By degrees Lavender was comforted and reassured, and under Lucille's ministrations recovered much of her former health and cheerfulness. Attended by Lucille, she spent the next few days driving and idling in the little garden before her house, and reverted practically to her mode of life before she first asked Melville to call upon her at The Vale. The horror of the tragedy was even beginning to fade from her mind; she could never forget it, but she might hope to hear no more about it. She was almost beginning to think she never would, when one day, as her carriage was turning into Hyde Park she caught sight of the newspaper posters fastened against the railings, blazoning forth the sensational news of the arrest of Mr. Ashley.
Lavender was alone at the time, and the shock caused by the sight of the poster was so violent that her carriage had nearly completed the circuit of the Park before she fully recovered consciousness. She very naturally assumed that the Mr. Ashley referred to on the poster was Melville, and his arrest would almost inevitably involve her own. But as she was driving from the Marble Arch down towards Hyde Park Corner the desire to have some certain knowledge became quite irresistible, and stopping the coachman under the trees by the kiosk she got out of the carriage and walked across to the gate to buy some of the evening papers which had been the first to get the news. She was afraid to look at them until she got back into her carriage, in case she should find mention of her own name and betray her identity by some access of emotion; so folding them up she recrossed the Row and sank back amongst her pillows. She ordered the coachman to move away from the throng of carriages waiting to greet the Queen, and he walked his horse up to the bandstand, where no people gather so early in the day. And there, with tumultuously beating heart and nervously shaking hands, Lavender opened one paper after another and devoured all the news about the Fairbridge mystery.
Her first feeling was, perhaps not unnaturally, one of relief when she discovered that it was Ralph and not Melville who had been arrested. If the police were capable of trailing off on such a particularly wrong scent, they were capable of anything except detecting the real culprit. There was, too, something especially grotesque in their suspecting Ralph, who, according to Melville, was a paragon of all the virtues, instead of Melville, who, according to the same authority, was not. But to her first sensation of relief there succeeded another sequence of thoughts that filled her with a different emotion. The report of the proceedings before the magistrates was all too brief for anyone so vitally interested in the matter as Lavender was, but, womanlike, she read between the lines and jumped to conclusions with feminine accuracy.
Ralph had evidently gained the boathouse at almost the same moment that she and Melville left it; he had lingered with luxurious leisureliness over his toilet, and the police were bent upon proving that he had had time and opportunity to commit the murder. They would find a motive for the crime in the fact that under this recent will he inherited practically everything, and even if they could not bring sufficient evidence to hang him, they would, by inference and by circumstantial evidence, weave such a net around his feet that he could scarcely look to go free again. It meant, in short, that an innocent man would be condemned, and there was only one thing could save him—for Lavender herself to come forward and tell the truth, so bringing about Melville's death and her own ruin.
That, in a nutshell, was the actual state of affairs. Ralph's life was in her hands, but if she saved it she could be under no misapprehension as to what the cost would be. Whatever she did now, one of those two brothers—her own husband's nephews—would have to die at the hands of the common hangman.
Lavender read again the personal paragraphs about the suspected man, to which the halfpenny papers always give so much prominence. She tried to picture him as he must be in the flesh, with that crisp, curling hair, that straightforward expression which seemed to be his chief characteristic, and that lithe and muscular frame. There was the girl, too, to be considered, this Miss Austen, to whom Ralph was engaged; her happiness, like her lover's life, was in Lavender's hands to save or to destroy. Which pair was to be ruined—Melville and Lavender, or Ralph and this other girl?
For the man suspected of a foul crime, of which he was entirely innocent, Lavender felt nothing but pity, but the thought of the hapless girl who loved him did not touch her so nearly; if anything, it rather hardened her heart, although there was nothing cruel in her nature. The conflict of interests was so deadly, its issue fraught with such tremendous consequences, that she could not be wholly blamed for her indecision as she sat in her carriage under the trees and tried to weigh the facts in a true balance. Her immediate surroundings increased the difficulty of realising the actual value of the facts until the difficulty became an impossibility.
Yet absolute inaction was no less impossible. She had promised Melville neither to write nor call, but she must ascertain what he was doing in view of this new complication. She knew he had attended the inquest, and could imagine something of his relief at the verdict, but she did not know him well enough to forecast his behaviour in face of this extraordinary perversity of fate. Hitherto she had regarded him as a well-bred, entertaining man about town, well endowed with means, cultivated, and generally charming, one of many sparkling bubbles in the great bumper of the world's wine. The fragments of conversation she had overheard at the boathouse proved conclusively that her opinion of him was ill-founded; he was an unscrupulous adventurer, capable of lying, meanness, blackmail—of any treachery, if that was the easiest way of getting money to squander on himself. Beneath his mask of resourceful self-possession, too, there lurked a reserve of passion that, as she had seen with her own eyes, could on occasion burst out with volcanic fury and kill whatever obstacle barred the way to the goal of its desires. The actual murder might have been unpremeditated, done in a moment of maniacal anger, but now that that moment was past and his normal ingenuity and resourcefulness were able to have free play again, how would Melville deal with the problem of saving his brother without incriminating himself? She must find out.
Lavender had the carriage turned, and took her place in the long queue of vehicles facing the great gates. She liked to see Society, although she was not of it, and many of the people sitting on the grass were well known to her by sight. Since Mr. Sinclair's death, at any rate, she had had a very good time, and had followed fashion to its usual haunts at the several seasons of the year, with the result that she picked up a good many bowing acquaintances, if no intimate friends, among the class of people, part of whose business it is to be seen in the Park between four and seven o'clock. And presently she caught sight of Melville himself talking to a Duchess, whose love of music was only one of many claims to the gratitude of London. Here was the opportunity of learning something of what she was so nervously anxious to know without breaking her promise to him. She caught his eye, and pretended not to observe the obvious look of annoyance which crossed his face as he raised his hat.
"Who is your friend?" the Duchess asked. She, too, observed the frown and wondered what the reason of it was, for her brief, but adequate, survey of Lavender assured her practised eye that Melville's acquaintance was dressed with perfect taste, and if not presented was presentable.
"A very charming woman," Melville answered, "and a very good one, too, but I won't ask permission to present her to you, Duchess."
"Just as you please," said Her Grace good-naturedly. "She wants to talk to you, so you are released," and Melville, of course, had no alternative but to join Lavender.
She leaned towards him as he approached the railings.
"I have been wanting to see you so much," she said eagerly.
"That is very good of you," he said in conventional tones, for the benefit of the coachman. "I should have been delighted to call, but I have been out of town, and otherwise very much engaged."
If the coachman could hear the words he could not see the meaning glance of warning flashed from Melville's eyes; Lavender understood it perfectly, and again was conscious of the man's indomitable will. She accepted his warning, but insisted too.
"I want your advice," she said. "Where can you see me this afternoon?"
"I hardly care to offer advice in the Park," he replied; "there are so many distractions, are there not?"
Lavender almost lost her temper. She leaned nearer to him and spoke softly, so that only he could hear.
"I mean to have a talk with you about—this," and she laid her hand upon the newspapers by her side. "Will you come for a drive with me now?"
"Not now," said Melville, "but could you not be put down at Kensington Gardens? I will join you there in an hour."
Lavender looked at him searchingly.
"You will be there, really—without fail?"
"Yes," he said, and moved away, seemingly nonchalant, but in reality cursing the mischance of running up against her there. He had a particular object in being seen in the Park that afternoon; his presence there would be interpreted as indicative of perfect serenity of mind so far as he himself was concerned, and of complete confidence in his brother's innocence of the monstrous charge preferred against him. But Lavender was the last person whom he desired to see, although in their casual meeting there was probably no element of danger.
However, the discussion, if likely to be futile, could not be avoided, so at the expiration of the hour he reached the railings dividing the Gardens from the Park, and found Lavender awaiting him.
"What are you going to do now?" she enquired anxiously.
"I think you are recklessly imprudent," Melville said, ignoring her question. "Why must you of all people choose the Park for your drives just now?"
"Why shouldn't I?" she retorted indignantly.
"As you have been perusing the papers so exhaustively," he replied, "you have, doubtless, seen an advertisement suggesting that you should apply to some solicitors?"
"That Lady Holt should," she corrected him. "My name is Sinclair. There is no connection between the two people."
"I am very glad to hear it," he said grimly, "but I adhere to my opinion that you might choose some other locality than Hyde Park if you wish to take an airing."
"And I adhere to mine that there is no necessity for doing anything of the sort. Except yourself, not a soul here knows me by any other name than Lavender Sinclair, and if they took any interest in me at all, which they don't, they would fail to understand why Mrs. Sinclair should desert Hyde Park because Lady Holt has inherited money."
She spoke sarcastically and bitterly, and Melville did not pursue the point; indeed, it was just possible that she was right, and any marked variation from her usual habits might excite more comment elsewhere and be more dangerous.
"What are you going to do now?" she repeated.
"Nothing," he answered.
"But you can't allow your brother to be punished for something he never did?"
"There is no question of anything of the kind occurring," he said shortly. "Local policemen are bound to do something to justify their existence, and they have been inspired to arrest Ralph on suspicion. But nothing can be proved against him, and he will be released at the end of the week."
"And then——?"
"And then, for their own reputation's sake, they will quietly drop the whole thing, in case they make themselves still more ridiculous."
His coolness amazed her more each time he had occasion to display it; he had a way of making the most wildly improbable events seem probable, of ignoring the existence of peril until it was upon him, and then of moving placidly aside and letting it pass him by as if it were all of no account. And this marvellous confidence was, to a certain extent, infectious. Alone, Lavender might fret herself ill and quake before the visions her fancy painted in the darkness, but in his company the nightmare vanished and she reproached herself for her hysterical fears. If only Melville's abilities and personal magnetism had been directed towards good ends he might have achieved greatness, but his cleverness and charm, utilised as they were, constituted him a living danger to society.
"Do you really think that will happen?" she said; "really believe it is even possible?"
"I really do," he answered. "Look here, Lavender. I've thought about it all—anticipated every move; there is only one thing one cannot foresee, and that is the crass stupidity of people one doesn't know—in this case some Fairbridge constable. As it happens, even that is working in my favour. Ralph was at the boathouse some time before he saw—Sir Geoffrey, and he has inherited everything. Therefore, according to this fat-headed policeman, Ralph did the murder. But what's good enough to arrest a man for, is not enough to convict him, and there not only isn't any evidence against Ralph, but there can't be. He will be discharged with a halo of injured innocence round his brow; and, as I said just now, everybody will be only too glad to drop the whole thing."
For the moment he actually satisfied her and lifted a load of anxiety from her heart. Then he broached an idea which he had been pondering for some days.
"Why don't you go out of town for a bit, or, better still, out of England? I suppose, in any case, you would be going soon."
"You want me out of the way?" she said interrogatively.
"I think it very desirable that you should be, certainly," he answered. "You're in a horribly nervous condition, which is perfectly natural, and goodness only knows what might happen if any fresh trouble came upon you just now in connection with your marriage to Mr. Sinclair. There would be all sorts of litigation, and I can't imagine that you contemplate giving up what you've got from him for the sake of having less from somebody else, leaving alone all considerations of the scandal."
It was neatly put, but she was sceptical about his regard for her interests. She flushed as he told her of the annuity Sir Geoffrey had left her, and of the conditions under which it was to be obtained, and he regretted having laid any emphasis upon the humiliating nature of those restrictions, for she keenly resented having been so unnecessarily subjected to this implied affront. Badly as she might have treated her husband, she had at least been proud enough to refrain from asking him for help, and that pride would have endured, however poor she might have become subsequent to her desertion of him. Melville's duplicity angered her, and she refused to acquiesce in his wish that she should run away, and turned a deaf ear to his further arguments in favour of that course.
"No," she said doggedly, "I won't go," and for the time he gave up trying to persuade her.
"Tell me," she said, as at last he got up to go home, "how am I to communicate with you if I want to see you?"
"I don't suppose it will be necessary," he answered.
"I must know what to do if I consider it necessary," she persisted.
"Well, the only imperative thing is to refrain from writing," he said. "Whatever else you do, don't write anything definite or indefinite which can be twisted into having reference to this miserable business. Send a verbal message by someone whom you can really trust, to be delivered only to myself in person, saying you want to see me and where, and I will come. If the messenger doesn't know what you want to see me about, and doesn't start gossiping to the servants at my chambers, I don't suppose any harm can be done."
"Very well," Lavender replied, "that will do, and you may be sure I won't worry you unless I think it is necessary. Only remember, if I do send for you, you must come."
"That I promise," said Melville. "Whom will you send?"
"Lucille," she answered.
"Is she reliable?" he asked.
"Absolutely," she replied. "It was she who showed me the advertisement of Mr. Tracy wishing to know my whereabouts."
"Why on earth did she suppose that would interest you?" he exclaimed. "Does she know——?"
"She knows I am Lady Holt," said Lavender.
"Good God!" cried Melville, and a look of fear came into his eyes.
However preposterous the charge against Ralph might appear to those who knew the man, the magistrates decided that aprimâ faciecase had been made out against him, and at the end of the adjourned hearing fully committed him for trial on the capital charge at the next assizes. To this disaster it is possible that his own demeanour contributed, for throughout the proceedings he exhibited an impatient indignation that went far to alienate the sympathy of those who, within their own limitations, were striving to discharge their duty faithfully. Mr. Tracy on several occasions had difficulty in restraining his client's temper, and, at a final interview with him after his committal, implored him to control himself more effectually at the assizes.
"But they are such hopeless imbeciles," Ralph protested. "Thank goodness, the decision won't rest with any Justice Shallow next time! If it did, I should inevitably hang."
Mr. Tracy quieted him somewhat, and Gwendolen, who also was permitted to see him before he was removed, did much to restore his faith in human nature, but everybody at the Manor House was oppressed by a sense of impending calamity. Innocent men have met death upon the gallows before now, and faith is such a different thing from proof. In the meantime, however, there was an interval during which it might be possible to get upon some other trail, and all Ralph's friends swore to leave no stone unturned to prove his innocence.
As a first step, Gwendolen determined to enlist Melville's active co-operation, and with her mother called upon him at his chambers, having previously let him know he might expect them. Melville was sympathy incarnate, and, although he confessed that he did not see in what way he could be of use, promised to be unremitting in his enquiries and to spare neither time nor trouble to bring about the acquittal which he desired as much as they did. What he had said to Lavender in Kensington Gardens he repeated now to Gwendolen, and with very similar effect, so that she went away cheered and hopeful and full of gratitude to him.
The cab containing them had scarcely driven away before another visitor arrived in the person of Mr. Tracy. The old gentleman was evidently unaware that the Austens had just called upon Melville on the same errand, and Melville did not enlighten him; the least suggestion of mystery had an odd fascination for him, and from the possession of exclusive information, however trifling in itself, he always derived satisfaction and a sense of power. In presence of the solicitor his pose was different; he resented the stigma cast upon the family name, was not free from apprehensions about the issue of the trial, and agreed with Ralph in denouncing the stupidity of the police; but he had no practical suggestion to offer, and again did not see in what way he could be of use. He rather inclined to the idea that excess of activity might be construed to his brother's disadvantage.
"You never know what these criminal lawyers may not make of trifles most praiseworthy in themselves," he said. "If I were to be seen all over the place trying to pump everybody they would as likely as not protest that I was trying to suborn evidence for our side; whereas, if I keep myself aloof and lead my usual life it will, at any rate, show that I'm confident of Ralph's innocence and feel no anxiety."
"But you must feel anxiety," said Mr. Tracy irritably. "Your brother is in a deuced ticklish position, Mr. Ashley."
"I know," Melville answered, with a far-away look upon his face. "I wouldn't be in his place for a million of money." That was almost the only absolutely sincere remark he made upon the subject. "Look here, Mr. Tracy," he said suddenly, "in confidence, do you really think Ralph might swing for this?"
"I think it's quite possible," the lawyer said. "It's a capital charge, and if the jury bring in a verdict of guilty the sentence must be death; there's no alternative. Whether it would be carried out or commuted to penal servitude is another matter, as to which I have formed no opinion."
"No jury can convict," said Melville obstinately; "there's no evidence."
Mr. Tracy would not argue the point. That would be done exhaustively by-and-bye; his present business was to stimulate Melville into activity, and it was not progressing as he liked.
"What we have to do at the present time," he said, "is to make all possible enquiries and follow up any possible clue, however shadowy it may seem at first. I want you to exhaust the neighbourhood of Fairbridge; you know everybody there. Go round the inns and little shops and the locks, and encourage the people to talk. You may hear of some stranger having been seen about there at the time, hanging about the bars or the towing-path, or something of that sort; if you do, follow it up."
"But all that means time and money," said Melville. "I can't afford either."
Mr. Tracy was surprised.
"My dear sir," he said, "you must make the time, and as for the money, that is my affair, as the solicitor for the defence. I will pay a hundred into your account this afternoon, if you will tell me where you bank."
"That simplifies things for me," said Melville, imparting the necessary information without too much alacrity, but yet making sure that Mr. Tracy should make no mistake as to which branch of the bank he honoured with his custom. "I don't see why I shouldn't confess to you that I am hard up, and Sir Geoffrey's will was like a blow between the eyes."
"It was an amazing business," Mr. Tracy admitted. "About this Lady Holt, Mr. Ashley; had you any idea of her existence?"
"Not the faintest," said Melville unblushingly.
"Nor why you should be excluded from the will? Pardon me, if I seem to be asking too much."
"The whole thing was like a bolt from the blue," Melville replied. "As a matter of fact I had been on particularly good terms with my uncle just lately, which makes it all the more incomprehensible to me. By the way," he added, with the charm of manner which he knew so well how to assume upon occasion, "I hope you will forget what I said to Ralph after you read the will that day. I was horribly mortified, and I daresay I said more than I really meant."
"Whatever you might have said I should have attributed to a very natural disappointment," Mr. Tracy said pleasantly. "That is all forgotten, so far as I am concerned, and I know I may call upon you now with confidence."
"With perfect confidence," Melville answered. "If you think I may be able to find out anything by pottering about Fairbridge, I'll go down and begin operations to-morrow, but I'm not sanguine."
"At any rate, your evidence will be valuable to show the terms on which your brother stood with your uncle. They were always particularly good friends, weren't they?"
"Yes," said Melville moodily. "Ralph was always Sir Geoffrey's favourite."
"And he was delighted, I know, about your brother's engagement to Miss Austen," Mr. Tracy continued, unconsciously rubbing salt into Melville's sores. "It was his intention to make most handsome settlements, which would have rendered the young couple quite independent."
"I daresay," said Melville. "Well, there it is. I am quite ready to testify that Ralph was always like a very affectionate son to Sir Geoffrey, and that, as far as I can see, there was not only no reason why he should commit such a crime as he is alleged to have committed, but every reason why he shouldn't. Ralph and I have never been very chummy, but nobody would do more to clear him of this preposterous charge than I would. That goes without saying. What makes me want to kick myself is that I can't do something that seems more practical than simply go into court and say what everybody knows already."
"It will all help," said Mr. Tracy; "and, after all, the burden of proof rests on the prosecution."
"Quite so," said Melville. "That was my point at the start. I don't see how evidence can be manufactured, and unless it can be, Ralph is bound to be acquitted. Still, I'm your man, Mr. Tracy, and as you suggest that I might pick up some clue from local gossip I'll be off to-morrow, and report progress as soon as I make any."
He spoke heartily, and Mr. Tracy shook his outstretched hand, well content with the result of his call.
"It's an ill wind that blows no one any good," he thought as he descended in the lift. "If one result of this magisterial blunder is to make those two fine young fellows better friends, it won't have been all wasted; and as for the trial I don't suppose there will really be any miscarriage of justice."
Sir Geoffrey had appointed Mr. Tracy executor of his will, and the old fellow travelled to Fairbridge every evening, and dined and slept at the Manor House. He found the arrangement a very pleasant one in many ways, and incidentally it enabled him to do Gwendolen good by employing her as his secretary in dealing with the mass of business involved in the settlement of so considerable an estate, and thus distracting her thoughts from her terrible anxiety for at least a portion of the twenty-four hours. He felt confident that he would sooner or later come across some documents relating to the mysterious marriage, and he carefully perused all the letters which Sir Geoffrey had preserved. There was, however, no trace of any correspondence between the husband and wife. It was, of course, possible that they had not been apart after their marriage until the final separation came, but still it was singular that among so many letters as Sir Geoffrey had kept there should be none from this particular person—not even letters written during the period of courtship.
It was in this direction that Mr. Tracy had turned Gwendolen's especial attention, desiring her, also, to look carefully among a rather large assortment of photographs and miniatures for anything that might conceivably be a portrait of Lady Holt. He was anxious to trace the whereabouts of the widow for reasons quite apart from his obligation to carry out Sir Geoffrey's testamentary instructions in every particular.
Questions would certainly be asked about her at Ralph's trial, and his professional pride was piqued at his present entire ignorance of the story.
After leaving Melville's chambers he went back to his office in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and issued another advertisement to the Press, offering a substantial reward to anyone who would give him information as to the whereabouts of Lady Holt.
"It is only her business to apply to me for her own advantage," he reflected; "it is anybody's business to tell me where she is if it's made worth their while," and convinced that the money spent on this advertisement might prove to have been well spent, he went down to Fairbridge in an equable frame of mind.
He was surprised when Gwendolen told him she had seen Melville that afternoon.
"I wonder why he did not mention it," he said, but although his training inclined him to be suspicious, his suspicions on this occasion were easily dispelled, especially as his impressions of Melville's good disposition towards his brother tallied with those formed by the two ladies.
"I consider that he behaved in a very gentlemanly and straightforward fashion," he said, and Mrs. Austen cordially agreed. "He was diffident as to his power to help, but directly I suggested something I thought he might do, he undertook it with alacrity. That is quite the proper spirit."
And privately, to his own mind, he admitted that Melville could not explain to Mrs. Austen how his financial position would have hampered his activities, but for that little cheque on account of out-of-pocket expenditure, and he was filled with admiration of Melville's delicacy and tact as well. He had no doubt but what Melville Ashley was a deeply-injured man, and resolved to interpret Ralph's instructions liberally, and pay in another hundred pounds to Melville's account at the bank.
Later in the evening, Gwendolen came to him in the library and laid some photographs in front of him.
"I found these in an old bureau," she said. "Do you think one of them might be Lady Holt?"
Mr. Tracy looked at them eagerly; two of them he laid aside, but the third he kept in his hands.
"Those two I am pretty sure I recognise; they are old photographs, but the faces are familiar to me, though I cannot put names to them at the moment. This one is different. Taken at Norwich, I see. If the photographer is still there we may ascertain whose likeness it is. I will make enquiries at once, and hope something may come of it. Thank you, my dear. This may be exceedingly useful," and after examining it earnestly, as if to impress the picture on his memory, he put it carefully away with the other papers relating to Sir Geoffrey's last will and testament.
If fate was playing a joke upon Ralph Ashley, her humour erred upon the side of grimness. His friends met with no success in their endeavours to find some other possible culprit, and, on the other hand, a succession of small incidents occurred, all of which seemed to lead him on inevitably a little nearer to the gallows. Of these, the most important was the finding of a revolver in the gun-room at the Manor House and a quantity of bullets similar to that which had penetrated Sir Geoffrey's heart. At the trial this seemed to be the most conclusive point in the case for the Crown. There was no indication that it had been recently used, but the same remark applied to all the weapons in the little armoury, all of them being kept in perfect condition. The explanation of its existence was given frankly by Ralph and corroborated by Melville; it was one of two given years before by Sir Geoffrey to his nephews, but to which of the two it properly belonged neither of the brothers could declare; both averred they had not used them for a very long time, and the damning fact remained that the other pistol was missing. It had been thrown away, the prosecution suggested, after the tragedy, and that all the ammunition had not also been destroyed was due to that oversight of which every criminal is capable, and but for which many more murderers would escape conviction.
Ralph was haggard and pulled down by confinement and by want of sleep; if he were a criminal, he was, at any rate, no actor, and his obvious nervousness was interpreted by many as symptomatic of a guilty conscience. He listened attentively to the entire proceedings with visibly increasing consternation and dismay, and it was not until Melville took up his position in the witness-box that any gleam of hope appeared upon his face.
Melville once more engrossed the sympathy of a court; he was so distressed upon his brother's account, so anxious to testify to his integrity of character, so ready, and yet so concise, in his replies, that he made an ideal witness.
"Ralph was always my uncle's favourite," he said again, with a rather pathetic smile; "they were just like father and son." No, he had never heard of any difference of opinion between them, and was convinced they had never had any quarrel. It was impossible, he protested, that Ralph could or would have committed such a crime. His generous indignation warmed Ralph's heart, and was subsequently commented on with approbation by counsel for the Crown in his concluding address to the jury, although, as that great lawyer pointed out, it did not affect the issue. What was more important was the admission he was rather skilfully beguiled into making that on one occasion he had known his brother to be embarrassed by want of money. An apparently trivial question had been put as to his knowledge of Ralph's financial position, and Melville answered it candidly; both of them were absolutely dependent on Sir Geoffrey's bounty, both received a liberal allowance, and on one occasion Sir Geoffrey had paid a considerable sum in which Melville himself was indebted. Presumably, therefore, he would have done the same for Ralph, to whom he was, by common consent, more attached.
"In short, you are not aware that your brother has ever been in want of ready money?"
Melville hesitated, coloured, and was lost. Reluctantly, and only as the result of a long series of skilfully worded questions, he let out the fact that Ralph had once applied to him for an immediate loan of a hundred pounds. He was at Monte Carlo at the time, and Ralph wrote from Fairbridge. Yes, he supposed that Ralph might have applied to Sir Geoffrey, but it did not follow that he had done so and been refused. The inference was unwarrantable, he declared warmly, but his protest failed to have effect, and the harm was done. In reply to a few further questions, he accounted moodily for his own time on the day of the murder. He had gone out for a walk after a late breakfast, and in the afternoon had remained at home, owing to the storm. The telegram announcing his uncle's death was not brought to him at once, as his valet was off duty. The manager of the chambers brought it up with some letters when, on waking up from a doze, Melville rang for tea. He was obviously downcast by the information previously extracted from him, and when he finally left the box, it was felt that he had slipped the noose around his brother's neck.
Of the rest of the proceedings Melville had no knowledge at first hand. His nerves, strong and finely tempered as they were, could not stand the tension, and he hurried to the hotel, where he had engaged a private room. There he paced up and down like a caged beast, unable to think coherently, and only waiting with horrible anxiety for the verdict. In the still silence of the court, Gwendolen sat motionless, her whole attitude a prayer, and downstairs Ralph waited, glad to escape the observation of the hundreds of curious eyes. But to neither of them, to whom the verdict meant so much, did the time seem so appallingly long as it seemed to Melville, nor was their anguish any thing like his.
Three hours dragged by, each one composed of sixty minutes of agony, and then the waiter brought a note to him. He tore it open, afraid to read its contents, yet unable to endure another second of suspense. The jury had been unable to agree, and the case was sent back to be tried again.
Melville groaned. So it all had to be gone through again, all the examination and cross-examination and re-examination, all the hypocrisy and ingenuity and deceit, and at the end perhaps another murder, or perhaps suicide; for Ralph's conviction would be equivalent to the one, and his acquittal might be procurable only by the revelation of the truth, which would involve the other. Melville had honestly expected his brother's acquittal, had been quite sincere in his words of encouragement to Gwendolen; and now there was this miserable, ineffectual conclusion to the solemn farce.
White lipped, wide eyed, with furrows scored across his brow, he turned to the waiter and forced a smile.
"Well, that's the end of it to-day. Order a fly to take me to the station. I'll go up by the next train," and writing a note to Mr. Tracy to say he could be got at at once in Jermyn Street if required, he presently returned to town.
In the cells below the court Mr. Tracy found a very different man awaiting him from the one he had last seen in the dock. The intolerant indignation with which Ralph had listened to the various suggestions of the prosecution, and the scorn with which he had heard the address to the jury, with its denunciation of his supposed ingratitude and treachery, were all gone. He was pale and exhausted by the long day in the crowded court, but he was also dignified and self-possessed. He turned to the solicitor with a whimsical smile.
"I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Since some of the twelve good men and true were not convinced of my innocence, I suppose I ought to be grateful that things are not worse than they are. Did I behave myself better to-day?"
"Much better," Mr. Tracy answered. "You know," he added seriously, "the circumstantial evidence was very strong, and although, as I have maintained all along, the probabilities are always against a miscarriage of justice, you are not out of the wood yet. Mr. Ashley, if the jury had convicted you we should only have had a matter of three weeks in which to discover new facts. I think you ought to be grateful that we have three months."
"That is true," said Ralph soberly. "But what a three months for me! Is there no chance of bail?"
Mr. Tracy shook his head.
"No. You must go through with it, but a great deal may happen in three months, and it won't be for want of trying if I don't get you out long before then. Now, Mr. Ashley, I have two questions to ask you. First, do you know who this is?"
Ralph looked at the photograph which Mr. Tracy showed him.
"To the best of my knowledge I've never seen this before, and I'm certain I don't know the original. Who is it?"
"I have an idea it is Lady Holt," Mr. Tracy answered, "but I dare say I shall find out soon. It is curious how everything seems to be in a conspiracy against you. The man who took that photograph retired from business a few years ago and is now dead. I hoped I might find out the name of the lady from him, but he's dead and the books can't be traced. Now the next point. The hundred pounds you asked your brother to lend you; what about that?"
Ralph's brows contracted.
"I asked him for it," he said curtly. "That's true enough; but I didn't get it."
"That don't matter," Mr. Tracy retorted. "The fact that you asked for it did you a lot of harm to-day."
"I don't see why Melville should have referred to it at all."
"Perhaps he couldn't help himself," the solicitor said. "Some of those fellows are marvellous at making you say more than you mean to say. Why did you ask him for it?"
"Because I was a silly ass," Ralph answered viciously, "and didn't like to ask Sir Geoffrey. I never did ask him for a sovereign in my life; goodness knows he gave me enough without that. Do you remember selling out some railway stock for me a little time ago?"
"Yes," said Mr. Tracy, "and advising you not to do it, but you would not listen."
"That was the time," Ralph said. "I had bought a yacht for Gwen and didn't want to give it to her not paid for, and you were slower than usual, and I was cleaned out, and only just engaged. And I asked Melville to lend me a hundred till you settled up. Of course, Sir Geoffrey would have given it to me if I had asked him, but he would have insisted on its being a gift, not a loan, and I wanted the boat to be my present to Gwen, not his."
"Well, I'll see that some of that comes out next time," said Mr. Tracy. "I could see that it made a very bad impression to-day."
"There's a continuation to the story," said Ralph, with a hard look in his eyes, "and since Melville has chosen to reopen it, I don't see why I should not tell you the rest. He did not answer my letter, did not send me the money."
"Well?" said Mr. Tracy.
"He came back from Monte Carlo broke to the world and fetched up at Fairbridge. I happened to go away that night and just missed him, but he saw Sir Geoffrey and asked for some money. Sir Geoffrey said he wouldn't give him another sixpence, and asked what he had done with two hundred and fifty pounds he'd had six weeks before. I'm blest if Melville didn't produce my letter and say he'd lent me a hundred of it."
"Oh!" said Mr. Tracy; "and what happened then?"
"The dear old chap begged his pardon and paid him the hundred pounds for me. If ever there was a rank swindle that was one. When I came home next day he began to pitch into me for asking Melville instead of him for help, and, of course, the whole thing came out at once."
"Yes," said Mr. Tracy. "What did Sir Geoffrey say?"
"He said rather a lot," Ralph answered grimly. "He was going to instruct you to take proceedings against Melville for getting money under false pretences, but I persuaded him to let me repay him the hundred pounds and take the matter up myself. He agreed—rather reluctantly—and that was the end of the matter, except that I had a bit of a rumpus with Melville, who owes me the money to this day."
Mr. Tracy was much more interested than he allowed Ralph to perceive; the story let in a flood of light upon much that he had not been able to understand.
"Then your brother is extravagant, I suppose?"
"Money runs through his fingers like water through a sieve," Ralph answered. "Just six weeks before that Sir Geoffrey wiped off all his debts, as he admitted to-day; he gave him two hundred and fifty pounds, and told him to go to the deuce; Melville blew the lot at Monte Carlo, came home, got that extra hundred out of Sir Geoffrey, and went away. And the very next day he turned up again at Fairbridge, had a long session with the old chap, and got round him so far that he stayed a week at the Manor House and began to tap him again, just as casually as ever. I couldn't understand it then, and I can't now. Sir Geoffrey never talked about him after we had that palaver about my supposed debt, but I am quite clear it was because of that swindle that Melville got himself disinherited. Sir Geoffrey didn't like his gambling, but he liked the other thing less—and I don't wonder."
"Why didn't you tell me something about this on the day of the funeral," Mr. Tracy asked, "when I read the will?"
"Oh, well," said Ralph, "I'm a slow-witted chap, you know, and you were in a hurry; and, besides, it's not a pretty story. I wouldn't have mentioned it now, only Melville brought it up so unnecessarily. You had better know the rights of it since you think what he said did me harm to-day."
For the time being, Ralph forgot the position in which he actually stood, and turned as if to accompany Mr. Tracy to the door when he rose to leave, but the sight of the warders, who had retired to the far end of the room, re-awakened him to the fact that he was a prisoner, and he flushed as he put out his hand.
"I'm awfully grateful, sir, for all you have done and are doing for me. If you succeed and clear my name, I may be able to show my gratitude practically."
"When I succeed, you mean," Mr. Tracy corrected him smilingly. "I must say good-bye now, but next time I come I hope I shall have good news for you. Don't brood over your grievance, Mr. Ashley. That may seem a counsel of perfection, but try to act up to it, if only for the sake of that charming young lady who is waiting for you. Faith in God and a clear conscience can make even prison tolerable, and nobody can rob you of those."
He put his bag down upon the table while he shook both Ralph's hands violently. Then he blew his nose with equal violence, seized his bag, and hurried away, scolding himself inwardly for being so upset by so commonplace an incident as an interview with a client. Not until he was in the railway carriage and on his way to town did he recover his usual equanimity. With his characteristic stare of mild surprise he surveyed the bag which reposed on the seat opposite to him, but the only remark which escaped his lips was when at length he removed his eyes from it, as if he had ascertained what was in it by some mental adaptation of the X ray process. His remark was brief and pregnant: "Well, I'm hanged."
Melville's faculty of reading character did not err when it satisfied him that he might rely upon Lavender Sinclair keeping faithfully any secret which she had passed her word not to betray. There are plenty of women of whom the same might be said, all the gibes of all the cynics notwithstanding. But it also told him that he might be ill-advised in leaving her too much alone, especially just now, when the papers were so full of the trial and of speculations as to her own existence and whereabouts. The morning after the abortive trial, therefore, he determined to pay her an early visit, and donning a new suit of mourning, and an expression suited to the part he was being compelled to play in the Fairbridge tragedy, he walked out of his chambers as soon as he had finished his customary "brunch."
Thus it happened that he was not at home when a few minutes after his departure Mr. Tracy, who capriciously elected to walk upstairs without enquiring of the commissionaire whether Mr. Ashley was within, or troubling the lift attendant to convey him to the top floor, knocked at the outer door of his self-contained suite of apartments. Jervis opened the door.
"Mr. Ashley has only just gone out," he said, "and he gave me no instructions as to when he would return."
Mr. Tracy was visibly distressed; he was also elderly, and rather out of breath from scaling so many stairs.
"It is of the first importance that I should see him to-day. You have no idea where he has gone—whether I might find him at his club, for instance?"
Jervis could not say. Mr. Ashley was a member of several clubs, but it was scarcely likely that he would visit any of them so early in the day. Could not the gentleman leave a card and call again?
The gentleman would much prefer to wait on the chance of Mr. Ashley's returning, but Jervis seemed so disconcerted by the suggestion, and so much at a loss for a civil way of getting rid of the visitor, that Mr. Tracy took pity on him.
"In point of fact," he said, "I am Mr. Ashley's family solicitor, and you may have heard of the melancholy affair at Fairbridge Manor. I must see Mr. Ashley immediately, in order to prepare for the new trial that is now necessary."
No servant could fail to recognise the paramount importance of such a visitor, or take the responsibility of sending him away without explicit orders to that effect, and Jervis admitted Mr. Tracy. He did more, influenced perhaps by the transference of two new coins, a sovereign and a shilling from the lawyer's pocket to his own.
"I come of an old-fashioned school," Mr. Tracy said with a smile, "and must insist upon your accepting the shilling as well. There's a sentimental difference as well as a pecuniary one between a pound and a guinea, and I never cease to regret that guineas are coined no more. No thanks, I beg. I am really excessively obliged to you for allowing me to come in and await Mr. Ashley's return."
So Mr. Tracy gained his point, and Jervis never suspected that for more than half an hour he had been waiting in the tailor's shop opposite, watching for Melville to emerge before climbing the steep staircase to the little bachelor flat.
"Mr. Ashley always takes a very late breakfast," Jervis remarked as he proceeded with his work of clearing the table. "May I get you some luncheon, sir? I am sure it would be Mr. Ashley's wish that I should ask you."
"'Pon my word now, that's very obliging of you," Mr. Tracy answered; "very obliging indeed. I always breakfast very early myself, and I am distinctly hungry. If I shall not be causing anybody any inconvenience I should be uncommonly glad of some luncheon."
So Jervis relaid the table, and after several colloquies with the chef, conducted through the medium of the speaking tube outside, produced a meal which did great credit to the establishment, and which Mr. Tracy, to use his own language, found "vastly appetising." And while he gave proof of his appreciation of this vicarious hospitality by satisfying an appetite which would have been creditable to a young fellow of twenty, he entertained the valet with a chatty, circumstantial account of the famous murder trial, in which he knew he must be interested. Men of the old school, to which Mr. Tracy prided himself on belonging, are not prone to hold such animated conversations with other people's servants as Mr. Tracy held with Melville's valet now. Jervis was probably unaware of this, but, in all the circumstances, it is not surprising that he should be completely satisfied of the visitor's good faith, and chat as freely as the visitor did himself; which was precisely according to Mr. Tracy's anticipations, and was the sole reason of his going there at all.
"I daresay Mr. Ashley is very much upset by the suspicion attaching to his brother," Mr. Tracy said, as he attacked a second kidney.
"I don't doubt he is," Jervis replied, "but he's not the sort of gentleman to show it."
"Not given to showing his feelings, you mean," said the lawyer; "his uncle, Sir Geoffrey Holt, was just like that. But it doesn't follow that those very self-possessed people feel things less than the others do. You don't agree with me, eh?" for Jervis looked doubtful.
"I don't think Mr. Ashley minds things as much as I should if I were in his place," the valet answered; "that is to say, not some things."
"Little things, perhaps," Mr. Tracy suggested.
"Well, not what I should call little things," said Jervis, who was by no means disinclined to criticise one of his gentlemen, as he termed the several tenants of the chambers whom he had the privilege of valeting. "For instance, if his breakfast don't please him, or his boots don't shine enough, you'd think the house was on fire by the way he rings the bell, but in what I should call vexations he doesn't even begin to seem worried, when I should be off my head with scheming and devising."
Mr. Tracy laughed.
"To have the power of not being worried by worries must be a great blessing sometimes, but the word has such different meanings for different people. A man like Mr. Ashley, with comfortable quarters and first-class attendance, and well-to-do people belonging to him, can't have real anxieties."
"I don't know about all that," Jervis said sententiously. "Nobody can see very far into anybody else's life. What I should be rich on, Mr. Ashley may be poor on, but I've known lots of times when he's been in difficulties, so to speak, and never turned a hair. Those are poached eggs on spinach, sir."
"Thanks, I'll take some," said Mr. Tracy, who would have gone on eating until dinner-time if only so he could have prolonged the conversation; "but what do you mean by difficulties?"
Jervis laughed a little in his turn.
"Of course, all this is quite between ourselves? It would never do if Mr. Ashley knew I'd remarked upon it, but people can't help seeing what goes on under their noses if they're not blind, and gentlemen's gentlemen see more than other people, to say nothing of their having to do with it in a manner of speaking. Well, there was one time I remember particularly, because it seemed so funny—the sort of thing nobody but Mr. Ashley would have thought of, yet it came quite natural-like to him. It was last time he came home from Monte Carlo, where he'd been making money for the bank. I don't believe he had a penny piece to call his own, and he was going out in the evening. 'Jervis,' he says, 'put out my dress clothes early; I'm dining out to-night.' So I went to do it, but couldn't find any shirts in his portmanteau. When he went away I'd sent all his linen to the laundry, and they wouldn't send it back without he paid the bill, which was a pretty long one. 'Have you any shirts, sir?' I asked, and he took me up, vexed-like. 'How the devil am I to know?' he says; 'find some.' Course I had to tell him about the laundry, and he colours up and says he'll be hanged if he writes them a cheque."
"How did you manage?" Mr. Tracy enquired.
"I didn't manage at all," Jervis announced; "that's what I'm telling you. It worried me at the time, although it wasn't me who was going out, but Mr. Ashley takes it all as a matter of course. 'Go over to the Burlington Arcade,' he says, like a lord, 'and tell my hosiers to send over three dozen and put them down to my account.'"
"Did they do it?" Mr. Tracy asked.
"Do it?" said Jervis scornfully; "of course they did it. Seems to me people will do anything in this world if you only bluff them enough. Still, there's a case to show what I mean. I should never have thought of getting three dozen shirts on credit because I couldn't pay my laundry bill, but to Mr. Ashley it was the natural thing to do."
Mr. Tracy was really amused, but he thought it a most illuminating anecdote, and followed up the vein it opened.
"So Mr. Ashley plays at Monte Carlo, does he? Well, one wants a long purse for that game. Does he entertain much here? He very well might where things are so well done."
Jervis appreciated the compliment.
"Only a very occasional supper," he answered. "I'm sure I'm sorry he doesn't have company oftener." Jervis's regret may, perhaps, have been due to financial considerations, but he hastened to admit that Mr. Ashley's failure to receive his friends in Jermyn Street made the work lighter for his attendants. "Of course, it makes the place an easier one for me," he said, "and I will say that, although there are times when for weeks together he doesn't know where to lay his hand on a shilling, Mr. Ashley is very considerate and very free with his money when he's got any. Often and often he's thrown me over a couple of sovereigns and said I might find them useful if I knew anybody who would like to go up to Hampton Court or have an afternoon at Kempton—which I do."
He became anecdotal, and Mr. Tracy found it a not very easy matter to get him back to the subject of Melville's habits without making his purpose too apparent, but he did it at last.
"No," said Jervis, in reply to some indirect question, "Mr. Ashley hardly ever has ladies here. There was two called the other day, and one came to tea once."
"The two were the Austens, I expect," said Mr. Tracy. "Miss Austen is engaged to be married to Mr. Ashley's brother."
"Is she?" said Jervis, with interest; "poor young lady! Do you think Mr. Ashley—our Mr. Ashley, I mean—is going to marry the other lady? She's the only one I've ever known come here alone."
"I don't know, I'm sure," Mr. Tracy answered. "I don't even know who she was."
"Her name was Sinclair," Jervis said. "She was a lady, anyone could see, and beautifully dressed. She must know him very well, because I heard her call him Melville. It was the very day before the murder at Fairbridge that she called and took tea with Mr. Ashley."
"The day before, or the day it happened?" Mr. Tracy asked.
"The day before," said Jervis. "The day of the murder Mr. Ashley didn't go out. I know that because he happened to say he would be going out and he wouldn't want me. So I went to Hendon, but when I got back Mr. Ashley had been telegraphed for, and the manager told me he was in a terrible way because he had stopped at home after all, owing to the storm, and the telegram wasn't brought up to him at once."
With all this, and much more, did Jervis entertain Mr. Tracy, in whom, as Mr. Ashley's family solicitor, he felt he might place entire confidence. He removed the luncheon, set the room in order, and attended to his various duties in Melville's bedroom, brushing his dress clothes and laying them out in preparation for the evening, but still Melville did not return. When the clock upon the mantelpiece chimed half-past three Mr. Tracy began to show signs that even his patience was becoming exhausted.
"I am afraid that after all I shall have to give it up," he said, with evident reluctance. "If you will still further oblige me with writing materials, I will leave a note for Mr. Ashley, asking him to give me an early appointment."
Jervis produced the necessary tools, and Mr. Tracy wrote the little note.
"I have told him how attentive you have been," he said to the valet, "and perhaps you will allow me——"
Another guinea changed hands, and Jervis was profuse in his expressions of gratitude; none the less he seemed a shade uneasy.
"Of course, anything that I have said," he began, but Mr. Tracy cut him short.
"Absolutely between ourselves, I assure you; ab-so-lutely between ourselves," and, with a sagacious nod of the head, the old fellow began to take his departure. At the door he hesitated a moment, for a card tray caught his eye. "Some of these young men are terrible sticklers for etiquette," he said, scrutinising it closely; "perhaps I ought to add my card to these," and while fumbling in his pocket for his card-case he contrived to get a glimpse of Mrs. Sinclair's card, which Jervis had brought up the day before the tragedy. He had not time to see the number of the house, but The Vale, South Kensington, was quite enough for his immediate needs, and as he turned into Piccadilly Circus he gave utterance to a little sound, half grunt, half chuckle, expressive of the utmost satisfaction.
"It's cost me two guineas and a wholly unnecessary suit of clothes, but I shall be very much astonished if it doesn't prove a good investment. Still, if it doesn't, the estate can bear it. 'Pon my word, if my name weren't Tracy, I should think it must be Slater!"
Well pleased with himself, he climbed on to the top of a Putney omnibus, and employed the time occupied in the journey to South Kensington Station in arranging his mental notes. He had already heard enough to verify the impression gleaned from Ralph that Melville was an inveterate gambler, and that was quite enough to explain Sir Geoffrey's hitherto incomprehensible action in disinheriting his younger nephew.
"It only shows how even an experienced old lawyer like myself can be taken in by a plausible young rascal," he thought with much humility. "I dare say he is a waster, who tired Sir Geoffrey out. It will be interesting to try to ascertain presently how much he did have out of the old man in the last year or two. Three hundred and fifty pounds in six weeks isn't bad to begin with, and I don't think there can be any doubt of his having had that."
Assuming Ralph's story to be accurate in every particular, there yet remained one point which puzzled Mr. Tracy. If Sir Geoffrey had resented Melville's fraud in the matter of the alleged loan to his brother so hotly as to be within an ace of prosecuting him for getting money under false pretences, why had he relented so suddenly and given unquestioning hospitality to an extravagant gambler and swindler whom, even prior to the last fraud, he had formally discarded and renounced? What was the method which Melville's ingenuity had devised to overcome Sir Geoffrey's expressed determination? At present, Mr. Tracy could not conjecture, but already he knew enough to make him want to know more, and in journeying, as he was now doing, to see what manner of place The Vale, South Kensington, might be, he was acting on reason rather than impulse, albeit the reason was hard to define precisely.
At the station he descended from the omnibus and walked into the Fulham Road, finding it necessary to ask more than once where The Vale was to be found; it is, indeed, not an easy spot to discover, although the ground occupied by the several houses and their gardens is so considerable. Just as he had lighted upon the archway forming the entrance to the place, an empty carriage emerged, and Mr. Tracy asked the coachman if he knew which was Mrs. Sinclair's house.
"Number five," the man replied. "I was to have driven her out to-day, but she's ill and can't go."
"Are you her coachman?"
"Oh, no," the man said. "Mrs. Sinclair doesn't keep a carriage, but hires pretty often from our place."
"Thank you," said Mr. Tracy; "perhaps I had better postpone my visit to another day," and, noting with admiration the shady lawns and bright gardens lurking so unexpectedly in this busy part of the town, he turned again into the street, after making sure that he could find the place again without difficulty. A dairy on the other side of the road, looking delightfully clean and cool with its green and white tiles, polished marble counters, and gleaming milk cans, invited him, and sitting down at a little table he ordered a large glass of milk and soda, and drew the girl behind the counter into a gossipy conversation.
"Yes, it's a sweetly pretty place," she said, referring to The Vale, "and nice people live there; carriage people mostly. We serve them all."
"Do you know Mrs. Sinclair?" Mr. Tracy asked. "I was calling upon her to-day, but am told she isn't well."
"I'm sorry," said the girl. "Oh, yes, I know her very well. She is so nice and civil-spoken, and always so beautifully dressed. Don't you think she's very good-looking? Not pretty, you know, but handsome and distinguished looking."
"I haven't seen her for some years," Mr. Tracy answered, "but still I daresay she hasn't changed much. Women can always remain any age they please."
The girl smiled, as in duty bound.
"I always envy Mrs. Sinclair," she said. "She has everything a woman can possibly want—except, perhaps, a husband."
So there was no Mr. Sinclair. Possibly Jervis was right, and Melville hoped to make good the want in this lady's scheme of things.
"Do you think a rich widow's is really the happiest lot of all?" Mr. Tracy enquired.
"Depends upon the husband, I should say," the girl replied; "but Mrs. Sinclair is going to have a husband again."
"Is she?" said Mr. Tracy. "Gad, I'm glad I got wind of the fact before seeing her. Women never forgive you if you don't know that sort of thing, do they? Who's the happy man?"
"Well, he's not much of a man," the girl replied, with some disdain, "but he's got a title, and heaps and heaps of money, so perhaps the other doesn't matter, specially to a lady who has been married before. You can't expect to be in love twice in one life, can you?" and she heaved a prodigious sigh as she thought of her own first ardent passion, still burning brightly.
"Not much of a man, isn't he?" said Mr. Tracy, amused. "What sort of a title has he by way of compensation?"
"I don't know exactly what he is," she answered, "but his wife will be My Lady, anyhow. She's engaged to Sir Ross Buchanan. Do you know him?"
"I know of him, of course," the lawyer said, "but I never met him. He's one of the richest men in the three kingdoms."
"Is he?" said the girl, with awe and admiration. "Well, there's no end to some people's good luck."
Mr. Tracy paid for his refreshment, and awaited an omnibus which should take him to the less savoury purlieus of the law.
"A remarkably good day's work," he said. "I must devise some excuse for calling upon the fascinating widow, if only out of curiosity. Anyhow, it isn't matrimony that she is contemplating with Melville Ashley. Sir Ross Buchanan stops the way."
But if his enquiries that day opened his eyes to the possibility of Melville having less ground of complaint against Sir Geoffrey than he had hitherto supposed, his investigation into the financial transactions that had taken place between them surprised him still more that night. He went carefully through Sir Geoffrey's bank books, and comparing the entries therein with the counterfoils of the cheques and the neatly docketed receipts in Sir Geoffrey's writing table drawers, worked out a little sum in addition that astonished him beyond expression. The cheques to tradesmen marked "a/c M.A.," the details in the various accounts, and the individual cheques made payable to Melville, amounted to a total quite appalling to so simple-minded a man as this old-fashioned solicitor. If he had been inclined at first to think that Ralph exaggerated in his description of Melville's extravagance, he now had evidence more than sufficient to prove that such was not the case. No terms were too strong to condemn Melville's wanton and wicked waste of money; no further reason was required to explain why he had been disinherited by his too long-suffering uncle and guardian.
Mr. Tracy sat up late that night revolving the whole matter in his mind, and when at last he went to bed it was with the firm determination of having a personal interview with Mrs. Sinclair on the very first opportunity.
For some little time, however, no opportunity arose, and Mr. Tracy was, in addition, conscious of a certain diffidence in calling upon a lady to whom he was utterly unknown, simply with the object of making a fishing enquiry into the manners and morals of one of her friends. Melville wrote him a polite note, expressing regret at having missed him, and privately gave Jervis a wigging for allowing anybody to have the run of his rooms for a couple of hours. He could not, however, display great anger, and the effect of what he did say was only to seal Jervis's lips as to the conversation that had passed between Mr. Tracy and himself. Moreover, it was so reasonable that Mr. Tracy should call upon him in the immediate circumstances that Melville scented no danger, and continued in a peaceful and equable frame of mind.
It was a disturbing fact that Ralph should not have been acquitted, but there was, undoubtedly, some compensating advantage to be derived from it, inasmuch as if the evidence was so strong against him it was so much the less probable that any would be diverted to the real criminal, and Melville still consoled himself with the reflection that his brother would certainly be acquitted next time. Actually, it worried him scarcely at all, and to his brother's discomfort and anxiety he was quite callous.
Upon Lavender, on the contrary, the idea of an innocent man being in such dire peril had an effect quite paralysing. Fear of discovery as Lady Holt was eclipsed by fear for Ralph, and she would have risked all, so far as she alone was concerned, if only so she could have set Ralph free. But Melville acquired an influence over her against which she was unable to rebel; it was not only the influence exerted through his own personal magnetism, undeniable as that was; he did not shrink now from working on her over-wrought nerves to reduce her to a state of physical and mental prostration, in which he could mould her entirely to his will. He even conveyed to her an impression that under desperation he might become dangerous, and more than once there was a look in his eyes that frightened her. Thus, under the pressure of these combined emotions—horror of what she had seen, fear of Melville, apprehension for Ralph, and anxiety about her own future—Lavender became a wreck. Unable to sleep, she dosed herself with narcotics to numb her sensibilities, and unused to the narcotics she grew ill and a shadow of her former self. At night she lay awake in fear of the silence, and by day she kept awake in fear of every sound. To the few casual acquaintances who called she was not at home, although her prolonged solitude was prolonged misery. Yet she could not make up her mind to do what Melville persistently advised, and go abroad until the crime and the mystery of Sir Geoffrey's will ceased to occupy public attention.
Lucille attributed her mistress's illness only to dread of prosecution for bigamy, and more than once attempted to reassure her.
"If you don't choose to answer the advertisement," she said, "there's nobody to answer it for you; and as for this reward that's offered now, you say that nobody but me knows you ever were Sir Geoffrey Holt's wife. What's two hundred and fifty pounds compared to a home where a person feels she's liked, besides being well paid and comfortable? Of course, if you can't trust me, there's no more to be said."
Then Lavender would protest that she had every confidence in her maid's devotion, and for a few minutes would be less hysterical; but the greater evil, of which Lucille had no knowledge, was too great for the improvement to be maintained, and with each re-action Lavender's condition grew more deplorable.
As ill-luck would have it, Mr. Tracy made up his mind to call one day when, Lavender being in rather better spirits, Lucille had gone out for a couple of hours. In answer to his ring, the door was opened by the cook who was by no means well versed in the art of admitting or of getting rid of visitors. She declared, it is true, that Mrs Sinclair was not at home, but something in the manner of her declaration induced Mr. Tracy to persist, with the result that he effected an entrance into the drawing-room, while the woman took his card upstairs to see if her mistress would make an exception in his favour and receive him.
Lavender read his name with sickening terror, and the expression on her face alarmed the cook.
"The gentleman said he was a friend of Mr. Ashley's," she explained in self-defence "and wanted to see you on business. He wouldn't take 'no' for an answer."
Lavender tried to pull herself together.
"I don't know the man from Adam," she said, "and I feel much too ill to see anybody on business. Go down and say I am sorry but I can't see anyone. Tell him I've been ill. Tell him anything you like. Only get rid of him."
And when the cook went reluctantly downstairs, Lavender stood with blanched cheeks and beating heart by the window, counting the ticks of the clock until this awful visitant should go. Hiding behind the curtains she watched him walk slowly down the path, and some time after he had disappeared she remained with hands clenched upon the back of a chair, watching with nervous apprehension in case he should return and make another attempt to see her. She showed his card to Lucille on her return.