In the passage she whispered hurriedly in his ear,
"Do you know him?"
"No, not to my knowledge—seems to know me though!"
"Where can I find you if necessary?"
"Mother Mandarin's."
"Still at that loathsome place? Do go to a decent hotel!"
"I am at one, thank you; but Mother M.'s will be sufficient address for you. I shan't come here again. Good-bye."
In the drawing-room the Major, looking out of the window and twisting his moustache, was indulging in a brown study.
"I've met that man before, or I'm a Dutchman," he mumbled. "'Tisn't a face I should be likely to forget—that red hair and moustache, and those shifty, ferrety eyes; and that scar on the forehead too—that fixes it. Where the deuce was it? Strange I can't place the man for the moment."
His soliloquy was interrupted by the return of Miriam. He did not think it necessary to make any mention to her of what was in his mind. She took her seat beside him and settled down for a chat. It was the first time he had been to see her since her marriage. But he felt in nowise embarrassed, and the pleasure he had always taken in her society came back strongly upon him. It had not taken him many months of married life to discover thathehad drawn blank in the matrimonial lottery. And he wondered whether she had been more fortunate. He rather fancied not. He was well aware that he had been caught on the rebound by Mistress Hilda—in fact, that he had let himself go, caring but little with what result. As lord of the manor it was in every way more convenient that he should be married, and although he was by no manner of means a selfish man, his own convenience counted for a good deal with the Major. He had always been accustomed to take life easily. The Manor House and everything with it had come to him most unexpectedly, and more or less it had forced him into matrimony. Since he could not have the wife of his choice, the next best thing he thought was to be the man of his wife's choice. And there was no denying that Hilda was an attractive and in many respects an engaging little lady. So it came to pass.
But with her—Miriam—it had been different. She had married Gerald in preference to himself. To her lot had fallen that which every woman craves—the ability to marry the man of her choice. Yet surely those were lines of care and trouble upon her beautiful face! She did not look happy.
"Now I really think I ought to scold you, Major," she said, "for having kept yourself away so long. Do you know this is the first time you have called upon us since—since we came here? However, now you are here you will stop to luncheon. Gerald will be in directly. He will be so glad to see you and have a chat."
"I don't know so much about that, Mrs. Arkel. You must not misunderstand what I am going to say, but in a manner I took some responsibility in introducing Gerald to his firm. It was not, therefore, very pleasant for me to hear complaints of him when I called there the other day. I had intended dropping in to see you alone one day during the week, but something turned up to prevent me. You know, this sort of thing won't do. Can't you put it to him pretty strongly? You are the only person I know who ever had any influence with him; and they gave me to understand pretty clearly that if it went on Mr. Gerald would have to go."
"My dear Major, I have tried; if you only knew how I have tried. But he is getting beyond me altogether again. I can do nothing with him lately."
"Is he really drinking hard?"
"What he takes would, as he says himself, be nothing to some men. But the least drop makes him like a lunatic. You know what an excitable brain he has."
"I know; I know. I am more than sorry for you, for if you cannot hold him, no one can. What a big mistake it all is. If only——" He checked himself and looked at her, and saw the tears were in her eyes. That was too much for him. "At all events, you know whatever happens I will never see you in any trouble. We are always friends. More than that we might have been if you had——"
She stopped him. "My husband and I are one, and must stand or fall together, Major. I took his life on my shoulders of my own free will. You are more than good; but——" she broke off, and withdrew her hand which he had taken in his. "But come, tell me about Dicky. How is he?—a tremendous boy, I hope. When will you bring him?"
"Ishall not bring him at all," replied the Major a trifle resentfully. "Hilda hopes to come with him if it is quite convenient to you to-morrow afternoon."
"Hilda!—well, I shall be delighted to see her, of course. I didn't think for one moment she would care to come——" She stopped suddenly, for the Major had risen abruptly to his feet. "Good gracious, Major, whatever is the matter?"
"I beg your pardon," he said, looking a trifle abashed, "but the fact is—I—I have just remembered where I saw that man. My mind has been running upon him ever since he left the room."
"Man?—what man?"
"Your friend Mr. Maxwell—that is, I hope he is not your friend, Mrs. Arkel, because I feel it is my duty to tell you he is a thorough-paced scoundrel!"
"Major—why, what do you know of him?"
"This, for one thing—he deserted from my regiment six years ago. It will be my duty now to have the scamp arrested."
"No; no—don't do that. I beg of you—I implore you; don't do that!"
"Why, Mrs. Arkel, who—what is this man to you?"
She shook her head, and buried her face in her hands.
"I must tell you; yes, I must tell you," she moaned. "Don't have him arrested, Major, for he is my brother—my unhappy brother!"
It was with unfeigned amazement that Major Dundas heard Miriam's revelation. He recalled now the man's military career, and he marvelled at her relationship with him only the more as he did so. She would have confided in him further he knew, but at that moment her husband's key grated in the lock, and it was all the distraught woman could do to compose herself.
"Not a word about him to Gerald," she whispered hurriedly. "I can trust you—he knows nothing. I will tell you everything later on." How much later on it was to be Miriam little thought then.
For two years she had enjoyed comparative immunity from trouble—trouble, that is of the kind with which she had for so long been beset. But, heralded by this reappearance of Jabez, there was to come upon her a long list of disasters, following so close one upon the other, that in comparison Jabez and his misdeeds dwindled into insignificance.
"Hullo, Dundas; is it you in the flesh?" said Gerald, shaking the Major by the hand. "How are you?—all right, I hope. And your wife?" Before the Major could answer he had seen Miriam's face in the light. "Why, hullo, old girl, what's up? you've been crying!"
The Major felt a trifle embarrassed, and Miriam flushed as her husband glanced suspiciously from one to the other of them.
"Yes, Gerald, I have been crying about poor little Dicky. Major Dundas seems to fear he will go into a decline. I was so fond of the dear little child. I can't bear to think of his being ill."
"'Gad, you take it to heart a good deal more than his mother does, I'll bet. What's wrong with him, Major?"
"Oh, the child's constitutionally weak. I'm going to take him to Briggs to-morrow—got the greatest faith in Briggs. If he can't put him right none of 'em can. After he's seen him, I'll bring the boy along—in fact, I dropped in to ask your wife if she would be at home. The little chap's dying to see her again."
Advisedly the Major made no mention of Hilda's coming. He knew that if he did so, the office would most certainly not see Gerald all day. And from what he had heard, there had been quite enough of that kind of thing with Mr. Gerald already.
At luncheon they fell to talking of Lesser Thorpe and its shining lights.
"And how is Julia—amiable as ever?" asked Arkel.
"Yes, if anything, rather more so," replied Dundas smiling. "She has, of course, been horribly badly treated according to her own account. It's an extraordinary thing how Julia alwaysisbadly treated, and more extraordinary how she not only manages to survive, but actually fattens on it!"
"Jove! I wish I had one half as good a time," grumbled Gerald. "She gets her three hundred a year without doing a hand's turn for it. I've got to slave like a nigger for mine."
"'A judgment on you' says Julia, 'for all your wickedness.'"
"Wickedness?—well, upon my soul, I like that. She's evidently lost none of her feline and back-biting propensities. I wish everyone had done as little in the way of wickedness, as she calls it, as I have—what do you say, Miriam?"
"Well, Gerald; I agree it is not quite the word I should use to describe your shortcomings. Wickedness implies deliberation. No, I don't think your worst enemy could call you deliberately wicked."
"Enemy? I haven't got any, my dear—your husband is the most popular of men."
Miriam made no reply.
"Tell me, Major," she said, "how is Mrs. Parsley? I haven't heard from her for ages. She and I used to be such good friends—she was always kind to me."
"Another old cat," interpolated Gerald.
"Oh, she's much the same," replied the Major; "meddlesome and well-meaning and good-hearted as ever. She's always most happy, you know, when she's got some philanthropic scheme in hand. Her last fad is really funny. She's got hold of a young street Arab, and has taken him in tow. Her idea is, I believe, to educate him and then send him amuck amongst his fellow-Arabs, in the hope that he may exude the Gospel—sort of spreading by contagion idea, you know."
"Lord, that's just like her. Where did she get hold of the urchin?"
"Well, they say she found him begging in the village. Little devil ought to be in a reformatory. I gave him some weeding to do round my place to oblige her, of course, but I couldn't stand the sight of him—preferred the weeds, so I sent him off. But he seems to have got round the old lady properly; and what's more, he's pocketing a good deal of her money, unless I'm very much mistaken. Oh, he's a sharp young beggar!"
"But you don't mean to say she trusts him with money?" asked Miriam. It was not like Mrs. Parsley, as she remembered her, to do that.
"Oh, I suppose the whole affair's a mere trifle. I only mentioned it to show how wrong-headed she is. This sort of indiscriminate charity does such a lot of harm."
"She's as obstinate as a mule," put in Gerald. He hated the vicar's wife, she having snubbed him somewhat severely on one or two occasions. Indeed, it was only to the fact of her having married Gerald that Miriam could put down Mrs. Parsley's neglect of her since she had been in London.
"And what is this precious brat's name?" he asked.
Dundas looked puzzled.
"Upon my word, I don't believe he had a proper name in the first instance. Anyway, if he had, the vicar suppressed it. You know how cracked he is on Hebrew symbolism. Well, I suppose he saw a good chance here of indulging in it, so what do you think he christened the chap? Gideon Anab! Upon my soul he did! Gideon Anab! for a gutter whelp like that!"
"Construe, Major."
"Well, I believe it means 'one who breaks asunder'—so the old man says. I told him to look out for himself, or the chap might try and live up to it. No, by the way, that's the meaning of 'Gideon' only. Anab means thick, round. Well, he is thick and round now—thanks to plenty to eat and nothing to do. Of course the whole thing is perfectly crazy."
Miriam was becoming very nervous. An idea had flashed across her mind which she could in no way get rid of.
"But surely, Major," she said, "the boy had some sort of name when Mrs. Parsley came across him?"
"Yes, I believe he had. Shorty or Snorty, or something like that. However, that's nowhere now. Gideon Anab he is, and Gideon Anab I suppose he will——My dear Mrs. Arkel, are you ill?"
Miriam, her worst suspicions confirmed, had turned deathly pale. ItwasShorty then—Shorty at Lesser Thorpe—with Mrs. Parsley. Fate was indeed relentless. He was an iniquitous young scoundrel she knew, and cunning beyond words. And he knew the whole of that black page of her life in London. She wondered had he betrayed her to Mrs. Parsley. Perhaps that was the reason she had not come to see her. She pulled herself together, and put as brave a face on it as she could.
"It is nothing, Major, thank you. The room is a little close, I think. I have been feeling out of sorts all the morning. I think, if you don't mind, I'll go and lie down for a bit."
Gerald glanced sharply at her, and then at Dundas. Like most weak natures he was an easy prey to suspicion. It came strongly upon him now. His wife was much agitated—there was no doubt about that. But the Major seemed perfectly calm and self-possessed. He rose and opened the door for Miriam, and expressed his wish that she would soon be better. Then he returned to the table.
Gerald had it in his mind to remark upon the strangeness of his wife's behaviour. He felt convinced that the Major had something to do with it. And he would not have hesitated to tell him so but for the very weighty reason that he had every intention of getting a cheque out of him before he returned to the country.
"Is your wife with you in town?" he asked.
"Yes, she is with me," replied the Major finitely.
"Are you in rooms?"
"We are at the Soudan Hotel in Guelph Street."
"Ah, it's well to be you. You couldn't do much better than the Soudan. I know it—one of the best tables in town. What the deuce did Providence give me a palate for without the means to satisfy it?"
"Gerald, you've no business to talk like that—it's paltry, not to say the worst of bad form."
"Oh, it's all very well for you from your eminence of five thousand a year; but I tell you what it is, John, I was treated beastly badly by the old man. He always gave me to understand I was to be his heir."
"Well; and he acted up to his promise. It was not his fault that his will was stolen. In that will he did make you his heir."
"If you believe that, you ought to allow me anyhow a thousand a year."
"I don't agree that I ought to allow you anything, strictly speaking. But I certainly would do so if you were a different sort of man. Unfortunately you are not; and to allow you an independent income would simply be to encourage you to drink, and degrade yourself and your unhappy wife."
"It would be nothing of the kind. I won't allow you to speak to me like that, John—even to salve your own conscience. And let me tell you straight, if the day ever comes when that will turns up, I'll have my rights—every penny of them. So you know."
"In such circumstances I would not attempt to deprive you of them. You would be dead within the year—or locked up. Look here, Gerald, you know I'm not a man to mince my words. When you married Miriam Crane, you married a woman in a thousand. What have you been to her? Have you made her a decent husband? For a time, I grant, you kept pretty straight, and did your work well, but now you are drifting back to your old tricks as fast as you jolly well can. Only the other day, when I was in the city and dropped in to see Crichton at the office, he was complaining to me about you——"
"It's like his damned impudence," retorted Gerald at white heat. "For two pins I'd chuck him and his beastly office, and clear out."
"And live on your wits, I suppose, or on your wife. You're quite capable of it."
Things were not going to Gerald's liking at all. The cheque he had promised himself was vanishing rapidly. So he made no retort to the Major's last remark, and submitted with the best grace he could muster, to the lecture that warrior did not hesitate to administer to him. Then, having promised and vowed everything that was demanded of him in the future, he made so bold as to ask for a trifle of fifty pounds, and was straightway refused.
The Major had been subject to discipline all his life, and was not one to relax it, more especially in the case of such a man as his cousin. "Spare the rod and spoil the child" was a precept upon which he had always laid the greatest stress. Gerald had been spared—and spoiled.
From the bottom of his heart he pitied Miriam. "How awfully things have gone askew," he said to himself, as he spun east in a quick-going hansom. What would he not give to be in that young rascal's shoes—yes, even without the Manor House and its five thousand a year.
By the time he reached the Soudan Hotel he was getting horribly sentimental. But he looked with confidence to his wife to dispel all weakness of that sort. Where Hilda was, he knew, sentiment could not be.
He dismissed his cab, and inquired if his wife was at home. He was somewhat surprised to hear that she was not. He presumed she must have gone to pay a call. But the porter informed him that a boy was waiting to see him—a boy, who it appeared, had called already once or twice during the week when he had been out. He had not the least idea who it could be, thegenus puerbeing one in nowise affected by the Major. However, he would seem to be a youth of no little pertinacity, so he gave orders for him to be shown in.
A few moments later the lad appeared—a short, squat, leering creature, somewhere in his teens, and clothed in a tweed suit of aggressively severe design. There was upon his face an expression of extreme sanctimony, which was horribly repellent to the Major. He recognised him at once as Gideon Anab, alias Shorty.
"Well, what is it?" he asked sharply. "What can I do for you, lad?"
"I ain't arter you're doin' nuffin' fur me, sir; but I ken do a 'eap fur you!"
"What the deuce do you mean, you——?"
Shorty glanced at the door to make sure that it was fast closed. Then he shifted nervously from one leg to the other, and finally his facial muscles began to describe what he evidently intended for a smile. It was a very weird achievement, and for the moment quite disturbed the Major.
"Well, I ken put yer on a lay as you'll be glad to get a 'old of, Mister Major!"
"Go on, explain yourself—out with it, or I'll out with you; quick! if you've anything to say."
"Guess I 'ave, if I'm treated proper. P'r'aps yer don't know as I was down at that there village when the old 'un was scragged that time? Well, I wos, guvnor, and wot's more, I wus round 'bout the 'ouse on that night, 'cos it wos Chris'mus time, and I wos bloomin' 'ungry, and yer see there's of'en times some pickin's to be 'ad about big 'ouses at them times——"
"Go on, go on!" urged the Major, getting excited. "You know who did it?"
"No I don't, guvnor; but I know who cobbed that there will!"
The Major sat back in his chair. This was not what he had expected. In a flash he saw his position.
"Who was it?" he demanded harshly of the boy.
"No yer don't, sir, yer not goin' to git it that way. It's worth summat, my little bit o' noos!"
"You young devil you! here take this." He took from his pocket a five-pound note and held it out The boy clutched at it eagerly. Then he leaned forward and whispered hoarsely in the Major's ear a name, the mention of which secured for him as thorough a shaking as he had ever experienced in his eventful life.
"You young liar!" cried the enraged soldier; "say that again, and I'll break every bone in your wretched body!"
"S'elp me, it's true, guvnor," gasped Shorty when he could get his breath, "I seed 'er grab it!"
The name whispered by the unhappy Shorty into the Major's ear was that of Mrs. Dacre Darrow—or, to use his peculiar phonetic variation of it—"Mrs. Darrer." As has been related its effect upon the Major was immediate, and fraught with, to Shorty, very tangible consequences. The sound of his cousin's name in the boy's mouth had upset his equanimity altogether for the moment. But the expenditure of his indignation physically, upon that very ample frame, soon brought the Major into a calmer state of mind, and resulted eventually in recourse to less forcible methods on his part. He came to the conclusion that for a time at least verbal tactics might prove of vastly more advantage to himself. So he released the boy, and submitted him instead to the fire of cross-examination. And from the look of relief on Shorty's face, he was quick to appreciate the change.
Not for one moment did the Major believe there was any truth in the accusation brought against his cousin. He had no high opinion of her, to be sure, but he felt quite certain that she would never stoop to an act of this kind. Besides, even granting that her sense of moral rectitude were sufficiently flexible to allow of such a lapse on her part, he failed to see what motive she could have had. She must be aware that even to suppress the existence of this will would be to put herself within reach of the law.
But Shorty held firmly to his story of that night. Seeing a light in the library he had gone on to the terrace, and the blind being up, he had been able to see into the room without himself being seen.
"And you say Mr. Barton was alive then?" queried the Major.
"Oh, the ole cove wer' alive right enough then—I seed 'im go out o' the room an' leave a long paper—that wer' the will—on the table."
"And how, pray, do you come to know a will when you see one?"
"I didn't know wot it was then, but a'rterwards Mrs. Parsley, she told me as 'ow a will 'ad been nabbed, an' it didn't take me long to twig as 'ow it must ha' been that paper wot I saw Mrs. Darrer bone. She slipped into the room jest as the ole cove 'ad gone out—then 'er eye catches the paper on the table, an' she gives a kind o' jump, an' begins a-readin' of it. An' lorksy, didn't she look mad when she'd read a bit! Then she slips it somewhere in the stern of 'er, an' clears out. I thought then as 'ow it were about time I cleared out too, so I hooked it down the steps, and back through the medder that way."
"What time was this?"
"Oh, arter supper—leastways I s'pose it wer' supper. I'd seen yer all eatin' an' drinkin' 'bout 'alf a hour before, an' it dudn't make me feel no better, I kin tell yer!"
Dundas reflected. It was just possible the boy was speaking truth. He remembered how Barton had shut himself up in the library while he and the other men had had their smoke in the dining-room. It was quite possible that Julia should have dropped into the room just as he had described. But what could there be in the will to cause her to purloin it?—a revocation of the clause relating to her income? Surely not. He continued to question Shorty.
"Did the old gentleman enter the room again after that?"
"Well, as I tell yer, I cleared out, sir. I never thought no more about it till I 'eard as 'ow a will had been prigged, and as 'ow you 'ad got the tin wot t'other cove ought to 'ave 'ad. Then o' course I seed 'ow it was, so I thought I'd just come 'ere an'——"
"Do a little blackmailing, eh?"
"No, sir, only I thought as 'ow 'twould be worth a tip to 'ave yer mind made easy like. 'Tain't much of a tip though as yer've parted with—strikes me I'd do better to go now to t'other cove, an' see what 'e's got to say!"
"Look here, you young blackguard, not another penny do you get from me, do you understand? And I'll take very good care that Mrs. Parsley knows the sort of scamp you are. Now clear out of this!" thundered the Major, bringing down his cane on the table, "or I'll give you as sweet a hiding as you ever had in your life."
At this Gideon Anab made a hasty exit. He had no fancy for any further chastisement at the hands of the irate Major. After all a fiver with a whole skin was better than nothing with a damaged one, and he had a very shrewd idea that that was how it would be with him if he remained. So he left the Major to reflect on his position.
It was not a pleasant one which ever way he looked at it. On the one hand he was liable at any moment to lose everything by the production of the lost will; on the other he was placed in the position of compounding a felony, or at least of retaining and enjoying what he knew was not his to enjoy. If he took what he held to be the only right course open to him the result would be very far reaching. For himself he did not care so much, although he was in nowise insensible to the difference between some five hundred—which was the amount of his private means—and five thousand a year. But he really did not like to think what the effect would be upon Hilda, when that young lady was called upon to give up all that she had schemed for—he knew well by this time that she had schemed for it. And upon Miriam too this reversal of fortune would fall hardly, since it would mean the speedy and inevitable degradation of her husband. As he turned all this over in his mind, he was sorely tempted for her sake and for his wife's to leave things as they were.
There was just one loop-hole of escape!—that Mrs. Darrow might have destroyed the will. In that case no possible good was to be achieved by exposing her. He would let her see that he knew her for what she was. But a scandal was a thing he had a loathing of, and would never be the one to bring about. Of course all this was based upon the hypothesis that Shorty had told the truth. There was always the possibility that he had not.
Hilda arrived home for dinner in the best of tempers. Her visit had been to her thoroughly successful, since not only had she been the best looking and best dressed woman in the room, but had been told so, which was infinitely more important. Her husband told her of the arrangement he had made for her to take Dicky to Rosary Mansions the following afternoon. She was pleased to express herself delighted. It, too, was likely to be a highly successful visit from her point of view. She, the mistress of Thorpe Manor, conferring her presence upon Dicky's quondam governess now married to the man whom she had jilted, and resident in one of the meaner tenements of West Kensington, was a picture in which she could see herself quite plainly. Still she was prepared to be cordial.
When Miriam came to welcome her she was surprised at the warmth of her manner. Dicky of course was embraced and made much of.
"And how is the doctor, Hilda, and your mother?" asked Miriam.
"Oh, they are pretty well, thank you—they are better off now, of course, and the children are at school. But the house is much the same, dirty as ever. Sometimes when I drive round to see them, I wonder how I ever managed to support existence in that poky place. I hate small rooms, don't you?"
Miriam did not reply.
"And Mrs. Darrow—how is she?" was all she said.
"Oh, I believe much the same. I don't see much of her, you know. In fact, I was obliged to give her clearly to understand that I was mistress in my own house. As a result she has no great love for me, you may imagine. However, she keeps out of the way, and that's the great thing."
"I wonder she entrusted Dicky to you!"
"Oh, she knew Dicky would be all right; besides, the arrangement was that my husband was to bring him up to see Dr. Briggs. She didn't know anything about my coming. I expect when she hears he's been with me, there'll be a nice old row. However, I don't care. Nothing can make me dislike the woman more than I do. I think she's the most detestable——"
"Hush, Hilda, the boy will hear you! Run along, Dicky, and have a prowl round the house."
"But this is a flat, Miss Crane, isn't it, not a house?" said Dicky dubiously.
"Well then, the flat, dear, since you are so particular."
He looked terribly fragile Miriam thought. And the flush on his cheek and the bright light in his eyes indicated only too surely the road upon which he was travelling.
"May I go into all the rooms, Miss Crane?—even into the kitchen?"
"Yes, dear, anywhere you like—we have no blue-beard's chamber here."
"I suppose you are very happy," continued Miriam, taking in the various details of Hilda's splendour.
"Yes, I suppose so. As happy as I can hope to be. He gives me everything I want. But I wish he would leave the Army altogether. For most of this year we have been living in a horrible little garrison town, and the society there consisted solely of the wives and relations of the other officers. They were all so jealous of me that it really was quite unpleasant."
"I suppose you would rather live at Lesser Thorpe altogether?"
"No, I hate Lesser Thorpe. I want to live in London, and go abroad, with now and then a week or two in Scotland."
"In fact, you like a regular society life."
"Well, I suppose you would call it that, yes; at least, I say, when one has the means let one live, not vegetate in some little hole and corner place. Of course John doesn't mind. One place is as good as another to him. I never saw such an extraordinary man; he never seems dull. He'll tramp for miles over the country—dirty, muddy, ploughed fields—and come back as hungry as a hunter, and say how much he has enjoyed himself. I can't stand that dead alive sort of existence. I must have my shops, and I love the theatre, and the ballad concerts, and the heaps of jolly things one can do in London. Don't you?"
"Well, you see," said Miriam, "I haven't quite so much time on my hands as you have. For instance, we cannot afford more than one servant, and that means that there is a good deal for me to do at home, if the house is to be kept as I like it—that reminds me, I must just go and see about tea, if you'll excuse me a few minutes."
Hilda made no attempt to conceal what she felt.
"Really. I think I should kick at that if I were you; it must be awful to have only one servant—in London of all places! Why don't you make your husband do without something? He'd appreciate you all the more."
"I don't think he could appreciate me more—he is everything that is good to me. One must cut one's coat according to one's cloth, you know, and—well, we prefer to do with one servant. Will you just see where Dicky is while I go into the kitchen?"
As she left the room Hilda went in search of Master Dicky, and found him stretched out on the floor of the bedroom. He was very busily occupied with a heap of treasures he had found in an old ivory work-box which Miriam had managed to keep possession of in spite of her many vicissitudes. It was true it had for a few months reposed on the shelf of a pawnbroker in the Strand, to whom she had confided it during that terrible time just before she met with Barton. But it had been the first thing she had redeemed. It was a very old piece of Indian work, wondrously carved, and had always been a favourite of Dicky's at Pine Cottage. The boy welcomed it now as an old playfellow.
"Dicky, whatever are you doing?" exclaimed Hilda, when she saw him. "You'll catch it from Miriam, upsetting her things like that!"
"No, I won't," replied the boy calmly. "She always let me play with this; there's such a funny little place in the lid she used to show me, I can't find it now—ah, here it is, I've got it."
Hilda bent over him curiously. His little fingers had touched a spring, which, when pressed, caused the lining of the lid—a plain sheet of ivory—to fall inwards. As it opened an oblong sheet of bluish paper, folded—a typical legal document—fell out.
"Now, Dicky, see what you've been doing; you've——"
She stopped short, for she had read the writing on the paper: "The Will of George Barton. Dated December the 20th, 189-."
At the sight of those words even Hilda's self-possession forsook her for the moment The will of George Barton, dated December, here, in Miriam's keeping! There was only one conclusion to be arrived at from that. She had stolen it—that she might secure Gerald. As the thought flashed through her mind a great bitterness—a greater hatred for her rival came over Hilda. Dicky, absorbed as he was, saw that something was wrong. His keen little eyes had not failed to read the fateful heading. The word "will" was by no means without meaning for him. How often his mother had spoken of Uncle Barton's will! He had heard her not once, but a score of times. Child as he was, he knew quite well what had happened to deprive Gerald of his inheritance.
Hilda glanced hurriedly, stealthily, through the contents of the deed. "I devise all my real and personal estate to my nephew, Gerald Arkel, absolutely"—those were the words her eye now caught, and they were more than enough. And she was the wife of John Dundas! Why had Fate played her such a sorry trick?—she who had given up so much—had schemed so zealously for the possession of this affluence. It had been her goal through life. She had sacrificed everything to it, only to have it snatched from her now that she had tasted the sweet of it. It was too cruel. What should she do?
Dicky looked up, all innocent inquiry. That look brought her to herself again. At any cost the truth must be kept from him. She smiled and put her hand upon his shoulder.
"Dicky dear," she said in a whisper, "do you know what this is?"
"It's a will, Hilda, isn't it? Mother was always talking about Uncle Barton's will. Is this the one?"
"Yes, dear, this is the one. It's been lost for ever so long, and now that you have found it your dear Miriam will besorich."
"Oh, how jolly!—I am so pleased, aren't you, Hilda?"
"Yes, dear; and I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll preparesucha surprise for Miriam."
"Oh yes; how, Hilda, how shall we do it?" The little fellow's eyes positively danced with delight.
"Well, first I must talk to Major Dundas about it, because of course he will have to give the money to Miriam's husband. Now, Dicky, whatever you do you must not say a word about it. It must be agreatsecret. You must promise me that first of all. Very well——"
"But, Hilda, I wonder why Miriam didn't know it was in her box?"
For a moment the woman was at a loss. Then she answered.
"Well, that we don't know, Dicky. Perhaps she hid it there herself and forgot all about it, or perhaps Gerald put it there. That doesn't matter—we've found it, that's the great thing, and it will be such a surprise for both of them."
"Oh yes, Hilda. I won't say a word about it, I promise."
"That's a good boy. Now put away the work-box quickly, just as you found it, and don't tell Miriam even that you were playing with it." She kissed him, and slipped the deed into her dress. Dicky put back the trinkets and replaced the box.
She felt she could rely on the boy's not betraying her, and she congratulated herself on the success of her plan. She could hear Miriam in the drawing-room now. Hurriedly she picked up a copy of theStrandMagazine which Dicky had been looking at and gave it to him.
"We must go to tea, Dicky. Come along, bring your book with you."
At that moment Miriam called.
"That boy's simply crazy about pictures," said Hilda, as she entered the room. "I can't get him away from them." She looked at Dicky hard. He seemed to understand—it was to him all part of a glorious surprise for Miriam. And the element of secrecy appealed to him irresistibly.
"What's he got—theStrandMagazine?" said Miriam, catching sight of the well-known cover. "Oh, that's Gerald's—he's never happy without hisStrand."
"It is an awfully jolly magazine, Miss Crane—I wish mother would get it."
"Ah, here is Gerald," exclaimed Hilda, as at that moment he entered the room. "Speak of angels and you hear their wings."
"That's dangerously suggestive of another phrase more often applied in the same circumstances—and rather more apt in this case too, I fancy!"
With heightened colour he came forward and took her outstretched hand. He was quite unable to conceal his emotion at this unexpected meeting.
"I didn't hear you come in, Gerald," said his wife in surprise.
At the sound of her voice some of his self-possession returned to him.
"No, I stole a march on you—unawares—got awfully sick of the office, so I chucked it for to-day."
Miriam looked at him uneasily. This sort of thing was continually happening. She was thankful at least he was himself in other ways.
"Well, Mrs. Dundas, I must certainly congratulate you—I don't know when I've seen you look so well."
"Why don't you call her Hilda?" put in the convivial Dicky. "I hate Mrs. Dundas."
"Do you? Well, you see, there are certain difficulties in the way, Dicky. In the first place we are all very much 'grown-up' now; indeed, I don't know that strictly speaking we oughtn't to call you 'Mr. Darrow.' Besides, if I were to call Mrs. Dundas by her Christian name, she might reprimand me severely."
"What nonsense you talk, Gerald," put in that young lady; "there, you see, I take the wind out of your sails at once—I am sure Mrs. Arkel doesn't mind. Do you?" she turned to Miriam with the sweetest of smiles.
"I—indeed no. Surely you are old enough friends for that. Well, we're relations too, now, in a sort of way, aren't we, Hilda?"
"I suppose we are—cousins by marriage."
"I'm a cousin by marriage too," announced Dicky; with his mouth full of cake; "we're all cousins."
"In that case, Dicky, let me give you cousinly advice—not to speak with your mouth full!"
"No, Miss Crane—I won't."
"Hullo, young man," cried Gerald; "and who's Miss Crane I'd like to know?"
"This is, of course—your Mrs. Arkel, butmyMiss Crane. She ought to have waited till I was grown up, and I'd have married her," said Dicky with all the solemnity in the world.
"You precocious young rascal," laughed Arkel, ruffling the boy's hair. "Are you staying for any time in town, Hilda?"
"No, only for a few days. But, Gerald, this is an unexpected pleasure to seeyou. I thought you had joined the noble army of toilers in the city, and weren't visible except by night?"
"Nor am I, as a rule. Needs must you know when a certain gentleman's on the box. But, as I was telling my wife, to-day I felt I couldn't stand the place, so I toddled home. It's a case of reward for a lapse from virtue for once in a way."
"Well, hard work's good for you, I've no doubt. At all events, you had plenty of play once," said Hilda, putting on her gloves and rising to go.
"Yes, this is the swing of the pendulum, I suppose. But, by Jove, if ever it swings back again, I'll take jolly good care it sticks there until I shuffle off, anyhow."
And Miriam sighed, knowing only too well how true that was.
"Well, come along, Dicky, we must be off; the Major'll be waiting, and he hates that. I've managed a good many things with the Major, but I've never managed to imbue him with a sense of patience."
The boy rose rather reluctantly. He would so much rather have stayed with Miriam. He had not had her to himself at all. Gerald put on his hat and coat.
"You must let me come some of the way with you," he said.
"Oh, no, Gerald, you mustn't leave Miriam—I'm sure she——"
"Oh, please don't think about me. It's so dull for Gerald. I'm only too glad for him to enjoy himself when he can."
There was a rather embarrassing silence for a few minutes. Then Hilda imprinted upon Miriam's cheek the kiss of Judas, and they left.
"Jove, she's about right," said Arkel, when they were out of earshot. "I should think it is dull. I never realised before, Hilda, how much London was the rich man's paradise and the poor man's Sheol."
"Oh, come, Gerald, it's not so bad as all that, surely. You're out of sorts to-day."
He did not reply, but hailed a four-wheeler that was passing.
"Oh, Gerald, why did you do that? I do dislike these dirty growlers," she said.
"You won't get a decent hansom in this God-forsaken part of the world. Better take this now."
"Very well, I suppose we must."
"And may I sit beside the driver?" said Dicky. "I should like to awfully."
"Oh, I don't know, dear. I am afraid of your catching cold."
"No fear of that," replied Gerald. "It's quite warm, and he's well wrapped up. Jump in, Hilda."
He helped her in, and confided Dicky to the care of the cabby. The boy's proposition suited him in every way. Indeed, it had been an essential part of his plan. As for Hilda, she had a very shrewd idea of what she might expect. It is only fair to her to say that she hesitated—but the eloquent appeal from those blue eyes of Gerald's had been too much for her. She was surprised at herself now, for her heart was beating as she had never known it beat before.
"I wish you could get a hansom," she said; "we shall be hours getting home in this."
"And would that be so very terrible?" he asked. "It would not have been once, Hilda."
"Oh, Gerald, don't talk about that. You know that is all over and done with now."
"It isnotover, Hilda—it never has been over, we need never have parted but for you. For these two years I have been longing for a chance of seeing you alone. I have got it now, and I'm not going to lose it."
"What is it you want? You forget Miriam——"
"Oh, hang Miriam! I wish I could forget her. But she's not the sort of person one can forget, worse luck. Hilda, it was cruel of you to drive me to her——"
"Cruel ofme?Idrove you to Miriam? Really, Gerald, if that's the kind of thing you're going to say, I am sorry I allowed you to come at all. You know perfectly well things were not in my hands. I had to do as I was told. And you—well, you and Miriam were always what you call 'good friends.'"
"You managed to console yourself pretty quickly any way."
"Not so quickly as you, I believe," retorted Hilda.
"I console myself? A pretty sort of consolation mine has been! You at least have the satisfaction of having plenty of money. If it were only the other way round, I tell you, Hilda, I wouldn't hesitate for one moment; I'd clear out with you to-morrow."
"Indeed, that's taking me a little bit for granted, isn't it? You don't seem to count the cost—to me! Remember, the unfortunate woman always pays in these cases, as indeed she does in most others, as far as I can see. No, Gerald, you've got to stick to your bargain and I to mine. I was always fond of you, you know. But Fate evidently didn't intend us for one another."
"If only I thought you really cared for me still—Hilda, tell me you do; say you do care for me now as you used to do."
"Gerald, I forbid you to behave like this. Are you crazy? What do you expect this sort of thing to lead to?—ruin, absolute ruin, in every way for me—yes, and for you too for that matter."
"I don't care—I care for nothing but you. I will have you, I——"
He was blind with passion now, and she saw it. Without another word she pushed his arm aside, and letting down the window, called upon the driver to stop.
"Very well," he said, when he saw what she had done. "I have finished with you from this moment. Remember, whatever happens is your doing."
"Will you help Dicky inside, please, and tell the driver to go on?"
Her intense placidity infuriated him only the more. He seized her wrist roughly and twisted it, glaring at her. Then he banged the door and strode away.
Without word or sound—though he had hurt her wrist badly—she jumped out of the cab and got Dicky down from his perch. She bade the driver go on to the hotel. Then she leaned back in her seat and smiled, well pleased with herself. Placed as she was she couldn't have done better, she thought. He was as much in love with her as ever, that was quite certain. He would not be content to leave her like that. She had thrilled at his savage clutch of her, painful though it was. It meant that he was hers, body and soul. He would come at her bidding—he would be her slave. But not now was he for her or she for him. There might come a time, perhaps——
But that was another story. Now, she was face to face, she knew, with the crucial point of her life. On her immediate action depended everything. The will was in her possession to do with it what she would. What should she do with it? Destroy it—destroy it—destroy it—the words seemed to buzz continually in her brain.
She was so completely engrossed that she did not notice that they had arrived at the hotel. The porter came to the door. Taking Dicky by the hand, she went straight upstairs to their private sitting-room. Her husband was there reading the paper. She was surprised to see him.
"Dear me," she said, "you here, John? I thought you surely would be at the club. You don't mind if I leave the boy with you till Kimber can take him? I have such a splitting headache that I must go straight and lie down."
"Sorry, Hilda—leave him by all means." She certainly looked tired he thought.
In her own room, having dismissed her maid, she threw herself on the bed, and fell to thinking again. Five minutes after she rang the bell.
"Kimber," she said, as the maid appeared, "I am shivering—just put a match to the fire. That will do, thank you; you needn't wait."
As the fire burned up she rose from the bed, and settled herself on the rug by the hearth. Then she took the will from the pocket of her dress and spread it out before her. She read it from beginning to end. And so she learned how Miriam, if she had done this thing, had sacrificed herself in the doing of it. Couldshehave sacrificed herself like that? No—emphatically no. Could Miriam? She was obliged to confess to herself that she thought she could—and had. But the confession galled her ever so, and she hated her the more for it. And then for a moment she gave way to her hate.
"She shall not have it," she almost hissed; "nor shall she havehimmuch longer. Yes, I'll burn it I'll teach her not to try conclusions with me!"
At that moment her meditations were interrupted. The door opened, and her husband, pale and short of breath, literally burst into the room. Their eyes met. Instinctively she knew thatheknew. Without a moment's hesitation she threw the will into the fire. Catching her round the waist he flung her quickly to one side and rescued it.
"Just in time," he panted; "only just in time!"
In silence husband and wife stared at each other—she as furious with anger at discovery as with the knowledge that therewith all chance of her retaining wealth and position was at an end; he, astonished at the utter want of scruple, at the horrid immorality in the nature of the woman whom he had chosen to bear his name. It was as much as he could do to contain himself. Every instinct within him revolted at the cowardly criminality at which he had caught her red-handed. He wondered she had not been afraid, if only of her own skin.
"Do you realise what I have saved you from?" he asked sternly; "that but for the innocent betrayal of you by that little boy downstairs, you would now be a common felon and answerable to the law—you, my wife, the mistress of Thorpe Manor! Hilda, speak—for God's sake speak."
For some moments she did not answer. One feeling now had come uppermost in her—the feeling of hate and loathing for Miriam, intensified by the knowledge of her husband's admiration for her, while she, his wife, stood debased utterly in his eyes. The whole fury of her puny vindictive nature was striving to be let loose. At last she answered him.
"I have nothing to say," she said, "beyond this—that I am glad at last you know yourfriendfor what she is—that even if your wife, as you say, was in danger of jeopardising her liberty, the pure, beautiful, saintly creature whom you so admirehasdone so long ago, since she is nothing but a common thief!"
"Hilda, how dare you! Upon my word, I begin to think you've lost your senses."
"Indeed; you'll find that whatever I may have lost, I still havethem. You must allow me to repeat that your friend is a common thief, and therefore a criminal. She stole this will."
"She stole that will?—why, woman, how can you say such a thing. Mrs. Arkel is the soul of honour."
"I thought you'd be surprised. Evidently Dicky didn't tell you everything. As it happens, I myself saw it abstracted by him quite accidentally this afternoon from some false bottom, or rather, top, of her work-box, which no doubt has proved eminently useful to her before this, during her career."
"Hilda, for God's sake don't be so spiteful—if you have any decent womanhood in you don't crush it. Miriam Arkel is no thief. You may have found this will in her box, as you say. But she did not steal it. It was taken from Barton's table on Christmas night by—by Julia Darrow!"
"Julia Darrow? Impossible! Who told you that tale?"
"The person who saw her take it."
"I don't believe it—what motive had she?—none; besides, if that is so, how came it in the saintly Miriam's keeping—suchvery securekeeping too—at least she thought so."
The Major listened to her no longer. He became intent upon the contents of the will, and motioned to his wife to sit down. She continued her verbal fusillade none the less scathingly for lack of reply. At last she seemed to be approaching finality.
"You may talk as you like," she said (perhaps because he was not talking at all), "nothing will convince me that the woman is innocent. She stole that will out of sheer spite at me—to prevent my marrying Gerald."
"Oh, indeed!" This had roused the Major. "Would not the fact of your having elected to marry me have been a little inconvenient?"
"Not in the least—I should never have elected to marry you in those circumstances."
"Oh!" He looked at her in amazement. He was learning about women at a rate which threatened speedy disaster to his appreciation of them. He began firmly to hope that his education might become a trifle less rapid if less complete.
"You can look, and look, and look," she continued, "I don't care; you may as well know the truth, though goodness knows you might have guessed it long ago—I detest you!"
"Why—may I ask?"
"Why?—for lots of reasons. Chiefly I suppose because I love Gerald."
"Then in Heaven's name why didn't you marry him?"
"Because this wretched creature by her thievish trickery ruined him. I couldn't marry a man who had not the means of keeping me, could I?"
"That depends—on the man, and on yourself. In any case you and Gerald Arkel—you won't mind the frankness being mutual, will you?—no matter how situated, would in my opinion have made an easy and expeditious descent into—well, shall we say oblivion?—that is, of course, unless you had chosen to achieve notoriety of a wholly undesirable order. You, Gerald Arkel, and ample means!—nothing could have saved you. So perhaps, even as it is, you are better off. What think you, Hilda?"
"I don't know what to think—I don't understand you. I don't understand this universal outcry against Gerald, that simply because he is possessed of a few pounds he must go to the dogs altogether."
"Then you evidently don't understand the young gentleman himself. No self-respecting kennels would tolerate him, I assure you, for all the relegating to them we humans might choose to indulge in. You probably know nothing about dogs. They are plucky, honourable animals, with a maximum of virtue and a minimum of vice; and they resent pretty hotly, I can tell you, the arrival amongst themselves of a lot of our refuse. Now the young man whom you have chosen to honour with your 'love' must unfortunately be so described."
"It is cowardly of you to abuse him when he is not here to defend himself."
"He would not attempt to defend himself to me. Now come, Hilda—you are little more than a child after all. Let my attitude be parental, if you won't have it marital. Believe me, if it had not been for that very noble woman whom you have been slandering for the last quarter of an hour, Gerald Arkel, as it is, would have already reached his disastrous end."
"That's right; praise her—you have nothing but blame for me!—I believe you're in love with the woman still."
"Do you? Well, I suppose it's logical you should, from your point of view. Yet, if I were to admit it, I believe you'd have the audacity to be angry—or pretend to be! We've started well, Hilda—that is, you did—why not let us be wholly frank. You married me for my money and for the position you would acquire as my wife. That you admit."
"Yes—I was forced to."
"Never mind the force—you admit the desire. Very well, I married you, why? 'Pon my soul I couldn't tell you—that's the truth. Because I wanted a wife, I imagine, or thought I did, in the new circumstances in which I found myself. Grant then that our motives tie—they are equally unworthy of each of us—I have been a good husband to you. Have you been anything of a wife to me—I ask you, Hilda, from the day we married, have you given me a thought?"
"I'm not good at sentiment—I don't understand it. I never did."
"I am well aware of that. I begin to think you understand nothing but the promptings of your own badly drilled—excuse my swearing—your damned badly drilled mind."
"I had rather you swore than sat there preaching at me. For goodness sake say what you've got to say, and have done with it."
"As you will. Then I have this to say. You are my wife—that's a deplorable, unalterable fact. You will respect my name by keeping your own out of the mud; therefore in future you will be careful to refrain from these little amateur felonies of yours, as well as from risking prosecution for slander, which you certainly will do if you allow your tongue free rein. For the rest, if you are sensible, you'll keep up appearances before the world."
"It's difficult to keep up appearances when one is thrown into contact with adventuresses of that woman's class. God knows where she came from—the slums I believe. Ask Julia about her—ask her to tell you what she told me."
"Surely you can tell me yourself, without my further imperilling Julia's lot in the next world."
She stamped her foot with impatience. She had never known him quite in this mood before. She wished he would get thoroughly angry, like he had been when he came in.
"You will be shocked at the downfall of your immaculate angel. However, if you want to know I will tell you. She was in the habit of making assignations with some low man who came down from London and used to meet her about Thorpe—once they were caught actually in the churchyard late at night—some man named Jabez! What do you think of that?"
"Very natural under the circumstances!"
"Very——" She looked at him utterly perplexed. "Under what circumstances?"
"Under the circumstances that he is her brother, and that she lived with a cat."
"Her brother! Her br-o-th-er!—as much her brother as you are, or would like to be! It's just like you to believe a tale like that."
"Not only do I believe it, but it is true. It is also true that Julia stole this will. The creature Shorty—Mrs. Parsley'sprotégéthat is—was prowling about the house the night we were all dining there—Christmas Eve, when the poor old man was killed—and swears he saw her enter the library during Barton's absence for a moment. She picked up the will, read it, and pocketed it."
"And how much, pray, did you pay this ruffian for this information?"
"That's my business. You may be quite sure it's worth double what I paid for it."
"How then do you explain it's being in Mrs. Gerald Arkel's work-box?"
"Malice—pure malice on the part of that most malicious of women, Julia Darrow."
"But she could know nothing of there being a false top to the work-box."
"She could know anything—everything. Ask Dicky, and he'll tell you that he showed his mother how the thing worked."
"Well, I'm sick to death of the subject," she retorted impatiently. "The question is, what do you intend to do with the will now you've got it?"
"Why, what do you think I'd do with it? There is only one thing that I or anyone else with a spark of honour," he looked at her very searchingly, "coulddo with it—take it to Rosary Mansions this evening, and lay it before both of them."
"John!—you are not serious? I implore you don't do that. Consider what it means. Consider me. It is not fair to me. I was not meant to be a poor man's wife."
"You are not fit to be any decent man's wife; but as you are, and I can't descend to your moral level, you must rise to mine, that's all."
"If you do this you shall pay for it," she said. She was losing all self-control and becoming perfectly reckless in the face of what threatened her. "I am your wife now. I married you for this money—the day you lose it, you lose me—understand."
He seized her arm somewhat roughly and looked at her hard.
"And you understand this, young woman, I will be a party to no crime at your bidding. I will be no partner with you in iniquity. To restore this money is the honest course, the only course, and the course that I shall take without any delay. As for you, while you are my wife, poor or rich, you will respect my name!"
"WhileI am your wife—if you go on the way you are going I warn you that will not be for long."
"What do you mean?"
"That you'll know quick enough once it's done. For the last time I ask you to pause, consider, compromise!—I don't ask you to do anything dishonourable, but make some arrangement, don't give up everything. By your own showing it will ruin Gerald; think of him, think of her—of Miriam. Think of the awful unhappiness it means for her. John! I will try and be different to you if you will only wait."
"Stop it," he thundered, "she-devil that you are, consumed by your disgusting lust for gold. Once for all I refuse to be coerced by you. Do I not know right from wrong? This property is Gerald's, and whatever the consequences, to him it goes."
"Very well; I have warned you. Now I know what to do."
She entered the dressing-room and banged the door behind her. For some minutes he stood staring blankly at it. Then he quietly went downstairs.
He saw no more of her that night. She had her dinner sent up to her room, and refused to see him. He dined, therefore, at the restaurant instead of in their private room. In spite of his self-control he could not eat. He realised full well what this loss meant, not so much to himself—five hundred a year and his pay was all-sufficient for him—but to Miriam, and to Gerald, yes, and to the paltry little woman who, after all, was his wife. Yet the more he pondered over it, the more convinced he became that there was but one course open to him. There need be no scandal about Julia; that must be hushed up somehow; but Gerald must have his own.
He lit a cigar at the table, and turned the thing over in his mind for another quarter of an hour. Then he called a cab, and drove straight to Rosary Mansions.
It was nearly ten o'clock when he arrived, yet strange to say Gerald was at home—thanks to Hilda. But the Major of course did not know to what he might attribute this return to the domestic hearth on the part of Master Gerald, and gave him all credit for it. He was sorely grieved to think that his news more than anything else, was calculated to bring about a speedy return to the old order of things.
As for Miriam, she had been in nowise deceived by her husband's action. She had made a pretty shrewd guess at the sort of thing that had passed between him and his former lady-love. His expression had been quite enough to show her he had been dismissed, and she valued his presence accordingly.
The Major's ring roused them both. It was one of the "cook-general's" three nights out—she having with great resignation remained in the previous evening, "though it was Sunday and all"—so Gerald himself went to the door.
"Hullo, Dundas, is it you?—why, what brings you out here at this time?—nothing wrong I hope?"
"No; I've no doubt you'll think it's veryright, so far as you're concerned; but it's important, or I need hardly say I wouldn't be here. The fact is, the will's found."
"The will! What—the—the last will?—and the money's mine?"
"Indisputably."
Miriam was on her feet in an instant. Every vestige of colour had left her face. She looked at the Major and then at her husband, who, half-laughing and half-weeping, was scarce able to articulate. He called for air, and she ran to the window and opened it. Then he turned on Dundas almost savagely.
"Where—where did you find this?"
"I did not find it—Dicky did."
"Where?"
"Here, in your flat." He looked at Miriam as he said it, knowing well she could defend herself.
"Yes," she said, confronting her husband, "here in our flat. It was I who took the will!"