Kitty's supper parties were always delightful, though slightly godless. The guests were usually men and women of the world, connected with art, literature, and the drama, so a general tone of brilliancy permeated the atmosphere. The hostess herself was an admirable conversationalist, and what with the wine, the laughter, and the influence of the midnight hour, the excitement seemed contagious. Every one was amusing, and witty stories, caustic remarks, and sarcastic epigrams followed one after the other in reckless profusion.
Very pretty the supper-table looked, though, it must be confessed, rather disorderly. It was not a very large table, but accommodated the present company admirably, and under the soft light of the tapers, with which the room was illuminated, the silver and glass sparked brilliantly. Half-filled glasses of champagne and burgundy, crumbs on the white table-cloth, and a general array of disorderly plates, showed that supper was over. The guests had pushed away their chairs, and were smoking and chatting, while a light breeze came in through the open French window, and somewhat cooled the temperature of the room. The smoky atmosphere, the flashing of the light on the bare shoulders of the women, gay feminine, laughter, and the general air of unconventionality, fascinated Keith as he sat beside his hostess, listening to the desultory conversation, and occasionally joining in. Slingsby was speaking about a new book which had come out, and this gave rise to a brilliant rattle of pungent wit.
"It's called 'Connie's Crime,' a mixture of blood and atheism."
"Yes, so they say; a hash-up of the Newgate Calendar and Queen Mab, with a dash of realism to render it attractive."
"Awfully bad for the public."
"Bah! they read worse in papers.The Penny Whistlewas bewailing the prevalence of criminal literature, yet you can't take up a night's issue without finding a divorce case or a murder--the pot calling the kettle black with a vengeance."
"Don't suppose either it or shilling shockers have much to do with the morals of the public--we're all going to the deuce."
"Pessimistic!"
"But true. It's a game of follow my leader, with Father Adam at the head."
"Gad, he ought to have arrived at his destination by this time!"
"Oh! we'll all find that out when we get there."
"But' you forget we start in this new country with all the old-world civilisation."
"Yes, and all the old-world vices."
"Which are a natural concomitant of aforesaid civilisation."
"How abusive you all are," said Kitty, shrugging her shoulders; "people are not so bad as you make out."
"No, they're worse," said Delp lightly. "Put on your diamonds and go through Victoria like that young person in Moore's song, 'Rich and rare were the gems she wore,' you won't be treated as well, I promise you."
"I'm afraid I'm very careless of my diamonds," laughed Kitty; "I certainly take them home from the theatre every night, but I generally put the case safely away in the drawer of my looking-glass."
"A very safe place," observed Lazarus approvingly; "for illustration see Poe's story of 'The Purloined Letter.'"
"All the same, I wouldn't trust to fiction for suggestions," said Fenton gaily; "some night you'll be minus your jewels."
"I'll take the risk," retorted Kitty rising. "I'm going into the drawing-room. Mr. Lazarus, you come also. I have got the score of that new opera-bouffé 'Eblis,' and I want you to try it."
"Bah! a failure in town," growled Mortimer.
"That doesn't necessarily mean a failure in Melbourne," replied Kitty, and with this parting shot she went away, followed by the ladies and Ezra Lazarus. Keith remained behind, and, lighting a fresh cigarette, listened to the conversation, which was now slightly horsey.
"I know what's going to win the cup.
"Never knew a man who didn't."
"This is true, 'Devil-may-care.'"
"An outsider."
"They generally win, but don't prophesy too soon."
"No, or like Casandra, your prophecies won't be believed."
"Who is Casandra--another dark 'un?"
"No--a woman."
"Talking about women, I wish you'd get more chorus girls, Mortimer."
"Got quite enough."
"Of course--quantity, not quality."
"They've been snubbing you?"
"Wrong again; they never snub any one who can give them diamonds."
"Which you can't."
"No, by Jove. I wish I had some myself--say Caprice's."
"Don't grudge them to her, dear boy--the savings of years."
Every one grinned.
Meanwhile, Keith grew tired of this scintillating talk, and leaving Ezra rattling away at a gallop in the drawing-room, he arose and went out into the hall. Glancing carelessly up the stairs, he saw a little figure in white coming down.
"Why, Meg," said Keith, going to the foot of the stairs to receive her, "what are you doing at this hour of the night?"
"Meg wants mumsey," said the child, putting her arms round his neck.
"Mumsey's busy," replied Keith, lifting her up. "I'll take you back to bed, dear."
"Don't want to go to bed," said the child, though she could hardly keep her eyes open.
Keith laughed, and rocked her slowly to and fro in his arms for a few minutes, humming softly till Meg grew tired.
"Will Meg go to bed now?" he whispered, seeing she had closed her eyes.
"Yes! Meg's sleepy."
Keith went upstairs with the quiet little figure in his arms, and seeing an open door leading to a room in which there was a subdued light, caused by the lowering of the gas, he went in, and finding Meg's cot, placed her in it, and tucked her carefully in.
"Good-night, dear," he whispered, kissing her.
"Good-night, mumsey; good-night, God," murmured Meg, thinking she was saying her prayers, and fell fast asleep.
Keith went downstairs again, and met Fenton in the hall.
"Say!" exclaimed that gentleman, "where have you been?"
"Putting Meg to bed," replied Stewart, laughing. "I found her wandering about like an unquiet spirit," and having no desire for a conversation with Fenton, he strolled off to the drawing-room leaving the American looking after him with an angry frown.
No one was in the drawing-room but Ezra and the ladies--the former being seated at the piano playing over the music of "Eblis," while Kitty Marchurst stood beside him, looking over his shoulder. Lazarus had just finished a valse, which was not by any means original, being made out of reminiscences of other music.
"There's only one decent thing in the whole opera," said Kitty impatiently--"this," and she hummed a few bars; "it's called, 'Woman's Deceit.'"
"Disagreeable title," said Keith idly.
"But a capital song," retorted Kitty "Eblis sings it--that's the principal character."
"You seem anxious to play the devil," said Stewart, with a smile.
"What do you mean?"
Keith shrugged his shoulders.
"Eblis is the Oriental name for the Devil."
"Oh, I understand." Kitty's quick perception seized the idea at once. "Yes, there would be some fun in playing such a character."
"Then give myself and Lazarus a commission to write you a part. I am anxious to make a start, and I think Lazarus would write charming music. I'll be librettist, and, of course, can write the character to suit you."
Kitty glanced critically at him.
"Can you compose music," she asked Lazarus.
In answer, he played a charming gavotte, bright and crisp, with a quaint rhythm.
"Very pretty," said Kitty critically, "but not my style. Play something with a little more 'go' in it."
"Like this?" He brought his hands down on the ivory keys with a tremendous crash, and plunged into a wild fantastic galop that made everybody long to dance. Kitty clapped her hands, and her whole face lighted up with enthusiasm as the brilliancy and dash of the melody carried her away.
"Bravo!" she cried, when he finished. "That's what I want; write me music like that, and I'll engage to have it produced. You'll do. Now, sir," turning to Keith, "what's your idea?"
"Rather a burlesque than opera-bouffe," he answered; "what would you say to 'Faust Upset?'"
"Ah, bah! we've had so many burlesques on Faust."
"Not such a one as I propose to write. I intend to twist the whole legend round; make Miss Faust a Girton girl who has grown old, and longs for love, invokes the Power of Evil, enter Caprice as Miss Mephistopheles, a female demon, rejuvenates Miss Faust by paint and powder, takes her to see Mr. Marguerite, who is a young athlete, and so throughout the whole legend; to conclude with Miss Mephistopheles falling in love with Mr. Marguerite, and disputing possession with Miss Faust."
"Ha! ha!" laughed Kitty, "what a capital idea. It will be new, at all events; but I won't decide till I see the first act complete; if it's as good as it promises, I'll get Mortimer to stage it after 'Prince Carnival.'"
Keith was delighted, as now he seemed to have obtained a chance of seeing what he could do. Ezra smiled, and nodded to Stewart.
"I told you she'd be a good friend," he said.
The gentlemen all came into the room, and in a short time there was a perfect babel of voices talking about everything and everyone. Suddenly Fenton, with a half-smoked cigar in his hand, entered the room and crossed over to Kitty.
"There's a rough-looking man outside who wants to see you," he said quietly.
"What's his name?"
"Villiers."
Kitty turned a little pale.
"The husband of Madame Midas," she said, in an annoyed tone. "Where is he?"
"Walking up and down in front of the dining-room."
"Remain here; I'll see him," she said, in a decided tone, and, without being noticed, left the room.
On entering the dining-room, she found Mr. Villiers seated at the supper-table drinking champagne from a half-empty bottle, having entered through the window.
"What do you want?" she asked, coming down to him.
Mr. Villiers was in his usual condition of intoxication, and began to weep.
"It's Kitty, dear little Kitty," he said, in a maudlin tone, "the friend of my dear wife."
"Your dear wife," said Kitty scornfully; "the woman you deceived so shamefully; she was well quit of you when she went to live in England."
"She left me to die alone," wept Villiers, filling his glass again, "and only lets me have a hundred pounds a year, and she's rolling in money."
"Quite enough for you to get drunk on," retorted Kitty. "What do you want?"
"Money."
"You sha'n't get a penny."
"Yes I shall. You talk about me treating my wife badly; what about you--eh?"
Kitty clenched her hands.
"I did treat her badly," she said, with a cry. "God help me, I've repented it often enough since!"
"You were a nice girl till you met Vandeloup," said Villiers. "Ah, that confounded Frenchman, how he made me suffer!"
"Leave Vandeloup alone; he's dead, and it will do no good you reviling him now. At all events, he was a man, not a drunkard."
"She loves him still, blow me!" hiccupped Mr. Villiers rising--"loves him still."
"Here's a sovereign," said Kitty, thrusting some money into his hand. "Now, go away at once."
"I want more."
"You won't get more. Get away, or I'll order my servants to turn you out."
Villiers staggered up to her.
"Will you, indeed? Who are you to talk to me like this? I'll go now, but I'll come back, my beauty! Don't try your fine airs on me. I'll get money from you when I want it; if I don't, I'll make you repent it."
Kitty stood looking at him like a statue of marble, and pointed to the open window.
"I spare you for your wife's sake," she said coldly. "Go!"
Villiers lurched towards the window, then, turning round, shook his fist at her.
"I've not done with you yet, my fine madam," he said thickly. "You'll be sorry for these fine airs, you----"
He staggered out without saying the vile word, and disappeared in the darkness.
A vile word, and yet what was that Mrs. Malton said about her child blushing for her father? God help her, would Meg live to blush for her mother? Kitty put out her hands with a sob, when a burst of laughter from the next room sounded in her ears. The momentary fit of tenderness was over, and, with a harsh laugh, she poured out a glass of champagne and drank it off.
"My world is there," she muttered. "I must part with the child for her own good, and she will lead that virtuous, happy life which a miserable wretch like myself can never hope to reach."
The Penny Whistlewas a purely sensational newspaper, and all those who liked spicy articles and exaggerated details purchased it, in order to gratify their tastes. Its circulation was enormous, and its sale increased still more when the following article appeared in its columns on the Tuesday after Kitty's supper party:--
"Burglary at the House of a well-known Actress.
"We often hear accounts of great jewel robberies having taken place in London, but nothing of the kind, at least in any noticeable degree, has been perpetrated in the colonies until last Sunday night, or, to speak more exactly, Monday morning, when the house of Caprice, the well-known actress, was entered, and jewels to the amount of £5000 were stolen. The house in question is situated in Toorak, almost immediately on the banks of the Yarra-Yarra, and, as far as we can learn, the following are the circumstances connected with the affair:--
"On Sunday night Caprice entertained a number of friends at a supper party, and the servants all being downstairs attending to the guests, the upper part of the house was left entirely uninhabited. It is at this time, probably between twelve and one o'clock, that the burglary is supposed to have been perpetrated. The company departed about three o'clock, and on going up to her room, Caprice found the window wide open. Knowing that it had been closed, she suspected something was wrong, and went to the place where she kept her diamonds, only to find them gone. She sent at once for her servants, and an examination was made. It was found that the house had evidently been entered from the outside, as the window was not very far from the ground, and some ivy growing on the wall made a kind of natural ladder, which any man of ordinary agility could scale. Curiously enough Caprice's child, aged seven, was asleep in the room, but appears to have heard nothing. Next morning another examination was made, and it was found that the ivy was broken in several places, showing clearly the mode of entrance. The window had not been latched, as no chance of a burglary was apprehended, the house always having been looked upon as a remarkably safe one. The diamonds were usually kept in a small safe, but on returning from the theatre on Saturday night they had been placed in the drawer of the looking-glass, where they were judged to be safe, as it was not thought likely any thief would look in so unlikely a place for valuable jewellery. Below will be found a plan of the house and grounds as furnished by our special reporter, and the probable track of the burglars indicated."
House Floor PlanFloor Plan of First and Ground Floor.
"It will be seen from this plan that the drawing-room and dining-room, in both of which the guests were assembled, are in the front of the house, so that the most likely thing is that the burglar or burglars entered the grounds by the gate, or along the banks of the river, and climbed up into the house by the window C shown on the plan.
"After securing the plunder, two modes of exit were available, either as indicated by the dotted line which would take the thief out of the gate into the road, from whence it would be easy to escape, or along the banks of the river, as shown by the other lines. In either case escape was perfectly easy. Of course the danger lay in detection while in the house, but this was considerably guarded against by the fact that the noise and laughter going on below effectually drowned all sounds of any one entering the house.
"The thief must have known that the diamonds were in the bedroom, and that a number of people would be present on Sunday night, therefore he chose a time when he would be most likely to escape detection. We believe that a detective has gone down to Toorak to make inquiries, and we have no doubt that the thief will soon be secured, as it would be impossible for such valuable jewels to be disposed of in Melbourne or other colonial cities without arousing suspicion."
It was Fenton who insisted upon a detective being employed to investigate the robbery, as, for some extraordinary reason, Kitty seemed unwilling to allow the matter to be inquired into.
The detective who accompanied Fenton to Kitty's house was known by the name of Naball, and on the retirement of Kilsip had taken his place. He was only of the age of thirty, but remarkably clever, and had already distinguished himself in several difficult cases. Detective work was a positive mania with him, and he was never so happy as when engaged on a difficult case--it had for him the same fascination as an abstruse mathematical problem would have for an enthusiastic student. To Kilsip belonged the proud honour of having discovered this genius, and it seemed as though the pupil would soon surpass the master in his wonderful instinct for unravelling criminal puzzles. Mr. Naball was an ordinary-looking young man, who always dressed fashionably, and had very little to say for himself, so that few guessed the keen astute brain that was hidden under this somewhat foppish exterior. He listened to everything said to him, and rarely ventured an opinion, but the thieves of Melbourne well knew that when "The Toff," as they called Naball, was on their track, there was very little chance of escape from punishment.
On this day when they were on their way to Toorak, Fenton was excited over the matter, and ventured all kinds of theories on the subject, while Mr. Naball smoked a cigarette, and admired the fit of his gloves.
"Do you think the thief will try and dispose of them in Melbourne?" he asked.
"Possibly," returned Naball, "if he's a born fool."
"I'm certain I know the thief," said Fenton quietly. "I told you that the man Villiers was seen about the place on the night of the robbery."
"By whom?"
"Myself and Caprice."
"Who saw him last?"
"Caprice."
"Oh," said Naball imperturbably, "then she's the best person to see on the subject."
"He's a bad lot," said Fenton; "he was mixed up in that poisoning case eight years ago."
"The Midas case?"
"Yes. Caprice, or rather Kitty Marchurst, was concerned in it also."
"So I believe," replied Naball; "every one was innocent except Jarper and Vandeloup--one was hanged, the other committed suicide. I don't see what it has to do with the present case."
"Simply this," said Fenton sharply, annoyed at the other's tone, "Villiers is a scoundrel, and wouldn't stop at robbery if he could make some money over it."
"He knew Caprice had diamonds worth five thousand?"
"Of course; every one in Melbourne knows that."
"Did he know where they were kept?"
"There's a safe in the room, and a thief, of course--"
"Would go there first--precisely--but you forget the diamonds were taken out of the drawer of her looking-glass--a most unlikely place for a thief to examine. The man who stole the jewels must have known where they were kept."
"Oh," said Fenton, and looked astonished, as he was quite unable to explain this. He was about to reply, when the train having arrived at its destination, they got out, and walked to Kitty's house.
She was in the drawing-room writing letters and looked pale and haggard, her eyes having dark circles beneath them, which told of a sleepless night. When the two men entered the room she welcomed them gracefully, and then resumed her seat as they began to talk.
"I have brought you Mr. Naball to look after this affair," said Fenton, looking at her.
"You are very kind," she replied coldly; "but, the fact is, I have not yet decided about placing it in the hands of the police."
"But the diamonds?"--began Fenton in amazement.
"Were mine," finished Kitty coolly; "and as the loss is mine, not yours, I will act as I think fit in the matter."
Then, turning her back on the discomfited Fenton, she addressed herself to the detective.
"I should like your opinion on the subject," she said graciously, "and then I will see if the case can be gone on with."
Naball, who had been keeping his keen eyes on her face the whole time, bowed.
"Tell me all the details of the robbery," he observed cautiously.
"They are simple enough," replied Kitty, folding her hands. "I bring them home from the theatre every night, and usually put them in the safe, which is in my room. On Saturday night, however, I was tired, and, I must confess, rather careless, and as the case was on my dressing-table, I placed it in the drawer of my looking-glass, to save me the trouble of going to the safe. I gave a supper party on Sunday night, and when every one had gone away, I went upstairs to bed, and found the window open; recollecting where I had put the diamonds, I opened the drawer and found them gone. My servants examined the ground beneath the window, and found footmarks on the mould of the flower-bed, so I suppose the thief must have entered by the window, stolen the jewels, and made off with them."
When she had finished, Naball remained silent for a minute, but just as Fenton was about to speak, he interposed.
"I will ask you a few questions, madame," he said thoughtfully. "When did you see the diamonds last?"
"About six o'clock on Sunday night. I opened the drawer to get something, and saw the case."
"Not the diamonds?"
"They were in the case."
"Are you sure?"
"Where else would they be?"
"Some one might have stolen them previously, and left the case there to avert suspicion."
Kitty shook her head.
"Impossible. The case is also gone besides, I locked the case on Saturday night, and had the key with me. No other key could have opened it, and had the case been forced, I would have seen it at once. See," lifting up her arm, "I always wear this bracelet, and the key is attached to it by a chain."
Naball glanced carelessly at it, and went on with his questions.
"You generally kept the diamonds in the safe?"
"Yes."
"And it was quite an oversight not placing them in there on Saturday?"
"Quite."
"No one knew they were in the drawer of your looking-glass on that particular night?"
"No one."
Here Fenton interposed.
"You get along too fast," he said quickly. "Everyone at the supper-table knew you kept them there; you said it to them yourself."
Naball glanced sharply at Kitty.
"I know I did," she replied quietly; "but I spoke as if the diamonds were always kept there, which they were not. I did not say they were in the drawer on that particular night."
"You mentioned it generally?" said Naball tranquilly.
"Yes. All the people present were my guests, and I hardly think any of them would rob me of my diamonds."
"Were any of the servants in the room when you made the remark?" said the detective slowly.
"No, none; and the door was closed."
Naball paused a moment.
"I tell you what," he said slowly, "the diamonds were stolen between six o'clock and the time you went to bed."
"About three o'clock," said Kitty.
"Precisely. You saw the diamonds last at six; they were gone by three; you mentioned where you kept them at the supper-table; now, the thief must have overheard you."
"You--you suspect my guests, sir," cried Kitty angrily.
"Certainly not," said the detective quietly; "but I suspect Villiers."
"Villiers!"
"Yes. Mr. Fenton tells me you saw him on that night."
Kitty flashed a look of anger on the American, who bore it unmoved.
"Yes, he was outside, and wanted to see me. I saw him, gave him some money, and he left."
"Then I tell you he overheard you say where you kept the diamonds, because he was hiding outside the window; so, after seeing you, he committed the robbery."
"That's what I think," said Fenton.
"You!" cried Kitty. "What have you got to do with it? I don't believe he stole them, and, whether he did or not, I'm not going to continue this case."
"You'll lose your diamonds," cried Fenton.
"That's my business," she returned, rising haughtily; "at all events, I have decided to let the matter rest, so Mr. Naball will have all his trouble for nothing. Should I desire to reopen the affair, I will let you both know. At present, good morning," and, with a sweeping bow, she turned and left the room.
Fenton stared after her in blank amazement.
"Good God! what a fool!" he cried, rising. "What's to be done now?"
Naball shrugged his shoulders.
"Nothing," he replied, "since she declines to give me power to investigate. I must throw the affair up. But," also rising, and putting on his hat, "I'd like to have a look at the ground beneath the window."
They both went out, Naball silent, and Fenton in great wrath, talking of Kitty's conduct.
"What an idiot she is!" he cried. "What is she going on in this way for?"
"I don't know."
"She must have some motive."
"Women don't require a motive for anything," said Naball, imperturbably proceeding to examine the ground under the window, through which the thief had made his exit. The flower-bed was filled with tall hollyhocks, and some of these were broken as if some heavy body had fallen from above.
"He clambered down by the ivy," murmured Naball to himself, as he bent down. "The ivy is broken here and there; the flowers are also broken, so he fell on them in a heap--probably having missed his footing. Humph! Clever man, as he did not step again on the flower-bed, but jumped from where he fell on to the grass. Humph! grass hard and rather dry; no chance of footmarks. Question is, which way did he go?"
"By the gate, of course," said Fenton impatiently.
The detective walked across the lawn to the gate, but could find no trace of footmarks, as the lawn was dry, and the footpath, leading out into the pavement of the street was asphalted.
"No; he did not go by the gate, as a man in such rags as Villiers would have been sure to be seen coming out of a private house. That would be suspicious; besides, he would have been afraid."
"Of the police?"
"Exactly; he's been in prison two or three times since his connection with the Midas case, and has got a wholesome dread of the law. No; he did not go by the gate, but by the river."
"The river!" repeated Fenton, in amazement.
Naball did not answer, but walked back to the window, then along the side of the house, turned the corner, and went down the sloping green bank which led to the river. Still he could see no footmarks. The grass ended at an iron fence, and beyond was the uncultivated vegetation, rank and unwholesome, that clothed the banks of the river. Between this and the grass, however, there was a strip of black earth, and this Naball examined carefully, but could find nothing. If Villiers had come this way, he could only have climbed the fence by first standing on this earth in order to get near enough, but apparently he had not done so.
"He did not come this way," he said, as they walked back.
"But how could he have left the place?" asked Fenton.
"By the gate."
"The gate? You said he would be afraid of the police."
"So he would, had he been doing anything wrong. Had he stolen the diamonds, he would have gone down by the bank of the river rather than chance meeting a policeman on the street."
"But what does this prove?"
"That, had he met a policeman, he could have explained everything, and referred him to Caprice as to his interview, and right to come out of the house. In a word, it proves he did not steal the diamonds."
"Then who, in Heaven's name, did?"
"I don't give an opinion unless I'm certain," said Naball deliberately; "but I'll tell you what I think. You heard Caprice say she won't go on with the case?
"Yes; I can't understand her reason."
"I can; she stole the diamonds herself."
Everyone was greatly excited over the great jewel robbery, especially as it had taken place at the house of so celebrated a person as Caprice, and numerous were the conjectures as to the discovery of the thieves. When, however, it became known that the lady in question declined to allow an investigation to be made, and was apparently contented to lose five thousand pounds' worth of diamonds, the excitement grew intense. What was her motive for acting in such a strange way? All Melbourne asked itself this question, but without obtaining a satisfactory answer. Reference was made to Kitty's antecedents in connection with the Midas poisoning case, and the public were quite prepared to hear any evil of her, particularly as her career since then had been anything but pure.
The name of Villiers was mentioned, and then it transpired that Villiers had been seen outside her house on the night of the robbery It was curious that another crime should have happened where these two, formerly implicated in a murder case, should have come together, and disagreeable rumours began to circulate. Then, by some unexplained means, the opinion of Naball became known regarding his assertion that Caprice had stolen the diamonds herself. Here was another mystery. Why on earth should she steal her own jewels? One theory was that she required money, and had sold them for this purpose, pretending that they were stolen, in order to satisfy the lovers who gave them to her. This was clearly absurd, as Caprice cared nothing for the opinion of her lovers, and, moreover, the donors of the diamonds were long since dead or ruined, so the idea of the detective was unanimously laughed at. But then the fact remained, she would not allow an investigation to be made; and how was this to be accounted for? One idea was mooted, that Villiers had stolen the diamonds, and she would not prosecute him because he was the husband of the woman who had been kind to her. In this case, however, she would have easily got back her jewels by a threat of prosecution, whereas they were still missing. Other solutions of the problem were offered, but they were unsatisfactory, and Melbourne settled itself down to the opinion that the whole affair was a mystery which would never be solved.
Keith and Ezra had both been puzzled over the affair, and offered Kitty their services to unravel the mystery, but she curtly dismissed them with the remark that she wished the affair left alone, so they had to obey her, and remain in ignorance like the rest of the public. Affairs thus went on as usual, and the weeks slipped by with no further information being forthcoming.
Meanwhile, "Prince Carnival" was still running to crowded houses, and Kitty appeared nightly, being now a still greater attraction on account of the robbery of which she was the heroine. She had fulfilled her promise to Keith, in seeing Mortimer about the chances of production for "Faust Upset." The manager was doubtful about the success of the experiment of trying Colonial work, and told Kitty plainly he could not afford to lose money on such a speculation.
"It's all stuff," he said to her when she urged him to give the young men a chance; "I can get operas from London whose success is already assured, and I don't see why I should waste money on the crude production of two unknown Colonials."
"That's all very true," retorted Caprice, "and, from a business point of view, correct; but considering you make your money out of Colonial audiences, I don't see why you shouldn't give at least one chance to see what Colonial brains can do. As to crudity, wait and see. I don't want you to take the opera if it is bad, but if you approve of it, give it a chance."
In the end Mortimer promised, that if he approved of the libretto and music, he would try the piece at the end of the run of "Prince Carnival," but put "Eblis" in rehearsal, in case his forebodings of failure should be justified. When, however, the first act was finished and shown to him, he was graciously pleased to say there was good stuff in it, and began to be a little more hopeful as to its success. So Keith worked hard all day at his employment, and at night on his libretto, to which Ezra put bright, tuneful music. With the usual sanguine expectations of youth, they never dreamt of failure, and Keith wrote the most enthusiastic letters to his betrothed, announcing the gratifying fact that he had got his foot on the lowest rung of the ladder of fame.
As to his uncongenial employment at the pawnshop, he strove to conquer his repugnance to it, and succeeded in winning the approval of old Lazarus by his assiduous attention to business. He attended to the books, and, as time went on, the pawnbroker actually let him pay money into the bank, so great had his confidence in the young man become. He increased Keith's salary, and even then chuckled to himself over his cleverness in retaining such a clever servant at so low a price.
Though his business was ostensibly that of a pawnbroker, he was in the habit of conducting very much more delicate transactions. In his dingy little den at the back of the shop he sat like a great spider waiting for flies, and the flies generally came in at a little door which led from the room into a dirty yard, and there was a kind of narrow right-of-way which gave admittance to this yard from the street. By this humble way many well-known people came, particularly at night--the fast young man who had backed the wrong horse, the speculative sharebroker, and the spendthrift society lady, all came here in quest of money, which they always got, provided their security was good, and, of course, they paid an exorbitant percentage. Lazarus had dealings with all sorts and conditions of men and women, but he was as silent as the grave over their affairs, and no one knew what secrets that dirty old Hebrew carried in his breast. Of these nocturnal visitors Keith saw nothing, as he left at six o'clock, after which Isaiah shut up the shop, and the front of the house was left in profound darkness, while business went on in the little back room.
It was now a fortnight since the robbery, and the nine days' wonder having ceased to amuse, people were beginning to forget all about it. Keith still lived in East Melbourne with Ezra, and on going home one night was surprised to find a letter from the manager of the Hibernian Bank, which informed him that the sum of five hundred pounds had been placed to his credit. Stewart went next day to find out the name of his unknown benefactor, but the manager refused to tell him, as he had been pledged to secrecy. So Keith returned to Ezra in a state of great perplexity to talk over the affair. They sat in Ezra's sitting-room, and discussed the matter late at night with great assiduity, but were unable to come to any conclusion.
"You don't know any one who would do you a good turn?" asked Lazarus, when he heard this news.
"No--no one," replied Keith. "I haven't a single relative in the Colonies, and no friend rich enough to give me so much money--unless it were your father," with a sudden inspiration.
"He!" laughed Ezra scornfully; "he'd as soon part with his blood. Why, I asked him to give me some money so that I could marry, and he refused. What he wouldn't do for his son he certainly would not do for a stranger."
"It's very queer," observed Keith meditatively. "It can't be Caprice?"
"Not likely; she needs all her money herself," said Ezra. "Besides, I hear she's been rather hard up of late. I suppose Fenton will soon go broke, and then,Le roi est mort, vive le roi."
"What a pity she goes on like that," said Keith, regretfully. "I like her so much."
"Yes, and she likes you," retorted Ezra pointedly. "Don't you get entangled in the nets, or you'll forget all about the girl at Sandhurst. Does she know you're engaged?"
"No."
"I wouldn't tell her if I were you," said the Jew significantly, "or she'll withdraw the light of her countenance, and then it will be all up with our burlesque."
"Pooh, nonsense," replied Stewart, with an uneasy laugh. "I wonder who'll be Fenton's successor?"
"Yourself."
"Not I. I'm not far enough gone for that. Besides, I've no money."
"True, except your anonymous five hundred, which would be nothing to Caprice. So, as she wants money, I expect it will be old Meddlechip."
"But he's married."
"True, O Sir Galahad," retorted Ezra sarcastically; "but he's an unholy old man for all that--she'll ensnare him, and we'll see how long it will take her to break the richest man in the Colonies."
"Oh, the deuce take Kitty Marchurst and her affairs," said Keith impatiently. "I want to know who sent me this money?"
"Better not ask," murmured Ezra. "Curiosity is a vice. Remember Adam and Eve, Bluebeard's wife, etcetera. Take the goods the gods bestow, and don't try to find out where they come from; but now you are rich, you'll be giving up the shop."
"No, I'll stay on for a time till I find that the five hundred is really and truly mine. Who knows, some day it may take to itself wings and fly."
"It certainly would with some young men," said Ezra; "but I don't think you are that sort."
"You are right. I want to save up all my money for Eugénie."
"Ah! you are going to marry her?"
"When I get rich. Yes."
"You won't marry her if Caprice can help it."
"Why?" disbelievingly.
"Because she's fallen in love with you, and her love, like the gifts of the Danaes, is fatal.
"Rubbish. I'm not a child. Caprice will never take my heart from Eugénie."
"Hercules," remarked Ezra musingly, "was a strong man; yet he became the slave of a woman. Solomon was a wise man--same result. My friend, you are neither Hercules nor Solomon, therefore--"
Keith departed hurriedly.