"What!" cried Giles, with a start, and he noted that the Princess started likewise, and that her face grew pale.
"He wore a red-enamelled cross," repeated Steel imperturbably, "on his watch-chain. Mrs. Benker had been in the service of the late Lady Summersdale when the diamonds of that lady were stolen. She remembered that a red-enamelled cross had been found in the safe whence the jewels were taken. Wilson was amused at this. He said that the cross was the emblem of a charitable society from which he received a weekly sum. Well"—he hesitated and looked at his listeners—"that clue came to an end. I lost sight of Wilson. I then went to look forThe Red Cross—the yacht, I mean!"
"What has the yacht to do with Wilson?" asked Ware angrily.
"If you remember, sir, I told you that Wilson was the man who served the summons on Mr. Morley, and who, as I believed, killed Miss Kent. He afterwards fled with Miss Denham and went on board the yacht. Is not that the case, sir?"
"So far as I can judge, it is," muttered Giles reluctantly.
"Well, then," went on Steel triumphantly, while the Princess—as Giles observed—listened intently, "I looked after that yacht. I could not find her, but I am looking for her now. That is why I am in the country. I came up this morning from Deal, and I go back there to-morrow. I find, sir, that this yacht puts in at various places every now and then."
"Most yachts do."
"Yes, sir. But while most yachts are at anchor in a place does a burglary invariably occur? No, sir, wait," for Giles had sprung to his feet. "Lady Summersdale's place was on the seashore. Her diamonds were stolen. At the time this yacht was at anchor in the bay. A red cross was found in the safe. The boat is called by that name. Several times I find that when the yacht has been at a certain place a burglary has occurred. This man Wilson wears a red cross on his watch-chain. Now, sir, I believe that he is one of a gang of burglars—that the cross is a sign. This explains his interest in the Society papers. He wants to find out where the best swag is to be found, and——"
"But what has all this to do with my friend Anne?" cried the Princess.
Steel shrugged his shoulders. "I say nothing," he replied. "You can draw your own inferences."
"Do you mean to say that Miss Denham——"
"I say nothing," interrupted Steel, catching up his hat. "Mr. Ware, I am at your service when you want me. Princess!" He bowed and went out.
As the outer door closed Giles and his hostess looked at one another. "The man's a foul liar," burst out Giles furiously.
"Yes." The woman was very pale. "Still, my friend Anne once told me——"
"Told you what?"
"What I will tell you if you come again," she said under her breath, and suddenly left the room. She did not return.
Six months had passed away since the death of Daisy. The grass was now green above her grave. Where she had fallen there had she been buried beside her father, and the villagers often talked of the tragedy, and pointed out to strangers the spot where it had taken place. But she who had killed the girl—they still considered Anne guilty—had never been brought to justice. From the day she had fled on Ware's motor-car nothing had been heard of her.
No one troubled about the dead girl. Daisy had not been very popular during her life, and now that she was gone her name was scarcely mentioned. For a time Mrs. Morley had placed flowers on the green mound, but after her return from Brighton had desisted. The grass grew long, and the path beside the grave green. A tombstone of white marble had been erected by Giles, and already that was becoming discolored. Daisy and her resting-place were forgotten. The poor child might have been dead a hundred years instead of six months. Only the tale of her death remained as a fireside legend, to be amplified and improved upon as the years went by.
After that one sensation life went on in Rickwell very much as it had always done. Morley and his wife returned to The Elms, and instead of having a new governess the triplets went to school. Mrs. Morley never spoke of Anne or Daisy, and seemed to grow no more cheerful than before even in the perfect summer weather. She still looked pale and subdued, and her eyes still had in their watery depths an anxious expression. Everyone said that she was regretting the death of Daisy and the wickedness of Anne; but others remarked that she had looked just as haggard and worn before as after the tragedy. Mrs. Parry gave it as her opinion that the poor lady had a secret sorrow, and tried by skilful questioning to learn what it was. But either Mrs. Parry was not clever enough or Mrs. Morley had no secret to reveal, for the scandalmonger learned nothing. The only thing that Mrs. Morley said was that she missed her girls. Whereupon Mrs. Parry told her that she ought to be ashamed of herself, seeing that the three were getting a good education. However, this did not seem to console Mrs. Morley much, for she wept copiously in her usual fashion.
The good old lady returned to her cottage very much disgusted. It was rather a dull time for her, as she had heard no news for a long time. Everyone was so well-behaved that there was no scandal going, and Mrs. Parry began to think that she ought to pay a visit to town. Her cousin, Mrs. McKail, had already gone back to New Zealand with a fearful opinion of English Society, for Mrs. Parry had blackened the country just as though she had been a pro-Boer.
Then one day her little maid, who was called Jane, and had the sharpest ears of any one in the village, brought in breakfast with the remark that Mr. Ware had returned.Mrs. Parry sat up in bed, where she always partook of the first meal of the day, and looked excited.
"When did he arrive, Jane? How does he look? What does he say?"
Jane, being experienced, answered these questions categorically.
"He came last night, mum, with Trim, and looks a shadder of hisself, but said as he was glad to be home again, and what was the news."
"Ho!" said Mrs. Parry, rubbing her nose with a teaspoon, "wants to hear the news, does he? I'll ask him to tea to-morrow—no, to-day. You can take a note up to his place, Jane."
"Yes, mum," replied Jane, who was friendly with Giles' housekeeper.
"And don't let me hear that you've been gossiping with the servants, Jane," snapped Mrs. Parry, who was unusually cross in the morning, and looked an ogress without her wig. "I hate gossip. You have two ears and one mouth, Jane; that means you should listen twice as much as you speak."
"Yes, mum," replied Jane, who had long since taken the measure of her mistress's foot. Then she went to the door, and was recalled to be told that the cook was to make a cake. She was going again, and had to return for instructions about some particular tea. Then there was the silver to be especially polished, and various other matters to be gone into, until Jane's head was whirling and her feet ached. She went down to the kitchen and told the cook that the old vinegar bottle was more fractious than usual. If only Mrs. Parry had heard her! But she thought Jane was afraid of her, whereas Jane was meek to her face and saucy behind her back. The old lady heardall the gossip in the neighborhood, but she never knew the remarks that were made in her own kitchen.
However, it thus came about that Giles received a civil note from Mrs. Parry, asking him to come to afternoon tea. His first thought was to refuse, but he then reflected that if he wanted to learn all that had taken place during his absence, Mrs. Parry was the very person who could tell him. He knew she was an old cat, and had a dangerous tongue. Still, she was much better than a newspaper, being, as her enemies said, more spicy. He therefore accepted the invitation, and appeared in the little parlor about five. He had been for a ride, and having put his horse up at the inn, asked the old lady to excuse his dress. Mrs. Parry did so with pleasure.
Giles was a splendid figure of a man, and looked a picture in his trim riding-dress. The old dame had an eye for a fine man, and cast an approving glance at his shapely legs and slim figure. But she frowned when her eyes rose to his face. It was thinner than she liked to see; there was not the old brave light in his eyes, and his fair moustache had lost the jaunty curl, which, to her romantic mind, had made him such a gallant lover.
Giles was one of the few persons Mrs. Parry did not abuse, for his good looks and many courtesies had long since won her foolish old heart, although she would never confess to it. But then, Mrs. Parry was softer than she looked.
"Who had been taking the heart out of you, Ware?" she asked in her gentlemanly way, which Giles knew and had often laughed at.
"No one," he answered gloomily, "unless you call Fate some one."
"I call Anne Denham some one," she replied coolly, "so you haven't found her yet, poor soul!"
"No; I have looked everywhere. She has vanished like a bubble."
"It is just as well. You couldn't possibly marry her and bring her back to Rickwell as your wife."
"Why not? She is innocent. You said yourself that she was."
"And I believe it. I have stood up for her all through. All the same, Ware, there would be a scandal if she came back as Mrs. Ware."
"I don't care two straws for that," said Giles, flinging back his head.
"No," she replied dryly, "I know that. You're an obstinate man, as any one can see with half an eye. Well, I'm glad to see you again. Sit down in the armchair yonder and tell me what you have been doing all these months. No good, if your face is the index of your mind."
Ware laughed, and sitting down managed to stow his long legs out of the way—no easy matter in the little room. Then he accepted a cup of excellent tea from Mrs. Parry and some of her celebrated cake.
He did not reply immediately, as he did not want to tell her the truth. She had too long a tongue to be told anything which it was necessary to keep secret. He put her off as he best could with a general answer.
"I have just been going to and fro."
"Like Satan," sniffed Mrs. Parry. "He's your model, is he? So you have been searching for Anne. Where?"
"In Paris and in London. But I can't find her."
"She doesn't want you to find her," replied the old lady. "If she did, you would stand face to face with her soon enough."
"That goes without the speaking," retorted Ware. "However, my adventures would not amuse you, Mrs.Parry. Suppose you tell me what has been going on in these parts?"
"As if I knew anything of what was going on," said Mrs. Parry.
Giles laughed.
It was a fiction with Mrs. Parry that she never interfered with other people's business, whereas there was not a pie within miles into which she had not thrust her finger. But he knew how to start her tongue.
"The Morleys, what about them?"
"No change, Ware. The Tricolor has gone to school—I mean the three children—although I can't get out of the habit of calling them by that ridiculous name. Mrs. Morley is as dismal as ever, and seems to miss Anne very much."
"As well she might. Anne was a good friend to her. And Morley?"
"He has found a new friend," said Mrs. Parry triumphantly, "a man called Franklin."
"George Franklin!" cried Ware, startled, for he had heard all about the fortune from Steel. "He is the man who inherited the five thousand a year that Powell left to Daisy. Steel, the detective, told me, and, now I think of it, Morley told me himself when I was ill."
"It's the same man, Ware. He has been here two months, and has taken the Priory."
"That's a cheerful place," said Giles. "Why, it has been standing empty for three years."
"I know. The last tenants left because they said it was haunted."
"Rubbish! And by what?"
"By a white lady. She wanders up and down the park, wringing her hands. But this Franklin evidently does notbelieve in ghosts, for he has been there these two months, and never a word from him."
"What kind of a man is he?"
"A tall man, with very black eyes, and a black beard. No," added Mrs. Parry, correcting herself, "I am wrong. He had a beard when he first came, and now has shaved it off."
"Have you seen much of him?"
"Hardly anything. Morley is the only person with whom he is intimate in any degree. He hardly ever comes out, and when people call he is not at home. Why the man should have five thousand a year I can't make out. He does no good with it."
"Any family? a wife?"
"There is a daughter, I understand, but she is an invalid, and keeps to her room or to the grounds. Weak in the head I should say, seeing how secluded her father keeps her."
"Have you seen her?"
"Yes, I came on her unexpectedly one day—or rather one evening. A short girl, with red hair and a freckled face. She looks a fool, and was dressed in all the colors of the rainbow. I don't wonder he—I mean Franklin—keeps her out of sight."
"Humph!" said Ware, rather astonished by the extent of Mrs. Parry's information, "did the servants tell you all this?"
"There are no servants," retorted Mrs. Parry, with scorn. "The man is a mean creature. You may not believe me, Ware, but he has only three people to do the work of that huge house."
"Then there are three servants?"
"Some people might call them so," retorted Mrs. Parry, determined not to give up her point, "but they are a queerlot—not at all like the domestic I have been used to. An old man, who acts as a kind of butler; a woman, his wife, who is the cook; and a brat of fifteen, the daughter I expect, who does the general work. Oh, it's quite a family affair."
"A queer household. Does this man intend to stop long?"
"He has taken the Priory on a seven years' lease."
"And Morley visits him?"
"Yes, and he visits Morley. They are as thick as thieves. Perhaps they may be thieves for all I know."
"Does this man Franklin go about much?"
"Not a great deal, but he occasionally takes a walk into the village. Sometimes he comes to church, and I believe the rector has called. I wish any one but him had taken the Priory. We want company in this dull place. Will you call and see him?"
"I ought to," replied Ware slowly, "seeing that I was engaged to Daisy, who should have had the money. But from what you say I should not think Franklin would care to see me, and certainly he does not seem to be a desirable neighbor."
"He's quite a mistake," snorted Mrs. Parry. "I tried to be friendly, but he gave me to understand that he preferred his books to my company. He's a great reader, I understand."
Evidently the good lady was somewhat sore on the subject, for she shortly changed it for another. First she began to talk of Daisy; secondly, wonder who had killed her, and why; and thirdly, she made mention of the grave. "There's something queer about that," she remarked, rubbing her nose, a sure sign of perplexity.
"How do you mean, queer?"
"Well——" Mrs. Parry looked thoughtfully at herguest. Then, before replying, she gave him permission to smoke. "I like the scent of a cigar about the place," she said; "it reminds me of the Colonel. He was an awful man to smoke. The one habit I could not break him of."
Giles lighted a cigarette willingly enough, and repeated his question. This time he got an answer that surprised him. "It's this way," said the old lady, taking up her knitting, "for some time the grave was quite neglected."
"No, I gave orders that it should be looked after. I told Drake and my gardener. He's a friend of the sexton's, and I thought there would be no trouble."
"There has been, then," said Mrs. Parry triumphantly. "The sexton and your gardener quarrelled, and have not been on speaking terms for months. Thomas, the sexton, won't let Williams do anything to the grave, and out of spite won't touch it himself, so it went to rack and ruin. The grass is long—or rather was long—and the flowers all gone to seed. A sore wreck, Ware."
"I am most annoyed. I'll see about it to-morrow."
"There is no need. The grave is now as neat as a new pin. The grass is clipped, and fresh flowers were planted a month ago. I never saw a grave better kept. Quite a labor of love."
"And who has done this? Mrs. Morley?"
"Pish!" said the old dame pettishly. "As though that woman had the gumption to do anything. Humph! No one knows who has done it."
"What do you mean?" Ware looked puzzled.
"What I say; I usually do. The grave has been put to rights. At first few people noticed it, because few go into that corner; but one day some imp of a choir boy saw the improvement, and told old Thomas. He came and looked at it, and others came. No one knew whohad put it to rights. Then," continued Mrs. Parry impressively, "it was discovered that it was done at night."
"At night?"
"Yes; but no one seems to know by whom or at what time. Every morning some fresh improvement was noted. Some people watched, but saw no one coming. Yet when the watching was dropped there was something fresh done. It may be a brownie," added Mrs. Parry, with a sniff, "but it's a mystery. Even I can't find out the truth."
"It's very strange," said Ware thoughtfully.
"It's worse; it's improper," cried Mrs. Parry in her sternest voice. "I see no reason why such a thing should be done in the darkness of night. Though to be sure," she continued, rubbing her nose, "we have had moonlight lately."
"I must see into this," said Ware, rising.
"You'll find nothing. Everyone has watched, but to no purpose, my friend. Now the idiots talk of ghosts, and what not."
"What do you think yourself?" asked Giles.
"Why, that some one who loved Daisy better than you did has taken pity on her neglected grave, and——"
"Don't!" he cried, wincing. "I did my best to make her happy. The engagement was unfortunate."
"The marriage would have been still more so. It is just as well the poor girl died. No, no, I don't blame you. But Anne——"
"Don't say a word against Anne," he interrupted quickly. Then, before his hostess could reply, he took his leave. "I must be going now."
Mrs. Parry was not at all pleased, but knowing how far she could go, decided that she had reached the limit of his forbearance. With feminine craft she smothered her resentment, and parted from him in the most cordial manner.All the same, she still held to her opinion that Anne was not the wife for her favorite.
Giles went at once to the churchyard to view Daisy's grave. He found everything in good order. The grass was shorn, the flowers were blooming, and the white marble of the stone had been cleansed carefully. Wondering who had performed this labor of love, he returned to get his horse. At the gate of the churchyard a tall man passed him with bent head. As he brushed past the young squire he raised it suddenly. Giles saw a clean-shaven face, large black eyes, and a sallow complexion. He stood aside to let him pass.
"Rather a nice day," said Ware pleasantly.
"Very," responded the man, and continued his walk.
Giles knew very well that he was the new tenant of the Priory. It was in his mind to speak to him, but on second thoughts he decided to do so on a more propitious occasion. Standing at the gate, he looked thoughtfully after the retiring figure. There was something familiar about it and about the face of the man. His eyes especially aroused a vague recollection in his mind, but he could not, as the saying goes, "put a name to it." But while walking to the inn it suddenly flashed into his brain that this was the man whom he had seen in church on that fatal New Year's Eve.
"It's the clerk," he said breathlessly. "He has shaved his beard. He is Wilson, the man who fled with Anne, who murdered poor Daisy!"
The more Giles thought about Franklin, the more he was certain that he was the man for whom search was being made. To be sure there was no distinguishing mark of identification; the evidence that he was one and the same amounted to the facts that he had large black eyes, and that his height and figure resembled the so-called Wilson. Moreover, although other people in the village had seen the clerk, no one but Giles seemed to recognize him. In fact, this recognition was rather due to an instinct than to any tangible reason. But in his own mind he was convinced. He recalled how the man had suddenly removed his scarf as though he were stifling on that night. He remembered the wan face, the dark, anxious face, and the rough red beard and hair.
To be sure Franklin was dark-haired and sallow in complexion; also he was clean-shaved, and even when not—according to Mrs. Parry—had worn a full black beard. But the red hair and whiskers might have been assumed as a disguise. Giles did not know very well how to verify his suspicions. Then he determined to confide in Morley. Steel had told him that the proprietor of The Elms was an ex-detective, and Giles thought that for thesake of avenging Daisy's death he might be induced to take up his old trade. With this idea he called at The Elms.
Morley was delighted to see him and welcomed him in the most cheerful manner. He and Giles were always good friends, and the only subject of contention between them was the question of Anne's guilt. Morley still believed that the governess had committed the crime and asked after her at the outset of the interview.
"Have you found her?" he asked, just as Mrs. Parry had done.
Giles knew quite well of whom he was speaking. "No, I have not," he answered; "and if I had I certainly should not tell you."
"As you please," replied the little man complacently; "you will never see the truth."
"It is not the truth. But see here, Morley, what is the use of our discussing this matter? You believe Miss Denham to be guilty. I am certain that she is innocent. Let the difference between us rest there. Still, if I could prove the innocence of Miss Denham——"
"I should be more than delighted," responded Morley quickly, "and would make all the amends in my power for my unjust suspicions. But you have first to prove them unjust. Believe me, Ware, I admired Miss Denham as much as my wife did, and thought much of her. I defended her from poor Daisy's aspersions, and would have stood her friend all through but for this last act of hers. Well! Well, don't get angry. I am willing to be shown that I am wrong. Show me."
Giles reflected for a moment, then went straight to the point.
"I have been with Steel," he said abruptly, "and he tells me that you have been in the detective line yourself."
Morley nodded. "Quite so," he answered, "although I asked Steel to say nothing about it. I am a private gentleman now, and I don't want my former occupation to be known in Rickwell. A prejudice exists against detectives, Ware. People don't like them, because every one has something to conceal, and with a trained man he or she is afraid lest some secret sin should come to light."
"It may be so, although that is rather a cynical way of looking at the matter. But you are really Joe Bart?"
"Yes. And quite at your service. Only keep this quiet."
"Certainly. I quite appreciate your reasons for wanting the matter kept quiet. But see here, Mr. Morley—I shall call you so."
"It will be better," replied the ex-detective cheerfully, "and I have a sort of right to the name. It was my mother's."
"Very good. Then as Morley why should you not exercise your old skill and help me to find out who killed Daisy?"
"I should be delighted, and what skill remains to me is at your service. But I am rusty now, and cannot follow a trail with my old persistence or talent. Besides, my mind is made up as to the guilt——"
"Yes, yes," interposed Giles hastily, "you think so, but I don't agree with you. Now listen to what I have to tell you, and I am sure you will think that it was the man who killed Daisy."
"But he had no motive."
"Yes, he had. I'll tell it to you concisely."
Morley looked surprised at Giles' insistence, but nodded without a word and waited for an explanation. Giles related all that he had learned about Wilson, and how Steel had connected him with the supposed clerk who hadserved the summons on Morley. Then he proceeded to detail Steel's belief that the so-called Wilson was a burglar, and mentioned the fact of the yacht with the strange name. Morley listened in silence, but interrupted the recital with a laugh, when the scarlet cross was mentioned in connection with the robbery at Lady Summersdale's house.
"Steel has found a mare's nest this time," he said coolly. "He knew better than to come to me with such a cock and bull story, although he has imposed very successfully on you and on that Hungarian Princess you talk of. I had the Summersdale case in hand."
"I know. Steel said that you carried it through successfully."
Morley demurred. "I don't know if you can say that I was successful, Ware. It was not one of my lucky cases. I certainly got back the jewels. I found them in their London hiding-place, but I did not catch one of the thieves. They all bolted."
"InThe Red Crossyacht."
"Oh, that's all rubbish," said Morley frankly; "there were a great many yachts at Bexleigh on that occasion. I don't remember one calledThe Red Cross. And even if one of that name was there, it does not say that it is the same that was off Gravesend the other day."
"Six months ago," corrected Giles gravely; "but how do you account for the fact that wherever that yacht has been burglaries have taken place?"
"I can't account for it, and Steel has yet to prove that there is any connection between the yacht and the robberies. He thinks it a kind of pirate ship evidently. Not a bad idea, though," added Morley musingly; "the goods could be removed easily without suspicion on board a good-looking yacht."
"And that is what has been done."
"It wasn't in the matter of Lady Summersdale's jewels," retorted the ex-detective. "I found those in London, and have reason to believe that they were taken there by train. Besides, there was no connection between the yacht and that robbery."
"Steel said that a scarlet cross was found in the safe, and——"
"And," interrupted Morley, "there you have the long arm of coincidence, Ware. That cross belonged to Lady Summersdale, and was one of the trinkets left behind. If you want proof on this point, you have only to ask Lady——no, I forgot, she is dead. However, I daresay her son or daughter will be able to prove that the cross was hers."
Giles was much disappointed by this explanation, which seemed clear enough. And if any one should know the truth, it would be the man who had taken charge of the case. Failing on this point, Giles shifted his ground.
"Well, Morley," he said, "I am not very anxious to prove this man Wilson a burglar. He is a murderer, I am sure, and the greater crime swallows up the lesser."
"That sounds law," said Morley, lighting a cigar.
"Well, Ware, I don't see how I can help you. This man Wilson, whether he is innocent or guilty, has vanished; and, moreover, his connection, if any, with the Summersdale robbery of ten years ago won't prove him guilty of my poor ward's death."
"I only mentioned that to show his connection with the yacht at Gravesend. But as to this Wilson, I know where he is."
Morley wheeled round with an eager light in his eyes. "The devil you do. Where is he?"
"At the Priory."
"Is this a joke?" cried Morley angrily. "If so, it is a very poor one, Ware. The man who lives at the Priory is my friend Franklin——"
"He is also the man who was in the church on New Year's Eve—the man who killed Daisy, as I truly believe."
Giles went on to state what his reasons were for this belief. All at once Morley started to his feet. "Ah! I know now why something about him seemed to be familiar to me. What a fool I am! I believe you are right, Ware."
"What? That he is this man Wilson?"
"I don't know what his former name was," replied Morley, with a shrug, "but now you mention it I fancy he is the man who served the summons on me."
"You ought to know," said Ware dryly; "you saw him in this room, and in a good light."
"True enough, Ware; but all the time he kept his collar up and that white scarf round his throat. His chin was quite buried in it. And then he had a rough red—wig, shall we say? and a red beard. I didn't trouble to ask him to make himself comfortable. All I wanted was to get him out of the way. But I remember his black eyes. Franklin has eyes like that, and sometimes I catch myself wondering where I have seen him before. He tells me he has lived in Florence these six years and more. I fancied that when I was a detective I might have seen him, but he insisted that he had not been to London for years and years. He originally came from the States. And I was once a detective! Good Lord, how I have lost my old cleverness! But to be sure I have been idle these ten years."
"Then you think Franklin is this man?"
"I think so, but of course I can't be sure. Naturally he will deny that he is, and I can't prove the matter myself.But I tell you what, Ware," said Morley suddenly, "get that woman Wilson lodged with down, and see if she will recognize Franklin as her former lodger. She, if any one, will know him, and perhaps throw him off his guard."
Ware rose. "A very good idea," he said. "I'll write to her at once. I am certain this is the man, especially as he has inherited Daisy's money. He killed her in order to get the fortune, and that was why he kept asking Asher's office boy about money left to people."
"Ah!" Morley looked thoughtful. "So that was the motive, you think?"
"I am sure of it, and a quite strong enough motive for many people," said Ware grimly. "If Mrs. Benker can verify this man, I'll have him arrested. He will have to explain why he came here instead of the office boy, and why he fled on that night."
"Yes, yes!" cried Morley excitedly. "And he might perhaps explain why the governess helped him to escape."
"Ah!" Giles' face fell. "So he might; but if he dares to inculpate her in this crime——"
"Ware," said Morley, laying his hand on the young man's shoulder, "if I were you I should do nothing rash. Every one thinks that Miss Denham is guilty. If this Franklin is the man who fled with her, he will accuse her to save himself. Certainly there is the motive of the money, but that might be explained away."
"I don't see how it can."
"Nor I; still, there is always the chance. Again, he may take alarm—always presuming he is the man—and fly. I tell you what, Ware, you bring Mrs. Benker down, and take her into the grounds of the Priory. I will arrange that Franklin, without suspecting her or us, shall meet her, accidentally, at some place where we can hide. Then we can overhear if he is the man or not."
"He'll deny that he is."
"Why should he? There is nothing, so far as he knows, that Mrs. Benker can lay hold of. If he is the man he will admit his identity, if not, he will explain who he is. Whereas if we show ourselves and show that we suspect him, he will be on his guard. No, Ware; better let the woman meet him by chance."
"It's a good plan," replied Giles, shaking hands heartily with Morley. "I am delighted that you should co-operate with me. We will yet prove that Anne is innocent."
"I hope so," cried his host, slapping Giles on the back. "Off with you, Ware, to do your part. I'll attend to Franklin. But say no word of our plan to any one. Upon my word," cried he jubilantly, "I feel just as though I were in the profession again." And thus laughing and joking, he sent his visitor away in the best of spirits.
Delighted that he had some one to help him, Giles lost no time in performing his part of the business. He sent a letter to Mrs. Benker, asking her to come down for a couple of days. It was his intention to invite Alexander also, as the boy would also be useful in identifying Franklin as his mother's former lodger; but since leaving Asher's Alexander had been taken up by Steel, who saw in him the makings of a good detective. If Alexander learned anything he would certainly tell his master, and then Steel would come down to interfere. Ware did not want him to meddle with the matter at present. He wished to be sure of his ground first, and then would ask the assistance of the detective to have Franklin arrested. Of course, he had every confidence in Steel, but for the above reason he determined to keep his present action quiet. Also, Steel was on the south coast, hunting for evidence concerningThe Red Crossyacht, and would notbe pleased at being taken away to follow what might prove to be a false trail. Ware therefore said nothing to Mrs. Benker about what he desired to see her, but simply asked her to come down on a visit.
There was a prospect of his having another visitor, and one he did not much wish to meet. This was the Princess Karacsay. Several times he had called to see her, but she had always put off her promised explanation on some plea or another. Instead of attending strictly to the business which had brought them together, she made herself agreeable to Giles—too agreeable he thought, for he had by this time got it into his head that Olga Karacsay was in love with him. He was not a vain young man, and tried to think that her attentions were merely friendly; but she was so persistent in her invitations and—in the slang phrase—made such running with him, that he grew rather nervous of her attentions. Several times she had proposed to come on a visit to Rickwell, but hitherto he had always managed to put her off. But her letters were becoming very imperative, and he foresaw trouble. It was quite a relief to Giles when the post arrived without a letter from this too persistent and too charming lady. However, she did not trouble him on this especial occasion, and he was thus enabled to give all his time to Mrs. Benker.
That good lady duly arrived, looking more severe than ever and with several new tales about the iniquities of Alexander. She expressed herself greatly obliged to Giles for giving her a day in the country, and got on very well with the old housekeeper. But when Ware told her his reason for asking her, Mrs. Benker grew rather nervous, as she did not think how she could support an interview, and, also, she wanted to know what the interview was for. To some extent Giles had to take her into hisconfidence, but he suppressed the fact that he suspected Franklin of the crime. He merely stated that Steel—who had introduced Giles to Mrs. Benker—had reason to believe that the so-called Wilson was wanted by the police. All that Mrs. Benker had to do was to see if Franklin was really her former lodger. After much talk and many objections, she consented to do what was wanted.
This was to wander in the park of the Priory and meet Franklin accidentally near a ruined summer-house, near what was known as the fish-ponds. Morley had arranged that Franklin should meet him there, and was to be late, so as to afford Mrs. Benker an opportunity of speaking to the man. Morley and Ware concealed themselves in the summer-house and saw Mrs. Benker parading the grass. Shortly Franklin arrived, walking slowly, and Mrs. Benker saluted him.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Mrs. Benker to the new-comer, "but I do hope I'm not—— Why"—she changed her tone to one of extreme surprise—"if it ain't Mr. Wilson!"
The man did not move a muscle. Ware, who was watching, was disappointed. At least he expected him to start, but the so-called Wilson was absolutely calm, and his voice did not falter.
"You are making a mistake; my name is Franklin."
"It isn't his voice," muttered the landlady, still staring; "but his eyes are the same."
"May I ask you to go?" said Franklin. "You are trespassing."
Mrs. Benker shook her rusty black bonnet.
"You may change your hair from red to black," she declared, "and you may shave off a ginger beard, but you can't alter your eyes. Mr. Wilson you are, and that I'll swear to in a court of law before a judge and jury. Let them say what they will about me being a liar."
"Of what are you talking, woman?"
"Of you, sir; and I hope I may mention that you were more respectful when you boarded with me."
"Boarded with you!" Franklin stared, and spoke in an astonished tone. "Why, I never boarded with you in my life!"
"Oh, Mr. Wilson, how can you? What about my little house in Lambeth, and the dear boy—my son Alexander—you were so fond of?"
"You are raving."
"I'm as sane as you are," said the landlady, her color rising, "and a deal more respectable, if all were known. Why you should deny me to my face is more than I can make out, Mr. Wilson."
"My name is not Wilson."
"And I say it is, sir."
Both the man and the woman eyed one another firmly. Then Franklin motioned Mrs. Benker to a seat on a mossy bank.
"We can talk better sitting," said he. "I should like an explanation of this. You say that my name is Wilson, and that I boarded with you."
"At Lambeth. I'll take my oath to it."
"Had your boarder red hair and a red beard?"
"Red as a tomato. But you can buy wigs and false beards. Eyes, as I say, you cannot change."
"Had this Wilson eyes like mine?" asked Frankly eagerly.
"There ain't a scrap of difference, Mr. Wilson. Your eyes are the same now as they were then."
"One moment. Had this man you think me to be two teeth missing in his lower jaw—two front teeth?"
"He had. Not that his teeth were of the best."
Franklin drew down his lip.
"You will see that I have all my teeth."
"H'm!" Mrs. Benker sniffed. "False teeth can be bought."
"I fear you would find these teeth only too genuine," said the man quietly. "But I quite understand your mistake."
"My mistake?" Mrs. Benker shook her head vehemently. "I'm not the one to make mistakes."
"On this occasion you have done so; but the mistake is pardonable. Mrs.—Mrs.—what is your name?"
"Mrs. Benker, sir. And you know it."
"Excuse me, I do not know it. The man who was your lodger, and whom you accuse me of being, is my brother."
"Your brother!" echoed the landlady, amazed.
"Yes, and a bad lot he is. Never did a hand's turn in all his life. I daresay while he was with you he kept the most irregular hours?"
"He did—most irregular."
"Out all night at times, and in all day? And again, out all day and in for the night?"
"You describe him exactly." Mrs. Benker peered into the clean-shaven face in a puzzled manner. "Your hair is black, your voice is changed, and only the eyes remain."
"My brother and I have eyes exactly the same. I guessed your mistake when you spoke. I assure you I am not my brother."
"Well, sir," said the woman, beginning to think she had made a mistake after all, "I will say your voice is not like his. It was low and soft, while yours, if you'll excuse me mentioning it, is hard, and not at all what I'd call a love-voice."
Grim as Franklin was, he could not help laughing at this last remark.
"I quite understand. You only confirm what I say. My brother has a beautiful voice, Mrs. Benker; and much harm he has done with it amongst your sex."
"He never harmed me," said Mrs. Benker, bridling. "Iam a respectable woman and a widow with one son. But your brother——"
"He's a blackguard," interrupted Franklin; "hand and glove with the very worst people in London. You may be thankful he did not cut your throat or steal your furniture."
"Lord!" cried Mrs. Benker, astounded, "was he that dangerous?"
"He is so dangerous that he ought to be shut up. And if I could lay hands on him I'd get the police to shut him up. He's done no end of mischief. Now I daresay he had a red cross dangling from his watch-chain."
"Yes, he had. What does it mean?"
"I can't tell you; but I'd give a good deal to know. He has hinted to me that it is the sign of some criminal fraternity with which he is associated. I never could learn what the object of the cross is. He always kept quiet on that subject. But I have not seen him for years, and then only when I was on a flying visit from Italy."
"Have you been to Italy, sir?"
"I live there," said Franklin, "at Florence. I have lived there for over ten years, with an occasional visit to London. If you still think that I am my brother, I can bring witnesses to prove——"
"Lord, sir, I don't want to prove nothing. Now I look at you and hear your voice I do say as I made a mistake as I humbly beg your pardon for. But you are so like Mr. Wilson——"
"I know, and I forgive you. But why do you wish to find my brother? He has been up to some rascality, I suppose?"
"He has, though what it is I know no more than a babe. But they do say," added Mrs. Benker, sinking her voice, "as the police want him."
"I'm not at all astonished. He has placed himself within the reach of the law a hundred times. If the police come to me, I'll tell them what I have told you. No one would be more pleased than I to see Walter laid by the heels."
"Is his name Walter?"
"Yes, Walter Franklin, although he chooses to call himself Wilson. My name is George. He is a blackguard."
"Oh, sir, your flesh and blood."
"He's no brother of mine," said Franklin, rising, with a snarl. "I hate the man. He had traded on his resemblance to me to get money and do all manner of scoundrelly actions. That was why I went to Italy. It seems that I did wisely, for if I could not prove that I have been abroad these ten years, you would swear that I was Walter."
"Oh, no, sir—really." Mrs. Benker rose also.
"Nonsense. You swore that I was Walter when we first met. Take a good look at me now, so that you may be sure that I am not he. I don't want to have his rascalities placed on my shoulders."
Mrs. Benker took a good look and sighed. "You're not him, but you're very like. May I ask if you are twins, sir?"
"No. Our eyes are the only things that we have in common. We got those from our mother, who was an Italian. I take after my mother, and am black, as you see me. My brother favored my father, who was as red as an autumn sunset."
"He was indeed red," sighed Mrs. Benker, wrapping her shawl round her; "and now, sir, I hope you'll humbly forgive me for——"
"That's all right, Mrs. Benker. I only explained myselfat length because I am so sick of having my brother's sins imputed on me. I hope he paid your rent."
"Oh, yes, sir, he did that regularly."
"Indeed," sneered Franklin; "then he is more honest than I gave him credit for being. Because if he had not paid you I should have done so. You seem to be a decent woman and——"
"A widow!" murmured Mrs. Benker, hoping that he would give her some money. But this Mr. Franklin had no intention of doing.
"You can go now," he said, pointing with his stick towards an ornamental bridge; "that is the best way to the high-road. And, Mrs. Benker, if my brother should return to you let me know."
"And the police, sir," she faltered.
"I'll tell the police myself," said the man, frowning. "Good day."
Mrs. Benker, rather disappointed that she should have received no money, and wishing that she had said Walter Franklin had not paid her rent, crept off, a lugubrious figure, across the bridge. Franklin watched her till she was out of sight, then took off his hat, exposing a high, baldish head. His face was dark, and he began to mutter to himself. Finally, he spoke articulately.
"Am I never to be rid of that scamp?" he said, shaking his fist at the sky. "I have lived in Italy—in exile, so that I should not be troubled with his schemes and rascalities. I have buried myself here, with my daughter and those three who are faithful to me, in order that he may not find me out. And now I hear of him. That woman. She is a spy of his. I believe she came here from him with a made-up story. Walter will come, and then I'll have to buy him off. I shall be glad to do so. But to be blackmailed by that reptile. No! I'll go back to Florencefirst." He replaced his hat and began to dig his stick in the ground. "I wonder if Morley would help me. He is a shrewd man. He might advise me how to deal with this wretched brother of mine. If I could only trust him?" He looked round. "I wonder where he is? He promised to meet me half an hour ago." Here Franklin glanced at his watch. "I'll walk over to The Elms and ask who this woman, Mrs. Benker, is. He may know."
All this was delivered audibly and at intervals. Giles was not astonished, as he knew from Mrs. Parry that the man was in the habit of talking aloud to himself. But he was disappointed to receive such a clear proof that Franklin was not the man who had eloped with Anne. Even if he had been deceiving Mrs. Benker (which was not to be thought of), he would scarcely have spoken in soliloquy as he did if he had not been the man he asserted himself to be. Giles, saying nothing to his companion, watched Franklin in silence until he was out of sight, and then rose to stretch his long legs, Morley, with a groan, followed his example. It was he who spoke first.
"I am half dead with the cramp," said he, rubbing his stout leg, "just like old times when I hid in a cupboard at Mother Meddlers, to hear Black Bill give himself away over a burglary. Ay, and I nearly sneezed that time, which would have cost me my life. I have been safe enough in that summer-house—but the cramp—owch!"
"It seems I have been mistaken," was all Giles could say.
"So have I, so was Mrs. Benker. We are all in the same box. The man is evidently very like his scamp of a brother."
"No doubt, Morley. But he isn't the brother himself."
"More's the pity, for Franklin's sake as well as ourown. He seems to hate his brother fairly and would be willing to give him up to the law—if he's done anything."
"Well," said Ware, beginning to walk, "this Walter Franklin—to give him his real name—has committed murder. I am more convinced than ever that he is the guilty person. But I don't see what he has to do with Anne. Her father is certainly dead—died at Florence. Ha! Morley. Franklin comes from Florence. He may know—he may have heard."
Morley nodded. "You're quite right, Ware. I'll ask him about the matter. Humph!" The ex-detective stopped for a moment. "This involuntary confession clears George Franklin."
"Yes. He is innocent enough."
"Well, but he inherited the money," said Morley. "It's queer that his brother, according to you, should have killed the girl who kept the fortune from him."
"It is strange. But it might be that Walter Franklin intended to play the part of his brother and get the money, counting on the resemblance between them."
"That's true enough. Yet if George were in Italy and within hail, so to speak, I don't see how that would have done. Why not come to The Elms with me and speak to Franklin yourself? He will be waiting for me there."
"No," answered Ware after some thought, "he evidently intends to trust you, and if I come he may hold his tongue. You draw him out, Morley, and then you can tell me. Mrs. Benker——"
"I'll say nothing about her. I am not supposed to know that she is a visitor to Rickwell. He'll suspect our game if I chatter about her, Ware. We must be cautious. This is a difficult skein to unravel."
"It is that," assented Giles dolefully, "and we're no further on with it than we were before."
"Nonsense, man. We have found out Wilson's real name."
"Well, that is something certainly, and his brother may be able to put us on his track. If he asks about Mrs. Benker, say that she is a friend of my housekeeper. You can say you heard it from your wife."
"I'll say no more than is necessary," replied Morley cunningly. "I learned in my detective days to keep a shut mouth. Well, I'll be off and see what I can get out of him."
When Morley departed at his fast little trot—he got over the ground quickly for so small a man—Giles wandered about the Priory park. He thought that he might meet with the daughter, and see what kind of a person she was. If weak in the head, as Mrs. Parry declared her to be, she might chatter about her Uncle Walter. Giles wished to find out all he could about that scamp. He was beginning to feel afraid for Anne, and to wonder in what way she was connected with such a blackguard.
However, he saw nothing and turned his face homeward. Just as he was leaving the park on the side near the cemetery he saw something glittering in the grass. This he picked up, and was so amazed that he could only stare at it dumb-founded. And his astonishment was little to be wondered at. He held in his hand a half-sovereign with an amethyst, a diamond, and a pearl set into the gold. It was the very ornament which he had given Anne Denham on the night of the children's party at The Elms—the coin of His Most Gracious Majesty King Edward VII.
The discovery of the coin perplexed Giles. It was certainly the trinket attached to the bangle which he had given Anne. And here he found it in the grounds of the Priory. This would argue that she was in the neighborhood, in the house it might be. She had never been to the Priory when living at The Elms, certainly not after the New Year, when she first became possessed of the coin. He decided, therefore, that at some late period—within the last few days—she had been in the park, and there had lost the coin. It would, indeed, be strange if this trifling present which he had made her should be the means of tracing her to her hiding-place.
And that hiding-place was the Priory. Giles felt sure of this. If she was in the neighborhood and walking about openly, she would be discovered and arrested. Therefore she must be concealed in the house. She had gone off with Walter Franklin, and here she was under the wing of his brother George. The case grew more mysterious and perplexing as time went on. Giles did not know which way to turn, or what advantage to reap from this discovery.
Certainly, if he could get into the Priory and searchthe house, he might discover Anne. Or, it might be, that if he confided in Franklin and told him of his love for Anne, the man might tell the truth and let him have an interview. But the matter took some thinking out. He decided to let it remain in abeyance at present. After kissing the coin—had it not been Anne's?—he slipped it into his waistcoat-pocket and returned home.
Here a surprise, and not a very agreeable one, awaited him. He reached his house just in time to dress for dinner, and found a letter, which had been delivered by hand. It was from Olga Karacsay, and announced that she and her mother were stopping at the village inn. She asked Giles to come over that evening, as she wished to introduce him to the elder Princess. Ware was vexed that this inopportune visit should have taken place at the moment. He did not wish to be introduced to Olga's mother, and had more to do than to chatter French to a foreign lady. However, being naturally a most polite young gentleman, he could not refuse the request, and after dinner proceeded to the village.
Morris, the landlord of "The Merry Dancer"—which was the name of the inn—was a burly man, and usually extremely self-important. On this night he excelled himself, and looked as swollen as the frog in the fable. That two Princesses should stay in his house was an honor which overwhelmed him. To be sure, they were foreigners, which made a difference; still, they had titles, and plenty of money, and for all Morris knew—as he observed to his flustered wife—might be exiled sovereigns. Morris received Giles in his best clothes, and bowed himself to the ground.
"Yes, Mr. Ware, their Highnesses are within—on the first floor, Mr. Ware, having engaged a salon and two bedrooms."
"I didn't know you had a salon, Morris!" said Giles, his eyes twinkling.
"For the time being I call it such," replied the landlord grandly. "My daughter is a French scholar, Mr. Ware, and called the sitting-room by that name. Me and Mrs. Morris and Henrietta Morris wish to make their Highnesses feel at home. Allow me to conduct you, sir, to the salon of their Highnesses. The garkong is engaged with the dejune, along with the femmie de chambers, who also waits."
"You are quite a French scholar, Morris."
"Henrietta Morris, my daughter—or I should say, mon filly—has instructed me in the languidge, sir. This way to the salon, sir," and Morris marshalled the way with the air of a courtier of Louis XIV.
Giles entered the sitting-room, which was pretty and quaint but extremely unpretentious, bubbling over with laughter.
Olga came forward, and catching sight of his face, laughed also as she shook hands with him.
"I see you know the jest," she said.
"Morris informed me of it as soon as I entered his door. Why have you come down to this dull place, Princess?"
"Ah, no"—she made a pretty gesture of annoyance—"you must to-night call me Olga——"
"I should not think of taking such a liberty," said Giles quickly.
Olga pouted. "Then, Mademoiselle Olga," said she, "my mother you must call the Princess Karacsay. Will you allow me, Mr. Ware, to present you to my mother?"
She led the young man forward, and he found himself bowing to a stout lady, who at one time must have been beautiful, but in whom age had destroyed a great amountof her good looks. She was darker than her daughter, and had a languid, indolent air, which seemed to account for her stoutness. Evidently she never took exercise. Her face was still beautiful, and she had the most glorious pair of dark eyes. Her hair was silvery, and contrasted strangely with her swart face. One would have thought that she had African blood in her. She wore a yellow dress trimmed with black lace, and many jewels twinkled on her neck and arms and in her hair. Her tastes, like her appearance, were evidently barbaric. In this cold, misty island she looked like some gorgeous tropical bird astray.
"I am glad to see you, Mr. Ware," she said in soft, languid tones, yet with a kind of rough burr; "my daughter has often talked of you." Her English was very good, and there was little trace of a foreign accent. Yet the occasional lisp and the frequent roughness added a piquancy to her tones. Even at her age—and she was considerably over fifty—she was undeniably a fascinating woman: in her youth she must have been a goddess both for looks and charm. Olga was regal and charming, but her mother excelled her. Giles found himself becoming quite enchanted with this Cleopatra of the West.
"You have been long in England, Princess?" he asked.
"But a week. I came to see Olga. She would have me come, although I dislike travelling. But I am fond of Olga."
"It is more than my father is," said Olga, with a shrug; "he would not come. I suppose he thinks that I have disgraced him."
"My dear child," reproved her mother, "you know what your father's opinion is about this wild life you lead."
"A very hard-working life," retorted her daughter;"singing is not easy. For the rest, I assure you I am respectable."
"It is not the life for a Karacsay, my dear. If you would only come back to Vienna and marry the man your father——"
"I choose for myself when I marry," flashed out Olga, with a glance at the uncomfortable Giles. "Count Taroc can take another wife."
The Princess, seeing that Giles found this conversation somewhat trying, refrained from further remark. She shrugged her ample shoulders, and sipped her coffee, which she complained was bad. "You do not know how to make coffee here," she said, unfurling a fan, "and it is cold, this England of yours."
"Princess, to-night is warm!" expostulated Ware.
"Nevertheless I have had a fire made up," she answered, pointing with her fan to the end of the room; "the landlord was so surprised."
"He no doubt considered it to be an eccentricity of Her Highness," said Olga, with a laugh; "a cigarette, mother?"
The Princess took one languidly, and moved her chair closer to the fire. The night—to Giles—was quite hot, and he could scarcely bear the stifling heat of the room. Windows and doors were closed, and the fire flamed up fiercely. Also some pastiles had been burnt by Olga, and added a heavy, sensuous scent to the atmosphere. Ware could not help comparing the room to the Venusberg, and the women to the sirens of that unholy haunt. Which of the two was Venus he did not take upon himself to decide.
"I am used to the tropics," explained the Princess, puffing blue clouds of smoke. "I come from Jamaica;but I have been many years in Vienna, and in that cold Hungary," she shivered.
"Ah, now I see, Princess, why you speak English so well," said Giles, and he might also have added that he now guessed why she was so Eastern in appearance and so barbaric in her taste for crude, vivid colors. She had negro blood in her veins he decided, and Olga also. This would account for the fierce temperament of the latter.
"I left Jamaica when I was twenty-two," explained the Princess, while her daughter frowned. For some reason Olga did not seem to approve of these confidences. "Prince Karacsay was travelling there. He came to my father's plantation, and there he married me. I am sorry I did not marry someone in Jamaica," she finished lazily.
"My dear mother," broke in her daughter petulantly, "you have always been happy in Vienna and at the Castle."
"At the castle, yes. It was so quiet there. But Vienna, ach! It is too gay, too troublesome."
"You don't like noise and excitement, Princess?"
She shook her imperial head with the gesture of an angry queen.
"I like nothing but rest. To be in a hammock with a cigarette and to hear the wind bend the palms, the surf break on the shores. It is my heaven. But in Hungary—no palms, no surf. Ach!" She made a face.
"You are different to Mademoiselle Olga here," said Ware, smiling.
"Quite different," cried Olga, with a gay laugh. "But I am like my father. He is a bold hunter and rider. Ah, if I had only been born a man! I love the saddle and the gun. No wonder I got away from the dull Society life of Vienna, where women are slaves."
"I like being a slave, if rest is slavery," murmured her mother.
"Would not your father let you ride and shoot, Mademoiselle Olga?"
"Ah yes, in a measure. But he is an Austrian of the old school. He does not believe in a woman being independent. My mother, who is obedient and good, is the wife he loves."
"The Prince has been very kind to me. He does not trouble me."
"He wouldn't let the air blow too roughly on you, mother," said Olga, with a scornful laugh. "He is a descendant of those Magyars who had Circassian slaves, and adores them as playthings. I am different."
"You are terriblyfarouche, Olga," sighed the elder woman. "Your father has forgiven you, but he is still annoyed. I had the greatest difficulty in getting his permission to come over here."
"He doubtless thinks you will be able to bring me back to marry Count Taroc," replied Olga composedly, "but I stay." She looked at Giles again, as if he were the reason she thus decided. To change the conversation he stood up.
"I fear I fatigue you ladies," he said, looking very straight and handsome. "You will wish to retire."
"Certainly I retire," said the Princess. "But my daughter——"
"I shall stop and talk with Mr. Ware."
"Olga!" murmured her mother, rather shocked.
"I fear I have to go," said Giles uneasily.
"No. You must stop. I have to talk to you about Anne."
"Who is this Anne?" asked the Princess, rising lazily.
"No one you know, mother. A friend of Mr. Ware's. Now you must retire, and Katinka shall make you comfortable."
"You will not be long, Olga? If your father knew—"
"My father will not know," broke in her daughter, leading the elder woman to the door. "You will not tell him. Besides," (she shrugged), "we women are free in England. What would shock my father is good form in this delightful country."
The Princess murmured something to Giles in a sleepy tone, and lounged out of the room bulky but graceful. When she departed and the door was closed, Olga threw open the windows. "Pah!" she said, throwing the pastiles out of doors, "I cannot breathe in this atmosphere. And you, Mr. Ware?"
"I prefer untainted airs," he replied, accepting a cigarette.
"The airs of the moors and of the mountains," she exclaimed, drawing herself up and looking like a huntress in her free grace. "I also. I love wide spaces and chill winds. If we were in the Carpathians, you and I, how savage our life would be!"
"An alluring picture, Princess."
"I am not Princess at present. I am Olga!"
"Mademoiselle Olga," he corrected. "And what about Anne?"
She appeared annoyed by his persistence. "You think of nothing but that woman," she cried impetuously.
"Your friend, mademoiselle."
"Ach! How stiffly you stay that! My friend! Oh, yes. I would do much for Anne, but why should I do all?"
"I do not understand, mademoiselle."
With a strong effort she composed herself, and looked at him smiling. "Is it so very difficult to understand?" she asked softly.
"Very difficult," replied Ware stolidly.
"None so blind as those who won't see," muttered Olga savagely.
"Quite so, mademoiselle." He rose to go. "Will you permit me to retire?"
"No! I have much to say to you. Please sit down."
"If you will talk about Anne," he replied, still standing. "From what you said at our first interview, she evidently knows something of the Scarlet Cross, and——"
"I don't know what she does know. She was always careful."
"I thought she spoke freely to you."
"Oh, as a woman always does speak to one of her own sex. With reservations, Mr. Ware. Still, I could tell you something likely to throw some light on the mystery."