When Eugénie left the prison, she went straight to Naball's office, and finding him in, told all about the wonderful discovery of the veritable five-pound note endorsed in Isaiah's writing. To say that Naball was astonished would be a mild way to state his feelings on receipt of this intelligence.
"It's an uncommon piece of luck," he said, looking at the note; "we might have searched for a twelvemonth, and never come across this piece of evidence. I think we'll get to the bottom of things this time. You got it from Kitty Marchurst?"
"Yes, I got it yesterday in payment of my salary"
Naball whistled softly.
"Things look uncommon black against that young woman," he observed thoughtfully. "I didn't half believe that story of hers about Stewart's stealing the diamonds, and now this note turning up in her possession--humph!"
"But you don't think she's guilty?" said Eugénie, clasping her hands.
"I don't say anything," replied Naball savagely, for the difficulties of this case were beginning to irritate him. "I only say things look black against Caprice--she's as deep as a well."
"What are you going to do now?" asked Miss Rainsford in a trembling voice, as she rose to go.
The detective placed his hat jauntily on one side of his head, drew on his gloves, then taking his cane, walked to the door of the office, which he he held open for Eugénie to pass through.
"What are you going to do now?" she repeated when they were standing in the street.
"I'm going down to Toorak," said Naball quietly, "to trace this note, beginning with Kitty Marchurst as the last holder of it; she'll tell lies, but whether she does or not, I'll get to the bottom of this affair. Good-day, Miss Rainsford," and taking off his hat with a flourish, he left her abruptly, and strolled leisurely down the street.
Eugénie watched him with eager eyes until he was out of sight, and then turned round to walk home.
"Oh, my dear! my dear!" she murmured, "if I can only save you from this terrible danger--but not at the cost of that poor woman's life--oh, not that!"
The detective, on his way down to Toorak, went over the case in his own mind, in order to see against whom the evidence was strongest. At last, after considerable cogitation, he came to the conclusion that, after all, Villiers must be the guilty man, and that Kitty knew more about the crime than she chose to tell.
"I can't get over Villiers having had that diamond crescent," he thought, looking out of the carriage windows. "She denied it was hers, and then Fenton told me he gave it to her. I wonder if he had anything to do with the affair--humph!--not likely. If she thought it was him, she'd tell at once. Perhaps she really thinks Stewart stole the diamonds. Pish! I don't believe it. She's had a finger in the pie, whoever did it, and this murder is the outcome of the robbery. Well, I'll see if she can account for her possession of this five-pound note--that's the main thing."
Kitty Marchurst was at home, and sent a message to the detective that she would see him in a few minutes, so Naball walked up and down the long drawing-room with some impatience.
"If she'll only tell the truth," he muttered restlessly; "but I'm getting to doubt her, so that I can't be sure. There's one thing, Keith Stewart's fate rests entirely with her now, so if he saved her child's life, as she says he did, this is the time to prove her gratitude."
At this moment the door opened, and Caprice entered. She looked pale and weary, for the trials of the last few months had not been endured without leaving some mark of their passage. Naball did not know whether this haggard-looking woman was guilty or innocent, but he could not help pitying her, so worn-out did she seem.
"You are not well," he said when she seated herself.
Kitty sighed wearily, and pushed the loose hair off her forehead.
"No," she replied listlessly. "I'm getting worn-out over this trouble. It's no good my telling you anything, because you don't believe me. What is the matter now? Have you got further proof of my guilt?"
"I don't know," said Naball, coolly producing the five-pound note; "unless you call this proof."
"A five-pound note," she said contemptuously. "Well?"
"It is a five-pound note," explained Naball smoothly; "but not an ordinary one--in fact, it is one of the notes stolen from Lazarus's safe."
"Oh, how do you know that? By a very curious thing. One of the notes placed in the safe on the night of the murder was endorsed by the office-boy with the words 'Back Flat-Iron,' and strange to say the endorsed note has turned up."
"And that is it?"
"Exactly. Now, do you understand?"
Kitty shrugged her shoulders.
"I understand that you have secured an excellent piece of evidence, nothing more. Where did you get the note?"
"From Miss Rainsford."
"From Miss Rainsford!" repeated Kitty in surprise; "but you surely don't suspect--"
"No, I don't," interposed the detective; "because she was able to tell me where she got the note from."
"Well, I presume she got it from me."
"Yes," replied Naball, rather surprised at this cool admission. "She received it yesterday from you."
"Oh! then, you think I'm guilty?"
"Not if you can tell me where you got the note from."
"Certainly I can--from Mortimer--paid to me the day before yesterday."
"Your salary?"
"Not exactly," answered Kitty; "if it had been, you'd never be able to trace the note further back. No; I was at the theatre in the morning, and found myself short of money, so I asked Mortimer for some. He gave me that five-pound note, and, as he took it, from his waistcoat pocket, I've no doubt he'll be able to recollect from whom he received it."
"Why?"
"Because Mortimer doesn't carry fivers in his waistcoat pocket generally," said Caprice impatiently, "so he must have put that note there for some special reason. You'd better go and ask him."
"Certainly," said Naball, and arose to his feet. "I'm very much obliged to you."
"Then you don't think me guilty?" asked Kitty, with a smile.
"Upon my word, I don't know what to think," said the detective dismally. "The whole case seems mixed up. I'll tell you when I find the man who can't account for the possession of this fiver."
Kitty smiled, and then Naball took his leave, going straight from Toorak to the Bon-Bon Theatre, where he found Mortimer in his sanctum, up to the ears in business, as usual.
"Well, Naball," said the manager, looking up sharply, "what's up? Look sharp, I'm awfully busy."
"I only want to know where you got this?" asked Naball, giving him the five-pound note.
Mortimer took it up, and looked perplexed.
"How the deuce should I know; I get so many. Why do you want to know?"
"Oh, nothing. I just want to trace the note. Caprice said you gave it to her the day before yesterday."
"Eh! did I?"
"Yes. You took it from your waistcoat pocket."
"Of course; to be sure, she wanted some money. Yes; I kept it apart because it was made money--won it off Malton at euchre."
"Malton!" repeated Naball in amazement; "are you sure?"
"Yes, quite. You know I'm generally unlucky at cards, and this is about the first fiver I've made, so I kept it just to bring me luck; but Caprice wanted money, so I handed over my luck to her. There's nothing wrong, eh?"
"Oh, dear, no," replied Naball; "not the slightest--only some professional business."
"Because I shouldn't like to get any poor devil into a row," said Mortimer. "Now, be off with you, I'm busy. Good-day."
"Good-day, good-day."
Naball departed, curiously perplexed in his feelings. He had never thought of Malton in the light of a possible criminal, and yet it was so very strange that this note should have been traced back to him. Then he remembered the conversation he had overheard between Mrs. Malton and Kitty concerning the embezzlement, when Kitty denied that she had paid the money.
"By Jove!" said Naball, a sudden thought striking him, "he was present at that supper, and was in a regular hole for want of money. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he stole those diamonds to replace the money, and his wife's thanking Caprice was all a blind, and then this note--humph!--things look rather fishy, my friend."
When he arrived at the Never-say-die Insurance Company Office, he sent in his card to the assistant manager, and in a few minutes was shown into Malton's room, where that individual received him with visible uneasiness.
"Well, Naball, and what brings you here?" he asked, watching the detective's face stealthily.
"Only a little business, in which I want your help," said Naball, taking the note out of his pocket-book. "Can you tell me where you got that?"
Malton's pink-and-white complexion grew a little pale, but he laughed in a forced manner as he glanced at the note.
"Got this?" he said. "I can't tell you. Was it ever in my possession?"
"It was," asserted Naball. "You gave it to Mortimer the day before yesterday."
"Oh, yes, I remember now," said Malton quickly. "He won it off me at cards."
"Exactly. Where did you get the note?"
Malton shifted uneasily in his seat, and his nether lip twitched uneasily.
"I'm afraid I can hardly remember," he murmured, pushing back his chair.
Naball's suspicions were now rapidly ripening to certainties. If Malton were innocent, why these signs of agitation? He wriggled and twisted about like an eel, yet never once met the keen eye of the detective.
"You'd better remember," said Naball mercilessly, "or it will be the worse for you."
"Why?" asked Malton, trying to appear composed.
"Because," explained Naball, in a low voice, "that note is one of those stolen by the man who murdered Jacob Lazarus."
Malton, with a smothered exclamation, started to his feet, and then, shaking in every limb, sat down again.
"No, no," he stammered, "that's absurd. It can't be--I tell you, it can't be."
"Oh, but it can be, and it is. I tell you, the note is endorsed 'Back Flat-Iron,' which was done by the office-boy a few moments before the notes were put in the safe by Stewart. They were gone after the murder, so there is no doubt they were taken by the man who committed the crime. I got this note from Miss Rainsford, who received it from Caprice; she, in her turn, got it from Mortimer, and he has referred us to you. Now, where did you get it?"
Malton drummed nervously on the table.
"I can't tell you," he said in a tremulous voice.
"You must."
"It's impossible."
"I tell you what, sir," said Naball coolly, "if you don't tell, it means trouble for you and the other man."
"What other man?" asked Malton shakily.
"The man you got this note from."
Malton thought for a moment, and then apparently made up his mind.
"You saw I was taken aback?" he asked Naball curiously.
The detective nodded.
"It's because I'm sorry for what I have to tell you--the man I got the note from was Ezra Lazarus."
Naball jumped to his feet with a cry.
"The dead man's son?" he said.
"Yes; the dead man's son," replied Malton slowly.
Naball stood for a few minutes, then putting the note in his pocket-book, once more took up his hat, and moved to the door.
"Where are you going?" asked Malton, rising.
"To see Mr. Ezra Lazarus," said Naball, pausing a moment. "In the meantime, till I have certain proof of his guilt, you hold your tongue." And he walked out, leaving Malton standing at his desk as if turned into stone.
Naball, on his way to the newspaper office, rapidly ran over in his own mind all the details of the case against Ezra.
"His father wouldn't give him any money, and he wanted to get married to that girl; father and son had a quarrel on the day preceding the murder; he was at the Bon-Bon on that night, and took Caprice downstairs to her carriage; she gave him Stewart's coat to take back to him again; in that coat was the knife found by Villiers under the window; she left the theatre long before Stewart,--where did he go? to his office, or--good heavens! if it should turn out to be true--"
Ezra received him, looking rather knocked up, but his face, though pale, was quite placid, and Naball wondered how a man guilty of such a terrible crime as parricide could be so calm.
"You look tired," he said, taking a seat.
"I am tired," admitted Ezra wearily. "I've been busy with my father's affairs."
"Humph!" thought Naball; "counting his gains, I suppose."
"Any fresh development of the case?" asked Ezra.
"Yes," said Naball solemnly. "I received this note to-day, and traced it back to Malton; he says it was given to him by you."
Ezra examined the note with great interest, and on turning it over saw the fatal words endorsed. He looked up quickly to Naball.
"This is one of the notes that were stolen?" he asked.
"Yes," replied Naball; "and Malton said it was given to him by you."
"By me!" repeated Ezra in amazement. "How on earth could I come across this note?"
"That's what I want to find out," said Naball.
Ezra looked at him for a moment, then the whole situation seemed to burst on him, and with a stifled groan the unhappy young man fell back into his chair, burying his face in his hands.
"Good God!" he cried, "you don't suspect me of killing my father?"
"If you are innocent, you can explain where you got the note."
"I cannot--I cannot," cried Ezra feverishly. "I had to pay some money to Malton, and did so last week. There were some five-pound notes among that money, but I cannot tell where this particular one came from."
"Where did you get the money?" asked Naball.
"From the Hibernian Bank."
"Oh, but if you had to pay Malton money, why did you not do so by cheque?"
"Because I wanted some money myself, and did not care about drawing two cheques, so I drew one, covering what I owed to him and a little over."
"Humph!" Naball thought a moment. "You are sure of this?"
"Yes; it's the only way I can account for having the note. Whoever killed my father, must have paid it into the bank, and it came round to me by some fatality."
"Where were you on the night of the murder?"
"At the Bon-Bon Theatre."
"Afterwards?"
"At this office."
"You can prove analibi?"
"I'm afraid I can't. I was all alone."
"Look here, Mr. Lazarus," said Naball in a kind tone, "I must say things look black against you; but I'm not satisfied yet about the real criminal. To-day is Saturday, so I'll go to the bank the first thing on Monday, and find out what I can. There's so many suspected of this business, that one more or less don't matter."
Ezra groaned.
"You don't think I'm guilty?" he asked imploringly.
Naball looked keenly at him.
"No; I believe you innocent," he replied abruptly.
The next day was Sunday, and Caprice, quite worn-out with the excitement of the week and the strain of the performances of "Faust Upset," was lying in bed. The burlesque had become a great success, but the papers, with their usual kindly generosity towards authors, declared that it was due not so much to the intrinsic merit of the work, as to the wonderfully clever acting of Caprice. Last night, however, she had acted badly, going through her part with mechanical precision, but without that dash which usually characterised her performance. The worry of this murder case, anxiety for the future of her child, and pity for the unfortunate young man now in prison, had all wrought on her nerves, so that she felt overcome with extreme lassitude, and lay supinely in bed, with half-closed eyes, incapable of the slightest exertion.
From this state of tranquillity she was aroused by the entrance of Eugénie, who was also looking pale and worn. She had learned all about the tracing of the five-pound note to Ezra, and had now come to tell Kitty about it.
The room was in a kind of semi-darkness, as all the blinds had been pulled down to keep out the dazzling sunlight, and the atmosphere was permeated by the smell of some pungent scent which Kitty had been using to bathe her aching head. Eugénie came straight to the bed, and bent over it, on which Kitty opened her eyes and smiled faintly.
"Oh, is it you, Miss Rainsford?" she said drowsily. "I did not expect you to-day."
"No!" replied Eugénie. "I came to tell you all about that five-pound note; but I'm sorry to find you so ill."
"I'm worn-out," said Kitty fretfully. "All the worry and trouble of my earlier years are beginning to tell on me, and the anxiety of this case is the climax. I believe I'll die soon, and I don't much care, for I have your promise about the child."
"You have!--my solemn promise."
"Thank you. I don't mind when I die. My life has been a very unhappy one. I've had more than my share of sorrow, and now I would like to go to sleep, and slumber on--on for ever."
She finished the sentence in a sleepy tone, then suddenly recollecting why Eugénie had come down, she opened her eyes wide, and spoke briskly.
"Well, what about this five-pound note? To whom did it originally belong?"
"I'd better go through the whole history," said Eugénie slowly. "I received it from you."
"Exactly," interrupted Caprice, raising herself on her elbow; "and I got it from Mortimer. Who gave it to him?"
"Mr. Malton, for a gambling debt."
"Malton," repeated Kitty vivaciously. "Why, is he--did they--"
"Suspect him of the murder. No; because he says he got the note from Ezra Lazarus, and he cannot tell from whom he received it."
Kitty was wide awake by this time, and sitting up in bed, pushed the fair curls off her forehead.
"But, my dear," she said rapidly, "surely they don't suspect that poor young man of murdering his father?"
"Not exactly suspect him," observed Eugénie; "but, you see, Mr. Lazarus cannot account for the possession of that particular note, so that makes things look bad against him."
"I don't see why," said Caprice impatiently. "I'm sure I couldn't account for every individual five-pound note I receive--it's absurd;--is that all the case they have against him?"
"I think so; but Mr. Naball says--"
"Says!" interrupted Kitty impatiently; "Naball's a fool. I often heard what a clever detective he was, but I'm afraid I can't see it. He's mismanaged the whole of this case shamefully. Why he suspects every one all round on the slightest suspicion: first he thought it was me, because I was at Lazarus's place on that night; then he swore it was Villiers, because he found the knife Meg gave Mr. Stewart; then poor Mr. Stewart is arrested simply because he cannot prove an alibi. I daresay, when he found Malton had the note, he suspected him, and now, I'll be bound, he has firmly settled in his own mind that Ezra Lazarus killed his own father--pish! My dear, I tell you again Naball's a fool."
"That may be," observed the other woman bitterly; "but he's a fool on whose folly Keith's life depends."
"Not a bit of it," said Caprice cheerfully; "we'll find some way to save him yet. The only evidence against him is that knife, and I don't believe it was in his possession at the Bon-Bon Theatre."
"Why not?"
"Because no one could have taken it out of his overcoat pocket there. I took the coat downstairs by mistake, but I'm sure I never abstracted the knife. Ezra Lazarus took it back, and I'll swear, in spite of Mr. Naball, he didn't take it. It's not likely Mortimer would go fiddling in another man's pockets, so I believe the knife was taken from the coat pocket, without his knowledge, at the club."
"But who took it, and how?" asked Eugénie, with great interest.
"My dear," replied Kitty, with a shrug, "how do I know. Perhaps, after receiving back the knife from Fenton, and putting it in his pocket, he hung his coat up again; in that case, anyone who saw him put the knife away could have stolen it."
"But who would do so?"
"That's what our clever Naball ought to find out," said Caprice, with a disdainful smile, "only he's such an idiot. I tell you whom I suspect--mind you, it's only suspicion--and yet appearances are quite as black against him as any one else."
"Who is it?"
"Malton."
"Malton!" repeated Eugénie, starting up.
"None other," said Kitty coolly. "He was at the club, and I know was hard up for money. His wife came to me one day, and told me he had embezzled a lot of money at his office. Then, after the crime, she came to me, and thanked me for paying it. I never did so. Fenton said he did, but I doubt it, as there isn't much of the philanthropist about him, so the only one who could have replaced the money was Malton himself. How? Well, easily enough. He was at the club--saw Keith's knife, and, knowing he was Lazarus's clerk, the idea flashed across his mind of murdering the old man with the knife, and dropping it about, so as to throw suspicion on Stewart. So, by some means, I don't know how, he obtains the knife before Stewart leaves the club, commits the crime, gets the money, circulates the notes, and when taxed with the possession of a marked one, says he got it from Ezra Lazarus--very weak, my dear, very weak indeed. Ezra says he paid him some money, so naturally doesn't know each individual note; so such a thing favours Mr. Malton's little plan. So there you are, my dear. I've made up a complete case against Malton, and quite as feasible as any of Naball's theories. Upon my word," said Kitty gaily, "I ought to have been a detective."
Eugénie was walking to and fro hurriedly.
"If this is so, he ought to be arrested," she said quickly.
"Then go and tell Naball, my dear," said Kitty in a mocking voice. "He'll arrest any one on suspicion. I wonder half the population of Melbourne aren't in jail, charged with the murder. Oh, Naball's a brilliant man! He says the man who committed the murder stole my diamonds--pish!"
"And you say Keith stole them," said Eugénie reproachfully, "therefore--"
"Therefore the lesser crime includes the greater," finished Kitty coolly. "No, my dear, I don't believe he is a murderer; but as to the diamonds, what am I to think after what Meg told me?"
"Meg! Meg!" said that young person, dancing into the room, holding a disreputable doll in her arms, "mumsey want Meg?"
"Yes," said Kitty, as Meg came to the bedside.
"Come up here, dear, and tell mumsey how you are."
"Meg is quite well, and so is Meg's daughter," holding out the doll for Kitty to kiss; "but, mumsey, why is the lady so sad?"
Eugénie, who had remained silent since Kitty's speech, now came forward and kissed the child.
"I'm not sad, dear," she said quietly, taking her seat by the bed, "only I want Meg to tell me something."
Meg nodded.
"A fairy tale?" she asked sedately.
Kitty laughed, though she looked anxious.
"No, my dear, not a fairy tale," she said, smoothing the child's hair; "mumsey wants you to tell the story of the man who got out of the window."
"My Mr. Keith," said Meg at once.
Kitty glanced at Eugénie, who sat with bowed head, gazing steadfastly at her hands.
"You see," she observed with a sigh, "the child says it was Mr. Keith."
Miss Rainsford re-echoed the sigh, then looked at Meg.
"Meg, dear," she said in her soft, persuasive voice, "come here, dear, and sit on my knee."
Meg, nothing loth, scrambled down off the bed, and soon established herself on Eugénie's lap, where she sat shaking her auburn curls. Kitty glanced affectionately at the serious little face, and picked up her doll, which was lying on the counterpane.
"Now, Meg," she said gaily, "you tell Miss Rainsford the story of the man and the window. I'll play with this."
"Meg's daughter," observed Meg reprovingly.
"Yes, Meg's daughter," repeated Kitty with a smile.
"Come, Meg," said Eugénie, smoothing the child's hair, "tell me all about the man."
"It was my Mr. Keith, you know," began Meg, resting her cheek against Eugénie's breast, "He took me upstairs--'cause I was so sleepy--an' he put me to bed, an' then I sleeped right off."
"And how long did you sleep, dear?" asked Eugénie.
"Oh, a minute," said Meg, "just a minute; then I didn't feel sleepy, and opened my eyes wide--quite wide--as wide as this," lifting up her face in confirmation, "and Mr. Keith, he was getting out of the window."
"How do you know it was Mr. Keith?" asked Eugénie quickly,
"'Cause he put me in bed," said Meg wisely, "and he was there all the time."
"He didn't speak to you when he was near the window?"
"No; he got out, and tumbled. I laughed when he tumbled," finished Meg triumphantly; "then I sleeped again, right off."
Eugénie put the girl down off her knee, and turned to Kitty.
"I believe Keith did put the child to bed," she said quietly, "but I think she must have slept for some time, and that the man she saw getting out of the window was some one else; of course, being awakened by the noise, she would only think she had slept a minute."
"A minute, a minute," repeated Meg, who had climbed back on to the bed, and was jumping the doll up and down.
"But who could the second man have been?" asked Kitty, perplexed.
"You know Naball's theory that the man who stole the diamonds committed the murder," said Eugénie. "You think Malton is guilty of the murder, why not of the robbery also? He was present at the supper-party, and knew where the jewels were kept."
Kitty drew her brows together and was about to speak, when Meg held up her doll for inspection.
"Look at the locket," she said triumphantly; "it's like Bliggings's locket--all gold."
Kitty smiled, and touched the so-called locket, which was in reality part of a gold sleeve-link, and was tied round the neck of the doll with a bit of cotton.
"Who gave you this?" she said. "Bliggings?"
"No; Meg found it herself, here, after the man had got out of the window."
Eugénie gave a cry, and started up, but Kitty in a moment had seized the doll, and wrenched off the gold link which Meg called the locket.
"When did you find this, Meg?" she asked the child in a tone of suppressed excitement.
"After the man went out of the window," said Meg proudly.
"In the dark?" asked her mother.
"No, when Meg was dressed, and the sun was shining," said Meg, trying to get back the locket.
"Wait a moment, dear," said Kitty, pushing the child away.
"Miss Rainsford, do you know what this link means?"
"I half guess," faltered Eugénie, clasping her hands.
"Then you guess right," cried Kitty, raising herself on her elbow. "It means that the man who stole the jewels dropped this link, and I know who he is, because I gave it to him myself."
"Keith?" said Eugénie faintly.
"Keith!" repeated Caprice in a tone of scorn. "No; not Keith, whom I have suspected wrongfully all these months, but my very good friend, Hiram J. Fenton."
"Fenton!" echoed Eugénie in surprise.
"Yes; he must have committed the crime," said Kitty in anger, grinding her teeth. "The coward, he knew I suspected Keith, and let another man bear the stigma of his crime. I spared Keith when I thought him guilty, because he saved my child's life; but I'll not spare Fenton now I know he is a thief."
"What will you do?" asked Eugénie quickly.
"What will I do!" cried Caprice, with a devilish light shining in her beautiful eyes. "I'll put him in prison--ring the bell for pen, ink, and paper--I'll write him to come down here to-night to see me; and when he comes, I'll have Naball waiting to arrest him."
"But Keith?" faltered Eugénie.
"As for Keith," said Caprice, throwing herself back in the bed, "I'm sure he'll soon be free, for it's my belief that Fenton stole the diamonds, but was too cowardly to commit a murder. No; he did not do it himself, but he got some one else to do it."
"And that some one?" cried Eugénie.
"Is Evan Malton," said Caprice solemnly.
Evan Malton had a house in Carlton, not a very fashionable locality certainly, but the residence of the assistant manager was a comfortable one. His wife and child were invariably to be found at home, but Malton himself was always away--either at his club, the theatre, or at some dance. He was one of those weak men who can deny themselves nothing, and kept his wife and child stinted for money, while he spent his income on himself. But with such tastes as he possessed, his income did not go very far, so in a moment of weakness he embezzled money in order to gratify his desires.
When he told his wife what he had done, the news came like a thunder-clap on her. She knew her husband was weak, pleasure-loving and idle, but she never dreamt he could be a criminal. With the desire of a woman to find excuses for the conduct of a man she loved, Mrs. Malton thought that his crime was due to the evil influence of Kitty Marchurst; hence her visit and appeal to the actress. It seemed to have been successful, for the money had been replaced, though Kitty denied having paid it, and Mrs. Malton breathed freely.
Her husband loved her in a kind of a way; he did not mind being unfaithful himself, but he would have been bitterly angered had he found her following his example. This type of husband is not uncommon; he likes to be a butterfly abroad, to lead a man-of-the-world existence, neglecting his home; yet he always expects on his return to find a hearty welcome and a loving-wife.
Of course, as Mrs. Malton was a handsome woman, with a neglectful husband, the inevitable event happened, and Fenton, the bosom friend of the husband, fell in love with the solitary wife. She repelled his advances proudly, as she really loved her husband; but the effect of long months of neglect were beginning to tell on her, and she asked herself bitterly if it was worth while for her to remain faithful to a husband who neglected her.
On the Sunday afternoon following the interview Malton had with Naball, she sat down in her drawing-room, idly watching the child playing at her feet. Malton had come home in a fearful temper the night before, and had been in bed all Sunday. Dinner had been early, and she had left him in the dining-room, with a scowling face, evidently drinking more than was good for him.
"What is the use of trying to make his life happy?" she said to herself with a sneer. "He cares no more for me than he does for the child. If I were to allow his dearest friend to betray me, I don't believe he would care a fig about it."
While she was thus talking, the door opened, and her husband came into the room, with a sullen look on his face. He was, as she saw, in a temper, and ready for a domestic battle; but, determined not to give him a chance, she sat in her chair in silent disdain.
"Well," he said, throwing himself on the sofa, "haven't you got a word to say for yourself?"
"What can I say?" she replied listlessly.
"Anything! Don't sit there like a cursed sphynx. How do you expect a man to come home when he finds things so disagreeable?"
She looked at him scornfully.
"You find things disagreeable," she said slowly. "You, who have neglected me ever since our marriage; who have passed your time with actresses and betting men; you, who--"
"Go to the devil," said Malton sulkily, cutting short her catalogue of his vices. "I don't want you to preach. I'll go where I like, and do what I like."
"Yet you deny me the right to do the same."
"What do you mean?"
"Mean!" she cried, rising to her feet; "mean that I'm tired of this sordid way of living. I'm tired of seeing you at the beck and call of every woman except your wife. I have tried to do my duty by you and the child, yet you neglect me for others. You squander your honestly earned money, and then embezzle thousands of pounds. I tell you, I'm sick of this life, Evan Malton; and if you don't take care, I'll make a change."
He listened in amazement to this tirade coming from his meek wife, then, with a coarse laugh, flung himself back on the sofa.
"You'll make a change!" he said, with a sneer. "You--I suppose that means bolting with another man--you do, my lady, and I'll kill you and your lover as well."
"My lover, as you call him, could break your neck easily," she said contemptuously.
"Then you have a lover!" he cried, starting to his feet in a transport of fury. "You tell methat--you a wife and a mother--in the presence of our child."
Without a word, she touched the bell, and a maid-servant appeared. Mrs. Malton pointed to the child.
"Take her away," she said coldly, and when the door closed again, she turned once more to her husband. "Now that the child is away," she said calmly, "I do tell you I have a would-be lover. Stay," she cried, holding up her hand, "I said a would-be lover. Had I been as careless of your honour as you have been of mine, I would not now be living with you."
Evan Malton listened in dogged silence, and then burst out into a torrent of words.
"Ah! I knew it would be so--curse you! What woman was ever satisfied with a husband?"
"Yes, and such a husband as you have been," she said sarcastically.
He stepped forward, with an oath, to strike her, then restraining himself by an effort, said in a harsh voice,--
"Tell me his name."
Mrs. Malton walked over to a writing-desk, unlocked it, and taking from thence a bundle of letters, flung them on the floor before him.
"You'll find all about him there."
Malton bent down, picked up the letters, and staggered back, with a cry, as he recognised the writing.
"My God! Fenton!" he cried.
"Exactly," she said coolly. "Your dear friend Fenton, who came to me with words of love on his lips, and lies in his heart, to get me to elope with him--in the last letter, you see, he asked me to go with him to Valparaiso."
"Oh, did he?" muttered Malton vindictively; "and you were going, I suppose?"
"If I had been going," she replied, with grave scorn, "I would not now be here, for he leaves for Valparaiso to-night."
"To-night!"
"Yes. I presume he's followed your example, and embezzled money. At all events, I refused his offer, and left him as I now leave you, Evan Malton, with the hope that this discovery may teach you a lesson."
"Where are you going?" he cried hoarsely, as she moved towards the door.
She turned with a cold smile.
"I am going to our child; and you--"
"And I," he said vindictively, "I'm going to Hiram Fenton's house, to give him back those letters. He'll go to Valparaiso will he? No, he won't. To-night, the police shall know all."
"All what?" his wife cried in sudden terror.
"All about the diamond robbery and the Russell Street murder."
She shrank back from him with a cry; but he came straight to the door, and taking her by the arm, flung her brutally on the floor.
"You lie there," he hissed out. "I'll deal with him first, and afterwards with you."
She heard the door close, and knew that he had left the house: then, gathering herself up slowly and painfully, she went to the chamber of her child, and sank on her knees beside the cot.
Meanwhile, Malton, with his brain on fire, his heart beating with jealous rage, and the bundle of letters in his breast-pocket, was rapidly walking down the hill, intending to go to Fenton's rooms and tax him with his treachery. It was partly on this account that he wished to see him; but there was also a more serious cause, for in the event of Fenton bolting, as he intended to do, things would be very awkward for his assistant manager.
"Curse him!" muttered Malton as he hailed a hansom, and told the man to drive to East Melbourne. "Does he think I'm such a fool as to let him go now? No, no, my boy; we've floated together for a good time, and, by Jove! we'll sink together."
Like all weak men, he was unable to restrain his temper, and was now working himself up into a state of fury which boded ill for the peace of Mr. Fenton. Fast as the cab was rolling along, it seemed hours to the impatient man, and it was with a cry of joy that he jumped out at Fenton's door, keeping the hansom waiting in case he should find the American absent.
The woman who opened the door told him that Mr. Fenton had gone out about half-an-hour ago, with a black bag in his hand, and had told her he was going to see some friends.
"Curse the man," groaned Malton, who saw what this meant at once, "he's off; I must follow---but where? I don't suppose he'd leave his address in his room, but I'll see if I can find anything there."
"Can I give him any message, sir?" asked the woman, who was still holding the door open.
"Yes; that is, I'll write him a note; show me up to his sitting-room."
"Yes, sir," and in a few minutes Malton found himself alone in the room so lately occupied by his enemy. He sat down at the writing-table till the woman closed the door, then springing to his feet, began to examine the desk with feverish energy to see if Mr. Fenton had left any trace as to his whereabouts.
There was a newspaper lying on a small table near, and Malton, seizing this, looked at the shipping announcements to see by what boat Fenton intended to go to South America.
"He's certain to go there," he said, as he ran his finger eagerly down the column, "or he wouldn't have told my wife. Here, oh, here it is--The 'Don Pedro,' for Valparaiso, at eight, Monday morning. He's going by that boat, now," he went on, putting down the paper, and pulling out his watch; "it's about six o'clock--why did he leave to-night, eh? I suppose he means to go on board, so as to avoid suspicion by going so early in the morning. He can't have gone back to see my wife, or she would have told me, for I'll swear she's true. Confound him, where can he have gone?"
He turned over the papers on the desk in feverish eagerness, as if he expected to find an address left for him, when suddenly, slipped in between the sheets of the blotting-pad, he found a note in Caprice's handwriting asking Fenton to come down to Toorak on that night. Melton struck a blow on the desk with his fist when he read this.
"He's gone there, I'll swear," he cried, putting the letter in his pocket. "It was only because Caprice laughed at him that he made love to my wife. Now she's whistled him back, he'll try and get her to go off with him to Valparaiso. Ah, Hiram Fenton, you're not off yet, and never will be--sink or swim together, my boy--sink or swim together."
He called the woman, gave her a short note for Fenton, in order to avert suspicion, then getting into the cab once more, told the man to drive to Toorak as quickly as possible.
"If I don't find you there, my friend," he muttered angrily, "I'll go straight down to the 'Don Pedro' at Sandridge. You won't escape me--sink or swim together, sink or swim together."
The evening sky was overcast with gloomy clouds, between the rifts of which could be seen the sharp, clear light of the sky, and then it began to rain, a tropical downpour which flooded the streets and turned the gutters to miniature torrents; a vivid flash of lightning flare in the sky, and the white face of the man in the hansom could be seen for a moment; then sounded a deep roll of thunder, as if warning Hiram Fenton that his friend and victim was on his track.