"It is murder! it is murder! Dear God, don't let him be dead!" but the singed flannel, the tiny hole in the centre of a ring of scorched flesh, and the absence of blood in any quantity, told a tale he could not but believe. Yet he must try to recall some glimmer of consciousness before he could leave the old man alone. He poured some brandy into a tumbler, and raising Sir Geoffrey's head put a little into the mouth that lolled open and gave the face an almost idiotic expression; but the brandy merely dribbled out from the corners of the lips, and there was no sign of meaning in the eyes. Not knowing what else to do, Ralph raised Sir Geoffrey's body to lay it on the bamboo couch, but, strong as he was, he only did it with the utmost difficulty, and in making the effort he smeared his sleeves and breast with blood.
"What can I do?" he kept on muttering, and yet, oddly enough, the idea of rushing to the house and sending for the nearest doctor never entered his mind. In a hopeless, incapable way he stared about him, wondering what else he could do to recall the life he yet felt sure had flown, and then, draining the tumbler which he had partly filled, he closed the French windows and went back to his dressing-room. He took off his blood-stained jacket and flung it down by the press, washed the blood from his hands, and found another coat; and then, locking the boat-house door, rushed out into the verandah, and so into the garden, and stumbled to the house.
Going into the library he rang the bell, and strode impatiently up and down until a servant came.
"Where is Martin? I want Martin. Send Martin here at once," he said rapidly to the maid who, to his surprise, appeared in place of the old butler.
She stared at him in astonishment and some dismay, for he was white as death himself, and all his wonted quietness of manner was gone.
"He's only just got back from Longbridge, sir," the maid replied, "and he's in his room changing his clothes; they've all got dripping wet."
"Tell him I want him at once—at once," said Ralph, and, eyeing him curiously, the girl hurried downstairs.
"Mr. Ralph wants you in the library directly minute," she called to Martin through his door. "He's rarely put out about something. Gracious! there's the bell again."
"Say I'll be up in a minute," Martin called back.
"But I daren't go back," the servant said. "I'm sure something terrible's the matter. He looks as white as white, and spoke to me as never was."
Martin would have delivered himself of a kindly admonition to the girl to mend her manner of speech, but yet another peal of the bell convinced him that something was indeed amiss, and giving a tug at his tie to make it assume some semblance of a bow, he hurried out of his bedroom and up the stairs, putting on his coat and waistcoat as he went.
"Beg your pardon, Mr. Ralph, for keeping you waiting," he began, but a glance at Ralph's face checked the apologies. "What is the matter, sir? Has there been an accident? Miss Gwendolen——?"
"It's Sir Geoffrey," Ralph replied, hoarsely.
"Not dead?" the butler cried, stepping forward with outstretched hands.
"Yes, dead," answered Ralph. "Murdered, foully murdered in his own home."
Martin reeled against the writing table and stared in horror at Ralph. Ralph, in his turn, gave way, and leaning his arm upon the mantelpiece hid his face and ground his teeth to keep back the tears. So they remained in silence, while the tall clock hammered out the seconds of the time that for its owner had ceased to be.
"Where?" whispered Martin.
Ralph jerked his head in motion to the window.
"In the boathouse," he said.
He seemed incapable of doing anything practical, and Martin rose to the occasion.
"You are sure it is—all over? Quite sure that he is dead?"
"Someone has shot him through the heart," said Ralph, in cold and measured tones.
Martin wiped his eyes.
"Perhaps there is a chance. God grant there may be! Will you run for the doctor, sir, while I go down to him? I'll just tell the housekeeper to get Sir Geoffrey's room in order and have the young servants out of the way, and I'll be at the boathouse with some of the men to carry him home. The poor master!"
Ralph did as he was bid, glad to accept a subordinate place, and Martin, with tears running down his cheeks, hastened to give his instructions to the housekeeper. Then, taking some cushions from the servants' hall, he hurried into the stables to summon help; a couple of long shutters were procured to serve as a litter presently, and in a few minutes the group of awestruck men reached the scene of the tragedy.
It was while they were waiting for Ralph to come with the doctor and bring the key of the boathouse that the necessity of calling in the police occurred to Martin.
"Run up to the police-station," he said to one of the stable boys, "and ask the inspector to come down with you sharp. Whether Sir Geoffrey is dead or not we won't lose any time in putting the police on the scoundrel's track. Go straight up and come straight back, and don't get talking to anybody else. We don't want all the town swarming down here."
The storm was dying. Rain still fell and thunder still rumbled in the distance, but the heavy atmospheric oppression was gone, and bird life was beginning to make itself audible again. In silence the men waited under the verandah for the doctor, from whose advent they still hoped for some relief. Presently he came, grave and with lips compressed, for he knew and loved Sir Geoffrey. Ralph came, too, even more haggard than before, and unlocking the door led the way into the inner room. But although the doctor seemed to the bystanders, in their anxiety, to take a long time over his examination, the first glance had in reality been enough to satisfy his trained eye that Sir Geoffrey was beyond all human aid. As he turned to Ralph and sorrowfully shook his head, the police superintendent walked swiftly and quietly into the room, and looked first at the body and then at the doctor.
"Is it all over, sir?"
"All over," said the doctor very sadly. "If I had been here at the time I could have done nothing. This is a matter for you, inspector."
The inspector looked at the tell-tale mark upon the shirt where the flame had scorched it, and then looked inquiringly at the doctor.
"Yes," said the doctor, understanding the unspoken question; "it is murder."
The inspector turned away.
"Who found the body?"
"I did," Ralph replied.
"Then with your permission I will come up to the house when I have just looked round and locked up the place," the inspector said, and Ralph went out with the doctor. Thus left in command, the inspector's manner changed. He cleared the room of all save Martin Somers, and carefully noted all the little details: the closed windows, the position of the furniture, the empty tumbler on the table. In the dressing-room he saw the water in the basin just stained with blood, and in the corner by the press the blood-stained shirt and jacket which Ralph had just changed, his wet sweater and blazer and soaked flannel trousers hanging upon the side of the big bath where he had left them to dry. Next, the inspector made a careful search all round the boathouse, but the almost tropical rain had obliterated all footsteps, and no clue remained outside. When he at length was satisfied, he summoned the stablemen, and, improvising a litter of the two shutters, lashed together across the boathooks from the canoe, they reverently laid Sir Geoffrey's body on it and bore all that remained of the fine old gentleman back to the beautiful home of which he had been so proud and beloved a master.
Had Ralph not lingered on the houseboat to see that Gwendolen crossed the garden in safety he must almost have taken his brother red-handed in what was tantamount to parricide. That fearful peal of thunder against the din of which he shouted to her to run quickly home, marked the point in time when Melville fired the shot that took his uncle's life. Great tragedies often take but seconds in the acting, and in this supreme moment in Melville's life of crime deed followed thought and thought followed deed as swiftly as the lightning shafts that burst from the riven sky and tore down into the bosom of the earth.
In a sense, he was conscious of a sort of elemental grandeur in his position that yet was wholly diabolical; it was as if all the spirits of evil had sped from the furthest confines of hell and, borne on the pinions of the storm, had foregathered at that lonely spot to become incarnate in him for one brief instant of concentrated passion; but, that brief instant gone, they had departed from him again and sped away, shrieking with fiendish glee at leaving him to reawaken to human consciousness, and face the fact that he was a murderer whose crime had been overseen.
That was the dominant fact in Melville's mind—Lavender had been a witness of the murder. What measures to take to secure her silence he must decide presently; the immediately urgent matter was to get away unseen. Casting one rapid, comprehensive glance all round the room to satisfy himself that he had left no damning trace behind him, and incidentally photographing the scene upon his highly sensitised brain, he stepped noiselessly out of the boathouse and grasped Lavender by the wrist.
"Come," he said curtly and incisively. She shuddered as she felt his touch, but relaxed her hold upon the iron pillar and looked fearfully in his eyes. "Come," he said again, and she obeyed him. Still holding her firmly by the wrist he led her to the far end of the creek and helped her over the ha-ha. As he did so, she dropped her handkerchief, and Melville, picking it up, put it in his pocket. "I'll give that back to you at Waterloo," he said with grim humour. "We can't afford to be so careless here."
Across the meadow they broke into a run, and, reaching the river bank, forced their way through the bushes and regained the boat. There Lavender collapsed, and breaking into nervous hysterical sobs, begged Melville not to push off into the open stream. She seemed, indeed, to have lost all self-control, and Melville hesitated, wondering if her condition would attract attention. But that was a smaller risk than for him to be found in the neighbourhood if the discovery of Sir Geoffrey's body were followed by an immediate and exhaustive search; so he contented himself with the assertion of his mastery of will, and for the moment tried to reassure her.
"There is no more danger on the open water than there is under these trees," he said, "if so much. See, I will move the stroke seat and row up in the bows. Then you can lie down and hide your eyes so as not to see the lightning." He made her as comfortable as he could, covering her with his coat and waistcoat; then he shoved off, and with firm, strong strokes lifted the boat along, while Lavender crouched down on the cushions and hid her face from the horror of the storm.
And as he rowed, his mind worked as methodically as his arms and legs, the measured thud of the sculls against the rowlocks seeming to have a soothing effect upon his excited imagination. Possibly it was due to something akin to demoniacal possession, but whatever its originating source might be there was not a little to compel admiration in the determined way this man could control his thinking powers, could face danger, however imminent, and utilise all his ingenuity in devising means of escape.
In the time required to row from Fairbridge to St. Martin's Lock he surveyed the whole situation. He reflected that the storm would break up the Longbridge regatta, that some of the inmates of the Manor House would find Sir Geoffrey lying dead in his summer room and raise a hue and cry, and that as soon as the first shock of the discovery was over they would telegraph for Mr. Tracy and himself. In order, therefore, to avoid having to invent any circumstantial story of his own movements, it was essential that he should, if possible, get into his rooms unseen, so that his wet flannels might not betray where he had been, and be there when the telegram arrived. Could that be arranged he might be able, if the worst came to the worst, to set up analibisuccessfully, and the Fairbridge murder would be numbered among the unsolved mysteries of crime. As for Lavender, something would depend upon the severity of the storm in London. Provided she held her tongue as to her movements, suspicion was most unlikely to fall upon her, at any rate for some time, and the danger of her being sought for as Lady Holt was remote; and, if she were, she would certainly not be a consenting party to the identification, because of the consequent inevitable exposure of her bigamous marriage and the rupture with Sir Ross Buchanan which that exposure would entail.
Melville looked at his companion lying huddled at the bottom of the boat. Could he rely upon her not betraying him? What line should he take with her when presently the scene that had to be got over between them should begin? He could not quite decide; it was difficult to do so until he saw her face. But for the moment he was glad that she should cower down as she was doing; it rendered her chance of being recognised so much the less, and already boat-loads of soaked holiday-makers were passing them. Melville paused as a favourable opportunity offered, and surreptitiously dropped his revolver into the river-bed. If—anything—should happen, that must not be found amongst his possessions, for the bullet it had held would certainly be kept, and such a coincidence as his possessing a weapon which it fitted must be prevented. He kept his head down as he sculled and looked neither to the right nor to the left. To the lock-keeper from whom he had hired the boat he was a stranger, and all he had to do was to avoid being recognised himself by any acquaintance who might chance to be in the crowd that now was nearing the lock simultaneously.
He drew in to the left bank and let the lock fill up. The rain, which had been savage and relentless while they were on the river, was abating now they were within easy reach of shelter; the intervals between the peals of thunder were lengthening, and, most noticeable of all, the terrible oppression was relieved. Melville hooked the boat on to the stakes below the lock and backed her gently up the stream until he came to a spot where they could land easily.
"Sit up, Lavender," he said softly, but peremptorily.
She raised herself on one arm and looked round. Hopelessness stared from her large eyes, but Melville saw with relief that the insane terror had departed from them; he was anxious to get her into the train without exciting remark, and it was something that she had regained her self-control. That her frock was dripping wet and stained red from the cushions would not attract attention here where everyone was wet, and before they reached Waterloo she would not look so deplorable, however cold and uncomfortable she might feel.
"We won't go through the lock," he said. "I'm going to pay the man for the boat and say he'll find her here. Pull yourself together as much as you can before I come back. If we are quick I think we can just catch a train, and we shall get away before all the people get out of the lock and crowd up the station. Do you feel better now?"
"Yes," she answered dully.
"I can depend upon you until we get home?" he asked, with some anxiety.
She nodded a vacant assent, and with that he had to be satisfied. He got out of the boat and went to the lock to pay for its hire and tell the man where to find it. Meantime, Lavender, realising that whatever the future might have in store for her, no good could be done by a scene at St. Martin's Lock, made an effort to pull herself together, and tried to readjust her bedraggled costume. With one of the napkins from the hamper she dried her face and hands, and wringing some of the water from her skirts and rubbing her patent shoes, she succeeded in making herself a little more presentable. Melville was pleased. They hurried to the station and were fortunate enough to catch an up train and secure an empty carriage.
But as soon as the train moved away his manner changed. Even if they were left alone during the whole journey they only had fifty-five minutes in which to arrive at an understanding, for he was quite clear he could not go back with her to The Vale. He took the corner seat immediately opposite to her.
"Why did you leave the boat at Fairbridge?"
The question sprang sharply from his lips, insisting on an immediate reply.
"The storm was so awful—so appalling," she said faintly. "It was like the end of the world."
It was obvious to Melville that she was frightened of him, and he was content that it should be so, for only by terrorising her could he hope to maintain his ascendency over her; any woman might be nervous at being shut up in a railway carriage with a murderer, but it was not of that precisely that she was afraid, for she stood in no fear of violence at his hands. There was something despotic about him that compelled obedience, and even if she had not been naturally as truthful as she was she would not have attempted to prevaricate.
"Now tell me," Melville rapped out in the same peremptory way, "did you hear what we were saying in that room?"
"Some of it," she replied; "enough, at any rate, to know what you have been doing to get money."
"You don't know what my position was," Melville said. "You remember my leaving Monte Carlo—ruined?" Lavender nodded. "I went down to see my uncle a few days after I got home and he refused to help me. I don't know why. He had always been lavish to my brother, and had never refused me anything before. I was in absolute need of shillings, and had to get them somehow. After I heard of your marriage with him, I told him I knew and got something from him."
"But you got it on the ground that I was in need of it," she said indignantly.
"It was the only way I could get it at all," he retorted.
"It was an outrage," she said, with suppressed passion. "I resent that as much as anything else. After all the years I never touched a penny of his money for you to tell him I was starving and pocket the money for yourself is a thing you can't expect me not to be mad about."
Her eyes blazed from her white face, and Melville grew apprehensive.
"What do you think Sir Geoffrey's answer was?" he asked.
"What?"
"He gave me ten pounds as an act of charity, and said if you needed any more you could apply to the people you'd been living with all those years. So you see, if you had been starving, you need not have looked for much help from him."
A flush shot over her neck and cheeks and ebbed again.
"It only makes it worse that your villainy provoked such a message—such a gratuitous affront. Oh, what an incredible fool I have been! But I am beginning to see you in your true colours now."
Melville looked at her, shading his eyes with his hand; it might not be so easy to silence her after all.
"What are you going to do?"
"How can I say?" she protested. "I must have time. I can't even think yet."
"You must think," he retorted curtly. "You must make up your mind between this and Waterloo, and stick to it afterwards."
"I can't," she repeated. "What's more, I won't try." Her thoughts flashed back from themselves to the dead man. "Why did you do it?" she sobbed. "Why, in the name of heaven, did you do it?"
For just one moment a pang of remorse stabbed Melville's heart.
"Only the devil knows," he groaned; but the train was travelling rapidly, and this was no time for vain reflection. "You must assure me, Lavender. I must know that I can have confidence in you. After all, we're in this thing together."
A look of fear came into her face, to be noted instantly by him.
"What have I to do with it?" she said defiantly.
"Nothing," he answered swiftly. "I want your oath that you know nothing of it."
She threw out her hands with a pathetic gesture.
"I can't give it. I'm not sure of myself. I can't live and be sure of not betraying it. I shall never sleep—never know peace again."
"I want your oath," Melville said doggedly. "After all, you stand to gain more by Sir Geoffrey's death than I do."
"What do you mean?" she asked, surprised.
"You are free to marry Sir Ross."
She looked at him, not quite grasping the purport of his words, but even as he said them they gave him confidence. If she was recalcitrant, he might threaten her.
"Except yourself, no one can ever throw light upon Sir Geoffrey's death. You must swear that you will throw none on it."
She did not answer, but sat like a statue of despair, as white as marble and as motionless. Already they were drawing near to Clapham Junction; ten or twelve minutes were all that were left for him to get the oath he must obtain.
"Think," he said swiftly. "Think what it might mean if a living soul knew that you were at that boathouse to-day. You—Sir Geoffrey's wife—living on money derived from a man whom you had feloniously married, engaged to be married again to a man who is twice a millionaire! What would be said? That you had everything to gain by the death of Sir Geoffrey Holt, supposing your identity became known, as it must be then: that you could hope for no help or forgiveness from him, and that as the wife of Sir Ross you would be rich beyond the dreams of avarice—and safe. They would find there motive enough for the crime, and would say that your hand fired the shot. And if you told the truth, and swore I did it, why should they believe you? Why should I, who have lived all my life upon Sir Geoffrey's bounty, kill the man upon whom I actually depend for my daily bread?"
Lavender stared at him with increasing horror. Could he possibly intend to shift suspicion on to her, or was he only putting into words what would be the general opinion if her presence at Fairbridge that afternoon became known? Melville read the doubt in her mind, and, with his fiendish cleverness, allayed her first uncertainty. To let that rankle might be to goad her too far, but he must appeal to her self-interest too.
"If it got to that, of course that would be the end of me," he said, "for I should have to confess that the deed was only mine, and I could not be taken alive. But think what you stand to lose: the income you have, the fortune you may have, your name, your reputation, possibly your freedom. You would be so involved in a scandal of bigamy and murder that in self-defence you would have to disappear. Lavender, it isn't only for my sake that I'm putting it all like this; I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm only imploring you for both our sakes to do nothing. Will you give me your solemn promise to hold your tongue for ever about to-day's work? Will you swear not to say one word of where we have been, or anything else, to any living soul? Will you, Lavender—will you?"
In sheer despair she retired from the unequal contest.
"I promise," she said. "I will be silent."
Melville could not repress a sigh of relief. It never occurred to him to doubt her reliability. She would keep her promise, he knew, and he would be safe. But there was no opportunity for further converse. They were at Vauxhall, and the man who collected their tickets got into the compartment and travelled with them to Waterloo.
At the terminus Melville put Lavender into a hansom.
"Don't write to me or call," he said. "I must go home at once, and I shall probably have to go down again to Fairbridge. They are sure to send for me. I will write to you as soon as I can and fix up an appointment."
She looked at him in wonder. He had courage of its kind, and courage of any kind appeals to women.
"You need not be afraid," she murmured. "I will keep my promise," and as he told the cabman where to go, she leaned back and closed her eyes in utter exhaustion.
Left by himself, Melville, too, could have collapsed; there was a physical reaction that left all his joints weak, and he shivered with cold. But danger was not over yet; much would depend upon his getting into his rooms unnoticed. So he hailed another hansom and drove to Piccadilly Circus.
"What sort of storm have you had here?" he asked, as he paid the cabman.
"Bad, sir; very heavy about four o'clock."
"Ah, well," Melville said, "it's good for your business, I daresay."
He walked round the corner into Jermyn Street erect and steady, although he felt so excited. How would things work out? The street was almost empty, for London was dressing for dinner, and the commissionaire was not standing by the front door of the chambers. A swift glance into the office showed Melville that that was empty too, and rapidly he walked along the thickly-carpeted passage. Opposite the lift he paused to scan the names upon the letters stuck in the letter rack, and his heart leaped as he caught sight of the orange envelope of a telegram addressed to himself. So it had come! He put out his hand involuntarily to take it, but checked the impulse and silently ran up the staircase and gained his rooms. Once there he tore off all his clothes and hung them in a wardrobe, which he locked. He changed his linen, dried and brushed his hair, and then, putting on a pair of flannel trousers and a smoking jacket, rang the bell and lay down on the sofa, a cigarette in his mouth, a paper in his hand.
After an interval the bell was answered by the manager.
"Where's Jervis to-day, then?" Melville asked pleasantly.
"Went off duty, sir, at twelve. He'll be back at eight. Can I do anything for you?"
"I wanted some tea," said Melville. "I'm ashamed to say I've been asleep."
"I'll bring it to you," the manager said.
"Thanks," Melville answered. "You might see if there are any letters for me," and he rose and stretched himself.
Tea arrived, and on the tray there lay a couple of letters and the telegram. Melville tore it open, and an exclamation of surprise and horror broke from him.
"When did this come?" he asked. "Half an hour ago! Oh, why wasn't it brought up to me at once?"
"I'm very sorry," the manager said, "but I really didn't know you were in."
"I've been in all the afternoon," said Melville. "Who would go out in such a storm if they could help it? But, in any case, I think someone should bring up telegrams to see if I am at home. It's awful—awful!"
"Bad news, sir?" asked the manager.
"Awful," said Melville again. "Sir Geoffrey Holt is dead. I must go down at once."
That Sir Geoffrey's violent end should have an almost paralysing effect upon the household that loved him so much was, of course, only to be expected, but it is impossible to tell beforehand how great grief will manifest itself in different people. Thus Ralph, who enjoyed a reputation of being bright and frank and open-hearted beyond the common, became morose and even sullen, nursing his wrath against the unknown murderer and allowing the iron to enter into his soul. Melville, on the contrary, hitherto self-centred and indifferent to the happiness of others, seemed to be softened by the tragedy, and in many little ways displayed an eagerness to comfort the rest and a regard for their sorrow that was very winning. The inquest which was held two days after the outrage was ineffective: a verdict of wilful murder was returned against some person unknown, and the case was recommended by the coroner to the attention of the police. So far they preserved a sphinx-like silence, and although conjecture was rife in the neighbourhood it received no assistance or corroboration from the detectives engaged.
The evidence given at the inquest was little more than formal; the doctor's testimony was brevity itself, Ralph's was concise to the point of curtness, and the police inspector had no suggestions to offer; the facts were self-evident, and of the only details that seemed to promise any interest, namely, the bloodstains upon Ralph's jacket and in the water in the basin, his explanation was so obviously simple that comment was superfluous. Yet upon the people in the court Ralph's manner had an effect not wholly favourable. He appeared to resent their natural curiosity, was brusque, and even in bowing to the coroner, when that functionary gave expression to the sympathy felt by his court for Sir Geoffrey's relatives, did not err upon the side of graciousness. But if Ralph thus failed to maintain the family traditions of courtesy, Melville atoned for it. He was merely asked whether he could throw any light upon the crime by suggesting any motive which might have prompted it, and this, it is needless to say, he could not do. But his quiet dignity in this moment of sorrow and his air of engaging candour won all hearts, and he quitted the scene in full possession of the sympathy of the audience.
There followed two most miserable days, during which Ralph smoked in solitude upon his houseboat, and Melville, for the most part, idled at The Grange. Music fits every mood, and there was no disrespect to the uncle by the nephew turning to his Amati for comfort in this dark hour, and so he played—played as if inspired by Saint Cecilia—and stole a little further into Gwendolen's heart.
It was with a sense of genuine relief that the two brothers returned to the Manor House after the funeral. There was a certain restraint between them and an odd embarrassment as to their mutual attitude in the small matters of daily life; thus Sir Geoffrey's chair at the head of the table was left empty by consent, but it stood as a constant reminder that for one of them it symbolised possession, and now that its late tenant was laid to rest with his fathers, the question as to which of the two should sit in it by right was about to be decided.
With the closing of the inquest Melville's first fears of detection were allayed, and his mind was engaged almost exclusively with the problem of his future. He took it for granted that his uncle had died intestate, and the only complication he could foresee in the division of the estate was brought about by the existence of Lavender, of which he believed he was the only person who knew. Mr. Tracy might know, and if he did, Melville supposed that half the estate would be held, pending Lady Holt's instructions, and that the other half would be divided between his brother and himself without undue delay. What action he should take with regard to Lavender it was too early to decide, but in a vague way he was beginning to incline to the policy of persuading her never to come forward, which he was confident he could do, and, by-and-bye, her share, too, might be obtainable for himself, or, at any rate, half of it.
The brothers were standing in the hall, both feeling rather aimless and self-conscious, when Martin joined them.
"Mr. Tracy mentioned that he had to return to London soon after the funeral, so I have taken some luncheon into the library. I thought, perhaps, you would have business to do before he left."
The butler directed his remarks diplomatically between the two young men. He assumed that the Manor House would be left to Ralph, as being the elder, but he did not wish to make any invidious distinctions between them at present. They looked at each other and went into the library, where they found Mr. Tracy contemplating a substantial pie as if wondering what description of animal food it might contain. The old lawyer looked up at them with a smile, and settled all difficulties of precedence by sitting down in the nearest chair, which happened to be at the head of the table. He knew the utility of a meal as a preparation for an unpleasant discussion, and although as Sir Geoffrey's solicitor he was only the mouthpiece by which the dead man's disposition of his property was to be communicated, he felt uncomfortable.
"I'm not ashamed to say that I am particularly hungry," he remarked. "With your permission, I will discuss this pie before discussing business," and he proceeded to make an excellent luncheon, talking all the while of everything except that which was uppermost in all their minds.
But, luncheon disposed of, his manner changed.
"I have had two copies of Sir Geoffrey's will prepared," he said, "and perhaps you would like to look at them while I read the original. It is not a long document, but the technical phraseology may, perhaps, seem confusing to the lay mind."
He turned to a table in the window, where he had placed a bag containing his papers, and so did not observe the slight start of surprise which Melville could not repress. So there was a will after all! Was fortune about to play him a scurvy trick after he had dared so much? He lighted a cigarette and sat down in a chair where the light would not fall upon his face.
"In its main features," continued Mr. Tracy, who seemed to be taking an unconscionable time fumbling in his bag, "the will, as I have said, is sufficiently simple, but it contains at least one element of surprise. I will read it without further comment, and you can follow from the copies," and, giving a type-written copy of the will to Ralph and another to Melville, he read the original clearly and distinctly.
Beginning with legacies to the servants, ranging from a year's wages to the youngest maid to life provision for Martin Somers, the will ordained that a charge should be made upon the estate sufficient to give an annuity of four hundred pounds a year to the testator's widow, Dame Lavinia Holt, to be paid quarterly to her in person, on application at Mr. Tracy's office, the first instalment to be paid upon her first making such personal application, and not necessarily to accrue from the date of her husband's death; subject only to these legacies and this one charge, everything real and personal was bequeathed to "my dear nephew, Ralph Ashley," for his uncontrolled use and enjoyment. Of Melville's name no mention whatever was made.
Mr. Tracy folded up the document and waited. The silence grew painful. Ralph did not know what to say, and Melville could not trust himself to speak. He was white with mortification and rage, and could have cursed himself for having with his own hand destroyed his last chance for the future. He cleared his throat and tried to speak, but the words would not come. Ralph looked enquiringly at the solicitor.
"I suppose there can be no mistake," he said; "but this lady—who is she? I have never heard until this minute that my uncle ever married."
"I can throw no light upon the mystery," Mr. Tracy said. "Sir Geoffrey was not the man to give confidences. He drafted this will himself, less than a month ago, and all I have done is to engross it and procure his signature. I should like to say that I ventured to ask certain questions and even make certain suggestions, but they were received with unmistakable disapproval, and, of course, I could not pursue the matter."
"It is iniquitous," said Melville hoarsely. He rose abruptly from his chair and faced his brother. "This is your work, you scoundrel! For years you have left nothing undone to estrange Sir Geoffrey from me. You have schemed and plotted for this, and at the last minute, curse you, you have succeeded. Well, you may be hugging yourself now, but I swear you will live to be sorry."
Mr. Tracy tried to pacify him, but in his heart he was not a little sorry for him. It must be a terrible shock to find himself thus ignored by the uncle from whom, for all the lawyer knew to the contrary, he had every right to expect munificent provision. And the lawyer spoke the truth when he said he had ventured to plead Melville's cause with Sir Geoffrey, although he reduced to the lowest possible terms the substance of the old man's answer to his pleading; yet even at that interview, when Sir Geoffrey might reasonably have been expected to confide entirely in the lawyer engaged to give legal effect to his last testament, he had refrained; his native pride forbade him to dilate upon his story, and kindly, but quite firmly, he declared his intention not to swerve from the course which he had chosen. Now that the thing was done, however, Mr. Tracy preferred that the possible quarrel between the two young men should be deferred until after his own departure, so he reverted to the matter immediately in hand.
"Subject to your approval," he said, addressing Ralph, whom alone it was now necessary to consult, "I will take steps to ascertain Lady Holt's address. Sir Geoffrey told me he knew she was alive, but did not know where she was to be found. I rather inferred that she was in London, and in poor circumstances."
"Act as you think right," said Ralph. He was so surprised by the revelation that he was impatient to learn the whole story. "Make all possible enquiries, and if they fail, why not advertise a reward for information about her? Why should Sir Geoffrey's wife be in poor circumstances at all?"
"Perhaps she was misrepresented to her husband," Melville said bitterly.
"Well, I will see about it," said Mr. Tracy, "and let you know the result. Now I must really hurry away. I ventured to ask the butler to order a conveyance to take me up to the station. Good-bye, Mr. Melville. I quite understand your very natural disappointment, and I do not hesitate to say I am sorry about it. If I can be of any service to you at any time do not hesitate to command me."
Ralph walked to the door with Mr. Tracy.
"I'm all at sixes and sevens for the minute," he said, "but I should like to see you again soon. Uncle Geoffrey may have left Melville nothing, but he has made no conditions in leaving me so much. You can, doubtless, advise me what would be the best thing to do about my brother."
"I shall be particularly glad to do so," the old lawyer replied heartily. "Give me time to confirm any appointment, as I am very busy just now, but, within reason, I can come here or see you in the Fields at any time."
"I suppose I'm in for a quarrel with Melville," Ralph continued seriously, "so I should just like to add this. He's not likely to agree to accept anything from me, but if he turns up later on to consult you, can't you let him have a hundred or so without saying too precisely where it comes from? You can make it right with me afterwards."
"Of course I can," said Mr. Tracy. "Very delicate of you, I'm sure. I shall be delighted to take part in so amiable a conspiracy," and, shaking the new master of the Manor House warmly by the hand, he got into the carriage and drove away.
Ralph watched the carriage disappear, and turned back into the house with a sigh. How was he to deal with his brother in this moment of humiliation, which Melville would with difficulty be persuaded was not due to him? Although they were brothers and so nearly of an age, the difference in their temperaments was such that Ralph felt certain beforehand that he could not hope to appeal successfully to the better part of Melville's character, which surely must exist. If Sir Geoffrey, with all the authority of age and wealth, could not control his younger nephew, how could Ralph hope to succeed? He lingered in the hall, reluctant to open what would be a painful interview, and as he looked at the familiar things, with their evidence of wealth and cultured taste, and realised that they were all his, he became conscious for the first time of the duties and responsibilities which he had inherited with his rights and privileges. There was no mental reservation in the inarticulate expression of regret at his uncle's death that escaped him. Even if it had come in the ordinary course of nature, he would fain have postponed the day, and lived content and happy with the dear old man, as he had done for so many years; but for the end to come so tragically, so treacherously, increased the bitterness a thousandfold, and Ralph's first emotion as he looked upon his goodly heritage was one of unmitigated grief at having thus entered upon his own.
But after a little while he raised his head with a new expression of peace and high purpose on his face. He would strive to be as good a master of the fine old Manor as Sir Geoffrey had ever been, and the moment to begin his duties had arrived. He must offer the hand of brotherhood to Melville, and enlist his help in tracking their uncle's murderer to his doom. More hopefully he went slowly from the hall to join his brother in the library; but as he opened the door a feeling of chill disappointment stole over him, for Melville, too, had shirked the interview and the room was empty. As Ralph turned to the window with a sigh he saw his brother, looking tall and slight in his sombre mourning, moving slowly over the sunlit turf and making evidently in the direction of The Grange.
It was the fact that Melville shirked a conversation with his brother immediately after the reading of the will; the mental strain had been so great that he could not be sure of his temper or judgment, and that being so, common prudence dictated a delay which would enable him to consider the new situation in all its bearings before risking a final rupture with the new lord of the Manor. He sought a temporary refuge at The Grange, where he knew he would receive commiseration upon his terrible disappointment, and where he might derive some sardonic satisfaction from the knowledge that his presence by Gwendolen's side would involve Ralph's absence from the same desirable spot. Mrs. Austen was quite frank in her condemnation of Sir Geoffrey's action.
"Whatever Melville may or may not have done, it is unfair to allow a young fellow to grow up without any profession or occupation, in the belief that he will inherit a considerable fortune, and then to ignore his existence in this way."
Gwendolen agreed with the abstract proposition, but could not believe that Sir Geoffrey would have taken such drastic measures without good reason; she hinted as much, but her mother would have none of it.
"I dare say Sir Geoffrey had plenty to put up with from Melville," she said, "but that is the penalty of having children, whether they are your own or adopted by you. What makes this will so inexplicable is that it was made such a little while ago, for just lately Melville seemed to be on better terms with his uncle than he had been for years. I'm sure there is some mischief-maker at the bottom of it all, and if it had not been for this terrible murder Sir Geoffrey would have got at the rights of the story, whatever it was, and made a new will."
"Melville is fortunate in having such a brother as Ralph," said Gwendolen; "it isn't as if the money were left to strangers. I don't suppose there will be any difference really."
"What nonsense!" said Mrs. Austen testily. "Ralph is a very charming young man, and I'm delighted you're going to be his wife, but I have a very warm place in my heart for Melville, and I think it's quite possible he has been misjudged; and your most excellent Ralph goes about with the cheerful expression of a professional mute whenever Melville comes down. Lately, for instance, since Melville has been here so frequently we haven't seen half so much of Ralph."
Gwendolen sighed. She had not failed to observe the fact, but she could throw no light upon the reason of it. Ralph resembled Sir Geoffrey in being very taciturn where his private feelings were concerned; she remembered the day when Sir Geoffrey said he had a bone to pick with Ralph. The discussion ended satisfactorily, but she connected the slight trouble in some way with Melville, who, as she afterwards learned, had seen his uncle the previous night, and Ralph's championship of his brother's cause had been discontinued from that time; since then, indeed, he never talked about him. It was all very puzzling and sad.
In the meantime, Melville forsook the neighbourhood. He accepted Mrs. Austen's hospitality for a couple of nights, and then, frankly confessing that the proximity of the Manor House with its associations was intolerable to him in his present frame of mind, returned to London, outwardly calm enough, but inwardly consumed by a raging fire of evil passions. As he paced his chambers, secure from prying eyes, hate and fear, chagrin and lust for revenge swept across his pallid face, and sometimes, as he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, he thought the whole world must be able to read his secret in the careworn lines, which in reality it ascribed to laudable grief and natural disappointment. It is a kind-hearted place, this same world of ours, provided its patience and generosity are not unduly taxed, and just now it laid itself out to make things easier for Melville. He accepted the proffered sympathy gratefully, and won a new sort of popularity by his quiet pluck and his gentle air of resignation. Old people thought he was chastened by his trouble; young ones thought he was to be pitied; and Melville made the most of this occasion to make new friends among the children of this world.
But he did not forget his vow that Ralph should live to be sorry for having contributed, however indirectly, to his disinheritance, and wherever he went he sowed scandal with both hands. It is an invisible seed, of which the fruit is more deadly than the upas tree, and in sowing it as he did it is possible that Melville himself had no idea of what the harvest would be. Society knew little of Sir Geoffrey, who lived a comparatively retired life in his fine old Surrey home, but the mystery attaching to the unknown Lady Holt tickled its palate, and the murder of a man who was one of its order was not lightly to be forgotten. Thus at many a dinner party, where the subject was delicately broached, and at many a little luncheon in the clubs, where the conversation veered upon the question of undetected criminals, remarks were made—no one could afterwards precisely say by whom—which went to direct the general suspicion towards one point.
"What is the good of all this parrot-talk about motives," he said on one occasion. "When once you set to work imputing motives you need never stop. Anybody can tell you that half the murders in the world are due to drink or jealousy. Neither comes into this case. And England isn't like Sicily or Corsica, where vendetta is an institution. Sir Geoffrey could not have had an enemy in the world, so you may rule out revenge as well."
"How about the lady?" someone suggested, but Melville disposed of the idea.
"She can't have got her knife into him, or she would not have lain so low all these years. Besides, it looks as if Sir Geoffrey believed her to be dead, for he made some funny arrangements about her annuity. Anyhow, all that is pretty certain to come to light, for I believe there is a big reward offered to anyone who will produce her. No; I don't see much use in fooling after motives."
That was as far as he allowed himself to go then, but elsewhere, and to another audience, he took a different line and seemed interested in hearing the general opinion on this same subject of motives. He sat silent until the end of the conversation, when he appeared disinclined to endorse the verdict of the rest.
"It's too jolly dangerous," he said gravely, "to go about suggesting people who might commit a crime, and then inventing reasons why they should do it. It's very easy to vary the amusement, until you begin to believe you have found the motive and the man by a process of exhaustion. Why, Sir Geoffrey once told me he had made no will; is there sufficient motive there for me to kill him so that I might benefit under an intestacy? On the other hand, my brother knew he had made one, though I don't suppose he knew its tenour. Is there sufficient motive there for him to kill the old man on the chance of coming in? The thing is absurd on the face of it. We were both dependent on him, and I venture to say that no two fellows were ever fonder of their father than we were of our uncle."
It was not often he was as precise as that. For the most part he contented himself with the vaguest remarks, all harmless individually, but totalling up to an incredible strength when put together by skilful brains; and skilful brains were doing it, brains owned by men who, in spite of all detractors, are marvellously shrewd, and who do not often have to confess themselves beaten in the end, although they may sometimes take a long time upon the journey, and even make errors by the way. Whose business it was to gather these rumours and carry them to the detectives engaged upon the case, it matters not to enquire; popular opinion is no evidence, but it is often useful as indicating where evidence may be found, and, Melville's expressed opinion notwithstanding, all lawyers attach importance to motive in arguing for or against the criminality of individuals. At any rate, they agreed in the advisability of making an arrest upon suspicion, and their selection of the individual was partly influenced by some of these random and irresponsible remarks.
The Manor House was looking its best in the mellow light of an ideal summer evening. It had been one of those days when it is impossible not to feel delight in life, and Ralph awoke to full consciousness of the fact that he had youth and love and wealth to comfort himself withal. He spent the morning at The Grange, and after luncheon punted Gwendolen up the river, arranging for Mrs. Austen to join them at the Manor House. There was no flaw in his happiness that day, and, perhaps because of the violent contrast between its morning and its night, it always stood out afterwards with particular distinctness in his memory. Returning from Longbridge, he put on his evening clothes and went to The Grange to fetch Gwendolen and her mother; they strolled leisurely down to the Manor House and lingered over dinner, discussing idly many little plans for alterations to be made in the old place for the fuller satisfaction of its new mistress.
Martin hovered about them, anticipating their every want, and when at last they left the dining-room they resumed the discontinued custom, and decided to have their coffee brought to them on the houseboat. It seemed to mark the closing of a tragedy and the resumption of the pleasant routine of their country life.
And as on that evening—which now seemed so long ago—when the last of the guests, summoned to congratulate them on their betrothal, had departed, and Sir Geoffrey and Mrs. Austen joined Ralph and Gwendolen, so now the sound of music was borne to them from other houseboats on the river, so now a stray punt was poled swiftly down the stream, and the swans floated out from their nooks under the willows and rocked gracefully in its wake. Everything goes on just the same, although the best and greatest of us die.
Mrs. Austen was dozing comfortably in her chair, and Ralph sat close to Gwendolen, smoking in perfect content. Both were seeing visions of the future, a future of unbroken peace and happiness spent in each other's company, and the interruption of their waking dream by the sound of footsteps coming on board was not unwelcome, as it only suggested another little touch in the picture of material prosperity of which they themselves furnished the human interest.
Martin deposited his tray in the kitchen in the tender, and came up to Ralph.
"May I speak to you for a moment, sir?" he said almost in a whisper.
Ralph looked up surprised.
"What is it, Martin? Anything the matter?"
"I should like to speak to you alone, sir, if I may."
Martin followed him to the top of the ladder.
"A gentleman has come—in connection with the murder," he said, an odd look of embarrassment upon his face, "and he says he must see you at once; he won't be denied."
"Of course I must see him at once," said Ralph. "Why should he be denied?"
The look on Martin's face was pitiful.
"I can't tell you what I mean, Mr. Ralph," he said, "but I'm sure there is some hideous mistake. I think—I think he thinks you know something about it."
Ralph stared at the old servant in blank astonishment, utterly failing to comprehend his meaning.
"Where is the gentleman?" he said, but the question was answered for Martin. A tall figure was standing at the foot of the stairway, and bowed to Ralph as he reached the bottom step.
"Mr. Ralph Ashley?"
"At your service," Ralph answered pleasantly. "I understand you want to see me about this murder. Have you discovered anything?"
"I am sorry you have company, Mr. Ashley," the officer said in a quiet tone, so that his words might not be overheard upstairs. "I am a detective, and I hold a warrant for your arrest in connection with the murder of Sir Geoffrey Holt."
"My arrest?" cried Ralph.
"Yes, sir," the officer replied. "You understand, of course, that I am only acting in accordance with my instructions, and it is my duty to remind you that anything you say will be available as evidence."
Ralph's first impulse was to laugh, but the grotesque horror of the situation was too much for him. He drew himself up with dignity.
"I will come with you at once," he said. "Excuse me for a moment. I must tell my guests that I am compelled to bid them good-night."
The detective hesitated, and Ralph flushed as he understood.
"By all means come upstairs," he said, with cold hauteur. "You will, doubtless, excuse me if I refrain from introducing you to the lady who is going to do me the honour of becoming my wife." He went upstairs again, but his native instincts of a gentleman reasserting themselves in the brief interval, he turned to the detective as they gained the roof. "I beg your pardon for saying that," he said, with wonderfully winning courtesy; "perhaps you will oblige me by allowing me to present you to Miss Austen. Your name is——?"
"Anstruther," the man answered.
Ralph went up to Gwendolen.
"I'm sorry to cause you a minute's distress or anxiety, darling," he said, "but this gentleman, Mr. Anstruther, requires my attendance in the matter of Uncle Geoffrey's death."
Gwendolen started up.
"Requires——?"
Ralph stroked her hand.
"I would rather you knew it from me, since you must know it. Mr. Anstruther is instructed to detain me on suspicion of being somehow implicated." He looked imploringly at the detective, who came gallantly to his rescue.
"Merely on suspicion, Miss Austen," he said, in a full rich voice that conveyed confidence somehow. "I am more sorry than I can say that it falls to me to come on such an errand, but I fancy you would be the last to wish me not to do my duty."
Ralph kissed Gwendolen, who clung to him.
"We must show a brave front, Gwen," he said. "It's horrible to think that anybody can suspect me of having had a hand in the dear old man's death, but since somebody does, the only thing now is to clear myself before the world." He turned to Mrs. Austen. "If I should happen to be unable to come home to-morrow, I wonder if you would mind taking up your quarters at the Manor House? I should like to think that you and Gwen were there, and it might be well if someone was available to help Mr. Tracy if necessary."
"Of course we will if you wish it," Mrs. Austen said. She was boiling over with indignation at the outrage, but controlled herself admirably, partly for her daughter's sake and partly from a natural pride which forbade her to betray emotion. Indeed, they were all wonderfully self-possessed.
"A thousand thanks," Ralph said gratefully. "Martin will see you home and will come on to get me anything I may want. Good-night, Mrs. Austen. Good-night, my darling."
He pressed his lips passionately upon her mouth, and she returned him kiss for kiss. Then, with head erect and a proud look on his frank and boyish face, he led the way downstairs, followed by the detective; while, on the houseboat, Gwendolen, clasping her mother's hand, strained longing eyes upon his figure until it was lost to sight amid the shadows of the trees.
For Ralph, in the period of forced inactivity that followed, existence became a nightmare; the charge against him being one of murder, bail was not granted, and his innocence, instead of making his incarceration tolerable, added to its horror. He felt stifled, and raged at being shut up within the four walls of a cell in this glorious summer weather, when, but for the crass imbecility of some over-zealous detective, he might have been luxuriating in the sunshine with Gwendolen on the Thames. By degrees, too, a morbid nervousness took possession of him. When brought before the magistrates he was astounded at the weight of evidence that seemed to have been piled up against him in the interval; what a clever counsel for the Crown might make of it all he was afraid to think, and talking about it to Mr. Tracy afterwards, frankly admitted that he was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
"If I'm committed for trial," he said, when, instead of being discharged as he expected, he was remanded for a week, "I shall feel that I am half way to the gallows. These lawyers are the very devil, and I don't believe a saint would emerge from cross-examination with a rag of character left."
Mr. Tracy reassured him then, and Gwendolen cheered him up by her loving sympathy.
"Mother and I have seen Melville," she said, "and we will not leave a single thing undone to put an end to this horrible blunder with the enquiry before the magistrates. I can't believe that it will be possible to twist facts into evidence enough to justify your committal. It will be all right next time, and I shall insist upon being married to you by special licence directly you are discharged, as a sort of vote of confidence in you."
She would not allow him to guess how anxious she was, and spared him all knowledge of how strongly the tide of public opinion was running against him; but at the Manor House, when alone with her mother, she broke out into a storm of indignation against her neighbours.
"It shakes one's faith in human nature," she said passionately, "that anyone can be found to believe such a preposterous charge. Of course Ralph knew he would be Sir Geoffrey's heir, and to suggest that he would commit murder to antedate his possession by a few years is absurd. And then all this haggling about minutes! Of course any man would change his clothes before bothering to get himself a whiskey and soda. If there hadn't been such an awful storm, Ralph would not have discovered the murder at all; he would have gone straight up to The Grange without looking into Sir Geoffrey's room."
For it was upon the time spent by Ralph in the boathouse that the police were at present chiefly relying to substantiate the charge against him; they showed that the moment suggested by the doctor as that when the fatal shot took effect must have synchronised with Ralph's arrival in the boathouse, and there was absolutely no evidence to show that anyone else had been there at all. Mr. Tracy's suggestion that the murderer would scarcely be so foolish as to leave his blood-stained garments lying on the floor was heard politely, but not accepted as sufficient to warrant a discharge, and the request of the police for a remand, pending further investigation, was acceded to without dissent. So for another week they were obliged to possess their souls in patience.
But while upon Gwendolen Ralph's arrest had only the effect of increasing her love and developing her mental activity on his behalf, upon Lavender Sinclair its effect was very different.
When she reached home, after parting from Melville at Waterloo on the evening of the murder, she broke down physically. During the row from Fairbridge to St. Martin's Lock she contracted a bad chill, which compelled her to keep her bed. This, indeed, she was only too glad to do. In her darkened room she lay with her throbbing head buried in the pillows, as if to exclude from her sight the daylight that only served to remind her of the work going on in the world; it would be someone's work to trace the man who fired the shot, of which the sound still rang in her ears, and when he was found——. She fought against her illness, which was real enough. If she became delirious she might talk, and part of her penance for the future would be the guard that she must ever keep upon her tongue. She almost feared to sleep, lest an only partially unconscious brain should prompt her to babble of that which she had seen. Gently, but firmly, she insisted upon being left alone, and in her solitude she struggled to be well.
At first she kept aloof from all news of the world outside; would see no papers, and checked Lucille's inclination to chatter, but soon this mood was replaced by one of feverish desire to know what had happened at Fairbridge; at any rate, she must not be taken unawares, and every day's delay was a day's respite. In one of the weekly papers she read an account of the tragedy and of the inquest that followed, and derived some vague assurance from the frank admission of the police that they were absolutely without a clue.
This relaxed the tension of her nerves, and when the next morning dawned, she felt less ill and better able to resume her ordinary life. She drew up the blinds and threw open the window; presently she would go for a drive and let rapid motion through the fresh air banish the last traces of the headache that had tortured her since—then. If only she dared she would call at Jermyn Street, but her promise not to write to or call on Melville must be kept. If she had kept her former promise to remain in the boat how much agony she would have escaped!
She turned away from the window and looked round her room; she had means to gratify all reasonable desires, and she was cat-like in her fondness for warmth and soft rugs and cushions. All down one wall of her bedroom was a broad settee spread thickly with down pillows and covered with magnificent opossum rugs. Curtains, draped tent fashion from the ceiling, screened this divan from every draught, and Moorish lanterns, filled with scented oil, illumined it by night. An inlaid Syrian table stood near at hand, and there was a suggestion of Oriental luxury about the place that seemed to bar anything not conducive to repose. From a hanging wardrobe Lavender took a comfortable peignoir, a French creation of billowy chiffon and lace and ribbons, and leaving the windows open, stretched herself upon the divan and pulled up the rugs breast high; and while she lay there waiting for her maid to come to her, her thoughts wandered to what she stood to lose if any change occurred in her life other than the one she might voluntarily make by marrying Sir Ross Buchanan.
Except Melville, no one knew she had ever been Sir Geoffrey's wife, and she might rely upon his respecting her wish for the secret to be preserved now that she was in possession of this terrible secret of his. Sir Geoffrey had held his peace about the past in which she had figured, and it might be buried with him in his grave; the fear of prosecution for her bigamous marriage with Mr. Sinclair, which Melville had conjured up so vividly before her, was removed as well, and she could continue her indolent existence as his widow at The Vale, or burst forth into a period of splendour as the wife of the Scotch millionaire. No one knew of the picnic up the river, and the procrastination, in which she had acquiesced through terror and physical illness, had proved the safest and wisest policy after all. Of such an offence as being an accessory after the fact in any crime, Lavender, in her rather uneducated state, had no idea; if she had ever heard the phrase, it conveyed no meaning to her. She would acquiesce in a policy of absolute silence—forget her individuality as Lady Holt, and resume her ordinary life as the widow of the estimable Mr. Sinclair, who had provided for her maintenance on a scale that coincided so accurately with her desires.
Lucille tapped gently at the door and opened it softly in case her mistress should be still asleep, but when she saw the open window and the vacant bed she came in briskly, pleased to know that Lavender must be better.
"I am glad," she said with a smile, "you are better?"
"Much better," said Lavender; "well, and more than ready for some breakfast."
"That is good," the maid replied, and disappeared to return with an inviting tray, which she placed on the table by Lavender's side; and while Lavender, reclining on the divan, enjoyed her breakfast thoroughly, Lucille busied herself about the room and chatted pleasantly of trifles.
Presently Lucille removed the tray, and, sitting on a low chair by Lavender's side, began to brush out her mistress's hair, while Lavender leant on one arm with her face turned towards the wall.
"I didn't like to mention it to you while you were so ill," Lucille remarked, "but have you heard the sad news about Mr. Ashley's uncle? Shot in his own summer house!"
"Yes," Lavender replied; "I read about it yesterday." She spoke steadily; she had better get accustomed to hearing the crime talked about, but still she was glad her face was averted.
"There's some more about it in the papers to-day."
"Is there?" said Lavender sharply. "Have they found out who did it?"
"Oh, no," said Lucille; "there doesn't seem to be any clue at all."
Lavender drew a deep sigh of relief; she could not be sufficiently grateful for the extraordinary presence of mind which Melville had displayed throughout that awful journey from Fairbridge. If he had not seen the handkerchief which she dropped by the ha-ha they might both be under arrest already. But other thoughts were passing through Lucille's mind.
"There's nothing about the murderer," she said, "but there is an advertisement saying that if Lady Holt will apply to some solicitors she will hear of something to her advantage. Did I pull your hair?"
For Lavender started perceptibly.
"Where is the advertisement? I should like to see it."
"I thought it would interest you," Lucille replied, "for the first time Mr. Ashley called here you told me he might ask for Lady Holt, and that if he did I was to come and let you know. Is Lady Holt a friend of yours?"
"Let me see the advertisement," said Lavender again, and Lucille went to fetch the morning paper. While she was gone, Lavender considered as rapidly as possible what she had better do. For ten years Lucille had been with her, a companion rather than a servant, the trusted and trustworthy recipient of all her confidences; and Lavender, on her part, had played the friend rather than the mistress to this otherwise friendless woman, had made her life bright and happy, and reaped the reward of being served with fidelity and devotion. Never once had Lucille presumed upon her relations with her employer, and in believing that she placed her mistress's interests above her own Lavender judged rightly. Lucille returned and gave the newspaper to Lavender, who read the paragraph with trembling eagerness; she must give some explanation to Lucille, and the true explanation was also the politic one to give. She turned round and looked the other woman in the eyes.
"It is for me, Lucille," she said in a low voice. "I was once Sir Geoffrey Holt's wife."
Lucille gasped.
"That is your husband that's been murdered? Oh, you poor dear! What an awful thing!" But her sympathy was not commensurate with her curiosity. "And you divorced him, I suppose, and he repented and left you some of his money, and now they want to know where you are so that they can hand it over to you. That's the something to your advantage, I suppose. Will you go and see about it to-day?"
The rapidity with which Lucille invented an entire story to fit in with her views of probabilities bewildered Lavender.
"Oh, no," she said; "that isn't it at all. They must never know where I am. They must think I am dead, as I always thought he was when I—married again."
A glimmer of comprehension dawned in Lucille's face.
"You thought him dead when you married Mr. Sinclair, and he wasn't?"
Lavender nodded assent.
"I ran away from him and heard nothing of him, and thought he must be dead or he would have found me out and compelled me to go back to him again. And after seven years I thought I was free to marry again, and I married Mr. Sinclair. It was only the other day I learned that I was not free and that my marriage with Mr. Sinclair wasn't really any marriage. And now if they find out that I am Lady Holt, I may be prosecuted for bigamy; in any case, there will be a frightful scandal, and as I was never legally Mr. Sinclair's wife I shall lose all the money he left me and be ruined as well."
"Oh!" said Lucille slowly. "Of course they must never know."
"You won't betray me, will you?" said Lavender piteously.
"Betray you, my poor dear?" cried Lucille. "Whatever are you thinking of to suppose that I would betray anything that could do you harm?" She stroked Lavender's hand with fond tenderness, and Lavender turned upon her face and cried; the womanly sympathy was just what she needed at this moment, and scarcely any sympathy is so generous and full as that bestowed upon us by faithful and loyal servants. "No," said Lucille, "it's only because you've been run down and ill that such a thought could get into your head. You are safe so far as I am concerned. Besides, now both your husbands are dead, what affair is it of anybody's who or what you are? They'll never find you out after all these years. They wouldn't advertise if there were any other way of getting at you, and as for the something to your advantage, if you don't choose to go after it I don't suppose this Mr. Tracy will raise any objections; at least, he'll be unlike most of the lawyers I've ever heard of if he does."