". . . I have seen Judas, and he made a strange confession . . . He actually saw the person who committed the crime put the pills into the box . . . The name was hardly a surprise to me . . . I thought Miss Varlins was guilty, but hardly thought my suspicions would be confirmed so soon . . . Poor Roger, it will be a terrible blow to him to learn that the woman he loves is guilty of such a terrible crime . . . I don't believe she ever loved Roger . . . all her passions were centred on Melstane . . . He must have been a wonderfully fascinating scamp . . . I don't know why I should pity Judith Varlins . . . She has treated Roger shamefully . . . She has treated Florry Marson shamefully . . . for she pretended to love the one and killed the lover of the other . . . Her handkerchief has betrayed her . . . She will be a very clever woman if she can get out of that . . . The evidence of the handkerchief . . . the evidence of Judas are both dead against her . . .
"Mem.—To write to Marson asking for an interview.
". . . I will take up Judas and Roger with me, so as to convict her of the crime . . . It will be a terrible ordeal for the poor boy, but anything is better than that he should marry a murderess . . . This was the reason she refused to let me see the letters . . . some of her own were there, betraying her guilty passion . . . She has been playing a double game all through, but now she is brought to book at last . . . She must be a woman of iron nerve . . . Her adopted sister is lying dangerously ill from the consequences of Judith's crime . . . from the sudden intelligence that the man she loved is dead, and yet Judith can still wear her mask and play the part of a sick-nurse . . . She must be a perfect fiend . . . Lucrezia Borgiafin de siècle. . . I expect to have a terrible scene to-morrow night . . . Poor Roger! . . .
"Judas is an incarnate devil . . . I wish he was the guilty one instead of Judith Varlins . . . Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to put the irons on him."
Have you ever been in the tropics? If so, you must know how cruel the sun can be to the unhappy Europeans grilling under its ardent rays. It does not invigorate, nor tan the skin overmuch, nor make one think life is a good thing; but it enervates the system, it relaxes the muscles, it dulls the brain, until the body is nothing but a worn-out shell, that moves, and rests, and lies down, and stands up in a mechanical fashion, like an automaton. It was like this that Judith felt after the terrible interview with Guinaud, and she went the round of her daily duties in a dull, listless manner, that showed how greatly her vital force had been exhausted by the ordeal she had undergone. With constant attendance on the invalid, and anxious thoughts about the position of affairs with regard to the Frenchman, she was worn out mentally and physically.
At present it was difficult to come to any decision relative to Florry's illness as the crisis had not yet come, and youth, health, and love of life were all fighting desperately against the shadow of death. The shock sustained by Florry on hearing of the untimely end of her lover had quite unsettled her brain, and the balance was trembling between health and sickness, between sanity and insanity, between life and death. She needed constant watching, for at times, in the most unexpected manner, she would spring from her bed and try to leave the room, bound on some fantastic journey created by the excited state of her brain. At other times she lay languid and exhausted, with dim, unseeing eyes, raving madly about her lover and the unforeseen calamity of his death. Afraid to trust this fragile life to the care of a hired nurse, Judith herself sat by the bedside, and ministered to the wants of the sick girl, holding the cool drink to the fevered lips, bathing the feverish brow, and arranging with loving hand the disordered bed-clothes.
It was bad enough in the day to sit in the twilight of the sick-room listening to the aimless chatter that came from the white lips, but it was worse at night. The sombre shadows that hung over all, the faint glimmer of the shaded lamp, the uncanny stillness of the house, and nothing awake but the sick girl with her pathetic pleadings, her causeless laughter, and the incessant stream of disconnected wanderings. No wonder Judith was quite worn out with constant watching; much, however, as she needed rest, she never surrendered her weary post by the bed, but sat, watchful and tender, during the long hours, only calling in the nurse when the paroxysms seized the invalid. All through the endless night succeeding the interview she had sat like a stone image in the sick-room, going over in her own tortured mind all that Guinaud had said. The morning broke dull and gray, and the nurse insisted upon her resting for a time. Rest! there was no such luxury for her; for even when lying down, her weary brain went mechanically over the old ground, imagining a thousand terrors, and agonising itself with a thousand pangs.
At last she slept for a time, but it was no refreshing slumber such as would bring relief. No! nothing but dreams, strange, horrible dreams, in all of which Judas, cruel and merciless, was the central figure; so in despair of gaining quiet in any way, she arose in the afternoon, and returned to her post by the side of Florry.
At four o'clock a card was brought to her bearing the name of Roger Axton, and a few lines scribbled thereon asking her to see him at once. With a start of terror, she wondered whether Judas had been to Axton, and revealed anything; but remembering that silence was as necessary to Judas as to herself, she dismissed this fear as idle, and having called in the nurse, descended to the drawing-room.
Roger was there, pacing restlessly to and fro like a caged lion, but when she entered he stopped at once, and looked at her fixedly as she came towards him in her sweeping black dress. Worn and haggard both of them, anxious and apprehensive both of them, they looked like two criminals meeting for the first time after the commission of a secret crime.
On seeing Roger's altered face, Judith also paused and gazed at him with a terrified look in her dilated eyes. They stood silently looking at one another for a single moment, but in that moment the agony of a lifetime was concentrated.
At last Roger spoke in a low, smothered tone, as if the words issued from his white lips against his will.
"No! no! I cannot believe it."
This speech broke the strange spell that held Judith motionless, and stealing forward she touched him lightly on the shoulder as he sank into a chair, covering his wild face with his hands.
"Roger!"
No answer. Only the short quick breath of the man and the soft rustle of the woman's dress.
"Roger, what is the matter?"
He looked up suddenly, hollow-eyed and shrinking, with a wild, questioning look on his worn face.
"I—I—have been told something."
"By—by that Frenchman?"
"Yes!"
"My God!" she muttered to herself, falling nerveless into a chair, "what has he told him?"
"He has told me all!"
"All?"
"He has told not only me but Fanks!"
"The detective?"
"Yes."
She hid her face in her hands with a startled cry, at which he sprang quickly from his chair and flung himself on his knees beside her.
"Oh, my love—my love!" he cried, entreatingly, "you are innocent; you are innocent. I know you are!"
"I innocent?"
She was looking down at him with an expression of amazement on her face, the beauty of which was marred by tears, by weariness, and by anxious thought.
"Yes! I'll swear you did not kill him!"
"Kill whom?"
"Sebastian Melstane!"
"I kill Sebastian Melstane?" she cried, rising quickly, and drawing herself up to her full height. "Who dares to accuse me of such a thing?"
"Judas!"
"That wretch?"
"Yes; but you are innocent; I know you are innocent."
"Why?"
"Because I love you!"
Judith looked down at the man kneeling at her feet with a look of infinite gratitude in her eyes, and passed her hand caressingly over his dishevelled hair.
"Poor boy, how true you are! You are willing to believe in my innocence without my denial."
"I am!"
She sat down, again, caught his head between her two hands and kissed him softly on the forehead. As she did so, he felt a hot tear fall on his cheek, and when he looked at her she was crying.
"Judith!" he cried, with sudden terror, "you are weeping."
"Yes. May God always send mankind such true hearts as yours!"
"I would be unworthy of your love if I did not believe you before all the lying scoundrels in the world."
"Alas, Don Quixote!"
"But you can explain everything, Judith. I feel certain you can."
"I can explain when I hear your story. At present I know nothing beyond the fact that Monsieur Guinaud has accused me of a vile crime. What does he say?"
Roger, still kneeling by her side, told the story as related to him by Fanks, and at the conclusion eagerly waited for her denial.
She said nothing, but sat in sombre silence, with her eyes fixed beyond his head in a vague, unseeing manner.
"Judith!" he cried, desperately, "do you not hear what I say? This scoundrel says that you visited Melstane at night and put those two pills into the box with the intention of poisoning him."
Still she said nothing, and Roger felt a feeling of horror arise in his breast as he watched her face, so cold, so frozen, so impassive in its fixed calm.
"He has your handkerchief to prove that you were there. Judith, speak!"
All at once the still figure became endowed with life, and with a choking cry she tore herself from his encircling arms, and sprang across the room.
"Judith!"
In a frenzy of dread he leaped up from his kneeling position, and went rapidly towards her with outstretched hands.
"Stop!" she cried, wildly, shrinking against the wall, "stop!"
"Speak, speak! You must speak and deny this story."
"I cannot."
"Judith."
"I cannot!"
"My God!" he said, in a hoarse whisper, "is it true?"
"I cannot answer you."
Roger felt the room spin round him, and, reeling back, caught at a chair for support, while he gazed with horror-filled eyes at the woman he loved, standing there so rigid and speechless.
"Judith, you do not mean what you say," he cried entreatingly, "you cannot understand. Judas says you murdered Melstane. He can prove it, he says, by the handkerchief. He has told Fanks, who is a detective. You are in danger. I cannot save you. Great Heaven! if you have any pity for me—if you have any pity for yourself, speak and give the lie to this foul accusation."
"I cannot, I tell you, Roger, I cannot!"
"You are innocent!"
"I cannot say."
"Are you guilty?"
"I cannot say."
Axton passed his hand over his brow in a bewildered fashion, hardly knowing if he were asleep or awake, then, with a sudden resolution of despair, flung himself on his knees at her feet.
"Judith! Judith! you must speak, you must. See me kneeling at your feet. I love you, I love you! I do not believe this vile story. In my eyes you are innocent. But the world—think of the world. It will deem you guilty if you cannot defend yourself. Judas has you in his power. He is a merciless wretch. He hates you. He will drag you down to infamy and disgrace, unless you can clear yourself of this crime. Speak for your own sake—for mine. Do not let this devil triumph over you, for Heaven's sake. Deny his foul lies, and let him be punished as he deserves. Speak, for the love of God, speak!"
Judith said nothing, but the quick panting of her breath, the nervous tremor agitating her frame, and the rapid opening and shutting of her hands showed how she was moved.
"She says nothing," said Axton to himself, as he arose slowly to his feet, "she is silent. What does it mean?"
He made one last effort to induce her to deny the accusation of Judas.
"You will not speak!" he said, in tones of acute anguish. "I have knelt, I have prayed; you are silent. I can do nothing. You are innocent, I'll swear; but I cannot prove it. No one can prove it but yourself, and you say nothing. Judith, listen! You are in deadly peril. Fanks is coming up to-night with Judas, and they will accuse you of this crime!"
"To-night?"
"Yes; they have written to Mr. Marson. They will produce the handkerchief. They will tell the story. You refuse to answer me; you must answer them. Fanks told me of this to-day, and I came up at once to warn you."
"It is useless! I can say nothing."
"You must say something. It is a question of life and death. The affair is in the hands of the law. Nothing can save you but your own denial. You must prove the falseness of this horrible story. It means disgrace. It means prison! It means death!"
She looked up suddenly as he spoke those last words, and crossing over to him, laid her hand on his shoulder, speaking wildly, and with uncontrollable agitation.
"I know what it means. You need not tell me that. I know it means the smirching of my fair fame as a woman, I know that it condemns me to an ignominious death; but I can say nothing. Roger, on my soul, I can say nothing. I cannot say I am innocent; I dare not say I am guilty. I must be silent. I must be dumb. Let them say what they like; let them do what they like; my honour and my life rest in the hands of God, and He alone can save me."
"But you are innocent!"
She burst into tears.
"Oh, why do you torture me like this? I tell you I can say nothing; not even to you. My lips are sealed. Let them come up to-night; let them accuse me; let them drag me to prison. I can say nothing. For days, for nights I have dreaded this, now it has come at last. You believe me innocent, my true-hearted lover, but the world will believe me guilty. Let them do so. God knows my sufferings. God knows my anguish, and in His hands I leave myself for good or ill."
He heard her with bowed head, and at the end of her speech he felt a soft kiss on his hair. When he looked up the room was empty.
"Judith!"
There was no reply, and the only sound he heard was the distant slamming of a door that seemed to his agonised imagination to separate him from the woman he loved—for ever.
Francis Marson was considerably perplexed at receiving a note from Fanks, asking for an interview. He guessed at once that Judas had broken faith and unbosomed himself to the detective, but what puzzled him was the reason the Frenchman had for such betrayal. In order to secure the success of his schemes, it was necessary that he should keep silent, yet he had evidently voluntarily revealed his secret knowledge, and thus rendered it useless to himself and his designs. The only way in which Marson could account for the detective's request was that he must have learned the secret of Judas, otherwise there would be no reason why he should seek an interview.
Filled with this idea, Marson summoned up all his courage, and prepared to meet the coming storm with as brave a front as possible. He wrote to Fanks, and told him he would be prepared to see him at eight o'clock that night; then he shut himself up in his study for the rest of the day. Plunged in gloomy reflections, he saw no one, not even Judith; but as the hour approached when he expected his visitor to arrive he was unable to bear his trial in solitude any longer, so, sending for Judith, he told her about the interview. To his surprise, she received the communication with great equanimity, and being in ignorance of her forewarning by Roger, he could not but admire the undaunted spirit with which she was prepared to face the terrible trouble coming to them both.
On her side, Judith saw plainly that Marson was almost distracted by nervous terror and dread of the impending evil, so she did not think it wise to reveal to him the dangerous position in which she was placed. He would learn it in due time; but, meanwhile, she preserved a gloomy silence, and told her adopted father that she would be by his side during the ordeal, in order to support him to the best of her ability. Poor soul, she knew how futile that support would be, but with stern self-repression kept her forebodings locked in her own heart, and Francis Marson felt to a great extent comforted in knowing that he had at least one friend to stand by him in the hour of peril.
It was nearly eight o'clock when Judith entered the study, and found Marson seated at his writing-table, with his gray head buried in his arms. A spasm of agony distorted the calm of her face as she saw the abject terror of the old man; however, repressing all signs of emotion, she moved slowly across the room, and touched him tenderly on the shoulder. He looked up with a startled cry, but was somewhat reassured by the peacefulness of her expression. No marble statue in its eternal calm looked so void of passion and human fear as this tall, pale woman who masked the anguish of her aching heart under an impassive demeanour. Every emotion, every pang, every terror was expressed on the withered countenance of the old man; but she was cold, expressionless, still, as if all human feeling had been frozen in her soul.
Their eyes met for a moment, and from the dim eyes of the man, from the splendid eyes of the woman, there leapt forth a sudden look of mutual dread, of mutual anguish, and horrible suspense. That look spoke all, and they had no need of words to explain their feelings, so Judith sat down near the fire, and Marson resumed his chair at the desk in ominous silence.
At last Marson spoke, low and timidly, as if he feared his words would be trumpeted forth to the four quarters of the world.
"Is Florry better?"
"No, I think she is worse to-night. Very excitable and restless."
"Oh, Judith! Was it wise of you to leave her?"
"She is in good hands. Dr. Japix is with her."
"Japix!" repeated the old man, starting. "I'm sorry about that. On this night of all nights I wish no one in the house!"
"It doesn't matter," replied Judith, feigning an indifference she was far from feeling; "what we know to-night all the world will know to-morrow."
"Good heavens, I hope not!"
"We can expect nothing else from such a man as Judas."
"You mean Guinaud."
"I mean Judas! The name suits such a traitor."
"But why should he act as he is doing?"
"I don't know."
"It is against his own interests."
"Heaven only knows what he considers to be his interests," said Judith, bitterly, "but anything is better than that he should marry Florry!"
"Do you think he would consent to take money instead?"
"I think it's too late to offer any terms. Remember, to-night we deal with the law."
"But Fanks is a friend of Roger Axton."
Judith shuddered, and covered her face with her hands.
"Yes, I know he is," she said, in a low voice; "but Roger can do nothing to help us."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure. He told me so this afternoon."
"You saw him?"
"I did!"
Marson was about to speak, but the sombre expression of her face forbade him to ask further questions, and he remained silent.
The minutes seemed to fly by on wings of lightning to this unhappy man and woman, who waited with shuddering dread for the approach of that horror from which they could not escape.
A knock at the door, and then Marks flung it wide open, announcing three visitors.
"Mr. Fanks, Mr. Axton, Monsieur Guinaud."
"Roger," said Judith to herself, with a sudden pang at her heart, as the servant retired. "Oh, the humiliation!"
Marson greeted his three visitors with a grave bow, and they all sat down in silence. There was a sullen look on the face of Judas, for he felt that he had been undiplomatic in his dealings with the detective, and that all his well-laid schemes would come to naught now that his secret was made known.
On the other hand, Fanks appeared serenely confident that things were going as he wished them, but an uneasy expression on his face as he glanced furtively at Judith, showed that he was by no means pleased with the unexpected discovery he had made. Roger said nothing, but sat looking at the carpet with downcast eyes, the very picture of misery and despair.
"You wish to see me, I understand from your letter, sir," said Marson to the detective, in a dull, hopeless voice.
"Yes; with regard to the death of Sebastian Melstane."
"I know nothing about his death."
"Nothing?" repeated Fanks, with great emphasis.
Mr. Marson flushed all over his worn face, and he glanced rapidly at Judith, then repeated his former denial with great deliberation.
"I know nothing about his death."
"Do you know anything, Miss Varlins?"
"I? how should I know?"
"I'm sorry to speak rudely to a lady," said Fanks, suavely, "but this is equivocation."
She looked despairingly at him with the expression of a trapped animal in her eyes, a mute appeal for mercy, but the detective steeled his heart against her, and spoke plainly:
"Do you remember a visit you paid the late Mr. Melstane at Binter's boarding-house during the early part of the month of November?"
"No, I do not."
"Do you recognise this handkerchief?" said Octavius, holding it out to her.
"No. It is a lady's white handkerchief. How should I recognise it?"
"By the name in the corner."
She glanced rapidly at the embroidery, and seeing the fatal name "Judith," let her head fall on her breast with a gesture of despair.
"Do you recognise the handkerchief now?" asked Fanks, with merciless deliberation.
"Yes! It is mine!"
"Do you know where it was found?"
"No!"
"It was found in the sitting-room of Mr. Melstane by this gentleman," said Octavius, pointing to Judas.
She raised her eyes, and her glance followed the direction of his outstretched finger. Hate, contempt, dread, and defiance were all expressed in that rapid look, and Judas shrank back with a feeble smile from the scathing scorn in her eyes.
"This being the case, Miss Varlins," resumed Fanks, coolly, "it is useless for you to deny that you were at Binter's boarding-house on the night in question."
"I do deny it!" she said, resolutely. "I was not at Binter's any night during November; I never saw Mr. Melstane during November. I know nothing about his death!"
Octavius laid the handkerchief on the table with a resolute expression.
"I see I must refresh your memory, Miss Varlins," he said, coolly. "Sebastian Melstane died at Jarlchester on the 13th of November by taking, in all innocence, a morphia pill, which was placed among certain tonic pills he was in the habit of taking. When I find the person who placed the two morphia pills in the box I find the murderer of Sebastian Melstane. Monsieur Guinaud will now resume the story."
Monsieur Judas bowed his head gracefully, and spoke slowly in his vile English.
"At the nights before my frien' Melstane go to Jarlcesterre une dame find him chez lui. I at de vinda stay and overt mes yeux. Mon ami, ce cher Sebastian does go from ze appartement an' zen behold moi ze dame plaze dans un boite à pilules quelque chose, je ne sais quoi."
"Speak English, if you please," said Fanks, sharply.
"Eh, c'est difficile, mais oui. She puts in ze boxes somezing, I knows no wat; zen mon cher ami come again an' ze leave par la fenêtre. I do look after zem, an' see ze mouchoir now wis Monsieur Fanks. Dat is all I speak. La voila."
Roger, who had hitherto kept silent during the whole of this scene, so terrible in its intensity, now sprang to his feet with a cry of rage.
"It's a lie—a lie!" he said, savagely. "Fanks! Marson! you surely don't believe this man—this vile wretch who would sell his soul for money? He killed Melstane himself—I am sure of it!—and tells this lie to ruin an innocent woman and to save his own worthless life. Look at him, all of you? The spy—the traitor—the defamer—the poisoner."
Judas was standing by his chair, breathing heavily, with his face a ghastly white, and his eyes narrowed to their most dangerous expression. So vile, so craven, so treacherous he looked, that all present involuntarily shrank from him with loathing.
"Monsieur!" he said, in his sibilant voice, speaking rapidly in his own tongue, to which he always reverted when excited, "you are a liar and a fool! I did not kill my friend. Bah! I mock myself of that accusation. Think you that I would be here, if I was what you say? What I speak is the truth of the great God! What I declare, I saw! My friend died by the devil-thought of a woman. And that woman is there!"
He pointed straight at Judith, with a long, lean, cruel hand, and the eyes of all, leaving his tall, slim figure, rested on Judith Varlins. She stood still and mute as if she were turned to a statue of stone, and for the space of a minute not a movement was made by any of the actors in this strange drama.
"What do you say to this accusation, Miss Varlins?" asked Fanks, in a tone of deep pity.
"I say nothing."
The words dropped slowly from her white lips, and then the overstrained nerves of the woman gave way, and with a low moan of acute anguish, she sank down in a faint on the floor. Roger sprang forward and raised her in his arms, but Judas, with a mocking, sardonic laugh, tossed his long arms in the air, and burst out into a jeering speech.
"Yes, yes! Take her in your arms! Lift her from the ground, but you cannot lift her again to her purity of a woman. She is lost, the woman you loved. In her place you find the murderess. Ah! it is a good play!"
This cowardly triumphing was too much even for the phlegmatic Fanks, and with a suppressed oath he strode up to the gibing villain.
"If you say another word, you despicable blackguard, I will kill you!"
The Frenchman turned on him with the snarling ferocity of a tiger.
"Eh, you will kill me, my brave! Is it that I am a child you can rage at with your big words? Miserable English that you are, I spit upon you! I, Jules Guinaud, laugh at your largeness. Eh! I believe well. You are afraid of what I say; but I keep not the silence, holy blue! Bah! your sweet English lady, she is a criminal!"
"You lie!" shouted Roger, madly, starting to his feet. "You lie, you wretch! Marson! Fanks! Get me some water! She has fainted. And as for you, scoundrel—"
He advanced towards Judas with clenched fists, whereupon the Frenchman, with a look of fear on his gray face, recoiled against the wall. But not even the threatening attitude of the young man could restrain the gibing devil that possessed this villain, and with a shrill scream of laughter he went on with his insults.
"For me the box, monsieur. But certainly, you are wise—you are very wise. Come, now, if you are bold—I hide not the truth, I declare—if your angel is not the one who killed the dear Melstane, say, who is it? Declare the name."
Roger, with glittering eyes, and a fierce look on his face, would have sprung on Judas and caught him by the throat, when the answer to the question came from a most unexpected quarter.
Outside the room there was a shrill scream, the heavy tramping of feet, and a woman in her nightgown dashed madly into their midst.
It was Florry Marson!
In her eyes shone the fever of insanity, on her dry lips a fearful laugh of horrible laughter, and she whirled round and round in the middle of the room like a Maenad, while Japix, who had followed her, tried vainly to approach.
"God! How like her mother!"
The cry of horror came from the lips of Marson, who was holding a glass of water to the lips of Judith; but his daughter did not hear him. With a shriek she stopped her insensate whirling, and dashed forward with distorted features to Monsieur Judas.
"Hold her! hold her!" cried Japix, "she is mad—raving."
Judas was too terrified to do anything, and stood nerveless and paralysed, facing this ghastly spectre with the loose hair, the frantic gestures, and blazing eyes.
"What have you done with him?" shrieked Florry, making futile clutches at Judas, "you fiend! you reptile! Why did I not kill you instead of Sebastian?"
A cry of horror burst from the lips of the listeners.
"Give him to me! give him to me!" howled the mad woman, "you know I killed him! I did not mean it! I did not mean it! The devil told me about the morphia. Hist! I will tell you! His name is Spolger. He lives in the big house on the hill. He has poison. Oh, yes, yes! I know. I stole it to give Sebastian—poor Sebastian."
"Gentlemen," cried Marson, piteously, "do not believe her. This is raving."
"I believe it's the truth," said Fanks, solemnly.
Japix advanced towards Florry, but she saw him coming, and with a shriek of anger, darted towards the study table, upon which she sprang with the activity of an antelope. Her foot touched the lamp, it fell over, and in a moment the fierce flame had caught her light draperies, and she stood before the horrified spectators a pillar of flame.
"I burn! I burn!" she screamed. "Sebastian, help! help! it is my punishment! It is—God! God! save me—save me."
Roger tore down one of the curtains and ran to her assistance, but she bounded off the table, and running to Judas flung her arms round his neck. With a yell of terror he tried to fling her off, but she only clung the closer, and the flames caught his clothes.
"Save me, Sebastian, I did not mean to kill you. Ah, ah!"
"Mon Dieu, help me!"
Both Fanks and Roger flung themselves on the writhing pair, who were now rolling on the floor, and they managed to extinguish the flames. Florry was terribly burnt, and the Frenchman had fainted. Old Marson on his knees was praying feebly, and Judith, recovering from her stupor, rose slowly up.
"What is the matter?"
The answer came in a wailing voice from the brokenhearted father:
"The judgment of God! The judgment of God!"
"I am utterly dumbfounded . . . Judith is innocent . . . She is a noble woman, and Florry, the martyr, who loved Melstane so, is his murderess . . . The little serpent . . . But let me speak as kindly of her as I can . . . She is dead . . . A terrible death . . . Well might her old father say it was the judgment of God . . . The sight was terrible . . . I shall never be able to get it out of my thoughts . . . Strange how the discovery was made . . . And that noble Judith Varlins was going to bear the burden of her adopted sister's sin . . . What a woman . . . If I envy Roger anything I envy him the splendid heroine he is going to make his wife . . . I take back with shame and regret all that I have said against her in this book . . . She is a noble woman, and Florry—well, she is dead, so I will say nothing! 'De mortuis,' etc.
"Mem.—To ask Japix, Roger, Spolger, and Judas to meet me at some place in order to learn precisely how the crime was committed . . . I should have been spared all this wrongful suspicion of innocent people if Judas had told me the truth . . . He knew all along who committed the crime, and was trading on the knowledge for his own ends . . . I should have thought that even he would have hesitated before marrying a murderess . . . but it was her money he wanted . . . No doubt he laughs at the way I have blundered—well, I deserve it . . . I have acted very wrongly in a great number of ways; but I would defy any one but a detective in a 'novel' to have unravelled this strange case . . . The mystery was revealed by no mortal, but by God. . .
"Under these circumstances I can afford to bear the gibes of Monsieur Judas in silence. . ."
Three days after that terrible night, five men were seated in the study of Dr. Japix talking over the series of strange events which began with the death of Sebastian Melstane by poison, and ended with the death of Florry Marson by fire. These five men were:
Dr. Jacob Japix, M.D.; Mr. Octavius Fanks, detective; Roger Axton, Esq., gentleman; Jackson Spolger, Esq., manufacturer; Monsieur Jules Guinaud, chemist's assistant.
It was about midday; the world outside was white with snow, the sky was heavy with sombre clouds, and these five men, actors in the drama known as the Jarlchester Mystery, had met together in order to explain their several shares in the same.
Octavius Fanks had described the manner in which he had first become involved in the affair, the methods by which he had traced the crime, and the reasons he had had for his several suspicions.
At the conclusion of the detective's speech Roger Axton took up the thread of the story, supplying by oral testimony all the points of which Fanks was ignorant. Having finished his story, Monsieur Judas arose to his feet and revealed all he knew about the case.
"But first, my friends," he said, with venomous malignity, "I give to Monsieur Fanks the congratulations on his talent for foolish fancies. Eh! yes, he is a grand detective, this young man, who thinks all have committed the murder but the real one. Conceive to yourselves, messieurs, the blindness of this monsieur—"
"I admit all your abuse," interrupted Fanks, curtly; "go on with what you have to tell."
"Eh! I enrage this monsieur, me," said Judas, with an insolent laugh. "Bah! I mock myself of his anger. Behold, messieurs, I tell you the little tale of all things. Me, I loved this angel that now is dead; but she her heart gave to the dear Melstane. She returned from the Île de Vight and tells Melstane that her father is poor, and she is to marry this amiable Spolgers. My friend Melstane is enraged, and says: 'I go to your father to tell him I wish you for mine.' But the dear angel is afraid of the hard poverty. She weeps, she entreats, she implores the cruel Melstane to release her, but he refuses with scorn. Myself I heard it all. She speaks to me as her friend. I paint her the pictures of starving, I make her to shrink with fear. Conceive, I implore you, messieurs, how this beautiful one, reared in money, dreads the coldness of the poor. She says: 'He must not drag me to poorness! I am afraid of myself if he does. I am like my mother.' Then, messieurs, I hear from her sweet lips that madame, her dead mother, was mad. The poor angel is afraid she will be mad some day also. Nevertheless, I love her, I wish her for mine. I am the friend of Melstane; but him I love not, because of this dear one. I say: 'My friend Melstane will pull you to the cold, to the street, to the want of bread. Defend yourself, my beautiful. Kill him!'"
"Oh!" cried Roger, in a tone of horror, "you put the idea into her head?"
"Eh! I say she was mad like madame, her mother. I told her of the starvation; oh, but yes, certainly, I did say to her: 'Mademoiselle, if he lives, you will be taken to poorness. Kill him!' What would you, messieurs? I but say to her what myself I would do if in the same way. My suggestion with fear she received, and went weeping away. But again she sees the dear Melstane, and he tells her he will speak to her father. She implores, she kneels, but he is hard stone. I wish to have all the place to myself, so as to love this angel, and to Melstane I say: 'Go thou, my friend, to some town and tell the angel to follow thee. Then you can demand of monsieur the father what you will. He is enchanted, this dear Melstane, and to me speaks with pleasure: 'Eh, but the idea is too beautiful! This I will do, and if the father has any of the money, thou, my friend, will be to me as a brother.' When next he meets the dear child, he tells her of the plan. It is that he is to depart to Jarlcesterre, and there when writes he, she is to come. She says this she will do, but I, messieurs, eh! I smile to myself. In her heart she hates where once she loved. She has fear of the poorness. She says: 'I will myself kill this cruel one, and no one will know of him dying.' Behold, then, on the night before goes the dear Melstane, she comes to the pension. Myself I see her; I wait at the window and behold. She demands from my Sebastian what he has not, and to obtain it he goes from the apartment. Then in the box of pills on the table she places something. What I know not then, but now I am aware, it is the pills of morphia!"
"Which you gave her, I suppose?" said Fanks, disgusted with the callous manner in which the scoundrel spoke.
"Monsieur is wrong. The truth of the great God I now tell, and I know not where she obtained the death-pills."
"I can explain that," interrupted Spolger, quickly.
"Eh, truly, you were then more of the evil to the dear angel than myself. Well, messieurs, I repeat my story. The dear Melstane departs for Jarlcesterre, and I am free to love the angel; but I speak to her not. I see her not, I wait for the time to speak. One says she is to be the bride of the rich Spolgers. Eh, I laugh, but nothing I say to any one. Then by the mistake of the office of post I do receive the letters sent by this Monsieur Axton to Mees Varlins. I at first refuse, but when I behold I see the mark of Jarlcesterre and open the letters. In them this I discover."
He threw a folded paper which he was holding in his hand on the table, and Fanks, opening it quickly, gave a cry of surprise.
"A marriage certificate!"
It certainly was, stating that a marriage had taken place in October between Sebastian Melstane, bachelor, and Florence Marson, spinster, at a registry office in London.
"Yes!" said Judas, complacently, "it is that the dear angel was married to my friend Melstane. Conceive then, messieurs, why she killed him with the poison. He had the right to take her to the poorness. She was afraid because of my speech, and as no hope of help beheld she, this foolish one goes to the extremes and kills the man who holds her. Eh, messieurs, when this I see, I know I do hold the angel in my power. Then clever Monsieur Fanks arrives and tells me of the death. He speaks of the pills, and as in a moment behold I that Mees Mar-rson has poisoned the husband she feared. I admire; eh, truly, it was a great thing for a woman thus to behave. Then to myself I spoke. 'Jules Guinaud, with this you hold, it is for you to be the husband of the widow Melstane.'"
"For Heaven's sake don't call her that name," said Roger, with a shudder.
"Wherefore not, monsieur? She was of a certainty the widow Melstane, and her husband she killed. I go then to Monsieur Mar-rson; I show the certificate of marriage; I tell of the death. To him I speak: 'If I marry not your daughter I betray all to the law.' He shudders with the fear and says: 'You will be my son-in-law.' Then comes Mees Judith, who knows of my love; but her I quickly crush. Eh, it was very well; but she played the traitor to me, so to her I also was cruel. I tell this dear Monsieur Fanks that she is the criminal, and show him the handkerchief of her which was let to fall by the dear angel. We go to the house of Monsieur Mar-rson, and then the angel is distraught; she is mad and tells all. Behold, messieurs, my story is at an end, and nothing can I say more. I played for a large thing. I have lost. It is cruel, but who can fight the angry gods? Everything I have failed in. All are innocent but the angel, and she is dead. But I have held her in my arms. Yes, though the flames did burn, she was to me for a moment, so I am satisfied. Behold, then, all is at an end, and Jules Guinaud to you, messieurs, says 'Adieu.'"
Monsieur Judas resumed his seat in a conscious manner, as if he expected a round of applause for his very dramatic delivery of his villainous narrative. If he did expect praise he was disappointed, for a chorus of execration burst from the four men who had listened so patiently to this infamous history.
"You scoundrel!"
"Fiend!"
"Wretch!"
"Blackguard!"
Judas was not at all dismayed, but shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
"Eh, messieurs les Tartuffes, I make you the compliments. If you had been as me, acted the same you would have, I think. But all I have told, and now will the dear Spolger tell us of the pills which he gave to the angel?"
"I did not give her pills, you wicked wretch," said Spolger, vehemently. "I was as much in the dark as you about the cause of Melstane's death. The whole affair has been a great blow to me. I do not know when my nerves will recover."
"Will you tell us your story, Mr. Spolger?" said Fanks, politely.
"Certainly; if only to disabuse your mind of the suspicions put into it by that infernal scoundrel there."
The Frenchman, at whom this compliment was pointed, threw an ugly look at the millionaire which foreboded anything but good to that gentleman's well-being, but with his accustomed presence of mind soon recovered himself with an enigmatic smile.
"My faith, this 'dear Spolgers' is a tragedy of one act. Is it not so?"
"No, it isn't," retorted Mr. Spolger, tartly; "and now, as you've given your version of the story, perhaps you'll permit me to tell mine to these gentlemen, and clear myself from your vile insinuations."
Judas nodded his red head with a mocking smile, and Mr. Spolger, after glancing at him viciously, immediately explained himself.
"The whole affair is this," he said, in his peevish voice. "Miss Marson was up at my house before Melstane went to Jarlchester, and displayed considerable curiosity about the manufacture of the 'Spolger Soother,' which you no doubt know is a pill meant to soothe the nerves and give a good night's rest. I was willing to show Miss Varlins all the attention possible, and therefore made up some pills for her with my own hands, to show her how it was done. As there is morphia in the pills, I weighed out the requisite quantity with great care, upon which she asked me if I made a mistake and put in too much, what would be the result. I told her that in such a case the person would probably die. Upon which she made a remark which struck me as curious then, but which does not strike me as curious now. She said: 'If, then, you made one pill with too much morphia in it, the person taking it would die, and even if the rest of the pills were examined, no reason could be given for his death.' I assured her that this would probably be the case, but said that all our 'Soothers' were manufactured in a most careful manner. After this she manifested no further interest in the pills being made, so I sealed up the jar of morphia and placed it on the shelf. Shortly afterwards, I was called out of the room, and was absent for about a quarter of an hour; so I've no doubt that in my absence the unhappy girl took some morphia out of the bottle—if you remember, Mr. Fanks, the seal was broken—and carrying it home with her, made the two fatal pills according to the method I had shown her. These pills she afterwards—according to the story of Monsieur Judas—placed in the box of tonic pills left by Melstane on the table. Down at Jarlchester he took one and died; the other, I understand from Mr. Fanks, was analysed by Dr. Japix, and found to contain a great deal of morphia. I am afraid, therefore, that in all innocence I contributed to the catastrophe of Melstane's death. I beg to state, however, that there is this difference between myself and Monsieur Guinaud. He put the idea willingly into her head to kill Melstane. I showed her how, but inadvertently; so I am confident, gentlemen, that you will admit that no blame attaches to me in the affair."
"Of course not," said Japix, emphatically, when Spolger had finished; "what you did, you did in all innocence. For my part, I look upon Monsieur Judas as culpable."
"Eh, truly," said Judas, with a sneer, "and for why, monsieur? I did not kill the dear Melstane."
"No; but you put the idea of killing him into Miss Marson's head!"
"That is not guilt, monsieur."
"Not legally, certainly, but morally!"
"Name of names! I care not for your morals, me. The law cannot touch me, so I laugh at your reproach."
"Nevertheless, Monsieur Judas," said Fanks, meaningly, "I would recommend you to leave Ironfields as soon as possible!"
"And for why? No one knows of this affair. Is it not so?"
"Of course! But though your character is not known to the world, it is to me. I am the law, and the law shall force you to leave this place. A man like you is dangerous, so you had better go back to your Paris, where you will find a few congenial scoundrels like yourself!"
"Eh, monsieur! I have no wish to stay in this rain climate," said Judas, scoffingly; "but if I chose to stay I would, certainly!"
"Try," said Fanks, significantly,
But Monsieur Judas had no wish to try. He simply shrugged his shoulders, and intimated that if they had learned all they desired from him, he was anxious to depart. Roger, however, asked him to resume his seat.
"I think it is only just to state the part taken by Miss Varlins in this lamentable affair," he said, quietly. "She had no idea that Miss Marson had anything to do with the death of Melstane for a long time. She asked me to obtain the letters from Melstane, thinking that he might use them to create a scandal, but she did not know that the certificate of marriage was among them. When, however, Miss Marson was ill, she betrayed the fact of the marriage and the existence of a certificate in her delirium. Miss Varlins was anxious to keep the fact of the marriage quiet, as, seeing Melstane was now dead, the whole affair might blow over. This was the reason she refused to let Mr. Fanks see the letters without her first looking through them, as she thought he might discover the marriage certificate and connect Miss Marson indirectly with the death of her miserable husband. Of the horrible truth, however, she had no idea till later on, when Miss Marson, in her sick-bed ravings, betrayed the whole affair. She then acted in a manner befitting her noble nature. The dead girl, gentlemen, was left to Miss Varlins as a sacred charge by the late Mrs. Marson, and Miss Varlins proved herself worthy of the trust. She resolved to stand between the guilty woman and the law, even at the cost of ignominy and disgrace to herself. I implored her to tell me the truth, never for a moment deeming her guilty. She refused to answer my questions, she refused to either deny or affirm the accusation, and it was then I guessed she was shielding some one; but I never thought it was Florry Marson; I thought it was her father. Now, gentlemen, the mystery is cleared up—the riddle is guessed. Florry Marson murdered the unhappy man who died at Jarlchester; but had it not been for the accident of her escaping from her sick-room and revealing her guilt in her delirium, Miss Varlins would have had to bear the stigma of this crime. A noble woman, gentlemen, you must all of you confess."
"Noble indeed," assented all present, except Judas, who laughed quietly to himself.
"In a few months," resumed Roger, his voice trembling, "I hope to lead her to the altar as my wife, and I pray to God that the brightness of the future will make amends for the sorrows of the past, and that I may prove worthy of this pearl of womanhood which I hope soon to have in my keeping."
"Amen!" said Japix, in his deep voice. "And now one word more. Florry Marson is dead, so of her let us speak kindly. It is true she killed Melstane; but, gentlemen, she was guiltless of the crime in one sense. Her mother, a shallow, frivolous woman, was insane with a suicidal mania, and several times tried to destroy herself. She died, mad—raving mad, and the insanity in her blood descended to her unhappy daughter. Hence the reason of Miss Varlins' great care and watchfulness. She was aware that the seeds of a homicidal mania were in the blood of the happy, laughing girl, and might develop when least expected. They developed, gentlemen, when she received a shock from the conduct of Melstane. He had thought her rich; then he found she was poor, and instead of making the best of it, as any honourable man would have done, he threatened her until her delicately poised brain went off the balance. Even then, however, she might have been saved from the crime, had she been left alone. But the idea of murder was placed in her mind by the respectable Guinaud, and once there, it soon took shape. With the usual cunning of mad people, she resolved to commit the crime with as little danger to herself as possible. No idea of how to do it, however, occurred to her mind until her unfortunate conversation with Mr. Spolger, in which he showed her the way."
"In all innocence," interrupted Spolger, hastily.
"Of course, in all innocence," replied Japix, gravely. "Once having the idea of how to do it in her head, she put it into execution. She made the pills and watched her opportunity to place them in the box unknown to Melstane. How she managed it you know from the story of Monsieur Judas; but I am certain that if Melstane had shown her a little kindness, a little forbearance, she would have relented at the last moment. She was not altogether mad; she hardly knew what she was doing, and it was only when she heard suddenly of Melstane's death that the full enormity of her crime struck her. What was the result, gentlemen? It sent her mad—raving mad. She died, as we know, terribly, but even such a death was a blessing in disguise, for she would never have recovered her reason, and would have died in a madhouse."
Every one present having thus given his evidence, Fanks summarized the whole affair in a few shorthand notes in his secretive little pocket-book.
"When Florry Marson married Sebastian Melstane, she was sane. The seeds of insanity were in her blood, but had not developed.
"Owing to the brutal treatment of her husband and the suggestions of Judas, the hereditary disease became manifested in her in the form of a homicidal mania.
"The conversation with Jackson Spolger showed her a method by which she could kill her now hated husband at small risk to herself.
"She took advantage of it, made the pills with morphia stolen from Spolger's bottle, and placed the pills in the box during a visit to Binter's boarding-house.
"Melstane went down to Jarlchester to await her arrival, and took the pill in all innocence. The sudden news of his death upset the balance of her brain and sent her mad.
"From such madness she could never have recovered, so it was most merciful that she died."
The Jarlchester Mystery thus having been solved, Fanks replaced his note-book in his pocket, and the company prepared to break up. The first to go was Monsieur Judas, who stood at the door, hat in hand, smiling blandly on the four Englishmen.
"Messieurs," said Judas, in his most suave voice, "I make you my best compliments on your brains. You have been all in the dark. I, Jules Guinaud, showed you the light, and with brutal behaviour you have spoken to me. The dear angel is dead, my friend Melstane is dead, so now I leave this foggy climate of yours for my dear France. You have not the politeness, you English! You are all coarse of the style of your bifsteak. Bah! I mock myself of you! But I say no more. Adieu, messieurs, adieu! The politeness of the accomplished French survives the brutality of the bulldog English! Adieu! and for a good-bye English: Damn you all, messieurs!"
And the accomplished Judas, beaten on every point, but polite to the end, vanished from the room, and later on from Ironfields itself.