Chapter 6

When Naball left the two young men, he went straight to the Detective Office in order to get some one to look after Keith Stewart, and see that he did not leave Melbourne. Naball did not believe that he was going to meet any one that night, and wanted to find out why he was going to the station.

"If he wanted to give me the slip," he thought, "he wouldn't have told me he was going to the railway station--humph! can't make out what he's up to."

The gentleman who was to act as Mr. Stewart's shadow was a short, red-nosed man with a humbled appearance and a chronic sniffle. He was sparing of words, and communicated with his fellow-man by a series of nods and winks which did duty with him for conversation.

"Tulch!" said Naball, when this extraordinary being appeared, "I want you to go to Vance's boarding-house, Powlett Street, East Melbourne, and keep your eye on a man called Keith Stewart."

An interrogatory sniff from Tulch.

"Ah, I forgot you don't know his personal appearance," said Naball thoughtfully; "he's tall, with fair hair, wears a suit of home-spun--humph;--that won't do, there are dozens of young men of that description. Here!--tell you what, I'll give you a note to deliver to him personally; muffle yourself up in an ulster when you deliver it, so that he won't know you--understand?"

Mr. Tulch sniffed in the affirmative.

"Follow him wherever he goes, and tell me what he's up to," said Naball, scribbling a note to Stewart and handing it to Tulch. "That's all--clear out."

A farewell sniffle, and Tulch was gone.

"Humph," muttered Naball to himself, "now I'd like to know the meaning of all this--I don't believe this cock-and-bull story about Stewart having money left him in this mysterious manner--people don't do that sort of thing now-a-days--I believe he's been robbing the old man for some time and was found out--so silenced him by using his knife. Knife," repeated Naball, "that's not been found yet--I must see about this--now there's Villiers--I wonder if he could help me? It was curious that he should have been about the shop at that special time--he's a bad lot--gad, I'll go and see what I can find out from him."

Knowing Mr. Villiers' habits, he had no difficulty in discovering his whereabouts. Ah Goon's was where Villiers generally dwelt, so, after Naball had partaken of a nice little dinner, he went off to Little Bourke Street.

It was now between seven and eight o'clock, which was the time Villiers generally dined, so, Naball not finding him at Ah Goon's, betook himself to a cook-shop in the neighbourhood, to which he was directed by a solid-looking Chinaman.

It was a low-roofed place, consisting of a series of apartments all opening one into the other by squat little door-ways. The atmosphere was dull and smoky, and the acrid smell of burning wood saluted Naball's nostrils when he entered. Near the door-way a Chinaman was rolling out rice bread to the thinness of paper; then, cutting it into little squares, he wrapped each round a kind of sausage meat, and placed the rolls thus prepared on a tray for cooking.

In the next apartment was a large boiler, with the lid off, filled with water, in which ten or twelve turkeys, skewered and trussed, were bobbing up and down amid the froth and scum of the boiling water. A crowd of Chinese, all chattering in their high shrill voices, were moving about half seen in the smoky atmosphere, through which candle and lamp light flamed feebly.

Villiers, in a kind of little cell apartment, was having his supper when the detective entered. Before him was a large bowl filled with soup, and in this were squares of thin rice bread, and portions of turkey and duck mixed up into a savoury mess, and flavoured with the dark brown fluid which the Chinese use instead of salt.

"Oh, it's you," growled Villiers, looking up with a scowl, "what do you want?"

"You, my friend," said Naball cheerfully, taking a seat.

"Oh, do you?" said Villiers, rubbing his bleared eyes, inflamed by the pungent smoke of the wood-fire. "I s'pose you think I killed old Lazarus?"

"No, I don't," retorted the detective, looking straight at him, "but I think you know more than you tell."

"He! he!" grinned the other sardonically. "Perhaps I do--perhaps I don't--it's my business."

"And mine also," said Naball, somewhat nettled. "You forget the case is in my hands."

"Don't care whose hands it's in," retorted Villiers, finishing his soup, "t'aint any trouble of mine."

The detective bit his lip at the impenetrable way in which Villiers met his advances. Suddenly a thought flashed across his mind, and he bent forward with a meaning smile.

"Got any more diamonds?"

Villiers pushed back his chair from the table, and stared at Naball.

"What diamonds?" he asked, in a husky voice.

"Come now," said Naball, with a wink, "we know all about that--eh? Ah Goon is a good pawnbroker, isn't he?"

"Ah Goon!" gasped Villiers, turning a little pale.

"Yes; though he did only lend twenty pounds on those diamonds."

"Look here, Mr. Jack-o'-Dandy," said Villiers, bringing his fist down on the table, "I don't want no beating about the bush, I don't. What do you mean, curse you?"

"I mean that I know all about your little games," replied Naball, leaning over the table.

"I know Caprice stole her own jewels for some purpose, and gave you some of the swag to shut your mouth, and I know that you're going to tell me all you know about this Russell Street business, or, by Jove, I'll have you arrested on suspicion."

Villiers gave a howl like a wild beast, and, flinging himself across the table, tried to grapple with the detective, but recoiled with a shriek of wrath and alarm as he saw the shining barrel of a revolver levelled at his head.

"Won't do, Villiers," said Naball smoothly; "try some other game."

Whereupon Villiers, seeing that the detective was too strong for him, sat down sulkily in his chair, and after invoking a blessing on Naball's eyes, invited him to speak out. The detective replaced the revolver in his pocket, whence it could be easily seized if necessary, and smiled complacently at his sullen-faced friend.

"Aha!" he said, producing a dainty cigarette, "this is much better. Have you a light?"

Villiers flung down a lucifer match with a husky curse, which Naball, quite disregarding, took up the match and lighted his cigarette. Watching the blue smoke curling from his lips for a few moments, he turned languidly to Villiers, and began to talk.

"You see, I know all about it," he said quietly; "you were too drunk to remember that night when you tried to take a diamond crescent off that woman, and I expect Ah Goon never told you!"

"It was you who took it, then," growled Villiers fiercely.

"In your own words, perhaps it was, perhaps it wasn't," replied Naball, in an irritating tone; "at all events, it's quite safe. You had better answer all my questions, because you bear too bad a character not to be suspected of the crime, particularly as you were about Russell Street on that night."

"Yes, I was," said Villiers angrily; "and who saw me--Keith Stewart--a mighty fine witness he is."

"Aha!" thought the astute Naball, "he does know something, then."

"I could put a spoke in Stewart's wheel," grumbled the other viciously.

"I don't think so," replied the detective, fingering his cigarette, "he is far above you--he's got money, is going to make a name by a successful play, and, if report speaks truly, Caprice loves him.

"I don't care a farthing whether she does or not," said Villiers loudly; "she'd love any one who has money. Stewart's got some, has he; where did he get it?"

"I'm sure I don't know."

"I do!"

"Indeed! where?"

"Never you mind," said Villiers suspiciously. "I know my own knowing."

"Remember what I said," observed Naball quietly, "and tell me all."

"If I tell you all, what will you do?" asked Villiers.

"I'll save your neck from the gallows," replied Naball smoothly.

"Not good enough."

"Oh, very well," said the detective rising, "I've no more to say. I'm off to the magistrate."

"What for?"

Naball fixed his keen eyes on the bloated face of the other.

"To get a warrant for your arrest."

"You can't do that."

"Can't I--you'll see."

"No; wait a bit," said Villiers in alarm; "I can easily prove myself innocent."

"Indeed; then you'd better do so now, before a warrant is out for your arrest."

"You won't give me any money?"

"Not a cent--it's not a question of money with you, but life or death."

Villiers deliberated for a moment, and then apparently made up his mind.

"Sit down," he said sullenly. "I'll tell you all I know."

Naball resumed his seat, lighted a fresh cigarette, and prepared to listen.

"I was rather drunk on the night of the murder," he said, "but not so bad as Stewart thought me. He saw me at the shop-door at two o'clock, but I was there a quarter of an hour before."

"Did you see anything?"

"I saw the gate which led into the alley open," replied Villiers. "No one was about, so I walked in."

"What for?" asked Naball, glancing at him keenly.

"Oh, nothing," replied Villiers indifferently; "the fact was, I saw a policeman coming along, and though I was pretty drunk, I'd sense enough to know I might be run in, so I went into the alley and closed the gate till he passed."

"And then you came out."

"No, I didn't. I walked to the back of the house just to see where it led to. I saw the window wide open, and looked in and saw--"

"The murdered man?"

Villiers nodded.

"Yes; the moonlight was streaming in at the window, and I could see quite plainly. I was in a fright, as I thought, seeing I had no business on the premises, I might be accused, so I got down from the window and went off, closing the gate of the alley after me."

"It wasn't wise of you to stay about the premises," said Naball.

"I know that," rejoined Villiers tartly; "but I couldn't get away, because I saw Stewart coming up the street just as I was wondering where to go; I then pretended to be drunk, so that I could get away without suspicion."

"Why didn't you run?" asked Naball.

"Because he was too close, and besides, he might have given chase, thinking I had been robbing the shop; then, with the open window and the murdered man, it would have been all up with me."

"I don't know if it isn't all up with you now," said Naball drily. "How do I know you are innocent!"

"Because I know who killed Lazarus."

"The deuce you do--who?"

"Stewart himself."

"Humph! that's what I thought; but what proof have you?"

Villiers put his hand in his pocket and brought out a large knife.

"I found this just under the window," he said, handing it to Naball. "You'll see there's blood on the handle, so I'm sure it was with it the crime was committed."

"But how do you know it's Stewart's knife?" asked Naball.

Villiers placed his finger on one side of the handle.

"Read that," he said briefly.

"From Meg," read Naball.

"Exactly," said Villiers. "Meg is Kitty Marchurst's child, and she gave it to Keith Stewart."

"By Jove, it looks suspicious," said Naball. "He is in possession of a large sum of money, and can't tell how he got it. He can't account for his time on the night of the murder, and this knife with his name on it is found close to the window through which the murderer entered--humph!--things look black against him."

"I suppose you'll arrest him at once?" said Villiers malignantly.

"Then you suppose wrong," retorted Naball. "I'll have him looked after so that he won't escape; but I'll hold my tongue about this, and so will you."

"Until when?"

"Until I find out more about Stewart. I must discover if the knife was in his possession on the night of the murder, and also if this story about his money is true; again, I want to wait till some of these stolen bank notes are in circulation, so as to get more evidence against him."

"But what am I to do?" asked Villiers sulkily.

"You are to hold your tongue," said Naball, rising to his feet, "or else I may make things unpleasant for you--it's a good thing for your own sake you have told me all."

"Told you all," muttered Villiers, as Naball took his departure. "I'm not so sure about that."

It is a great blessing that the future is hidden from our anxious eyes, otherwise, to use a familiar expression, we would go out in a coach and four to meet our troubles. If Keith Stewart had only known that the detective suspected him of the murder of Lazarus, and was surely but slowly finding out strong evidence in favour of such a presumption, he, no doubt, would have been much troubled. But he thought that Naball's hints at the interview were not worth thinking about, for, strong in the belief of his own innocence, such an idea of his being accused of the crime never entered his mind.

In spite of the disagreeable event which had occurred, Keith felt very happy on this night. He was young, he had a good sum of money in the bank, the gift of some beneficent fairy, he was going to make hisdébutas a dramatic author, and, above all, he was going to see Eugénie again. Therefore, as he sat at dinner, his heart was merry, and to him the future looked bright and cheerful. Things seemed so pleasant that, with the sanguine expectations of youth, he began to build castles in the air.

"If this burlesque's a success," he thought, "I'll write a novel, and save every penny I make; then I'll go to London, after marrying Eugénie, and see if I can't make a name there--with perseverance I'm bound to do it."

Poor youth, he did not know the difficulty of making a name in London; he was quite unaware that the literary market was overstocked, and that many criticisms depend on the state of the critic's liver. He did not know any of these things, so he went on eating his dinner and building castles in the air, all of which buildings were inhabited by Eugénie.

From these pleasant dreams he was aroused by the entrance of the housemaid, a fat young person, who breathed hard, and rolled up to Keith, puffing and panting like a locomotive.

"If you please," said the young lady, "the man."

"What man?" asked Keith sharply.

"He's waiting to see you," returned the housemaid stolidly.

From experience Keith knew it was useless to expect sense from the housemaid, so he got up from the table and went out to the front-door, where a bundle, with a head at one end and a pair of boots at the other, held out a letter.

"For me?" asked Keith, taking it.

The bundle sniffed in an affirmative manner, so Stewart opened the letter and read it quickly. It only contained a line from Naball that if he heard of any new development of the case he would let Keith know, so that young gentleman, wondering why the detective took the trouble to write to him slipped the letter in his pocket, and nodded to the bundle.

"All right," he said quickly; "no answer," and he shut the door in the bundle's face, whereupon the bundle sniffed.

"I know him now," said Mr. Tulch to himself in a husky voice, as he walked away. "I'd know 'im if he was dooplicated twice h'over." Having come to this satisfactory conclusion, Mr. Tulch took up his position a short distance away, and began his dreary task of watching the house.

And it was dreary work. The long hot day was over, and the long hot night had begun. It was just a quarter past seven, and the sky was a cloudless expanse of darkish blue, blazing with stars; a soft wind was whispering among the leaves of the trees, and making little whirls of white dust in the road. Every now and then a gay party of men and women on their way to some amusement would pass the spy, but he remained passively at his post, watching the sun-blistered varnished door of Vance's boarding-house. At last his patience was rewarded, for, somewhere about half-past seven, Keith came hurriedly out, and sped rapidly down the street.

"What's he arter?" sniffed Mr. Tulch, stretching his cramped limbs. "I'll 'ave to ketch 'im h'up," and he rolled as quickly as he was able after the tall figure of the young man.

A tram came along, and, without stopping it, Keith jumped on the dummy--the spy, breathless with running, sprang on the step of the end car and got inside, keeping his eye on Keith. The tram car went rapidly along Flinders Street, stopping every now and then to pick up or drop passengers, at which Keith seemed impatient. At last Spencer Street station was reached, and Keith sprang out; so did Tulch, keeping close to his heels.

Stewart walked impatiently up and down one of the long platforms, which shortly began to fill with people expecting their friends. The shrill whistle of an approaching engine was heard, a red light suddenly appeared, advancing rapidly, and presently the long train, with its lighted carriages, drew up inside the station.

Such a hurry-scurry; people jumping out of the train to meet those pressing forward on the platform, porters calling to one another, boxes, rugs, portmanteaus, bundles, all strewing the ground--a babel of voices, and at intervals the shrill whistle of a departing train.

Amid all this confusion Tulch missed Keith, and was in a terrible state, for he knew what Naball would say. He dived hither and thither among the crowd with surprising activity, and at last came in sight of Stewart putting a young lady into a cab, in front of which was the luggage. He tried to hear the address given the cabman, but was unsuccessful, so he rapidly jumped into another cab and told him to follow. The cabby obeyed at once, and whipping up his horse, which was a remarkably good one, he easily kept the first cab in sight.

The front cab drove up Collins Street as far as the Treasury Buildings, and then turned off to the left, going towards Fitzroy. It stopped at the Buttercup Hotel, in Gertrude Street, and, Stewart alighting, helped the young lady out; then the luggage was taken care of by the porter of the hotel, and Keith, with his charge, vanished through the swing doors of the private entrance.

On seeing this, Tulch dismissed his cab, went into the bar of an hotel on the opposite side of the street, and, ordering a pint of beer, sat watching the door of the Buttercup Hotel.

Meanwhile Keith and Eugénie had been shown into a private room, and the landlady, a stout, buxom woman, in a silk dress and lace cap, made her appearance.

"Miss Rainsford?" she said interrogatively, advancing towards the girl.

"Yes," replied Eugénie brightly. "You are Mrs. Scarth, I suppose. Did you get Mrs. Proggins' letter?"

"Oh, yes, that's all right," replied the landlady, nodding. "Your room is ready, and I will do anything I can for you. Mrs. Proggins is an old friend of mine, and I'm only too happy to oblige her."

"Thank you," said Eugénie, taking off her hat. "Let me introduce Mr. Stewart to you; he kindly came to the station to meet me."

Mrs. Scarth nodded with a smile, for Mrs. Proggins had informed her of the relationship between the two young people, then observing she would go and order some tea for Eugénie, sailed majestically out of the room.

"Why did you introduce me to that old thing?" asked Keith, in a discontented tone.

"Policy, my dear," replied Eugénie mildly. "Mrs. Proggins wrote to her to look after me, and I'm very glad, otherwise a young lady with you as escort would hardly have found shelter for the night in this place. I always like to be in favour with the powers that be."

Eugénie Rainsford was a tall, dark-complexioned girl, with clearly cut features and coils of black hair twisted round the top of her well-shaped head. She was dressed in a blue serge costume, with a red ribbon round her throat, and another round her waist. A handsome girl with a pleasant smile, and there was a look in her flashing dark eyes which showed that she had a will of her own. Keith stood beside her, as fair as she was dark, and a handsomer couple could not have been found in Melbourne.

"Well, here I am at last. Keith," said Eugénie, slipping her arm through his. "Aren't you pleased to see me?"

"Very," replied Stewart emphatically; "let me look at you--ah, you are more beautiful than ever."

"What delightful stories you do tell," said Eugénie with a blush. "I wish I could believe them; now, my friend, let me return the compliment by looking at you."

She took his face between her hands and looked at it keenly beneath the searching glare of the gas, then shook her head.

"You are much paler than you used to be," she said critically. "There are dark circles under your eyes, deep lines down the side of your mouth, and your face looks haggard. Is it work, or--or the other thing?"

"Do you mean dissipation, Eugénie?" said Keith, with a smile, taking a seat. "Well, I expect I have been rather dissipated, but now you are here I'll be a good boy."

"Have you been worried?" asked Miss Rainsford.

Keith sighed.

"Yes; very much worried over this terrible case. I suppose you've seen all about it?"

Eugénie nodded.

"Yes; I've read all about it in the papers. Now I suppose you've nothing to do?"

"No--not that I care much--you see I've got this burlesque coming off, and then there's that money."

"The five hundred pounds," said Miss Rainsford reflectively. "Have you found out who sent you that?"

"No; I can't imagine who did so, unless it was Caprice."

"Caprice!"

"Yes," replied Keith hurriedly, flushing a little; "the actress I told you about, who is going to play the principal part in 'Faust Upset.'"

"Oh!"

It was all the comment Miss Rainsford made, but there was a world of meaning in the ejaculation.

"From what I've heard of the lady, I don't think it's likely," she said quietly.

"Well, at all events, I suppose I'd better use the money."

"Yes; I suppose so."

"You're not very encouraging, Eugénie," said her lover angrily.

"Well," observed the girl deliberately, "if you think this money came from Caprice, I certainly would not touch it. Why don't you ask her?"

"I can't; she's been so disagreeable to me lately."

"Oh!"

Eugénie Rainsford was of a very jealous temperament, and she began to feel vaguely jealous of this actress whom Keith seemed to know so well. She remained silent for a few moments, during which Keith felt somewhat awkward. He was not in love with Kitty, nor, as far as he knew, was she in love with him, yet he saw that some instinct had warned Eugénie against this woman.

"Come, Eugénie," said Keith, putting his arm round her slender waist; "you mustn't be angry with me the first night we meet."

"I'm not angry," said the girl, turning her face towards him; "but I'd like to see this Caprice."

"So you shall, dear--on the stage."

"Why not in private?"

Keith frowned, and pulled his moustache in a perplexed manner.

"Well, she's hardly a fit person for a girl to see."

"Pshaw!" replied Eugénie impatiently; "I'm not a girl, but a woman, and am not afraid of anything like that, and besides--besides," with hesitation, "I'm going to see her."

"What do you mean?" asked Keith, abruptly withdrawing his arm.

"Nothing; only I saw an advertisement in the paper wanting a governess for a little girl. I answered it, and found it was Miss Marchurst who wanted a governess. She engaged me, and I'm going there to-morrow."

"No, no," cried Keith vehemently; "you must not--you shall not go."

Eugénie raised her eyes to his.

"Have you any reason for wishing me not to go?"

"Yes, every reason--she's a bad lot."

"I thought you knew her?"

"So I do, but men may know women of that class, and women like you may not."

"I don't agree with you," said Eugénie, rising; "what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, and if you persist in wishing me not to go, I'll begin to think you've some reason."

"I have none except what I've stated," said Keith doggedly.

"Then I'll go to-morrow," replied Eugénie quietly; "at all events, I've got the right to have a personal interview, whether I take the situation or not."

"You must not see her."

"That decides it," said Eugénie composedly; "I will."

"Eugénie, don't go, or I'll begin to think you don't trust me."

"Yes, I do, but--but you've been so much with this Caprice lately, that I want to see her."

"I don't care two straws about her."

"I know that, but I wish to see her."

"You intend to go?"

"I do."

Keith snatched up his hat and stick.

"Then I'll say good-bye," he said angrily; "if you disregard my wishes so much, you can't love me."

"Yes, I can!"

"You are jealous of this confounded woman."

"Perhaps I am."

Keith looked at her angrily for a moment--then dashed out of the room, whereon Eugénie burst out laughing.

"What a dear old boy he is," she said to herself; "he thinks I'm jealous. Well," with a frown, "perhaps I am. I wonder, if he knew that I gave him the five hundred pounds, what he'd say? He doesn't know that I'm a rich woman now, so I can test his love for me. I'm sure he's as true as steel."

She picked up her hat, and, going over to the mirror, leaned her elbows on the mantelpiece, looked searchingly at her beautiful face.

"Are you jealous, you foolish woman?" she said, with a laugh. "Yes, my dear, you are; at all events, you'll see your rival to-morrow. I'm afraid I'll make Keith a dreadful wife," she said, with a sigh, turning away. "For I think every woman is in love with him. Poor Keith, how angry he was!"

She burst out laughing, and left the room.

Eugénie Rainsford was a very clever young woman, much too clever to pass her life in the up-country wilds of Australia, and no doubt she would have left her solitude in some way even had not fortune favoured her. Luckily, however, fortune did favour her and in a rather curious way, for a rich sharebroker having seen her, fell in love with her, and wanted to marry her; she however refused, telling him that she was engaged to marry Keith Stewart, whereupon he made inquiries, and she told him the whole story.

He was so delighted with her fidelity to a poor man, that he made his will in her favour, feeling sure that, as he had no relations, she would be the most deserving person to leave it to. A carriage accident killed him six months afterwards, and Eugénie found herself a very rich woman, with as many thousands as she had pence before.

She took her good fortune very calmly, telling no one about it, not even her employers; but, after consultation with the lawyer, she sent five hundred pounds to Keith, with instructions to the bank that he was not to know where it came from. Then she set herself to work out a little scheme she had in her head, to find out if he were true to her.

In many of the letters he had written, she had been struck with the frequent mention of one name, Caprice, and on making inquiries, found out all about the actress. She bought a photograph of her, and was struck with the pathetic face of a woman who was said to lead so vile a life. Dreading lest Keith should have fallen in love with this divinity of the stage, she determined to go down to Melbourne and see for herself.

By chance, however, she found in a newspaper an advertisement that Kitty Marchurst wanted a governess for her little girl, and seeing at once an excellent opportunity of finding out if her suspicions were correct, wrote offering herself for the situation.

Kitty on her side remembered the name of Eugénie Rainsford as that of the girl to whom Keith told her he was engaged, so, curious to see what she was like, engaged her for a governess at once. Eugénie was delighted when she received this letter, and, still in the character of a poor and friendless girl, she left Mr. Chine, the lawyer, to manage her property, after binding him to secrecy, and came down to take the situation.

Keith's evident desire that she should not accept the situation made her all the more determined to do so, and twelve o'clock the next day found her in the drawing-room of Caprice's house, waiting for the entrance of her future mistress.

When Kitty entered the room she could not help admiring the handsome woman before her, and on her part Eugénie was astonished to see the bright vivacity of the melancholy face, for Caprice's features were sad only when in repose.

The two women stood opposite to one another for a moment, mentally making up their minds about each other. Kitty was the first to speak.

"Miss Rainsford, I believe?"

"Yes; I came to see you about--about the situation."

"Governess for my little girl," said Kitty, nodding her head. "Yes, I want some one whom I can trust."

"I hope you will be able to trust me."

Caprice looked keenly at her, and then burst out into a torrent of words.

"Yes, I think I can trust you--but the question is, will you take care of my child--I mean will you accept the trust? You have come from the country--you don't know who I am?"

"Yes, I do--Miss Marchurst."

"No! not Miss Marchurst--Caprice!"

She waited for a moment to see what effect this notorious name would have on her visitor, but, to her surprise, Eugénie simply bowed.

"Yes, I know," she replied.

Caprice arose and advanced towards her.

"You know," she exclaimed vehemently, "and yet can sit down in the same room with a woman of my character. Are you not afraid I'll contaminate you--do you not shrink from a pariah like me--no--you do not--great heavens!" with a bitter laugh, sitting down again; "and I thought the age of miracles was past--ah, bah! But you are only a girl, my dear, and don't understand."

Eugénie arose and crossed over to her.

"I do understand; I am a woman, and feel for a woman."

Kitty caught her hand and gave a gasping cry. "God bless you!" she whispered, in a husky voice.

Then in a moment she had dashed the tears away from her eyes, and sat up again in her bright, resolute manner.

"No woman has spoken so kindly as you have for many years," she said quickly; "and I thank you. I can give you my child, and you will take care of her for me when I am far away."

"What do you mean?" asked Eugénie, puzzled.

"Mean--that I am not fit to live with my child, that I am going to send her to England with you, that she may forget she ever had a mother."

"But why do this," said Eugénie in a pitying tone, "when you can keep her with you?"

"I cannot let her grow up in the atmosphere of sin I live in."

"Then why not leave this sinful life, and go to England with your child?"

Kitty shook her head with a dreary smile.

"Impossible--to leave off this life would kill me; besides, I saw a doctor some time ago, and he told me I had not very long to live; there is something wrong with my heart. I don't care if I do die so long as my child is safe--you will look after her?"

"Yes," replied Eugénie firmly; "I will look after her."

Kitty approached her timidly.

"May I kiss you?" she said faintly, and seeing her answer in the girl's eyes, she bent down and kissed her forehead.

"Now I must introduce you to your new pupil," she said, cheerfully overcoming her momentary weakness.

"Wait a moment," said Eugénie, as Caprice went to the bell-pull. "I want to ask you about Mr. Stewart."

Caprice turned round quickly.

"Yes--what--about him?"

"Does he love you?"

Caprice came over to the fire and looked closely at her.

"You are the girl he is engaged to?"

"Yes."

"Then, make your mind easy, my dear, he loves no one but you."

Eugénie gave a sigh of relief, at which Kitty smiled a little scornfully.

"Ah! you love him so much as that?" she said half pathetically; "it's a pity, my dear, he's not worth it."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't be angry, Miss Rainsford," said Kitty, quietly; "I don't mean that he loves any one else, but he's not the man I took him for."

"I don't understand."

"I wouldn't try to, if I were you," replied Kitty significantly. "I helped him when I first met him, because he saved my child's life. He came down here, and I liked him still more."

"You loved him?"

"No; love and I parted company long ago. I liked him, but though I do my best to help him, I don't care for him so much as I did, my dear: he's not worthy of you."

"That's all very well, but I don't see the reason."

"Of course not, what woman in love ever does see reason; however, make your mind easy, things are all right. I will tell you the reason some day."

"But I want to know now."

"Curiosity is a woman's vice," said Kitty lightly "Don't worry yourself, Miss Rainsford, whatever I know of Keith Stewart won't alter him in your eyes--now, don't say anything more about it. I'll ring for Meg."

Eugénie tried to get a more explicit answer out of her, but Kitty only laughed.

"It can't be anything so very bad," she said to herself, "or this woman would not laugh at it."

Meg came in quietly, a demure, pensive-faced little child, and after Kitty had kissed her she presented her to Eugénie.

"This is your new governess, Meg," she said, smoothing the child's hair, "and I want you to love her very much."

Meg hung back for a few moments, with the awkward timidity of a child, but Eugénie's soft voice and caressing manner soon gained her confidence.

"I like you very much," she said at length, nestling to Eugénie's side.

"As much as mumsey, Meg?" said Kitty, with a sad smile.

"Oh, never--never as much as mumsey," cried Meg, leaving her new-found friend for her mother, "There's no one so good and kind as mumsey."

Kitty kissed the child vehemently, and then bit her lips to stop the tears coming to her eyes.

"Mumsey," said Meg at length, "can I tell the lady a secret?"

"Yes, dear," replied Kitty smiling. Thereupon Meg slipped off Kitty's lap and ran to Eugénie.

"What is this great secret?" asked Eugénie, bending down with a laugh.

Meg put her mouth to Eugénie's ear, and whispered,--

"When I grow up I'm going to marry Keith."

"You see," said Kitty, overhearing the whisper, "my daughter is your rival."

"And a very dangerous one," replied Eugénie with a sigh, touching the auburn hair.

Meg was sent off after this, and then Kitty arranged all about the salary with Eugénie, after which she accompanied her to the door to say good-bye.

"I'm sorry I put any distrust into your heart about Mr. Stewart," she said; "but don't trouble, my dear, get him to give up his dissipated habits, and you'll no doubt find he'll make an excellent husband."

"Ah!" said Eugénie to herself as she walked to the station, "it was only dissipation she meant--as if anything like that could hurt Keith in my eyes."

Then she began to think of the strange woman she had left--with her sudden changes of temperament from laughter to tears--with her extraordinary nature, half-vice half-virtue, of the love she bore for her child, and the strong will that could send that child away for ever from her lonely life.

"Faust Upset" had been put into rehearsal at once, and three weeks after the murder of Lazarus it was to be produced. Mortimer had hurried on the production of the burlesque with the uttermost speed, as "Prince Carnival" was now playing to empty houses. The Bon-Bon company were kept hard at work, and, what with rehearsals during the day, the performance of the opera-bouffe in the evening, and rehearsals afterwards till two in the morning, they were all pretty well worn-out.

In spite of Kitty's indomitable spirit, she was looking haggard and ill, for the incessant work was beginning to tell on her system. The doctor told her plainly that she was killing herself, and that absolute rest was what she required; but in spite of those warnings she never gave herself a moment's peace.

"I don't care two straws if I die," she said recklessly to Dr. Chinston; "I've made arrangements for the future of my child, and there's nothing else for me to live for."

She was determined to make the burlesque a success, and worked hard at rehearsals getting the author and composer to alter some things, and cut out others, making several valuable suggestions as to stage-management, and in every way doing her best. But though friendly towards Keith, yet he was conscious of a kind of reserve in her manner towards him, and thought it was due to the knowledge that he was engaged to Eugénie.

He had become reconciled to his sweetheart, and she went down every day to teach Meg at Toorak. It had been arranged that in three months she was to go to England with Meg, and Kitty guaranteed to pay a certain sum annually for the salary of the governess and the maintenance of the child. Of course Eugénie never meant to take any money, as she had become strongly attached to Meg, but still kept up her semblance of poverty till such time as she judged it fit to tell Keith. Meanwhile, in spite of Keith's opposition, she lived with Caprice, and led a very quiet life, for what with the state of her health and constant rehearsals, Kitty gave no Sunday receptions.

But while Stewart fumed and fretted over the fact of his sweetheart staying with a woman of bad character like Caprice, and attended to all the rehearsals of the burlesque, Naball was silently winding his net round him. The detective had made inquiries at the Skylarks' Club, and found that Keith had been there on that night, in the company of Fenton. On discovering this, he went to Fenton and discovered that Stewart had lent the American the knife with which the crime had been committed, to cut the wires of a champagne bottle, and afterwards slipped it into his coat pocket. From the club he went to the Bon-Bon Theatre, and, as the detective knew from Keith's own admission, had left there at half-past twelve.

"And then," said Naball to himself, "he told me he wandered about the streets till two o'clock, and then saw Villiers--rubbish--he went straight to Russell Street and committed the crime."

It had taken Naball some time to collect the necessary evidence, and it was only on the day previous to the production of "Faust Upset" that he was able to get a warrant for Keith's arrest, so he determined to let the performance take place before he arrested him.

"If it's a success," said Naball to himself, as he slipped the warrant in his pocket, "he'll have had one jolly hour to himself, and if it's a failure--well, he'll be glad enough to go to gaol." So, with this philosophical conclusion, Mr. Naball settled in his own mind that he would go to the theatre.

Keith wanted Eugénie to go to a box with him in order to see the play, but she said she would rather go to the stalls by herself, in order to judge of the effect the burlesque had on the audience. After a good deal of argument, Stewart gave way; so on the momentous night she took her seat in the stalls, eager to see the first bid her lover made for fame.

Tulch had been recalled from his task of watching Stewart, as Naball judged that the vanity of an author seeing his work on the stage would be enough to keep the young man in Melbourne; but Tulch, true to his instincts of finishing a job properly, took his place in the gallery and kept his eye on Keith, who sat with Ezra in a private box. The Jew was calm and placid, as having succeeded to his father's fortune, he had not staked everything, like Keith, on the burlesque being a success; still, for his partner's sake as well as his own, he was anxious that it should go well.

Such a crowded house as it was--everybody in Melbourne was there--for a new play by a colonial author was a rare thing, and a burlesque by a colonial author, with original music by a colonial composer, was almost unheard of.

The critics who were present felt an unwonted sense of responsibility to-night, for as this was the first production of the piece on any stage, they had to give an opinion on their own responsibility. Hitherto the generality of plays produced in Melbourne had their good and bad points settled long before by London critics, so it was comparatively easy to give a verdict; but to-night it was quite a different thing, therefore the gentlemen of the press intended to be extra careful in their remarks.

Although "Faust Upset" was called a burlesque, it was more of an opera-bouffe, as there was an absence of puns and rhyme about the dialogue, besides which, the lyrics were really cleverly written, and the music brisk and sparkling. Keith had taken the old mediæval legend of Faust, and reversed it entirely--all the male characters of the story he made female, andvice versa. There was a good deal of satire in the piece about the higher education of women, and the devotion of young men to athletics, to the exclusion of brain work. In fact, the libretto was of a decidedly Gilbertian flavour, albeit rather more frivolous, while the music was entirely of the Offenbachian school, light, tuneful and rapid.

After a medley overture, containing a number of taking melodies in the piece, the curtain rose on the study of Miss Faust, a blue-stocking of the deepest dye, who, after devoting her life to acquiring knowledge, finds herself, at the age of fifty, an old maid with no one to care for her. The character was played by Toltby, who was a genuine humorist; and he succeeded in making a great deal out of the part, without ever condescending to vulgarity. His appearance as a lank, long maiden, in a dingy sage-green gown, with wan face and tousled hair, was ludicrous in the extreme.

The opening chorus was sung by a number of pretty girls, in caps and gowns, and on their going out to meet their lovers, Miss Faust, overcome with loneliness, summons to her aid the powers of evil, and in response "Miss Mephistopheles" appears.

Kitty looked charming as she stood in the centre of the red limelight. She was arrayed in the traditional dress of red, but as a female demon wore a petticoat, and her face was also left untouched. Miss Faust fainted in her chair, and Miss Mephistopheles, with a bright light in her eyes, and a reckless devil may-care look on her expressive face, whirled down to the footlights, and dashed into a rattling galop song, "Yes, this is I," which melody ran all through the opera.

With the assistance of various cosmetics, new dress, and sundry other articles of feminine toilet, which were brought in by a number of small imps, Miss Mephistopheles succeeds in making Miss Faust young; shows her a vision of Mr. Marguerite, a young athlete; and finally changes the scene to the market-place, where there was a chorus of young men in praise of athletic sports.

It would be useless to give the plot in detail, as Keith followed the lines of the legend pretty closely. Miss Faust meets Mr. Marguerite, who is beloved by Miss Siebel, a sporting young woman. There was the garden scene, with a lawn tennis ground; a vision on the Brocken, of the future of women, with grotesque ballets and fantastic dresses; the scene of the duel, which was a quarrel scene between Mrs. Valentine and Miss Faust, after the style of Madame Angot; then Miss Mephistopheles runs off with Mr. Marguerite, having fallen in love with him; the lovers are followed and thrown into a prison, which is changed by the magic power of Miss Mephistopheles to a race-course, in which scene there is a bewildering array of betting men, pugilists, pretty girls, and fortune-tellers. Miss Mephistopheles then resigns Mr. Marguerite to Miss Siebel, and wants to carry off Miss Faust to the nether regions, when a flaw is discovered in the deed, and everything is settled amicably, the whole play ending with the galop chorus of the first number.

When the curtain fell on the first act, the audience were somewhat bewildered; it was such an entirely new departure from the story of Faust, that they almost resented it. But as the piece progressed, they saw the real cleverness of the satire, and when the curtain came down they called loudly for the author and composer, who came forward and bowed their acknowledgments.

When Mortimer heard the eulogies lavished on the piece, he drew a long breath of relief.

"Jove! I thought it was going to fail," he said, "and I believe it would have, if Caprice hadn't pulled it out of the fire."

And, indeed, Caprice, with her wonderful spirits and recklessabandon. had carried the whole play with her, and saved it at the most critical moment, A young man sitting near Eugénie summed up his idea of the piece in a few words.

"It's a deuced clever play," he said; "but Caprice makes it go--if any one else plays her part, the theatre will be empty."

Eugénie turned angrily to look for the author of this remark, but could not see him. Just as she was turning away, a shrill voice near her said,--

"Ain't Caprice a stunner! I've seen 'er lots of times at old Lazarus's."

The speaker was a small, white-faced Jewish youth, being none other than Isaiah.

Miss Rainsford pondered over these words as she walked out of the theatre.

"Goes to old Lazarus's," she said to herself; "that was the old man who was killed. I wonder why she went there."

There was a crowd in the vestibule of the theatre, and she saw Keith standing in the corner, looking as pale as death, talking to a man.

She went up to congratulate him on the success of the performance, but something in his face made her afraid.

"What's the matter, Keith?" she asked, touching him.

"Hush!" he said in a hoarse whisper, "don't say a word--I'm arrested."

"Arrested! What for?" she gasped.

The man standing next to Keith interposed.

"For the murder of Jacob Lazarus," he said in a low voice.

Eugénie closed her eyes with a sensation of horror, and caught hold of the wall for support. When she opened her eyes again, Keith and the detective had both vanished.

"Arrested for the murder of Lazarus!" she muttered. "My God! it can't be true!"


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