"Let her go," said Beatrice, holding back the angered husband by main force; "only in this way can you keep her out of the house."
"But the necklace," said Vivian, pausing, while his wife vanished amongst the shadows of the trees. "Are you sure?"
"No. How can I be sure? I have never seen the necklace. But the diamonds were too lovely to be paste. You know I have seen many jewels pass through Alpenny's hands, and sometimes he explained their particular beauties and values to me. I am sure the gems in that necklace are real: they flashed so wonderfully in the moonlight."
"Diamond necklaces are rare in the Weald," mused Vivian thoughtfully, "and Maud is not likely to possess such jewels, for she has little money. It must be the famous Obi necklace. Where could she have got it, Beatrice?"
"Who knows?" she replied, her cheek slightly paling. "Is she one of the members of this Black Patch Gang?"
"So far as I know anything of her life, she is," replied Paslow, his eyes averted. Then he turned and seized her hands with vehemence, "Oh! my heart's darling what can you think of me after this revelation?"
Beatrice did not pause an instant in making reply. "I think you were very foolish to keep the truth from me."
"But how could I tell you of my sinful folly?" he pleaded, and his voice was very sweet in her ears. "See what a sordid tale it is: a foolish boy, and a clever woman! Yet God knows"--he broke off and cast away her hands--"it is not right that I should blame the woman, as men usually do. After all, Maud has some good points about her."
"I did not see them," responded Beatrice, with the bitterness with which one woman will always talk about another she hates.
"But, believe me, she has," insisted Vivian quickly. "She has been a burden to me; she did her best to drag me down to her level of thievery and roguery; but I cannot forget that I knew her here, as a child--when she really was good and kind. And, Beatrice," he added, with a flush, "on my soul I believe that in some things she is not what one might think her. You heard her say that she had been a true wife to me?"
"Yes," answered the girl, not to be outdone in justice even to a rival; "and I believe what she said. But if you love her----"
"Don't say that." He sprang towards her, all his heart in his eyes and passion in every note of his voice. "I love you and you only; no other woman has ever made me feel what you have. I met Maud in London, and even before, I had a kind of boy and girl passion for her. Then we were playmates, remember, in spite of the difference of our position. I was sorry when she told me how lonely she was in London. I did not know that she lied in saying so. I was young and inexperienced, and she caught me with a tearful eye and a quivering voice and a tale of woe. I married at haste to repent at leisure. But, oh Heavens!"--he broke off, pressing his hands against his aching brow--"when I think of that horrible police-court, and the way in which I was accused of what I never did, I hardly dare to look you in the face. I am soiled with the mire of criminality. I must be an outcast, a scoundrel in your eyes."
"You are in my eyes what you always have been," replied Beatrice in a soft tone--"the man I love."
"Still, still--you--you love me?" he stammered.
"Yes. No, do not touch me," she added hastily, as Vivian flung himself forward. "You had a right before she came, as you were ignorant, and I see from her own confession how you were deceived; but now, she is your wife--she is alive. Until that barrier is removed, we can be nothing but friends to one another. I cannot stay here."
"Beatrice! Beatrice!"
"I cannot," she answered steadily. "I love you, and I cannot see you day after day with calmness."
"You can remain as Dinah's companion," he said entreatingly. "I shall pay you a salary, and then you will be independent."
"No. Dinah has Jerry; she wants no companion. I will go to town, and to Lady Watson. She was my mother's friend, and will be able to help me."
"You will go as her companion?"
"Oh no. I don't like her sufficiently for that. But she may be able to get me a position as a governess or something else. And also, I wish to ask her about my mother, whom she knew. Mrs. Snow gives a cruel version of what my mother was. Lady Watson may be more truthful. And some day," she added, drawing so near to Vivian that it took him all his powers of self-repression to refrain from taking her in his arms--"some day, when the barrier is removed, we may come together."
Vivian shook his head. "Maud will never give me a chance of divorce, my dear," said he bitterly. "She is too clever and--I may say it to you--too passionless."
"Never mind, we can remain friends."
Paslow groaned aloud with anguish. "Can there be friendship between us after all that has come and gone?"
"Yes," said Beatrice quietly, "because we are soul friends, and do not love entirely after the physical. Come, Vivian,"--she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder--"let us commence our friendship by talking sensibly of these matters."
"What matters?" he asked listlessly, for the man was worn out with the struggle which was going on in his breast.
"About the murders of my father and of Alpenny. We must learn who committed them."
"What good will that do?"
"This much: it will destroy the power which this gang holds over your head. Major Ruck knows that you were accused of theft, so does Tuft the lawyer and your wife. For their own ends they will hold this in terrorem over you."
"They have always done so," said Vivian sadly. "They cannot hurt me so far as the police are concerned, as I left the court without a stain on my character. But socially, if they told my friends----"
"If your friends turn their backs on you, they are not worthy to be called friends," said Beatrice quickly. "You must face this gang of people. Do you not know their secrets, and thus may be able to counterplot them?"
"I know nothing about them; but Durban may. The paper which was on my desk, and which told me to threaten Alpenny with the black patch, was--now I feel sure--in Durban's handwriting."
"It probably was," said Beatrice thoughtfully. "I shall see Durban and ask him to be open with me. But did you not know anything about the Black Patch Gang, Vivian?"
"No," he said earnestly; "I swear I did not. I fancied from what Maud let drop at times that Alpenny and herself and Ruck were all connected with some criminal organisation; but I never knew anything about the black patch, which seems to be their badge. I used the words on Durban's paper--if Durban did write them--quite unknowingly. And now when I remember their effect, and remember also how your father was murdered, and how you also saw a man issuing from The Camp with a black patch over his eye, I feel sure that there is such a gang, and that Alpenny was connected with it. Probably I was used to warn him that he would be killed, for some reason. He may have betrayed them, or made personal use of the goods he received. But whatever it was, I certainly unconsciously gave him the warning; and he was killed--I am convinced of this--by a member of the gang."
"I agree with you," said Beatrice promptly. "Well, I shall see Durban to-morrow, and he may speak out. I shall insist on his doing so. Also, I shall see old Orchard."
"Why?"
"Because I believe she got that necklace from him--your wife, I mean. That was why she came down, and why she acknowledged the relationship to Orchard."
"You don't think he killed Alpenny, Beatrice?"
"No. The man is too old, and, moreover, would not have the courage. But he may know something of the murder. In any case, if the necklace was in his possession, he will have to account for having it. Major Ruck insisted that my mother had it and left it to Alpenny, who should have given it to me. And he would have done so, in order to close Major Ruck's mouth."
"But how could he do that if he gave you the necklace?"
"Oh," said Beatrice calmly, "it was to be my dowry, and I was to be made to marry Major Ruck. You heard yourself, Vivian, how the Major confessed that it was the Obi necklace he wanted. Perhaps he will make your wife give it up to him."
"He will indeed be clever if he can manage that," said Vivian, grimly. "My wife will not readily part with diamonds like that, and I fancy she knows enough about the Major to keep him silent. Well, Beatrice, let it be as you say: see Durban in the morning, and then Orchard. But I wish you would stay here."
"No, you do not, Vivian," said the girl, determinedly. "You love me too well for that."
"Perhaps I do. I shall always love you. Oh Beatrice, if you can only get at the truth of these murders and bring home the crime to the Black Patch Gang, you will lift from my shoulders the burden of years. I will work also. I have been a weak fool, allowing myself to be blackmailed and humbled by these rogues. But you have put fresh life into me, my darling. I shall now assert my manhood."
"I quite understand how you shrank from publicity," she said in a soothing tone. "You are brave and manly, I know: but a man who would face a cannon's mouth would, in a case like this, be fearful for his good name. Let me search out the matter."
"But you will allow me to help?"
"When I want your help I shall ask it of you," she replied. "And now, as our relations are changed,--for the present, at all events,--let us shake hands on the bargain of being friends."
Vivian did so without a sigh. The position was a hard one for him, but he recognised that it was harder for the girl. And when he saw how bravely she faced these difficult matters, he cursed himself for the moral cowardice which had made him submit for long years to extortion and concealment. "You put new heart into me," he said again, and they shook hands as friends, as Dinah came up with Jerry.
"Jerry and I have been talking about our new flat in London," cried Dinah, long before she arrived on the terrace. "And we will live in West Kensington. I shall keep a saloon, and be a literary woman."
"A drinking saloon?" asked Vivian, glad of the diversion.
"No, you stupid! A thing like Madame de Rambouillet--collecting all the wits of London, you know."
"Goodness knows where you'll find them," said Jerry bluffly; "wit is an extinct art.--I say, Vivian, where is Miss Carr?"
"That horrid girl!" interpolated Dinah.
"You didn't think her horrid once, Dinah, when you played with her."
"I never did," said Dinah, opening her eyes and following her brother into the well-lighted drawing-room; "a painted----"
"She was not painted then," interrupted Vivian impatiently. "And what Jerry told you about Orchard being her father ought to have----"
"Oh!" cried Dinah, starting, "now I remember, Maud Orchard of course. She was a housemaid or something."
"Not quite that. She attended on Mrs. Lilly, who behaved like a mother to her."
"Yes, yes. And then she went to London, and Mrs. Lilly was very angry. So that was her! Why did she call herself Carr?"
"It's a journalistic name," said Jerry.
"Oh!" said Dinah again. "I hope Snow is your real name?"
"My very own," said Jerry, with a grimace. "I would certainly have chosen a different name had I selected one. But I am born a Snow, and have to put up with it."
"Where has Maud Orchard gone?" asked Dinah, irrelevantly.
"She had to see after some business and went away," said Beatrice, as Vivian found it difficult to answer this question. "She only came here to see your brother and remind him who she was."
"Well, Iamstupid," said Dinah, swallowing this white fib; "but I have such a bad memory for faces. I can only remember Jerry's because it is so very plain."
"I call that hard," said Jerry plaintively.
"I call it silly," retorted Dinah, tapping him on the face with her fan. "Now have a whisky and soda with Vivian, and go home. Beatrice and I are going to bed. And I am sure you want to sleep," she said, glancing at her friend's pale face; "you look quite worn out."
"I am all right," said Beatrice somewhat impatiently.
"Good night, Jerry--good night, Vivian," and the two girls went up to their rooms; while Vivian played host to Jerry, and got rid of him as speedily as he could. He was in no mood for the young journalist's aimless chatter.
Next morning Beatrice awoke at five o'clock. She could not sleep longer, although, owing to being worn out on the previous night, she had slumbered very soundly. It was a lovely fresh morning, and she felt inclined for a walk. It was too early to see Durban, as he would not yet be up, early riser though he was. After a few minutes' thought, Beatrice decided to walk up to the Downs and see if old Orchard was about. She would get there about the time he was starting off with his flock, and in any event would be certain to find him in his hut at the morning meal. Hastily scribbling a note that she would return to breakfast and had gone for a stroll, Beatrice dressed herself and stole downstairs. Leaving the note on the dining-room table where it would certainly be found by Mrs. Lilly, the girl went out of the back door. The house-dog in the yard barked joyously at her coming, as she was a favourite of his. Beatrice, for the sake of company, let him loose, and took him with her.
She literally danced along the road in spite of the troubles which environed her. She was young, and the morning air was like champagne. Also she felt a conviction that things would surely come right, and that she and Vivian would become man and wife. She did not wish for the death of Mrs. Paslow, wicked as the woman was, nor did she wish Vivian to divorce her, which--as he had said--he could not do. But she felt that in some way the barrier would be removed, and that its removal lay in her own hands. Thus her heart began to grow light, and as she climbed the Downs amidst the glory of the dawn, she breathed a prayer to God that He would take all these troubles out of her life, and bring her to a safe haven.
Orchard was at the door of his hut as usual, and also he was eating, just as he had been when she saw him last. He might have been seated there all the time, for all she knew. The sheep were nibbling the dewy grass, and the sun was rising in splendour, when the old shepherd beheld her. He turned his mild eyes on her, and greeted her quietly.
"You're the young lady as called to see me the other day?" he said.
"Colonel Hall's daughter," explained Beatrice, taking the stool he offered, "and I have come to see you about yours."
"About my what?" asked Orchard quietly.
"About your daughter Maud. She came last night to see Mr. Paslow."
"Ah yes," said Orchard, with such composure that Beatrice was certain that he knew nothing about the marriage, or his daughter's life. "Maud and Master Vivian were playmates together. She's a pretty girl."
"She is," assented Beatrice cordially; for no one could deny the beauty of Maud Paslow, marred as it was by artificial aids.
"And a good girl," said the old man, slightly warming. "She ain't ashamed of her old father, although she writes books and lives like a fine lady in London."
"Yes, I hear she is a journalist," said Beatrice, and then abruptly added: "She must make a lot of money to have so fine a diamond necklace as she showed Mr. Paslow and myself."
"Did she show that?" said Orchard, with a slight cloud on his brow. "It was foolish of her. It is a necklace like one that Colonel Hall had years and years ago. Durban said that there was some witchcraft about that necklace, else why should it have been missing for so long, only to turn up here two days ago on the neck of a sheep?"
"What?" asked Beatrice, amazed.
"And now I come to think of it," said Orchard, whose memory was apparently going, "Colonel Hall was murdered by Alpenny for that necklace."
"It is the same?"
"Of course it is, miss. I recognised the setting when I took it off the sheep's neck."
"But how could such a set of jewels get on a sheep's neck?"
"Ah!" said old Orchard, with great mildness, "that's what I want to find out. Mr. Alpenny had the necklace, I am sure. Perhaps, as Durban said, there was bad luck about it, and Mr. Alpenny put it on a sheep's neck to get rid of the spell."
"What rubbish!" said Beatrice impatiently.
"Rubbish or not, miss, I found that necklace on the neck of one of my sheep. The poor thing had broken its leg, and I went to put it out of its pain. The diamond necklace was round its neck, and I gave it to Maud, as it was no use to me. I hope it won't bring her bad luck, since it is the Obi necklace."
Beatrice did not remain long with Orchard, after she had learned how Maud Paslow became possessed of the Obi necklace. She was convinced that the old shepherd was speaking the truth, as he did not appear to have sufficient brains to be inventive, and, moreover, was rapidly growing senile. But on her way down to the Weald she thought it strange that the necklace should have been discovered by the man, round the neck of a sheep. Who had placed the gems there? and why had they been attached to the animal? An attempt to solve this problem lasted Beatrice all the way to The Camp.
It was now nearly ten o'clock, but Beatrice was too excited to think about breakfast. She found the great gates of The Camp wide open, and indeed since Alpenny's death they had been rarely closed. The gardens looked as beautiful as ever, but the railway carriages appeared a little deserted and forlorn. Beatrice walked at once towards the kitchen carriage, where she hoped to find Durban preparing his morning meal. He certainly was there, and with him was a red-headed, dirty little man in whom she recognised Waterloo.
"Oh!" said Beatrice, recoiling from the door, for the mere sight of that evil face made her sick.
"Blimme!" cried Waterloo, turning his rat-like eyes on her, "if it ain't old Alpenny's gal!"
"Hold your tongue," said Durban in a low, fierce voice.--"What is it, missy?"
"I have come to ask you for some breakfast," said Beatrice, retreating still further, so as to get away from Waterloo, "and to have a chat."
"We'll all have a jaw," cried Waterloo enthusiastically; "we're all pals in the same boat."
"What does this horrible creature mean?" asked Beatrice, looking appealingly at her old servant.
"'Orrible critture!" yelped Waterloo. "Well, I likes that, I does. Oh yuss, not at all, by no means. Why, me an' your par were old pals."
"Are you talking of Colonel Hall or of Mr. Alpenny?" asked Beatrice, taking a sudden step towards the man.
The result of her remark and action surprised her not a little, and indeed seemed to surprise Durban also. "Colonel 'All!" muttered Waterloo, and his red hair rose on end over a rapidly paling face. "Oh! my stars, if you knows about him, it's time fur me to cut my lucky."
"You know something?" cried Beatrice.
"I know as old Alpenny murdered--murdered---- Here!" cried Waterloo, with a snarl, "you lemme out!" and before Beatrice could stop him--she was blocking the doorway--he had darted under her arm, and was running noiselessly out of The Camp. Apparently he was frightened out of his wits. Yet the girl wondered that so bold a thief, and a man accustomed to being in tight places, should be seized by so sudden an access of genuine terror.
"What does it mean?" she asked Durban, but making no attempt to follow the man.
"I know no more than you do, missy."
"Durban," said Beatrice, entering the kitchen and taking a seat, "you have kept me in the dark long enough. You ran away just as this man has done, when I asked you about the Obi necklace. Now you must speak out, as I am leaving Hurstable."
"Leaving this place, missy?" said Durban, startled. "Are you not to marry Mr. Paslow?"
"How can I marry him when he has a wife living?"
Durban did not seem to be so surprised at this news as she expected. "So you have found that out, missy?" he said slowly.
"You knew about it?"
"Yes, I knew; but I thought--I thought that she was dead."
"No. She pretended to die, for her own purposes. In fact she intended, in that way, to get rid of Vivian, and marry an American millionaire. But she is alive,--her double was buried."
"Miss Arthur!" cried the servant quickly.
"You know that also?"
"I know everything. But I thought that Mrs. Paslow was dead, and so I wanted you to marry Mr. Paslow and be happy."
"Durban," said the girl quietly, "the discovery of this, which you should have told me, alters the position of myself and Mr. Paslow. I can no longer remain at Convent Grange. To-morrow I go up to town to see Lady Watson."
Durban's face took on its greenish pallor. He made one stride forward and spoke to Beatrice with dry lips. "You must not; you dare not. Do not go, missy."
"Take your hand from my arm, Durban," said Beatrice sharply; and when he did so she resumed in hard tones, "Why should I not go?"
"Oh! how can I tell you?" Durban clapped his hands together in a helpless sort of way, like a great child. "She is bad: she will do you harm. She has got Alpenny's money, which ought to be yours. For all I know, she may have the Obi necklace also. I hope she has, for its possession will bring her the worst of luck."
"She has not got the necklace, Durban. Mrs. Paslow has it. Yes, you may well look surprised, Durban. Mr. Paslow and myself saw it on her neck last night, when she came to see him and prevent our marriage."
"How could she have got it?" murmured Durban, but more to himself than to his mistress.
"She obtained it from her father."
"Old Orchard the butler?"
"Old Orchard the shepherd. I saw him this morning. He recognised the necklace as having belonged to my father--to Colonel Hall; it seems the setting is peculiar."
"But how did it come into his possession, missy?"
"He found it on the neck of a sheep."
Durban did not look at all surprised. "I thought he would," was his strange reply.
"You thought he would what?"
"I thought he would find it there."
"Durban, did you know it was on a sheep's neck?"
"Yes. I--well, missy, I may as well make a clean breast of it--I placed it on the sheep's neck myself."
"You? And where did you get it?"
"Come with me, missy, and I'll show you."
In silent amazement Beatrice followed the stout man out of the kitchen. He led the way across the lawn to the counting-house, and opened the door with a key which he took from the pocket of his white suit. She beheld the counting-house in exactly the same state as she had seen it when Alpenny had insisted on the marriage with Major Ruck. But much water had flowed under Westminster Bridge since that time, which now seemed so far away.
"Missy," said Durban, pointing to the seat in front of the mahogany desk, "sit down and let us talk. I have much to tell you, for the time has come when you must know what I know."
"Why have you kept information from me all this time?" said Beatrice, sitting down, while Durban stood at the door, his bulky form blocking up all exit.
"Why? Missy, I ask you, would it have been right for me, who love you, to overshadow your young life by telling you of the murder of your father, of the rascality of Alpenny, and of the terrible position in which Mr. Paslow was placed?" Durban spoke vehemently, and with the very greatest earnestness.
"I am not a child," said Beatrice. "I should have been told."
"You were a child for a long time, and I loved you," said Durban with exquisite sadness. "I wished to keep you in ignorance of the evil that surrounded you. I wished you to marry Mr. Paslow, and go away, never to learn what the evil was. But, I knew--for I learned it from Major Ruck, who wished to marry you and get the Obi necklace--that Mr. Paslow had married Maud Orchard (or Maud Carr, as she calls herself in town). When she died--or pretended to die--I thought that all would be well, and so kept silence. But you were determined to search out these matters for yourself. I placed no bar in the way of your doing so, as I thought that perhaps you were the chosen instrument to put all right. Since, unaided, you have found out so much, I think you are that instrument, so I am now going to make much plain, which has hitherto puzzled you."
Beatrice crossed her feet and hands. "I shall be glad to hear what you have to say," she said coldly.
"Ah, missy, do not be angry," said Durban caressingly; "it was love that made me keep you in the dark."
He was so genuinely moved that a large tear rolled down his dark face, and a profound emotion stirred him to the depths of his being. Beatrice was annoyed at the way in which she had been treated, but she was just enough to recognise that the man had kept silence out of pure affection. Impulsively stretching out her hand, she caught his, which hung listlessly by his side, and shook it heartily. "I believe you love me, Durban, and that you acted for the best."
"Oh! missy--missy!"
"Hush! Be quiet, and tell me what you know."
Durban wiped his face with the duster which he carried, and, leaning against the door, spoke slowly and to the point. Indeed, he seemed glad that after his years of silence he was at last able to confess freely, and to a sympathetic listener.
"I was born in the West Indies, missy," he said, "and knew your mother and father----"
"You told me that you were born on my mother's estate. Begin from the time you came to Convent Grange."
"Very well, missy. I came to Convent Grange with my master to see Mr. Paslow's father, who was an old friend of the Colonel's. Master and your mother had quarrelled. He was severe, and kept your mother too quiet. She liked gaiety and pleasure, yet so severely had he trained her that she was always silent and demure. She came down with you and your nurse for one night. Then my master was murdered, as you know."
"Can you tell who murdered him?"
"No, missy." Durban spoke very earnestly. "I swear that I do not know who did that. But your mother was suspected. She cleared herself; but people still looked at her askance, so she changed her name to Hedge and married Mr. Alpenny. Here"--Durban glanced out of doors"--in this quiet place she was safe, and here she lived until she died, worn out with grief, a few months later. Mr. Alpenny then sent you to Miss Shallow at Brighton, and you know all your life since then."
"Why did my mother marry Mr. Alpenny?"
"Because she had the Obi necklace. Your father gave it to her, she told me."
"And Major Ruck said the same thing."
"It must be true, then," muttered Durban, half to himself, "although I was never sure. But Alpenny said that he would accuse your mother of the murder unless she married him. She did so, and then died. Alpenny kept the necklace, and, being fond of jewels, he could not make up his mind to part with it even for money, of which he was equally fond. He kept it by him in this place."
"In the safe?"
"No, missy. The safe--as Mr. Alpenny, an associate of thieves, knew very well--was the first place where thieves would look. See here, missy"--Durban advanced to the wall, and pulled aside the faded red rep which hung there as a kind of arras--"here is a pocket behind this, made in the rep. The necklace was kept here, for no one would think of feeling the hangings. It was safer here than in the safe."
Beatrice examined the pocket, and admired the ingenuity of the hiding-place, which--so to speak--was so public that even the most expert thief would never think of looking here for a valuable necklace of gems. An ordinary man would have kept the jewels in the safe; but Mr. Alpenny, who must have got the hint from Poe's story of "The Purloined Letter," chose the least likely place to be searched.
"And you found the necklace here, Durban?"
"Yes, missy. I will tell you how I did. Mr. Alpenny was a member, and the chief one, of the Black Patch Gang."
"Durban! Then you wrote that paper which was on Mr. Paslow's desk?"
"I did, missy," he admitted quietly. "Mr. Alpenny, wanting all the money to himself, had several times played the Gang false. Twice he was warned, and was told that at the third warning he would be killed."
"I remember how Mr. Alpenny shivered when Vivian spoke," said Beatrice, recalling the scene; "and he spoke of the third warning."
"I was told to give him the warning," said Durban calmly; "and I wanted to make Mr. Paslow use it, in the hope that Mr. Alpenny would be frightened into consenting to your marriage with Mr. Paslow."
"But you knew that Maud Paslow was alive?"
"She pretended to die twice," said Durban, "and I was equally deceived along with Mr. Paslow. He did not know what the warning of the Black Patch Gang meant; but I did, and made Mr. Paslow unconsciously use it. But it proved useless."
"Not to Mr. Alpenny. He was murdered."
"Yes, missy, and I believe by a member of the Black Patch Gang; but I do not know who. Listen, missy. I am about to place my life in your hands!" and the man looked cautiously round.
"Durban!" she exclaimed, frightened, "are you going to tell me that you were a member of the Gang?"
"No, missy, I was not. They tried to get me to join, but being an honest man, I refused. But I held my tongue for your sake. I loved you, and the Gang declared if I told the police about them, that they would kidnap you. Therefore I was silent."
"Kidnap me!" cried Beatrice indignantly. "How could they?"
"The Gang are very clever, and could do what they wanted to," said Durban drily; "and as Alpenny hated you, he certainly would have put no bar in the way of your being carried off. It was only I who stood between you and this danger."
"Oh, Durban, how much I owe you!"
"Missy"--he kissed her hand--"you do not owe me so much as I owed your good father, who saved me from being lynched in the States. But we can talk of that afterwards," he added hastily. "Let me go on. I was here on the night of the murder."
"You! Why, you went to town?"
"I pretended to. But after the warning, Mr. Alpenny intended to bolt, as he feared for his life--that was why he left the note on your table. But I came back here before you returned in the wind and the rain, and looked through the window of the counting-house, in which a light burned. I saw Alpenny lying dead, and knew that the Black Patch Gang had accomplished their vengeance."
"Did you meet any one?"
"No, I saw no one. Then I entered the counting-house by the secret way, missy."
"Is there a secret way, Durban?"
"Yes. I found it by chance. See!" Durban advanced to the end of the carriage and touched a spring which was concealed behind the rep hangings. At once there was a creaking noise, and the sheet of galvanised tin, upon which rested the stove, swung aside, to reveal a narrow flight of stone steps. "These," said Durban, "lead along an underground passage into the shrubbery, and from there one can go out by the great gates, or the small one. I entered by this way, as I had a duplicate key of the great gates. I searched for the Obi necklace, and found it by looking everywhere for it. I felt the hangings, and so discovered the pocket. Then I left The Camp and climbed the Downs. On to the neck of the first sheep I could catch, I tied the necklace, and let it stray away."
"But why did you do that?" asked Beatrice, astonished.
"Because there was a curse on the necklace," said Durban with all the intensity of his negro nature. "And I did not want that curse to come upon you. You might have got the necklace, and then you would have had nothing but misery. Therefore, instead of throwing it away, for there was always the chance that it might be found, I bound it on the neck of the sheep, and lightly, thinking that the animal might lose it on the pathless Downs. I did it, missy, to save you from the curse. Well," said Durban, throwing out his hands, "old Orchard found it, and has given it to his daughter. She will be unlucky for evermore, unless she gives it to another person. And I hope," finished the half-caste vindictively, "that she will give it to Major Ruck in order that he may come to the gallows, as he has long deserved them."
"What a strange story! And you do not know who killed Alpenny?"
"No more than I know who killed Colonel Hall. But, missy, now that I have told you this, you will not go to Lady Watson?"
"I must, Durban. I have to earn my living."
"Then go to any one, but not to that woman"; and Durban fell on his knees. "I implore you!"
But the more he implored the more Beatrice was determined to go, and learn, if possible, why Durban feared Lady Watson so much. "I go to-morrow," she said quietly, and twitched her dress from his grasp.
"It is Fate! Fate! Fate!" muttered Durban gloomily.
Beatrice kept her word in spite of all Durban's protestation that her visit to Lady Watson would lead to trouble. Frank as the old servant had apparently been, Beatrice could not rid herself of the idea than even now he had not told everything. There was some mystery concerning Lady Watson which had a bearing on the other mysteries, and this she was determined to find out. Only by knowing everything would her mind be set at rest.
The girl was sufficiently unhappy in these days. The discovery of the evil by which she was surrounded made her recoil from everyone in terror. All people seemed to have skeletons in their various cupboards, and Beatrice dreaded the chance of becoming friendly with any one else who had a secret. Also, it was pain and anguish to her to stand aside, and know that Maud Orchard possessed Vivian. Of course Maud had returned to London, and Vivian--so he said--had heard nothing about her from the time she had fled with the Obi necklace. All the same this woman, wicked and lawless, was his wife, and, while she lived, Beatrice knew that Vivian could never be anything to her but a friend. Loving him as she did, and in spite of his manifold weaknesses, her heart ached as she thought of the long, dreary, desolate life that necessarily was before her when deprived, by a prior claim, of his society. But recent events had hardened the girl's character, and she grasped her nettle firmly. In other words, she made all arrangements to go to London and see Lady Watson, on the chance of obtaining work. So long as she could earn her living, nothing else seemed to matter. Beatrice felt very unhappy and lonely.
What she greatly desired was a confidant. Dinah, being a scatter-brain, and wrapped up in Jerry, was useless, while, owing to the changed circumstances, she could not feel easy in the company of Vivian. Durban, after the short interview she had with him in The Camp, had vanished; for when Beatrice went again to question him still further, she found the place deserted and locked up. Where Durban had gone she did not know, and, needing him as she did, her state of mind was one of wretchedness and foreboding. However, as she greatly desired advice and comfort, she induced Vivian to come to the lonely Camp, and there told him all that Durban had told her.
Vivian heard her in silence, and wondered at the queer story. Durban, he thought, was deeper implicated in the doings of the Black Patch Gang than he chose to acknowledge, and he said this to Beatrice after some thought. The girl vigorously refused to believe in the guilt of the man.
"Durban has always been my best friend, Vivian," she said, with a look of pain. "How can you accuse him, without evidence?"
"It seems to me that there is a great deal of evidence upon which to accuse him," said Paslow grimly. "He had the necklace, and the crime was committed for the sake of the necklace."
"No. It was a case of revenge. Alpenny evidently betrayed the Gang in some way, or took more than his fair share of the plunder, therefore he was sentenced to death; and you were used by Durban as the unconscious instrument to give him warning. You saw how terrified old Alpenny was, and how he muttered about the third time. Also, the note he wrote to me was a trick, to give him time to get away. He would have fled, but that he was killed."
"Had he fled," said Vivian judiciously, "or had he intended to fly, he would have taken his jewels with him. According to Major Ruck, he had a great many jewels."
"I saw some," replied Beatrice. "Well, perhaps he did make up a parcel of jewels, and these were stolen by the thief who killed him."
"No," insisted Vivian. "The necklace was left behind, or would have been. Had Alpenny intended to fly to the Continent with his plunder in order to escape death he certainly would have packed up the Obi necklace at once. As it was, he left it in its hiding-place, and Durban--as he says--found it there."
"How do you mean--as he says?" questioned Beatrice, struck by the peculiar tone in which Paslow uttered the words.
"I mean that Durban may be telling a lie. Alpenny may have got the necklace ready to go away. Durban, coming back, as he confessed to you he did, probably killed him, and stole the necklace."
"Nonsense!" said Beatrice quickly. "For what reason should he steal the necklace, and then hang it on the neck of a sheep?"
"Ah, that is Orchard's story. You told it to Durban, and he seized the idea. Orchard's daughter is connected with the Gang--my wife, that is," added Vivian, with a grimace, "so it is probable that Orchard also is a member. Probably Durban, after killing Alpenny, went up the Downs and gave the necklace to Orchard for safe keeping. No one would expect to find it in the possession of the old man. I think that Orchard was to have returned it to Durban, so that money could be made; only his daughter--my wife--saw it and wheedled it out of him for herself. But I don't think she'll keep it long if Major Ruck sees it."
"I don't agree with you at all," said Beatrice, defending Durban. "As Durban was supposed to be in town, he could have come back."
"Which he did, remember."
"Yes, but only to find Alpenny dead. Had he killed Alpenny for the sake of the necklace, he could have slipped it into his pocket and have gone away in safety. No, Vivian, I believe that Durban really believes that there is some spell attached to the necklace, and placed it on the neck of the sheep to prevent its doing further harm to anyone, especially to me. Had I found it, I certainly should have claimed it."
"Lady Watson would have claimed it."
"I know that, since she inherits all under the will. And that is one of the reasons why I go up to town to see her. I'll tell her all that we know, and she will get the necklace from your wife."
"That is if Major Ruck doesn't get it in the meantime," said Vivian coolly. "Maud is a clever woman, but she won't be able to get the better of Major Ruck. Let us have a look at the secret passage."
"We cannot open the door," objected Beatrice.
"Durban opened it with a beam when the body was found dead," said the young man, "and here is the beam left near the carriage all the time." He picked up the heavy log of wood, and poised it against the door. The lock, mended but lightly, gave way at once, and the two had little difficulty in entering.
"Here is the spring," explained Beatrice, and walked to the end of the carriage, followed closely by Vivian. In another minute the galvanised tin upon which the stove stood, slipped aside, and disclosed the damp steps. "Isn't it ingenious?" said she, admiringly.
"Very," assented Vivian. "Let us go down. Come on!"
"But a light. Oh"--she caught sight of a candle on the table--"here is one. You lead, Vivian."
With the lighted candle the pair went down into the unwholesome passage. It descended by means of the steps for some distance, and then there was a trend to the right. The passage was perfectly straight, and had been dug out of the soft earth. Part of it was roofed with brick, but the whole was much dilapidated, and showed signs of collapse. Vivian, seeing this, and fearing a fall of earth, wished the girl to return, but this she refused to do. "I want to see where it leads to," she said. "Go on, Vivian."
Thus urged, he cautiously felt his way by the feeble glimmer of the candle. In a shorter time than either expected, they came to a second flight of steps, and scrambled upward. The steps ended at a kind of trap-door. Vivian placed his shoulder beneath this, and with a vigorous push, forced it outward and upward. The next moment he had leaped lightly on to the surface of the earth, and found himself in the wood, just outside the walls of The Camp.
"Oh," said Beatrice, when she was assisted out of the bole, and began to recognise her surroundings, "Durban said that the exit waswithinThe Camp."
"Ah," replied Vivian, with much significance, "Durban has told another lie. He is not to be trusted, Beatrice."
"I am certain he is, although appearances are against him," declared the girl impetuously. "He is cautious in speaking even to me, as he fears the vengeance of the Gang. Close the trap-door, Vivian. See!" she added, when he did this, "the surface is masked with moss."
And so it was. The wood was ingeniously covered with ragged moss; and when the trap was down and a few leaves fell on the moss, no one could have told that a passage lay underneath. It was a most clever arrangement, and doubtless had been often used by the scoundrelly gang of which Alpenny, undoubtedly, had been a prominent member. The respectable clients, however, who had come to borrow money and be swindled by the old rascal, had always entered by the great gates, or, if they wished for especial privacy, by the smaller one.
"What a dangerous lot of people I have lived amongst," said Beatrice, who was rather pale when they reclosed the door of the counting-house and left The Camp.
"Undoubtedly," assented Vivian rather grimly; "it is a mercy that the police never came down here. You might have been implicated."
"I can see that, and for the same reason I refuse to believe that Durban is mixed up with these rascalities. He served Mr. Alpenny for my sake, and for my sake he held his tongue about the roguery which he must have known went on. But I do not believe that he took any part in the same, Vivian."
"Well," said Paslow, after a pause, "you may learn more when you see Lady Watson."
"But she can have nothing to do with these things. She is a lady of rank and fashion."
"She was a friend of Alpenny's, or he would not have left her his money," said Vivian, "and is the friend of Major Ruck. I don't know a bigger blackguard in London."
Beatrice said nothing more. She quite agreed with her lover, and began to be afraid as to what she might discover when she was in the presence of Lady Watson. All the same, as she was determined to learn everything, and if possible, to so get to know the doings of the Gang that Vivian would be safe from their threats, she left early the next morning for town. Vivian accompanied her to the local station, and took a formal farewell of her. It had to be formal, because of the publicity of the platform, and also because their relations with one another, since the appearance of the supposed dead wife, were so very difficult. So Vivian coldly shook hands, although his face belied the formal action, and Beatrice watched him through tearful eyes as the train steamed towards Brighton.
Dinah had given her a couple of pounds, or rather Beatrice had borrowed these from her, with the intention of repaying her out of the first instalment of a possible salary. This was all the money she had in the world, and she prayed on the way to London, that Heaven would see fit to make Lady Watson well-disposed towards her. At Victoria Station the girl sent a wire to the address which she had procured from Dinah, who got it from Mrs. Snow. This telegram intimated that Miss Hedge,--she thought it best to keep to the name,--was coming to see Lady Watson on business. It was rather a strange thing to do; but Beatrice was new to social ways, and, moreover, could not, by reason of her scanty purse, run the risk of having to wait long in town without seeing her probable patroness.
Lady Watson lived in Kensington, and there Beatrice, not knowing the intricacies of the underground railway, drove all the way in a four-wheeler. But first, she went to a small and quiet hotel which was kept by a sister of Mrs. Lilly's. Here, thanks to the housekeeper's letter, Beatrice was received by the counterpart of Mrs. Lilly, and felt quite at home.
"You can stay here as long as you like, miss," said the landlady, when Beatrice asked for cheap apartments. "My sister has told me all about you, miss. A bedroom and sitting-room are waiting for you, miss; and we'll talk of payment on some future occasion."
Beatrice, worn out and feeling intensely lonely, could have wept because of the kindness of this reception. But she restrained her tears, as she had no desire to make her eyes red for the meeting with Lady Watson. She had some luncheon, and then dressed herself in her best mourning and took her way to the great lady's house, which was not very far away in a quiet square. Mrs. Quail, the landlady, sent a small servant to show Beatrice where the square was, and once there, the girl soon found the house by its number. But when she rang the bell, and stood alone on the doorstep, she felt very nervous. All the same her courage did not give way. The interview meant much to her, and she was determined to carry it through, cost what it might.
The footman who opened the door said that his mistress was within, and conducted Beatrice up a well-carpeted flight of wide, shallow stairs into the drawing-room. The house was well furnished, and in a rather frivolous way, which reflected the spirit of its mistress. On all hands in the drawing-room Beatrice saw evidence of waste of money in little things. Lady Watson apparently liked comfort, and spent with a lavish hand. In the midst of this modern splendour the girl felt lost, accustomed as she was to the plainest of houses. (And, indeed, as a carping critic might have said, she was not accustomed even to houses, seeing that she lived in a disused railway carriage!) However, Beatrice had little time for thought. Hardly had she cast a glance round the apartment when Lady Watson entered with a rush. She looked as young and wrinkled as ever, and was dressed in a soft tea-gown exquisitely made. At the distance she looked twenty, but when near, and in spite of the blinds being down, she looked nearly forty. However her eyes, brown and bright, twinkled as merrily as ever, and, to Beatrice's surprise, she flung her arms round her visitor's neck.
"My dear child," she rattled on, "I am glad to see you. I received your telegram, and stopped in, on purpose to see you. Of course you have come to be my companion? Your room is ready, and we will be such friends. Ah, you don't know how I love you!"
"Why should you?" asked Beatrice, rather surprised by this gushing reception, and mistrusting its truth.
"Oh, there are a thousand reasons. I'll tell you them later. Come, my dearest child, take off your jacket and hat, and----"
"No, Lady Watson. I have only come for a short visit I want you to get me a situation as a governess, and----"
"A governess with your beauty!" cried the little woman; "what nonsense! Let me look at you, dearest"; and she pulled up the near blind to let in the sunlight on the girl. It made Beatrice look like an angel, and Lady Watson aged in the golden splendour at least a dozen years.
"Oh, you are lovely, lovely! Why, what are you looking at? Oh, at my necklace! Beautiful diamonds are they not?"
"Yes." Beatrice, with white lips, recognised the necklace at once as that stolen by Maud Paslow. "But where did you get it?"
"Why do you ask that?" questioned Lady Watson sharply.
"It is the Obi necklace. You got it from Maud Orchard--from Vivian's wife."
"I--that is--what do you mean?" stammered Lady Watson, growing pale under her rouge. "It is mine--mine. Mr. Alpenny gave it to me."
"No. You are in this plot too. You know about the murder. I shall tell the police, I shall----" Beatrice, hardly knowing what she did, was about to rush from the room when Lady Watson stopped her.
"Wait," she said in a cracked scream; "if you denounce me, you ruin--your mother!"