Maraquito did not know then, and perhaps does not know now, that I am
a detective."

"Clancy and Hale will enlighten her," said Caranby, as the vehicle
stopped, "will you not come in?"

"Not to-night.  I will do myself the honor of calling on you later,
when I have more to say.  At present I am going to sort out what
evidence I have.  To-morrow I'll call on Miss Saxon."

"Call on Mrs. Octagon," were Caranby's parting words, "believe me, she
knows the truth, but I'll tell you one thing. Maraquito did not kill
Miss Loach, for the death of Selina has given Juliet enough money to
marry Cuthbert, independent of Mrs. Octagon's wishes, and Maraquito
would never have brought that about."

"Yet all the same Miss Saxon will not marry."

Caranby made a gesture to show that the matter was beyond his
comprehension, and ascended the steps of the hotel.  Jennings, deep in
thought, walked away, wondering how he was to disentangle the skein
which Fate had placed in his hand to unravel.

That night the detective surveyed the situation.  So far as he could
see, he seemed no further advanced than he had been at the inquest.
Certainly he had accumulated a mass of evidence, but it threw no light
on the case.  From Caranby's romance, it seemed that the dead woman had
been connected with the Saul family.  That seemed to link her with
Maraquito, who appeared to be the sole surviving member.  In her turn,
Maraquito was connected in some underhand way with Mrs. Octagon, seeing
that the elder woman came by stealth to the Soho house.  Mrs. Octagon
was connected with the late Emilia Saul by a crime, if what Caranby
surmised was correct, and her daughter was forbidden to marry Mallow,
who was the nephew of the man who had been the lover both of Miss Loach
and Emilia Saul.  Hale and Clancy were playing some game with Basil
Saxon, who was the son of Mrs. Octagon, and he was associated with
Maraquito. Thus it would seem that all these people were connected in
various ways with the dead woman.  But the questions were: Had one of
them struck the fatal blow, and if so, who had been daring enough to do
so?

"Again," murmured Jennings, "who touched that bell?  Not the assassin,
who would scarcely have been fool enough to call anyone to examine his
work before he had time to escape. Certainly it may have been a woman!
Yes!  I believe a man killed Miss Loach, for some reason I have yet to
learn, and a woman, out of jealousy, wishing to get him into the grip
of the law, touched the bell so that witnesses might appear before the
assassin could escape.  But who struck the blow?"

This was a difficult question.  It could not have been Basil Saxon, for
he was at the Marlow Theatre on that night with his sister.  Cuthbert
had no motive, and Jennings quite believed his explanation as to his
exploration of the park between the hours of ten and eleven.  Hale,
Clancy and Mrs. Herne were all out of the house before the blow had
been struck, and, moreover, there was no reason why they should murder
a harmless old lady.  Maraquito confined to her couch could not
possibly have anything to do with the crime.  Mrs. Octagon did hate her
sister, but she certainly would not risk killing her. In fact, Jennings
examining into the motives and movements of those mentioned, could find
no clue to the right person.  He began to believe that the crime had
been committed by someone who had not yet appeared--someone whose
motive might be found in the past of the dead woman.  Say a member of
the Saul family.

But Maraquito was the sole surviving member, and on the face of it was
innocent.  As yet Jennings did not know whether Mrs. Herne was her
mother, in spite of the resemblance which Susan claimed to have seen.
Also, Caranby said that Maraquito resembled her father, and the
features of the Saul family were so strongly marked that it was
impossible the elder Saul could have married a woman resembling him.
"Though, to be sure, he might have married a relative," said Jennings,
and went to bed more perplexed than ever.

Next day, before calling at the "Shrine of the Muses," he went to
Scotland Yard, and there made inquiries about the rumor of false coins
being in circulation.  These appeared to be numerous and were admirably
made.  Also from France and Russia and Italy came reports that false
money was being scattered about.  The chief of the detective staff
possessed these coins of all sorts, and Jennings was forced to own that
they were admirable imitations.  He went away, wondering if this crime
could be connected in any way with the circulation of false money.
"Maraquito is a member of the Saul family, who appear to have been
expert coiners," said Jennings, on his way to Kensington, "and,
according to Le Beau, she gave him a false sovereign.  I wonder if she
keeps up the business, and if Clancy and Hale, together with Mrs.
Herne, this supposititious mother, have to do with the matter.  That
unfinished house would make an admirable factory, and the presence of
the ghosts would be accounted for if a gang of coiners was discovered
there.  But there is a fifteen-feet wall round the house, and the park
is a regular jungle.  Cuthbert examined the place by day and night and
could see nothing suspicious. I wonder if Miss Loach, living near the
place, learned that a gang was there.  If so, it is quite conceivable
that she might have been murdered by one of them.  But how the deuce
did anyone enter the house?  The door certainly opened at half-past ten
o'clock, either to let someone in or someone out.  But the bell did not
sound for half an hour later.  Can there be any outlet to that house,
and is it connected with the unfinished mansion of Lord Caranby, used
as a factory?"

This was all theory, but Jennings could deduce no other explanation
from the evidence he had collected.  He determined to search the
unfinished house, since Caranby had given him permission, and also to
make an inspection of Rose Cottage, though how he was to enter on a
plausible excuse he did not know.  But Fate gave him a chance which he
was far from expecting.  On arriving at the "Shrine of the Muses" he
was informed that Miss Saxon had gone to Rexton.  This was natural
enough, since she owned the cottage, but Jennings was inclined to
suspect Juliet from her refusal to marry Cuthbert or to explain her
reason, and saw something suspicious in all she did.  He therefore took
the underground railway at once to Rexton, and, alighting at the
station, went to Crooked Lane through the by-path, which ran through
the small wood of pines.  On looking at the cottage he saw that the
windows were open, that carpets were spread on the lawn, and that the
door was ajar.  It seemed that Mrs. Pill was indulging in the spring
cleaning alluded to by Susan Grant.

At the door Jennings met Mrs. Pill herself, with her arms bare and a
large coarse apron protecting her dress.  She was dusty and untidy and
cross.  Nor did her temper grow better when she saw the detective, whom
she recognized as having been present at the inquest.

"Whyever 'ave you come 'ere, sir?" asked she.  "I'm sure there ain't no
more corpses for you to discover."

"I wish to see Miss Saxon.  I was told she was here."

"Well, she is," admitted Mrs. Pill, placing her red arms akimbo, "not
as I feel bound to tell it, me not being in the witness-box.  She 'ave
come to see me about my rent.  An' you, sir?"

"I wish to speak to Miss Saxon," said Jennings patiently.

Mrs. Pill rubbed her nose and grumbled.  "She's up in the attics," said
she, "lookin' at some dresses left by pore Miss Loach, and there ain't
a room in the 'ouse fit to let you sit down in, by reason of no chairs
being about.  'Ave you come to tell me who killed mistress?"

"No!  I don't think the assassin will ever be discovered."

"Ah, well.  We're all grass," wailed Mrs. Pill; "but if you wish to see
Miss Saxon, see her you will.  Come this way to the lower room, an'
I'll go up to the attics."

"Let me go, too, and it will save Miss Saxon coming down," said
Jennings, wishing to take Juliet unawares.

"Ah, now you speaks sense.  Legs is legs when stairs are about,
whatever you may say," said Mrs. Pill, leading the way, "an' you'll
excuse me, Mr. Policeman, if I don't stop, me 'avin' a lot of work to
do, as Susan's gone and Geraldine with 'er, not to speak of my 'usbin'
that is to be, he havin' gone to see Mrs. Herne, drat her!"

"Why has he gone to see Mrs. Herne?" asked Jennings quickly.

"Arsk me another," said the cook querulously, "he's a secret one is
Thomas Barnes, whatever you may say.  He comes and he goes and makes
money by 'is doin's, whatever they may be.  For not a word do I 'ear of
'is pranks.  I've a good mind to remain Pill to the end of my days,
seein' as he keeps secrets."

Jennings said no more, but secretly wondered why Thomas had gone to
visit Mrs. Herne.  He determined to call on that lady at once and see
if he could learn what message Thomas had taken her and from whom.  But
he had not much time for thought as Mrs. Pill opened a door to the
right of a narrow passage and pushed him in.  "An' now I'll go back to
my dustin'," said the cook, hurrying away.

Jennings found himself face to face with Juliet.  She was standing on a
chair with her hand up on the cornice.  As soon as she saw him she came
down with rather a white face.  The room was filled with trunks and
large deal boxes, and some were open, revealing clothes.  Dust lay
thick on others apparently locked, and untouched for many years.  The
light filtered into the dusty attic through a dirty window, and the
floor was strewn with straw and other rubbish.  Miss Saxon did not know
the detective and her face resumed its normal color and expression.

"Who are you and what do you want?" she asked, casting a nervous look
at the cornice.

Jennings removed his hat.  "I beg your pardon," he said politely.
"Mrs. Pill showed me up here when I asked to see you."

"She had no right," said Juliet, looking at her dress, which was rather
dusty, "come downstairs and tell me who you are."

She appeared anxious to get him out of the room, and walked before him
out of the door.  As she passed through Jennings contrived to shut it
as though her dress had caught the lower part.  Then he lightly turned
the key.  He could hear Juliet fumbling at the lock.  "What is the
matter?" she called through.

"The lock has got hampered in some way," said Jennings, rattling the
key, "one moment, I'll look at it carefully."

As he said this he made one bound to the chair upon which she had been
standing and reached his hand to the cornice at which she had looked.
Passing his hand rapidly along it came into contact with an object long
and sharp.  He drew it down.  It was a brand-new knife of the sort
called bowie.  Jennings started on seeing this object, but having no
time to think (for he did not wish to rouse her suspicions), he slipped
the knife in his vest and ran again to the door.  After a lot of
ostentatious fumbling he managed to turn the key again and open the
door.  Juliet was flushed and looked at him angrily. But she cast no
second look at the cornice, which showed Jennings that she did not
suspect his ruse.

"Your dress caught the door and shut it," he explained, "the lock seems
to be out of order."

"I never knew it was," said Juliet, examining it; "it always locked
easy enough before."

"Hum," thought Jennings, "so you have been here before and you have
kept the door locked on account of the knife probably," but he looked
smilingly at the girl all the time.

"I am sorry," he said, when she desisted from her examination.

"It's my fault," said Juliet unsuspiciously, and closed the door.  She
led the way along the passage and down the stairs. "Who are you?" she
asked, turning round half way down.

"I am a friend of Mallow's," said the detective.

"I have never met you?"

"Yet I have been to your house, Miss Saxon.  Perhaps my name, Miles
Jennings, may--"

The girl started with a cry.  "You are a detective!" she gasped.




CHAPTER XIV

MRS. OCTAGON EXPLAINS


The young girl leaned against the wall, white, and with closed eyes.
Alarmed by her appearance, Jennings would have assisted her, but she
waved him off and staggered down the stairs.  By a powerful effort she
managed to subdue her feelings, and when in the hall turned to him with
a sickly smile.  "I am glad to see you," she said.  "Mr. Mallow has
often spoken to you of me.  You are his friend, I know."

"His best friend, in spite of the difference in our position."

"Oh," Juliet waved that objection aside, "I know you are a gentleman
and took up this work merely as a hobby."

"I fear not," smiled Jennings.  "To make money."

"Not in a very pleasant way.  However, as you are Mr. Mallow's friend,
I am glad you have this case in hand," she fixed her eyes on the
detective.  "Have you discovered anything?" she asked anxiously.

"Nothing much," replied Jennings, who rapidly decided to say nothing
about his discovery of the knife.  "I fear the truth will never be
found out, Miss Saxon.  I suppose you have no idea?"

"I," she said, coloring, "what put such a thing into your head?  I am
absolutely ignorant of the truth.  Did you come to ask me about--"

"That amongst other things," interrupted Jennings, seeing Mrs. Pill's
bulky figure at the door.  "Can we not talk in some quieter place?"

"Come downstairs," said Juliet, moving, "but the rooms are unfurnished
as Mrs. Pill is cleaning them.  The house is quiet enough."

"So I see," said the detective, following his companion down to the
basement, "only yourself and Mrs. Pill."

"And my mother," she answered.  "We came here to see about some
business connected with the letting of the cottage.  My mother is lying
down in the old part of the house.  Do you wish to see her?"

"No.  I wish to see you."

By this time they had entered the sitting-room in which the crime had
been committed.  The carpets were up, the furniture had been removed,
the walls were bare.  Jennings could have had no better opportunity of
seeking for any secret entrance, the existence of which he suspected by
reason of the untimely sounding of the bell.  But everything seemed to
be in order. The floor was of oak, and there was--strangely enough--no
hearth-stone.  The French windows opened into the conservatory, now
denuded of its flowers, and stepping into this Jennings found that the
glass roof was entirely closed, save for a space for ventilation.  The
assassin could not have entered or escaped in that way, and there was
no exit from the room save by the door.

"Would you like to see the bedroom?" asked Juliet sarcastically.  "I
see you are examining the place, though I should have thought you would
have done so before."

"I did at the time," replied Jennings calmly, "but the place was then
full of furniture and the carpets were down.  Let me see the bedroom by
all means."

Juliet led the way into the next room, which was also bare. There was
one window hermetically sealed and with iron shutters.  This looked out
on to a kind of well, and light was reflected from above by means of a
sheet of silvered tin.  No one could have got out by the window, and
even then, it would have been difficult to have climbed up the well
which led to the surface of the ground.  The floor and walls had no
marks of entrances, and Jennings returned to the sitting-room
completely baffled.  Then Juliet spoke again.  "I cannot help wondering
what you expect to find," she observed.

"I thought there might be a secret entrance," said Jennings, looking at
her keenly, "but there seems to be none."

Miss Saxon appeared genuinely astonished and looked round.  "I never
heard of such a thing," she said, puzzled.  "And what would a quiet old
lady like my aunt need with a secret entrance?"

"Well, you see, the assassin could not have sounded that bell and have
escaped by the front door.  Had he done so, he would have met Susan
Grant answering the call.  Therefore, he must have escaped in some
other way.  The windows of both rooms are out of the question."

"Yes.  But I understood that the assassin escaped at half-past ten."

"According to the evidence it looks like that.  But who then sounded
the bell?"

Juliet shook her head.  "I can't say," she said with a sigh. "The whole
case is a mystery to me."

"You don't know who killed Miss Loach?  Please do not look so
indignant, Miss Saxon.  I am only doing my duty."

The girl forced a smile.  "I really do not know, nor can I think what
motive the assassin can have had.  He must have had some reason, you
know, Mr. Jennings."

"You say 'he.'  Was the assassin then a man?"

"I suppose so.  At the inquest the doctor said that no woman could have
struck such a blow.  But I am really ignorant of all, save what
appeared in the papers.  I am the worst person in the world to apply to
for information, sir."

"Perhaps you are, so far as the crime is concerned.  But there is one
question I should like to ask you.  An impertinent one."

"What is it?" demanded the girl, visibly nervous.

"Why do you refuse to marry Mallow?"

"That is very impertinent," said Juliet, controlling herself; "so much
so that I refuse to reply."

"As a gentleman, I take that answer," said Jennings mildly, "but as a
detective I ask again for your reason."

"I fail to see what my private affairs have to do with the law."

Jennings smiled at this answer and thought of the knife which he had
found.  A less cautious man would have produced it at once and have
insisted on an explanation.  But Jennings wished to learn to whom the
knife belonged before he ventured.  He was sure that it was not the
property of Juliet, who had no need for such a dangerous article, and
he was equally sure that as she was shielding someone, she would
acknowledge that she had bought the weapon.  He was treading on
egg-shells, and it behooved him to be cautious.  "Very good," he said
at length, "we will pass that question for the present, though as
Mallow's friend I am sorry.  Will you tell me to whom you gave the
photograph of Mallow which he presented to you?"

"How do you know about that?" asked Miss Saxon quickly.  "And why do
you ask?"

"Because I have seen the photograph."

"That is impossible," she answered coldly; "unless you were in this
house before the death of my aunt."

"Ah! then it was to Miss Loach you gave it," said Jennings, wondering
how Maraquito had become possessed of it.

"It was; though I do not recognize your right to ask such a question,
Mr. Jennings.  My late aunt was very devoted to Mr. Mallow and anxious
that our marriage should take place.  He gave me the photograph--"

"With an inscription," put in the detective.

"Certainly," she rejoined, flushing, "with an inscription intended for
me alone.  I was unwilling to part with the photograph, but my aunt
begged so eagerly for it that I could not refuse it."

"How did she see it in the first instance?"

"I brought it to show her after Mr. Mallow gave it to me.  May I ask
where you saw it?"

Jennings looked at her with marked significance.  "I saw it in the
house of a woman called Maraquito."

"And how did it get there?"

"I can't tell you.  Do you know this woman?"

"I don't even know her name.  Who is she?"

"Her real name is Senora Gredos and she claims to be a Spanish Jewess.
She keeps a kind of gambling salon.  To be plain with you, Miss Saxon,
I really did not see the photograph in her house.  But a girl called
Susan Grant--"

"I know.  My late aunt's parlor-maid."

"Well, the photograph was in her box.  I found it when the servants
insisted on their boxes being searched.  She confessed that she had
taken it from her last mistress, who was Senora Gredos.  As you gave it
to Miss Loach, I should be glad to know how it came into the possession
of this woman."

"I really can't tell you, no more than I can say why Susan took it.
What was her reason?"

"Mr. Mallow is a handsome man--" began Jennings, when she stopped him
with a gesture.

"Do you mean to say--no, I'll never believe it."

"I was not going to say anything against Mallow's character. But this
foolish girl cherished a foolish infatuation for Mallow.  She saw him
at Senora Gredos' house--"

"Ah!" said Juliet, turning pale.  "I remember now.  Basil mentioned
that Cuthbert gambled, but he did not say where."

"Mallow gambled a little at Maraquito's, as did your brother. The only
difference is that Mallow could afford to lose and your brother could
not.  Are you sure you never heard the name of Maraquito?"

"Quite sure," said Juliet, meeting his gaze so calmly that he saw she
was speaking the truth.  "Well, I understand how you got the
photograph, but how did this woman get it?  I never heard my aunt
mention her, either as Maraquito or as Senora Gredos."

"Was your aunt open with you?"

"Perfectly open.  She had nothing in her life to conceal."

"I am not so sure of that," murmured the detective.  "Well, I cannot
say how Maraquito became possessed of this photograph."

Juliet shrugged her shoulders.  "In that case we may dismiss the
matter," she said, wiping her dry lips; "and I can't see what the
photograph has to do with this crime."

"I can't see it myself, but one never knows."

"Do you accuse Mr. Mallow?"

"Supposing I did.  I know Mr. Mallow was near this place on the night
of the murder and about the hour."

Juliet leaned against the wall and turned away her face.  "It is not
true.  What should bring him there?"

"He had business connected with the unfinished house at the back owned
by Lord Caranby.  But I don't suppose anyone saw him."

"How do you know he was here then?" asked Juliet, gray and agitated.

"He confessed to me that he had been here.  But we can talk of that
later--"

Juliet interposed.  "One moment," she cried, "do you accuse him?"

"As yet I accuse no one.  I must get more facts together.  By the way,
Miss Saxon, will you tell the where you were on that night?"

"Certainly," she replied in a muffled voice, "at the Marlow Theatre
with my brother Basil."

"Quite so.  But I don't think the play was to your liking."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well," said Jennings slowly, and watching the changing color of her
face, "in your house you do not favor melodrama.  I wonder you went to
see this one at the Marlow Theatre."

"The writer is a friend of ours," said Juliet defiantly.

"In that case, you might have paid him the compliment of remaining till
the fall of the curtain."

Juliet trembled violently and clung to the wall.  "Go on," she said
faintly.

"You had a box, as I learned from the business manager.  But shortly
after eight your brother left the theatre: you departed after nine."

"I went to see an old friend in the neighborhood," stammered Juliet.

"Ah, and was that neighborhood this one, by any chance?  In a
hansom--which I believe you drove away in--one can reach this place
from the Marlow Theatre in a quarter of an hour."

"I--I--did not come here."

"Then where did you go?"

"I decline to say."

"Where did your brother go?"

"He did not tell me.  Did the manager inform you of anything else?"

"He merely told me that you and your brother left the theatre as I
stated.  You decline to reveal your movements."

"I do," said Juliet, clenching her hands and looking pale but defiant.
"My private business can have nothing to do with you.  As you seek to
connect me with this case, it is your business to prove what you say.
I refuse to speak."

"Will your brother refuse?"

"You had better ask him," said Miss Saxon carelessly, but with an
effort to appear light-hearted.  "I don't inquire into my brother's
doings, Mr. Jennings."

"Yet you heard about his gambling."

"I don't see what that has to do with the matter in hand.  Do you
accuse me and Basil of having killed my aunt?"

"I accuse no one, as yet," said Jennings, chagrined at her reticence,
"I said that before.  Did you not speak with your aunt on that night?"

"No," said Juliet positively.  "I certainly did not."

Jennings changed his tactics, and became apparently friendly. "Well,
Miss Saxon, I won't bother you any more.  I am sure you have told me
all you know." Juliet winced.  "Have you any idea if the weapon with
which the crime was committed has been discovered?"

"That is a strange question for a detective to ask."

"A very necessary one.  Well?"

"I know nothing about it," she said in an almost inaudible voice.

"Do you know Mrs. Herne?"

"I have met her once or twice here."

"Did you like her?"

"I can hardly say.  I did not take much notice of her.  She appeared to
be agreeable, but she was over-dressed and used a perfume which I
disliked."

"Had you ever met anyone using such a perfume before?"

"No.  It was strong and heavy.  Quite a new scent to me.  The odor gave
me a headache!"

"Was Mrs. Herne a great friend of your aunt's?"

"I believe so.  She came here with Mr. Hale and Mr. Clancy to play."

"Hale," said Jennings, "I forgot Hale.  Does he still retain your
business, Miss Saxon?"

"No.  I have given over the management of my property to our own
lawyer.  Mr. Hale was quite willing."

"Does your brother Basil still make a friend of Mr. Hale?"

"I don't know," said Juliet, changing color again.  "I do not ask about
Basil's doings.  I said that before.  Hark," she added, anxious to put
an end to the conversation, "my mother is coming."

"I should like to see Mrs. Octagon," said Jennings.

"She will be here in a few minutes.  I shall tell her," and Juliet,
without a look, left the room, evidently glad to get away.

Jennings frowned and took out the knife at which he looked. "She knows
a good deal about this affair," he murmured.  "Who is she shielding?  I
suspect her brother.  Otherwise she would not have hidden the knife.  I
wonder to whom it belongs.  Here are three notches cut in the
handle--there is a stain on the blade--blood, I suppose."

He got no further in his soliloquy, for Mrs. Octagon swept into the
room in her most impressive manner.  She was calm and cool, and her
face wore a smile as she advanced to the detective.  "My dear Mr.
Jennings," she said, shaking him warmly by the hand, "I am so glad to
see you, though I really ought to be angry, seeing you came to my house
so often and never told me what you did."

"You mightn't have welcomed me had you known," said he dryly.

"I am above such vulgar prejudices," said Mrs. Octagon, waving her hand
airily, "and I am sure your profession is an arduous one.  When Juliet
told me that you were looking into this tragic death of my poor sister
I was delighted.  So consoling to have to do with a gentleman in an
unpleasant matter like this.  Why have you come?"

This last question was put sharply, and Mrs. Octagon fastened her big
black eyes on the calm face of the detective.  "Just to have a look at
the house," he said readily, for he was certain Juliet would not report
their conversation to her mother.

Mrs. Octagon shrugged her shoulders.  "A very nice little house, though
rather commonplace in its decoration; but my poor sister never did have
much taste.  Have you discovered anything likely to lead to the
discovery of her assassin?"

"I am ashamed to say I am quite in the dark," replied Jennings.  "I
don't suppose the truth will ever be discovered."

The woman appeared relieved, but tried to assume a sad expression.
"Oh, how very dreadful," she said, "she will lie in her untimely grave,
unavenged.  Alas!  Alas!"

But Jennings was not mystified by her tragic airs.

He was certain she knew something and feared lest it should come to his
knowledge.  Therefore he resolved to startle her by a blunt question.
"I never knew you were acquainted with Maraquito!"

Mrs. Octagon was not at all taken aback.  "I don't know such creatures
as a rule," she said calmly.  "What makes you think I do?"

"I saw you enter her house one night."

"Last night," said Mrs. Octagon coolly.  "Yes.  Maraquito, or Senora
Gredos, or whatever she calls herself, told me you had just gone.  I
saw her in a little room off the salon where the play went on."

The detective was surprised by this ready admission, and at once became
suspicious.  It would seem that Mrs. Octagon, expecting such a
question, was uncommonly ready to answer it. "May I ask why you went to
see this woman?" he demanded.

An innocent woman would have resented this question, but Mrs. Octagon
ostentatiously seized the opportunity to clear herself, and thereby
increased Jennings' suspicions. "Certainly," she said in an open manner
and with a rather theatrical air, "I went to beg my son's life from
this fair siren."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Basil," said Mrs. Octagon, in her deep, rich voice, "is too fond of
this fair stranger--Spanish, is she not?"

"She says she is," said the cautious Jennings.

Mrs. Octagon shot a glance of suspicion at him, but at once resumed her
engaging manner.  "The foolish boy loves her," she went on, clasping
her hands and becoming poetical, "his heart is captured by her starry
eyes and he would wed her for her loveliness.  But I can't have that
sort of thing," she added, becoming prosaic, "so I went and told her I
would denounce her gambling salon to the police if she did not
surrender my son. She has done so, and I am happy.  Ah, Mr. Jennings,
had you a mother's heart," she laid her hand on her own, "you would
know to what lengths it will lead a woman!"

"I am glad your son is safe," said Jennings, with apparent cordiality,
though he wondered how much of this was true. "Maraquito is not a good
wife for him.  Besides, she is a cripple."

"Yes," said Mrs. Octagon tragically, "she is a cripple."

Something in the tone of her voice made Jennings look up and created a
new suspicion in his heart.  However, he said no more, having learned
as much as was possible from this tricky woman.  "I must go now," he
said, "I have examined the house."

Mrs. Octagon led the way upstairs.  "And have you any clue?"

"None!  None!  I wish you could assist me."

"I?" she exclaimed indignantly, "no, my sister and I were not friends,
and I will have nothing to do with the matter. Good-day," and Mrs.
Octagon sailed away, after ushering the detective out of the door.

Jennings departed, wondering at this change of front.  As he passed
through the gate a fair, stupid-looking man entered. He nodded to
Jennings, touching his hat, and at the same time a strong perfume
saluted the detective's nostrils.  "Thomas Barnes uses Hikui also,"
murmured Jennings, walking away. "Humph!  Is he a member of the gang?"




CHAPTER XV

A DANGEROUS ADMISSION


Jennings had once witnessed a drama by Victorien Sardou, entitled--in
the English version--Diplomacy.  Therein a woman was unmasked by means
of a scent.  It seemed to him that perfume also played a part in this
case.  Why should Clancy, Mrs. Herne, Hale, Maraquito and Thomas use a
special odor?  "I wonder if they meet in the dark?" thought the
detective, "and recognize each other by the scent.  It seems very
improbable, yet I can't see why they use it otherwise.  That women
should use perfumes, even the same perfume, is right enough.  They love
that sort of thing, but why should men do so, especially a man in the
position of Thomas?  I'll follow up this clue, if clue it is!"

The conversation with Juliet convinced Jennings that she knew of
something connected with the matter, but was determined to hold her
tongue.  The fact that this knife was in her possession showed that she
was aware of some fact likely to lead to the detection of the assassin.
She might have found it when she came after the death to Rose Cottage,
but in that case, had she nothing to conceal, she would have shown it
to the police.  Instead of this, she hid it in the attic. Jennings
congratulated himself on his dexterity in securing this piece of
evidence.  There was no doubt in his mind that this was the very knife
with which Miss Loach had been stabbed.

"And by a man," thought Jennings.  "No woman would have such a weapon
in her possession; and if she bought one to accomplish a crime, she
would purchase a stiletto or a pistol.  It would take a considerable
exercise of muscle to drive this heavy knife home."

Jennings considered that the only person who could make Juliet speak
was Cuthbert.  It was true that she already had declined to make a
confidant of him, but now, when there was a chance of his being
arrested--as Jennings had hinted--she might be inclined to confess all,
especially if it was Cuthbert she was shielding.  But the detective
fancied her brother might be the culprit.  On the night of the murder,
both had left the Marlow Theatre, which was near Rexton, and Juliet
declined to say where they went.  It might be that both had been on the
spot about the time of the commission of the crime.  Again, unless Miss
Loach had admitted her assailant, he must have had a latch-key to let
himself in.  From the fact that the poor woman had been found with the
cards on her lap in the same position in which Susan had left her,
Jennings was inclined to think that the assassin had struck the blow at
once, and then had left the house at the half hour.  But how had he
entered? There did not appear to be any secret entrance, and no one
could enter by the windows; nor by the door either without a latch-key.
The further Jennings examined into the matter, the more he was puzzled.
Never had he undertaken so difficult a case.  But the very difficulty
made him the more resolute to unravel the mystery.

For two or three days he went about, asking for information concerning
the coining, and reading up details in old newspapers about the
exploits of the Saul family.  Also, he went occasionally to the salon
of Senora Gredos.  There he constantly met Hale and Clancy.  Also Basil
came at times. That young man now adopted a somewhat insolent demeanor
towards the pair, which showed that he was now out of their clutches
and no longer had cause to fear them.  Jennings felt sure that Basil
could explain much, and he half determined to get a warrant out for his
arrest in the hope that fear might make him confess.  But,
unfortunately, he had not sufficient information to procure such a
thing, and was obliged to content himself with keeping a watch on young
Saxon.  But the man sent to spy reported nothing suspicious about
Basil's doings.

In this perplexity of mind Jennings thought he would see Cuthbert and
relate what he had discovered.  Also he hoped that Mallow might
interview Juliet and learn the truth from her.  But an inquiry at
Mallow's rooms showed that he had gone out of town for a few days with
his uncle, and would not be back for another two.  Pending this return,
Jennings sorted his evidence.

Then he was surprised to receive a letter from Mrs. Herne, stating that
she had returned to her place at Hampstead, and asking him to call.  "I
understand from Mr. Clancy," wrote Mrs. Herne, "that you wish to see me
in connection with the death of my poor friend.  I shall be at home
to-morrow at four."  Then followed the signature, and Jennings put away
the note with a rather disappointed feeling.  If he was right in
suspecting Mrs. Herne, she certainly felt little fear, else she would
have declined to see him.  After all, his supposition that the two
women and the four men formed a gang of coiners, who worked in the
unfinished house, might turn out to be wrong.  "But I'll see Mrs. Herne
and have a long talk with her," said Jennings to himself.  "And then
I'll show the knife to Cuthbert Mallow.  Also I may examine the
unfinished house.  If coiners have been there, or are there, I'll soon
find out.  Mallow hunting for ghosts, probably, made only a cursory
examination.  And I'll take Drudge to Hampstead with me."

Drudge was a detective who adored Jennings and thought him the very
greatest man in England.  He was usually employed in watching those
whom his superior suspected, and Jennings could always rely on his
orders being honestly executed.  In this instance Drudge was to wait
some distance from the house of Mrs. Herne until Jennings came out
again.  Then on the conversation which had taken place would depend
further orders.  The man was silent and lean, with a pair of sad eyes.
He followed Jennings like a dog and never spoke unless he was required
to answer a question.

Mrs. Herne did not possess a house of her own, which struck the
detective as strange, considering she appeared to be a wealthy woman.
She always wore costly dresses and much jewellery, yet she was content
with two rooms, one to sit in and the other to sleep in.  Certainly the
sitting-room (which was all Jennings saw) was well furnished, and she
apparently thoroughly appreciated the luxuries of life.  There was a
bow-window which commanded a fine prospect of the Heath, and here Mrs.
Herne was seated.  The blinds were half-way down, so that the brilliant
sunlight could not penetrate into the somewhat dusky room.  When the
detective entered Mrs. Herne excused the semi-darkness.  "But my eyes
are somewhat weak," she said, motioning him to a seat.  "However, if
you wish for more light--" she laid her hand on the blind-cord.

"Not on my account," said Jennings, who did not wish to appear unduly
suspicious.  "I am quite satisfied."

"Very well, then," replied Mrs. Herne, resuming her seat and crossing
her delicate hands on her lap.  "We can talk.  I am at your orders."

She was arrayed in a blue silk dress of a somewhat vivid hue, but
softened with black lace.  She had a brooch of diamonds at her throat,
a diamond necklace round it, bracelets set with the same gems and many
costly rings.  Such a mass of jewelry looked rather out of place in the
daylight, but the twilight of the room made the glitter less
pronounced.  Jennings thought that Mrs. Herne must have Jewish blood in
her veins, seeing she was so fond of gems.  Certainly she was very like
Maraquito, even to having eyebrows almost meeting over her thin high
nose.  But these, as was her hair, were gray, and her skin lacked the
rich coloring of the younger woman. Jennings rapidly took in the
resemblance, and commenced the conversation, more convinced than ever
that there was some bond of blood between Mrs. Herne and Senora Gredos.
This belief helped him not a little.

"I daresay Mr. Clancy told you why I wished to see you?"

Mrs. Herne nodded in a stately way.  "Yes.  You wish to know if I was
in the bedroom of my friend on that evening.  Well, I was.  I went in
for a few minutes to take off my cloak and hat, and then I went in
again to resume them."

"Did you see anyone in the room?"

"No.  Had there been anyone I should certainly have seen the person.
But there is no place where anyone could hide."

"Not even a cupboard?"

"There was a wardrobe, for Miss Loach disliked cupboards, as she
thought clothes did not get sufficiently aired in them.  A wardrobe,
and of course anyone might have hid under the bed, but I did not look.
And I don't think," added Mrs. Herne, examining her rings, "that anyone
was about.  Miss Loach was always very suspicious, and searched the
house regularly."

"Did she, then, anticipate anyone hiding--a burglar, for instance?"

"Yes, I think she did.  Her nature was warped from certain events which
happened in her early life, and she suspected everyone."

"Was she on bad terms with anyone?"

"No.  She never quarrelled.  I am the quarrelsome person," said the
lady, smiling.  "I quarrelled with Mr. Clancy, who is a rude man.  But
we have made it up since, as he has apologized.  It was Mr. Clancy who
told me of your wish to see me.  Do you want to ask anything else?"

"If you do not mind."

"On the contrary, I am anxious to afford you all the information in my
power.  Nothing would give me more satisfaction than to see the
murderer of my dear friend brought to justice."

She spoke with great feeling, and there was an unmistakable ring of
truth about her speech.  Jennings began to think he must be wrong in
suspecting her to have anything to do with the death.  All the same, he
was on his guard.  It would not do to let Mrs. Herne, clever as she
was, pull wool over his eyes.  "Have you any idea who killed Miss
Loach?" he asked.

"No.  She was quite well on that evening, and did not anticipate death
in any way--least of all in a violent form. Mr. Hale, Mr. Clancy and
myself would have been with her till nearly midnight had I not
quarrelled with Mr. Clancy.  As it was, Mr. Hale escorted me home about
half-past nine, and I understand Mr. Clancy left about ten.  When Miss
Loach was not playing whist or bridge she never cared about having
anyone in her house.  She was rather a misanthrope."

"Did she expect anyone that evening?"

"No.  At all events, she said nothing about expecting anyone."

"Did she expect her nephew?"

"Mr. Basil Saxon?" said Mrs. Herne, looking surprised.  "Not that I am
aware of.  She did not mention his name.  To be sure, they were on bad
terms, and she had forbidden him the house.  No, I do not think she
expected him."

"Do you know the cause of the quarrel?"

"It had something to do with money.  I believe Miss Loach helped Mr.
Saxon, who was rather extravagant, but she grew weary of his demands
and refused to help him further.  He lost his temper and said things
which forced her to order him out of the house."

"Did he utter any threats?"

"Miss Loach never said that he did.  Mr. Jennings," remarked the old
lady, bending her brows, "is it possible you suspect that young man?"

"No.  I suspect no one at present.  But I am bound to make inquiries in
every direction, and of course, if Mr. Saxon is of a passionate temper,
he might wish to avenge himself for being forbidden the house."

"He has a temper," said Mrs. Herne, thoughtfully, "but I never saw it
exhibited, though I met him once at Miss Loach's.  She said he had a
lot of bad blood in him, but that may have been because she hated her
sister, Isabella Octagon."

"Did she hate her?"

"Yes.  And I think she had cause.  Mrs. Octagon behaved very badly in
connection with some romantic episode of the past."

"I fancy I know about that," said Jennings quickly, then added, "You
are fond of perfumes?"

"What a strange question," laughed Mrs. Herne.  "Yes, I am. Do you like
this scent.  It is called Hikui, and was given to me by a dear friend
who received it from a Japanese attache."

"From a friend or relative?"

Mrs. Herne frowned.  "What do you mean by that?"

Jennings shrugged his shoulders.  "Oh, nothing.  Only you are very like
a lady called Senora Gredos."

"Maraquito," said Mrs. Herne unexpectedly.  "Of course I am. Her father
was my brother."

"You are then her aunt?"

"Naturally.  But the fact is, I do not proclaim the relationship, as I
do not approve of Maraquito's gambling.  Of course the poor thing is
confined to her couch and must have something to amuse her.  All the
same, gambling on a large scale is against my principles.  But, if
asked, I do not disown the relationship.  Now you understand why I am
like Maraquito."

"I understand," hesitated Jennings, "you belong to a Spanish family?"

"Spanish Jews.  I am a Jewess, so is Maraquito."

"Do you speak Spanish?"

"Yes.  Do you wish to speak it with me?"

"Unfortunately I do not know the language," said Jennings, profoundly
regretting the fact.  "And your niece?"

"She does not speak it.  She was brought up in England."

"In that case she should ask you if her name is masculine or feminine,
Mrs. Herne?"

The old lady started.  "I should like to know what you mean?"

"Senora Gredos' Christian name should be Maraquita, not Maraquito!"

"Really.  I never gave the matter a thought.  I will tell her about it
if you like.  I said she did not speak Spanish!  She has led a strange
life.  At one time she wished to dance and took the name of Celestine
Durand.  She was taught by a professor of dancing called Le Beau, who
lives in Pimlico, but while learning she slipped in the street and
became the wreck you see her."

Certainly Mrs. Herne was very frank, and spoke the truth, as all this
bore out the statements of Le Beau and Lord Caranby. "Her maiden name
was Saul, I believe," said Jennings, thinking Mrs. Herne would deny
this promptly.

To his astonishment she did nothing of the sort.  "My maiden name is
Saul," she said gravely.  "But as Maraquito is the daughter of my
unfortunate brother, her true name is the same--not her maiden name,
you understand.  I do not know how you learned this, but--"

"Lord Caranby paid a visit to Maraquito's salon and recognized that she
was a Saul from her likeness to Emilia, with whom--"

"With whom he was in love," finished Mrs. Herne, crossing her hands;
"that painful story is well known to me.  Emilia was my sister."

"Lord Caranby never told me she had one," said Jennings.

"Lord Caranby does not know the history of our family."

"Save what appeared in the papers," put in the detective.

Mrs. Herne flushed through her sallow skin.  "It is not well bred of
you to refer to the misfortunes of my family," she said; "my mother and
brother were unlucky.  They were innocent of this charge of coining,
brought against them by an enemy."

"The evidence was very plain, Mrs. Herne."

"Ah!" she flashed out, "you have been looking up the case. Why?"

"From what Lord Caranby said--"

"He has no right to say anything," cried Mrs. Herne, rising and
speaking vehemently; "he loved my sister, and she lost her life at that
dreadful house.  I was abroad at the time, and had only just married.
My husband was a jeweller.  We cut ourselves off from the family when
the misfortune came.  Only of late years did I recognize Maraquito when
she came to me for assistance.  Her father died and she had no money.
I helped her to pay for her dancing--"

"Oh," said Jennings, recalling the false money, "you paid."

"Have you anything to say on that point?" she asked haughtily.

"No!  No!  I merely congratulate you on your generosity."

"I could not allow my own niece to starve.  I helped her, and then she
met with the accident.  After that--"

"You assisted her to start this gambling-house."

"By no means.  Mr. Hale found the money for that.  He is in love with
Maraquito.  But you can understand why I do not proclaim my
relationship with her.  The past of our family is too painful.  I
became acquainted with Miss Loach through Mrs. Octagon--she was then
the wife of Mr. Saxon--when I went to inquire into my sister's death.
I liked Miss Loach and frequently went to see her.  Now that she is
dead I shall leave England.  I have arranged to do so next week, and
you will not see me here again.  That is why I gave you this chance of
making inquiries."

"I am much obliged," said Jennings quite believing her story, since she
told it so earnestly: "but does Maraquito love Hale?"

"No.  She loves Mr. Mallow, Lord Caranby's nephew."

"She has a rival in Miss Saxon," said the detective.

Mrs. Herne turned red.  "My niece fears no rival," she said haughtily.
"Miss Saxon shall never be the wife of Mr. Mallow."

Jennings shrugged his shoulders.  "I do not see how she can stop the
affair."

"Oh yes, she can.  The mother is on her side."

"Ah!  I thought there was some work of that kind."

"Hear me!" cried Mrs. Herne, imposing silence with a gesture. "Basil
Saxon is in love with Maraquito and she can twist the poor fool round
her finger.  She agrees to send him away if Mrs. Octagon stops this
most absurd marriage."

"Which she has done."

"And which she will continue to do," said Mrs. Herne decisively; "the
mother does not wish Basil to marry my niece, though she is quite as
good as they if not better."

"Well," drawled Jennings, rising, "I now know why Mrs. Octagon has
acted in this way.  There's no more to be said."

"Are there any further questions you wish to ask me?  Remember I go
abroad forever next week.  You will never see me again."

"I think I have asked you everything.  By the why," Jennings balanced
his hat between two forefingers, "I suppose your niece's complaint is
incurable?"

"She thought so until lately.  But she has consulted a specialist, who
tells her she will walk again in a few months."

"Then I suppose since she has made money through Hale's gambling-house
she will marry him out of gratitude."

"She will marry Mallow," said Mrs. Herne, closing her mouth firmly.

"Lord Caranby may object."

"His objections will be overcome," she replied, with a crafty smile.

"In what way?  I am not curious, but--"

"I have my own opinion of that, Mr. Jennings."

"Well, I should like to know how the obstinate objections of a firm old
man like Caranby are to be overcome."

"Ah, now you wish to know too much," said Mrs. Herne, laughing and
moving towards the center of the room.  "I refuse to tell you that.
But if you are friendly with Miss Saxon, tell her to give up Mr.
Mallow.  Otherwise--"

"Otherwise," echoed Jennings, curious to know why she paused.

"She will lose what is dearest to her."

"Humph!  I wonder what that can be.  Had you not better threaten Miss
Saxon personally, Mrs. Herne?"

"I have no need to, Maraquito will do that.  With my niece as an enemy,
Miss Saxon has no chance of gaining the prize she desires."

"But you reckon without the feelings of Mr. Mallow.  He loves--"

"He does not--he does not!" cried Mrs. Herne, pressing one hand to her
heart and speaking fiercely; "he loves Maraquito. And is she not worthy
to be loved?  Is she--go--go."  Mrs. Herne waved her hand.  "I have
told you everything you asked, and more.  Should you require further
information about Maraquito's love, I refer you to herself."

"Oh, I am not interested enough in the matter to ask her," said the
detective, and bowing to the lady who had sunk on the sofa, took his
departure.  A strange idea occurred to him, suggested by the agitation
of Mrs. Herne.

When he met Drudge, who was partaking of a glass of gin, he gave him
instructions to watch the Hampstead house and follow Mrs. Herne when
she came out.  Then having posted his spy--for Drudge was nothing
else--Jennings hurried back to town. That same evening he sent a wire
to Cuthbert to the address given by the servant, asking him to come up
to town next morning.

At eleven Jennings presented himself and found Cuthbert waiting for
him, rather surprised and agitated.  "Why did you wire me in so
peremptory a manner?" asked Mallow; "have you discovered anything?"

"Yes!  I am sorry to break your holiday.  By the way, you have been at
Brighton.  Did you stop at the Metropolitan?"

"Yes.  I and Uncle Caranby have been there for a few days."

"Did you see Mrs. Herne there?"

"No.  Why do you ask?"

"For a reason I'll tell you later."  Jennings glanced round the room
and his eyes became fixed on a trophy of arms.  "You are fond of these
sort of things?" he demanded.

"Yes, in a way.  Yonder are war-spears, revolvers, swords, and--"

"I see--I see.  Here is an empty space.  What was here?"

"By Jove, I never noticed that before.  I forget!"

"Perhaps this will supply the gap," said Jennings, and held out the
knife.  "Do you recognize this?"

"Certainly.  There are three notches in the handle.  It is my knife.
Did you take it off the wall?"




CHAPTER XVI

JULIET'S STORY


Instead of answering, Jennings looked at Mallow.  "It was the merest
chance I glanced at the wall and saw that one of the arms which form
that trophy was missing.  It was also a chance that I suggested the
blank space might be filled up with this knife.  Are you sure it is
your property?"

Mallow with a puzzled expression took the weapon in his hand and
examined it closely.  "It is mine," he admitted, "on the butts of my
revolvers you will find I carve these notches.  I also did so on this
bowie, which I bought in New York when I went on my last big-game shoot
to the Rockies.  I marked my things in this way so that the other
fellows should not use them by mistake.  I brought back this knife, and
although it is not a pretty ornament, I fixed it up on the wall yonder.
I used it to cut up game.  But if you did not take it off the wall--and
I confess I never missed it until you drew my attention to the fact
that it was missing--where did you get it?"

Jennings scarcely knew what to say.  Cuthbert talked of the matter in
so easy a manner that it was impossible to think he had killed Miss
Loach.  Also he was not the sort of man to murder an inoffensive old
woman, the more especially as he--on the face of it--had no motive to
commit so brutal an act, or to jeopardize his neck.  Struck by his
friend's silence, Mallow looked up suddenly.  Whether he read the truth
in Jennings' eyes or the recollection of Jennings' profession brought
the Crooked Lane crime into his mind, it is impossible to say.  But he
suddenly grew pale and dropped the knife with a look of abhorrence.

"Yes," said Jennings, in reply to his mute inquiry, "that is the knife
that was used to stab Miss Loach."

"This knife?" said Mallow, with a gasp, "but how the dickens," he used
a stronger word, "did my knife come to be used in that way?"

"I should like you to explain that," said the detective icily.

"Good heavens, Jennings, you don't think--"

"What am I to think," said Jennings coldly, "I swear I never suspected
you, Mallow.  To own the truth, I don't suspect you now, but for your
own sake--for your own safety, explain how that knife came to be in
Miss Loach's house."

"I can't say," cried Cuthbert, vehemently, "really I can't.  I swear I
never missed it until you drew my attention to the blank left in the
trophy of arms yonder."  He flung himself into a seat, and passed his
hand through his hair with a bewildered air.  "Surely, Jennings, you do
not think me guilty of killing that poor wretch?"

Jennings stretched out his hand, which Mallow grasped.  "There is my
answer," said the detective, "of course I don't suspect you.  The mere
fact that you own the knife is yours shows me that you are innocent.
But the fact that this particular weapon was used reveals to me the
strange behavior of Miss Saxon--her motive, I mean."

Cuthbert jumped up.  "What has Juliet to do with this?" he asked.

"I went to see her," explained Jennings rapidly, "and was shown up to
the attic of Rose Cottage by Mrs. Pill.  Miss Saxon was standing on a
chair with her hand on the cornice.  I managed to place my hand in the
same place--it matters not how--and there I found that."

"This knife?" Cuthbert, still bewildered, took up the formidable
weapon.  "But how did she become possessed of it?"

"You must ask her that."

"I?  Why did you not ask her yourself?"

"She would have lied to me--for your sake."

"For my sake?  Do you mean to say she thinks I am guilty?"

"Yes, I do," said Jennings decisively.

"It's an infernal lie!  I don't believe Juliet would think me such a
blackguard unless she did not love me--and she does love me."

"Of course," interposed Jennings swiftly, "so much so that she has
concealed this knife so as to--as she thinks--save you.  Now, can you
not see why she asked you to proceed no further in the case for
your--own sake.  I thought she was shielding her brother.  It is you
she believes guilty--"

"And therefore will not marry me?"

"No.  I don't think for one moment she cares about that.  When a woman
loves a man she will stick to him through thick and thin.  If he is a
regular Cain, she will marry him.  Bless the whole sex, they are the
staunchest of friends when they love. No, Mallow, in some way Mrs.
Octagon has learned that you have killed her--"

"But I never did--I never did.  I told you everything."

"What you told me may have been told to Mrs. Octagon with additions.
She thinks you guilty, and therefore has threatened to denounce you
unless Juliet gives you up.  She has done so, therefore Mrs. Octagon
holds her bitter tongue."

"But her reason for wishing to break off the marriage."

"We discussed that before.  In the first place, you are Caranby's
nephew and she hates him.  In the second, she and Basil want the
fingering of the six thousand a year left by Miss Loach.  Should you
marry Miss Saxon, they know well you will look after her interests,
therefore they don't wish the match to take place.  I am not quite sure
if this is Basil's plan, or if he knows so much, but I am quite certain
that the scheme is of Mrs. Octagon's concoction.  But now you can see
why Miss Saxon behaved so strangely."

"She has no right to take up such a position," cried Cuthbert, with a
fierce look.  "She should have been plain with me and have accused me
to my face."

"Do you think a woman cares to accuse the man she loves? Besides, Mrs.
Octagon may have forced her to keep silence, so as to make the matter
more difficult for you.  The only way in which you can clear up matters
is to see Miss Saxon and insist on an explanation."

"And if she won't give it?"

"I think she will this time," said Jennings with a grim smile. "By now
she must have discovered her loss, and she knows well enough that the
knife is in my possession.  Already she knows that I threatened to
arrest you--"

"But you would never do that."

"I would if it meant the clearing of your character.  I tell you,
Mallow, you are in danger.  There is a conspiracy against you, and the
using of your knife to kill that old woman proves it.  To prepare the
ground for an accusation, someone stole it.  You must fight, man, or
your enemies may bring about your arrest, in spite of all I can do."

Mallow dropped into his seat, flushed and angry.

"I have no enemies," he muttered, trying to collect his wits.

"Yes, you have, and of the worst kind.  Two women are against you."

"Two women?  Mrs. Octagon, I know, hates me as Caranby's nephew and
because she wants to handle this money.  But the other?"

"Maraquito Gredos."

"Bosh!  She loves me.  I am sure she has worried me enough."

"Of course she loves," said Jennings satirically.  "She loves you so
deeply that she would see you on the scaffold rather than let you marry
Miss Saxon.  That is why Mrs. Octagon went the other night to see her.
Mrs. Herne gave a different version, but--"

"How do you know Mrs. Octagon went to see Maraquito?"

"Your uncle saw her.  Sit down, Mallow." Jennings gently pushed back
the astonished man into his seat.  "Listen while I tell you all I have
discovered lately."

Mallow listened in silence, and saw very truly that Maraquito would
stick at nothing to gain her ends.  However, he made no remark.  "Now,"
went on Jennings, "it may be that Maraquito hired someone to kill Miss
Loach and is trying to put the blame on you so that she may entangle
you in her net.  It will be either the gallows or marriage with you.
Of course she could not kill the woman herself, but her aunt, Mrs.
Herne--"

"She was out of the house an hour before the blow was struck."

"Quite so," rejoined Jennings dryly, "but she may have come back again.
However, the main point is, that Maraquito in some way is working with
Mrs. Octagon on this basis to prevent your marriage.  In this way they
have impressed Miss Saxon that you are guilty, and they have shown her
this knife.  This evidence she retained in order to save you and at the
price of her marriage."

"It might be so," said Mallow, dazed with this view of the case.  "I
certainly seem to be in a hole.  If I could see Juliet--but her mother
prevents me."

"I have a plan to bring you together.  I am engaged to a girl called
Miss Garthorne.  She is the niece of an old dancing master who taught
Maraquito--"

"Le Beau?"

"The same.  Well, I learn from Peggy--that is Miss Garthorne's
name--that she was at school for a few months with Miss Saxon.  Peggy,
in spite of her poverty, has had a good education, thanks to Le Beau,
who loves her like a father.  Hence, in spite of the difference in
rank, she was brought into contact with Miss Saxon."

"Yes!  Yes!  I see.  But the scheme?"

"Well, Peggy must write to Miss Saxon and ask her to come and see her
at the Pimlico Academy.  As Miss Saxon was great friends with Peggy,
she will come.  Then you can talk to her there and learn the truth.
Find out who gave her the knife. She will answer, especially if you
tell her that, owing to my finding the knife, I am inclined to have you
arrested.  You understand?"

"Yes," said Cuthbert, a new fire in his eyes, and drawing himself up
firmly.  "I'll get at the truth somehow, and Juliet will not leave that
Academy until I learn it.  I have had more than enough of this kind of
thing.  But how did the knife leave my rooms?"

"Who has called to see you within the last month?"

"Oh, dozens of people."

"Has Mrs. Octagon?"

"No.  She never liked me enough to pay me a visit.  But Basil--"

"Ha!" cried Jennings, slapping his knee.  "I believe Basil may have
taken it.  He is working with his mother to stop the marriage, and--"

"Stop--stop!" interposed Mallow, coloring, "you are accusing Juliet's
mother and brother of being accomplices to a crime. Basil is a fool and
Mrs. Octagon is not a nice woman, but I don't think either would kill a
woman in cold blood."

Jennings had his own opinion about this.  Mrs. Octagon--as was proved
by her early history--was capable of doing much, when number one was in
question, and Basil was an irresponsible, hysterical fool.  In a moment
of rage he might have--"But no," said Jennings, breaking off this train
of thought.  "I can't see the truth.  Miss Saxon knows it.  You must
ask her.  Be careful, for your life may depend upon it."

"Bunkum!" said Mallow roughly, "I am not afraid."

"Then you ought to be," said Jennings quickly, "you were down at Rose
Cottage on that night and the knife is yours. Certainly you have no
motive, but Mrs. Octagon and Maraquito will soon find one, if you don't
fall in with their wishes. However, you know what you have to do," and
Jennings rose to take his leave, first slipping the knife into his
pocket.

"Wait a bit," said Cuthbert, rising.  "I'll do what you say. Just drop
me a line when the meeting is to be.  But I want to tell you--At the
Metropolitan Hotel at Brighton I met with my bank manager."

"What of that?"

"He happens to be the manager of the bank where Miss Loach kept her
money and where Juliet keeps it now."

"Well," said Jennings, becoming suddenly attentive.

"He didn't tell secrets," went on Mallow, "but we got talking of Basil,
and the manager hinted that Basil had had a lucky escape."

"From what?"

"I can't say.  The manager--French, his name is--refused to speak more
openly, and of course he couldn't.  But if Miss Loach had not died,
Basil would have got into trouble.  He didn't put the matter exactly in
these words, but I gathered as much."

"Humph!" said Jennings, his eyes on the carpet, "that supplies a motive
for Basil killing the old woman."

"Nonsense, Basil would not kill anything.  He is a coward."

"When a rat is in the corner it fights," said the detective
significantly.  "Basil may have been between the devil, represented by
Miss Loach, and the deep sea, which we may call Hale.  He may have--"

"No!  No!  No!" said Mallow, "nothing will ever persuade me that Basil
is guilty."

Jennings looked doubtful.  He had his own opinion as to young Saxon's
capability for crime.  "However, the whole case is so perplexing that I
fear to name any particular person," said he, taking his hat.  "Now I
shall see Miss Garthorne and get her to write to Miss Saxon."

Apparently there was no difficulty about this, for in three days he
wrote to Mallow, telling him to come to Pimlico on Friday at four
o'clock.  Juliet was surprised when she received an invitation from an
old schoolfellow of whom she had lost sight for years.  However, owing
to her troubles, she felt the need of some sympathetic soul in whom she
could safely confide, and knowing Peggy was one of those rare friends
who could keep her own counsel, Juliet readily agreed to pay the visit.
She arrived at the Academy shortly before three o'clock, and the two
girls had a long talk of their old days.  Also Juliet told some of her
difficulties--but not all--to Peggy.  "And I don't know how things will
turn out," said Miss Saxon disconsolately, "everything seems to be
wrong."

"They will continue to be wrong unless you act wisely," said Peggy.

"In what way should I act?"

"Stick to Mr. Mallow.  He loves you and you love him.  I do not see why
you should surrender your life's happiness for the sake of your family.
Of course you have not told me all," and Peggy looked at her
inquiringly.

Juliet shuddered.  "I dare not tell you all," she said faintly.  "I
have to think of other people."

"Think of Mr. Mallow first."

"I am thinking of him."

"Then it is on his account you keep silence."

Juliet nodded.  "I must hold my tongue.  If you could advise me--"

"My dear," said clear-headed Miss Garthorne, rather impatiently, "I
can't advise unless I know all, and you will not trust me."

"I have to consider others," repeated Juliet obstinately; "if Cuthbert
knew what I feel--"

"Why don't you tell him?  See here, Juliet, you are keeping something
back from me.  On my part, I have kept something back from you.  But I
see it is necessary to speak plainly. Juliet, I am engaged."

"Oh, I am so glad," cried Miss Saxon, embracing her friend. "Is he
nice?"

"I think so; but I am not sure if you will be of that opinion."

"Do I know him?" asked Juliet, opening her eyes widely.

"You do.  Not very well, perhaps, but you know him."

"What is his name?"

"I'll tell you that after you have seen Mr. Mallow."

Miss Saxon rose with rather an offended look.  "I have no intention of
seeing Mr. Mallow."

"Supposing he was here, would you consent to an interview?"

"I don't dare--I dare not!  If he asked questions!--what do you mean?"

"Nothing," said Peggy briskly.  "We have joined issue, as the lawyers
say.  I advise you to speak out and you refuse."

"I don't understand all this.  Is Cuthbert here?"

"Yes.  To be plain with you, Juliet, a person I know arranged that I
should write to you and that Mr. Mallow should meet you here."

Juliet looked annoyed.  "Who is interfering with my private business?"

"Someone who can help you."

"No one can help me," retorted Juliet.

"Oh, yes, and the advice of this person is that you should tell the
truth to Mr. Mallow."

"Who is this person?"

"I'll tell you that after you have seen Mr. Mallow.  He is in the room
below."

"This interfering person you refer to?"

"No, Mr. Mallow.  Will you come downstairs and see him?"

Juliet drew back as Peggy opened the door.  "I dare not."

"In that case you will have to consent to the arrest of Mr. Mallow."

Juliet shrieked.  "Cuthbert arrested!  For what?"

"For the murder of Miss Loach."

"It is not true--it is not true," gasped Juliet.  "Oh, Peggy, what does
it all mean?  How do you come to know--?"

"Because I'm engaged to Miles Jennings."

"The detective!  The man who behaved so badly to me?"

"I don't know what you call behaving badly," said Miss Garthorne in an
offended way.  "Miles wishes to help you out of your difficulties, and
you will not allow him.  No!  Don't ask questions.  I refuse to answer.
Miles told me all about the case and I know everything--"

"Then you know that he came the other day to Rose Cottage and--"

"I know everything," said Peggy, leaving the room; "and if you are wise
you will come with me."

When Peggy disappeared, Juliet hesitated.  She really could not speak
to Cuthbert, and resolved to steal out of the trap into which she had
been inveigled by the treacherous Peggy. On the other hand, things were
becoming so serious that she knew she would have to speak out sooner or
later, especially as Cuthbert was in danger of arrest.  But even if she
confessed all, could she save him?  "I should only make matters worse,"
thought Juliet, descending the stairs, "he'll thank me some day for
holding my tongue.  I'll go."

So she arranged, but meantime Peggy had informed the waiting Mallow of
Juliet's strange behavior.  Determined to make her speak, and anxious
to arrive at some understanding, Cuthbert waited at the foot of the
stairs.  Juliet, coming down, ran straight into his arms, and turned
white.

"You!" she gasped, retreating, "you are here after all."

"Did you not hear Miss Garthorne tell you so?" asked Cuthbert.

"Peggy is behaving very wickedly."

"It is you who are behaving badly," said Mallow bluntly, "you know much
about this case and you are keeping me in the dark."

"It is for your own good," murmured Juliet.

"You should allow me to be the best judge of that.  Come in here," and
Cuthbert drew her towards the open door of the dancing-room, "tell me
what you know and how it affects me."

The room was large and bare and empty.  At one end there was a kind of
dais on which was placed a few chairs.  The young man walked up to this
and turned to beckon Juliet, for whom he placed a chair.  She still
lingered at the door and seemed disposed to fly.

"Juliet, if you go now, all is over," he said determinedly.

"Cuthbert, how can you?"

"Because I mean what I say.  Things can't go on like this. You think of
your brother--of your mother.  You never give a thought to me."

Juliet came up the room hurriedly.  "I am thinking of you all the time,
Cuthbert," she said angrily, "I keep silence for your good."

"In what way?"

"This murder--" she began.  Then her voice died away, "you know--"

"I know that Miss Loach was murdered, but who did it I don't know."

"Oh," Juliet dropped into a chair, "are you innocent?"

"Surely you never thought me guilty?"

"I--I--don't think you are, and yet--"

"You are going to accuse me of having been on the spot?"

Juliet could restrain herself no longer.  "I saw you myself," she burst
out; "I was there also."




CHAPTER XVII

JULIET'S STORY CONTINUED


Cuthbert was so surprised by this admission that astonishment held him
silent for a moment.  He never expected to hear that Juliet herself had
been on the spot.  Seeing this, she went on quickly.  "Now you can
understand why I held my tongue. You were at Rose Cottage on that
night.  You have enemies who know you were there.  I have been
threatened should I insist on our engagement being fulfilled that you
will be arrested. Therefore I kept away and held my tongue."

"But if you had told me this long ago--"

"How could I?" she cried vehemently.  "Could I come and say to you, I
believe you are a murderer?"

"Did you believe that, Juliet?" he asked in a grieved tone.

"Yes and no," she faltered.  "Oh, Cuthbert, you know how I love you.  I
could not bring myself to think you were guilty--and yet the proofs are
so strong.  You were at Rose Cottage at a quarter to eleven--"

"No.  I was there at a quarter past ten."

"I tell you I saw you at a quarter to eleven.  You were getting over
the wall into the park.  Then there was the knife--your knife."

"How did you know it was mine?"

"By the notches.  You told me you always cut three notches on the
handle of any weapon you possessed.  One day when mother and I came to
afternoon tea at your place you showed me some of your weapons--the
knife amongst them.  One knife is much like another, and I would not
have noticed but for the notches and for the fact that I saw you on
that night.  I hid the knife and Mr. Jennings--"

"He found it," said Mallow.  "Quite so.  He told me he did. When you
left the attic he contrived to--"

"Then the closing of the door was a trick," said Juliet in an agitated
tone.  "I might have guessed that.  He took the knife.  He has
threatened to arrest you, so Miss Garthorne says."

"She says rightly," replied Mallow, thinking it best to make use of all
he knew, so as to force her to speak freely.  "But of course, if you
can explain--"

"Explain!" she cried wildly and sinking into a chair.  "What can I
explain?  That I saw you climbing that wall, running away apparently
from the scene of your crime.  That I found the knife by the body?"

"What!" Cuthbert started up and looked at her.  "You saw the body?"

"Yes.  I was in the house--in the room.  I found my aunt dead in her
chair, with the cards on her lap, exactly as the parlor-maid saw her.
Near her on the floor was the knife. There was blood on the blade.  I
picked it up--I saw the handle was notched in three places, and then--"

"Then you suspected me."

"No.  Not till I saw you outside."

Cuthbert took a turn up and down the dais much perplexed. "Juliet," he
said.  "I swear to you I never killed this woman."

Juliet flew to him and folded him in her arms.  "I knew it--I knew it,"
she said, "in spite of the letter--"

"What letter?"

"That accusing you and threatening to tell the police about you if I
did not break the engagement."

"Who wrote it?"

"I can't say, save that it must have been some enemy."

"Naturally," replied Mallow cynically.  "A friend does not write in
that way.  Have you the letter with you."

"No.  It is at home.  I never thought of bringing it.  But I will show
it to you soon.  I wish now I had spoken before."

"I wish to heaven you had!"

"I thought it best to be silent," said Juliet, trying to argue.  "I
feared lest if I spoke to you, this enemy, whosoever he is, might carry
out the threat in the letter."

"Is the letter written by a man or a woman?"

"I can't say.  Women write in so masculine a way nowadays.  It might be
either.  But why were you at the cottage--"

"I was not.  I went to explore the unfinished house on behalf of Lord
Caranby.  I was ghost-hunting.  Do you remember how you asked me next
day why I wore an overcoat and I explained that I had a cold--"

"Yes.  You said you got it from sitting in a hot room."

"I got it from hunting round the unfinished house at Rexton. I did not
think it necessary to explain further."

Juliet put her hand to her head.  "Oh, how I suffered on that day," she
said.  "I was watching for you all the afternoon. When you came I
thought you might voluntarily explain why you were at Rexton on the
previous night.  But you did not, and I believed your silence to be a
guilty one.  Then, when the letter arrived--"

"When did it arrive?"

"A week after the crime was committed."

"Well," said Cuthbert, rather pained, "I can hardly blame you. But if
you loved me--"

"I do love you," she said with a passionate cry.  "Have I not proved my
love by bearing--as I thought--your burden? Could I do more?  Would a
woman who loves as I do accuse the man she loves of a horrible crime?
I strove to shield you from your enemies."

"I thought you were shielding Basil.  Jennings thought so also."

Juliet drew back, looking paler than ever.  "What do you know of him."

"Very little," said Cuthbert quickly.  "Was he at Rose Cottage on the
night in question?"

"No.  He was not there.  I did not see him."

"Yet he was at the Marlow Theatre with you."

"Yes.  He left the theatre before I did."

"Sit down, Juliet, and tell me exactly how you came to be at Rose
Cottage on that night and why you went."

Miss Saxon seated herself and told all she knew.  "It was this way,"
she said, with more calmness than she had hitherto shown.  "Basil and I
went to see this new melodrama written by Mr. Arkwright--"

"What?  The man Mrs. Octagon wishes you to marry?"

"Yes.  He has written a play to make money.  My mother was angry, as
she thought such a thing was not worthy of him.  He sent her a box.
She refused to go, so Basil and I went.  But the play was so dull that
Basil left early, saying he would come back for me."

"Do you know where he went?"

"No.  He did not say.  Well, the play became worse instead of better.
I was weary to death, so I thought as the theatre was near Rexton, that
I would go and see Aunt Selina.  Then I hoped to return to the box and
meet Basil.  I was told the play, being a long one, would not be over
till midnight.  I left the theatre at a quarter past ten.  It took
fifteen minutes to drive to the cottage.  Then I entered quietly to
give aunt a surprise."

"Ah!  It was you opening the door that Thomas heard."

"Yes! At half-past ten; I had a latch-key.  Aunt Selina loved me very
much and wanted me to come and see her whenever I could.  So that I
could come and go at pleasure without troubling the servants, she gave
me a latch-key.  I happened to have it in my pocket.  I really wished
to see her about this quarrel she had with Basil."

"What was this quarrel about?"

Juliet deliberated before replying.  "It was a small thing," she said
at length.  "Aunt Selina was fond of Basil and often gave him money.
Mr. Octagon doesn't allow Basil much, and mother has enough to do to
make both ends meet.  Basil is, I fear, extravagant.  I know he
gambles, though he never told me where he went--"

"To Maraquito's," said Cuthbert.  "I have met him there."

"I know," said Juliet in rather a reproachful tone.  "I wish you would
not gamble, Cuthbert."

"I have given it up now.  I only played for the excitement, but since
our engagement I have hardly touched a card.  I shall not play for
money again.  My visits to Maraquito's now are purely in the interests
of this case."

"Does she know anything about it?" asked Juliet, astonished.

"Yes," replied Mallow, wondering if the girl knew that Mrs. Octagon had
paid a visit to Senora Gredos.  "Mrs. Herne, who was your aunt's
friend, is the aunt of Senora Gredos."

"I never knew that.  But about this quarrel.  Basil spent more money
than he could afford, poor boy--"

"Young scamp," murmured Cuthbert.

"Don't blame him.  He means well," expostulated Juliet. "Well, aunt
gave him a lot of money, but he always wanted more.  Then she refused.
About a week before Aunt Selina died, Basil wanted money, and she
declined.  They had words and she ordered Basil out of the house.  It
was to try and make it up between them that I called on that night."

"Are you sure Basil did not go also?"

"I don't think so," said Juliet doubtfully.  "He was on bad terms with
Aunt Selina and knew he would not be welcomed. Besides, he had not a
latch-key.  Well, Cuthbert, I reached Rose Cottage at half-past ten and
let myself in.  I went downstairs quietly.  I found Aunt Selina seated
in her chair near the fire with the cards on her lap, as though she had
been playing 'Patience.'  I saw that she was dead."

"Why did you not give the alarm?"

Juliet hesitated.  "I thought it best not to," she said faintly.

It seemed to Mallow that she was keeping something back. However, she
was very frank as it was, so he thought it best not to say anything.
"Well, you saw she was dead?"

"Yes.  She had been stabbed to the heart.  There was a knife on the
floor.  I picked it up and saw it was yours.  Then I thought--"

"That I had killed her.  Thank you, Juliet."

"No, no!" she protested.  "Really, I did not believe that at the time.
I could not think why you should kill Aunt Selina. I was bewildered at
the time and then--" here Juliet turned away her head, "I fancied
someone else might have killed her."

"Who?"

"Don't ask me.  I have no grounds on which to accuse anyone. Let me
tell you what I can.  Then you may think--but that's impossible.
Cuthbert, ask me no more questions."

Mallow thought her demeanor strangely suspicious, and wondered if she
was shielding her mother.  Mrs. Octagon, who hated Selina Loach, might
have struck the blow, but there was absolutely no proof of this.
Mallow decided to ask nothing, as Juliet requested.  "Tell me what you
will, my dear," he said, "so long as you don't believe me guilty."

"I don't--I don't--really I don't.  I picked up the knife and left the
room after ten minutes.  I stole up the stairs and shut the door so
quietly that no one heard.  You see, the first time I did not trouble
to do that, but when I found that aunt was dead I was afraid lest the
servants should come and find me there.  I fancied, as I had the knife
in my hand and had entered by means of the latch-key, that I might be
suspected.  Besides, it would have been difficult to account for my
unexpected presence in the house at that hour."

"I quite comprehend!" said Mallow grimly.  "We can't all keep our heads
in these difficult situations.  Well?"

"I came out into the garden.  I heard the policeman coming down the
lane, and knew I could not escape unobserved that way.  Then if I took
the path to the station I fancied he might see me in the moonlight.  I
ran across the garden by the wall and got over the fence amongst the
corn, where I lay concealed.  Then I saw you coming round the corner.
You climbed the wall and went into the park.  After that I waited till
after eleven, when the policeman entered the house, summoned by the
servants.  I then ran round the field, sheltered from observation by
the corn, which, as you know, was then high, and I got out at the
further side.  I walked to Keighley, the next place to Rexton, and took
a cab home.  I went straight to bed, and did not see Basil till the
next morning.  He told me he had come home later, but he did not say
where he had been, nor did I ask him."

"But I am sure--unless my watch was wrong, that I climbed the wall at a
quarter past ten," insisted Mallow.

"You might have climbed it again at a quarter to eleven."

"No!  I climbed it only once.  Which way did I come?"

"Along the path from the station.  Then you walked beside the fence on
the corn side, and jumping over, you climbed the wall."

"Certainly I did that," murmured Mallow, remembering what he had told
Jennings.  "Did you see my face?"

"No!  But I knew you by your height and by the light overcoat you wore.
That long, sporting overcoat which is down to your heels.  Oh,
Cuthbert, what is the matter?"

She might well ask this question, for Mallow had started and turned
pale.  "Nothing! nothing," he said irritably.  "I certainly did wear
such an overcoat.  I was with Caranby before I went to Rexton, and
knowing his room would be heated like a furnace, I took every
precaution against cold."

Juliet doubted this, as she knew Mallow did not coddle himself in any
way.  However, she had seen the overcoat too often to mistake to whom
it belonged.  Moreover, Cuthbert did not deny that he had jumped the
wall in the way she explained.  "Well, now you know all, what will you
do?" she asked.

"I really can't say," said Mallow, who was trying to conceal his
agitation.  "I can't think who took the knife out of my room.  It was
in a trophy of arms on the wall, and I never noticed that it was
missing, till Jennings drew my attention to the loss.  Certainly Miss
Loach was killed with that knife."

"I am positive of that," said Juliet.  "There is blood on the handle.
But you understand why I kept silence?"

"Yes.  But there was really no need.  I shall call and see your mother
and insist on her giving her consent to our marriage.  She has no
reason to refuse.  Do you know why she objects?"

"No.  She simply says she does not wish me to marry you."

"Did you not tell her what you have told me?"

"I did not.  What was the use?  It was because of my discovery of the
knife and seeing you, and receiving that letter, that I refused to
marry, and so fell in with my mother's plans."

"Juliet, you are not engaged to Arkwright?"

"No.  I am engaged to you and you only.  I mean I only pretended that I
would not marry you.  My mother thought I was obeying her, but I was
really shielding you on account of that letter."

"Give me the letter, love, and I'll show it to Jennings."

"No," said Miss Saxon, shrinking back; "get him to drop the case."

"Why?" asked Cuthbert dryly.  "I could understand that request when you
thought me guilty, but now that you know I am innocent, and that
Jennings is aware I was at Rose Cottage on that night, surely there is
no bar to his proceeding with the case."

"I do not wish it," faltered Juliet.

Cuthbert looked at her steadily and turned away with a sigh. "You are
keeping something from me," he said.

"And you from me," she retorted.  "Why did you start when I spoke of
the overcoat?"

"Juliet, my own," Cuthbert took her hands earnestly, "there are
circumstances in this case which are very strange. Innocent persons may
be sacrificed.  It is best for you and me to have nothing more to do
with the matter.  Miss Loach is dead.  Who killed her will never be
known.  Let us marry, dear heart, and leave the case alone."

"I am quite willing.  But my mother?"

"I shall persuade her to consent."

"I hope so; but I fear she hates you because you are Lord Caranby's
nephew.  She hinted as much.  I don't know the reason."

"I do," said Mallow calmly, "and I think I may be able to persuade her
to see reason.  I shall meddle no more with the case."

"What about Mr. Jennings?"

"I will tell him what I have told you, and what you have told me.  Then
I will point out the futility of looking for a needle in a haystack.
He may be inclined to let the case drop.  He ought to be weary of it by
this time."

Juliet looked wistfully at him.  "Can't we be plain with one another?"

"No," said Mallow, shaking his head, "you have your suspicions and I
mine.  Let us refrain from talking about the matter."

Miss Saxon drew a breath of relief.  "I think that is best," she said,
and her expression was reflected in the eyes of her lover.  "When will
you come and see mother?"

"Next week.  If her objection is a question of money, you can hand over
the whole of that income you have inherited."

"Aunt Selina's six thousand a year!  Why?"

"Because I have enough money for us both, and when Caranby dies I shall
be almost a millionaire.  I don't like you having this money."

"But your reason?"

"I have none that I can tell you.  Besides, if we can buy Mrs.
Octagon's consent with even six thousand a year--"

"I do not mind," said Juliet.  "But now that I know you are really
innocent, and I take shame to myself for having doubted you, I am
willing to marry you, even though my mother withholds her consent."

"My darling!" Cuthbert folded the girl in his arms and kissed her.  "I
now know that you truly love me.  Indeed, I never doubted you."

"But I doubted myself," said Juliet tearfully.  "I should never have
suspected you, even though the evidence was so strong."

"You lost your head for the moment," said her lover, "but don't let us
talk any more about the matter.  I shall pacify Jennings and get him to
drop the case.  Then we will marry and take a tour round the world so
as to forget these unpleasant matters."

"Yes, that is best," said Juliet, and the two walked towards the door.

They should have been completely happy now that all misunderstandings
were cleared up, but each wore a gloomy expression.  Apparently the
shadow of Miss Loach's death still clouded the sunshine of their lives.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS


Jennings was at breakfast in his rooms, considering what he should do
next in connection with the case.  As yet he had not heard from
Cuthbert with regard to the interview with Juliet. The detective waited
upstairs in Le Beau's sitting-room for the conclusion of the meeting,
but when Mallow never appeared he went down.  Then he learned from
Peggy, who was in the office, that the lovers had been gone for some
time "I thought you knew," said Miss Garthorne.

"No," replied Jennings, "I did not know," and then, since he had no
further reason to remain, he took his departure also, wondering why
Mallow had not come to report the matter.

That same evening he sought out Mallow, but was unable to find him at
his accustomed haunts.  More perplexed than ever, Jennings, leaving a
note at Mallow's rooms, had returned to his own.  He could make no new
move until he heard from Mallow, and the young man did not appear
inclined to give any assistance.  Next morning, while at breakfast, he
expected his friend, but still there was no appearance of the visitor.
A ring came to the door and Jennings thought that this was Cuthbert at
last.  He was distinctly disappointed when Drudge made his appearance.

"Well," said Jennings sharply, "what is it?"

"I followed the lady you saw, sir."

"Mrs. Herne?  Yes."

"She left her house in Hampstead and walked down the hill. There she
took a cab.  I followed in another.  Her cab stopped at the house of
Maraquito in Soho.  Since then I have been watching the house, but I
have not seen Mrs. Herne again."

"She is Senora Gredos' aunt," explained Jennings, "so I expect she is
stopping with her."

"No, sir, she isn't.  I made friends with a boy called Gibber--"

"Yes.  He is a page in the house.  Well?"

"I gave him a drink or two," said Drudge, "and a few stamps, as he is a
collector.  He become friendly with me, and I asked him about the
house.  He was very frank, but he said nothing about the gambling."

"Humph!  I expect he has been told to hold his tongue.  Well, did you
hear anything at all?"

"I heard that Gibber had never seen Mrs. Herne.  He did not even know
her name.  Now, sir," went on Drudge, laying a finger in the palm of
his hand, "if Mrs. Herne was stopping at the Soho house, Gibber would
have seen her."

A flash of joy passed across the countenance of Jennings, but he turned
away from his underling so that he might not betray the satisfaction he
felt.  "Mrs. Herne is Maraquito's aunt," he said again.

"No, sir, pardon me.  Maraquito hasn't got an aunt.  Leastways the
aunt, if there is such a person, has never set foot in the house."

"Perhaps Maraquito sees her secretly."

"Well," said Drudge pensively, "she certainly went in by a side door,
Mr. Jennings.  Do you want me to watch further, sir?"

"Yes.  Keep your eye on the Soho house, and should Mrs. Herne reappear,
follow her.  Anything else?"

"Yes, sir.  Mrs. Herne when walking down the hill dropped a small bag."

"Ah!  Have you got it?"

"No.  She was too sharp for me.  I was picking it up when she missed it
and came to claim it.  But before she reached me I had opened it.  Only
her handkerchief was inside.  I gave it back, and she gave me a
shilling.  But the queer thing, sir, is the scent."

"What scent?" asked Jennings, looking keenly at the man.

"Oh, a strange strong scent, fit to knock you down, sir."

"Well, and why shouldn't a lady use scent.  It is customary."

"It is, sir.  My wife uses scent.  But this was a queer smell. And then
a man shouldn't use scent," burst out Drudge.

"Some men are effeminate enough to do so," said Jennings drily.  "But I
don't quite understand all this."

"I can tell you what puzzled me at once," said the underling, "after
watching Maraquito's house for some time, I put another fellow on, and
went to the office.  I had to go to see the police about some matter,
and I spoke to Inspector Twining of the Rexton district.  He had on his
desk a handkerchief and a few articles which had just been taken from a
man who had been arrested for passing false coins."

"Oh!" Jennings looked very interested, "go on."

"This man was in one of the cells, and he is to be brought before the
magistrate this morning.  They searched him and took his handkerchief
from him."

"It is not customary to do that?"

"No, Sir.  But this man--I don't know his name--had two handkerchiefs.
The searcher thought that was one too many," said Drudge, with the
glimmer of a smile, "and took one."

"Why do you tell me all this?" asked Jennings impatiently.

"Because the handkerchief was scented with the same perfume as the
handkerchief of Mrs. Herne I picked up.  The moment I smelt it I
thought of her coming back for the bag.  The scent is so strange and
strong that I thought it just as well to mention it to you.  You are
interested in Mrs. Herne, sir, so if this man uses the same scent--"

"Quite so.  You have acted very wisely.  Where was the man arrested?"

"At a place near Rexton.  He was trying to get a drink and gave a
shilling--it was false.  The inspector will show it to you, sir.  And
another queer thing, Mr. Jennings, this man had some rags and a bottle
of petroleum on him."

"Humph!  Perhaps he intended to set fire to some place.  Have you heard
of any fire?"

"No, sir, not near Rexton."

"At what time was the man arrested?"

"At nine last night.  He is in jail now, and will be brought up this
morning on a charge of passing false money."

"I'll look into it, Drudge.  It is strange about the scent: but there
may be nothing in the matter.  The man could easily buy scent of the
kind Mrs. Herne uses.  Go back to Soho and watch the house.  Let me
know if Mrs. Herne comes out, and where she goes."

"Yes, sir," said Drudge, and bowed himself out.

When the man was gone Jennings walked up and down his room in a great
state of excitement.  He was beginning to see the end of the matter.
That the scent should be used by a man who was passing false coins
confirmed his idea that it was some peculiar sign whereby the members
of the gang recognized one another.  If Mrs. Herne really was the aunt
of Maraquito, this matter implicated her as well as the niece.  And
Mrs. Herne had been accustomed to go to Rose Cottage, which hinted that
Miss Loach had perhaps learned of the existence of the gang and had
suffered for her indiscreet curiosity.

"I believe Miss Loach threatened to disclose what she knew. She may
have learned that the gang worked in that house from the fact of the
ghosts, in which so strongminded an old lady would not believe.  I
daresay she threatened exposure, and someone killed her.  Perhaps Mrs.
Herne herself.  No, confound it, she was out of the house.  Well, I'll
see this man now in jail.  I may be able to force him to tell.  And
I'll call on Lord Caranby to-day, and get permission to search the
unfinished house.  I am quite sure there is a factory there. I wish
Mallow would come and tell me if he has learned anything."

Again there was a ring at the door, and this time Jennings, expecting
no one else, certainly hoped to see Cuthbert.  But, to his surprise,
the servant showed in Lord Caranby.  The old gentleman was calm and
composed as usual, but Jennings thought he looked ill and frail.  The
dark circles round his eyes were more pronounced than ever, and he
leaned heavily on his cane. He was perfectly dressed as usual, and
seemed disposed to be friendly.

"I am glad to see you, Lord Caranby," said the detective, when the old
gentleman was accommodated with the chair, "have you had breakfast?"

"Thank you, yes.  But I could not eat any," said Caranby, breathing
heavily.  "Those stairs of yours are trying, Mr. Jennings.  I am not
so young or so strong as I was."

"You don't look the picture of health, my lord."

"Can you expect a dying man to?"

"Dying--oh, no, you--"

"Dying," insisted Caranby, rapping his stick on the ground. "I know
that I have not many months to live, and I sha'n't be sorry when the
end comes.  I have had a hard time.  Cuthbert will soon be standing in
my shoes.  I suffer from an incurable complaint, Mr. Jennings, and my
doctor tells me I shall die soon."

"I am sure Mallow will be sorry," said Jennings, wondering why Caranby,
ordinarily the most reticent of men, should tell him all this.

"Yes--yes, Cuthbert is a good fellow.  I should like to see him happy
and settled with Miss Saxon before I die.  But Maraquito will do her
best to hinder the match."

"She may soon have enough to do to look after herself," said Jennings
grimly.  "I shall see that she gets her deserts."

"What do you suspect her of?" asked Caranby hastily.

"I can't tell you yet.  I have no proofs.  But I am suspicious."

"She is a bad woman," said the old man.  "I am certain of that.  And
she will stop at nothing to marry Cuthbert.  But this is not what I
came to see you about, Mr. Jennings.  You asked my permission to go
over my house at Rexton?"

"I did.  And I was coming to-day to get the permission confirmed."

"Then I am sorry to say you cannot go over it."

"Why not?" asked Jennings, wondering why Lord Caranby had changed his
mind--a thing he rarely did.  "I only want to--"

"Yes! Yes!" Caranby waved his hand impatiently, "but the fact is, the
house has been burnt down."

"Burnt down--at Rexton!" cried Jennings, jumping from his seat.

"Yes.  It caught fire in some way last night, about eight o'clock.
There was a high wind blowing, and the house has been burnt to the
ground.  Not only that, but, as the weather has been dry, the whole of
the trees and shrubs and undergrowth in the park have gone likewise.  I
am informed that everything within the circle of that wall is a heap of
ashes.  Quite a burning of Rome," chuckled Caranby.

"Do you suspect the house was set on fire?"

"Of course I do.  Even though the weather is hot, I don't think this
can be a case of spontaneous combustion.  Probably some tramp--"

"No," said Jennings decisively, "it is strange you should come to me
with this news.  One of my men has lately been here, and he tells me
that a man was arrested near Rexton last night for passing false money.
He had on him a bottle of petroleum and some rags."

"Ah!" said Caranby, quite serene, "so you think--"

"There can be no doubt about it, my lord.  This man set fire to the
house.  People don't carry bottles of petroleum about for nothing."

"But why should he set fire deliberately to my house?"

"At the instance of the Saul family?"

Lord Caranby sat bolt upright.  "What do you mean?"

"Humph!  It is rather a long story.  But this man who was caught used a
particular kind of scent called Hikui. Maraquito uses it also, and her
aunt, Mrs. Herne."

"Mrs. Herne?  She is not Maraquito's aunt."

"She told me herself that she was."

"And I tell you that Emilia, who is dead, was the only aunt Maraquito
ever had.  Why does Mrs. Herne say this?"

"That is what I am trying to find out.  She said that you did not know
the whole history of the Saul family."

"I know quite enough," said Caranby gloomily, "the members were
abominably wicked.  Maraquito's father died after he was discharged
from jail for coining; and the mother also."

"Well, my lord, this man, who apparently fired your house, was trying
to pass false coins.  He uses the same scent as Maraquito does, leaving
mysterious Mrs. Herne out of the question."

"Well, and what do you deduce from that?"

"I believe that there is a gang of coiners in existence, of which this
man, Clancy, Hale, Maraquito and Mrs. Herne are members.  All use the
scent Hikui, which probably is a sign amongst them.  In what way it is
utilized I cannot say, unless they meet one another in the dark, and
recognize their confreres by the scent."

"I see.  It might be so.  But why should this man burn my house?"

Jennings shrugged his shoulders.  "I can hardly say.  I think the
coiners used that house as a factory.  But since it is burnt down, that
seems impossible.  This man may have fired it out of revenge, on
account of some row with the gang."

"Or else," said Caranby deliberately, "knowing that you were going to
search the house, perhaps it was fired to destroy all traces of the
factory.  Do you connect this with Selina's death?"

"I do.  I believe that she learned of the existence of the factory, and
that she threatened to denounce Clancy, Hale and Mrs. Herne.  Then, to
silence her, she was stabbed."

"But the three you mention were out of the house before the death."

"I know that, and they gave their evidence freely enough at the
inquest.  I have not yet fitted the pieces of the puzzle into one
another, but I am certain the lot are connected from their use of the
perfume.  Also, as this man who has been caught was passing false
money, and as Maraquito and probably Mrs. Herne are surviving members
of the Saul family who practised coining, I should not be surprised to
find that my theories are correct.  But how could anyone know that I
intended to go over your house?"

"You asked me in Maraquito's salon.  Clancy and Hale were about."

"Humph!" said Jennings, "you see the various parts of the puzzle are
fitting together excellently.  Probably one of those two overheard."

"Probably.  That Hale looks a sly creature and capable of much.  I
wonder if he is related to the Saul family.  He has the same nose."

"And the same eyebrows meeting over the nose," said Jennings. "Mrs.
Herne has a similar mark.  I am sure she is a relative of Maraquito's."

"If she is her aunt, I give you leave to call me a fool," said Caranby,
rising.  "I know that Emilia told me she had no sister.  What will you
do next, Jennings?"

"I shall see this man who fired the house and try to get at the truth.
Then I am having Mrs. Herne watched--"

"And Maraquito?"

"She can't move from her couch, so there is no danger of her escaping.
But now that the coining factory is destroyed, I shall find it
difficult to bring home the crime to anyone.  I wish Cuthbert would
come."

"Do you expect him?"

"Yes.  Listen, Lord Caranby," and Jennings related the episode of the
knife, and how he had brought Mallow and Juliet together.  "And it
seems to me," went on the detective, "that Cuthbert learned something
from Miss Saxon which he does not wish to tell me."

"Something to do with Mrs. Octagon."

"Why with her?" demanded Jennings suddenly.

"Oh, because I think Isabella capable of much.  She is a fatal woman!"

"What do you mean by that phrase?"

"Isabella exercised a bad influence on my life.  But for her I should
have married Selina and should not have fallen in with Emilia Saul.  I
should have been happy, and probably Selina would not have met with her
tragic death."

"Do you think the sister has anything to do with it?"

"I can't say.  All I know is that whomsoever Isabella came into contact
with had trouble.  I do well to call her a fatal woman."

"Humph!" said Jennings, "I would rather call Maraquito a fatal woman,
as I believe she brought about the death in some way for the double
purpose of silencing Miss Loach regarding the factory of coins and of
stopping the marriage of her rival with Cuthbert."

Curiously enough, Cuthbert was shown into the room at this moment.  So
interested had Caranby and Jennings been in their conversation that
they had not heard the bell.  Mallow looked in good health, but his
face wore a worried expression. Without preamble, and after greeting
his uncle, he walked up to his friend.

"Jennings," he said calmly, "I have seen Juliet, and she agrees with me
that this case should not be gone on with."

"Ah! does she, and on what grounds?"

"Because she has consented to marry me.  She intends, at my request, to
make over Miss Loach's money to her mother.  We have had quite enough
dabbling in crime, and we are both sick of it."

"I think you are very wise," said Caranby unexpectedly, "let the case
be, Mr. Jennings."

"What did Miss Saxon tell you?" asked the detective irrelevantly.

Mallow sat down and in a calm voice detailed all that he had learned
from Juliet.  "So you see it throws no light on the subject." Had
Mallow mentioned the time at which Juliet asserted she saw him climb
over the wall a new light would certainly have been thrown.  But he
purposely omitted this, and simply said that Juliet had seen him.  "I
told you I was there, Jennings," he added. "Quite so," said the
detective.  "Certainly, nothing new has come out."

"Well, then leave the case alone."

"I fear I shall have to, now that the Rexton house has been burnt
down," and Jennings related in his turn what had taken place.

Cuthbert listened moodily.  "You see," he said, "everything is against
us.  I only wanted the mystery cleared up so that Juliet might marry
me, but now that she wishes to do so, without searching further, I am
not going to do anything else."

"Nor I," said Jennings sadly, "nothing is to be learned.  The case will
remain a mystery to the end of time."

Caranby rose and took Cuthbert's arm.  "You young men are
faint-hearted," he said, with a shrug.

"If you want my opinion, Mrs. Octagon killed her sister.  A fatal
woman, I tell you both--a fatal woman."

"And a clever one," said Jennings gloomily, "she has baffled me."




CHAPTER XIX

SUSAN'S DISCOVERY


Although Jennings appeared to acquiesce in Mallow's suggestion that the
case should be abandoned, he had not the slightest intention of leaving
the matter alone.  His professional pride was irritated by the
difficulties, and he swore that he would in some way learn the truth.
Moreover, the matter did not only deal with the death of Miss Loach,
but with the discovery of a coining gang.  From various obvious facts
connected with the Crooked Lane crime, Jennings made sure that such a
gang was in existence, and that the factory had been in the unfinished
house.  Now that the house was burnt down, it would seem that the
coiners had lost their city of refuge, and would probably give up their
nefarious trade.  As the gang--judging from the number of false coins
circulated during the past five years--had been in existence for a long
time, it was probable that the members had made sufficient money to
retire from so dangerous a business.

"I wonder if the house was set on fire by this arrested man, out of
revenge," thought Jennings, as he dressed to go out, "or whether the
gang, finding things were growing dangerous since the death of Miss
Loach, ordered him to destroy the factory?  I can hardly think that, as
to preserve the secret, Miss Loach was assassinated.  It is not likely
that after paying so terrible a price, such destruction would be agreed
upon.  Certainly the factory may be removed to another place. Humph!  I
wonder if I can trace it.  The best thing for me to do will be to go to
Rexton and look at the ruins."

So to Rexton the detective went, and found a large crowd round the wall
of the park.  This had been broken down in several places so as to
admit the fire engines, and Jennings found a policeman on duty who had
been one of the first to see the fire, and who had indeed summoned the
brigade.  On telling his name and position, the man was willing to
state all he knew.

"I was on duty about eight o'clock," he said officially. "There was a
high wind blowing, but the night was fine and dry.  While walking down
Crooked Lane, intending to take the path to the station, I saw a light
behind the wall of the park.  Then a tongue of flame shot up, and it
didn't need much cleverness to see that the old house was on fire.
Almost before I could collect my wits, sir, the place was in a blaze.
You see the dry weather, the heat and the high wind, made everything
blaze finely.  I signalled for the brigade, and it came up as soon as
possible.  But as there is no gate in the wall, we had to break it down
to get the engines in.  There was a large crowd by this time, and we
had all the help we needed.  By this time the whole house was flaming
like a bonfire.  When we got the wall down the most part of the house
was gone, and the fire had caught the surrounding shrubs, so all we
could do was to halt on the edge of the mass and squirt water, in the
hope of putting out the flames.  But, Lord bless you!" said the officer
with good-humored contempt, "you might as well have tried with a
child's squirt.  As you see, sir, everything is gone within the wall.
Leastways, all but that big oak near the wall."

It was as the man said.  House, trees, shrubs, even the grass had been
swept away by the fierce flames.  Within the walls which had secluded
the place from the world was a blackened space covered with debris.
Where the house had stood was a mound of twisted iron girders, charred
beams and broken slates.  And everywhere the wind was lifting the fine
gray ashes and scattering them abroad, as though in sorrow for the
destruction of the previous night.  Jennings took all this in at a
glance.  Policemen were on guard at the various gaps in the wall, as no
one was allowed to enter.  But the detective, by virtue of his office,
walked across the bare expanse with the inspector, and trod under foot
the black ashes.  There was nothing to be gained, however, by this
inspection.  All that could be seen were the destroyed park and the
mound where the house had been.  "What of the cellars?" asked Jennings.

"Well," said Inspector Twining genially, "I suppose there are cellars,
but there's nothing in them.  The house was shut up for years by a
queer nobleman."

"By Lord Caranby," replied the detective.  "I know.  I suppose the
cellars are under that heap.  I must get Lord Caranby to allow me to
clear it away."

"I expect that will be done, whether or no.  Lord Caranby came down and
told one of our men that he intended to throw down the wall and let the
place as a building site.  So when the building begins the heap will
soon be cleared away and the cellars laid bare.  But there's nothing
there," said the inspector again.

"I am not so sure of that."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing.  I have an idea," answered the detective, who did not wish to
tell the man how he now began to fancy that the factory for safety had
been placed in the cellars.  "By the way, did this man who was arrested
give his name?"

"No.  He refuses to answer any questions.  He was, as you know, Mr.
Jennings, arrested for trying to pass a bad shilling, but there is no
doubt he fired the place.  The bottle of petroleum he had in his
possession was empty, and--"

"Yes!  I heard all that.  Where is he now?"

The inspector named a place near Rexton where the man had been
incarcerated, pending being brought before the magistrate. "I am going
that way," said the inspector.  "If you like to come--"

"I'll come," said Jennings.  "I intended to see this man. There has
been a lot of talk about false coins being passed lately."

Mr. Twining nodded, and began to tell of various cases which had taken
place in the district.  The two took the train to the place where the
police station to which the inspector belonged was situated.  It was
now after twelve o'clock, and Jennings thought he would have some
luncheon before going to the station.  But, unexpectedly, a constable
seeing the inspector, came hurriedly towards him, saluting as he spoke.

"Please, sir, you're wanted at the station," he said.  "A message was
sent to Rexton."

"I have just come from Rexton.  What is it?"

"That man who was arrested for coining, sir?"

"What about him?" asked the inspector, while Jennings listened with all
his ears.  He was far from expecting to hear the reply.

"He is dead, sir," said the policeman.

"Dead!  What do you mean?  He was well enough this morning."

"Well, sir, he's dead now--poisoned!"

"Poisoned!" echoed Jennings, and thought--"Ha! here's an undesirable
witness got out of the way."  Then he followed in the wake of the
inspector, who on hearing the news, hurriedly walked towards the police
station.  Here they found that the news was true.  The constable left
in charge of the office was greatly agitated, as it seemed he had been
lax in doing his duty.  But he made a faithful report.

"It was this way, sir," he said, trying to speak calmly.  "A boy of
fifteen, very poorly dressed--in rags almost--came crying and asking
for the prisoner.  He said the prisoner was his father."

"How did he know that, when the prisoner gave no name and was arrested
only last night?"

"The boy--Billy Tyke his name is, so I suppose the father is called
Tyke also--says his father went out last night.  He was always a
drunkard, and left the boy to starve.  The boy followed him later, and
knowing he would be on the burst, went to the public-house, where the
man was arrested for passing the bad shilling.  There, he was told that
his father was in jail, and came here to ask us to let him see him."

"You should have refused and have detained the boy.  Well?"

"I was moved by the little chap's tears," said the constable, abashed,
"so I let him go into the cell."

"Were you with him?" asked the inspector sharply.

"No, sir.  We left them alone for a few minutes.  As the boy was so sad
and cut up, I thought there would be no harm in doing that.  Well, sir,
the boy came out again in ten minutes, still crying, and said he would
get a lawyer to defend his father.  He did not believe his father had
passed the money. Then he went away.  Later--about half an hour later,
we went into the cell and found the man lying groaning, with an empty
bottle of whisky beside him.  The doctor came and said he thought the
man had been poisoned.  The man groaned and said the young shaver had
done for him.  Then he became unconscious and died."

Jennings listened to this statement calmly.  He saw again the hand of
the coiners.  The person who controlled the members evidently thought
that the man would blab, and accordingly took precautionary measures to
silence him.  Without doubt, the man had been poisoned, and the boy had
been sent to do it. "What is the boy like?" he asked.

"Billy Tyke, sir?" said the constable, replying on a nod from his
chief, to whom he looked for instructions, "a thin boy, fair and with
red rims round his eyes--looks half starved, sir, and has a scarred
mouth, as though he had been cut on the upper lip with a knife."

Jennings started, but suppressed his emotion under the keen eyes of the
observant Twining.  He had an idea that he knew who the boy was, but as
yet could not be sure.  "I'll cut along to the public-house where this
man was arrested," said Jennings, "I suppose you'll hold an inquest."

"Certainly, seeing the man has been poisoned."  Then the inspector
proceeded to rebuke the constable who had performed his duty so ill,
and threatened him with dismissal.  Jennings left in the midst of the
trouble, after getting the inspector to promise that he would report
the result of the inquest.

At the public-house--it was the "White Horse," Keighley, an adjoining
suburb--Jennings learned that the man who called himself--or rather who
was called by his presumed son--Tyke, was not an habitue of the place.
Therefore, the boy could not  have known that his supposed father was
there. Apparently some information had reached the lad, whereby he was
able to trace Tyke to the prison, and had carried to him there the
bottle of poisoned whisky.  Jennings returned to town quite satisfied
that he had another clue to the existence of the coiners.  Also, he
determined to satisfy himself on a point concerning Maraquito, about
which he had long been in doubt.

For the next few days Jennings did nothing.  He kept away from Mallow,
as he did not wish that young man to know that he was still going on
with the case.  Sometimes he went to Maraquito's place, and learned
incidentally that, as there was a chance of her being cured, she was
about to give up the gambling salon.  Jennings quite expected this
information, and assured Hale, who gave it to him, that it was the best
thing Maraquito could do.  "Sooner or later the police will pounce down
on this place," he said.

"As you are a detective, I wonder you haven't stopped it before," said
Hale, with an unpleasant smile.

"I had my reasons," said Jennings calmly, "besides, Maraquito has
conducted the place quite respectably.  I suppose," he added idly, "you
will go abroad also?"

"What do you mean by that?" demanded Hale in silky tones.

"Mrs. Herne has gone to the Continent," said Jennings quietly, "and if
Senora Gredos gives up this very dangerous business, she may go also.
As you will be deprived of two of your friends, Mr. Hale, doubtless you
will go also."

"I might.  One never knows," replied Hale coolly.

"By the way?" asked Jennings, looking round, "I was admitted by a
parlor-maid this evening.  Where is Gibber?"

"I believe Senora Gredos has dismissed him for dishonesty."

"Ah, really," replied the detective, who had his own opinion. "So it
seems Senora Gredos is getting rid of her household already."

Hale winced under the eye of Jennings and turned away with a shrug.  He
was apparently glad to get away.  Jennings looked after him with a
smile.  "I'll catch the whole gang," he murmured, and took his
departure, having learned what he wished to know--to wit, that Gibber
had disappeared.

"Without doubt he was the boy who poisoned Tyke," said Jennings, as he
walked home with a cigar for company.  "I believe Maraquito is the head
of the gang, and the fatal woman that Caranby talks about.  She heard
that Tyke had been arrested, and sent the boy to poison him lest he
should blab. I wonder if it was by her direction that the house was
fired. Well, I'll wait.  As yet I cannot get a warrant, having nothing
but theory to go on.  But the nets are being spread, and unless
Maraquito and her friends clear out with Mrs. Herne, they will be
caught.  When they are all in jail there may be some chance of learning
who murdered that unfortunate woman in Rose Cottage."

Later on, Jennings received the report of the inquest, which appeared
also that evening in the newspapers.  It seemed that Tyke had been
poisoned with arsenic, administered in the whisky bottle.  From his
appearance he was a hard drinker, and doubtless the boy had no
difficulty in inducing him to drink. Tyke had drank freely--indeed the
doctor said he had taken enough to kill three men,--and therefore he
had died almost immediately the boy left, and before he had time to
speak. The inspector, who wrote to Jennings, stated that the constable
who had admitted the boy had been dismissed the force, but the boy
himself could not be traced.  "I shouldn't be surprised if he had taken
refuge in the cellars of the house," said Jennings, "that is, if the
factory is there.  I must see Caranby and get his permission to remove
the rubbish. Only when I have searched the foundation of that house,
will my suspicions be set at rest."

Unexpected aid came to help him in this quarter, as Caranby sent a
note, stating that the rubbish and debris of the fire would be removed
next week, and inviting Jennings to be present.  Caranby added that
Mallow had resumed his visits to the "Shrine of the Muses," but that
Mrs. Octagon still continued hostile.  Basil, however, was more
friendly.  "I daresay," commented Jennings, on reading this last
sentence, "he has his own axe to grind over that money."

It was about this time that the detective received a visit from Susan
Grant.  She looked as neat and timid as usual, and appeared at his
rooms one morning with a request for an interview.  "I said I would
help Mr. Mallow if I could," she said when seated.

"Oh, and have you anything likely to help him,-"

"Not exactly," said Susan, "but I found some old papers of father's."

"I don't quite understand," said the detective, who did not see what
the girl's father had to do in the matter.

"Well, it's this way, sir.  Father was poisoned five years ago."

"Who poisoned him?"

"That we never knew," explained Susan.  "Father's name was Maxwell, but
when mother married Mr. Grant she made me take that name.  It was
supposed that father committed suicide, and mother felt the disgrace
dreadful.  That was why she married and changed the name.  But I don't
believe father, when on the point of making us rich, would swallow so
much arsenic as he did."

"What's that--arsenic?" said Jennings, recalling the death of Tyke.

"Yes, sir.  It was this way.  Father was working at Rexton--"

"At Rexton?" said Jennings impatiently, "yes, yes, go on."

"At a house near the railway station which I can point out, mother
having seen it when she went to inquire."

"Inquire about what?"

"About father's secret job.  He had one he used to go to for three
hours every day by agreement with the foreman.  Father was very clever
and could do all sorts of things.  Mother never knew what the job was,
but father said it would make us all rich."

"Yes, go on." Jennings looked at her, nursing his chin.

"The other day I came across some papers," said Susan, taking a roll
out of her pocket.  "And it proved to be plans of father's secret job.
And you might have knocked me down with a feather, Mr. Jennings, when I
saw on the plans the name of Rose Cottage."

The detective jumped up, greatly excited.  "Rose Cottage!" he cried,
holding out his hands.  "The plans--the plans!"

"I brought them, as I know Miss Saxon who now has Rose Cottage, is
engaged to Mr. Mallow--"

"Haven't you got over that nonsense yet?" said Jennings, who was
looking eagerly at the plans.

"Yes, I have," replied Miss Grant, confidentially.  "I am engaged to a
rising young baker who is just a foreman just now, but we hope to save
and start a shop.  Still, I promised to help Mr. Mallow, and I thought
he would like to see those plans.  You see, sir, they have to do with
Rose Cottage."

"Yes, I do see," almost shouted Jennings, "and I'll bag the whole lot."

"What are you talking about, sir?"

"Ah, I forgot you don't know," said the detective subsiding, "I'll tell
you later.  But you have made a discovery, Susan. This plan shows a
secret entrance into Rose Cottage."

"I know it does, sir, and I thought Miss Saxon would like to see it.  I
don't know what Miss Loach wanted with a secret entrance, though."

"I fancy I do," said Jennings, rolling up the plans.  "Your father was
a very clever man, Susan.  Too clever for some people.  He made this
secret entrance when the new wing of the cottage was built five years
ago, and those who employed him gave him arsenic by way of a reward.
Tyke died of arsenic also, so they are carrying on the same game."

"Oh dear, oh dear!" wept Susan, not hearing the latter part of the
sentence.  "So father was poisoned after all.  Who did it, sir?"

"I can't tell you that," said Jennings, becoming cautious. "You had
better say nothing about this, Susan, till I give you leave.  You have
done Mr. Mallow a great service.  These plans may lead to a discovery
of the murderer."

"And then Miss Saxon will marry Mr. Mallow."

"Yes.  Will you be sorry?"

"No, Mr. Jennings.  I am quite satisfied with my baker."

"Then I tell you what, Susan.  Lord Caranby has offered a reward for
the detection of the murderer.  If these plans lead to his detection,
you will receive a sufficient sum to set up in business."




CHAPTER XX

BASIL


While Jennings was thus working at the case, and hoping to bring it to
a successful issue, Cuthbert was resting in the happy belief that no
further steps were being taken.  The detective had appeared so
despondent when Mallow called with Caranby that the former thought with
some show of reason that he meant what he said.  Had he known that
Jennings was still active he would have been much disturbed.

Agreeably to Cuthbert's suggestion, Juliet had offered the money of
Miss Loach to her mother.  But Mrs. Octagon refused to be bribed--as
she put it--into consenting to the match. In the presence of Mallow
himself, she expressed the greatest detestation for him and for his
uncle, and told Juliet she would never acknowledge her as a daughter if
she married the young man.  The poor girl was thus between two
fires--that of her love for Cuthbert, and that of her mother's hearty
hatred for the Earl and his nephew.  Under the circumstances Cuthbert
thought it best to remain away from the "Shrine of the Muses" for a
time until Mrs. Octagon could be brought to see reason.  But she was so
obstinate a woman that it was doubtful if she would ever behave in an
agreeable manner. Cuthbert returned to his rooms in a rather low state
of mind. He knew that Juliet, whatever happened, would remain true to
him, and had quite hoped to bribe Mrs. Octagon into consenting by means
of the inherited money.  But now things seemed more hopeless than ever.
Juliet, although not very fond of her mother, was a devoted daughter
from a sense of duty, and it would be difficult to bring her to consent
to a match against which the elder woman so obstinately set her face.

Certainly Juliet had said she would marry with or without her mother's
consent, but now that the consent was withheld with violent words, she
seemed inclined to wait.  However, if she did not marry Mallow, he knew
well that she would marry no one else, least of all the objectionable
Arkwright, Cuthbert derived some degree of comfort from this small
fact.  He wondered if there was any chance of forcing Mrs. Octagon into
giving her consent, but after surveying the situation could see no
opportunity.

After dinner that night, Cuthbert was thinking of going to see his
uncle, who still stopped at the Avon Hotel. When Hale was announced.
Mallow was surprised.  The lawyer was not a friend of his, and he had
no liking for his company.  However, he felt a certain curiosity as to
the reason of this unexpected visit and welcomed the man with civility.
But he did not ask him to have any coffee though it was on the table.
Cuthbert held to the traditions of the East regarding bread and salt,
and he wished to leave himself free to deal with Hale as an enemy,
should occasion arise, as it might.  Hale was far too intimate with
Maraquito to please the young man.  And Maraquito's attentions were far
too pressing to make Cuthbert feel comfortable in her presence.

"Well, Mr. Hale," said Mallow coldly, "why have you come?"

The lawyer, who was in an evening suit and dressed with taste and care,
took a seat, although not invited to do so.  He looked cold and calm,
but there was an excited gleam in his large eyes which showed that his
calmness masked some emotion, the cause of which Cuthbert could not
fathom.  "I have come to see you about young Saxon," he said.

"Really," answered Mallow coolly, although surprised, "what can you
have to say to me about him."

"He is your friend--"

"Pardon me.  I can hardly call him so.  We are acquaintances only."

"But you are engaged to his sister," persisted Hale.

Mallow threw away the cigarette he was lighting and jumped up. "I see
no reason why Miss Saxon's name should be mentioned, Mr. Hale."

"Don't you, Mr. Mallow?  I do."

"Then I object to your mentioning it.  State your business and go, Mr.
Hale.  I have no acquaintance with you."

"I can't state my business unless I mention Miss Saxon's name."

"Then you will please to take yourself off," said Mallow.

Hale smiled coldly, though evidently annoyed.  "I think it is to your
interest to hear me," he said deliberately, "and to the interest of the
lady whom you hope to call your wife."

"Does this business concern Miss Saxon?"

"Indirectly it does.  But it rather has to do with her brother."

Mallow frowned.  The conversation was taking a turn of which he did not
approve.  However, he knew well the dangerous ground upon which he
stood with regard to the case, and thought it best to hear what his
unexpected visitor had to say.  "State your business," he said curtly.

"Very good," replied Hale, nursing his silk hat on his knee. "I see you
don't offer me coffee or a cigarette."

"We are not friends, sir.  And let me remind you that you thrust
yourself uninvited on me."

"To do you a service," said Hale quickly.  "I think, therefore, that I
deserve a better reception."

"Will you please come to the point?" said Mallow coldly, "whatever the
service may be, I am quite sure it is two for you if one for me.  You
are not the man to go out of your way, Mr. Hale, to help anyone."

Hale nodded and smiled grimly.  "You are quite right.  Now, then, Mr.
Mallow, do you know that Basil Saxon was to have inherited the money of
my late client, Miss Loach?"

"No, I never knew that.  I understood that Miss Loach always intended
to leave the money to Miss Saxon."

Hale shook his well-oiled head.  "On the contrary, Mr. Saxon was her
favorite.  In spite of his wild ways she liked him. However, she was
also fond of Miss Saxon, and you may thank Miss Loach, Mr. Mallow, for
having been the means of forwarding your engagement."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Cuthbert angrily.

"Mrs. Octagon," went on the lawyer deliberately, "would never have
consented to Miss Saxon becoming engaged to you had not Miss Loach
insisted that she should agree."

"Seeing that Mrs. Octagon hated her sister and was not likely, to be
influenced by her, I do not see how that can be."

"Perhaps not.  Nevertheless, such is the case.  You saw how, when Miss
Loach died, Mrs. Octagon seized the first opportunity to place
obstacles in the way of your marriage."

"I believe she did that on Maraquito's account, Mr. Hale.  I know
perfectly well that Mrs. Octagon called on Maraquito."

"Quite so--to ask Maraquito not to let Basil Saxon play beyond his
means.  Certainly, Maraquito having a strange fancy for you, agreed, on
condition that Mrs. Octagon refuse to let Miss Saxon marry you.  But,
in any case, Mrs. Octagon hates your uncle too much to allow her
daughter to become your wife. You will never get Mrs. Octagon's consent
unless I help you."

"You!" echoed Mallow, astonished and annoyed.  "What possible influence
can you have with Mrs. Octagon.  I have certainly seen you at her
house, but I scarcely think you know her well enough--"

"Oh, yes, I do." Hale rose in his earnestness.  "See here, sir; I love
Maraquito and I wish to marry her."

"You can, so far as I am concerned,"

"So you say," said Hale bitterly, "but you cannot be ignorant that
Maraquito loves you."

"I don't see what that has to do with our conversation," replied
Mallow, growing red and restless.

"It has everything to do with the matter.  I want to marry Maraquito,
as I am rich and deeply in love with her.  She would have become my
wife long ago but that you crossed her path.  Lord knows why she should
love a commonplace man like you, but she does."

"Isn't that rather personal?" said Mallow dryly.

"I beg your pardon.  But what I wish to say is this.  If you marry Miss
Saxon and place yourself beyond Maraquito's reach, I will be able to
induce her to marry me.  Our interests are bound up together.  Now, to
do this you must have Mrs. Octagon's consent.  I can get it."

"In what way?"

"She loves Basil, her son, more than she does herself," went on Hale,
paying no attention to the remark.  "To save him she would do much."

"To save him from what?"

"Basil;" continued the lawyer, still not noticing the interruption, "is
a young fool.  He thought himself sure of Miss Loach's money--and he
was until a week before she died. Then he came to Rose Cottage and
insulted her--"

"I have heard that.  She ordered him out of the house."

"She did.  Miss Loach was a bitter, acrid old woman when the fit took
her.  However, Basil insulted her so grossly that she made a new will
and left all the money to Miss Saxon.  Now it happens that Basil, to
supply himself with funds, when his aunt refused to aid his
extravagance further, forged her name to a bill--What's the matter?"

"Nothing," said Mallow, who had started from his chair, "only your
intelligence is sufficiently unpleasant."

"I can understand that," sneered the lawyer, "since you wish to marry
his sister.  You don't want a forger for a brother-in-law."

"Who does?" said Cuthbert, not telling that he was thinking of Basil in
connection with a still darker crime.  "Go on, Mr. Hale."

"The bill fell into my hands.  When Miss Saxon got the money she
transferred the business to her own lawyer.  I had to give the bill up."

"Ah!" said Mallow meaningly, "I see now the hold you had over Basil."

"Yes, that was my hold.  I did not want to give up the bill. But it had
been met, and as Miss Loach is dead, there was a difficulty in proving
the signature to be a forgery.  I therefore gave the bill to Miss
Saxon.  She knew of her brother's guilt--"

"I see--I see," murmured Cuthbert, wondering if she had been shielding
Basil as well as him.  "My poor girl!"

"She is a brave girl," said Hale, in a voice of reluctant admiration.
"She met me and fought for her brother.  I gave way, as I did not wish
to make trouble.  Why, it doesn't matter.  However, you see how things
stand.  Basil is a forger.  If his mother knew that he was in danger of
being arrested she would consent to your marriage, and then I might
marry Maraquito.  I have come here to tell you this."

"But if Miss Saxon has the bill, and there is a difficulty of proving
the signature, owing to Miss Loach's death, I don't see--"

"Ah, not in this case.  But Basil Saxon forged my name also. I hold a
forged check.  I met it and said nothing about it. Basil, thinking
because his sister held the bill that he was out of my power, was most
insolent.  But I said nothing of the check which he thought I never
detected.  The more fool he. He must have a fine opinion of my business
capacity.  However, as the check is only for fifty pounds, he probably
thought that it would escape my notice.  Well, you see how I can force
Mrs. Octagon's hand.  What do you say?"

Mallow put his hands to his head quite bewildered by the information.

"You must give me time to think," he said, "but if I consent--"

"You marry Miss Saxon.  I ask no reward for my services.  All I want is
to get you out of my way as regards Maraquito.  I will give you the
forged check on the day you wed Miss Saxon. I can see," added Hale,
rising, "that you are somewhat upset with this news, and no wonder.
You never thought Basil was such a scoundrel."

"I thought him a fool, never a knave."

"My dear sir, he is a thoroughly bad man," said Hale cynically, "though
I daresay other people are just as bad. However, I will give you a week
to think over the matter. Good-night."

"Good-night," said Mallow, touching the bell, but without meeting the
gaze of Hale, "I will think over what you have said."

"You will find it to your advantage to do so," replied Hale, and went
out of the room at the heels of the servant.

Mallow remained where he was in deep thought.  It was terrible to think
that the brother of Juliet should be such a scamp.  A forger and
perhaps something else.  Here, indeed, was a motive for Miss Loach to
meet with her death at her nephew's hand. Probably on the night in
question she threatened to let the law take its course, and then
Basil--but at this point of his meditations a ring came at the door.
In a few moments Cuthbert heard a step he knew and rose with an
agitated air. Basil entered the room.

The young man was carefully dressed as usual in his rather affected
way, but his face was pale and he seemed uneasy.  "I see you have had a
visit from Hale," he said, trying to appear at his ease.

"How do you know that?" asked Mallow abruptly, and declining to see the
proffered hand.

"I saw Hale enter a cab as I came up the stairs," said Basil, drawing
back; "and even had I not seen him I would know that he has been
telling you a lot of lies because you refuse to shake hands."

"Are they lies?"

"Ah, then, he has been talking.  He is my enemy.  He comes here to do
me harm," said Basil, his eyes flashing.

"He came here as your friend," replied Mallow abruptly, "Hale wishes me
to marry your sister.  He offers to hand over to me a certain check if
I marry her."

"I don't know what you are talking about," cried Basil petulantly, and
threw himself into a chair, very pale.

"I think you know very well.  Why have you come here?"

Basil looked sullen.  "I want you to marry Juliet also.  And I came to
say that I thought I could get my mother to take that money and to
withdraw her opposition."

"So that you may have the fingering of the money?"

"Oh, I suppose she will give me some," said Basil airily, and began to
roll a cigarette with deft fingers.

Mallow was enraged at this coolness.  "Basil, you are a scoundrel!"

"Am I, indeed?  Nice words to use to your future relative."

"How do you know I will ever be your relative.  Suppose I refuse Hale's
demand, and let him proceed on this check?"

Basil's cigarette dropped our of his hand.  "I don't know what check
you mean," he declared with alarm, "there was a bill--I couldn't help
myself.  My aunt--"

"Gave you a lot of money and you repaid her by forging her name.  But
you also forged Hale's name."

"Ah, I know what you mean now.  It was only for fifty pounds."

"Had it been for fifty pence the crime is the same," said Mallow
vehemently, "why did you not let me help you?  I offered to.  But you
preferred to commit a crime."

"Such a fuss to make," muttered the youth discontentedly, "the bill is
in the possession of Juliet, and no steps can be taken on that.  If
mother accepts this six thousand a year, she will buy the check back
from Hale.  He's a scoundrel and will do anything for money.  Then you
can marry Juliet, and I can go abroad for a few years on an income of
three thousand.  Mother will allow me that."

The coolness of this speech almost took Mallow's breath away. The man
did not seem to be at all affected by his crime.  So long as he was not
found out he appeared to think nothing about the matter.  "And I know
you will marry Juliet," proceeded Basil, "you love her too well to give
her up."

"That is true enough," said Cuthbert, who, having already spared him
too long, now determined to punish him, "but I may love her so well
that I may not wish to buy her."

"What do you mean by buying her?" demanded Basil sulkily.

"What I say.  Is it only to save you that I am to marry Juliet?  My
marriage must be one of love--"

"She does love you.  And I don't see," added Basil complainingly, "why
you should jump on a chap for wishing for your happiness--"

"And your own safety."

"Oh, bosh!  The bill is destroyed.  Juliet put it into the fire, and
Hale will sell the check at his own price."

"His price is that I am to marry Juliet."

"So that he can marry Maraquito, I suppose.  I know that she loves you
and that Hale is crazy about her.  It's very hard on me," whined the
egotistical youth, "for I want to marry her myself, only mother put her
spoke in my wheel."

"Dare you offer yourself to Maraquito, bad as she is, knowing what you
are?" cried Mallow, fairly disgusted.

"Oh, the forgeries.  What of them?  It's nothing."  Basil snapped his
fingers.  "Maraquito won't mind.  But I suppose I'll have to give her
up on account of that infernal check. Such a small one as it was too.
I wish I had made it one hundred and fifty.  I could have done so."

In the face of this callous behavior it was sheer wrongdoing to spare
the man.  "I do not allude to the forgery, though that is bad enough,"
said Cuthbert, glancing round to see that the door was closed, "but to
the murder of your aunt.  You killed her."

Basil leaped from his chair with great indignation.  "I did not.  How
dare you accuse me?" he panted.

"Because I have proofs."

"Proofs?"  Basil dropped back as though he had been shot.

"Yes.  I learned from my man that you took the bowie knife which used
to hang on the wall yonder.  He saw you take it, and thought you had
received my permission.  You went to the Marlow Theatre with your
sister.  You left her in the box and went out after eight o'clock.  You
went to Rexton to Rose Cottage.  After Clancy left the house your aunt
admitted you and you killed her--"

"I swear I did not!" said Basil, perfectly white and trembling.

"You did, you liar!  Juliet followed you to the cottage."

"Juliet?  She did not know I had gone."

"Ah! you see, you were there.  Yes, she said she went in order to try
and make it up between your aunt and you.  But I believe now she went
to see if you were committing a crime.  I am not aware how much Juliet
knows of your wickedness, Basil, but--"

"She knows only about the forgery.  I was not at the cottage."

Mallow made a weary gesture.  "Why do you tell these falsehoods?" he
said with scorn.  "Juliet entered the cottage by means of her
latch-key.  She found Miss Loach dead and the knife on the floor.  You
dropped it there.  She came out and saw a man of my height--which you
are, and of my appearance (you are not unlike me at a distance)
climbing the wall into the park.  He had on alight overcoat--my
overcoat.  Juliet thought I was the man.  I did not say no.  But the
moment she mentioned the coat I knew it was you.  You borrowed the coat
from me, and returned it the other day.  Now then--"

"Stop! stop!" cried Basil, rising with pale lips and shaking hands, "I
admit that I went to Rexton on that night, but I swear I am innocent."

"Pah!" cried Mallow, thinking this was another lie, and a weak one too.

Basil seized him by the arm.  "Mallow, I swear by all that I hold most
sacred that I did not kill Aunt Selina.  I own I took the knife.  I
wished to frighten her into giving me money.  I left the theatre in
order to go to Rexton.  I thought I might be spotted if I came by the
lane.  I climbed the wall of the park on the other side after nine,
some time after nine.  I was crossing when a man chased me.  I don't
know who it was.  I could not see in the bushes, and the night was
rather dark at the moment, though clear later.  I dropped the knife, it
fell out of my pocket, and I scrambled over the wall and bolted."

"Then how did Juliet see you shortly before eleven?"

"I came back for the knife.  I thought it might be traced to you and
that you might get into trouble.  Really I did," said Basil, seeing
Mallow make a gesture of dissent.  "I came back by the railway path,
and along by the corn.  Where Juliet could have been, I don't know.  I
climbed the wall and crossed the park.  I could not find the knife
where I thought I had dropped it, near the house.  I then climbed the
opposite wall and got away home.  Next day I heard of the death and
went down to look for the knife again.  I never thought she had been
killed with that knife, as no weapon was found.  Juliet said nothing to
me about the matter--"

"No.  Because she thought the knife was mine, as it is, and that I was
the man who climbed the wall.  I was on the spot. I remember telling
you that, when we met in the street, and you were afraid.  I see now
why you asked me if I had been in the park at night."

"I thought you might have spotted me.  When were you there?"

"About twenty minutes past ten."

"Well, then, I was there at ten or a few minutes later.  I got away
from the man who chased me some time before you came.  It was, as you
say, at a quarter to eleven when I came back, and by that time I
suppose you had gone."

"I went over the opposite wall as you did," said Cuthbert, "we must
have run each other very close."

"I expect we were in different parts of the park," said Basil, "but I
swear that I am telling you the truth.  I said nothing about this, as I
was afraid of being arrested.  But, if you like, I'll tell that
detective Jennings what I told you.  He will help me."

"My advice to you is to hold your tongue and keep silent."

"But if I am traced?" stammered Basil.

"I shall say nothing," said Mallow, "and Jennings has dropped the case.
I shall get the check from Hale, and you must go abroad.  I believe you
are innocent."

"Oh, thank you--thank you--"

"But you are a scoundrel for all that.  When I get you sent abroad and
marry your sister, neither she nor I will have anything to do with you.
And if you come back to England, look out."




CHAPTER XXI

AN EXPERIMENT


Next day Cuthbert received a letter from Jennings.  It intimated that
Maraquito wished to see him that evening.  "If you will call at nine
o'clock," wrote the detective, "she will be alone.  The police have
decided to close the gambling-house, and she is making preparations to
leave England.  I understand she has something to tell you in
connection with the death of Miss Loach, which it is as well you should
hear.  A confession on her part may save you a lot of trouble in the
future."

Mallow hesitated to obey this summons.  He thought it was strange that
Maraquito should get the detective to write to him, as he knew she
mistrusted the man.  And, apart from this, he had no wish to see Senora
Gredos again.  Things were now smooth between him and
Juliet--comparatively so--and it would not do to rouse the girl's
jealousy.  Maraquito was a dangerous woman, and if he paid her a
solitary visit, he might fall into some snare which she was quite
capable of laying. Such was her infatuation, that he knew she would
stop at nothing to gain her ends.

On the other hand, Maraquito, to all appearances, knew of something in
connection with the case which it behooved him to learn if he wished
for peace in the future.  So far as Mallow knew, the matter was at an
end.  He believed that Jennings had shelved the affair, and that no
further inquiries would be made.  This belief calmed his anxiety, as he
greatly desired to save Basil Saxon from arrest.  Certainly, the young
scamp protested his innocence, and told a plausible tale, but he was
such a liar that Mallow could not be satisfied.  He might be innocent
as he said, yet the facts of the visit to the cottage, the possession
of the knife and of the overcoat which he wore when seen by Juliet,
hinted at his guilt.  Also the forged bill and check might implicate
him in the matter.  Did Jennings learn of these things, he would
certainly arrest Saxon on suspicion, and, for Juliet's sake, Cuthbert
did not wish such a thing to happen.

It struck Mallow that Hale might have confided in Maraquito, with whom
he was in love.  Being unscrupulous, she would probably use this
information, and might threaten to denounce Basil, to the subsequent
disgrace of Juliet, if Cuthbert refused to marry her.  Taking these
things into consideration, Mallow decided that it would be best to pay
the visit and learn what Maraquito had to say.

It was a wild, blustering evening, rainy and damp.  When Mallow stepped
out of the door he shivered as the keen wind whistled down the street.
Few people were abroad, as they preferred, very sensibly, the comfort
of a fireside to the windy, gleaming thoroughfares.  Wishing his visit
to be as secret as possible, Mallow walked to Soho and turned into
Golden Square shortly before the appointed hour.  He did not expect a
pleasant interview, as Maraquito was an uncivilized sort of woman with
little control over her very violent emotions.  Altogether, he
anticipated a disagreeable quarter of an hour.

He was admitted smilingly by a woman, and noticed with some surprise
that Gibber the page was not at his accustomed post. But he put this
down to the fact that there was no gambling on this particular evening.
The windows of the great salon were dark, and Senora Gredos received
him in a small apartment which she used as a sitting-room.  Her couch
was drawn up close to the fire, and she appeared to be in better health
than usual.  Standing at the door, Mallow thought she made a pretty
picture.  She had on a white wrapper trimmed with gold lace, and as
usual, wore a profusion of jewelry.  Across the lower part of the couch
was flung a gorgeous purple coverlet of eastern manufacture, and what
with the brilliant colors and the glitter of precious stones, she
looked remarkably eastern herself.  Mallow noticed particularly how
Jewish she was in appearance, and wondered how he could have been so
blind as not to have remarked it before.  The room looked cheerful and
warm, and was welcome after the chilly, dreary streets. Mallow, having
taken off his overcoat in the hall, came forward and bowed somewhat
formally, but Maraquito was not to be put off with so frigid a
greeting.  Holding out both hands, she shook his warmly and pointed to
a chair near her couch. It was now a few minutes after nine.

"How good of you to come and see me," she said in her deep, rich voice.
"The evening was so dull."

"You are not having any play this evening?"

Maraquito shrugged her fine shoulders and unfurled a quite unnecessary
fan, which, to keep up her fiction of being a Spanish lady, she always
carried.  "Some idiot told the police what was going on and I received
a notice to close."

"But the police knew long ago."

"Not officially.  The police can be silent when it suits.  And I always
kept things very quiet here.  I can't understand why any objection
should be made.  I suspect that man Jennings told."

"I thought you liked him."

"Oh, I fancied he was a friend of yours and so I made the best of him.
But, to tell you the truth, Mr. Mallow, I always mistrusted him.  He is
much too fond of asking questions for my taste.  Then Mr. Hale told me
that the man was a detective, so I understood his unwarrantable
curiosity.  I shall have nothing to do with him in future."

"In that case," said Mallow, anxious to arrive at the truth, "I wonder
you employ him to write letters for you."

The woman raised herself on one rounded elbow and looked surprised at
this speech.  "Really, I don't think I am so foolish," said she dryly.
"Why do you say that?"

Mallow looked puzzled.  "Jennings wrote me a letter, asking me to come
here this evening at nine.  He said you wished to see me."

Maraquito's eyes flashed.  "I always wish to see you," she said,
sinking her voice to a tender tone, "and I am much obliged that Mr.
Jennings' note should have brought you here. But I gave him no
authority to write it."

"Have you seen Jennings lately?" asked Cuthbert, more and more puzzled.

"A few nights ago.  But he said nothing about you.  He simply played
cards for a time and then took himself off."

"Are you leaving England?"

"I am.  Being an invalid as you see, I have no amusement but
card-playing.  Now that the Puritan authorities have stopped that, I
cannot stay in this dull country to be bored.  But who told you?"

"Jennings said you were making preparations to leave."

"In this letter he wrote you?" asked Maraquito, frowning.

"Yes.  I am sorry I did not bring the letter with me.  But I can show
it to you on another occasion.  He also said you had something to tell
me."

Maraquito fastened her brilliant eyes on his face.  "Mr. Jennings seems
to know much about my affairs and to take a deep interest in them.  But
I assure you, I never gave him any authority to meddle."

"Then why did he write and bring me here?"

Senora Gredos frowned and then her face cleared.  "The man is such a
secretive creature that I don't trust him," she said; "and yet he
declared himself to be my friend.  He knows I like you, and hinted that
he should be glad to bring us together."

"Jennings is a gentleman in spite of his profession," said Mallow in
cutting tones.  "I scarcely think he would take so great a liberty."

"Is it a liberty?" asked Maraquito softly.

"I consider it to be one.  Jennings knows that I am engaged."

"Stop!" she cried, gripping her fan so tightly that her knuckles grew
white.  "Do you dare to tell me this?"

"Senora--Maraquito--don't let us have a scene.  I told you before that
I could not give you the love you asked."

"And I told you that I would have that love in spite of your
unwillingness," said the woman doggedly.  "You have scorned me, and I
ought to have sufficient pride to let you go your own way.  But I am
such an infatuated fool that I am content to let you tread on me."

"I have no wish to do that, but--"

"You do--you do--you do!" she said, vehemently.  "Why can you not love
me?  I would be a better wife than that doll you--"

"Drop that, Maraquito.  Leave Miss Saxon's name out of the question."

"I shall talk of Miss Saxon as long as I like," cried Maraquito,
snapping the fan and growing flushed.  "You scorn me because I am an
invalid--"

"I do not.  If you were perfectly restored to health I would give you
the same answer."  Mallow was on his feet by this time.  "I think it
would be wise of me to go."

But Senora Gredos, stretching out her hand, caught him by the coat
convulsively.  "No! no! no!" she muttered fiercely.  "I did not ask you
to come here.  I did not send for you.  But now that you are here, you
will stop.  We must understand one another."

"We do understand one another," said Cuthbert, who was growing angry at
this unreasonable attitude.  "You must know that I am engaged to Miss
Saxon!"

"You will never marry her--never!" cried Maraquito passionately; "oh,
cruel man, can you not see that I am dying of love for you."

"Maraquito--"

"If I were not chained to this couch," she said between her teeth, "I
should go after her and throw vitriol in her face. I would give her
cause to repent having lured you from me with her miserable doll's
face.  Pah! the minx!"

Cuthbert grew really angry.  "How dare you speak like this?" he said.
"If you were able to attack Miss Saxon in the vile way you say, I
should show you no mercy."

"What would you do--what would you do?" she panted.

"Put you in jail.  That sort of thing may do abroad but we don't allow
it here.  I thought you were merely a foolish woman.  Now I know you
are bad and wicked."

"Cuthbert--Cuthbert."

"My name is Mallow to you, Senora Gredos.  I'll go now and never see
you again.  I was foolish to come here."

"Wait--wait," she cried savagely, "it is just as well that you are
here--just as well that we should come to an understanding."

"There can be no understanding.  I marry Miss Saxon and--"

"Never, never, never!  Listen, I can ruin her--"

"What do you mean?"

"Her brother--"

"Oh, Basil, I know all about that."

Maraquito threw herself back on her couch, evidently baffled. "What do
you know?" she demanded sullenly.

"That you are about to accuse him of the death of Miss Loach."

"Yes, I do.  He killed her.  There is a forged bill in--"

"I know all about that also," said Cuthbert, making a gesture for her
to be silent.  "If you hope to stop my marriage with Miss Saxon by such
means, you have wasted your time," he moved again towards the door.
"It is time this interview ended," he said.

"Why did you seek it then?" she flashed out.

"I did not.  Jennings wrote, asking me to call and see you.  I
understood that you had something to say to me."

"I have much--though how that detestable man knew I can't think.  But I
can disgrace that doll of a girl through her brother."

"No, you cannot.  Basil is perfectly innocent of murder."

"You have to prove that," she sneered, her features quivering and one
white hand clutching the purple drapery, "and you know--so you say,
that Basil is a forger."

"He is a fool.  I don't condone his folly, but his sister shall not
suffer on his account.  The bill to which Miss Loach's name was forged
is in the possession of Miss Saxon--in fact I may tell you that Basil
himself assured me it had been destroyed."

"Of course he would say that," scoffed Maraquito, her eyes flashing,
"but the check to which Hale's name is affixed is not destroyed, and
Hale shall proceed on that."

"Hale shall not do so," said Cuthbert resolutely.  He did not wish to
betray Hale's confidence, as a confession would entail the man's loss
of the woman he loved.  But it was necessary to stop Maraquito somehow;
and Cuthbert attempted to do so in his next words, which conveyed a
distinct threat.  "And you will not move in the matter."

Maraquito laughed in an evil manner.  "Won't I?" she taunted. "I just
will.  Hale will do what I want, and he will have Basil arrested unless
you promise to give up this girl and marry me."

"Hale will do nothing, neither will you," retorted Cuthbert. "I don't
care about threatening a woman, but you must not think that you are
able to play fast and loose with me."

"How can you hurt me?" asked Maraquito with a scornful smile, although
her lips quivered at his tone.

"I can tell Jennings that you are Bathsheba Saul!"

She turned quite pale.  "I?  My name is Maraquito Gredos."

"It is nothing of the sort.  My uncle Lord Caranby came here and
recognized you from your likeness to the woman Emilia he was once
engaged to.  He can state that in court."

"Where is his proof?"

"Proof will be forthcoming when necessary."

"Not to prove that I am Bathsheba Saul.  I know nothing of the name."

Cuthbert shrugged his shoulders.  He had said what was necessary and,
unwilling to speak further, prepared to go. Maraquito saw him slipping
from her grasp.  Once gone, she knew he would never come back.  With a
cry of despair she stretched out her hands.  "Cuthbert, do not leave
me!" she cried in anguish.

"I must leave you.  I was foolish to come.  But you know now, that if
you move in this matter I can move too.  I doubt very much, madam, if
your past life will bear looking into."

"You coward!" she moaned.

"I know I am a coward," said Mallow uncomfortably; "it is not my way to
threaten a woman--I said that before.  But I love Juliet so much that
at any cost I must protect her."

"And my love counts for nothing."

"I am sorry, Maraquito, but I cannot respond.  A man's heart is not his
own to give."

"Nor a woman's," she moaned bitterly; "oh, heaven, how I suffer.  Help!"

Cuthbert heard footsteps ascending the stairs--the light footsteps of a
hasty man.  But Maraquito's head had fallen back, her face was as white
as snow and her mouth was twisted in an expression of anguish.  She
seemed to be on the point of death, and moved by her pain--for she
really appeared to be suffering, he sprang forward to catch her in his
arms.  Had he not done so she would have fallen from the sofa.  But
hardly had he seized her form when she flung her arms round his neck
and pressed her mouth to his.  Then she threw back her head, not now
white, but flushed with color and triumph.  "I have you now," she said
breathlessly.  "I love you--I love you--I will not let you go!"

What Cuthbert would have done it is hard to say.  Apparently Maraquito
was determined to hold him there.  But at this moment Jennings appeared
at the door.  On seeing him arrive so unexpectedly, Maraquito uttered a
cry of rage and dismay, and released Mallow.  "Send him away--send him
away!" she cried, pointing to Jennings, who looked cold and stern.
"How dare he come here."

"I come on an unpleasant errand," said Jennings, stepping forward.  "I
want you, Mallow!"

Cuthbert, who had moved forward, stopped.  "Why do you want me?"

Jennings placed his hand on the young man's shoulder.  "I arrest you on
the charge of murdering Selina Loach!"

Maraquito uttered a shriek, and Cuthbert's face grew red.  The latter
spoke first.  "Is this a jest?" he asked harshly.

"You will not find it so."

"Let me pass.  I refuse to allow you to arrest me."

Jennings still continued to keep his hand on Cuthbert's shoulder,
whereupon the young man flung it aside.  At the same moment Jennings
closed with him, and a hand-to-hand struggle ensued.  Maraquito, with
straining eyes, watched the fight.  With stiffened muscles the two
reeled across the room.  Cuthbert was almost too amazed to fight.  That
Jennings should accuse him and attack him in this way was incredible.
But his blood was up and he wrestled with the detective vigorously.  He
was an excellent athlete, but Jennings was a west-country-man and knew
all that was to be known about wrestling.  With a quick twist of his
foot he tripped up his opponent, and in a minute Cuthbert was lying on
his back with Jennings over him.  The two men breathed hard.  Cuthbert
struggled to rise, but Jennings held him down until he was suddenly
dragged away by Maraquito, who was watching the fight eagerly.  There
she stood in the centre of the room which she had reached with a bound.

"I thought so," said Jennings, releasing Mallow and rising quickly.

Maraquito threw a small knife at Cuthbert's feet.  "Kill him--kill
him!" she said with hysterical force.

"There is no need to," said the detective, feeling his arms, which were
rather sore.  "Mallow, I beg your pardon for having fought you, but I
knew you would not lend yourself to a deception, and the only way in
which I could force this lady to show that she was able to walk was by
a feigned fight."

"Then you don't intend to arrest me?" said Mallow, rising and staring.

"Never had any idea of doing so," rejoined Jennings coolly. "I wished
to learn the truth about Mrs. Herne."

"Mrs. Herne!"

"Or Maraquito Gredos or Bathsheba Saul.  She has a variety of names, my
dear fellow.  Which one do you prefer?" he asked, turning to the
discovered woman.

Maraquito looked like the goddess of war.  Her eyes flashed and her
face was red with anger.  Standing in a striking attitude, with one
foot thrust forward, her active brain was searching for some means of
escape.  "I don't know what you mean by calling me these names!"

"I mean that you are to be arrested.  You are Mrs. Herne. Your accident
was merely a sham to avert suspicion."

"Mrs. Herne is my aunt."

"Pardon me, no.  The only aunt you ever had was Emilia Saul, who died
in Caranby's house.  In our interview at Hampstead you betrayed
yourself when we talked of Mallow.  I had you watched.  You were seen
to enter this house, and out of it Mrs. Herne never came.  Your
servants do not know Mrs. Herne--only their invalid mistress."

Maraquito, seeing her danger, panted with rage, and looked like a
trapped animal.  "Even if this is true, which I deny," she said in a
voice tremulous with rage, "how dare you arrest me, and for what?"

"For setting that boy Gibber to poison the man who called himself Tyke.
The lad has left your service--which means he is in hiding."

"I know nothing about this," said Maraquito, suddenly becoming cool.
"Do you mean to arrest me now?"

"I have the warrant and a couple of plain-dress detectives below.  You
can't escape."

"I have no wish to escape," she retorted, moving towards a door which
led into an inner room.  "I can meet and dispose of this ridiculous
charge.  The doctor told me that a sudden shock might bring back my
strength.  And that it has done.  I am not Mrs. Herne--I am not
Bathsheba Saul.  I am Maraquito Gredos, a Spanish lady--"

"Who doesn't know her own language," said Jennings.

"I pass over your insults," said the woman with dignity.  "But as you
intend to take me away, will you please let me enter my bedroom to
change my dress?"

Jennings drew aside and permitted her to pass.  "I am not afraid you
will escape," he said politely.  "If you attempt to leave you will fall
into the hands of my men.  They watch every door."

Maraquito winced, and with a last look at the astounded Mallow, passed
into the room.  When she shut the door Mallow looked at Jennings.  "I
don't know what all this means," he said.

"I have told you," replied Jennings, rather impatiently, "the letter I
sent you was to bring you here.  The struggle was a feigned one on my
side to make Maraquito defend you.  I knew she would never let you be
worsted if she could help; exactly as I knew you would never consent to
play such a trick on her."

"Certainly not.  With all her faults, she loves me."

"So well that she will kill Juliet Saxon rather than see her in your
arms.  Don't frown, Mallow, Maraquito is a dangerous woman, and it is
time she was laid by the heels.  You don't know what I have found out."

"Have you learned who killed Miss Loach?"

"No.  But I am on the way to learn it.  I'll tell you everything
another time.  Meanwhile, I must get this woman safely locked up.
Confound her, she is a long time."

"She may have escaped," said Mallow, as Jennings knocked at the door.

"I don't see how she can.  There are men at the front door and at a
secret entrance she used to enter as Mrs. Herne."  He knocked again,
but there was no reply.  Finally Jennings grew exasperated and tried to
open the door.  It was locked.  "I believe she is escaping," he said,
"help me, Mallow."

The two men put their shoulders to the door and burst it in. When they
entered the bedroom it was empty.  There was no sign of Maraquito
anywhere, and no sign, either, of how she had managed to evade the law.




CHAPTER XXII

THE SECRET ENTRANCE


AS may be guessed, Jennings was very vexed that Maraquito had escaped.
He had posted his men at the front and back doors and also at the side
entrance through which Senora Gredos in her disguise as Mrs. Herne had
entered.  He never considered for the moment that so clever a woman
might have some way of escape other than he had guessed.  "Yet I might
have thought it," he said, when Cuthbert and he left the house.  "I
expect that place is like a rabbit-burrow.  Maraquito always expected
to be taken some day in spite of her clever assumption of helplessness.
That was a smart dodge."

"How did you learn that she was shamming?"

"I only guessed so.  I had no proof.  But when I interviewed the pseudo
Mrs. Herne at her Hampstead lodgings, she betrayed so much emotion when
speaking of you that I guessed it was the woman herself.  I only tried
that experiment to see if she was really ill.  If she had not moved I
should have been done."

"It seems to me that you are done now," said Cuthbert angrily. He was
not very pleased at the use Jennings had made of him.

"By no means.  Maraquito will take refuge in a place I know of.  She
does not fancy I am aware of its existence.  But I am on my way there
now.  You can come also if you like."

"No," said Mallow decisively, "so far as I am concerned, I have no
further interest in these matters.  I told you so the other day."

"Don't you wish to know who killed Miss Loach?"

Mallow hesitated, and wondered how much the detective knew. "Have you
any clue to the assassin?" he asked.

Jennings shrugged his shoulders.  "I can't say that.  But I suspect the
coiners have something to do with the matter."

"The coiners?"

"Ah!  I know you have not learned much about them.  I have no time now
to talk, but you will see everything in the papers shortly.  I can tell
you, Mallow, there's going to be a row."

Mallow, like all young Englishmen, was fond of fighting, and his blood
was at once afire to join in, but, on second thoughts, he resolved to
stick to his original determination and stay away.  It would be better,
he thought, to let Jennings carry out his plans unhampered.  In order,
therefore, to preserve Basil's secret, Mallow nodded to the detective
and went home.  That night he spent wondering what had become of
Maraquito.

Meantime, Jennings, with a dozen men, was on his way to Rexton.  It was
now after eleven, and the clock struck the half hour as they landed at
Rexton Station.  The police force of the suburb had been notified of
the raid about to be made, and Inspector Twining was on the spot.  He
guided the party through the side path which terminated near Rose
Cottage.  The night was dark and rainy, but there were occasional
gleams of moonlight.  There was no light in the windows of Rose
Cottage, and everything appeared to be quiet.  Behind loomed the ruins
of the unfinished house beneath which was the coining factory.

On the way to the spot Jennings conversed with Twining in low tones and
detailed his experience with Maraquito.

"I am quite sure that she has gone to the factory," he said; "she does
not think that I know about it.  I fancy she will tell her pals that
the game is up and the lot will light out for America."

"They may have gone by this time," suggested the inspector.

"I don't think so.  Maraquito must have just arrived, if indeed she has
come here.  Besides, she will never guess that I know how to get into
the place, or indeed think that I know of its existence."

"How did you guess?"

"Guess is a good word.  I just did guess, Twining.  From various facts
which there is no time to tell you, I became convinced that there was a
factory in existence.  Also I fancied that the death of that old lady
was connected with the preservation of the secret.  But I only got at
the hard facts the other day, when a girl called Grant--"

"I remember.  She gave evidence at the inquest."

"Precisely.  Well, she brought me some plans belonging to her father
which she found.  He was engaged in a quiet job hereabouts five years
ago, and died when it was finished.  He was poisoned with arsenic."

"What! like that man Tyke?"

"Yes.  The person who runs this show--Maraquito, I think--evidently has
a partiality for that extremely painful poison. Well, this workman
having constructed the secret entrance, was got out of the way by
death, so that the secret might be preserved.  And I guess Miss Loach
was settled also in case she might give the alarm."

"But if the secret entrance is in the cottage," said Twining, "this old
woman may have been aware of its existence."

"Certainly, and was about to split when she was killed.  At least, that
is my theory."

"She must have been in with the gang."

"I have never been able to fix that," said Jennings thoughtfully.  "I
know she was a lady and of good birth.  Also she had money, although
she condemned herself to this existence as a hermit.  Why she should
let Maraquito and her lot construct a secret entrance I can't
understand.  However, we'll know the truth to-night.  But you can now
guess, Twining, how the bell came to be sounded."

"No, I can't," said the inspector, promptly.

"I forgot.  You don't know that the secret entrance is in the room
where Miss Loach was murdered.  Well, one of the gang, after the death,
sounded the bell to call attention to the corpse, and then slipped away
before Susan Grant could get to the room."

"But why should this person have sounded the bell?"

"That is what I have to find out.  There's a lot to learn here."

"Have you any idea who killed Miss Loach?"

"Maraquito, under the disguise of Mrs. Herne."

"Was she Mrs. Herne?"

"Yes.  She masqueraded as an invalid who could not leave her couch, but
I managed to get at the truth to-night."

"But from the evidence at the inquest, Mrs. Herne was out of the house
when the blow was struck."

"Quite so: But we did not know of this secret entrance then. I fancy
she came back--"

"But how can you--"

"There's no more time to talk," interrupted Jennings.  "We must get to
work as soon as possible.  Order your men to surround the house."

"And the park also?"

"We have not enough men for that.  And I don't think there's any other
exit from the factory save that through Rose Cottage.  If there was,
Maraquito and her two friends would not have played whist so
persistently with Miss Loach every night."

"It was three times a week, I think."

"Well, it doesn't matter.  Here we are."  Jennings opened the garden
gate and walked boldly up the path towards the silent house.  The men,
under the low-spoken directions of Twining, spread themselves round the
house so as to arrest any coiner who might attempt escape.  Then the
detective rang the bell. There was no answer for a few minutes.  He
rang again.

A window in the cottage was opened cautiously, and the head of Mrs.
Pill, in a frilled nightcap of gigantic size, was thrust out.  "Is that
you, Thomas, coming home at this late hour the worse for drink, you
idle wretch, and me almost dead with want of sleep."

"It's a message from your husband, Mrs. Barnes," said Jennings, signing
to Twining to keep out of sight.  "Come and open the door, and I'll
tell you what has happened."

"Oh, lor! is Thomas gone the way of flesh?" wailed Mrs. Barnes,
formerly Pill.  "Come to the cottage door."

"No.  Open this one," said Jennings, who had his own reasons for this
particular entrance being made use of.  "You know me--"

"Mr. Jennings, as was in the case of my pore, dear, dead lady. Of
course I knows you, sir, and the fact as you are police makes me
shudder to think as Thomas is jailed for drink.  Wait one moment, sir.
I'll hurry on a petticoat and shawl.  How good of you to come, sir."

When the window shut down, Jennings bent towards the inspector, who was
crouching on the other side of the steps. "This woman is innocent," he
whispered.  "She knows nothing, else she would not admit us so quickly."

"It may be a blind, Jennings.  She may have gone to give the gang
warning, you know."

"I don't know," retorted the detective sharply.  "I am quite sure that
Mrs. Barnes doesn't even know her husband Thomas is one of the lot.  I
don't care if she does give warning either, if your surmise is correct.
All our men are round the house, and if any of the gang escape we can
collar them."

"That is supposing there isn't another exit from the unfinished house,"
muttered Twining, anxious to have the last word.

Mrs. Barnes appeared at the door in a brilliant red petticoat, a white
woollen shawl, and the cap aforesaid.  Her feet were thrust into carpet
slippers and she carried a candle.  "An' it is good of you, sir, to
come 'ere and tell me that Thomas is in jail, he being-"

"We can talk of that inside," said the detective, pushing past her.  "I
suppose you don't mind my friend coming in."

Mrs. Barnes almost dropped when she saw the second person, especially
when she noted the uniform.  "It must be murder at least," she wailed,
almost dropping the candle in her fright; "lor! do tell me, sir, that
Thomas have not murdered anyone."

"Lead us down to the sitting-room and we'll tell you, Mrs. Barnes."

"I can't do that, sir, Mr. Clancy may be 'ome any moment"

"Isn't he at home now?"

"Bless you, no, Mr. Jennings, he being fond of goin' out, not that he's
an old man, and why shouldn't he enjoy hisself.  Not that a woman could
wish for a better lodger, though he only bin 'ere a week or so, he
givin' no trouble and havin' a latch-key."

"I want to see Mr. Clancy also," said Jennings impatiently, while
Twining turned on the electric light in the hall.  "Take us down to the
basement."

The woman would have objected again, but from the stern expression on
her visitors' faces she judged that it would be wiser to obey.  She
descended, candle in hand, turning on the lights as she went down.  In
the sitting-room she paused and faced the detective.  "Do tell me
what's wrong, sir?" she asked.  "Thomas is a fool, but we're newly wed
and I shouldn't like anything to 'appen to 'im, though he do take
fondly-like to the bottle."

"When did Thomas go out?"

"At eight, and Mr. Clancy at nine, though Mr. Clancy havin' a
latch-key, don't give me trouble lettin' him in which Thomas does."

"Ah!" said Jennings, with a side-glance at the inspector, "so your
husband goes out often?"

"He do, sir.  Three times a week.  I 'ave tried to break 'im of these
larky 'abits but he won't do what I arsks him.  I wish I'd stopped at
bein' Pill," wailed Mrs. Barnes, wiping her eyes.  "An' if Thomas is
drunk and bail bein' required--"

"I don't know if your husband is drunk or sober," interrupted Jennings.
"We are on a different errand.  Tell me, Mrs. Barnes, do you know if
Miss Loach had a secret entrance to this room?"

"Lor no, sir," cried the woman, casting a surprised glance round,
"whatever would she 'ave that for, pore dear?"

"The furniture is oddly placed," said Twining.

And indeed it was.  Tables and chairs and sofa were ranged in two lines
on either side of the room, leaving the middle portion bare.  The floor
was covered with a Turkey carpet down the centre, but the sides of the
floor were without covering. Mrs. Barnes explained this.

"Miss Loach liked to 'ave things straight this way for the night, bein'
of tidy 'abits.  She thought the floor bein' clear left the 'ousemaid,
who was Geraldine, room to sweep and dust thoroughly.  Mr. Clancy 'ave
the same fancy, though being a man as tidy as ever was."

"Strange Mr. Clancy should be tidy," said Jennings drily.  "He
certainly is not so in his dress.  Now the best thing you can do, Mrs.
Barnes, is to go to bed."

"An' leave you 'ere," screeched the cook indignantly.  "Why, whatever
would Mr. Clancy say, he being respectable."

"Very good then, you can stop here.  Stand on one side, Twining, and
you, Mrs. Barnes.  Both of you stand on the bare floor near the wall."

Considerably surprised, Mrs. Barnes did as she was told, and uttered a
cry when she saw the floor begin to move.  Jennings, who was pressing a
button at the end of the room, stopped. "Take her upstairs, Twining.
She will alarm the gang!"

"Alarm who?" cried the cook, struggling with the inspector. "Whatever
do you mean?  Shame--shame to 'old a defenceless lady.  'Elp!"

But her cries for help were unheeded.  Twining bore her up the stairs
and summoned one of his men.  In a few minutes Mrs. Barnes was safely
locked up in her own bedroom in the cottage, a prey to terrors.  Poor
woman, being innocent, she could not understand the meaning of this
midnight visit, nor indeed the mysterious moving of the floor.  It had
never happened so before within her recollection.

Twining came down with six men, leaving the others to guard the exits
from the house and garden.  At the door of the sitting-room he stopped
at the head of those he was bringing. At his feet yawned a gulf in
which steps appeared.  The whole of the centre of the floor had
disappeared into the wall opposite to the fireplace, and the rough
steps led down into a kind of passage that ran in the direction of the
unfinished house.  "This is the entrance," said Jennings, "it works
from a concealed button on the wall.  Electricity is used.  You see why
the sides of the floor are left bare; the carpet has quite disappeared.
But we have no time to lose," he jumped down lightly.  "Come along men,
hurry up."

"As we will be at a disadvantage, we may as well get our barkers out,"
said the inspector, and the men produced revolvers.  Then they went
into the burrow at the tail of the intrepid Jennings.

That gentleman stole along the narrow passage: It ran straightly for a
few yards and then took a turn to the right. The ground continued to
slope for some distance until it terminated in a heavy door of wood.
Jennings fancied this might be locked, and felt a pang of
disappointment.  But it proved to be merely closed to.  Apparently the
coiners were so sure of their safety that they did not trouble to keep
the door locked.  The detective opened it gently, and with the men
close at his heels stole forward.  He held his revolver lightly in his
right hand, ready for emergencies.  The passage was quite dark, but
being narrow, the men had no hesitation in going forward.  Some way
down, after leaving the door, the passage branched into two ways, for
Jennings came against a wall directly ahead.  Wondering what this
meant, he struck a match, and the blue light revealed one passage
running down to the left and another opening up to the right.  While
the detective hesitated which to take, the darkness was suddenly
illuminated with the glare of lamps.  From a dozen electric lights at
the sides of the passage sprang a white glow.  At the further end of
the sloping passage appeared the figure of a man.  He gave a shout when
the figures of the police were revealed in the sudden illumination and
vanished suddenly. There was not a moment to be lost.  Jennings, crying
to his men, dashed ahead.  As he neared the end of the burrow, for it
was nothing else, a pistol shot rang out and he felt as though his
shoulder had been pierced with a red-hot iron.  But the wound did not
stop him.

"Quick, men--quick!  Some stop and guard the double way. They will try
and escape that way."

His orders were obeyed with precision, and two men stopped behind,
while the rest, with Twining at their head, pressed forward.  They ran
against another door, but it also was open, as the watching man had not
had time to close it.  Through this the police poured, and found
themselves in a large, dry cellar, brilliantly lighted.  On every hand
were the evidences of the pursuits of the gang.  But no one had time to
take in details.  The startled and infuriated coiners were fighting for
their liberty.  In a moment the lights were out, but not before
Jennings saw Clancy and Hale at the far end of the cellar, with white
faces and levelled revolvers.  There were other men also.  Shots rang
out, but in the darkness everyone fired at random.  The coiners strove
to force their way to the door, evidently anxious to gain the forked
passage, so that they could escape by one of the two exits.  Twining
uncovered his lantern and flashed the light round.  It converted him
into a target and he fell, shot through the heart by Hale. The other
men made a dash for liberty, but the police also producing their
lights, managed to seize them.  At last Hale, apparently seeing there
was no chance of escaping in the gloom, turned on the electric lights
again, and the illumination revealed a cellar filled with struggling
men. Jennings made for Clancy, as it struck him that this man, in spite
of the foolish look on his face, was the prime agent. Clancy fired and
missed.  Then he strove to close with Jennings.  The latter hammered
him over the head with the butt of his revolver.  Shouts and oaths came
from the infuriated thieves, but the police fought like bulldogs, with
tenacious courage, silent and grim.

"Hold them--hold them!" cried Jennings, as he went down.

"I'll do for you this time," said Hale between his teeth, and flung
himself forward, but Jennings struggled valiantly.  The coiner was over
him, and trying to get at his revolver which had fallen in the fight.
Jennings waited till he stretched, then fired upward.  Hale gave a yell
of agony, and throwing up his arms, fell on one side.  Wounded, and in
great pain, Jennings rose.  He had just time to see Clancy in the grip
of two policemen, fighting desperately, when his senses left him and he
fainted.  The shouts and oaths and shots rang out wildly and confusedly
as he lost consciousness.




CHAPTER XXIII

A SCAMP'S HISTORY


When Jennings came to himself he was lying on a sofa in the dining-room
on the ground-floor of the villa.  His shoulder hurt him a trifle, but
otherwise he felt well, though slightly weak.  The doctor was at his
side.  It was the same man who had attended to the body of the late
occupant of the house.

"Are you feeling better?" said Doctor Slane, when he saw the eyes of
the detective open.  "You had better remain here for a time.  Your men
have secured the rascals--all five of them."

"And Twining?" asked Jennings, trying to sit up.

"He is dead--shot through the heart.  Clancy killed him."

"Then he'll swing for it," said Jennings in a stronger tone, "we lose a
good man in poor Twining.  And Hale?"

"You have wounded him severely in the lungs.  I fear he will die.  We
have put him in Mrs. Barnes' room on her bed.  The poor woman is wild
with grief and terror.  I suppose you know her husband was amongst
those rascals."

"I thought as much.  His going out was merely a blind.  But I must get
up and look at the factory.  Send Atkins to me."

Atkins was the man next in command now that the inspector was dead.

The doctor tried to keep Jennings on his back, but the detective would
not listen.  "There is much to do," he said, rising unsteadily.  "You
have bound up my shoulder.  I won't lose any more blood."

"You have lost a good deal already."

"It's my business.  We detectives have our battles to fight as well as
soldiers have theirs.  Give me some brandy and send Atkins."

Seeing that the man was resolved, Slane gave him the drink and went
out.  In a few minutes Atkins entered and saluted. Jennings, after
drinking the fiery spirit, felt much better, and was fairly steady on
his legs.  "Did you see any women amongst the men we took?" he asked.

"No, sir," replied the other, "there were five men.  Two are
wounded--one slightly, and the other--Hale--severely. He wants to make
a confession to you, and I have sent to the office for a clerk to take
down his words.  Dr. Slane says he will not live till morning."

"He will cheat the law, I suppose," said Jennings, "give me your arm,
Atkins.  I want to visit the factory."

"Are you strong enough, sir?"

"Quite strong enough.  Don't bother," replied the other as a twinge of
pain made him wince.  "We've made a good haul this time."

"You'll say that, sir, when you see the factory.  It is the most
complete thing of its kind."

"Tell the clerk when he arrives not to take down Hale's confession till
I arrive.  I won't be more than a quarter of an hour.  Give me your arm
when you return."

Atkins departed on his errand, and Jennings sat down, wondering what
had become of Maraquito.  He made sure she would go to the factory, as
being a place of refuge which the police would find hard to discover.
But, apparently, she had taken earth in some other crib belonging to
the gang. However, he would have all the ports watched, and she would
find it hard to escape abroad.  Maraquito was so striking a woman that
it was no easy matter for her to disguise herself. And Jennings swore
that he would capture her, for he truly believed that she had killed
Miss Loach, and was the prime mover in the whole business.  Hitherto
she had baffled him by her dexterity, but when they next met he hoped
to get the upper hand.

His underling returned and, resting on his arm, Jennings with some
difficulty managed to get down the stairs.  The whole house now blazed
with light.  Formerly the detective had wondered why Miss Loach had
been so fond of electric lamps, thinking that as an old lady she would
have preferred a softer glow.  But now he knew that she required the
electricity for the illumination of the factory, and for manipulating
the metals required in the manufacture of coins.  There was no doubt
that she was one of the gang also, but Jennings could not conceive why
she should take to such a business.  However, the woman was dead and
the gang captured, so the detective moved along the narrow passage with
a sense of triumph.  He never thought that he would be so lucky as to
make this discovery, and he knew well that such a triumph meant praise
and reward.  "I'll be able to marry Peggy now," he thought.

The coiners had been removed to the Rexton cells, and only Hale
remained under the charge of Mrs. Barnes and Dr. Slane. The body of
Twining lay in the dining-room of the villa.  A policeman was on guard
at the door of the villa, and two remained at the forked passage.  When
Jennings arrived here he felt inclined to turn off to the right and
explore the other passage, but he was also anxious to see the factory
and assure himself of the value of his discovery.  He therefore
painfully hobbled along, clinging to Atkins, but sustained in his
efforts by an indomitable spirit.

"Here you are, sir," said Atkins, turning on the light and revealing
the workshop.  "A fine plant, isn't it?"

"It is, indeed," said Jennings, glancing up to the rough roof where
five or six lamps blazed like suns, "and a nice hiding-place they
found.  I'll sit here and look round, Atkins."

He dropped into a chair near the bench and stared at the cellar.  It
was large, and built of rough stones, so that it looked like a prison
cell of the Bastille.  The floor was of beaten earth, the roof of
brick, built in the form of an arch, and the door was of heavy wood
clamped with iron.  The brilliant illumination enabled Jennings to see
everything, even to the minutest detail of the place.

In one corner were three large dynamos, and in another a smelting pot,
and many sheets of silver and copper.  Also, there were moulds of
gutta-percha arranged to hold coins in immersion.  On a bench were a
number of delicate tools and a strong vice.  Jennings also saw various
appliances for making coins.  On rough deal shelves ranged round the
walls stood flasks and jars containing powders, with tools and a great
many chemicals.  Also there were piles of false money, gold and silver
and copper, and devices for sweating sovereigns. In a safe were lumps
of gold and silver.  Beside it, a bath filled with some particular
liquid used in the trade. Electric cells, acids, wooden clips to hold
the coins could also be seen.  In fact the whole factory was conducted
on the most scientific principles, and Jennings could understand how so
many cleverly-prepared coins came to be in circulation. There were even
moulds for the manufacture of francs and louis.

"I daresay the gang have other places," he said to Atkins, "but this is
their headquarters, I fancy.  If I can only get some of them to tell
the truth we might find the other places."

"Hale wants to confess."

"Yes.  But I fancy it is about the murder of Miss Loach.  She was
apparently killed to ensure the safety of this den.  We must root the
coiners out, Atkins.  Maraquito, who is the head of the business, is at
large, and unless we can take her, she will continue to make false
money in some other place. However, I have seen enough for the time
being.  Keep guard over this place till we hear from the Yard tomorrow."

"You'll go home and lie down, sir."

"No.  I intend to hear Hale's confession.  By to-morrow it will be too
late.  I wouldn't miss hearing what he has to say for anything."

"But can you keep up, sir?"

"Yes, yes--don't bother," said Jennings, rising, the pain making him
testy, "give me your arm, Atkins.  By the way, where does the other
passage lead to?  I have not enough strength to explore."

"It leads to the top of the ground, sir, and comes out into the trunk
of a tree."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, sir, it's very clever.  There's an old oak near the wall, and
the trunk is hollow.  All anyone has to do is to climb up through the
trunk by means of stairs and drop over the wall.  The coiners were
making for that when we captured them."

"Humph!  Have that place watched.  Maraquito may come here to-night
after all.  It is now one o'clock."

"I don't think she'll come, Mr. Jennings.  But we have every point
watched.  No one can come or go unless we know."

"Come along then," said Jennings, who was growing weak, "let us see
Hale.  The sooner his confession is written and signed the better."

Not another word did Jennings say till he got on to the ground floor of
the villa.  But he had been thinking, for when there he turned to the
man who supported him.  "How is it the oak with the hollow trunk still
stands?" he asked.

"Oh, it escaped the fire, sir.  Some of the boughs were burnt off but
the trunk itself is all right.  It is close to the wall too."

"Humph!" said Jennings, setting his teeth with the pain, "give me a sup
of brandy out of your flask, Atkins.  Now for Hale."

When he arrived in the bedroom where Hale was lying groaning, Jennings
had the factitious strength of the spirit. A sleepy-eyed clerk was
seated at the table with sheets of paper before him.  A lamp was on the
table.  Mrs. Barnes was crouching in a chair near the bed.  When she
saw Jennings she flung herself down weeping.

"Oh, sir, I knew no more of this than a babe unborn," she wailed, "I
never thought my second was a villing.  To think that Thomas--"

"That's all right, Mrs. Barnes, I quite acquit you."

"Not Barnes.  Pill I am again, and Mrs. Pill I'll be to the end of my
days.  To think Thomas should be a blackguard.  Pill drank, I don't
deny, but he didn't forge and coin, and--"

"Wasn't clever enough, perhaps," said Hale from the bed in a weak
voice, "oh, there you are, Jennings.  Get that fool out of the room and
listen to what I have to tell you.  I haven't much time.  I am going
fast."

Jennings induced Mrs. Pill, as she now insisted on being called, to
leave the room.  Then he sat down on the bed beside the dying man.
Atkins remained at the door, and the doctor seated himself by Hale's
head with a glass of brandy.  It might be needed for the revival of
Hale, who, having lost much blood, was terribly weak.  But the poor
wretch was bent upon confession, and even told his story with pride.

"You had a job to take us, Jennings," he said with a weak chuckle.  "I
don't know how you found us out though."

"It's too long a story to tell.  But, first of all, tell me did
Maraquito come here to-night?"

"No.  Are you after her?"

"Yes, I know she isn't an invalid."

"Ah, she diddled you there," said Hale with another chuckle, "a very
clever woman is Maraquito.  I wished to marry her, but now I'm done
for.  After all, I'm not sorry, since my pals are taken.  But I did
think I'd have been able to go to South America and marry Maraquito.
I've made plenty of money by this game.  Sometimes we sweated four
hundred sovereigns a day.  The factory has been here for five years,
Jennings--"

"I know.  The man Maxwell, who was Susan Grant's father, made the
secret entrance, and you had him killed."

"No, I didn't.  Miss Loach did that.  I thought she was a fool at the
time.  I told her so.  We could have taken Maxwell as a pal.  He was
willing to come.  But she thought death was best."

"And Maraquito killed Tyke?"

"No.  I did that.  I sent Gibber to fix him up.  Tyke was a drunkard
and made a fool of himself in being arrested.  He would have given the
show away, so I sent Gibber with a poisoned bottle of whisky.  I knew
Tyke couldn't resist a drink.  He died, and--"

"Did you kill Miss Loach also?" interrupted Jennings, casting a glance
over his shoulder to make sure that the clerk was noting all this.

Hale laughed weakly.

"No!" he said.  "I fancied you would ask that.  I tell you honestly
that none of us know who killed her."

"That's rubbish.  You do know."

"I swear I don't.  Neither does Maraquito.  You haven't caught her yet
and you never will.  I'm not going to split on the pals I have left,
Jennings.  You have nabbed some, but there are others, and other
factories also.  I won't tell you about those."

"Clancy is captured--he will."

"Don't you make any mistake.  Clancy is not the fool he looks. He has
the cleverest head of the lot of us.  But I'd better get on with my
confession, though it won't do you much good."

"So long as you say who killed Miss Loach--"

"Miss Loach," sneered Hale, "why not Emilia Saul?"

Jennings was almost too surprised to speak.  "Do you mean to say--"

"Yes, I do.  All the time you and Miss Saxon and that idiot of a
brother thought she was Selina Loach.  She wasn't, but she was very
like her.  Emilia met Selina in the house that is now burnt and pushed
her off the plank.  The face was disfigured and Selina was buried as
Emilia."

"Then Mrs. Octagon must know--"

"She knows a good deal.  You'd better ask her for details. Give me a
sup of brandy, doctor.  Yes," went on Hale, when he felt better, "I
laughed in my sleeve when I thought how Emilia tricked you all.  She
was Maraquito's aunt.  Her name--"

"Maraquito's name is Bathsheba Saul."

"Yes.  I expect Caranby told you that.  He was too clever, that old
man.  I was always afraid that he would find out about the factory.  A
long while ago I wished Maraquito to give up the business and marry me.
Then we would have gone to South America and have lived in peace on no
end of money. Emilia left six thousand a year, so you may guess that
Maraquito and I made money also.  But she was in love with Mallow, and
would not come away.  I feared Caranby should take it into his head to
search the house--"

"Was that why you had it burnt?"

"No.  Tyke did that out of revenge, because Maraquito marked him with a
knife.  Do you think I would have been such a fool as to burn the
house.  Why, Caranby would have probably let out the land, and
foundations would have been dug for new villas, when our plant would
have been discovered."

"Who are you, Hale?"

"Who do you think?" asked the dying man, chuckling.

"One of the Saul family.  You have the same eyebrows as Maraquito."

"And as Mrs. Herne, who really was Maraquito."

"Yes, I know that.  But who are you?"

"My real name is Daniel Saul."

"Ah!  I thought you were a member of the family.  There is a likeness
to Maraquito--"

"Nose and eyebrows and Hebrew looks.  But I am only a distant cousin.
My father married a Christian, but I retain a certain look of his
people.  He died when I was young.  Emilia's mother brought me up.  I
knew a lot about the coining in those days, and I was always in love
with Bathsheba, who is my cousin--"

"Bathsheba?"

"You know her best as Maraquito, so by that name I shall speak of her.
Jennings," said Hale, his voice growing weaker, "I have little time
left, so you had better not interrupt me." He took another sup of
brandy and the doctor felt his pulse. Then he began to talk so fast
that the clerk could hardly keep pace with his speech.  Evidently he
was afraid lest he should die before his recital ended.

"When old Mrs. Saul lost Emilia--" he began.

"But she didn't lose Emilia," interrupted Jennings.

"She thought she had.  She never knew that Emilia took the name of
Selina Loach.  You had better ask Mrs. Octagon for details on that
subject.  Don't interrupt.  Well, when Mrs. Saul lost Emilia, she took
more and more to coining.  So did her son, Bathsheba's father.  They
were caught and put in prison.  I was taken in hand by a benevolent
gentleman who brought me up and gave me the profession of a lawyer.  I
chose that because I thought it might be handy.  Then Mrs. Saul came
out of prison and her son also.  Both died.  Maraquito tried various
professions and finally went in for dancing.  She hurt her foot, and
that attempt to gain a living failed.  I was in practice then and we
started the gambling-house together.  But by this time I had found
Emilia living here as Selina Loach. Mrs. Octagon can tell you how we
met.  Emilia persuaded me and Maraquito to go in for the coining.  She
already had Clancy interested.  He was a good man at getting the proper
ring of the coins.  Well, we managed to make a tunnel to the cellars of
the unfinished house, and then Emilia built the extra wing to the
villa.  The secret entrances were made by--"

"By Maxwell.  I know that.  Go on."

"Well, we started the concern.  I haven't time to tell you in detail
how lucky we were.  We counterfeited foreign coins also.  We all made
plenty of money.  Emilia suggested Maraquito feigning to be an invalid,
so as to make things safe.  False coins were passed at the
gambling-house. Maraquito came here as Mrs. Herne and had a house--or
rather lodgings--at Hampstead.  We came here three times a week, and
while supposed to be playing whist, we were at the factory.  Emilia
kept guard.  Sometimes we went out by the door of this house and at
times by another way--"

"I know.  Up the tree-trunk."

"Ah, you have found that out," said Hale in a weak voice; "what a place
it is," he murmured regretfully, "no one will ever get such another.  I
can't understand how you came to find us out."

"Tell me what happened on that night?" asked Jennings, seeing that the
man was growing weaker, and fearful lest he should die without telling
the secret of the death.

"On that night," said the dying scamp, rousing himself; "well,
Maraquito quarrelled with Clancy, and went with me to the factory."

"Then you were not out of the house?"

"No.  We went by the underground passage to work.  Clancy went away, as
he had business elsewhere.  The moment he had gone I came up from the
passage.  Emilia was seated with the cards on her lap.  She came with
me to the factory, and thinking Clancy might come back, she went out by
the tree-trunk way."

"What, that old lady?"

"She wasn't so very old, and as active as a cat.  Besides, she did not
want Clancy to come down, as she was afraid there might be a fight
between him and Maraquito.  They had quarrelled about the division of
some money, and Maraquito can use a knife on occasions."

"She did on that night."

"No.  Miss Loach--I mean Emilia--never came back.  We became alarmed,
as we knew people had been round the house of late--"

"Mr. Mallow--"

"Yes, the fool.  We knew he had come prowling after ghosts. But he
found nothing.  Well, I--" here Hale's voice died away.  The doctor
gave him some more brandy and looked significantly at Jennings.

"Get him to tell all at once," he whispered, "he's going."

"Yes, I'm going," murmured Hale.  "I don't mind, though I am sorry to
leave Maraquito.  Well," he added, in a stronger voice.  "I went out to
see what was up.  We found Emilia lying dead near the tree.  She had
been stabbed to the heart.  A bowie knife was near.  In great alarm I
got Maraquito to come out, as the body could not be left there.  We
dropped it down the tree-trunk and got it into the factory.  Then we
wondered what was to be done.  Maraquito suggested we should take it
back to the sitting-room, and then, people being ignorant of the
passage, no one would know how Emilia had met with her death.  I
thought there was nothing else to be done.  We carried the body through
the passage and placed it in the chair.  I arranged the cards on the
lap, knowing the servant had seen Emilia in that position, and that it
would still further throw prying people"--here Hale glanced at
Jennings--"off the scent.  Hardly had we arranged this and closed the
floor, over us when we heard that someone was in the room.  It was a
woman, and we heard her speaking to the corpse, ignorant that the woman
was dead.  Then we heard a suppressed shriek. We guessed it was a
woman, at least I did, but Maraquito was quicker and knew more.  She
said it was Miss Saxon, and at once became anxious to fix the blame on
her.  But I was afraid lest things should be discovered, so I dragged
Maraquito back to the factory.  I believe Miss Saxon found the knife
and then ran out, being afraid lest she should be discovered and
accused.  This was what Maraquito wanted.  She suddenly escaped from me
and ran back to the secret entrance.  By shifting the floor a little
she saw into the room.  It was then eleven.  She saw also that the
knife was gone, and it struck her that Miss Saxon could not be far off."

"She was not," said Jennings, "she was hidden in the field of corn."

"Ah.  I thought so.  Well, Maraquito fancied that if she was arrested
with the knife before she could leave the neighborhood she would be
charged with the murder."

"But would Maraquito have let her suffer?" asked Jennings, horrified.

"Of course she would," said Hale weakly, "she hated Miss Saxon because
she was engaged to Mallow, the fool.  To get her caught, Maraquito
jumped up into the sitting-room and rang the bell."

"At eleven o'clock?"

"Yes, I believe--I believe--" Hale's voice was getting weaker and
weaker.  "She did ring--bell--then closed floor.  Servant came--I--I--"
he stopped and his head fell back.  Suddenly he half rose and looked
wildly into blank space.  "Maraquito," he cried strongly, "the game's
at an end. Fly, my love, fly.  We have fought and--and--lost.
Maraquito, oh my--" his voice died away.  He stretched out his hand,
fell back and died with a look of tender love on his pallid face.

"Poor wretch!" said Slane pityingly, "at least he loved truly."




CHAPTER XXIV

REVENGE


The capture of the coiners caused an immense sensation, and the papers
were filled with descriptions of the raid. Jennings came in for much
congratulation, and his feat considerably improved his position with
the authorities.  He was confined to his bed for some days by his wound
and, meanwhile, events transpired in which he would have been
considerably interested had he heard of them.  They had to do with
Maraquito.

Since her flight from the Soho house nothing had been heard of her,
although every inquiry had been made.  Guessing that Jennings knew much
more than was suspected, she was wise enough not to go to the Rexton
factory, and congratulated herself on her foresight when she read the
accounts of the raid in the papers.  But she was furiously angry at
losing all, when on the point of realizing her desires.  She had sent
her money to be banked abroad; she hoped, by means of threats to induce
Mallow to give up Juliet, and she had trusted to win his love by
assiduous attentions.  But the trick played by Jennings which revealed
her deception, and the raid on the factory and the consequent death of
Hale, upset her plans, and caused her to take refuge in hiding.  She
did not fear being arrested, especially as her arch-enemy, the
detective, was confined to bed, so she had time to make her plans.
Maraquito particularly wished to revenge herself on Mallow and Juliet.
She still loved the young man as much as ever, despite his contemptuous
rejection of her suit.  But she blamed Juliet Saxon for the hardening
of his heart, and it was on the girl that she determined to revenge
herself.  At first she intended to call at the "Shrine of the Muses,"
but thinking she would meet with opposition from Mrs. Octagon, likely
to prevent the realization of her malignant wishes, she changed her
mind.  It was no use visiting Mallow, as with him she could do nothing.
Therefore she resolved to write to Lord Caranby and arrange a meeting
with Juliet at his rooms in the Avon Hotel.  Then, when in the presence
of the girl, she hoped to revenge herself in a way likely to cause
Mallow exquisite pain.

Thus it happened that Lord Caranby, who was very ill and confined to
his rooms, received a letter from Maraquito, asking him to invite Miss
Saxon to a meeting with the writer. "I see that the game is up," wrote
the artful Maraquito, "and I am willing to put things straight.  I know
much which will be of service in clearing up matters, as I was a
partner with Hale and Clancy in the coining.  I do not mind admitting
this, as I am not afraid of the police arresting me.  I can look after
myself, and I am quite sure that you will not betray me when I call at
your rooms.  I also have something to tell you about my dead Aunt
Emilia whom you so deeply loved. Therefore, if you will arrange for me
to meet Miss Saxon, and allow me to make a clean breast of it, all will
be well."

When Caranby received this letter his first idea was to send for
Mallow.  But he reflected that Cuthbert was bitterly angered against
Maraquito, and would probably hand her over to the police.  Caranby,
from a remembrance of his love for Emilia, did not wish this to happen;
therefore, he refrained from letting Mallow learn of Maraquito's
determination.  He hoped to get the complete truth from her and arrange
matters once and for all.  Also, there was another reason, and a very
strong one, which prevented the old gentleman from having his nephew
present at the projected interview.

Maraquito soon received an answer to her letter.  It stated that Lord
Caranby would be pleased to receive her on Sunday afternoon at three
o'clock, and that Miss Saxon would be present.  When Maraquito read
this she smiled an evil smile and went out to make a certain purchase
which had to do with her visit.  Had Lord Caranby known of her wicked
intention he would rather have cut off his right arm than have
subjected Juliet to the danger she was about to undergo.  But he never
credited Maraquito with such calculated wickedness.

On Sunday afternoon the old gentleman was seated near the fire,
carefully dressed as usual, but looking very ill.  He suffered, as he
had told Jennings, from an incurable complaint, and there was no chance
of his recovering.  But he refused to take to his bed, and insisted on
keeping his feet. Cuthbert often came to see him, but on this
particular afternoon Caranby had manoeuvred him out of the way by
sending him to see an old friend with a message about his illness.
Cuthbert never suspected what was in the wind or he certainly would not
have gone.  Afterwards, he bitterly regretted that he had not told
Caranby of Maraquito's threat against Juliet. Had he done so, Caranby
would never have received her.  As it was, the old lord waited
patiently for the woman who was about to bring disaster in her train.
Precisely at three o'clock his servant showed up a lady.  "Madame
Durand," he announced, and then retired, leaving his master alone with
a bent, crooked old woman who walked with the aid of a cane, and seemed
very ill.

"I should never have known you," said Caranby, admiring Maraquito's
talent for disguise.

"Necessity has made me clever," she replied in a croaking voice, and
glanced at the door.

Caranby interpreted the look and voice.  "You can speak freely," he
said ironically, "I have no police concealed hereabouts."

"And Miss Saxon?" asked Maraquito, speaking in her natural voice.

"She will be here at half-past three.  I wish to have a talk with you
first, Miss Saul."

The woman darted a terrible look at her host.  In spite of the mask of
age which she had assumed, her eyes filled with youthful vigor and fire
betrayed her.  They shone brilliantly from her wrinkled face.  Her hair
was concealed under a close cap, above which she wore a broad-brimmed
hat.  This head-dress would have been remarkable a few years back, but
now that ladies are reverting to the fashions of their grandmothers, it
passed unnoticed.  With a plain black dress, a black cloak trimmed
profusely with beads, mittened hands and an ebony cane, she looked
quite funereal.  To complete the oddity of her dress a black satin bag
dangled by ribbons from her left arm.  In this she carried her
handkerchief and--something else.  As usual, she was perfumed with the
Hikui scent.  Caranby noticed this, and when she did not reply to his
remark, pointed out its danger to her.

"If you wish to escape the police, you must stop using so unusual a
perfume, Miss Saul--"

"Call me Maraquito; I am used to that name," she said harshly, and
seated herself near the fire, shivering to keep up a character of old
age, with slowly circulating blood.

"Let us say Maraquita," answered Caranby, smiling, "we may as well be
grammatical.  But this perfume betrays you.  Jennings knows that your
friends use it as a sign."

"Quite so," she answered, "it was clever of Jennings to have guessed
its meaning.  I invented the idea.  But he is ill, and I don't think he
has told anyone else about it.  He is fond of keeping his discoveries
to himself.  He wants all the glory."

"Surely he has had enough by this time, Maraquita.  But the scent--"

"You are quite right, I shall not use it for the future.  But what do
you think of my disguise?  Would anyone know me?"

"Certainly not.  But I wonder you have the courage to show yourself so
disfigured to the woman who is your rival."

"Oh, as to that, she is my rival no longer," said Maraquito, with a
gesture of disdain, "your nephew is not worthy of me. I surrender him
from this moment."

"That is very wise of you.  I expect you will go abroad and marry a
millionaire."

"I might.  But I have plenty of money of my own."

"The way in which you made it is not creditable," said Caranby.

"Bah!" she sneered.  "I did not come here to hear you talk morality,
Lord Caranby.  You were no saint in your young days. I have heard all
about you."

"From whom?"

"From my Aunt Emilia."

"I scarcely think that.  You were but a child when she died."

"She did not die," said Maraquito coldly.  "I have come to tell you
that she lived as Miss Loach at Rose Cottage."

Caranby started to his feet.  "What is this you tell me?"

"The truth.  Emilia is dead now, but she lived alone for many a long
day.  I knew that Selina Loach was my aunt, and," Maraquito looked at
him with piercing eyes, "Mrs. Octagon knew also."

By this time Caranby had recovered from his emotion.  "There is nothing
bad I don't expect to hear of Isabella Octagon," he said, "so this then
was why she visited you?"

"Yes.  I ordered her to come by threatening to reveal what she knew to
the police.  I could have done so by an anonymous letter.  She came and
then I forced her to promise to stop the marriage.  I may as well add
that I wrote insisting on the marriage being stopped as soon as Emilia
died."

"Ah!  And I thought along with Cuthbert that it was hatred of me that
made Mrs. Octagon--"

"Oh, she hates you sure enough.  But are you not astonished by my news?"

"Very much astonished," responded Caranby thoughtfully, "how came it
that Selina died and Isabella lived?"

"The three met in the unfinished house," explained Maraquito. "I had
the story from Emilia myself.  There was a quarrel. All three were in
love with you.  Selina was standing on a plank at a considerable height
from the ground.  In a rage Emilia pushed her off.  Isabella held her
tongue as she hated Selina."

"But the substitution?"

"Well.  In the fall Selina's face was much mutilated.  I believe,"
added Maraquito, in a coldblooded manner, "that Emilia made it
worse"--here Caranby shuddered and Maraquito laughed--"oh, my aunt was
not a woman to stick at trifles. She insisted on changing dresses with
the dead.  It was the workmen's dinner-hour and no one was about.  She
forced Isabella to assist her by threatening to tell the police that
Isabella had murdered her sister.  As the sisters were on bad terms,
Isabella knew that she might be accused, and so she held her tongue."

"But she could have accused Emilia."

"Emilia would have denied the accusation.  Moreover, Isabella was
intimidated by the fierce nature of my aunt."

"A fierce nature, indeed, that would mutilate the dead.  But I do not
see how Emilia hoped that the substitution would pass undiscovered by
Selina's friends, to say nothing of her father."

"The idea was that Emilia, as Selina, should go abroad and return to
England in a few years.  Owing to the unexpected death of Mr. Loach,
the father, the substitution was easy. You know how Isabella alone
appeared at the inquest, and how Selina--really my aunt--pretended to
be sick.  Then the two went abroad and came back; Emilia as Miss Loach
went to Rose Cottage, and Isabella married Mr. Saxon."

"But why did Emilia take Selina's name and--"

"Because Emilia was in danger of being arrested along with her mother
and brother for coining.  You could not have saved her. The accident of
Selina's death--"

"The murder of Selina, you mean."

Maraquito made a gesture of indifference.  "Call it what you like.  It
happened opportunely however.  It gave Emilia safety, and by
threatening to denounce Isabella, she stopped her from marrying you."

Caranby looked up.  "Ah! Now I see why Isabella left me alone. She made
one attempt, however."

"And did not succeed in inducing you to marry her.  But had she
succeeded, Emilia would have stopped the marriage.  Emilia loved you."

"No," said Caranby coldly, "she loved my title and my name and wealth.
I never loved her nor she me.  She exercised a kind of hypnotic
influence over me, and I dare say I would have married her.  But her
heart I am sure was always in the coining business."

"You are quite right," said Maraquito, looking keenly at him, "though I
can't guess how you came to think so, seeing you thought my aunt dead.
Yes, she loved coining.  When I grew up she sent for me and for Daniel
Saul--"

"Who is he?  Another of your precious family."

"A distant cousin.  You know him best as Hale the lawyer."

"Oh, indeed," said Caranby, considerably surprised, "and what did
Emilia do with you two?"

"She got us to help her to coin.  We made use of your house. I need not
tell you how we dug the tunnel and arranged the factory.  Emilia knew
that you would not disturb the house--"

"I was a sentimental fool.  If I had been wiser you would not have
carried on your wickedness for so long."

"Oh, we have other factories," said Maraquito coolly, "Jennings has not
discovered everything.  But your house was certainly an ideal place.  I
can't understand how Jennings learned about the secret--"

"The entrance.  He learned that from plans left by Maxwell who designed
the same.  Emilia poisoned him."

"She did--to preserve her secret.  Hale and I thought it was unwise; he
would have joined us.  But it was all for the best."

"Apparently you think so," returned Caranby, looking at her with
abhorrence, "seeing you poisoned Tyke in the same way."

"Hale did that and I agreed.  It was necessary," said the woman coldly,
"but you appear to know all about the matter."

"Jennings has told me everything.  Even to the fact, which he learned
from Hale that you rang that bell."

"I did.  I knew Juliet Saxon was in the room, and I wished to get her
arrested.  She left the house and I rang the bell as soon as I could
get away from Hale, who did not wish me to draw attention to the
murder.  But Juliet was too far away by that time to be caught."

"Why did you wish to hang the poor girl?"

"Because I loved Cuthbert.  I would have hanged her with pleasure,"
said Maraquito vindictively.  "I hate her!"

"Then why do you wish to see her to-day?"

"To tell her that I give up your nephew."

"That is not in accordance with the sentiments you expressed now."

Maraquito made a gesture of indifference and made no reply. Caranby now
began to suspect that she intended harm to Juliet, and wondered if she
had any weapon about her.  That dangling bag could easily carry a stout
knife or a neat little revolver.  And Maraquito, as was evident from
the deaths of Maxwell and Tyke, had no idea of the sacredness of life.
Caranby wished he had kept Cuthbert at hand to avert any catastrophe.
He was about to ring and order his servant not to bring Miss Saxon into
the room when Maraquito roused herself from her reverie.

"Do you wish to know anything further?" she asked.

"No.  I think you have told me everything."

She smiled scornfully.  "I have told you very little.  But for the rest
of the information you must apply to Mrs. Octagon."

"Ah!  Supposing I wish to learn who killed Emilia?"

"Mrs. Octagon can tell you!" said the woman significantly.

"Do you mean to say--"

"I say nothing.  Emilia came to the factory and went out into the open
air by another exit to see if anyone was about.  She never returned and
Hale and I went in search of her.  We found her dead, and--"

"I know all this.  Hale confessed it.  But he does not know who killed
her.  Do you?"

"I can't say for certain.  But I suspect Mrs. Octagon stabbed her."

"But how could Mrs. Octagon get the knife?"

"Basil got that from Mallow's room.  He gave it to his mother, and--"

"This is all theory," said Caranby angrily, "you have no grounds."

"None at all," replied Maraquito calmly, "but if anyone had a wish to
kill my aunt, Mrs. Octagon had.  Emilia kept a tight hold over that
woman, and made her do what she wished."

"About the marriage?"

"Yes, and other things.  I have never been able to understand why Aunt
Emilia took such a fancy to Cuthbert and that girl. But she certainly
wished to see them married.  She asked Juliet for a photograph of your
nephew, and Juliet gave her one.  I took it, and that girl Susan Grant
stole it from me. It was strange that the photograph should have gone
back to the cottage.  Aunt and I quarrelled over the marriage.  She
knew I loved Cuthbert, but she would never help me to marry him.  It
was all Juliet with her--pah!  I detest the girl. I could do nothing
while Emilia lived.  She knew too much. But after her death I made Mrs.
Octagon stop the marriage."

"I think Mrs. Octagon will consent now," said Caranby, calmly.

"I doubt it.  She hates you too much.  However, she can, for all I
care, Lord Caranby.  I have done with Cuthbert."

The old man hoped she had done with Juliet also, for he was still
uneasy.  The expression of her face was most malignant. More than ever
persuaded that she intended harm, Caranby again was about to summon his
servant and forbid the entrance of the expected girl, when suddenly the
door opened and Juliet; looking bright and happy, entered.  She started
back when she saw the supposed old woman, who rose.  Caranby jumped off
the sofa with an activity he had not shown for years, and got between
Juliet and her enemy.  Maraquito burst into tears. "Ah, you will be
happy with Cuthbert," she wailed, "while I-" a fresh burst of tears
stopped her speech and she groped in the satin bag for her handkerchief.

Juliet looked amazed.  "Who is this, Lord Caranby?"

"Senora Gredos."

"Maraquito!" cried Juliet, starting back with an indignant look.  "I
never expected to meet that woman--"

"You call me that?" cried Maraquito, flashing, up into a passion.  "I
am the woman Cuthbert loves."

"He does not.  He loves me.  You, so old and--"

"Old!" shrieked Maraquito, snatching off her hat and cap.  "I am young
and much more beautiful than you.  Look at my hair." It came streaming
down in a glorious mass on her shoulders. "My face is as beautiful as
yours.  I disguised myself to see you.  I hate you!--I loathe you!  I
forbid you to marry Cuthbert."

"How dare you--how dare--"

"I dare all things--even this." Maraquito raised her arm, and in her
hand Caranby saw a small bottle she had taken out of the bag.  "What
will Cuthbert say to your beauty now?"

She flung the bottle straight at Juliet.  It would have struck her in
the face, but Caranby, throwing himself between the two, received it
fair on his cheek.  It smashed, and he uttered a cry.  "Vitriol!
Vitriol!" he shrieked, his hands to his face, and fell prone on the
hearth-rug.  His head struck against the bars of the grate, and a spurt
of flame caught his hair.  Juliet seized him and dragged him away,
calling loudly for help.

"You devil--you devil!" cried Maraquito, striking the girl on the face.
"I dare not stay now.  But I'll spoil your beauty yet.  Wait--wait!"

She hastily put on her hat and ran out of the room.  The servant of
Lord Caranby burst into the room, followed by some waiters.  "Send for
the doctor," cried Juliet, trying to raise Caranby--"and that woman-"

"She has left the hotel," said a waiter, but at this moment there was a
loud shout in the street, followed by a shriek and a crash.




CHAPTER XXV

NEMESIS


In the midst of the confusion caused by Maraquito's wickedness Cuthbert
arrived.  Juliet flew to him at once and flung herself sobbing into his
arms.

"Oh, Cuthbert--Cuthbert!" she cried, her head on his shoulder, "that
woman has been here.  She tried to throw vitriol at me, and the bottle
broke on Lord Caranby's face. He has burnt his head also; he is dying."

"Good heavens!" cried Mallow, pressing her to his heart, "thank God you
are safe!  How did Maraquito come here?"

"I don't know--I don't know," sobbed Juliet, completely unstrung; "he
asked me to see him, and she arrived disguised as an old woman.  Oh,
where is the doctor!"

"He has just arrived, miss.  Here he comes," said an excited waiter.

While the doctor examined Caranby's injuries, Cuthbert, very pale, led
Juliet out of the room, and taking her into an adjoining apartment,
made her drink a glass of port wine.  "An old woman," he repeated, "it
must have been the disguised Maraquito then who was killed."

"Killed!  She is not killed.  She came here and--"

Juliet began to tell the story over again, for she was badly
frightened.  Mallow interrupted her gently.

"Maraquito is dead," he said, "she was run over by a motor-car a
quarter of an hour ago."

"Was that her cry we heard?"

"I don't know," replied Cuthbert gloomily.  "I was coming round the
corner of the street and saw a woman flying along the pavement.  A car
was tearing towards me.  I had just time to see the woman as she passed
and note that she was old.  She caught a glimpse of my face, and with a
cry ran into the centre of the street.  I never thought she was
Maraquito, and could not understand why she acted as she did.  I cried
out in alarm, and ran forward to drag her back from before the
approaching motor.  But it was too late, the car went over her and she
shrieked when crushed under the wheels.  The impediment made the car
swerve and it ran into a lamp-post. The occupants were thrown out.  I
fancy someone else is hurt also.  Maraquito is dead.  I heard a
policeman say so.  I then saw a waiter gesticulating at the door of the
hotel, and fancied something was wrong; I ran along and up the stairs.
But I never expected to find you here, Juliet, much less to witness the
death of that wretched woman."

"I am sorry," faltered Juliet, as she sat with his arms round her, "I
don't know why she wanted to throw vitriol at me.  She failed to hurt
me, and I think she has killed Lord Caranby, and--"

"I must see to my uncle," said Mallow, rising, "stay here, Juliet."

"No! no," she said, clinging to him, "let me go home.  Get a cab.  I
dare not stop.  That terrible woman--"

"She will never hurt you again.  She is dead."

"I wish to go home--I wish to go home."

Mallow saw that the poor girl was quite ill with fright; and small
wonder, considering the catastrophe of the last half hour.  To have
vitriol thrown is bad enough, but when the act leads to two deaths--for
Maraquito was already dead, and it seemed probable that Lord Caranby
would follow--it is enough to shake the nerves of the strongest.
Mallow took Juliet down and placed her in a cab.  Then he promised to
see her that same evening, and to tell her of Lord Caranby's progress.
When the cab drove away he went again upstairs.  As he went he could
not help shuddering at the thought of the danger from which Juliet had
escaped.  He remembered how Maraquito had threatened to spoil the
beauty of the girl, but he never thought she would have held to her
devilish purpose. Moreover, he could not understand how Maraquito in
disguise came to see Caranby.  The disguise itself was an obvious
necessity to escape the police.  But why should she have been with his
uncle and why should Juliet have come also?  It was to gain an answer
to these questions that Cuthbert hurried to the sitting-room.

Lord Caranby was no longer there.  The doctor had ordered him to be
taken to his bedroom, and when Mallow went thither he met him at the
door, "He is still unconscious," said the doctor, "I must send for his
regular medical attendant, as I was only called in as an emergency
physician."

"Is he very ill?"

"I think the shock will kill him.  He is extremely weak, and besides
the shock of the vitriol being thrown, he has sustained severe injuries
about the head from fire.  I don't think he will live.  To whom am I
speaking?" asked the young man.

"My name is Mallow.  I am Lord Caranby's nephew."

"And the next heir to the title.  I fancy you will be called `my lord'
before midnight."

Mallow did not display any pleasure on hearing this.  He valued a title
very little and, so far as money was concerned, had ample for his
needs.  Besides, he was really fond of his uncle who, although
consistently eccentric, had always been a kind, good friend.  "Will he
recover consciousness?"

"I think so," said the doctor doubtfully, "I am not quite sure.  His
own medical attendant, knowing his constitution and its resisting
power, will be able to speak more assuredly. How did this happen?"

Cuthbert, for obvious reasons, explained as little as he could.  "Some
old woman came to see my uncle and threw vitriol at Miss Saxon, the
young lady who was with him.  He intercepted the stuff and fell into
the fire."

"What a demon!  I hope she will be caught."

"She is dead," and Cuthbert related the accident in the street.  The
doctor had strong nerves, but he shuddered when he heard the dreadful
story.  Nemesis had been less leaden-footed than usual.

In due time Dr. Yeo, who usually attended Caranby, made his appearance
and stated that his patient would not live many hours.  "He was always
weak," said Yeo, "and of late his weakness increased.  The two severe
shocks he has sustained would almost kill a stronger man, let alone an
old man of so delicate an organization.  He will die."

"I hope not," said Cuthbert, impulsively.

The physician looked at him benignly.  "I differ from you," he
declared, "death will come as a happy release to Lord Caranby. For
years he has been suffering from an incurable complaint which gave him
great pain.  But that he had so much courage, he would have killed
himself."

"He never complained."

"A brave man like that never does complain.  Besides, he took great
care of himself.  When he came back to London he was fairly well.  I
think he must have done something rash to bring on a recurrence of his
illness.  Within a few days of his arrival he grew sick again.  In some
way he over-exerted himself."

"I don't think he ever did," said Mallow, doubtfully.

"But I am certain of it.  Within a week of his arrival here he had a
relapse.  I taxed him with going out too much and with over-exertion,
but he declined to answer me."

"Will he become conscious again?"

"I think so, in a few hours, but I cannot be sure.  However, you need
not be alarmed, Mr. Mallow.  His affairs are all right.  In view of his
illness I advised him to make his will. He said that he had done so,
and that everything was in apple-pie order."

"It is not that, doctor.  I wish to ask him some questions. Will you
remain here?"

"Till the end," replied Yeo, significantly; "but it will not take place
for a few hours, so far as I can see."

"I wish to go out for an hour.  Can I, with safety?"

"Certainly.  Lord Caranby will live for some time yet."

Mallow nodded and left the bedroom, while Yeo returned to the bed upon
which lay the unconscious form of the old man. Cuthbert took a walk to
the end of the street where the wreckage of the motor car had now been
removed, and asked the policeman what had become of the victims.  He
was informed that the chauffeur, in a dying condition, had been removed
to the Charing Cross Hospital, and that the body of the old woman--so
the constable spoke--had been taken to the police station near at hand.
"She's quite dead and very much smashed up," was the man's report.

Mallow thanked him with half-a-crown and, having learned the
whereabouts of the police station, he went there.  He introduced
himself to the inspector and, as the nephew of Lord Caranby, received
every attention, particularly when he described how the vitriol had
been thrown.  Cuthbert thought it as well to say this, as the waiters
at the Avon Hotel would certainly inform the police if he did not.  He
looked at the body of the miserable woman in its strange mask of age.
"She went to see Lord Caranby in disguise," said the inspector, "you
can see her face is made up.  Does his lordship know who she is?"

"Yes.  And Mr. Jennings, the detective, knows also."

"Perhaps you do yourself, Mr. Mallow?"

Cuthbert nodded.  "She is Maraquito, the--"

"What! the gambling-house coiner we have been looking for?"

"The same.  Jennings can tell you more about the matter than I can."

"I'll get Mr. Jennings to come here as soon as he is on his feet, and
that will be to-morrow most probably.  But why did Maraquito throw
vitriol at Lord Caranby?"

"Jennings can tell you that," said Mallow, suppressing the fact that
the vitriol had been meant for Juliet.  "Perhaps it had something to do
with the raid made on the unfinished house which, you know, belonged to
my uncle."

"Bless me, so it did.  I expect, enraged by the factory being
discovered, Maraquito wished to revenge herself on your uncle. She may
have thought that he gave information to Jennings about the place."

"She might have thought so," said Mallow.  "I am returning to the Avon
Hotel.  If you want to see me you can send for me there.  But Jennings
knows everything."

"What about his lordship?"

"He will die," said Cuthbert abruptly, and departed, leaving the
inspector full of regrets that Maraquito had not lived to figure in the
police court.  He looked at the matter purely from a professional
standpoint, and would have liked the sensation such an affair would
have caused.

When Mallow came back to the hotel he found that his uncle had
recovered consciousness and was asking for him.  Yeo would not allow
his patient to talk much, so Cuthbert sat by the bedside holding the
hand of the dying man.  Caranby had been badly burnt about the temples,
and the sight of one eye was completely gone.  Occasionally Yeo gave
him a reviving cordial which made him feel better.  Towards evening
Caranby expressed a wish to talk.  The doctor would have prevented him,
but the dying man disregarded these orders.

"I must talk," he whispered faintly.  "Cuthbert, get a sheet of paper."

"But you have made your will," said Yeo, rebukingly.

"This is not a will.  It is a confession.  Cuthbert will write it out
and you will witness my signature along with him, Yeo."

"A confession!" murmured Cuthbert, going out of the room to get pen,
ink and paper.  "What about?"

He soon knew, for when he was established by the side of the bed with
his writing materials on a small table, Caranby laughed to himself
quietly.  "Do you know what I am about to say?" he gasped.

"No.  If it is nothing important you had better not exhaust yourself."

"It is most important, as you will hear.  I know who murdered the
supposed Miss Loach."

Cuthbert nearly dropped the pen.  "Who was it?" he asked, expecting to
hear the name of Mrs. Octagon.

"I did!" said Caranby, quietly.

"You!--that's impossible."

"Unfortunately it is true.  It was an accident, though.  Yeo, give me
more drink; I must tell everything."

Yeo was quite calm.  He had known Caranby for many years, and was not
at all disposed to shrink from him because he confessed to having
committed a murder.  He knew that the Earl was a kind-hearted man and
had been shamefully treated by three women.  In fact, he was secretly
glad to hear that Emilia Saul had met her death at the hand of a man
she had injured.  But he kept these sentiments to himself, and after
giving his patient a strong tonic to revive his energies, he sat by the
bedside with his fingers on the pulse of the dying man.  Caranby
rallied considerably, and when he began his recital spoke in stronger
tones.

Cuthbert dipped his pen in the ink, but did not dare even to think.  He
was wondering how the death of Emilia had come about, and also how his
uncle had gone to the unfinished house on the same night as he had
done.  Remembering how Basil stated he had been chased by someone
unknown, Cuthbert began to fancy he saw light.  However, at this moment
Caranby began to speak, and as every moment was precious, both men
forbore to interrupt him unless desirous to have a clearer
understanding on certain points.

"When I came back to England," said Caranby, "I never thought that
Emilia was alive.  Owing to the clever way in which the substitution
was effected by Isabella, I always thought Selina lived at Rose
Cottage.  Several times I tried to see her, hoping she would marry me.
But she always refused.  I was puzzled at the time, but now I know the
reason.  I never thought of looking at the unfinished house.  It was a
piece of sentimental folly my shutting it up, but afterwards, as time
slipped by, I never troubled about looking into the matter. As Cuthbert
will tell you, Yeo, laziness is a vice with me."

"Go on with the story and save your strength," said Yeo softly.

"Yes."  Caranby heaved a sigh. "I haven't much left.  Well, Cuthbert,
you told me about the ghosts supposed to be haunting the house.  I
asked you to go down and see.  You came here one night and left at
eight o'clock to go down to Rexton."

"I never expected you to follow.  Why did you not come with me?"

"Because I was keeping something back from you.  On the previous day I
received a letter.  There was no name to it, and the writing was
disguised.  It advised me to see Selina Loach, and said I would be
surprised when she spoke to me."

"Because then you would recognize the woman you believed to be dead."

"Exactly," said Caranby faintly, "but at the time I knew nothing, and
was much puzzled with the letter.  On that night I intended to tell
you, but I did not.  Then I thought I would go down to Rose Cottage and
prove the truth of the letter.  I went almost immediately after you,
Cuthbert."

"What, in your state of health?"

"Yes.  I was stronger then."

"And have been less strong since," murmured Yeo.  "I understand now why
you refused to tell me how you had over-exerted yourself."

"I had my secret to keep," said Caranby coldly, "some more drink,
please."  Then, when he felt better, he continued "Yes! I was
wonderfully well and strong on that night.  I climbed the wall--"

"Impossible!" said Mallow, "I can't believe that."

"Nevertheless it is the truth.  I expect the excitement made me
unnaturally strong.  I suffered greatly when it was over."

"You were a wreck," said the physician bluntly.

"When what was over?" asked Mallow, anxiously.

"The event of the night to which I am coming.  It took me some time to
get to Rexton, and a long time to walk to the unfinished house.  I did
not go down Crooked Lane, but round by the wall."

"Did you come by the railway station path?"

"I did not.  I took a wide detour and arrived at the unfinished house
on the side opposite to where Rose Cottage stood."

"Ah!" murmured the young man.  "No wonder I missed you.  But I thought
you were calling on Miss Loach."

"I intended to, but first I thought I would assure myself about the
ghosts.  Certainly I had set you to perform that task, but, as I was on
the spot, I determined to see for myself.  I climbed the wall, not
without difficulty, and found myself in the park--"

"About what time was this?"

"After ten.  I can't say how long.  But I really cannot be precise as
to the time.  I wandered aimlessly about the park, threading my way
amongst the trees and shrubs and undergrowth. I was astonished to find
paths, and it struck me that someone used the park."

"I believe Miss Loach did--that is, Emilia," said Cuthbert. "Jennings
learned that in some way.  She always was on the watch for anyone
coming into the park and learning the secret of the factory."

"I did not know that at the time," said Caranby, his voice growing
weaker.  "Well, I walked about.  Sometimes it was moonlight and at
other times the moon would be obscured by clouds.  I struggled to get
near the house and succeeded. Then I saw a man standing in the shadow.
At once I went up to him--he fled.  I don't know who it was?"

"I can tell you," said Mallow, quietly, "young Saxon."

"Then why did he fly?"

"He was there with no very good purpose and his conscience smote the
miserable creature," said Cuthbert, "go on--or will you wait?"

"No! no! no!" said Caranby, vehemently; "if I stop now you will never
know the truth.  I don't want anyone else to be accused of the crime.
I know Maraquito hinted that Isabella Octagon was guilty, but she is
not.  I don't want even Isabella to suffer, though she has been a fatal
woman to me and wrecked my life's happiness."

His voice was growing so weak that Yeo gave him more cordial. After a
pause Caranby resumed with a last effort, and very swiftly, as though
he thought his strength would fail him before he reached the end of his
dismal story.

"I followed the man, though I did not know who he was, and wondered why
he should be trespassing.  He fled rapidly and I soon lost him.  But
when the moonlight was bright I saw that he had dropped a knife from
his pocket.  In stooping to pick it up I lost sight of the man."

"Basil crossed the park and ran away.  But he came back for the knife
afterwards," explained Mallow.  "Juliet saw him.  He had on my coat.  I
wonder you didn't think Basil was me, as Juliet did."

"I am not acquainted with your clothes," said Caranby, dryly, "as I
have been absent from England for so long.  But no wonder Saxon did not
find the knife.  I picked it up.  It was a bowie--"

"Belonging to me, which Basil had stolen."

"I didn't know that either.  Well, I went again towards the wall
surrounding the park.  I thought I might meet you."

"I wonder you didn't.  I was about at that time."

"The park was so thickly filled with trees and shrubs that we missed
one another I suppose.  Don't interrupt--I am going. Write quickly,
Cuthbert."  Then with a gasp Caranby resumed: "I halted to get breath
near the large oak which the fire spared.  I heard a rustling, and a
woman came out of the shadow of the tree.  I wondered who she was and
where she had come from.  The moon then came out brightly, and I
recognized her face with a sensation almost of terror.  It was Emilia."

"How did you recognize her after all these years?"

"By her Jewish look, and especially by the eyebrows. Moreover, she
revealed herself to me when dying."

"What happened?" asked Yeo, sharply.

"I was standing with the knife in my hand.  Emilia, seeing that I was
an intruder, came swiftly towards me.  She had a revolver in her hand
but did not fire.  She cried out something and rushed at me.  In doing
this she came straight against the knife.  I was holding it
instinctively in an attitude of defence, with the point outward.  She
rushed at me to bear me down by the weight and force of her charge, and
the next moment she dropped to the ground dying."

"She was not dead then?"

"No! not for the moment.  I knelt beside her and whispered 'Emilia!'
She opened her eyes and smiled.  Then she replied, 'Emilia--yes!' and
died.  I did not know what to do.  Then it struck me that I might be
arrested for the crime, though it really was no crime.  Had she not
rushed at me, had I not been holding the knife, she would not have met
with her death.  I wonder she did not fire, seeing she had a pistol."

"Perhaps she recognized you," said Yeo, glancing at Cuthbert, who was
writing rapidly.

"No.  Had she done so, she would never have attempted to hurt me.  She
thought I was some spy searching for the factory, and without giving
herself time to think dashed forward, believing I would give way and
fly.  It was all over in a second.  I made up my mind to go at once.  I
did not even wait to pick up the knife, but climbed the wall and came
home here.  What happened then I don't know."

"I can tell you," said Mallow.  "Maraquito and Hale came to look for
Miss Loach and took her body into the villa sitting-room.  They placed
the knife at her feet and the cards in her lap, thinking it would be
thought she had been stabbed in the room, and--"

"Sign, sign!" said Caranby, unexpectedly, and Mallow hastily brought
him the written document and the ink.  He signed feebly, and the two
men signed as witnesses.  Yeo then turned to his patient, but he drew
back.  Death was stamped on the face.

Cuthbert called in the servant.  "Lord Caranby is dead," he said
quietly.

"Yes, my lord," replied the servant, and Mallow started on hearing the
title.  But he was now Lord Caranby and his uncle was dead.




CHAPTER XXVI

CUTHBERT'S ENEMY


Before leaving the death-chamber, Mallow--now Lord Caranby--sealed the
confession in the presence of Yeo, and went with him into the
sitting-room.  "What will you do with that?" asked the doctor,
indicating the envelope with a nod.

"I shall place it in the hand of my lawyers to be put with family
papers," replied Cuthbert.  "I am sure you agree with me, Yeo, that it
is unnecessary to make the contents public. My uncle is dead."

"Even were he still alive, I should advise you to say nothing," replied
Yeo, grimly; "the woman deserved her fate, even though it was an
accident.  She destroyed Caranby's life. He would have married Selina
Loach and have been a happy man but for her."

"There I think you wrong her.  It is Isabella Octagon who is to blame.
She has indeed been a fatal woman to my poor uncle. But for her, he
would not have been prevented from marrying Selina and thus have fallen
into the toils of Emilia.  Emilia would not have murdered Selina, and
the result would not have come out after all these years in the death
of my uncle at the hands of Bathsheba Saul."

"Who is she?"

"Maraquito.  But you don't know the whole story, nor do I think there
is any need to repeat the sordid tragedy.  I will put this paper away
and say nothing about it to anyone save to Jennings."

"The detective!" said Yeo, surprised and startled.  "Do you think that
is wise?  He may make the matter public."

"No, he won't.  He has traced the coiners to their lair, and that is
enough glory for him.  When he knows the truth he will stop searching
further into the case.  If I hold my tongue, he may go on, and make
awkward discoveries."

"Yes, I see it is best you should tell him.  But Miss Saxon?"

"She shall never know.  Let her think Maraquito killed Emilia. Only
you, I and Jennings will know the truth."

"You can depend upon my silence," said Yeo, shaking Cuthbert by the
hand; "well, and what will you do now?"

"With your permission, I shall ask you to stop here and arrange about
necessary matters in connection with the laying-out of the body.  I
wish to interview Mrs. Octagon this evening.  To-morrow I shall see
about Caranby's remains being taken down to our family seat in Essex."

"There will be an inquest first."

"I don't mind.  Maraquito is dead and nothing detrimental to the honor
of the Mallows can transpire.  You need say nothing at the inquest as
to the bottle being thrown at Juliet."

"I'll do my best.  But she will be questioned."

"I intend to see her this evening myself."

"What about Mrs. Octagon?"

"Oh," said the new Lord Caranby with a grim smile, "I intend to settle
Mrs. Octagon once and for all."

"Surely you don't intend to tell her of the murder."

"Certainly not.  She would make the matter public at once. But her
knowledge of the real name of Emilia, and her hushing up of the murder
of her sister, will be quite enough to bring her to her knees.  I don't
intend that Juliet shall have anything more to do with her mother.  But
I'll say very little."

After this Cuthbert departed and took a hansom to the "Shrine of the
Muses."  He arrived there at ten o'clock, and was informed by the
butler that Miss Saxon was in bed with a headache, and that Mrs.
Octagon had given orders that Mr. Mallow was not to be admitted.  Basil
was out, and Mr. Octagon likewise.  Cuthbert listened quietly, and then
gave the man, whom he knew well, half a sovereign.  "Tell Mrs. Octagon
that Lord Caranby wishes to see her."

"Yes, sir, but I don't--"

"I am Lord Caranby.  My uncle died this evening."

The butler opened his eyes.  "Yes, m'lord," he said promptly, and
admitted Cuthbert into the hall.  "I suppose I needn't say it is really
you, m'lord," he remarked, when the visitor was seated in the
drawing-room, "I am afraid the mistress will be angry."

"Don't trouble about that, Somes.  Tell her Lord Caranby is here," and
the butler, bursting to tell the news in the servants' hall, went away
in a great hurry.

Cuthbert remained seated near the table on which stood an electric
lamp.  He had the confession in his pocket, and smiled to think how
glad Mrs. Octagon would be to read it. However, he had quite enough
evidence to force her into decent behavior.  He did not intend to leave
that room till he had Mrs. Octagon's free consent to the marriage and a
promise that she would go abroad for an indefinite period with her
hopeful son, Basil.  In this way Cuthbert hoped to get rid of these
undesirable relatives and to start his married life in peace. "Nothing
less than exile will settle matters," he muttered.

Mrs. Octagon, in a gorgeous tea-gown, swept into the room with a frown
on her strongly-marked face.  She looked rather like Maraquito, and
apparently was in a bad temper.  Mallow could see that she was
surprised when she entered, as, thinking Lord Caranby was incapacitated
by the accident described by Juliet, she did not know how he came to
call at so late an hour. Moreover, Lord Caranby had never visited her
before.  However, she apparently was bent on receiving him in a tragic
manner, and swept forward with the mien of a Siddons.  When she came
into the room she caught sight of Cuthbert's face in the blaze of the
lamp and stopped short.  "How--" she said in her deepest tone, and then
became prosaic and very angry.  "What is the meaning of this, Mr.
Mallow?  I hoped to see--"

"My uncle.  I know you did.  But he is dead."

Mrs. Octagon caught at a chair to stop herself from falling, and wiped
away a tear.  "Dead!" she muttered, and dropped on to the sofa.

"He died two hours ago.  I am now Lord Caranby."

"You won't grace the position," said Mrs. Octagon viciously, and then
her face became gloomy.  "Dead!--Walter Mallow. Ah!  I loved him so."

"You had a strange way of showing it then," said Cuthbert, calmly, and
he also took a seat.

Mrs. Octagon immediately rose.  "I forbid you to sit down in my house,
Lord Caranby.  We are strangers."

"Oh, no, we aren't, Mrs. Octagon.  I came here to arrange matters."

"What matters?" she asked disdainfully, and apparently certain he had
nothing against her.

"Matters connected with my marriage with Juliet."

"Miss Saxon, if you please.  She shall never marry you."

"Oh, yes, she will.  What is your objection to the marriage?"

"I refuse to tell you," said Mrs. Octagon violently, and then somewhat
inconsistently went on:

"If you must know, I hated your uncle."

"You said you loved him just now."

"And so I did," cried the woman, spreading out her arms, "I loved him
intensely.  I would have placed the hair of my head under his feet.
But he was never worthy of me.  He loved Selina, a poor, weak, silly
fool.  But I stopped that marriage," she ended triumphantly, "as I will
stop yours."

"I don't think you will stop mine," replied Cuthbert tranquilly, "I am
not to be coerced, Mrs. Octagon."

"I don't seek to coerce you," she retorted, "but my daughter will obey
me, and she will refuse your hand.  I don't care if you are fifty times
Lord Caranby.  Juliet should not marry you if you had all the money in
the world.  I hated Walter Mallow, your uncle.  He treated me
shamefully, and I swore that never would any child of mine be connected
with him.  Selina wished it, and forced me to agree while she was
alive.  But she is dead and Lord Caranby is dead, and you can do
nothing.  I defy you--I defy you!"

"We may as well conduct this interview reasonably."

"I shall not let you remain here any longer.  Go."

She pointed to the door with a dramatic gesture.  Cuthbert took up his
hat.

"I shall go if you insist," he said, moving towards the door, "and I
shall return with a policeman."

Mrs. Octagon gave a gasp and went gray.  "What do you mean?"

"You know well what I mean.  Am I to go?"

"You have nothing against me," she said violently, "stop, if you will,
and tell me the reason of that speech."

"I think you understand what I mean perfectly well," said Mallow again,
and returning to his seat.  "I know that your sister died years ago,"
Mrs. Octagon gasped, "and that Emilia feigned to be Selina Loach.  And
perhaps, Mrs. Octagon, you will remember how your sister died."

"I didn't touch her," gasped Mrs. Octagon, trembling.

"No, but Emilia Saul did, and you condoned the crime."

"I deny everything!  Go and get a policeman if you like."

Cuthbert walked to the door and there turned.  "The statement of Emilia
will make pleasant reading in court," he said.

Mrs. Octagon bounded after him and pulled him back by the coat-tails
into the centre of the room.  Then she locked the door and sat down.
"We won't be disturbed," she said, wiping her face upon which the
perspiration stood, "what do you know?"

"Everything, even to that letter you wrote to my uncle, stating he
should see the pretended Selina Loach."

This was a chance shot on Mallow's part, but it told, for he saw her
face change.  In fact, Mrs. Octagon was the only woman who could have
sent the letter.  She did not attempt to deny it.  "I sent that letter,
as I was weary of that woman's tyranny.  I thought it would get her
into trouble."

"She would have got you into trouble also.  Suppose she had lived and
had told the story of Selina's death."

"She would have put the rope round her own neck," said Mrs. Octagon in
a hollow tone, all her theatrical airs gone.  "I was a fool to wait so
long.  For twenty years that woman has held me under her thumb.  It was
Emilia that made me consent to your engagement to Juliet.  Otherwise,"
she added malevolently, "I should have died rather than have consented.
Oh," she shook her hands in the air, "how I hate you and your uncle and
the whole of the Mallows."

"A woman scorned, I see," said Cuthbert, rather cruelly, "well, you
must be aware that I know everything."

"You don't know who killed Emilia?"

"Maraquito said it was you."

"I" shrieked Mrs. Octagon, "how dare she?  But that she is dead, as
Juliet told me, I would have her up for libel. Maraquito herself killed
the woman.  I am sure of it.  That coining factory--"

"Did you know of its existence?"

"No, I didn't," snapped Mrs. Octagon.  "I knew nothing of Emilia's
criminal doings.  I let her bear the name of my sister--"

"Why?" asked Mallow, quickly, and not knowing what Maraquito had said
to Caranby.

"I don't know," replied Mrs. Octagon, sullenly, "Emilia was in some
trouble with the law.  Her brother and mother were afterwards arrested
for coining.  She might have been arrested also, but that I agreed to
hold my tongue.  Emilia pushed Selina off the plank.  Then she turned
and accused me.  As it was known that I was on bad terms with Selina, I
might have been accused of the crime, and Emilia would have sworn the
rope round my neck.  Emilia made me help her to change the dress, and
said that as the face of the dead was disfigured, and she was rather
like Selina--which she certainly was, she could arrange.  I did not
know how she intended to blind my father.  But my father died
unexpectedly.  Had he not done so, the deception could not have been
kept up.  As it was, I went to the inquest, and Emilia as Selina
pretended to be ill.  I saw after her and we had a strange doctor.
Then we went abroad, and she came back to shut herself up in Rose
Cottage. I tried to marry Caranby, but Emilia stopped that."

"Why did she?"

"Because she loved Caranby in her tiger way.  That was why she insisted
you should marry Juliet.  She always threatened to tell that I had
killed Selina, though I was innocent."

"If you were, why need you have been afraid?"

"Circumstances were too strong for me," said Mrs. Octagon, wiping her
dry lips and glaring like a demon.  "I had to give in.  Had I known of
that factory I would have spoken out.  As it was, I wrote to Caranby
when in a fit of rage; but afterwards I was afraid of what I had done,
as I thought Emilia would tell."

"She certainly would have done so had she not died so opportunely."

"Do you mean to say that I killed her?  I tell you, Maraquito did so."

"What makes you think that?" asked Mallow, delighted at the mistake.

"Because she was always fighting with Emilia about you. Maraquito
wished to marry you, and Emilia would not let her. After Emilia died,
Maraquito saw me, and we arranged to stop the marriage, and--"

"I know all about that.  I saw you--or rather my uncle saw you--enter
Maraquito's Soho house."

"I went on Basil's account also," said Mrs. Octagon, sullenly,
"however, I have told you all.  What do you wish to do?"

"I wish to marry Juliet."

"Then I refuse," said Mrs. Octagon, savagely.

"In that case I'll tell."

"You will disgrace Juliet.  Besides, the law can't touch me."

"I am not so sure of that.  You were an accessory after the fact.  And
if the public knew that you had acquiesced in the death of your sister
and had held your tongue for years, you would not be popular.  I fear
your books would not sell then."

Mrs. Octagon saw all this, and glared savagely at Cuthbert. She would
have liked to kill him, but he was the stronger of the two, and knew
much which she wished kept silent.  Mallow saw the impression he was
making and went on persuasively. "And think, Mrs. Octagon, Juliet can
give you up the six thousand a year--"

"Not she," laughed Mrs. Octagon, sneering.

"She will, at my request.  I don't want my wife to possess money made
out of coining.  The income will be made over to you by deed of gift."

"Six thousand a year," mused the lady, "and you will hold your tongue?"

"Of course, for Juliet's sake as well as for yours.  But I think it
will be advisable for you to travel for a few years."

"I'll take up my abode in America forever," said Mrs. Octagon, rising,
"do you think I'll stop here and see you my daughter's husband?  Not
for all the money in the world.  Besides, Mr. Octagon has been insolent
over money, and I sha'n't stay with him.  Basil and myself will go to
America and there we will become famous."

"It is certainly better than becoming famous in another way," said
Mallow, dryly, "you will, of course be quite amiable to Juliet.  Also
to me, in public."

"Oh," she replied, with a short laugh, "I'll kiss you if you like."

"There is no need to go so far.  I am sorry for you."

"And I hate you--hate you!  Leave me now at least.  You can come
to-morrow, and I'll consent publicly to the marriage. But I hope you
will both be miserable.  Juliet does not love me or she would despise
you.  I wish you had died along with your uncle."

She was becoming so wild in her looks that Cuthbert thought it best to
leave the room.  The key was in the door, so he departed, quite sure
that Mrs. Octagon, to avoid scandal about her shady doings, would be
most agreeable towards him in public, however much of a demon she might
be in private.  Thus ended the interview.

Next morning Mallow drove to Jennings and related everything, including
the confession of Caranby regarding the accident, and added details of
the interview with Mrs. Octagon. Jennings listened, astonished.

"I am glad you told me," he said, "of course I don't want you to make
all this public.  The general impression is the same as that of Mrs.
Octagon, that Maraquito murdered Miss Loach. It need not be known that
Emilia was masquerading under a false name.  She need not be brought
into the case at all. What a wonderful case, Mallow."

Cuthbert assented.  "It's more like fiction than fact."

"Fact is always like fiction," said Jennings epigrammatically,
"however, we've got a confession from Clancy about the other factories.
The whole gang will be caught sooner or later. And, by the way, Mallow,
on second thoughts, I think it will be best to state the real name of
Emilia."

"I think so too.  If she is pilloried as Miss Loach, everyone will know
that she is the aunt of Juliet.  Tell the truth, Jennings."

"We'll tell everything, save that Lord Caranby inadvertently murdered
that woman.  She was the fatal woman--"

"No," said the new Lord Caranby, "Mrs. Octagon is the fatal woman.  She
was at the bottom of everything."

"And has been rewarded with six thousand a year.  I don't suppose the
State can seize that money.  However, I'll see.  I should like to
punish Isabella Octagon in some way.  And Susan Grant?"

"You can give her a thousand pounds on my behalf, and she can marry her
baker.  Then there's Mrs. Barnes--Mrs. Pill that was.  She is quite
innocent.  Thomas her husband will be punished, so you had better tell
her, I'll provide for her. As to yourself--"

"That's all right, Mallow, this coining case means a rise of salary."

"All the same, I intend to give you a few thousands on behalf of myself
and Juliet.  Without you I would probably have been accused of the
crime.  And, in any case, things would have been awkward.  There might
have been a scandal."

"There won't be one now," said Jennings.  "I'll settle everything.
Mrs. Octagon will go to the States with that young cub, and you can
make Miss Saxon Lady Caranby.  It is good of you giving me a reward.  I
can now marry Peggy."

"We all seem to be bent on marriage," said Mallow, rising to take his
leave.  "How's the shoulder?"

"All right," said the detective, "and it's worth the wound to have
Peggy nursing me.  She is the dearest--"

"No, pardon me," said Cuthbert, "by no means.  Juliet is the dearest
girl in the wide world," and he departed laughing.

Needless to say, under the careful supervision of Jennings, all scandal
was averted.  The gang with Clancy at its head were sentenced to years
of imprisonment, likely to put a stop to all pranks.  Maraquito was
buried quietly and Mallow erected a gravestone to her, in spite of her
wicked designs against Juliet.  In six months Jennings married Peggy
and took a house at Gunnersbury, where Peggy and he live in the
congenial company of Le Beau, who has become quite reconciled to
Jennings' profession.  The old professor teaches dancing to the
children of the neighborhood.  Susan Grant also married her baker, and
the two now possess one of the finest shops in Stepney.  Mrs. Octagon
went to America almost immediately. She managed to keep the six
thousand a year, in spite of Jennings.  No one knows how she managed to
do this, but envious people hinted at Government influence.  However,
with Basil she departed to the States, as she confessed to being weary
of constant triumphs in England.  Mrs. Octagon now has a literary salon
in Boston, and is regarded as one of the leading spirits of the age.
Basil married an heiress.  Peter, weary of playing the part of husband
to a celebrity, remained in England but not in London.  He sold the
"Shrine of the Muses" and took a cottage on an estate in Kent belonging
to Lord Caranby.  Here he cultivates flowers and calls frequently on
his step-daughter and her husband, when they are in the neighborhood.
Peter never knew the true history of his wife. He always refers to Mrs.
Octagon with respect, but shows no disposition to join her in America.
Peter has had quite enough of sham art and sham enthusiasm.

And Cuthbert was married to Juliet within the year.  The wedding was
quiet on account of his uncle's death, and then Lord Caranby took his
bride for a tour round the world.  To this day Lady Caranby believes
that Maraquito murdered Miss Loach, and knows also from newspaper
reports that the pretended aunt was really Emilia Saul.  Mrs. Octagon
also expressed surprise at the infamous imposture, and quite deceived
Juliet, who never learned what part her mother had taken in the
business.  In fact Juliet thought her mother was quite glad she had
married Cuthbert.

"Mother really liked you all the time," she said to her husband when
they set off on their honeymoon.

"I doubt that," replied Lord Caranby, dryly.

"She told me that it was always the dream of her life to see me your
wife, but that Maraquito had threatened to ruin Basil if--"

"Oh, that is the story, is it?  Well, Juliet, I am much obliged to Mrs.
Octagon for loving me so much, but, with your permission, we will not
see more of her than we can help."

"As she is in America we will see very little of her," sighed Lady
Caranby, "besides, she loves Basil more than me.  Poor boy, I hope he
will get on in America."

"Of course he will.  He will marry an heiress--"  And Cuthbert's
prophecy proved to be correct--"Don't let us talk of these things any
more, Juliet.  This dreadful murder nearly wrecked our life.  My poor
uncle talked of a fatal woman. Maraquito was that to us."

"And I?" asked Juliet, nestling to her husband.

"You are the dearest and sweetest angel in the world."

"And you are the greatest goose," said she, kissing her husband fondly,
"we have had enough of fatal women.  Let us never mention the subject
again."

And they never did.




THE END









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