"If you only would."
"It would not lead you to her hiding-place."
"What if I knew it already, mademoiselle?"
She stood before him, her hands clenched, her breathing coming and going in quick, short gasps. "You can't know that."
"Butyoudo," he said suddenly.
"I may, or I may not," she replied quickly; "and if you know, why not seek her out?"
"I intend to try."
"To try! Then you are not sure where she is?" said Olga eagerly.
"Before I answer that, mademoiselle, I must know if you are my friend or Anne's—enemy," and he looked at her straightly.
"You have put the matter—the position in the right way. I am your friend and Anne's—no, I am not her enemy. But I won't give her to you. No, I won't. You must guess that I——"
"Mademoiselle," he interrupted quickly, "spare yourselfand me unnecessary humiliation. You know that I love Anne, that I love no one but her. I would give my life to find her to prove her innocence."
"Even your life will not bring her to you or save her from the law. Giles"—she held out her arms—"I love you."
"The heat of the room is too much for you. I will go."
"No!" She flung herself between him and the door. "Since I have said so much, I must say all. Listen! I have been making inquiries. I know more about the Scarlet Cross and Anne's connection with it than you think. Her fate is in my hands. I can prove her innocence."
"And you will—you will!"
"On condition that you give her up."
"I refuse to give her up," he cried angrily.
"Then she will be punished for a crime she did not commit."
"You know that she is innocent."
"I can prove it, and I shall do so. You know my price."
"Olga, do not speak like this. I would do much to save Anne——"
"And you refuse to save her," she replied scornfully.
"I refuse to give her up!"
"Then I shall do so—to the police. I know where she is."
"You do—that is why you are down here."
"I did not come here for that, but to see you. To make my terms. I love you, and if you will give her up, I shall save her——"
"I can save her in spite of you," said Giles, walking hastily in the door. "Your presence here confirms a fancy that I had. I can guess where Anne is, and I'll save her."
"You will bring her to the light of day and she will be arrested. I alone can save her."
"You will. Oh, Olga, be your better self, and——"
"You know my price," she said between her teeth.
"I can't pay it—I can't."
"Then you must be content to see her ruined."
"You are a devil!"
"And you are most polite. No; I am a woman who loves you, and who is determined to have you at any cost."
"Can you really save Anne?"
"I can."
"Will you give me time to think?"
A flash of joy crossed her face. "Then I am not so indifferent to you as you would have me suppose," she said softly.
"You are not so—no, no! I can't say it! Give me time! give me time!" He opened the door.
"Wait, wait!" she said, and closed it again. "I will give you two days. Then I return to London. If I have your promise, Anne shall be set free from this accusation. If you tamper in the meantime with her—for you may know where she is—I'll have her arrested at once."
"I will do nothing," he said in muffled tones.
"Swear! swear!" She placed her hands on his shoulders.
Giles stepped back to free himself. "I will swear nothing," he said in icy tones. "I take my two days." So saying he opened the door, but not quickly enough to prevent her kissing him.
"You are mine! you are mine!" she exclaimed exultingly. "Let Anne have her liberty, her good name. I have you. You are mine!—mine!"
"On conditions," said Giles cruelly, and went away quickly.
Giles left "The Merry Dancer" quite determined to deceive Olga if it were possible. No faith should be kept with such a woman. She had power, and she was using it unscrupulously for selfish ends. Moreover, come what might, Giles could not bring himself to make her his wife. He loved Anne too deeply for that. And then he began to ask himself if he were not selfish also, seeing that he would not lose his own gratification to save the woman he loved. Nevertheless, he could not contemplate giving up Anne with equanimity, and set his wits to work in order to circumvent the treacherous Olga.
In the first place he now felt certain that Anne was in the neighborhood, and, as he shrewdly suspected, in the Priory. The discovery of the coin and the presence of Olga in the village made him certain on this point. In some way or another she had got to know of Anne's whereabouts, and had come here to make capital of her knowledge. If he consented to surrender Anne and make Olga his wife, she would probably assist Anne to escape, or else, as she asserted, clear her of complicity in the crime.
On the other hand, should he refuse, she would then tell the police where the unfortunate governess was tobe found. It might be that Anne could save herself. But seeing that she had fled immediately after the murder, it would be difficult for her to exonerate herself. Also, the reason she had then to take the guilt upon her own shoulders might again stand in the way of her now clearing her character. Nothing was left but to marry Olga and so free Anne, or seek Anne himself. Ware determined to adopt the latter course as the least repugnant to his feelings.
But Olga was no mean antagonist. She loved Giles so much that she knew perfectly well that he did not love her, and this knowledge taught her to mistrust him. As her passion was so great she was content to take him as a reluctant husband, in the belief that she, as his wife, would in time wean him from his earlier love. But she was well aware that, even to save Anne, he would not give in without a struggle.
This being the case, she considered what he would do. It struck her that he would see if he could get into the Priory, for from some words he had let fall she was convinced that he thought Anne was concealed therein. Olga had her own opinion about that; but she had to do with his actions at present and not with her own thoughts. For this reason she determined to watch him—to be in his company throughout the time of probation.
Thus it happened that before Giles could arrange his plans the next day—one of which entailed a neighborly visit to Franklin—Olga made her appearance at his house, and expressed a desire to see his picture gallery, of which she had heard much. Her mother, she said, was coming over that afternoon to look at the house, which, as she had been told, was a model of what an English country-house should be.
Giles growled at this speech, being clever enough to see through the artifices of Mademoiselle Olga.
"The house is as old as the Tudors," he expostulated; "your mother should look at a more modern one."
"Oh, no," replied Olga sweetly. "I am sure she will be delighted with this one; it is so picturesque."
"I am afraid that I promised to pay a visit this afternoon."
"Ah, you must put it off, Mr. Ware. When two ladies come to see you, you really cannot leave them alone."
"If the next day will do——"
"I don't think it will. My mother and I leave the next day. She is due in town to a reception at the Austrian Embassy."
Ware made other excuses, but Olga would listen to none of them. She stopped all the morning and looked at the pictures, but she never referred to their conversation of the previous night. There was a tacit understanding between them that it should remain in abeyance until the time given for the reply of Giles was ended. Still, Ware could not forget that burning kiss, and was awkward in consequence.
Not so Olga. She was quite cool and self-possessed, and although alone with him for close on two hours, did not show the least confusion. Giles, much disgusted, called her in his own mind "unmaidenly." But she was not that, for she behaved very discreetly. She was simply a woman deeply in love who was bent on gaining her ends. Considering the depth of her passion, she restrained herself very creditably when with the man she loved. Giles now saw how it was that she had defied her family and had taken her own way in life.
"I won't stop to luncheon," she said, when he asked her; "but I and my mother will come over at threeo'clock." It was now close on two. "I am sure we shall have a pleasant afternoon."
Giles tried to smile, and succeeded very well, considering what his feelings were at the moment. If he could only have behaved brutally, he would have refused the honor of the proposed visit, but it is difficult to be rude to a charming woman bent upon having her own way. Ware kicked as a man will, but ended in accepting the inevitable.
Olga returned to the inn, and found the Princess seated on the sofa fanning herself violently. Mrs. Morris was in the room, fluttering nervously as she laid the cloth for luncheon. Olga looked at her mother. "Did you take your walk?" she asked.
The Princess nodded. "I am very warm," she said.
"What do you think now?" asked her daughter impatiently.
"I think that you are a very clever woman, Olga," replied the Princess; "but I am too hungry to talk just now. When I have eaten and am rested we can speak."
"But just one word. Am I right?"
"Perfectly right."
This conversation was conducted in French, and Mrs. Morris could make nothing of it. Even if she had known the sense she would not have understood what it meant. However, Olga and her mother reverted to English for the benefit of the landlady, and chatted about their proposed visit to Ware's mansion. After that came luncheon. Shortly after three mother and daughter were with Giles. He received them with composure, although he felt quite otherwise than composed. The Princess pronounced him a charming young man.
"And what a delightful place you have here!" she said, looking at the quaint Tudor house, with its grey wallsand mullion windows. "It is like a fairy palace. The Castle"—she meant her husband's residence in Styria—"is cruel-looking and wild."
"It was built in the Middle Ages," said Olga. "I don't think any one was particularly amiable then."
"I would rather have stayed in Jamaica," sighed the Princess. "Why did I ever leave it?"
Olga, who always appeared annoyed when her mother reverted to her early life, touched the elder woman's elbow. The Princess sighed again, and held her peace. She had a fine temper of her own, but always felt that it was an effort to use it. She therefore usually gave in to Olga. "It saved trouble," she explained.
But her good temper did not last all the afternoon, and ended in disarranging Olga's plans. After a hearty afternoon tea on the lawn the Princess said that she did not feel well, and wished to go home. Olga demurred, but Giles, seeing the chance of escape, agreed that the Princess really was unwell, and proposed to send them back to the inn in his carriage. Princess Karacsay jumped at the offer.
"It will save me walking," she declared fretfully, "and I have done so much this morning."
"Where did you go?" asked Giles, wondering that so indolent a woman should exert herself on such a hot day.
"To some woods round a place they call the Priory."
"To the Priory!" he exclaimed, astonished. "Do you know Mr. Franklin?"
"My mother said the woods round the Priory," explained Olga, with an annoyed glance at the elder lady. "She did not enter."
"No," said the Princess, "I did not enter; I do not know the man. Oh, my dear Olga, do come back. I don't feel at all well."
"I will order the carriage," said Giles, rising.
"And you will come back with us?"
"Really, you must excuse me, Mademoiselle Olga," he answered; "but even a country squire has his work to do."
And with that he hurried away. In half an hour he had the satisfaction of seeing the carriage roll down his avenue with a very disappointed young lady frowning at the broad back of the coachman. Then he set about seeing what he could do to circumvent her.
It was too late to call on Franklin, as it was nearly six o'clock. Still, Ware thought he would reconnoitre in the woods. It was strange that the elder Princess should have been there this morning, and he wondered if she also knew of Anne's whereabouts. But this he decided was impossible. She had only been a few days in England, and she would not likely know anything about the governess. Still, it was odd that she should have taken a walk in that particular direction, or that she should have walked at all. Here was another mystery added to the one which already perplexed him so greatly.
However, time was too precious to be wasted in soliloquizing, so he went off post-haste towards the woods round the Priory. Since he wished to avoid observation, he chose by-paths, and took a rather circuitous route. It was nearly seven when he found himself in the forest. The summer evenings were then at their longest, and under the great trees there was a soft, brooding twilight full of peace and pleasant woodland sounds. Had he gone straight forward, he would have come on the great house itself, centred in that fairy forest. But this was the last thing he wished to do. He was not yet prepared to see Franklin. He looked here and there to see if any human being was about, but unsuccessfully. Then he took hisway to the spot where he had found the coin of Edward VII. To his surprise he saw a girl stooping and searching. At once he decided that she was looking for the lost coin. But the girl was not Anne.
Looking up suddenly she surveyed him with a startled air, and he saw her face plainly in the quiet evening light. She had reddish hair, a freckled face, and was dressed—as Mrs. Parry had said—in all the colors of the rainbow. Giles guessed at once who she was, and bowed.
"Good evening, Miss Franklin," he said, lifting his hat, "you seem to be looking for something. Can I assist you?"
The damsel looked at him sternly and scowled. "You're trespassing," she said in rather a gruff voice.
"I fear that I am," he answered, laughing; "but you'll forgive me if I assist you in your search, won't you?"
"Who are you?" questioned Miss Franklin, quite unmoved by this politeness. "I never saw you before."
"I have just returned from London. My name is Ware."
"Ware!" echoed the girl eagerly. "Giles Ware?"
"Yes. Do you know my name?"
She took a good look at him, and seemed—he was vain enough to think so—rather to soften towards him. "I have heard Mrs. Morley speak of you," she declared bluntly.
"Ah! You have not heard a lady speak of me?"
Miss Franklin stared. "No, I never heard a lady talk of you," she replied, with a giggle. "What lady?"
"The lady who is stopping in your house."
Her eyes became hard, and she assumed a stony expression. "There is no lady in the house but myself."
"Not a lady who lost what you are looking for?"
This time she was thrown off her guard, and becameas red as her hair. She tried to carry off her confusion with rudeness. "I don't know what you're talking of," she said, with a stamp and a frown! "you can just clear away off our land, or I'll set the dogs on you."
"I see. You keep dogs, do you? Bloodhounds probably?"
"How do you know that?" asked Miss Franklin, staring. "Yes, we do keep bloodhounds, and they will tear you to pieces if you don't go."
"You seem to forget that this is a civilized country," said Giles quietly. "If you set your dogs on me, I shall set the police on you."
"The police!" She seemed startled, but recovered herself. "I don't care for the police," she declared defiantly.
"You might not, but Walter Franklin might."
"Who is he? Never heard of him."
"Never heard of your uncle?" said Giles, and then wondered how he could let her know that he had heard it without confessing to the eavesdropping. It suddenly occurred to him that Franklin had—he supposed—on the previous day made a confidant of Morley. This supposition he took advantage of. "Mr. Morley told me that your father had mentioned his brother."
The girl started and thought for a moment. "Oh, you mean Uncle Walter," she said, after a pause. "Yes, but we never talk of him."
This little speech did not ring quite true. It seemed as though the girl wished to back up the saying of her father, whether she believed it or not. "Is that why you pretended ignorance?" he asked.
"That was why," replied Miss Franklin, with brazen assurance.
She was lying. Giles felt certain of that, but he could not bring the untruth home to her. He suddenly revertedto the main object of his interview, which had to do with the possibility of Anne being in the Priory.
"What about that coin you are looking for?"
"I am looking for no coin," she replied, quite prepared for him. "I lost a brooch here. Have you found it?"
"Yes," replied Giles, his eyes watchfully on her face. "It is an Edward VII. coin in the form of a brooch."
He thought Miss Franklin would contradict this, but she was perfectly equal to the occasion. "You must have found it, since you know it so well. Please give it to me."
"I have left it at home," he answered, although it was lying in his pocket-book, and that next his heart. "I will give it to you to-morrow if you tell me from whom you got it."
"I found it," she confessed, "in the churchyard."
"Ah!" A sudden light flashed into the darkness of Ware's mind. "By the grave of that poor girl who was murdered?"
"I don't know of any murdered girl," retorted Miss Franklin, and looked uneasy, as though she were conscious of making a mistake.
"Yes you do, and you know the lady who cleans the stone and attends to the grave. Don't deny the truth."
Miss Franklin looked him up and down, and shrugged her clumsy shoulders. "I don't know what you are talking about," she declared, and with that turned on her heel. "Since you will not take yourself off like a gentleman, I'll go myself"; and she went.
"Don't set the bloodhounds on me," called out Giles. But she never turned her head; simply went on with a steady step until she was lost in the gloom of the wood.
Giles waited for a time. He had an idea that she was watching. By-and-by the feeling wore off, and knowingby this time that he was quite alone, he also departed.
He was beginning to doubt Franklin, for this girl had evidently something to conceal. He was sure that Anne was being sheltered in the house, and that it was Anne who cleaned the gravestone. Perhaps George Franklin was giving her shelter since she had helped his rascal of a brother to escape. Thus thinking, he went through the wood with the intention of going home. A glance at his watch told him it was after eight.
Suddenly it occurred to him that it would be a good time to pay a visit to the graveyard and see if anything new had been done to the grave. All the people were within doors at this hour, and the churchyard would be quiet. Having made up his mind, he walked in the direction of the church and vaulted the low wall that divided that graveyard from the park. He saw Daisy's grave. Bending over it a woman. She looked up with a startled cry. It was Anne Denham.
For a moment the lovers stared at one another in the luminous twilight. The meeting was so strange, the place where it took place so significant of the trouble that had parted them, that both were overcome with emotion. Anne was as white as the marble tombstone, and looked at him with appealing eyes that beseeched him to go away. But having found her Giles was determined not to lose her again, and was the first to find his tongue.
"Anne!" said he, and stepped towards her with open arms.
His voice broke the spell which held her chained to the ill-omened spot, and she turned to fly, only to find herself on his breast and his dear voice sounding entreatingly in her ears.
"Anne," he said in a hoarse whisper, "you will not leave me now?"
After a brief struggle she surrendered herself. There was no danger of any one coming to the churchyard at this hour, and since they had met so unexpectedly, she—like the tender, sweet woman she was—snatched at the blissful moment. "Giles," she murmured, and it was the first time he had heard her lips frame his name. "Giles!"
Again there was a silence between them, but one of pure joy and transcendental happiness. Come what might, nothing could banish the memory of that moment. They were heart to heart and each knew that the other loved. There was no need of words. Giles felt that here was the one woman for him; and Anne nestled in those beloved arms like a wild bird sheltering from storm.
But the storm which buffeted her wings would tear her from this refuge. The passionate delight of that second of Eden passed like a shadow on the sun dial. From heaven they dropped to earth, and parted once more by a hand-breath, stared with haggard looks at one another. The revulsion was so great that Anne could have wept; but her sorrow was so deep that her eyes were dry. For the gift of the world she could not have wept at that hour.
But she no longer felt an inclination to fly. When she saw how worn and thin her lover looked, she knew that he had been suffering as much as she had, and a full tide of love swelled to her heart. She also had lost much of her beauty, but she never thought of that. All she desired was to comfort the man that loved her. She felt that an explanation was due to him, and this she determined to give as far as she could without incriminating others.
Taking his hand in her own, she led him some little distance from the grave of Daisy; and they seated themselves on a flat stone in the shadow of the church, and a stone's throw from the park wall. Here they could converse without being seen, and if any one came they could hear the footsteps on the gravelled path, and so be warned. And throughout that short interview Anne listened with strained attention for the coming step. At the outsetGiles noted her expectant look and put his arm round her.
"Dearest, do not fear," he said softly. "No one will come; and if any one does I can save you."
"No," she replied, turning her weary eyes on him. "I am under a ban. I am a fugitive from the law. You cannot save me from that."
"But you are innocent," he said vehemently.
"Do you believe that I am, Giles?"
"Do I believe it? Why should you ask me such a question? If you only knew, Anne, I have never doubted you from the first. Never! never!"
"I do know it," she said, throwing her arms round his neck. "I have known all along how you believed in my innocence. Oh, Giles, my darling Giles, how shall I be able to thank you for this trust?"
"You can, Anne, by becoming my wife."
"Would you marry me with this accusation hanging over me?"
"I would make you my wife at this moment. I would stand beside you in the dock holding your hand. What does it matter to me if all the foolish world think you guilty? I know in my own heart that you are an innocent woman."
"Oh, Giles, Giles!" Then her tears burst forth. She could weep now, and felt the better for that moment of joyful relief. He waited till she grew more composed, and then began to talk of the future.
"This can't go on for ever, Anne," said he decisively; "you must proclaim your innocence."
"I can't," she answered, with hanging head.
"I understand. You wish to protect this man. Oh, do not look so surprised. I mean with the man you fled with—the man Wilson."
"I don't know any one called Wilson."
"Anne!"—he looked at her keenly—"I implore you to tell me the truth. Who is this man you fled with to Gravesend—with whom you went on board the yacht?"
"Is that known?" she asked in a terrified whisper.
"Yes. A great deal is known."
"Portia never told me that," she murmured to herself.
"Who is Portia?"
"She lives at the Priory, and——"
"I see. She is the red-haired, freckle-faced girl—the daughter of Mr. Franklin. Morley told me that. Portia! What a stately name for that dreadful young person!"
"But indeed, Giles, she is a good girl, and has been a kind friend to me," explained Anne eagerly. "She told me all about you, and how you believed in my innocence."
"Ah!" exclaimed Giles, "then that was why she seemed so pleased to hear my name. I met her in the park just now, Anne——"
"You met her in the park?" Anne half rose to go. He drew her down.
"Yes, dearest. But don't be alarmed. She will never think that we have met. She was looking for this." And Giles took out the coin.
Anne gave a cry of delighted surprise. "Oh," she said, taking it eagerly, "I thought I had lost it forever. And you found it, Giles?"
"I found it," he replied gravely. "It was that discovery which made me believe that you were in the neighborhood. And then when Olga——"
"Olga." Anne looked at him suddenly. "Do you know her?"
"Very well. She is your friend."
"My best friend. She loves me like a sister."
Giles could have told her that the sisterly love was not to be trusted, but she had so much trouble that he could not find it in his heart to add to her worries. Besides, time was slipping by, and as yet he knew nothing of the truth of the matter.
"Tell me why you fled with that man," he asked.
"Giles, I will tell you all," she replied earnestly, "but on your part let me hear what is being done about the death of poor Daisy. It will set my mind at rest. You see how I have taken care of her grave, dear. Were I guilty would I do that?"
"I never thought you guilty," he repeated impatiently. "How many times have I to say that?"
"As many as you can bring your mind to repeat," she replied. "It is sweet to think that you love me so well, that you can refuse to believe evil of me in the face of the evidence against me."
"Anne, Anne, why did you fly?"
"Tell me how the case stands against me and what you have discovered," she asked in a composed voice, and with a visible effort to command her feelings. "And I shall tell you all that I can."
As time was precious Giles did not lose a moment. He plunged into the story of all that had taken place, from his interview with Mrs. Parry to the finding of the coin which had first given him his clue to the whereabouts of Anne. Also he touched lightly upon the visit of Olga to Rickwell, but was careful not to allude to her feelings towards him. Since Anne believed the woman to be her friend, he wished her to remain in that belief. He was not the one to add to her sorrows. And even when she was cleared of the charge and became his wife Ware determined that he would never speak of Olga's treachery.For her own sake he knew that the Hungarian would be silent.
Anne listened in silence to his recital, and when he ended drew a sigh of relief. "It might have been worse," she said.
"I don't see how it could be," replied Ware bluntly. "Morley will insist that you are guilty, and Steel thinks so too. I must admit that he wavers between you and this man you fled with. Come now, Anne, tell me all."
"I shall not have much time," she said hurriedly. "I dare not let Mr. Franklin know that I have met you. If I am not back in the Priory soon, he will send Portia to look for me."
"You can tell me much in ten minutes. Who is the man?"
"My father," she replied in a low voice.
Giles could hardly speak for surprise. "But your father is dead?"
"I thought he was," said Anne. "I have believed it these many months. But when I saw him in Mr. Morley's library on that night I knew that he still lived."
"But I can't understand how you made such a mistake. Does Morley know?"
She shook her head. "I managed to restrain myself. Mr. Morley knows nothing. Afterwards I went to the church in the hope of meeting my father. He was in church."
"I saw him," said Giles; "but tell me how the mistake occurred."
"My father lived in Florence, and——"
"Is his name Walter Franklin?"
"That is his real name; but he was known in Florence as Alfred Denham."
"You spoke to Olga Karacsay about him under that name?"
"Yes, because I did not know until lately that his name was Walter Franklin. Nor did I know that George Franklin, who inherits Daisy's money, was his brother."
"So George Franklin is your uncle and Portia your cousin?"
"Yes; but let me go on. My father lived in Florence. I was often away from home, as I was engaged as a governess. I came to England and met Olga at the Institute. I procured an engagement in London; it was the one I had before Mrs. Morley engaged me. I received news that my father was ill of typhoid fever. I hurried at once to Florence. He not only was dead, but he was buried, so I was informed by Mark Dane."
"Who is Mark Dane?"
"He was my father's secretary."
"One moment, Anne. Your uncle stated that he was the man who lived in Florence, and that your father being a scamp lived in England. On account of Walter George resided abroad."
"That is quite true. But Walter—I may speak of my father so for the sake of clearness—used to come sometimes to Florence. George never knew that he was there, thinking that he was in London. I learned all this lately. At the time my father and I lived in Florence I knew nothing of the relationship between George and Walter. My father knew that if Daisy died his brother would inherit the money, and he kept a watch on George so as to see if he would come into the property. But I knew nothing of this, neither did Mark, although he was deep in my father's confidence. Well, as I say, my father was supposed to have died. I expect another corpse was buried in his place. Mark no doubt agreed to the fraud,whatever was the reason. But I have not seen Mark since immediately after the death, and can't get an explanation. I saw him in Florence, and he told me that my father was dead and buried. Since then I have not seen him."
"So you returned to England, thinking your father was dead?"
"Certainly. He left me a little money. I went back to my situation. Afterwards I came down here. On that New Year's Eve I entered the library and saw my father speaking to Mr. Morley. I disguised my feelings, as I was certain he did not wish to be recognized. But the shock was so great that I nearly fainted. I went up to my room, and afterwards to church to see my father. He was there, as you know. I saw him pass a paper to Daisy. She went out ten minutes later; he followed. I wished to see him, and I was curious to know why he had come to Rickwell and had let me think he was dead. Shortly afterwards I went outside. It was snowing fast. I could not see my father or Daisy. Suddenly I came across my father. He was beside the grave of Mr. Kent. Daisy was lying on the ground. He gasped out that she was dead, and implored me to save him."
"Do you think he killed her?"
"No. Afterwards he denied that he did. But at the time I believed that he was guilty. I saw that he would be arrested, and in a frenzy of alarm I cast about for some means to save him. I remembered your motor-car was waiting at the gates. I sent Trim away on an errand——"
"I know, I know! You deceived him!"
"To save my father," replied Anne quietly. "I got the car in this way and went off with my father. He told me to go to Gravesend, where he had a yacht waiting.Near Gravesend the car upset. We left it on the roadside and walked to Tilbury. A boatman ferried us across the river, and we went on board the yacht."
"Did you know your father was the owner of the yacht?"
"No, I did not. He said that it belonged to a friend. We departed in the yacht and went to a French port, then on to Paris."
"And it was from Paris that you sent me the drawing of the coin."
"Yes; I knew that appearances were against me, and could not bear to think that you should believe me guilty. I did not dare to send any letter, but I knew you would recognize the drawing of the Edward VII. coin, and so sent it as you saw."
"How long did you stay in Paris?"
"For some weeks. Then we went to Italy, to Florence."
"Wasn't your father recognized?"
"No; he had altered his appearance. He gave me no reason at first for doing this, but afterwards told me that he was engaged in a political conspiracy, something to do with the Anarchists."
"Is the red cross the symbol of some society?"
"I can't say. He refused to explain the mystery of the cross to me. I admit fully, Giles, that I cannot understand my father. His ways are strange, and he leads a most peculiar life. Afterwards George Franklin, my uncle, came to England and inherited the property. My father sent me to him with an explanation. My uncle refused to believe that I was guilty, and gave me shelter in his house until such time as my character could be cleared. I came over and have been hiding in the Priory ever since. I was so sorry for poor Daisy and for herunexpected death that I came to see after her grave. I found it neglected, and thus went to clean it, as you see. Portia, my cousin, has been very good to me. I have stayed in all day and have walked out in the evening. No one knows that I am here. No one will ever know unless you tell."
"I tell? Anne, what do you take me for? I will keep quiet until I can clear your character, and make you my wife."
"You must not see me again."
"No," sighed Giles, "it will not be wise. But can't you tell me who killed Daisy, and thus clear yourself?"
Anne shook her head.
"I wish I could. But my father declares that he came out to see the girl, and found her already dead on the grave face downwards. She had been killed during the time he waited behind. He saw that there was a danger of his being accused of the crime, since he had asked her to leave the church. Thus it was that he lost his presence of mind and called on me to save him. I did so on the impulse of the moment, and thus it all came about."
"Where is your father now?"
Anne thought for a moment.
"I would tell you if I knew," she said seriously, "as I know you will not betray him. But I don't know where he is. Since I have been here I have not heard a word from him."
"Your uncle?"
"If my uncle knew, he would hand my father over to the police. He hates him; but he is always kind to me."
"Anne, I wonder if your uncle killed Daisy to inherit the money?"
"No; he was in Italy at the time. I am sure of that."
"Has your father any suspicion who killed Daisy?"
"No. He says he has not."
"Why did he ask her to leave the church? And how did he manage it?"
"He wished to speak to her about George Franklin, who would inherit the money if she died. I believe he intended to warn her that George was dangerous, for he hates my uncle."
"Did your father know that the money had been left at the time?"
"No. It was only because he was on the spot that he wished to see Daisy. He wrote on a scrap of paper that he wished to see her about the money, and she came out."
"She was always eager after that miserable money," said Ware sadly. "But your father did know that Powell was dead at the time, Anne." And he told her of his discoveries in connection with the office boy. "So you see your father was in England masquerading as Wilson," he finished.
"Yes," said Anne, with a shudder, "I see now. But he told me nothing of this. Indeed, I can't understand my father at all."
"Do you know the meaning of the Scarlet Cross?"
"No; he refuses to tell me. He won't say why he pretended to be dead; and in every way he is most mysterious. But I am fond of my father, Giles, although I know he is not a good man. But he did not kill Daisy; I am sure of that. And even at the time I thought he had done so I saved him. After all he may be as bad as possible; but he is my father, and I owe him a daughter's affection."
Giles would have argued this, but at the moment Anne started to her feet. She heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and without a word to Giles she flew over the low wall and darted across the park. He was too astonished by this sudden departure to say a word. He had lost her again. But he knew where she was after all.
Giles left the churchyard slowly, with his brain in a whirl. Anne had departed in hot haste, taking shelter in her hiding-place, and he dare not follow unless he wanted it to be discovered. He never knew who it was, whose footsteps had startled her away. When she left him he remained for quite ten minutes where he was, in a kind of dazed condition. The footsteps were not heard now. So intent had he been upon Anne's flight, and on the amazing things she had told him, that he had not noticed when they ceased. Then it occurred to him that they had retreated—just as though a person had been listening and had hastily gone away. But of this he could not be sure. All he did know was that when he rounded the corner there was not a soul in sight. And nothing remained but to go home.
Olga and her mother did not put in an appearance on this night, so Giles had ample time to think over his meeting with Anne. He did not see how he could help her, and the story she had related bewildered, instead of enlightening him. After a time he rearranged the details, and concluded that, in spite of all denial, her father was the guilty person, and the crime had been committed for the sake of the Powell money.
"Whether the Scarlet Cross indicates a political society or is the symbol of a thieves' association," said Giles to himself, "I can't say until Steel is more certain of his ground. But this Alfred Denham, or Walter Franklin, or whatever he chooses to call himself, is evidently a bad lot. He has sufficient love for his daughter to keep his iniquities from her, and that is why Anne is so much in the dark. I quite believe that she thinks her father innocent, and saved him on the spur of the moment. But he is guilty for all that."
And then Giles proceeded to work out the case as it presented itself to him. Walter Franklin—as he found it most convenient to call him—was a scoundrel who preyed on society, and who by some mischance had a pure and good daughter like Anne. To keep her from knowing how bad he was—and the man apparently valued her affection—he sent her to be a governess. She believed in him, not knowing how he was plotting to get the Powell money.
Certainly Walter had resided in Florence under the name of Denham. Ware quite believed this, and guessed that he did so in order to keep an eye on his brother George, who was to inherit the Powell money. Probably he knew beforehand that Powell was ill, and so had feigned death that he might carry out his scheme without Anne's knowledge. That scheme was to impersonate his brother; and Giles trembled to think of how he proposed to get rid of George when the time was ripe. He must have intended to murder him, for since he had slain Daisy with so little compunction, he certainly would not stick at a second crime.
However, thus Giles argued, the first step to secure the money was for him to feign death and thus get rid of Anne. Then he came to London, and as Wilsonstopped with Mrs. Benker in order to spy on the Ashers through Alexander. As soon as he knew for certain that Powell was dead and that the money was coming to Daisy, he came down to Rickwell on the errand of serving the summons, and then had lured the girl outside of the church to kill her. But for Anne following him, he would have disappeared into the night and no one would have been the wiser.
But the appearance of his daughter in the library upset his plans. She followed him into the church and came out to find him near the dead body. He certainly made an excuse, but Giles believed that such was a lie. If he had confessed to the crime, even Anne might not have stopped with him. But here Giles remembered that at the time of the flight Anne really believed that her father was guilty. At all events he had made use of her to get away, and thus had reached the yacht at Gravesend. It was waiting for him there, in order that he might fly after the crime was committed. Perhaps he intended to walk to Tilbury, and crossing the Thames get on board the yacht before the hue-and-cry was out. Anne hampered his plans in some measure and then, by means of the stolen motor-car, assisted them. Thus the man had got away, and by the murder of the girl had opened the way to George inheriting the money.
"They went to Paris," mused Giles, "then to Florence. I daresay this Walter intended to send Anne away on some excuse and to murder his brother in Florence. Then he could slip into the dead man's shoes, and come to inherit—as George—the property of Powell. Probably George left Florence before Walter arrived, and thus escaped death. He is safe so far, but how long will he be safe?"
Then a terrible thought occurred to Giles. He wonderedif Walter had placed his daughter at the Priory so as to have an opportunity of coming to see his brother, and thus seizing his chance of killing him. Anne, innocent as she was of the real meaning of these terrible schemes, might be a decoy. If her father came, George would be murdered. Walter, who was able to disguise himself with infernal ingenuity, might slip into the dead man's shoes, and thus the money he had schemed for would come to him. Evidently the last act of the tragedy was not yet played out.
The more Giles puzzled over the matter, the more bewildered he became. He could see—as he thought—what had been done, but he could not guess how the last act was to be carried out. Yet Walter Franklin was hiding somewhere waiting to pounce out on his unsuspecting brother, and the second crime might involve Anne still deeper in the nefarious transactions of her father. Finally Giles made up his mind to seek George Franklin at the Priory and tell him what he thought. The man should at least be put on his guard. It may be said that Ware fancied he might be permitted to see Anne as a reward for his kind warning.
Before calling on Franklin he went to see the foreign ladies. To his surprise both had left by the early morning train. There was a note from Olga, which informed him that her mother had insisted on returning to town, finding the country cold and dull. The note added that she—Olga—would be glad to see him at the Westminster flat as soon as he could come to London, and ended with the remark that he had yet to give his answer to her question. Giles was relieved when he read this. Olga was gone, and the two days of probation were extended indefinitely. He might find some way of releasing Anne before he need give this dreadful answer. Again andagain did he bless the selfishness of the elder Princess, which had removed the obstacle of Olga from his path.
Meanwhile he put her out of his mind and went on to the Priory. He called in on the way to see Morley, but learned that the little man had gone to town. Mrs. Morley looked more worn and haggard than ever, and seemed about to say something as Giles was taking his leave. However, she held her peace and merely informed him that she missed her children dreadfully. "But I'm sure that is not what she meant to say," thought Ware, as he departed. On looking back he saw her thin white face at the window and concluded—as Mrs. Parry did—that the poor lady had something on her mind.
In due time he arrived at the Priory and was shown into a gloomy drawing-room, where George Franklin received him. Giles apologized for not having called before, and was graciously pardoned.
"And, indeed, I should have called on you, Mr. Ware," said Franklin, "but I am such a recluse that I rarely go out."
"You call on Mr. Morley, I believe?"
"Yes; he is a cheery man, and won't take no for an answer. I find that his company does me good, but I prefer to be alone with my books."
There were many books in the room and many loose papers on the desk, which Giles saw were manuscripts. "I write sometimes," said Franklin, smiling in his sour way. "It distracts my mind from worries. I am writing a history of Florence during the age of the Renaissance."
"A very interesting period," Giles assured him.
"Yes; and my daughter Portia helps me a great deal. You have met her, Mr. Ware. She told me."
"Yes; we met in the park. She was looking for something, which I found; but I gave it to—to——" Gileshesitated, for he was on dangerous ground. "To another lady," he finished desperately, and waited for the storm to break.
To his surprise the man smiled. "You mean my niece Anne," said he in the calmest way.
"Yes; I do mean Miss Denham. But I did not know that—that——"
"That I wished you to know she was under my roof. Is that it?"
"Yes," stammered Giles, quite at sea. He did not expect this candor.
Franklin rather enjoyed his confusion. "I did not intend to let you know that she was here. It was her own request that you were kept in ignorance. But since you met her——"
"Did you hear of our meeting?"
"Certainly. Anne told me of it directly she came back. Oh, I have heard all about you, Mr. Ware. My niece confessed that you loved her, and from Morley I heard that you defended her."
"Did Morley know that Anne was here?"
"Certainly not. At the outset of our acquaintance he informed me that he believed her to be guilty. I resolved to say nothing, lest he might tell the police."
"Why did you not tell him that she was innocent?" asked Giles hotly.
The man looked grave and smoothed his shaven chin—a habit with him when perplexed. "Because I could not do so without telling an untruth," he said coldly.
Giles started to his feet, blazing with anger. "What!" he cried, "can you sit there and tell me that your own niece killed that poor girl?"
"I have reason to believe that she did," replied Franklin.
"She told me she was innocent," began Ware.
Franklin interrupted. "She loves you too well to say otherwise. But she is—guilty."
"I would not believe that if she told me herself."
"Sit down, Mr. Ware," said Franklin, after a pause. "I'll explain exactly how the confession came about."
Giles took his seat again, and eyed his host pale but defiant. "It is no use your saying anything against Anne. She is innocent."
"Mr. Ware, I believed that when she first came to me. I hate my brother because he is a bad man; but I liked his niece, and when she came to me for shelter I took her in, notwithstanding the enormity of the crime which she was accused of having committed."
"It gained you your fortune," said Ware bitterly.
"I would rather have been without a fortune gained at such a price," answered Franklin coldly; "but I really believed Anne guiltless. She defended her father, but I fancied, since she had helped him to escape, that he had killed the poor girl."
"And he did," cried Giles. "I am sure he did."
"He had no motive."
"Oh yes, to get the money—the five thousand a year."
"You forget. By Miss Kent's death that came to me."
"Your brother would have found means to get it. I believe he will find means yet."
"I don't understand you. Will you explain?"
Franklin seemed fairly puzzled by Giles' remarks, so the young man set forth the theory he had formed about the murder. At first Mr. Franklin smiled satirically; but after a time his face became grave, and he seemed agitated. When Giles ended he walked the room in a state of subdued irritation.
"What have I done to be so troubled with such a relativeas Walter?" he said aloud. "I believe you are right, Mr. Ware. He may attempt my life to get the money; and as we are rather like one another in appearance he may be able to pass himself off as me. Why, there was a woman here who called herself Mrs. Benker. She insisted that I was called Wilson, under which name she knew my brother Walter. So you must see how easily he could impose on every one. I am dark and clean-shaven; he is red-haired and bearded. But a razor and a pot of black dye would soon put that to rights. Yes, he might attempt my murder. But do not let us saddle him with a crime of which he is guiltless. Anne killed the girl. I assure you this is the truth."
"I don't believe it," cried Giles fiercely.
"Nevertheless"—Franklin paused and then came forward swiftly to place a sympathetic hand on the young man's shoulder—"I heard her say so myself. She confessed to me that she had met you, and seemed much agitated. Then she ran out of this room to another. Fearing she was ill, I followed, and found her on her knees praying. She said aloud that she had deceived you, stating that she could not bear to lose your love by proclaiming herself a murderess."
"No, no; I won't listen." Giles closed his ears.
"Be a man, Mr. Ware. Anne is ill now. She confessed the truth to me, and then fled to her bedroom. This morning she was very ill, as my daughter Portia assured me. Portia is out of the house. If you will come with me, you will hear the truth from Anne herself. She is so ill that she will not try to deceive you now. But if she does confess, you must promise not to give her up to the police. She is suffering agonies, poor child!"
"I'll come at once," said Giles bravely, starting to his feet. And it was brave of him, for he dreaded the truth."If she confesses this, I'll go away and never see her again. The police—ah, you needn't think I would give her up to the police. But if she is guilty (and I can't believe such a thing of her) I'll tear her out of my heart. But it's impossible, impossible!"
Franklin looked at him with a pitying smile as he hid his face in his hands. Then he touched him on the shoulder and led the way along a passage towards the back part of the house. At a door at the end he paused. "The room is rather dark. You won't see her clearly," he said, "but you will know her by her voice."
"I would know her anyway," cried Giles fiercely, and tormented beyond endurance.
Franklin gave him another glance, as though asking him to brace himself for the ordeal, and then opened the door. He showed small mercy in announcing Ware's coming. "Anne, here is Mr. Ware come to see you. Tell him the truth."
The room was not very large, and was enveloped in a semi-gloom. The blind was pulled down, and the curtains were drawn. The bed was near the window, and on it lay Anne in a white dress. She was lying on the bed with a rug thrown over her feet. When she heard the name of Giles she uttered a cry. "Keep him away!" she said harshly. "Keep him away! Don't let him come!"
"Anne! Anne!" cried Giles, coming forward, his mouth dry, his hands clenched. "Do not tell me that you killed Daisy."
There was a groan and silence, but Anne—so far as he could see—buried her face in the pillow. It was Franklin who spoke. "Anne, you must tell the truth once and for all."
"No, no," she cried, "Giles would despise me."
"Anne," he cried in agony, "did you kill her?"
"Yes," came the muffled voice from the bed. "I found her at the grave. My father was not there. He had missed her in the darkness and the snow. She taunted me. I had the stiletto, which I took from the library, and I killed her. It was my father who saved me. Oh, go away, Giles, go away!"
But Giles did not go. He rose to his feet and stepped towards the window. In a second he had the blind up and the curtains drawn apart. The light poured into the room to reveal—not Anne Denham, but the girl Portia Franklin.
It was indeed Portia. Seeing that she was discovered, she sprang from the bed and faced Giles with a sullen, defiant look on her freckled face. Still standing in the strong light which poured in through the window, Ware looked at the girl satirically.
"You are a very clever mimic, Miss Franklin," said he, "but you rather forgot yourself in that last speech. Anne is of too sensitive a nature to have explained herself with such a wealth of detail."
"You were deceived at first," grumbled Portia, rocking herself.
"Only for a moment," replied Giles. "And now I should like to know the meaning of this masquerade?"
"I also," cried Franklin, in his turn. He was staring at his daughter with a look of profound amazement. "Where is Anne, you wretched girl?"
"She has run away."
"Run away!" exclaimed the men simultaneously.
"Yes. After your finding out last night that she had killed Daisy Kent she was afraid to stop. She knew that you hated her father, and thought you might hand herover to the police. Last night she told me so, and said she would run away. I love Anne, and I let her do as she liked. It was I who let her out," ended Portia, defiantly.
"Anne should not have so mistrusted me," cried Franklin, much perturbed. "Surely I always protected her, and treated her well."
"Ah, but you didn't know till last night that she was guilty."
"No; but for all that——" began Franklin, only to break off. "Where has she gone?" he demanded angrily.
"I don't know. She had some money, and took a small black bag with her. She said when she got settled she would write here and let me know where she was, on condition that I did not tell you."
"She has every reason to. Poor, miserable girl! to be an outcast, and now to leave her only refuge," he sighed and shook his head. Giles all the time had been watching Portia, whose face bore an expression of obstinacy worthy of a mule. "Did this scheme for Anne's departure include the masquerade you have indulged in?"
"It is my own idea," she retorted defiantly. "Anne wished to get away without my father knowing, so I stopped in her room and pretended to be Anne. The servants were deceived, as I knew exactly how to imitate her voice. I pulled down the blind, so that no one should see who I was. Only you could have guessed the truth."
"How is that?"
"Because you love her."
Giles thought this a strange speech for the heavy-looking girl to make. "Is that an original remark on your part?" he asked.
"No," she confessed candidly; "I suggested to Anne that I should pass myself off as her, and so give her alonger time to get away. She said that I might deceive the servants and my father, but that I could never deceive you, because you loved her. But I had a good try," continued Portia, nodding her red head triumphantly. "When my father spoke your name at the door I thought I would try."
"Well, you have done so only to fail," responded Ware coolly. "For the moment I was deceived, but you forgot how to manage your voice, and, moreover, your explanation was too elaborate. But how is it you dare to confess, as Anne, that she killed the girl?"
"Anne did kill Daisy Kent!"
"She did not."
"Yes, she did. She confessed as much to father last night, and to me also. She asked me to tell you so, that you might forget all about her. I was going over to your place this very day to tell, but when father brought you in I thought I would pretend to be Anne and tell you in that way."
"Anne would have written, and——"
"No, she wouldn't," said Portia, eagerly. "She began to write a letter saying that she was guilty, but afterwards she thought it might fall into the hands of the police, and tore it up. She told me to let you know by word of mouth. All she asks of you is that you will forget that she ever existed."
"Let her tell me that with her own lips," said Giles, groaning.
"Yes, Portia, tell Mr. Ware the place Anne has gone to."
Portia eyed her father with some anger. "How can I tell when I don't know? Anne never said where she was going. I let her out by the back door just before dawn, and she went away. I know no more."
"If she writes, you will let Mr. Ware know."
"I shan't," retorted the girl. "Anne wants him to forget her."
"That is impossible," said Giles, whose face was now haggard with the anguish of the moment; "but you must be my friend, Portia, and tell me. Think how I suffer!"
"Think how she suffers, poor darling!" cried Portia, whose sympathies were all with Anne. "Don't ask me any more. I shan't speak."
And speak she would not, although Giles cajoled and Franklin stormed. Whatever could be said of Portia, she was very loyal to the outcast. There was nothing for it but for Ware to depart. And this he did.
What was the best thing to be done Giles did not very well know. Anne was lost again, and he did not know where to look for her. He could not bring himself to believe that she was guilty, in spite of her confession to Portia and Franklin.
"It's that blackguard of a father of hers over again," he thought, as he tramped moodily through the Priory park. "She is afraid lest his brother—her uncle—should denounce him, and has taken the crime on her own shoulders. Even though he is her father, she should not sacrifice so much for him. But it is just noble of her to do so. Oh, my poor love, shall I ever be able to shelter you from the storms of life?"
There did not seem to be much chance of it at the present moment. Mistrusting her uncle, she had vanished, and would let no one but Portia know of her new hiding-place. And Portia, as Giles saw, was too devoted to Anne to confess her whereabouts without permission. And how was such permission to be obtained? Anne allowed her uncle to think her guilty in order to save her unworthy father from his fraternal hatred. She had asserted herinnocence to Giles, but had apparently, through Portia, tried to deceive him again, so that he might not follow her. "Poor darling!" cries Giles, full of pity, "she wishes to put me out of her life, and has fled to avoid incriminating her father. If she told me the whole truth her father would be in danger, and she chooses to bear his guilt herself. But why should she think I would betray the man? Bad as he is, I should screen him for her dear sake. Oh"—Giles stopped and looked up appealingly to the hot, blue sky—"if I only knew where she was to be found, if I could only hold her in my arms, never, never would I let her go, again! My poor Quixotic darling, shall I ever be worthy of such nobility?"
It was all very well apostrophizing the sky, but such heroics did not help him in any practical way. He cast about in his own mind to consider in which direction she had gone. The nearest railway station to London was five miles away; but she would not leave the district thus openly, for the stationmaster knew her well. She had frequently travelled from that centre as Miss Denham, and he would be sure to recognize her, even though she wore a veil. Anne, as Giles judged, would not risk such recognition.
Certainly there was another station ten miles distant, which was very little used by the Rickwell people. She might have tramped that distance, and have taken a ticket to London from there. But was it her intention to go to London? Giles thought it highly probable that she would. Anne, as he knew from Portia, had very little money, and it would be necessary for her to seek out some friend. She would probably go to Mrs. Cairns, for Mrs. Cairns believed her to be guiltless, and would shelter her in the meantime. Later on a situation could be procured for her abroad, and she could leave England under a feignedname. Giles felt that this was the course Anne would adopt, and he determined to follow the clue suggested by this theory.
Having made up his mind to this course, Giles hurried home to pack a few things and arrange for his immediate departure. Chance, or rather Providence, led him past "Mrs. Parry's Eye" about five o'clock. Of course, the good lady was behind the window spying on all and sundry, as usual. She caught sight of Giles striding along the road with bent head and a discouraged air. Wondering what was the matter and desperately anxious to know, Mrs. Parry sent out Jane to intercept him and ask him in. Giles declined to enter at first; but then it struck him that since he was in search of information about Anne, Mrs. Parry might know something. Her knowledge was so omniscient that, for all he knew, she might have been aware all the time of Anne's presence at the Priory, but held her tongue—which Mrs. Parry could do sometimes—out of pity for the girl's fate. Giles went in resolved to pump Mrs. Parry without mentioning what he knew of Anne. Supposing she was ignorant, he was not going to be the one to reveal Anne's refuge. And if she did know, Ware was certain that Mrs. Parry would tell him all, since she was aware how deeply he loved the governess. Thus in another five minutes the young man found himself seated in the big armchair opposite the old lady. She was rather grim with him.
"You have not been to see me for ever so long," said she, rubbing her beaky nose. "Your Royal Princesses have taken up too much of your time, I suppose. Oh, I know all about them."
"I am sorry they did not stay for a few days," replied Giles in his most amiable tone. "I wished to introduce them to you."
"You mean present me to them," corrected the old dame, who was a stickler for etiquette. "They are genuine Princesses, are they not?"
"Oh, yes. But they are not royal. Princess Karacsay is the wife of a Magyar noble. She is not an Austrian, however, as she came from Jamaica. The younger, Princess Olga, is——"
"Jamaica," interrupted Mrs. Parry! "Humph! That is where Anne Denham was born. Queer this woman should come from the same island."
"It's certainly odd," replied Giles. "But a mere coincidence."
"Humph!" from Mrs. Parry. "Some folks make their own coincidences."
"What do you mean, Mrs. Parry?"
"Mean? Humph! I don't know if I should tell you."
Giles was now on fire to learn her meaning. Evidently Mrs. Parry did know something, and might be able to help him. But seeing that she was slightly offended with him, it required some tact to get the necessary information out of the old lady. Giles knew the best way to effect his purpose was to feign indifference. Mrs. Parry was bursting to tell her news, and that it would come out the sooner if he pretended that he did not much care to hear it.