“I don’t wish for anything better in the world than to have you beside me, sweetheart,” he responded.
The little silence that followed, of sheer peace and content, was disturbed by a fierce onslaught of hail on the window-panes, and a blast of wind that swept and shrieked round the building like a legion of lost souls.
“My word, hark at that! It’s going to be a wild night,” said Roger. “No crossing for us to-morrow if it’s like this. Why, you’re shivering, dearest. Cold?”
“No, it’s only that dreadful wail of the wind. When I was a little girl my nurse used to tell me it was the souls of drowned sailors shrieking, and I believed her, for years and years.... God guard all who are on the sea to-night!”
The words, uttered in a fervent whisper, were a real and fervent prayer. He knew that as he looked down lovingly at her sweet, thoughtful face.
“D’you know, Roger,” she resumed presently,“I’m not sure that I want to go to Nice, or anywhere else abroad, after all.”
“Why, then, we won’t! The queen shall do exactly as she likes. I’m not a bit keen on a smart place either, only——”
Grace looked up with a little whimsical smile in which there was a touch of pathos.
“Only mother said we were to—that it was ‘the proper thing’—and it was less trouble to agree with her than to argue the point. That’s the real trouble, isn’t it? And, after all, we haven’t had a quiet moment to discuss anything between ourselves for weeks and weeks, what with mother and dressmakers on my side, and Sir Robert keeping you so hard at work on yours, right up to the last moment too, upsetting us all so, and nearly making you too late to be married! Tiresome old gentleman!”
“It wasn’t his fault,” said Roger hastily. “But don’t let us think any more of that. We’re free to please ourselves now—go where we like and do what we like. So what shall we do? Stay here?”
“No. I’ve been thinking. Really it flashed into my mind while I was dressing and waiting for you before dinner. There’s such a dear little place quite close here—St. Margaret’s—where daddy and I stayed when he was getting over influenza, just after Armistice—this very same time of year, when you were still in France, you poor boy! We had the loveliest time, all by ourselves. Mother wouldn’t come; she said it would be too deadly in the winter, but it wasn’t—not for us, anyhow! And we had the cosiest rooms imaginable in a dinky cottage on the cliff, a regular sun-trap, with a dear oldlandlady, Miss Culpepper, who reminded us of ‘Cranford’ and cherished us both no end. Let’s go over and see if she’s still there and can put us up. I expect she can, for I remember we seemed to have the whole place to ourselves.”
“Topping!” Roger agreed heartily, as he would have done if she had proposed to start on an expedition to Timbuctoo. “And, I say, darling, I’ll try to get a car just for the time we’re down here, and we’ll have some jolly runs.”
“Splendid! But won’t that cost a lot?”
“Why, bless your careful little heart, think of all the money we shall save by scrapping that continental trip! It’s a simply ripping idea!”
“I wonder what mother will say when she knows?” laughed Grace. “I shan’t say a word to her about it when I write to her to-morrow; she’ll think we’re travelling; so will every one else for a week or two, for we won’t own up till they might be getting anxious, except perhaps to daddy and Winnie, and they’ll keep counsel all right. What fun it will be!”
“To think that it should have been on our wedding day—almost at the very moment! Oh, the poor, poor soul! Whocanhave done the awful thing?”
Grace Carling’s sweet face was pale and tear-stained. At last she had learned the grim news that Roger had successfully suppressed until now, just after breakfast in their sitting-room at the hotel. It would have been impossible to keep the secret from her longer; all the morning papers were full of the murder, though the mystery appeared deeper than ever. As he hastily scanned the columns while he waited for Grace, Roger noted that none of the reports so much as mentioned the stolen papers that had been returned in so extraordinary a manner and that almost certainly were the pivot of the tragedy. The police knew of these, for he himself had rung up Scotland Yard, and Sir Robert was awaiting the arrival of a detective when he, Roger, had been obliged to leave him. But evidently the information had been withheld from the Press.
The theory advanced, and considerably elaborated, was that which Thomson had propounded over the ’phone, and much stress was laid on the fact that the murderer had missed some at least ofhis anticipated spoil—the gold purse—with much conjecture as to whether the bag had contained any other valuables.
Naturally, Grace was terribly distressed; also, her quick mind instantly divined that this was the cause of Roger’s strange emotion yesterday, that, for the moment, had so startled and alarmed her.
“It was a shock,” he confessed. “Honestly, darling, when I saw that poster, and George gave me the paper, I was more upset than I’ve ever been in my life before; what with the horror of the thing itself, and wanting to keep it from you. I couldn’t bear to let you know, just then, the great day of our lives! Though even now I don’t know how I managed it.”
His voice was husky with emotion, and she looked up at him, smiling through her tears.
“It was dear of you, Roger! I never suspected—how could I?... But what in the world can she have been doing there, so near us, and in disguise, as they say?”
“Heaven knows, dear, except that I’m pretty certain she had been to a flat in a square nearly opposite; not for the first time, though why she went there, I know no more than you do.”
“The square opposite? Why, that must be Rivercourt Mansions. What makes you think she had been there?”
“Because I saw her, a few days ago. By George! it was only last Tuesday, though it seems more like a year. You remember I came to dinner——”
“Of course, and turned up very early.”
He nodded.
“It was because I got away so much earlier than I expected that I walked from the station, and presently I saw her walking rapidly a few yards in front of me. I shouldn’t have known her but for her gait: you know that curious way of hers—graceful I suppose, but——”
“I know, like a snake; we always said so!”
“Yes, and she was very plainly dressed, in a long, dark cloak and floating veil, almost like a nurse’s uniform; but I was quite sure it was she; and itwas, for she evidently wore the same get-up yesterday,” he added, picking up one of the newspapers and pointing to the detailed description.
“What did you do?” breathed Grace.
“Well, it wasn’t my business, of course, and I had no right to spy on her, so I loitered a bit, increasing the distance between us. I saw her turn the corner, and when I reached the square I really couldn’t resist just glancing down, and I caught sight of her blue veil disappearing through the entrance of the north block. That’s all; I scarcely gave another thought to it.”
“And you believe she went there again yesterday, but that’s very important, isn’t it, Roger? Oughtn’t you to tell the police?”
“I don’t know,” he said slowly, and, hands in pockets, he paced up and down the room, paused and stared out of the window, frowning perplexedly.
Grace watched him with anxious, puzzled eyes. It seemed a long time before he turned to her again, and spoke with curious hesitation.
“You see, it’s this way, darling. I’m thinking of Sir Robert, and of him alone. I fear there is agreat deal more behind this—this crime than appears on the surface. The Press don’t know of it yet, that’s evident; the police may suspect, but I doubt if theyknow—in fact they can’t know everything unless they’ve seen those papers that were lost, and that’s unlikely, if it’s true, as Thomson said, they’ve been returned, and are in Lord Warrington’s hands.Hewill keep them safe enough!”
“But I don’t understand,” protested Grace. “Surely, Roger, the most important thing is to trace Lady Rawson’s murderer?”
“No,” said Roger decisively. “The most important thing is to keep all knowledge of those papers secret for the present. No disclosures can bring that poor, unhappy woman back to life; while if the secret information contained in those papers were prematurely divulged God knows what would happen—war, almost to a certainty, and thousands of lives would be sacrificed.”
Grace drew a little sobbing breath, her eyes still intent on his face. She had a curious feeling that he was not speaking to her, but was arguing with some invisible person.
“I don’t believe her visit to Rivercourt Mansions had any connection at all with the murder,” he continued, “except, indeed, that it brought her into the neighbourhood. She was robbed and killed by some loitering ruffian who had watched her—an old hand, doubtless, who, when he found he’d got nothing, got rid of the evidence instantly, very cleverly too—chucked the bag through the window of the cab, and slipped the envelope into the nearest post box.”
“You are sure she had those papers?”
“Absolutely, though I’ve no actual evidence. But I was certain of it from the first, and so, I am convinced, was Sir Robert, though of course he gave no hint of that. But she was the only person except ourselves who could possibly have had access to the keys of the safe.”
“But why should she steal them?”
“That I don’t know; I can only conjecture. You see, I’ve suspected her more or less vaguely for months. She was always coming in and out of the room—the only person who was allowed to do so when I was at work; but Sir Robert adored her, never crossed her in anything, and of course it was impossible for me to raise any objection! She used to come and go as softly as a cat—or a snake. Time after time I’ve been startled to find her close beside me, looking over my shoulder. On Wednesday night, the last time I saw her, she tried to get a look at those very papers, and I was just in time to prevent her. It all sounds very trivial perhaps, but there it is; and of course there was always the feeling that she was an alien. But I really couldn’t define my suspicions—at any rate, not till yesterday, and then not clearly.”
“How did you know she had gone to that place again?”
Again he hesitated, and resumed his restless pacing. Should he tell his wife everything? Yes. She was part of himself now—the better, purer, nobler part. He would have no secrets from her, except such secrets of State as were entrusted to him by his chief; and this was not one of those.
“I’ll tell you the whole thing from first to last, darling,” he said, seating himself beside her. “The moment I knew the papers were stolen I thought of her instinctively, and when I learned she was out I thought of the queer incident of Tuesday night. While Sir Robert was questioning the servants I turned up the Directory. There’s only one foreign name among all the list at Rivercourt Mansions: ‘G. Cacciola, Professor of Voice-Production.’”
“Cacciola! Good gracious!” gasped Grace. “Why, I know him quite well. He’s Winnie’smaestro, the dearest, kindest, funniest old thing imaginable. You must have heard me speak of him!”
“Don’t remember it. But anyhow I thought I’d go there on spec. and ask for her. It couldn’t do any harm and might be of immense service. As it was so near the church I’d just time, if I didn’t go to Starr’s to change, and I knew you’d forgive me for not turning up in glad rags, darling, if I told you all about it afterwards. So I said good-bye to Sir Robert, jumped into a taxi, and drove straight there. I saw an old Italian woman, and asked boldly for Lady Rawson. I’d guessed rightly—she was there, I’m convinced from the woman’s manner, though she swore she wasn’t, but she knew the name well enough, and I’d take my oath she was lying. I couldn’t very well force my way in and search the place; and as time was running short there was nothing to be done but push off. Like an ass I had paid the taxi and never told the man to wait, and there wasn’t another in sight.”
“There never is thereabouts.”
“That’s why I was so late—that and the fog. Ijumped on a tram, got down at the Avenue, and plunged right into the fog. My hat! how thick it was—you couldn’t see your hand before your face! Pretty position for a bridegroom, eh? I thought I never should get through in time; I kept barging into trees and palings till—well, you know the rest, darling.”
“You poor boy! No wonder you looked half dead,” Grace commented. Somehow his vivacious narrative had relieved the tension, diverted her mind from the main tragedy. “But how very queer about themaestro—Signor Cacciola, I mean. I wonder if Winnie knows that poor Lady Rawson knew him? I don’t think she can, or she would certainly have said something about it.”
“Well, she was there. But you see now, don’t you, darling, why I am so reluctant to put the police on this? If her visits were innocent, why did she disguise herself? If they were not innocent—may I be forgiven if I wrong her—goodness knows what might come out, to add to poor Sir Robert’s distress. So I’m sure it’s best to do and say nothing, for the moment anyhow, except to ring up as I said I would.”
He returned in about twenty minutes, and found her at the writing-table.
“Thomson again. Sir Robert is going on fairly well, but is not allowed to see anyone but him, and the nurse, of course. He says he gave him my message, and he seemed very touched, and begged me not to dream of coming back, as I could do nothing; I offered to, you know——”
“Of course, dear,” Grace assented.
“And our plan holds? We’ll be off to St. Margaret’s?”
“Yes, oh, yes! let’s get away from here,” said Grace, with a quick little shiver, glancing round the room, where last night they had been so happy, but that had now become distasteful to her.
“All right, sweetheart. I’ll be off to see about a car.”
His quest was speedily successful, and within an hour they were on their way in a trim little two-seater.
They were still grave and subdued when they set forth, as was inevitable, but the shadow lifted from them, and their spirits rose as they sped on their way.
It was a glorious morning, more like April than November, for the gale had blown itself out during the night: the sun shone in a cloudless sky, the blue sea was flecked with dancing white wavelets, the keen, clear air exhilarating as champagne, and overhead larks soared to sing in heavenly chorus.
“Isn’t it a dear, quaint, up-and-down little place?” said Grace, as they neared the village and slowed down. “Oh, there’s the church! It’s very, very old, and so beautiful. Roger, I’d like to go in just for a few minutes.”
“Now?” he asked, in some surprise.
“Yes, if you don’t mind. We’ve lots of time.”
Of course he didn’t mind, though he did wonder; and, after he had lovingly watched her slender figure mount the steps and disappear through the churchyard, he backed the car into a by-way, hailed avillage lad and bade him keep an eye on it, and then followed her.
She was kneeling, her face bowed on her hands in prayer.
He stood still, there at the back of the church, his own head bowed, his eyes fixed on that kneeling figure that was all the world to him; and as slow minutes passed the sacred peace of the hushed and holy place stole into his own soul.
Presently she rose and joined him, and hand in hand they went out silently into the sunshine. Her eyes were misty with tears, but her face was serene and beautiful as that of an angel.
“I felt I must go, Roger, just for the little while,” she whispered. “It was forher—for poor Lady Rawson. Some people say we should not pray for the dead, but—but if it is true, and itis, that souls live for ever, they may know—I believe they do—when we who are still here, think of them gently and lovingly, and it may comfort them! And I’m sure God loves us all, His poor erring human children, however sinful we are, and—and that Hewantsus to think lovingly of each other.”
Too moved for words, Roger could only look down at her with an almost adoring gaze. Dearly as he loved her, he had not realized as yet the spiritual strength and sweetness of her nature, so simple, so straightforward, and so steadfast.
He felt strangely humble, yet strangely happy, and from his own heart there went up a little silent prayer: “God make me worthy of her!”
“And now for dear old Miss Culpepper,” sheannounced almost gaily as they settled themselves in the car once more, and Roger dismissed the attendant lad with a generous tip. “Oh, I do hope we shall find her at home, and that she can put us up. Down the hill, Roger, and the first turning. I’ll tell you where to stop.”
It was the prettiest white cottage imaginable, approached from the road by a flight of irregular steps and a steep little garden, now gay with chrysanthemums.
“It’s like one of those toy ‘weather houses,’” said Roger as they mounted the steps. “Does a little lady come out on fine days and a little man on wet ones?”
“I don’t know anything about a little man, but you’ll see the little lady directly—at least, I hope so. She’s just like the cottage; you couldn’t imagine anyone else owning it! Oh! did I warn you that she’s a regular Mrs. Malaprop, bless her? She loves using long words, French for preference, and they’re invariably the wrong ones, but she does it with an ineffable air of gentility, and is dreadfully offended if anyone laughs, so be careful! Oh! and besureyou wipe your shoes as you go in, and she’ll love you for ever. S-sh!”
The green door, adorned with brilliantly polished brass handle, knocker, and letter box, was opened by a small, spare, trim little woman, who might have stepped out of the pages of “Punch” some forty years ago. She wore her white hair in a closely curled “fringe,” neatly held in place by a fine net,with an absurd little butterfly bow of black lace perched on the crown of her head, presumably as a sort of apology for a cap. The skirt of her long, skimpy gown of black merino was trimmed with a series of tiny frills of the same stuff, and had quillings of snowy net at the neck and wrists, and her black silk apron was artfully adjusted to accentuate the slimness of her tiny waist. Through a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez her mild blue eyes scanned her visitors inquiringly.
“How are you, Miss Culpepper?” said Grace, extending her hand. “I wonder if you remember me?”
“I ought to do, I’m sure,” said the little old lady graciously. “But at the moment—why, of course, it’s Miss Armitage! How often I have thought of you and your dear father. I trust Mr. Armitage is in good health.” She glanced at Roger, and Grace blushed and smiled.
“Quite, thanks. But I’m not ‘Miss Armitage’ now. May I introduce my husband, Mr. Roger Carling? You see, we are taking a—a little holiday, and made up our minds all in a hurry to come over and ask whether you could put us up for a week or two.”
“Dear me—married—how romantic!” Miss Culpepper chirruped. “Permit me to tender my congratulations, my dear, to you both. And pray step in.”
She led the way into the parlour on the right—a cosy and charming little room, spotlessly clean and bright.
“I shall be delighted to accommodate you, to theextent of my very humblemenace. As you may remember, my dear Miss—I mean, Mrs. Carling—I retain no domestic during the winter months, when I so seldom have any guests, though I am very glad when they do come, like you and Mr. Armitage. And, do you know, I still think of that deliciousjambonhe sent me for Christmas, just after you left. As I wrote to him at the time, a more delicious bird was never brought to table! Now perhaps you would like to see the sleeping apartment—the large one over this; it is not quite ready, of course, as I did not expect you, but can bedérangeredin a very few minutes.”
“We don’t want to put you about in the very least,” Grace explained. “We can go and get lunch somewhere in the village—we shall have to find a garage for the motor-car anyhow; it’s waiting there in the road—and we can come back at any time you like. Oh, you darling! Why, is this Cæsar?”
A magnificent black Persian cat stalked into the room, and stared gravely at Grace with its inscrutable amber eyes.
The question seemed to embarrass little Miss Culpepper, who, after a deprecating glance at Roger’s back—he was looking out of the window—mysteriously beckoned Grace out of the room.
She followed, cuddling the cat, which she had picked up, and which lay quite quietly in her arms without evincing any emotion whatever.
“It’s the same animal, my dear, whom you were so fond of as a kitten,” Miss Culpepper explained in a discreet whisper; “but unfortunately she proved tobe a—a female; very embarrassing! So she is nowinconnuas ‘Cleopatra.’ Perhaps I should not have said unfortunate though, for a lady near possesses a most beautiful Persian with whom Cleopatra—er—mates; and the provender are exquisite, and provide quite a nice little source of additional income. She has two now, that I expect to dispose of for quite a large sum, though Idohate parting with them; it seems so sordid.”
“Oh, do let me see them,” Grace pleaded, and was graciously invited into the kitchen, where the two kittens, an adorable pair, pranced to meet them. Cleopatra jumped down and crooned over her offspring, and Grace promptly sat on the floor and gathered all three of them into her lap.
“Most extraordinary,” murmured Miss Culpepper, “Cleopatra evidently remembers you, after all this time. As a rule she never allows anyone but myself to caress her or the kittens; in fact, she usually swears at and attempts to bite any stranger who has the timidity to approach her. So unladylike!”
“I feel quite honoured,” laughed Grace. “Of course you remember me and love me, don’t you, Cleopatra, darling? And you’ll let me have one of your babies. We must take one home with us, Miss Culpepper, if it’s old enough.”
“Oh, yes, quite old enough, just three months to-day; indeed one has already gone—Cæsarion—to the clergyman who was staying here when they were tiny, and bespoke him at once. It was he who named them. This is the other—er—male, ‘DearBrutus.’ Why ‘Dear’ I really don’t know, though naturally he is very dear to me. And his sister is Semiramis, because she is somelligerent. The Rev. Smithson—such a learned man, my dear Mrs. Carling—said she would certainly grow up into a warrior queen. They are beautiful names, I consider—pathological, of course.”
“Historical,” Grace suggested, and instantly repented. For Miss Culpepper drew herself up and spoke, gently indeed, but in a tone that conveyed a subtle reproof.
“I consider ‘pathological’ the more correct. It is as well to be accurate even in the smallest matters, and I believe it is very doubtful if the originals of the names ever really lived.”
“She’s priceless!” Grace declared, when she repeated this to Roger, as she accompanied him back to the car, with a perfect imitation of the old lady’s manner. “And the dearest, kindest old soul in the world. Aren’t you glad we came? She’s going to give me all sorts of household tips, as she did when I was here with daddy. She’s a wonderful cook. So hurry back when you’ve garaged the car, and we shall have lunch ready.”
“Good!” said Roger heartily. “I’m as hungry as a hunter. So long, darling.”
When he returned he found Grace, enveloped in one of Miss Culpepper’s big cooking aprons, and with Dear Brutus perched on her shoulder, busily putting the finishing touches to the table, while a delicious fragrance of omelette was wafted from the kitchen.
A very dainty meal the resourceful old ladymanaged to serve at such short notice, and how they enjoyed it!
For the time the shadow had passed from them. London and the Rawsons, all the tragedy and trouble, had receded into the far distance, and life seemed very fair, very joyous. They were not callous—far from it; they were only a pair of lovers, rejoicing in each other, in the sunshine, in “the delight of simple things, and mirth that hath no bitter stings!”
It was a wonderful week-end, halcyon days of sheer, unalloyed happiness; an abiding memory to dwell on in the time to come, when the world was dark indeed, and even hope seemed dead.
It was amazing how swiftly the hours sped. There was a shopping expedition down the village in the afternoon to order supplies, when the crowning glory of the purchases was a noble dish of big pink prawns, caught that very morning, and still steaming hot from the pot. They carried them back and had them for tea—a real square-meal tea, and ate them all, except such as were demolished by Cleopatra, Semiramis, and Dear Brutus, who attended the feast and exhibited an appreciative appetite for fresh prawns nicely peeled and proffered.
And how snug it was, how peaceful in the little parlour, with the lamp lighted and the curtains drawn, when Roger lounged happily in the easy chair beside the fire, and Grace sat at the little mellow-toned old Broadwood piano, and sang old songs, played snatches of old melodies, grave and gay, finishing up with Sullivan’s tender and wistful love duet:
None shall part us from each other,One in life and death are we,
None shall part us from each other,One in life and death are we,
None shall part us from each other,One in life and death are we,
None shall part us from each other,
One in life and death are we,
and Roger came to her side and sang Strephon’s part, quite softly, for her ears alone, though if he could have sung with like expression on the stage, and to order, he would have made his fortune!
After that there was such a silence that little Miss Culpepper considered it advisable to be seized with a fit of coughing and to make quite a business of opening the door when she brought the supper-tray.
A chill breath from the world they had left behind swept over them indeed for a few brief minutes next morning, when Roger went down to the garage to fetch the car, and brought back three London papers—all he could get in the village.
“Very little about it at all,” he said. “And nothing fresh.... The inquest was merely opened and adjourned for a week; and they say, ‘The police are following up a clue’; but they always say that.”
“How is Sir Robert?” asked Grace.
“Improving steadily. I heard that from Thomson. I rang him up from the hotel. He says the funeral is fixed for Tuesday, at noon, and I really think I ought to go up for it, darling. I’m sure Sir Robert would like to see me, if he’s allowed to see anyone by then, and I could get back at night.”
“Of course,” Grace assented gravely. “It’s right that you should go. Poor Sir Robert! My heart aches for him; and I—I feel almost ashamed of our happiness, Roger, when I think of his crushing sorrow.”
“I know. But, after all, it wouldn’t do him anygood—or her either, poor soul!—if we were to try to be as miserable as anything. Come along, sweetheart, let’s get out into the sunshine. The car’s a regular peach, isn’t she? And what weather! Perfect ‘Indian summer,’ by Jove! Might have been made on purpose for us.”
So they set forth for another glorious day in the open, over the downs and through the weald, splendid with the gracious, wistful beauty of late autumn; and back by the coast, to arrive as dusk was falling at their peaceful retreat. How invitingly homelike the little room was with its cheerful fire, and Miss Culpepper and the cats coming out to the porch to welcome them.
“And what’s the programme for to-morrow?” asked Roger after supper, as they sat together in lazy content on the couch drawn up by the fire, Cleopatra and Semiramis ensconced on Grace’s lap, Dear Brutus snuggling on Roger’s shoulder.
“I want to go to the early Celebration in the morning,” said Grace. “I nearly always do, you know, and to-morrow——”
“Me too, beloved,” he answered softly; and she slipped her hand in his.
There was no need for further speech; on this great point there had long been perfect understanding, perfect sympathy between them.
And so, in the fresh, sweet dawn of an exquisite morning, they went up the hill together to the little church, and with full hearts made their “sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving.” As they knelt before the altar, I am sure they silently renewed those solemn vows they had made three short days before; as Iam very sure also that Grace’s gentle soul sent up a fervent prayer for that of Paula Rawson, the beautiful woman whose fate had been so strange and sudden and terrible.
The glory of the risen sun shone on their happy faces when they came forth, and life was beautiful beyond words. They would have liked to share their happiness with the whole world. As that was impossible they shared it with little Miss Culpepper, and took her, snugly sandwiched between them, in the car to Canterbury. It was Roger’s idea, joyfully acclaimed by Grace.
“She’d love it; she told me yesterday she had never been in a motor-car in her life, and I thought then we must take her for some runs. She may think Sunday excursions wicked; but we’ll ask her.”
Never was an old lady more gratified by an invitation.
“Oh, my dear Mrs. Carling and Mr. Carling, there is nothing, I assure younothing, would give me greater pleasure!” she cried; “but”—Grace glanced at Roger as one who would say “I told you so”—“but I am torn between inclination and duty. The cathedral! It is so many, many years since I visited that beautiful vane; it would indeed be a privilege to do so once more, and in such a positively uxorious manner. But your dinner—there will be no one to prepare it!”
So that was the only objection, easily disposed of.
“We’re going to dine at Canterbury, of course,” said Roger; and Grace reminded her that the pheasant would keep till to-morrow and there was plenty in the house for supper.
Her housewifely scruples set at rest, in what a delightful flutter of excitement she retired to “dress,” reappearing enveloped in quite an assortment of ancient shawls and a long ostrich feather “boa,” the floating ends of which, with those of the gauze scarf adjusted around her “toque,” flapped across Roger’s eyes horribly when they started, till Grace twined them snugly round the old lady’s neck and tucked the ends in securely.
Good it was to see Miss Culpepper, proudly erect, beaming with benevolent condescension on such pedestrians as they met; good to hear the ecstatic comments she chirped into their sympathetic ears; to note, when they reached the cathedral just in time for the service, the superb dignity with which she advanced up the aisle, visibly fortified with the consciousness that she had “come in a motor-car.”
Verily she had the time of her life that sunny Sunday, as she told Grace, with tears in her kind old eyes, after dinner at the hotel, when Roger had gone to bring round the car for the homeward run.
“I’ve never had such a treat in all my long life before!” she cried. “And nobody has ever been so good to me as you two dear young people. I don’t know how to begin to thank you, only—God bless you both and send you the rich happiness you deserve all your lives!” Grace hugged her, and between smiles and tears Miss Culpepper continued: “Do you know there’s only one little thing in this happy, happy day I’d have wished different, and you’ll think it silly of me. But, though the lovely music in the cathedral thrilled me, Ididwish they had chosen another anthem. ‘Hear my prayer, OLord, incline Thine ear, consider my complaint,’ is most beautiful, but I couldn’t really echo it to-day, for I hadn’t any ‘complaint’ to make to Him. I’d have liked them to sing the Hallelujah Chorus, and I believe I should not only have stood up, but have joined in!”
Happy, happy day, with never a cloud to mar it!
Next morning the storm broke.
Roger went down the village to fetch the papers, and on returning saw, with some surprise, a taxi-cab standing in the road below the cottage.
In the tiny hall, almost blocking it up, stood a big, burly man, whom he instantly discerned as a policeman in plain clothes, and who greeted him with a civil “Good morning.”
He had the impression that Miss Culpepper was fluttering nervously in the background, by the kitchen door, with Cleopatra beside her, staring with her big, luminous eyes at the intruder.
“Do you wish to speak to me?” he asked.
The man merely motioned towards the half-open parlour door, and, with a curious sense of impending disaster upon him, Roger entered.
Grace was standing there, her fair face as white as the big cooking apron she had donned, and with her was a little, wiry man, a stranger.
“This is my husband, Mr. Carling,” said Grace quietly. “Roger, this gentleman wishes to speak to you.”
“Just so—and alone, if you please, ma’am,” said Snell.
“Roger has been arrested for the murder of Lady Rawson.”
The words repeated themselves over and over in Grace Carling’s brain with maddening persistence, as she sat perfectly still and silent, her hands grasping the arms of the chair, her lips firmly set, her eyes gazing straight in front of her. But for those wide, tragic eyes she might have been a stone figure.
She could never afterwards clearly remember what happened in that brief half-hour—possibly less—before Roger was taken away, and she was left alone.
She had made no scene—that at least was something for which to be thankful; though when the detective said he wanted to speak to her husband alone, some strong instinct had forbidden her to go, and she had moved to Roger’s side, saying quite quietly:
“I don’t think you can have anything to say to my husband that I may not hear”; and, after a moment’s hesitation, Roger said:
“My wife is quite right; I have no secrets from her. What is your business with me?”
And then—and then—the shock came, or rather was intensified, for when she first saw these two menof ill-omen a strange, swift premonition told her what their errand was.
So when Snell—more embarrassed than he had ever before felt in the execution of his duty, and most anxious to get the difficult business over—bluntly pronounced his formula, and added the customary caution as to any statement made by his prisoner being liable to be used as evidence against him, she was scarcely conscious of surprise, only of intense indignation.
Roger had uttered a startled, horrified exclamation, and she involuntarily slipped her hand through his arm, not for support—that hand did not tremble, nor did she, but its pressure was eloquent.
Her slender figure drawn to its full height, her grey eyes fixed steadily on Snell, she spoke, coldly, deliberately, in a voice that sounded in her own ears like that of a stranger:
“How utterly preposterous. You have made a great, a terrible mistake.”
“Excuse me, madam; I have to do my duty. I would have spared you if I could, but youwouldstay, you know,” Snell protested, watching her as closely and relentlessly as she watched him, for the moment leaving Roger Carling to Evans, who had silently entered the room and taken up his position beside him.
Having had a good deal of experience with women under such circumstances, Snell fully expected a violent hysterical outburst, but, as he afterwards confided to his wife, he had never seen such marvellous self-possession as Mrs. Carling displayed.
“I never felt sorrier for anyone in my life, norever felt a greater respect for anyone. She was simply splendid! And it was rough on her, poor girl—on their honeymoon and all; and of course she had nothing in the world to do with the crime. And she loves him and believes in him utterly. Mark my words, she’ll believe in him to the very end, whatever that may be.”
“Perhaps he didn’t do it,” suggested Mrs. Snell.
“That’s to be proved at the trial,” said Snell. Not even to the wife of his bosom would he commit himself to any expression of opinion on the guilt or innocence of any prisoner. That was outside his duty.
And he was right. The control Grace imposed on herself, and that helped Roger to maintain his during the ordeal, was nothing less than heroic.
She announced her intention of accompanying them back to London, but accepted Snell’s decision that that was undesirable—in fact not permissible—and arranged to settle up and follow in the course of the day.
“When and where shall I see you, Roger?” she asked. “This—this dreadful mistake will be put right, of course, but I suppose it will be a few days at least—and till then?”
“That will be all right,” Snell interposed. “Mr. Carling’s solicitors will arrange everything, and you will be able to see him at any reasonable time for the present.”
“Thank you. Who are your solicitors, Roger?”
“The only firmIknow anything about are Twinnings—Sir Robert’s solicitors, you know; but they’ve never done any business for me personally. I’venever needed it. I’d better communicate with them. I suppose I shall have facility for that?” he added, glancing at Snell. “I don’t know anything about these things, or the procedure, myself.”
“You’ll have every facility,” Snell assured him. “But though I don’t want to hurry you, we must be getting off now—within ten minutes, in fact—and you’ll want to take some necessaries with you. Perhaps Mrs. Carling will put them together? I’m sorry, madam, but I must not lose sight of Mr. Carling. Duty’s duty!”
“I will fetch them,” she said, and exchanged a long, silent glance with Roger ere she left him. Still she would not—dare not—trust herself to think of anything but the task of the moment, and swiftly collected and packed in his bag all he would be likely to want—“only for a few days” she told herself, to sustain her courage—and returned to the parlour within the stipulated time.
Even when the moment of parting came, and she clung to him in a last embrace, she did not weep.
“Good-bye, my darling, till to-morrow,” he said in a hoarse, broken whisper. “It will be all right in a few days; try not to fret—to worry. Oh, my God, how hard it is!”
“I will be brave,” she whispered back—“brave as you are, my own, my beloved. God guard you, and show your innocence before all the world—soon!”
She stood in the porch and watched him, all her soul in her eyes, managed even to smile and waft a last kiss to him as he leaned forward for one final glimpse. Then, as the sound of the motor died away in the distance, she went back to the parlourand sat down, in dumb, stricken, tearless misery.
All the time little Miss Culpepper had fluttered about in a state of increasing agitation, peering out of the kitchen door at intervals, retreating swiftly when she feared she might be discovered, and keeping Cleopatra and her kittens from intruding on the colloquy. Now she fluttered in and out the parlour, looking wistfully and anxiously at that still figure in the chair, but not daring to speak to her. At last she could bear it no longer, but fell on her knees beside Grace, putting her thin old arms round her and crying: “Oh, my dear, my dear, don’t sit like that; you frighten me so! Say something, do something; tell me what’s the matter; let me do something to help! Oh, you’re as cold as ice—my poor darling!”
Grace shivered; she was indeed icy cold, though she had not been conscious of that or of anything else but those words that whirled round and round in her brain, and that now at last she uttered aloud with stiff, white lips.
“Roger has been arrested. They say he murdered Lady Rawson.”
Miss Culpepper uttered a shrill little scream.
“Oh, my dear child, how wicked, how positively supposterous. Not the murder, of course—no, no, I don’t mean that, itwaswicked—but to say that dear young gentleman could have done such a thing—he to whom Cleopatra has taken as she has never taken to any human being of the sterner sex, not even to the Reverend Smithson, though he is such a learned man. And I trust Cleopatra’s common sense against all the judges and juries in the world!But, my darling girl, you must excuse me—I can’t help it—for youarea darling and so is your dear, handsome young husband—no wonder you are so distressed! But don’t sit like that! Weep, my love, weep; it will ease your poor heart! As for me, if I’d only known what those meridians of the law were after I’d—I’d let them have a piece of my mind! I’ll let them have it yet, that I will!”
She actually shook her small fists, in imagination threatening Snell and his fellow-“meridian” with physical violence; and so irresistibly comic did the staunch little creature appear that the tension in Grace’s overwrought brain snapped, and she laughed aloud—laughter that brought blessed tears—and for a time they just clung together and sobbed, till gradually she regained a measure of real composure, quite different from that frozen, unnatural calm she had forced herself to maintain.
She told Miss Culpepper as much of the circumstances as seemed necessary. It was a relief to do so now, and the old lady punctuated the recital with exclamations and comments.
“I saw something about a murder in those newspapers you lent me on Saturday,” she confessed; “but I really did not read it. I very seldom do read newspapers; they are so full ofcunardsin these days that one really does not know what to believe. And of course I never associated it with you two—how could I? And on your wedding day! Of course, Iknewyou were only just married; though I pretended I didn’t, as you didn’t tell me in so many words. And to think of the honeymoon ending like this!”
“It hasn’t ended,” said Grace. “Roger will be,he must be, released—soon; to-day, perhaps. But I must be up and doing—I must get back to Town by the next train; and I must go to the garage and see about having the car sent back to Dover.”
There were, indeed, many things to see to, and eagerly the old lady helped. Lovingly, while Grace had gone on her errand, she prepared a dainty meal, and stood over her, coaxing and insisting till she made a pretence at least of eating.
“I can’t bear to think of you travelling alone,” she declared. “I wish I could go with you, though it is many years since I went to London. But if I can be of any help, of any comfort, my dear, be sure to let me know and I will shut up the cottage and come to you at once. And there’s ‘Dear Brutus’—you won’t want to take him with you, of course, but the very moment you are ready for him I will send him up—a little present with my love, for I couldn’t think of selling him to you. He may be a littleconsommé, and bring you luck! Who knows?”
She wished she could have taken the old lady with her, but that was impossible. It was far more of a wrench to leave her and the cottage—that tiny abode of peace and love and goodwill where she and her beloved had had those three days of unalloyed happiness—than it had been to leave the home of her girlhood, whither she must now return, for to-day at least.
A horror of great loneliness came over her as she drove to the station, and she strove against it valiantly. She must put aside all selfish considerations, and be brave and calm—for Roger’s sake.
From the station she sent a wire to her mother,and one to Winnie Winston, giving the time of her arrival at Charing Cross.
There was no one to meet her, but she was not surprised; Winnie would probably be out when the wire was delivered; it was very unlikely that her mother would trouble to come to the station, and her father she knew was lecturing at Edinburgh this week.
The sight of the contents bills of the evening papers, all flaunting the news of Roger’s arrest, hurt her like a physical blow; but she could not obtain a copy of any paper; the next edition was due, and was evidently being eagerly awaited.
After a moment’s thought she decided to drive first to the solicitor Roger had mentioned, whose offices were in Westminster. There a fresh shock awaited her.
She was shown at once into the private room of the senior partner, Mr. Twining, who received her very kindly, with a grave attitude of pity that was somehow disconcerting, and her heart sank as she listened to what he had to say.
“Yes, Mr. Carling rang us up from—er—when he arrived in Town, and we immediately furnished him with the address of a most reliable firm, Messrs. Spedding and Straight, who, as we have since ascertained, have undertaken to arrange for his defence. It is, of course, absolutely impossible for us to do so, under the circumstances, as we are acting for Sir Robert Rawson.”
It flashed to her mind instantly what this meant, and she spoke impulsively.
“Mr. Twining, surely Sir Robert does not for amoment believe my husband is guilty of this—this awful thing?” He did not answer, and his eyes avoided her steady, searching gaze. “No one who really knows Roger could believe it for a moment,” she continued; “and Sir Robert knows and loves him: they have been almost like father and son!”
“Quite so; but this is a most painful and complicated matter. I cannot explain more fully, but you will realize in time that we could not come to any other decision. And I assure you, Mrs. Carling, that with Messrs. Spedding your husband’s defence will be in the best hands.”
“Will you give me their address? I will go to them now.”
“With pleasure. I will write it for you.”
He took a sheet of paper, wrote the address, and handed it to her, saying:
“But if you will be advised by me you will not go to them till to-morrow. It’s getting late now, and you cannot possibly learn anything or do anything to-night. In fact, their office will be closed. Good-bye, and please believe that I sympathize with you most deeply, and would gladly do anything in my power to help you,” he added, and himself escorted her through the clerks’ office and to the waiting cab.
He was sorry forher—would helpherif he could, but not Roger! He, too, like Sir Robert, believed him guilty. She knew it as if he had said so openly.
“When you see anyone selling evening papers, stop, I want one,” she instructed the cab-driver, and at the next corner he pulled up for the purpose.
It was the final edition with half the front page occupied by the latest news of the “Rawson MurderMystery,” which included a brief account of Roger’s arrest, and also the full story of the secret service papers that had been stolen and restored, very much as Roger had narrated it to her, with no hint as to the actual contents of the papers, merely stating that they were of great international importance; but with the account of Lady Rawson’s visit to Rivercourt Mansions, and some picturesque notes on Cacciola and his Russian protégé.
What was it Roger had said the other day when he broke the news to her? That it was far more important that all information about those papers should be suppressed than that the murderer of Lady Rawson should be traced. Then who could have divulged the secret, given it to the Press?
She could scarcely believe her eyes as she saw a subheading—“Interview with Sir Robert Rawson”—over a few brief paragraphs revealing the astounding fact that Sir Robert himself had authorized and endorsed the publication!
She was still brooding painfully over this revelation when she reached her destination—the big, comfortable suburban house she had left as a bride such a few days before, that now seemed like a lifetime.
The trim maid who opened the door uttered a little compassionate exclamation.
“Oh, miss—I mean, ma’am—isn’t it dreadful? And how ill you look! Madam’s in the drawing-room. Shall I pay the cab?”
“No. Ask him to wait,” said Grace, though why she said so she did not know.
She went swiftly through the hall, entered the drawing-room, and closed the door behind her.
Her mother was seated by the fire—a remarkably pretty woman, with fair hair and turquoise-blue eyes, who looked younger than her daughter to-day, for Grace, white checked and hollow eyed, had aged visibly during these terrible hours.
“Mother!” she said piteously.
Mrs. Armitage rose, throwing down the newspaper she had been absorbed in—an earlier edition of the one Grace still clutched—and came towards her daughter.
Her pretty, pink-and-white face wore a most peevish, disagreeable expression, and there was no trace of sympathy in her hard, blue eyes.
“So you’ve got here, Grace. I had your wire, but I simply couldn’t come to meet you. I was too terribly upset, and your father’s away. What an awful disgrace for us all. Roger must have been mad—raving mad!”
Grace threw up her hand, as if to ward off a blow.
“Mother!” she cried, “what do you mean? You don’t—you can’t think that my Roger is a——”
She could not bring herself to utter the word. But Mrs. Armitage could.
“A murderer! Of course he is. There’s not a shadow of doubt about it. He knew poor Lady Rawson had those wretched papers, and followed and stabbed her as he couldn’t get them any other way; and then had the nerve to come on and be married to you—tomydaughter! No wonder he was so late, and looked so disreputable. I never liked him, I never trusted him—you know I didn’t; but I never dreamed that he was capable of such a horrible thing. As I say, he must have been mad, butthat doesn’t make it any better for us; and what on earth we are to do I don’t know! If only——”
“Stop!” cried Grace, so imperatively that Mrs. Armitage recoiled. “If you or anyone else say my husband committed this murder you lie!”
The elder woman’s blue eyes flashed, her voice rang out shrilly.
“How dare you speak to me like that! I say he did do it; and he’ll hang for it—and serve him right for disgracing you and your family. Where are you going?”
“Out of this house,” said Grace, and stumbled into the hall, where the maid lingered by the open outer door, stumbled blindly forward and almost fell into the arms of Winnie Winston, who arrived, breathless, on the doorstep.
“Grace! Oh, my darling girl! I got the wire too late to meet you, so rushed on here!”
Grace clutched her, searched her face with anguished eyes.
“Winnie, tell me the truth. You don’t believe my Roger did—it?”
“Believe it? I should think not, indeed! Who could believe it who knows him?” said Winnie staunchly.
“God bless you for that, Winnie,” cried Grace brokenly. “Oh, my dear, take me out of this—anywhere, anywhere!”
“If I hadn’t turned up just at that very moment, I believe Grace would have died on the doorstep. I hope there’s not another woman in the world would have behaved so abominably as Mrs. Armitage; but it is just like her. I never could imagine how she came to have such a daughter as Grace! But of course she takes after her father—the professor’s a dear. But what a life the pair of them have had with that horrid little creature!”
Winnie Winston spoke in an emphatic undertone, for the walls of the Chelsea flat were thin, and in the adjoining room Grace was in bed, worn out and fast asleep.
Winnie had insisted on administering hot soup and a full dose of aspirin, and sat beside the exhausted girl, holding her hand, stroking her aching forehead, cherishing her with all womanly endearments, till, between them, she and Mother Nature, and the beneficent drug brought blessed sleep and oblivion to the tortured brain and heart.
Then Winnie stole away, and presently, as he so often did, Austin Starr turned up, to whom she poured out her indignation at Mrs. Armitage’s callous conduct.
“I always guessed she could be a holy terror ifshe chose. Though she has always been mighty civil to me,” said Austin.
“Of course. She always is to men, and most of them think she’s an angel. Why, she made a dead set at Roger when they first knew him, and was furious when she found he wasn’t taking any, and that it was Grace he was in love with. She’s been sniffy with them both ever since—mean little cat! Whatdoyou suppose she said to Grace at the very last moment before she went to the church the other day?”
“Something sweet and maternal,” suggested Austin sarcastically.
“I don’t think! She came into Grace’s room, preening herself like a canary—the first time she’d been near her to my knowledge, and I got there pretty early to help Grace dress. Mrs. Armitage just looked her up and down and said, ‘Really, Grace, you look like a corpse; white never did suit you. Hadn’t you better make up a bit?’ I could have shaken her! And when there was that dreadful delay at the church she never even came through to the vestry with us, but was only fussing and fuming because the Rawsons hadn’t come. While now, if you please, she’s made up her nasty little mind that Roger is guilty and is going to be hanged, and had the fiendish cruelty to blurt it out to Grace the moment she arrived. It was enough to kill her!”
“Sure,” conceded Austin gravely. “I’m not making any excuse for Mrs. Armitage—her conduct was just abominable—but we’ve got to face facts, Miss Winnie; and the great fact is that I’m afraid a good few people are of the same opinion.”
Winnie sprang up, a passionate figure, and pointed an accusing forefinger at him.
“Austin Starr, you don’t dare to sit there and tell me that you believe your friend Roger Carling is a murderer!”
His clever, good-tempered face—a face that inspired confidence in most people—betrayed embarrassment, distress, perplexity; his silence infuriated Winnie.
“Answer me!” she ejaculated in an imperative whisper, emphasized by a stamp of her foot.
“No, I do not,” he said slowly. “I never will. But the case is very black against him, and there’s a lot of excuse for the people who do think it.”
She gave a little sigh of relief.
“I’m gladyoudon’t, anyhow; for if you did I’d never willingly speak to you again.”
Austin rose, and stood beside her, looking down earnestly at her charming, animated face.
“I’d give my right hand, I’d give ten years of my life at its best—Winnie, I’d give everything dearest to me in the world except the hope of winning you—to be able to clear Roger Carling from this charge,” he said slowly.
For weeks, for months she had known in her heart that Austin Starr loved her, had known too that she loved him, but never before had he spoken like this, never had there been any sentimental passages between them, only a beautiful frank friendship, that after all is the very best foundation on which a man and a woman can build the love that lasts!
And now—though how it came about neither of them could have said—her hands were in his, hedrew her, unresisting to his arms, and their lips met for the first time.
A wonderful moment for them both, when, without another word, he knew his hope was fulfilled—that he had already won her. It was excusable that, for a few moments, they almost forgot those other hapless lovers, their nearest friends, now so tragically parted. Yet they soon remembered and resumed counsel, with just one little difference that meant a lot to them—that whereas before they had sat facing each other, one each side the fire-place, they were now side by side.
“Can’tyoudo anything to bring light on it all, Austin?” she asked.
He passed his hand perplexedly over his sleek hair.
“I mean to do everything I can, dear, but——”
“Haven’t you any theory?”
“I’ve had quite a lot, and tried to follow them up, but they won’t wash—not one. I felt mighty uneasy when I found Lady Rawson had been to your oldmaestro’sflat and that Roger had followed her there.”
“Did he! When did you find that out?”
“The same night, just after Snell, the detective, came here, and asked so many questions. I went straight to the flat.”
“You never told me!”
“I never told anyone; but I soon found that Snell knew all about it too, and as he kept silence so did I. Though what I couldn’t make out waswhyRoger went on her track like that, when he had so little time to spare. It was an utter mystery till I got theclue when the news came through about those secret papers, and I went straight to Sir Robert and saw him. It was he who sent it; Snell must have known it all the time and suppressed it—never gave even me a hint.”
“Then you wrote the ‘interview’? I thought so. Did Sir Robert say anything else? What does he think?”
“That’s the worst of it. He is absolutely convinced that his wife was murdered by Roger, and is implacable against him. That’s not to be wondered at, with the poor thing still lying dead in that great, silent house. The funeral is to-morrow, and as I can’t go to both, I shall go there instead of to the court to hear the case opened against Roger.”
“Oh, Austin, why? It would be a comfort to him and to Grace too, to have you there!”
“Yes, but I’ve a queer sort of feeling that at the funeral I may get some clue that would be of value. I can’t explain it, but there it is. And anyhow the case will surely be adjourned to-morrow. They can’t do anything else. It was terrible to see Sir Robert to-day. He is making a wonderful recovery physically, and was sitting up in a wheel-chair, though he’s paralysed in the lower limbs, and I doubt if he’ll ever walk again. But his brain is clear enough, and his animus against Roger is simply awful. The queer thing is that he acknowledges that those papers were of such supreme importance that—well honestly, I gathered the impression that if anyone but his own wife had been murdered in order to recover them he’d have considered the crime justifiable and tried to hush it up. The things we’remost up against are that Roger undoubtedly was there on the scene, and that he was the one person concerned who knew the contents of the papers and was most interested in getting them back to Sir Robert. You and I, and poor Mrs. Carling herself, are certain he did not commit the murder—just because we know him. But the question is—Who did?”
“It’s curious that themaestroshould be mixed up in it,” mused Winnie.
“Have you seen him since?”
“No, there was no reason why I should.”
“I have, and Boris Melikoff too—this afternoon. I remembered him—Melikoff—when I saw him again. I met him here some months back, in the summer.”
She nodded.
“That Sunday night, when he sang so divinely. It’s the only time I’ve seen him. A handsome boy, but there’s something queer and unbalanced about him, though I believe themaestrocares for him more than for anyone else alive. Grace was here that night, too—not Roger; it was when he was abroad with the Rawsons. Why, Austin, could it have been him, Melikoff—in jealousy? I could imagine him doing anything!”
Starr shook his head.
“No. He’s ruled out personally. He was down at Birmingham. But I’m going to cultivate him assiduously, and, if possible, his compatriots who forgather with him at Cacciola’s and elsewhere. I believe that’s the direction in which the truth will be found. Snell doesn’t.Heis sure he’s got a clear, straightforward case, and that his duty’s finished!”
Winnie frowned thoughtfully.
“You think Lady Rawson and Boris were members of a secret society?”
“Sure!”
“And that one of them watched, and followed, and killed her?”
“Possibly.”
“Then why didn’t he keep the papers?”
“That’s the snag. But suppose he or she—it might have been a woman—didn’t want the papers, that it was a personal vendetta? That’s the line I mean to follow now.”
“It sounds quite likely,” she agreed. “How clever of you, Austin. But how are you going to set about it?”
“Can’t say yet, dear. I must feel my way somehow.”
“Perhaps something fresh and helpful will come out in court to-morrow,” said Winnie hopefully.