It was all very strange, thought Beatrice, as she walked towards Convent Grange. She had learned much from Orchard and from Mrs. Snow, yet apparently there was more to learn. Who had killed Colonel Hall? Who had murdered Jarvis Alpenny? Was the assassin one and the same? And if she found the assassin, would she learn who possessed the necklace, which seemed to account for both crimes? Finally, did she discover the identity of the assassin and the necklace, would she be able to learn the mystery which lurked in the background of Vivian's life? These were the questions which Beatrice asked herself on the way home.
In spite of Mrs. Snow's assertion and significant tale of the midnight meeting with Alpenny, the girl could not bring herself to believe that her mother was guilty. A woman would never think of cutting a man's throat, and probably when a frail little woman such as Mrs. Hall was reported to have been, would not have the power. Then again, Alpenny was murdered in the same way, and Mrs. Hall had been lying in Hurstable churchyard for years. Also, if Mrs. Hall was guilty, what had the black patch which had reappeared in the second crime to do with the first one? It seemed impossible that these riddles could be answered.
On arriving at the Grange, Beatrice found Dinah and Jerry Snow walking down the avenue. Apparently they had been quarrelling, for they did not walk arm in arm as usual, and Jerry was as sulky as Dinah was tearful. "Whatever is the matter?" asked Beatrice, stopping.
"It's Jerry's cruelty," mourned Dinah, whose sorrow made her look even plainer than usual.
"It's Dinah's foolishness," retorted Jerry, and walked on.
"Come back," cried the girl, "or I'll never, never, never speak to you again. Do you wish to break my heart?"
"You're breaking it yourself," grumbled the young man. All the same, he returned to where the two girls were standing.
"And after all I have put up with from your mother," complained Dinah.
"Oh! leave my mother alone."
"I wish she would leavemealone. She is always highly disagreeable to me. I believe it is a family failing," concluded Dinah spitefully.
"Don't marry me, then."
"I don't intend to--you--you bear!"
Beatrice listened to all this with covert amusement. She knew that the two loved one another too well to think of parting, whatever might be the grounds of their quarrel. "Come, come," she said soothingly, and prepared to play the part of peacemaker. "What is the matter? Is Jerry jealous?"
"No," snapped Dinah. "I am--very jealous. He"--she pointed to Jerry, who still looked sulky--"has been flirting with another girl. I was in the village an hour ago, and there was Jerry as bold as brass talking to a red-haired minx, who squinted."
"She doesn't squint," growled Jerry.
"There, you see; he defends her."
"Dinah!" cried Jerry in desperation, "how can you be so silly? I love you and you only."
"You love that horrid girl. I saw her looking at you."
"A cat may look at a king."
"She certainly is a cat, though you're not a king."
"Well," said Beatrice, preparing to move on, "I am going back to the house, and you two can settle it yourselves."
Dinah clung to her friend. "No. I won't be left alone with Jerry."
"Well, then, explain," said Beatrice impatiently, for she had too many worries of her own to take any profound interest in the frivolous ones of these milk-and-water lovers.
"I'll explain," said Mr. Snow defiantly. "There is a young lady I know in London----"
"Young!" cried Dinah; "she's thirty-five, and painted."
"Well, then, she came down here to the inn, and I met her outside. She exchanged a few words with me, and said that she wanted to know the nearest way to the Downs. It seems that her father is a shepherd on the Downs--a man called Orchard."
"What?" cried Beatrice, disengaging herself from Dinah's too fond embrace. She could scarcely believe her ears. That she should come from seeing the ex-butler for the first time, to stumble--so to speak--across his daughter, was indeed an extraordinary coincidence.
Jerry looked at her amazed, as he could not understand her tone. "Why do you look so astonished?" he asked.
"I have only lately come down from seeing Orchard," she said. "Oh, by the way, Dinah," she added, turning to the girl, "Vivian came back with you from Brighton?"
"No," said Dinah crossly; "he had to see someone, and will not be back until late. I came home myself, and passed through the village to see Jerry making love to that horrid girl. And Jerry had the coolness to follow me."
"Only to explain," urged Jerry. "Come, Dinah, don't be silly. I know the lady only a little; she is on one of the papers belonging to our editorial firm, and does the fashion column."
"She might dress better, then," retorted Dinah crossly, and determined not to be appeased. "I saw cheapness in every line of her dress."
"Ah," said Jerry artfully, "she cannot set off a dress like you."
"Don't be silly," cried Miss Paslow, but smiled for all that.
"What is this lady's name?" asked Beatrice.
"Lady!"--Dinah tossed her head--"when her father is a shepherd, and, I dare say, a very bad one."
"Miss Maud Carr is her name," said Mr. Snow, ignoring Dinah, much to her wrath.
"Maud!" Beatrice remembered that this was also the name of Vivian's dead wife, and again wondered at the long arm of coincidence.
"I know very little about it or her," said Jerry in an injured tone, "save that she writes about women's fashions. We have met at journalistic clubs in London, and, of course, when I saw her I passed the time of day with her."
"You passed an hour," snapped Dinah, "and very pleasantly, I'm sure."
"She's not a bit ashamed of her birth," continued Jerry, still ignoring Dinah as a punishment. "I never knew her father was a shepherd in London, but she confessed it to me here quite easily."
"That's her artfulness," commented Dinah. "Why are you so curious about this woman?" she asked Beatrice.
The girl shrugged her shoulders. "I am not curious," she denied; "but as I have just seen old Orchard, it is strange that his daughter should have been speaking to Jerry."
"Not at all, Beatrice. Jerry is always fond of these painted, horrid women, who never pay for their dresses because they write for fashion papers. I should be ashamed to earn my living in that way.--Well"--she faced round to the impenitent Mr. Snow--"and what have you to say?"
"Nothing," said Jerry crossly. "You are always nagging, Dinah."
"After that!" cried Miss Paslow, looking up to see why the heavens did not fall. "Well, I'm--I'm----" Words failed her, and she turned her back. "I'm going home. All is at an end!" and she sped up the avenue, glancing back meanwhile on occasions to see if Jerry followed.
But Jerry did nothing of the sort, and explained to Beatrice why he stood his ground. "Dinah needs a lesson," he said gravely. "You have no idea how she nags at me. I can't speak to any one without her getting into a pelting rage."
"It shows how she loves you," said Beatrice soothingly.
"I don't want to be loved in that selfish way. It's just like mother: she wants all one's affection, and nags the whole time, saying it is for my good. I've had quite enough of that in mother, without taking it on in a wife. I want a woman who will cheer me up, and look upon me as something to be looked up to. But I'll punish her," said Jerry wrathfully. "She expects me to run after her. I won't; I'll stay here and talk to you."
"I'm busy," said Beatrice, taking a step or two away. "I have to go to The Camp to see Durban."
"You needn't. He's at Convent Grange looking for you."
"Oh! Then I'll go to him at once."
"Better wait to hear what I have to say," urged Jerry; "it's about the murder of Mr. Alpenny."
Beatrice stopped short, wondering what she was about to hear. "Have you discovered anything?" she asked breathlessly.
"I can't say if what I have discovered is of any use," explained Mr. Snow, "but it might put the police on the track of the assassins."
"What have you found out?"
"Well, I was down Whitechapel the other night," said Jerry, "making an inquiry into some robbery that has taken place. There was a detective with me, and we saw all manner of queer things; also, we heard all manner of queer talk. In one way and another we picked up information about the Black Patch Gang."
"The Black Patch Gang!" echoed Beatrice. "Yes!--yes?"
"It's a gang of rogues, thieves, and vagabonds," went on Mr. Snow. "The police have never been able to lay hands on the head of the gang, or break it up. This gang goes about committing burglaries, and stealing things, and picking pockets. They must have a kind of academy like Fagin's," mused Jerry, "and they know one another by a black patch worn over the left eye."
"Just like the man I saw?"
"Yes. I thought of that when I heard the story," said Jerry, "and the detective thought the same. He is going to hunt out this gang and learn the whereabouts of their headquarters. And, Beatrice"--he moved forward to place a cautious hand on her arm--"it struck me--I don't know if it struck the detective, but it struck me, that Alpenny, who was a precious scoundrel--I beg your pardon----"
"Go on," she said impatiently. "I know he was my stepfather, but I always thought him a wicked man myself."
"I believe he was a fence," said Jerry solemnly.
"What is that?"
"The chap who disposes of stolen goods. Yes; I really believe that was why Alpenny lived in the country. The Black Patch Gang brought their stolen goods down here, and he got rid of them in some way. I expect the police will come down and make a thorough search throughout The Camp. There may be all manner of secret hiding-places."
"But, Jerry," protested Beatrice, who was very pale, as various thoughts rushed through her mind, "I never saw any London thieves in The Camp, or, indeed, any one disreputable."
"Did you ever see any client?" asked Jerry impressively.
"No. Mr. Alpenny kept his business very quiet."
"He had need to if he was a fence. Beatrice, remember how the keys were in the counting-house, where the man was murdered, and how the assassin could not have got out unless he used the keys. I believe there is another entrance to that railway carriage, and the assassin came in by that way, along with the rest of Alpenny's precious clients. I am quite sure the old man was the head of the gang."
"There was Waterloo----"
"I know," said Jerry quickly. "Dinah told me about him, and Mrs. Lilly told her. Waterloo is a blackguard. The detective in Whitechapel explained what a scoundrel he was--one of the worst. Why did he come down here?"
"I don't know," murmured Beatrice, and then it flashed across her mind that the tramp had come to see Vivian. Coupling this desire with the speech of the late Jarvis Alpenny regarding Vivian's crimes and Vivian's secret troubles, which she was so anxious to find out, the girl suddenly turned pale. She wondered if Paslow himself was one of the Black Patch Gang. "It's impossible," said Beatrice, with a gasp, and leaned against a tree to support herself.
"What is impossible?" asked Jerry. "Here, hold up."
"It's all right," she said, recovering herself with a violent effort; "a little weariness, that is all. I have been on the Downs, remember. I don't see how you can connect this gang with Mr. Alpenny."
"Remember, he was murdered by a man with a black patch over his eye."
"Yes, but----" the girl broke off. "I hope the police won't come down here," she said, with pale-lips, and wondering if Vivian's conduct would bear investigation.
"They just will," said Jerry bluntly, "and I hope so. I'll be able to make a lot out of the matter, if any loot is found. Why, the editor may raise my salary."
"You aren't worth it," cried an indignant voice near at hand, and Dinah appeared from amongst the trees. "How dare you treat me in this way, Jerry Snow? Why didn't you come after me, and why didn't----"
"Dinah," asked Beatrice hurriedly, "have you been listening long?"
"No. All I heard was that Jerry wanted his salary raised. What has he been talking about?" and she eyed the two suspiciously.
"Are you jealous of Beatrice?" demanded Mr. Snow scornfully.
"What nonsense, when you know she is going to marry Vivian! And I really don't think I'll marry you. Take back your ring, and----"
Beatrice waited to hear no more. Leaving Dinah pouring out her voluble wrath on the devoted head of her lover, she ran up the avenue, wondering what further revelations she would hear. This was a day of wonders. She had learned that she was the daughter of Colonel Hall; she had heard her dead mother accused of murder by Mrs. Snow; and now she discovered that Alpenny--as was probably the case--had been connected with a gang of rogues. What would be the end of all these terrible things? She could not tell, and ran on, anxious to reach her own room in order to think matters over.
She quite forgot that Jerry had told her Durban was waiting to see her. But the old servant was on the watch. Hardly had she set foot on the terrace when he issued from the house; and came towards her with a smile. It died away, however, when he saw her pale face.
"Whatever is the matter, missy?" he asked anxiously, Beatrice looked at him calmly, and wasted no time in explaining herself. "I have learned at last what you would not tell me."
"Missy!" cried Durban, and his swarthy face grew green, as it always did when he was startled.
"I am the daughter of Colonel Hall, who was murdered here. My mother was really Mrs. Hall, who called herself Mrs. Hedge and married Alpenny!"
Durban gasped. "Who told you this?"
"Orchard, who was the butler here, and now is a shepherd on the Downs."
"It is true," said Durban, flinging wide his hands. "I knew you would find out. I am glad you have found out."
"Why did you not tell me?"
"I was prevented."
"By whom?"
"First by Alpenny, and then by Major Ruck."
"The man with whom my mother was about to elope?"
Durban looked at her swiftly. "Orchard never told you that?"
"No. Mrs. Snow told me."
"You have seen her. Then you know?"
"I know that she accuses my mother of the crime--of the murder of my father, Colonel Hall."
"That is a lie," said Durban between his teeth. "But she would not stick at a lie to harm your mother."
"How can she harm the dead?"
"She might harm the memory of the dead," said Durban evasively. "And what else have you heard?"
"From Mr. Jerry Snow, I have just heard that there is a gang of thieves in London called the Black Patch Gang."
"Augh!" groaned Durban, casting down his eyes. "Go on."
"Mr. Alpenny is connected with them. Mr. Snow says that he was a fence who disposed of stolen goods."
"Where did Mr. Snow hear this story?"
"From various people in Whitechapel."
"Rumours only," said Durban, striving to appear calm; "there is not a word of truth in it. Mr. Alpenny was wicked, but not so bad as that, missy. I swear it."
"I believe that Mr. Snow has spoken the truth," said Beatrice sharply. "You are still trying to keep me in the dark."
"For your good, missy--for your good."
"Or for Mr. Paslow's safety--which?"
"I don't know what you mean," gasped Durban hoarsely.
"I don't know myself exactly, since you will not be candid," said the girl wearily; "but I have found out much, and I shall find more. When I discover that necklace----"
"The Obi necklace? You have never found that?"
"No. But I am looking for it."
"Missy, do not. I implore you, do not. There is a curse on that necklace. It caused the death of your father, the disgrace of your mother, and the murder of Mr. Alpenny."
"How do you know that? Had Mr. Alpenny the necklace?"
"Yes. Your mother gave it to Alpenny for you."
"Then where is it?"
"I don't know--I cannot tell. And if I did know I would never tell, missy. Enough sorrow and trouble has come about over that necklace--the accursed thing! I--I----" Durban broke down, and, with a groan, fairly ran away, leaving the amazed Beatrice mistress of the field.
There was certainly enough to think about. Beatrice retreated to her room, and proceeded to reason out the meaning of all she had heard. It was evident that both Vivian and Durban were in some way connected with criminality in connection with Mr. Alpenny's vocation of "fence," since both refused to speak. Waterloo, apparently, was a member of the Black Patch Gang, and had come down the other day to see Vivian. Beatrice remembered now how Vivian had hinted that he was connected with rogues and vagabonds, and how he appeared to be fearful as to what Major Ruck might say. Ruck himself probably was a member of this criminal association. In any case, as Durban had confessed, he was a decoy duck to lure the unwary into the late Mr. Alpenny's nets.
But the question which now presented itself to the puzzled girl was, whether, Alpenny being dead, the organisation would end. The old usurer had been extremely clever, and, wanting his brains, this association might disband for want of a competent head. Ruck certainly,--as he appeared to have some authority,--might become the moving spirit; but from what Beatrice had seen of him, she did not think he was capable of handling such difficult matters. And she did not much care. All she desired was to learn what Paslow had to do with these rascalities,--if Durban was implicated in the rogueries,--and, if so, to rescue both. She could not believe that either of these kind men, and whom she loved so dearly, would act in a blackguardly way. In some manner the two had become entangled in Alpenny's nets, and knowing this, Ruck was making capital out of the knowledge. This was the conclusion which Beatrice arrived at, and she determined to force Vivian to explain.
"I love him dearly," she assured herself, as she stared at her pale drawn face in the looking-glass; "but I cannot marry him until I know exactly what part he has taken in all these terrible doings." With this resolve she went down to dinner, and found Vivian there in a very happy state of mind. Lately the cloud had passed away from his brow, and he seemed more like his old self, of the days when she had never guessed what an abyss there was under her feet--under their feet, indeed, as she could not separate herself, even in thought, from Vivian Paslow.
"My dear Beatrice," he said, coming towards her with a smile: and then, when he saw her face, he stopped short, just as Durban had done. "Why, my darling, what have you been doing with yourself?"
"Nothing," replied Beatrice quietly. "After dinner I'll tell you."
"Then thereissomething," said Paslow, seeing how she contradicted herself, and trying to make her speak out.
"Yes," she answered with an effort, "there is some thing. I have learned much to-day."
"About what?--from whom?" Paslow gasped out the questions, and his heart beat violently. He felt sick with apprehension. What had she heard, and why did she look at him in this way?
"I'll tell you after dinner."
"But I want you to tell me now."
"No," said Beatrice very directly, and was spared further speech, for at that moment Dinah came into the room, followed by Jerry in evening dress.
"I've made it up with Jerry. He has asked my pardon," she said in a cheerful voice, "so I invited him to dinner as a reward."
"I hope it is a good dinner," said Jerry blandly. "I deserve a big reward for having given in to you."
"It is always a man's duty to give in to a woman," said Miss Paslow.
"I hope you don't think it is the wife's duty to bully the husband?"
"On occasions. A little storm clears the air."
Further argument was cut short by the sound of the gong. Vivian, who had been watching Beatrice all the time, gave her his arm, and they led the way into the dining-room, while the lovers wrangled behind. The table looked dainty and neat, as it was brilliant with flowers and glittered with old silver and cut crystal. In spite of his difficulties Paslow had always kept up a certain state at the Grange, and, looking at the table, no one would have guessed that its owner was nearly bankrupt. Dinah, who with Mrs. Lilly was responsible for the meal, pointed out to Jerry the various dishes set down on the menu, and described what share she had taken in preparing the same. "So you see, Jerry darling, I am a magnificent housekeeper."
"On your brother's income," said Jerry, with a shrug, and enjoying the soup. "What will you be on mine?"
"On ours," corrected Dinah. "I'll be splendid, of course. Your income cannot be very much less than Vivian's. We live here like Elijah, who was fed by ravens."
"I am fed by a dove," said Mr. Snow gallantly.
"How sweet!" sighed Dinah sentimentally. Then feeling really hungry after her argument with Jerry, she began to eat, and laid all sentiment aside: that could come afterwards in the moonlight.
Beatrice and Vivian exchanged few words during the meal. They talked about the weather, about the various trifles in the newspapers which interested idle people, and made a light meal. But at the back of their thoughts lay the consciousness that a crisis was approaching in their lives, and neither one knew how it would end. Would love be strong enough to make the girl overlook youthful folly? That was what Vivian asked himself. And Beatrice wondered if Vivian's love would be powerful enough to make him confess plainly what was the meaning of all these mysterious things which raised a barrier between them. The dinner was a mere farce so far as they were concerned; but Dinah and Jerry ate enough for four, and chatted meanwhile so gaily that any silence on the part of the remaining two was overlooked.
The meal ended, Vivian and Jerry did not linger over the bottle of old port which the host placed before his guest. Jerry was at an age when love was preferable to strong drink, and Vivian wished to have a confidential conversation with Beatrice as speedily as possible. Therefore by common consent they adjourned to the drawing-room, and found the two girls drinking coffee on the terrace. It was a deliciously warm night with a full moon, and countless stars gemming the heavens. Quite a night for Romeo and Juliet, meet for love and for soft whisperings. Nightingales sang in the thickets, and the trees were absolutely still owing to the want of the faintest breath of wind. Dinah, finishing her coffee, began to get sentimental again and beckoned to Jerry. The two went down the steps into the sleeping gardens, and Beatrice was left seated at the small table on the terrace with Vivian smoking at her elbow.
She glanced at him in the ivory moonlight while she made up her mind what to say. He looked slim and handsome in his well-cut clothes--a dark and somewhat stern man with a finely-featured face, Greek in its perfect lines. It seemed impossible that such a man could be involved in sordid roguery. He looked what Beatrice, in spite of circumstances, always believed him to be--an honourable English gentleman who was her lover and who would be her adoring husband. Vivian was staring at the retreating forms of Jerry and Dinah as they vanished down the avenue; but he became conscious that Beatrice was looking at him, and turned to look at her.
Surely a lover never saw a fairer maid. In her black dress, with her white neck and arms shining in the moonlight, she looked wonderfully beautiful. The pale glimmer of the moon concealed all the ravages which trouble had made, and she appeared like an angel ready to take flight. It was with difficulty that Paslow prevented himself pressing her in his arms; but until matters were cleared up between them, there was no chance that she would allow him to embrace her. He could see that, in the sad, stern way in which she looked at him, and so restrained himself with a violent effort "Well?" he said stiffly, and prepared to listen.
"What is it you wish to know?" she asked in a low voice.
"I wish to know what has changed you?"
"Am I changed?"
"Very much. This morning when I went to Brighton with Dinah, you were bright and happy; now you are sad, and look as though you had received bad news."
"Only you can give me bad news," said Beatrice in an embarrassed manner. "I want you to be plain with me to-night, Vivian. I have promised to marry you. I take that promise back----"
"Beatrice--oh Beatrice!"
"Unless you satisfy me that you really and truly love me."
"Oh, my darling, is there any question of that?"
"There is every question. It is easy for a man to say that he loves a woman; it is not so easy to prove it."
"I can prove it, in any way you will."
"Good," said Beatrice, leaning forward and placing her arms on the small table between them. "I shall tell you what I have heard to-day; and then you must tell me what you know."
"About what?" asked Paslow, lighting another cigarette with shaking hands, and not daring to look at her.
"In the first place, about my parentage."
This time he did look at her, and in much amazement. "You are the stepdaughter of Alpenny," he said quietly, "and the daughter of Mrs. Hedge, whomsoever she may be."
"Is that all you know?" she asked, looking at him.
"Yes. I have never heard anything else."
"ButIhave. I heard this day, and from Orchard the shepherd, who was your father's servant, that I am the daughter of Colonel Hall."
Vivian dropped his cigarette and jumped up with an exclamation of genuine surprise. "Did Orchard tell you that?" he asked.
"He did. Mrs. Hedge, my mother, was really Mrs. Hall, and married Mr. Alpenny because--because----" She hesitated.
"Because why? She must have had a strong reason to marry that old rascal."
"She had. Alpenny, according to Mrs. Snow----"
"What does Mrs. Snow know about your affairs?" asked Vivian angrily.
"A great deal. She was my mother's best friend,--so she says--and her bitterest enemy, as I have found out. Mrs. Snow declared that my mother married Alpenny to prevent Alpenny accusing her of murdering her husband, and my father."
"Oh! It is incredible," muttered Vivian, clutching his hair.
"Wait till you hear details. I think my mother is innocent myself, but certainly the evidence seems to be against her," and Beatrice, without giving Vivian time to intervene, told him all that she had heard from the old shepherd and from Mrs. Snow. He listened in silence, although his amazement was too profound and too openly expressed, to be anything else than genuine. "What do you think?" said Beatrice, when she had finished.
"I don't know what to think," he muttered, glancing sideways at her and then away into the shadowy garden. "I believe Orchard is right, and that you are the daughter of the man who was murdered in this house. But I do not believe what Mrs. Snow says. Your mother--or, indeed, any woman--would never commit a crime in so brutal a manner. I don't believe any woman unless an Amazon would have the strength, for one thing."
"So I think," said Beatrice heartily; "and I am glad that you agree with me. However, the discovery of my parentage does not make any difference to my position."
"I don't know so much about that," said Paslow, meditatively. "It might be that Colonel Hall left money. As he is dead, and your mother is dead--as Alpenny's wife, any money that there is should come to you."
"Well," said Beatrice, watching the effect of her words, "it seems to me that the necklace is mine. I understand that it is valued--so Major Ruck said--at ten thousand pounds. If I can find that, I certainly will be an heiress. But Durban wants me to leave it alone."
"For what reason?"
"He declares that the necklace is accursed."
"Pooh!" said Vivian, with supreme contempt. "That is his African superstition. You must not forget, Beatrice, that Durban is half a negro. If the necklace can be found, it certainly must be given back to you, for your own sake. Not for mine," he added quickly; "I don't care if you are an heiress or a pauper. I marry you because I love you, my darling."
He offered to take her in his arms, but she drew back. "One moment, Vivian," she said rapidly. "Can you tell me where the necklace is to be found?"
"I!" He started back in great surprise, and met her gaze frankly but with a puzzled look. "How should I know?"
"Mr. Alpenny, I truly believe, was killed for the sake of that necklace, as was my father before him. I do not believe that my father gave it to my mother. He was killed and robbed--so was Alpenny."
"Beatrice, do you imply that I know anything of this murder?"
"I can explain," she said, and came closer. "Alpenny was killed by a man who wore a black patch over his left eye. A black patch was found under the window of the room in which my father, Colonel Hall, was murdered. Both crimes were committed, if not by the same man, as I have hitherto believed, at least by a member of the Black Patch Gang to which Alpenny belonged."
Paslow covered his face with a groan, unable to meet the vivid lightning of her eyes. "What do you know about the Black Patch Gang?" he asked in stifled tones.
"All that Jerry Snow could tell me. He was in Whitechapel, and heard many remarks about this gang of thieves which the police are always trying to break up. Now that the gang is concerned in murder as well as in thievery, the police will make every effort to capture the man who heads them. What is his name?"
"How should I know?" demanded Paslow hoarsely. "Because youdoknow. Alpenny hinted that you had committed crimes."
"He lied--he lied," said Vivian passionately. "I am as innocent of evil-doing as you are; folly, perhaps, but never crime."
"I believe that. I am certain that the man I love would never descend to sordid crime. But you have been drawn into the toils of this gang. I believe that Alpenny was the head--he decoyed you into his snares; or else Ruck--Major Ruck, his decoy-duck."
"There is some truth in what you say, but----"
"No; you must speak out. I will stand by you to the end, and do all I can to reveal my love more and more. But I refuse"--she drew herself upright--"to marry you unless you tell me thewholetruth."
"Give me time," he panted, and clenched his hands.
"No. You must tell me now, or to-night we part for ever."
Paslow uttered a groan, and moved forward two or three steps as though about to seek safety in flight. "Beatrice!" he said brokenly.
"Your answer?" she demanded, making every effort to appear calm.
But the answer was not to come from Paslow. Even while he opened his mouth to speak, Jerry appeared on the lawn with two ladies. One was Dinah, as they could see by the evening-dress; the other a tall, slim, fair-haired woman, fashionably arrayed in walking-costume. The moonlight was strong, but neither Beatrice nor Paslow could tell who the strange woman was.
"Hullo, Vivian!" shouted Jerry; "here is Miss Carr, who wants to see you."
He would have said more, but was drawn back by Dinah, who apparently was still jealous of the stranger. Beatrice remembered that this was the woman with whom Jerry had been speaking during the day, the same that had awakened the jealousy of Dinah. Also, she was the daughter of the ex-butler. She advanced with gliding steps, and looked like a beautiful lithe tigress stealing towards her prey.
With Dinah, still jealous, Jerry after that one abrupt introduction disappeared down the avenue, probably to be scolded. But Beatrice did not look at the retreating lovers, nor indeed at the advancing Miss Carr, whose foot was now on the lowest step of the terrace. All her attention was concentrated on Vivian Paslow, who stood at the top of the steps as though frozen into stone. The woman came up the steps, and was now so near that Beatrice could see the smile on her fair face.
"You!" said Vivian hoarsely, and fell back a pace.
"Myself," said Miss Carr, "and no ghost either."
Beatrice rose with a bound, and felt a sudden jealous anger surge in her heart. She looked from one to the other imperiously. "Who is this woman?" she asked the cowering man.
"My--my--wife," he said in low, broken tones. "God help me, my wife come back from the dead!"
Miss Carr, or Miss Orchard, or Mrs. Paslow--Beatrice thought of her by all these three names--smiled quietly when her husband made the confession, and sank gracefully into the seat he had vacated. She was certainly a handsome woman, and if not entirely a lady, was an extremely good imitation of the same. Vivian still stood as in a dream, staring at the wife he had believed to be dead and buried, and Beatrice stared alternately at him and at the strange woman. A silence ensued, for each of the three was thinking hard. Beatrice was the first to break silence.
"Will you explain?" she asked Vivian quietly.
"I think," he answered in a harsh, dry tone, "that my wife had better explain. I have the certificate of her death, and----"
"And you can consider it so much waste-paper. The woman who was buried was my double," said Mrs. Paslow composedly.
"You cannot deceive me in that way, Maud. I saw you ill in bed."
"And so I was. I had a bad attack of influenza," said his wife, with a calm smile. "Oh, my illness was genuine enough; but I did not die,--although I appeared to do so, for reasons connected with a second marriage."
"With Mr. Paslow's marriage to me?" asked Beatrice, striving to regain her calmness, and emulate thesang-froidof this cold, audacious woman, who appeared to have no feelings.
"Well, no," drawled Mrs. Paslow, "not exactly. I never did care to benefit my fellow-creatures to that extent. I refer to a marriage I wished to make with a rich American. However, his mother stopped the marriage, and I found myself without a natural protector. Therefore, as I heard from Major Ruck that Vivian proposed to make you his wife, I came here to save you, and stop him from committing bigamy."
"Which you just now proposed to commit yourself?" said Beatrice, with cold contempt.
Mrs. Paslow looked at her between half-closed eyelids, and shrugged her finely moulded shoulders. "Quite so," she said politely; "but I have my reasons for risking imprisonment."
"Reasons connected with money," sneered Vivian.
"Connected with over a million--pounds, not dollars. Well?"
"Well,"--he faced her squarely--"and what do you propose to do now?"
"One moment," interposed Beatrice, now perfectly calm, and determined to break down this woman's composure; "I should like to know how you carried out this plot of a feigned death."
There was a case of cigarettes on the table belonging to Vivian: Mrs. Paslow cast a disdainful, and rather amused look on Beatrice, and lighted one of the little rolls of tobacco. When the smoke was wreathing round her fashionable hat, she spoke with great calmness and appeared in no way upset by the imperious tone of the woman whom her husband loved. "Certainly," she replied in a low, sweet voice, which seemed to be one of her greatest charms, and she had many. "As I explained, I wanted to be free of Vivian to marry a richer man than he was, or is likely to be. When I was ill, and he came to see me, the plan suggested itself. I took the doctor into my confidence, and he agreed, for a consideration, to forward my aims. My double was really ill,--oh yes, with consumption; she could not live, so----"
"What do you mean by your double?" asked Beatrice abruptly.
"Vivian can tell you. He knew of my double."
"I did,--I do: but I did not think you would pass her off as yourself, Maud."
Mrs. Paslow removed the cigarette from her mouth and smiled. "It was a capital plot," she said musingly; "and but that I want you to be again my husband, would have succeeded."
"What about your double?" asked Beatrice pertinaciously.
"Oh, she was not a twin sister, as you seem to think. I am the only daughter and only child of Joseph Orchard, whowasa butler, andisa shepherd. You see," she added, leaning her arms on the table and addressing her rival in an amused tone, "I have no false pride about me. When occasion serves I can say that I am the daughter of an army officer, or of a clergyman, or of anyone with a position. I have done such things in my time. But to you I can be frank, since there is nothing to be gained by telling lies."
"Your double--your double, Miss Carr, or Miss Orchard?"
"Neither name is mine. Mrs. Paslow, if you please. Unless"--she glanced contemptuously at Vivian--"my husband denies----"
"I deny nothing. I cannot," he said savagely. "Say what you have to say, Maud, and then I shall tell Miss Hall how we met and into what troubles you led me."
"Miss Hall!" echoed Mrs. Paslow, with a glance at Beatrice. "Then you know that, do you?"
"How doyouknow?" asked Beatrice, pointedly.
"Oh, my father told me long ago. Later I might have made capital out of the affair, but now----" She shrugged again.
"I believe that you are a bad woman," said Beatrice hotly.
"I am--what God made me," retorted Mrs. Paslow, in no wise disturbed by the speech. "But about my double. She was a girl on the stage extremely like me: in fact we might have passed for twins. I also went on the stage--I have done most things in my time; and we--that is Miss Arthur my double and myself--appeared in a play as twins. If you knew anything of the theatre, Miss Hall, you would be surprised to hear how successful that play was. The author was unknown and Major Ruck financed the play, and----"
"I want to hear nothing about that, Mrs. Paslow. I know now how you carried out the deception, though it seems to me that as you did not let Vivian see the dead body, it was needless to have this double."
"Well," admitted Mrs. Paslow apologetically, as though excusing a fault, "it was necessary to make sure. Vivian, after a few visits, never came near me----"
"The doctor would not let me," said her husband quickly.
"Good old doctor," murmured Mrs. Paslow, selecting a fresh cigarette; "he knew what I wanted. However, to make a long story short, Miss Arthur died in my place and was buried under my name. You have the certificate, my dear Vivian, so all is well. You were so easily deceived that there was no fun in deceiving you. A clever man would have made more certain of his wife's death before arranging to take another one, especially as you were cheated once before."
"I did hear that you were dead before Mr. Alpenny was murdered, and I then asked Miss Hall here to be my wife," confessed Vivian; "afterwards, Major Ruck told me that you were alive, but ill. I went to see you, and you really seemed to be dying----"
"I am a good actress, Vivian. I was on the stage, remember."
"So I thought, when I saw the doctor and got the certificate, that you were really and truly dead. Oh, I shall see that the doctor is punished for this deception."
"I think not," said Mrs. Paslow, narrowing her eyes and looking at him very directly. "No doubt he will be punished in time, but not by your will, Vivian dear."
The tone and words were so peculiar and significant that Beatrice looked straight at the woman, who now had a mocking smile on her face, and spoke quietly: "You have some power over Mr. Paslow?"
"Why not call him Vivian?" sneered the stranger. "Hewas"--she emphasised the word--"to be your husband, remember."
"If you speak like that," said Paslow standing over her and speaking in a low, angry voice, "I shall forget that I am your husband."
His wife glanced slightingly at Beatrice. "It seems to me that you have forgotten," she scoffed.
What the infuriated man would have said or done on the spur of the moment, it is impossible to say; but he was dangerous. Beatrice saw that, and drew him back with an exclamation. "Don't," she said quickly; "let her say what she will. It cannot hurt me. And let me remind you, Mrs. Paslow, that you have not answered my question."
"Nor do I intend to," said the woman, rising and throwing aside the cigarette. The contemptuous words of Beatrice stung her not a little. "This is my husband, and I want him to return to town with me."
"You are my wife," said Vivian in quiet anger, "and you were willing to commit bigamy after deceiving me by a feigned death. I refuse to have anything more to do with you."
"The law will make you!" she threatened.
"The law will do nothing of the sort. As my wife, I will allow you enough to live on; but no law will ever make me have anything to do with you again."
"ThenIshall make you!"
"Ah," interposed Beatrice, "you exercise this power?"
"I want my husband," said the woman sullenly.
"I refuse to have anything to do with you," retorted Paslow once more. His wife was rapidly losing her temper. She had come prepared for victory; and, meeting with this opposition, all the disdainful certainty of her assumed nature wore away, and the coarser feelings became apparent. Her face flushed a dark red, the expression changed, and instead of a quiet, ladylike person, Beatrice saw before her a virago of the worst. "You shall come!" she shouted, "or rather, I shall stay here. This is my house, and you,"--she turned on Beatrice,--"you shall leave it."
"I am here with Mr. Paslow's sister, and I decline to leave it at the word of a disgraced wife."
"I!" Mrs. Paslow sprang forward with upraised fist. "You dare to say that to me, you----" Before she could strike, Vivian caught her arm, and flung her back with such force that she fell against the balustrade of the terrace. "Do you want me to commit murder?" he said savagely.
"Why not another, since you killed Alpenny?" she panted, and glared at him like a tigress losing her prey.
"That is a lie!" cried Beatrice before Vivian could speak. "Mr. Paslow was with me on that night, and about the time the crime was committed."
"Oh!" sneered the woman, seizing her advantage, "Vivian was withyou, indeed? And what would be said were that known, Miss Hall, as you call yourself?"
"Be silent," said her husband, catching her arm in an iron grip, and his face whiter than that of the dead; "you shameless creature! Go away at once, and cease your insults."
"Leave me alone!" cried Mrs. Paslow, wrenching herself free. "I intend to stop in my own house."
"My house--not yours."
"I am your wife."
"And just now you confessed to a feigned death to commit bigamy? I have a great mind to give my lawyers instructions to apply for a divorce."
"Give them to Tuft, then," cried Mrs. Paslow, her fair face convulsed with fury. "He is Alpenny's lawyer, and knows all about me, and all about you. See! see!"--she pointed a mocking finger at Vivian who had turned away with a gesture of despair--"he dare not face the law!"
"If you mean that you will denounce him for having killed Mr. Alpenny," said Beatrice in a clear low voice, "you are wrong. I can clear Mr. Paslow's character. I can save him, and I will!"
"Indeed! Why?"
"Because I love him. Why he married you, how he married you, I do not know; but I believe that you trapped him into----"
"Trapped him, indeed!" shouted Mrs. Paslow. "I could have married a dozen better men than he. He is a coward--a milksop--a--a thief! Ah!" she cried as Beatrice recoiled with a shudder, "you know the truth now. This dainty, well-born gentleman--this honourable man--is a thief, who was tried for shoplifting."
"And who was acquitted," said Paslow, deadly pale. "It was you who were condemned, and rightly: God forgive me for saying so. After all, bad as you are, you are my wife."
"Vivian," said Beatrice, with her face drawn with agony, "is what this woman says true?"
"True--quite true. And I'll thank you to speak of me more respectfully," snapped Mrs. Paslow.
"Is it true?" asked Beatrice again, paying no attention to this spiteful speech.
"Quite true," said Vivian, drawing a long breath and prepared to face the worst; "this is the power she has held over me. That she can send me to prison is a lie; but she can disgrace my name, by telling my friends that I was accused of shoplifting."
"But was it not in the papers?" asked Beatrice anxiously.
"No. I was accused under another name, Beatrice. I married that woman"--he pointed to Mrs. Paslow, who was still fuming with rage--"when my father was alive. She was the daughter of our old servant, who became a shepherd. Afterwards, when a child, and when I was a child, she came here, and Mrs. Lilly helped her for the sake of her father. I was a boy and foolish. She was clever and unscrupulous. She grew weary of this quiet life, and went to town. I thought that I loved her----"
"And you did," panted Mrs. Paslow.
"I did not," said Vivian sternly. "I was entrapped, as you know well.--It was a year later that I met her, when in town, and then she was the associate of thieves and rogues. Alpenny had seen her here; he inveigled her into his nets, and used her in the West End as a decoy in the same way as he used Major Ruck. She met me. I believed that she was good--that she was still my old playfellow. I married her under my own name, but in order to save the feelings of my father, I lived with her as my wife under another name."
"I wanted to take my own and come down here," said the woman.
"I know you did, but I would not allow it," said Vivian, and continued his story rapidly, while Beatrice, perfectly still, listened intently. "It would have broken my father's heart. And then," he added, turning to Beatrice, "I found out how vile she was."
"I never deceived you--never," said Mrs. Paslow.
"No. You had that redeeming point," said her husband; "as a wife I could find no fault with you in that way. Had you been good and kind, I might have come to love you, as I did when we were children together. But your nature was essentially false and wicked. Under the tuition of Alpenny you developed into an adventuress, and made the worst use of your talents."
"But for Alpenny we should have starved," she reminded him.
"I did not know that," he retorted. "You said that the money had been left to you by your god-mother; only when it was too late did I learn that Alpenny gave you the money for having stolen things. And then I was dragged into your evil ways."
"You did steal," insisted Mrs. Paslow.
"I did not. Beatrice, one day we were in a draper's shop in the West End. This woman stole some lace; she was arrested, and I was arrested also as her accomplice."
"Oh Vivian!"
"Oh Vivian!" mocked Mrs. Paslow. "You see he is a thief."
"You lie," said Paslow angrily. "Beatrice does not believe that."
"No! no! I would never believe it," said Beatrice.
"You fool!" scoffed Mrs. Paslow.
"You angel!" cried Vivian fervently, and then proceeded rapidly with his nauseous story. "Under my feigned name I was tried--and thus, thank God! I was enabled to save my father from dying of a broken heart. I was accused, but Tuft, Alpenny's lawyer, defended me--not from kindness. No. Alpenny, by this accusation of theft, secured a hold over me, which he used after my father's death to extort the property from me. This is why I am so poor. Alpenny and my wife"--he laid a scornful emphasis on the word--"got all my money."
"And we had a right to," said Mrs. Paslow. "I am your wife, and Alpenny, through Tuft, saved you from going to gaol."
"For his own ends merely," retorted Vivian. "I had to pay bitterly for his aid.--This woman"--he again pointed to Maud--"was condemned, as it was proved that she was an expert thief, and she was sentenced to a few months' imprisonment."
"To five months," said Mrs. Paslow shamelessly.
"I was acquitted; but the judge read me a lecture on the kind of society I kept. And Heaven help me!" cried Vivian, "then was the first time that I knew what sort of society my marriage had led me into."
"You were always a greenhorn," said Mrs. Paslow, patting her hair into shape, and arranging her ruffled plumes.
Vivian turned his back on her. "I left the court without a stain on my character," he said quickly; "and left England for the five months, telling my father that I was going abroad for my health. And my healthwasbad," he added. "I broke down under the vileness of it all. My father never knew the truth; nor did any of my friends. The case, since I was accused under another name, passed unnoticed. But Maud knew the truth, and so did Alpenny; so did Tuft his creature, and Major Ruck, another of his minions. They tried to make me vile by threats of exposure; but so long as I could bribe Alpenny by giving him money, no action was taken by him or Ruck. Maud I also kept----"
"I had a right to the money. I am your wife."
"I admit that you had the right," he said. "Wicked as you were, I acknowledged you as my wife."
"Not to the world," she said sharply.
"Because that would have made the marriage known to my father, and he would have cut me off without a shilling. After his death, when you found that Alpenny had the money, you refused to be acknowledged, although I asked you to come here as my wife. I had not then met with Miss Hall," ended Vivian significantly.
"I see. You love her?"
"With all my heart and soul."
"And I love him," acknowledged Beatrice. "From what I have heard, I can see that Vivian is not to blame, you wicked woman."
"Here," said Mrs. Paslow, advancing, "get out of my house. I have come here to take up my rightful position. The house is mine."
"You will leave this place at once," said Vivian, his face dark with anger; "you can tell what you like and do what you like. Alpenny is dead, and I decline to be under your thumb any longer."
"I shall stop here," said Mrs. Paslow, and sat down firmly.
Vivian placed his hand on her shoulder. She jumped up in a fury and struck at him. "You dare to touch me, you thief!" she stormed. "You have spoilt my life--you have--you have!" Her anger choked her, and she tore at the lace round her neck; in doing so, she ripped the dress, and her hand caught unknowingly at something within. To the amazement of Beatrice, a chain of glittering gems was pulled from its hiding-place round her neck, and fell on the pavement. The jewels were diamonds, and they flashed, pools of liquid light, in the moonlight.
"Oh!" cried Beatrice, guessing at once. "The Obi necklace!"
Almost before the words were out of her mouth, Mrs. Paslow had snatched up the necklace and was flying across the lawn. Vivian would have followed, but Beatrice stopped him.