The next day Dora excused her absence to Joad on the plea of a visit to a friend living the other side of Canterbury, and stated furthermore that she would not return until late that evening. It was absolutely necessary to make some such statement, as she knew not what conclusion would be drawn by the old man did he learn that her true destination was London. She suspected him of knowing more of Lady Burville than he chose to confess; and, with such knowledge, he might guess her intention. If so, it might be that he would warn Lady Burville, did he know her address, which was by no means unlikely; therefore Dora was resolved to keep him in ignorance of her plan. To blind Joad was no easy task, as he was artful, dangerous, and--she more than suspected--merciless.
To avert all suspicion, she rode to Selling on her bicycle, and there caught the early train to London. Resolved on economy, she purchased a third-class ticket, and had just time to stumble into a carriage before the train started. Then she became aware that she had but one companion in the compartment--a man. He turned his head as the train began to move, and she saw with astonishment and some annoyance that it was Mr. Pride. "Never mind," she thought, returning his greeting with a stiff nod; "he can tell Joad on his return if he pleases. It will then be too late for the old man to do anything, as I shall have seen Lady Burville."
Like Joad, this man was anotherprotégéof Edermont's, who had procured for him a small post in a private school at Chillum. Pride was not unlike his late patron, being short and insignificant-looking, with a white beard, hardly so luxuriant as that of Edermont, and silvery-white hair. In the distance the resemblance was striking, but a closer inspection showed the difference between the two men, as Pride was plump and rosy, with mild eyes and a good-natured smile. He rubbed one fat hand over the over, and saluted Miss Carew in his usual cheery fashion.
"I am glad to see you looking so well, Miss Carew," he said brightly. "You go to London?"
"Only for the day, Mr. Pride," replied Dora coldly.
"Ah! no doubt you wish to get away from those pests who swarm round the Red House in the hope of gaining a fortune."
"Those amateur detectives?" said Dora quietly; "do you think they will discover the truth?"
"Who knows?" was Pride's reply; "they will do their best to do so. Fifty thousand pounds is worth the earning."
Dora considered for a moment, then turned on him suddenly.
"You were at Canterbury on the night the murder was committed?"
"Till close on eleven," returned Pride easily; "then I walked back to Chillum."
"And you went into Mr. Joad's house?"
"I did. I was with him at one o'clock."
"Did you meet anyone on a bicycle as you walked to Chillum from Canterbury?"
"Why," replied the schoolmaster after a moment's pause, "I met two people, and each rode a bicycle. One, a man, was riding towards Chillum; the other, a woman, was making for Canterbury."
"Did you know who they were?"
"I, my dear Miss Carew!" said Pride in great surprise--"why, no. I took no particular notice of them, in the first place; and in the second, they flitted along so swiftly and noiselessly that I was hardly aware of their passing."
"I suppose you have no clue to the assassin?" said Dora abruptly.
"No. If I had, I should not scruple to earn the fortune."
"Can you conjecture the motive for the crime, Mr. Pride?"
"I--am--afraid--not," said Pride slowly. "I knew Mr. Edermont well; but there was nothing in his past life likely to endanger his safety."
"He thought otherwise. Mr. Edermont was always haunted by the dread of a violent death."
"I knew that, Miss Carew. Monomania, my dear lady--monomania."
"It could not be monomania if it came true," said Dora impetuously.
"Why not?" replied Pride in an argumentative tone. "Monomania is the dwelling on one particular idea until it fills the thoughts and life of the thinker. Mr. Edermont may have had reason to suppose that his life was in danger; but the original cause may have passed away. Nevertheless, the habit may have continued; and so," added Pride with a shrug, "we may reasonably ascribe our friend's death to a creature of his imagination."
"Your argument is weak," replied Dora spiritedly. "Mr. Edermont believed that he would die a violent death, and what he believed came to pass. That does away with all your sophistries."
"But, Miss Carew, the cause of his fear was done away with before your guardian died."
"How do you know that?"
"Joad told me. We were discussing the possibility of the existence of this unknown enemy whom Mr. Edermont feared; and Joad mentioned that Mr. Pallant had set that fear at rest."
"Do you mean to say that Mr. Pallant told him his enemy was dead?"
"Joad thought that such was the case."
"Then you must see," cried Dora triumphantly, "that such a supposition does away with your theory of monomania. Evidently Mr. Edermont's fear was founded on no fancy, but on fact."
"Well, I will agree with you for the sake of argument;" said Pride hastily; "but granted that all you say is true, it brings us no nearer the solution of the mystery. Admitting that the enemy whom Mr. Edermont feared really existed: if such enemy died, as we suppose Mr. Pallant told our poor friend, who killed him, and verified his lifelong prediction that he would come to a violent end?"
"I understand your meaning," was Dora's reply; "but I do not think all the talking in the world will aid us to discover the actual assassin. What is your belief, Mr. Pride?"
"I cannot say that I have any particular belief, Miss Carew. These criminal problems are too intricate for me."
"Don't you wish to earn the reward?"
"I should not mind doing so," replied Pride, with a good-natured laugh. "No man in his senses would lose the chance of gaining fifty thousand pounds. All the same, I am not clever enough to win it. I do not see where to begin."
"Do you think that the manuscript in the bureau was the motive for the crime?"
"No. Why should anyone have killed Mr. Edermont to gain a worthless manuscript?"
"It might not have been worthless to the assassin," objected Dora; "it contained the story of Mr. Edermont's past life."
"But what has his past life to do with his violent death?"
"Everything. You forget that Mr. Edermont believed himself to be a threatened man."
"And so we get back to the starting-point of our argument!" laughed Pride.
Dora laughed also; and, finding that they were arguing in a circle, changed that particular line of conversation.
"You knew Mr. Edermont well?" she asked, after a pause.
"Yes--for quite fifteen years. He was very good to me, and helped me to the post I now hold."
"Did you know Mr. Edermont at Christchurch?"
"Christchurch?" repeated Pride slowly. "No; I did not know him then. Did he live there?"
"I believe so," said Dora curtly, and closed the conversation.
Evidently there was nothing to be learnt from Pride. His knowledge of Edermont only extended back fifteen years; and Dora believed that the motive of the crime was to be found as far back as twenty. Moreover, if he knew anything conclusive, he would be certain to utilize it for his own benefit, and thus gain the reward. Under these circumstances Dora hardly regarded Pride in the light of an important factor in the course she was pursuing, and took no further notice of him from that point of view. They chatted on indifferent subjects until the train arrived at Victoria Station. Here Pride took his leave, and Dora went forward on her mission.
Jersey Place was easily found by asking a convenient policeman. Dora was impressed with the magnificence of the houses and by the aristocratic seclusion of the square. If possible, No. 22 was even more imposing than the surrounding mansions, and as Dora rang the bell she could not help thinking that she was undertaking a difficult task. Here was a rich and titled lady, evidently a power in society, fenced round, as it were, by wealth and position. Yet she proposed to accuse this powerful personage of a crime; she intended to save her lover at the cost of casting down this formidable goddess from her pedestal. It was a dangerous, almost a hopeless, task, but Dora did not shrink from its fulfilment. Too much depended upon the issue of the coming interview for her to retreat at the eleventh hour.
She was introduced by the footman into a small anteroom on the left of the entrance-hall, and there she remained while he took her card up to Lady Burville. In a few moments he returned with the information that his mistress would see her. Dora followed the man upstairs, and was shown into the drawing-room. It was empty at the moment, and she had ample leisure to survey the splendid room, and its still more splendid furniture. The apartment was sumptuous in the extreme. Everything that art and luxury could supply was gathered together between these four walls. The East and the West had contributed to adorn this house. It was more like a palace than the residence of a private person, and gave Dora large ideas of the wealth of Sir John Burville.
His portrait--as she guessed--hung in a conspicuous part of the room. A strong, burly man he appeared to be, with a shrewd, coarse face. Parvenu was writ large on his whole personality, and Dora could guess from his lowering looks that he possessed a violent temper. The portrait was not prepossessing, and she left it to look at the picture of a frail and delicate woman. This, without doubt, was Lady Burville, and her suspicion was confirmed in a few minutes, for as she was contemplating the portrait the door opened to admit the original.
Lady Burville was small, slender, and usually as daintily tinted as a statuette of Dresden china. But at the present moment her face was pale, and her eyes, filled with alarm, looked apprehensively at Dora from under the loose fringe of her golden hair. Arrayed in a tea-gown of some white filmy material, she looked like a ghost as she glided towards the girl. Dora put these terrified looks down to a secret knowledge of her guilt, and believed in her own mind that Lady Burville had really slain Mr. Edermont. But again, she thought, it was impossible that so frail a creature could have struck so deadly a blow. Yet, why was she so terrified?
"Miss Carew, I believe?" said Lady Burville, trying to smile with white lips. "Will you not be seated?"
"No, thank you, Lady Burville," replied Dora stiffly. "I am obliged to you for granting me this interview."
"I am only too pleased. You are a ward of Mr. Edermont's, I believe?"
"Iwashis ward, Lady Burville."
"Yes, yes; how stupid of me! I forgot about that terrible murder."
Dora deliberately produced the pearl brooch from her pocket, and held it out towards the other.
"Perhaps this will refresh your memory?" she said slowly.
"My brooch!" said Lady Burville in surprise. "How did you come by it? How did you find it?"
"I did not find it, but Dr. Scott did."
"Really! Where?"
"On the floor of the room in which Mr. Edermont was killed."
Lady Burville's face turned even whiter than it was before.
"I--I do not understand," she stammered, shrinking back.
"I can explain," continued Dora pitilessly. "You visited the Red House on the night of the second of August; you dropped this brooch there, and you there killed my guardian."
"No, no! I--I did not! Who dares to say such a thing?"
"I dare," said Dora calmly. "I say it again. You killed Mr. Edermont."
"What--what proof have you?" gasped Lady Burville, seizing a chair to keep herself from falling.
"The proof of this brooch; the evidence of Dr. Scott, who met you returning from the Red House. You need not deny it, Lady Burville. I believe you to be guilty, and I shall denounce you."
"No, no! You cannot--you dare not!"
"Why?"
Lady Burville fell at her feet in a passion of tears.
"I am your mother," she cried, "your unhappy mother!"
"My mother!" Echoing Lady Burville's exclamation, Dora stepped backward and surveyed with amazement the weeping woman kneeling at her feet. The situation perplexed her. She could not believe that Lady Burville spoke truly in claiming so close a relationship, and deemed that it was some trick to avert the danger of being arrested for the crime. She frowned as this thought came into her mind, and turned away coldly.
"I do not believe you, Lady Burville. My parents are dead."
"Your father is dead," said Lady Burville, rising slowly, "but your mother lives; I am really and truly your mother. Why should I say what is not true?"
"Oh, you have enough excuse to do so," said Dora quietly. "You hope to close my mouth, and escape the consequences of your crime."
"My crime! You believe, then, that I killed Mr. Edermont?"
"I do. You were in the room alone with him, and left the house hurriedly. When Dr. Scott was coming from Canterbury he met you."
"He met me twice," said Lady Burville calmly; "once when I was coming from Chillum, and again when he assisted me to repair my bicycle."
"Then you do not deny that you were at the Red House?"
"No; I can hardly do so in the face of the discovery of the pearl brooch. It is mine; I thought I had lost it on the road, but as it was found in Mr. Edermont's study I admit that I was there on the night of the second of August. If I were guilty, I would not admit as much, even to my own daughter."
"I am not your daughter. Give me some proof that you are my mother."
"What proof do you want?" asked Lady Burville helplessly. "You cannot alter existing facts. If you choose to listen, I can tell you so much of my history as may convince you that what I say is true."
She seated herself on a near sofa, and put a frivolous lace handkerchief to her eyes. Dora looked at this woman, so frail, so helpless, so devoid of brain and courage, and pity entered her soul. If this was indeed her mother, the relationship was nothing to be proud of. And yet, would she confess to such a thing if it were not true? Dora could not answer this question, and resolved to suspend her judgment until she had heard the promised history. With some pity she seated herself beside the feeble little woman.
"I am willing to hear your story," she said kindly; "but first you must assure me of your innocence."
"Innocence! Oh, as to the murder. Yes, I am innocent. I never touched Julian; I did not kill him. I would not kill a fly. Who says I am guilty?"
"Dr. Scott saw----"
"I know he saw me!" interrupted Lady Burville impatiently. "I do not deny it. But did he see the dead body of Mr. Edermont, since he is so sure of my guilt?"
"He found your brooch lying by the dead body."
"Ah! And what was he doing at the Red House on that night? When I left Julian, he was alive and well. No doubt Dr. Scott killed him, and blames me for the crime."
"I do not believe that," said Dora decidedly. "Allen is innocent."
"You think so because you love him," said Lady Burville bitterly. "No doubt you are right, my dear; but if he is innocent, who is guilty? Not I--not---- Don't look at me like that, Dora. I swear I did not kill Julian. How dare you accuse your mother of such a horrible thing!"
"You forget I am not yet prepared to accept you as my mother."
"I do not see why you should," said Lady Burville quietly. "I have not acted the part of a mother towards you. But what could I do? Julian took you away from me when you were a year old."
"Had Mr. Edermont the right to do so?"
"Yes. He was my husband!"
"Your husband!" cried Dora in astonishment. "Do you mean to say that Mr. Edermont was my father?"
"I say nothing of the sort," retorted Lady Burville impatiently. "Julian was my second husband; you were the offspring of my first."
"Then my father is dead?"
"No, he isn't; I am sure I don't know; I thought he was, but it seems he isn't," said Lady Burville incoherently. "Oh dear, oh dear! what a tangle it all is!"
"I cannot understand," said Dora in perplexity. "Perhaps if you tell me your story from the beginning I may gather what you mean."
"I shall tell you as much as suits me," replied Lady Burville, "but I cannot tell you all. It is too terrible!" She shuddered, and looked round. "Perhaps you may be able to help me, Dora; I am in the power of a man."
"Of what man?"
"Of Augustus Pallant. You know, he was down at Hernwood with me. Oh, my dear, he is a terrible man, and he knows all."
"Knows all what?"
"All my story--all your story--all Julian's story. He threatened to tell my husband." Here her eyes wandered to the stern-faced portrait. "I am so afraid of my husband," she said, with a burst of tears, "and Mr. Pallant is merciless. Oh, my dear, my dear, if you could only help me!"
"Tell me your story, and I may be able to do so," said Dora cheerfully.
She was beginning to believe that Lady Burville spoke truly, and that she was really her mother. It seemed doubtful as to whether she was guiltless or guilty, and Dora was prepared to hear both sides of the question before judging. But even if Lady Burville proved the truth of her assertion, Dora was not prepared to take her for a parent, and be sentimental over the discovery. Mother and daughter had been so long parted and estranged, that no revival of the maternal or filial feeling was possible. Dora pitied her mother; she was sorry for her; but she did not love her. In the meantime Lady Burville told her story, in her usual flippant manner, with many tears. The woman's nature was shallow in the extreme.
"I was married to your father at an early age," she said. "He was a sea captain, and immediately after the honeymoon he went to sea. I lived at Christchurch, in Hants, while he was away. Mr. Edermont was there also."
"Is not Edermont a feigned name?" asked Dora suddenly.
"How clever you are!" said her mother. "Yes; Mr. Edermont's real name was Dargill--Julian Dargill. He was an old admirer of mine, and wanted to marry me, but I was forced by my parents to become the wife of George Carew."
"Then I am really and truly Dora Carew?"
"Of course--your father's name. Well, after a few months I received news that my husband's ship was lost off the coast of Africa. All hands were drowned except the first mate. He was saved, and brought the story to England. So you see, my dear, I was a widow six months after marriage."
"Are you sure that my father was drowned?" demanded Dora doubtfully.
"I am coming to that," said Lady Burville impatiently. "He was said to be drowned; and after a year of mourning I married Dargill."
"You married Julian Edermont?"
"Yes; what else could I do? I was comparatively poor; I had no friends to speak of. Dargill was rich, so I married him. We were quite happy, he and I, and he was very fond of you, my dear."
"Oh! I was born then?" said Dora, rather naïvely, it must be confessed.
"Certainly. Don't I tell you I married Dargill a year after your father died--eighteen months after my first marriage? Well, we were happy; and then your father returned. He also had been saved by some natives, who detained him on the Gold Coast. He managed to escape, and returned to England. Of course, he sought me out at Christchurch; and then, my dear," added Lady Burville impressively, "there was trouble."
"Between my father and Mr. Dargill,aliasEdermont?"
"Yes. Dargill was away at the time, and they never met. He was a coward, you know, my dear, and afraid of your father's violent temper--and he had a violent temper, truly awful. Dargill fled to America. George Carew followed him. Then Dargill escaped him in San Francisco, and returned to England. He wrote to me from London, and offered me an annuity if I would let him take you away."
"And you did," said Dora reproachfully.
"What could I do?" said her mother fretfully. "I was poor without Dargill's money. I could hardly keep you alive, and Carew had left me in his search for Dargill. I accepted the annuity and let you go. Then Dargill disappeared, and I never heard of him again till I saw him in Chillum Church."
"Did you make no attempt to find him?" asked Dora coldly.
"No; why should I have done so?" said Lady Burville. "He was not my real husband, you know, since my first--your father, my dear--was alive. I never wanted to set eyes on Dargill again. I am sure he got me into enough trouble as it was. He absolutely worried me into marrying him, and, as he was rich, I thought it best to do so. We should have been happy enough if Captain Carew had not proved to be alive. Then I wished I hadn't married Dargill."
"Because you loved my father so?"
"No, it wasn't that exactly," babbled Lady Burville, with great simplicity. "But Carew had a dreadful temper, and I thought he might kill me. However, he was more angry at Dargill than at me, and if he had caught him I really believe he would have killed him. But Dargill got away; he was an artful little creature, but a frightful coward. I don't know how I ever came to marry such a mouse of a man."
"You forget he was rich."
Dora could not forbear making this satirical remark. Every word that came out of Lady Burville's mouth showed her to be a vain, shallow fool; a heartless woman, who cared more for dress and gaiety and money than anything else. On the whole, Dora thought it was just as well that Dargill,aliasEdermont, had taken her away. She never would have got on with so frivolous a parent as Lady Burville.
"You are right; he was rich," said her mother artlessly. "I married him for his money, and never saw him after he left me for at least twenty years. I did not mind much. But I did get a shock when I saw him in Chillum Church. I recognised him at once, in spite of his beard. He had always white hair, you know."
"And that was why you fainted, I suppose?" said Dora bitterly. "No doubt you are my mother, but you have acted anything but a mother's part towards your child."
Lady Burville whimpered, and tried to take Dora's hand. The girl drew away coldly. She could not feel any love for this weak little woman, who had acted so despicable a part.
"Go on with your story, Lady Burville," she said calmly. "What of my father?"
"I heard nothing of him for some time, Dora," said her mother, displeased at the lack of affection displayed by her newly-found child. "Then I saw a paragraph in an American paper which said that he was dead. Oh yes! there could be no doubt about it. The name George Theophilus Carew was given in full. It's not a common name, you know. I was satisfied that he was really dead."
"And you married again?"
"What could I do? I was poor," said Lady Burville, for the third time giving her childish excuse. "Yes, I married Sir John Burville. He is a cruel and violent-tempered man, but he has plenty of money, and he is good to me."
"And you are happy?" said Dora, scornful of the weak nature which could draw happiness out of such misery.
"Quite happy--at least, I was--till Augustus Pallant came."
"When did he come? and who is he?"
"He came about two years ago from America. He told me that my husband was not dead, and that I had committed bigamy. I had to pay him to be quiet; he has cost me a lot of money."
"And, knowing this, you still live with a man who is not your husband?"
"Yes; I am not going back to poverty," said her mother defiantly. "I shall remain Lady Burville till I die. Pallant knew all my story. Carew told it to him. He found out that Dargill was living near Canterbury under the name of Edermont. He induced me to go down to Hernwood Hall, and took me to Chillum Church. There I saw Dargill, and fainted. Of course, it was all done on purpose--the brute!"
"Mr. Edermont fainted also," said Dora; "he was afraid."
"I know he was. He was afraid lest Carew should find him out and kill him. He lived in a state of perpetual dread, for he told me so on the night I saw him."
"Why did you go to the Red House at so late an hour?" asked Dora.
"Dargill sent me a note stating that he wanted to see me. I went; what could I do? He might have told Sir John about my past. Oh yes, I went; and Dargill told me that Pallant had been at him for a parcel of letters--an old correspondence between Dargill and myself. Pallant wanted to get them to increase his hold over me and wring money out of me. But Dargill, coward as he was, acted very well. He gave me the letters himself; that was why he sent for me. I went, I got the letters, and I came away. When I left the house Dargill--or Edermont, as he called himself--was as well as you or I."
"But when Allen went into the study after you left it, he found Mr. Edermont dead, and the bureau robbed."
"Then, if Dr. Scott did not kill him, someone else must have done so."
"But Allen had no reason to kill him," argued Dora.
"No," said Lady Burville, "but Carew had."
"My father?"
"Yes; I believe that my first husband killed my second. In a word, George Carew killed Mr. Dargill."
Dora did not remain long with Lady Burville after she had heard the story; nor did her mother desire her to stay. There was no love lost between them, therefore there was no joy at their meeting, no sorrow at their parting. Lady Burville considered her daughter to be cold, proud, and unsympathetic. Dora saw that Lady Burville was a weak and frivolous fool, whom she could neither respect nor love. They parted with a feeling of mutual relief, but not before Lady Burville had extracted a promise of silence.
"You must say nothing about what I've told you to anybody," she said imploringly. "My husband would never forgive me if he found out my past history. I told it to you so as to clear myself in your eyes as to the murder. Only Pallant knows my story, and he will keep silent while I give him money. As you are my child, you must be silent also. Say nothing--nothing."
"But I wish to find out who killed my guardian," said Dora.
"I tell you it was Carew. No one else had any reason to kill him. If you denounce Carew, you will hang your own father. Promise me to be silent."
"I promise," said Dora curtly, and took her leave in the calmest manner.
She returned to Selling, and thence rode to Chillum on her bicycle. It was close on eight before she got home, and she found Joad waiting for her at the gate. He looked pleased to see her, and wheeled the machine into the grounds.
"You are late," said he, following her every movement with greedy eyes. "I hope you had a pleasant day with your friend."
"Very pleasant, Mr. Joad. Good-night; I am tired."
She walked off with a stiff nod, and left her elderly lover looking after her with a rather sulky expression. He had missed her greatly during the day, and resented her departure when he wanted to have a little chat before retiring to his own domicile across the road.
"Never mind," chuckled Joad, rubbing his hands. "She'll have to marry me, or see Allen Scott in gaol as a murderer. And when we are man and wife, I'll find out some way to tame her proud spirit."
Dora partook of supper with Mrs. Tice, but answered that good lady's questions in a perfunctory manner. The housekeeper was anxious and uneasy. The visit of Dora to town struck her as strange--the more so as she connected it with recent events. Before departing Dora had promised an explanation of her movements, and Mrs. Tice waited for the fulfilment of that promise. But Dora said nothing. She ate her supper, talked on general subjects, and finally took herself off to bed without a word of explanation. Mrs. Tice was annoyed.
"Miss Carew," she said, following her to the door, "I beg your pardon, but you promised to tell me why you went up to town to-day."
"Did I?" said Dora carelessly. "I've changed my mind, then."
"I do not see why you should keep me in the dark, miss," exclaimed the housekeeper, in a mortified tone.
"If you cast back your memory to our last conversation, you will see, Mrs. Tice. You are keeping me in the dark; so, by acting in the same way towards you, I am only giving you a Roland for an Oliver."
"All the same, you could do worse than ask my advice, Miss Carew."
"I have asked it, and you refuse to help me. Now I must see after things in my own way."
"You will get into trouble if you are not careful," said Mrs. Tice sharply.
"It will be no thanks to you if I do not," retorted Dora bitterly. "You have refused to help me."
"What would you have me do, girl?" cried Mrs. Tice, forgetting her respect in her anxiety. "I dare not tell you what I know. Mr. Allen made me promise to be silent."
"Allen is acting in a very foolish manner, and so are you," said Dora quietly; "you seem to think that I am a child, to whom no secret can be confided. In ordinary cases, this would not matter to me, as I am the least curious of women. But as my happiness is at stake, I must strive to learn what you would want concealed."
"It will do you no good if you do find out," said Mrs. Tice sullenly.
"Perhaps not; but at least its discovery will throw a light on the mystery of this murder."
"There you are wrong, Miss Carew. It will do no such thing."
Dora had argued this point before; therefore she made no reply, and with a weary nod prepared to leave the room. Again Mrs. Tice laid a detaining hand upon her sleeve.
"Tell me, my dear," said she timidly, "what is it Mr. Allen said to you about the murder?"
"You had better ask him, Mrs. Tice; it is no good coming to me. Unless you tell me what you know, I shall keep silent as to my knowledge."
"Does Mr. Allen know anything about this crime?"
"Yes, he does; he knows a great deal."
"Does he know who killed Mr. Edermont?"
"He does--and you know also."
"No, no; I--I do not!" gasped Mrs. Tice, shrinking back; "my knowledge has nothing to do with the matter."
"Has your knowledge anything to do with my father?"
Mrs. Tice gasped again, and sank into a chair. For a moment she closed her eyes, and when she opened them again Dora was gone. The housekeeper wiped her face.
"Who can have told her about her father?" she meditated. "If she gets to know about him, there will be trouble."
Then she drank a glass of water, and put away her work. But her thoughts wandered.
"What has come to her?" she said to herself again, as she made all safe for the night. "There is a worried look on her face, an anxious expression in her eyes. And why did she go up to London? Can she have learnt anything about the past? No, no. Mr. Allen knows it, Mr. Joad knows it, and myself. None of the three will tell her. Still, that question about her father! It is very, very strange."
In the meantime Dora was leaning out of her bedroom window, looking into the soft darkness of the night. Overhead the sky was fleecy with clouds, between the rifts of which twinkled the cold stars, and below, between the tree-tops and dry grass, hovered the thick gloom of night. She could see nothing in the shadows; all was as indistinct, as unknown, as strange, as this mystery which was torturing her life.
She had gone seeking, and she had learnt much: that her mother lived, and her father; that the latter had been the incarnation of the deadly fear which had haunted Dargill,aliasEdermont, throughout his long life. No wonder he had changed his name, had hidden himself in the Red House, had prayed for deliverance from murder and sudden death, when a man of violent passions had hunted him hot-footed through the world. Dora remembered what a despicable coward the dead man had been, and no longer marvelled at his fears; but what she did wonder at was the change that had come over Edermont after Pallant's visit. Then he had declared that the shadow was lifted from his life; that he could henceforth mix with his fellow-men, and dwell in safety. Such joy could only mean that his enemy was dead. Yet Edermont was dead also, of the very death he feared.
And there was no doubt in Dora's mind that her father had killed him. It seemed a cruel thing, for, after all, in marrying her mother Edermont--or Dargill, as he was called--had sinned unconsciously. Why should her father have so ardently desired his death? Dora began to think that her mother had not told her all, that there was something still hidden--a something which might account for the persistent desire of Carew for the death of Edermont.
Again, she had not asked her mother what was the bar which existed to prevent her marriage with Allen. Dora thought her mother knew this, and might reveal the obstacle. But then she would be forced to tell the portion of her story which she had hidden. Would she do so? Dora was doubtful, for the weak little coquette was as strong as steel in aught that concerned herself. Unblinded by filial love, Dora estimated her mother's character at its true value. There was no further hope of learning the truth in that quarter. And who, then, would tell her--Allen, Joad, Mrs. Tice? She would be forced to ask one of the three to speak. Since she knew so much, she might as well know more. And a fuller knowledge might enable her to save Allen, to marry Allen, to revenge the death of Edermont, and to win the fifty thousand pounds. But yet, all----
"Dreams, dreams; vain, vain dreams!" sighed Dora, and went to bed in as hopeless a frame of mind as can well be imagined.
Fate always arranges matters much better than ourselves. Here was Dora at a dead stop; she knew not what to do, or in which direction to turn. It seemed that no one would advise her as to the future; and that she must be content to lose Allen, and accept the humiliating position of Joad's wife. But while she was steeling her heart to face this dreary prospect Fate was at work, and next morning Pallant appeared. He came to point out the road.
Dora was surprised when Mrs. Tice informed her that a gentleman wished to see her. She was still more surprised when Pallant was shown into the morning-room where she sat. The old supercilious look was on his face, the old cynicism was looking out of his blue eyes, and as he stood bowing, with the strong sunlight glittering on his red beard, he looked as worldly and evil a man as could be imagined. Dora remembered how he had extorted money from her weak mother for over two years, and rose to meet him with a stern face.
"What has brought you here, sir?" she asked coldly.
"You have," said Pallant, calmly taking a seat. "I saw Lady Burville yesterday, and she gave me the gist of your conversation."
"I do not see how it can interest you," said she contemptuously; "you cannot get out of me what I have not got. I am poor, Mr. Pallant."
"More's the pity!" he replied, quite indifferent to her shaft. "With your beauty and my brains, we might do worse than marry!"
"Marry--marry you!"
"I forgot. You are in love with that foolish young doctor," he said in his sleepy voice. "That is a pity. At our first meeting I warned you to beware of Allen Scott."
"I know you did. Why did you warn me?"
"Ah! I see your mother did not tell you everything, Miss Carew, else you would not ask me such a question. I warned you, lest you should give him your heart. It would be foolish to do so, because you can never marry him."
"Why?"
"That is my secret. I don't tell you all I know. It is not worth my while."
Dora looked at him scornfully.
"It is worth your while to blackmail my mother!"
"It pays! it pays!" said Pallant shamelessly. "I must live, you know. Lady Burville is greatly afraid of her present husband, so she keeps me well supplied with money to hold my tongue."
"Where did you learn my mother's history?" said Dora, disgusted with this brutal speech.
"From the best of all authorities--her first husband."
"My father?"
"Your father--George Theophilus Carew. I met him in San Francisco some years ago. He was a drunkard and a gambler, Miss Carew. We had some dealings over cards, for you must know that I am a gambler also, though it is to my credit that I don't drink. One day, in a fit of maudlin fear, he told me his story, and how he was seeking for Julian Dargill."
"Mr. Edermont?"
"Precisely. The man who had taken away his wife. He wanted to kill him."
"To kill him?" echoed Dora, starting; "and--and did--did my father succeed in carrying out his intention? Was it George Carew who killed Mr. Edermont?"
"Not exactly, Miss Carew," responded Pallant dryly, "for the simple reason that before your father could accomplish his object he died himself."
"Died himself! Is my father dead?"
"Dead and buried," said Pallant concisely; "dead and buried."
When Pallant made this remarkable statement he looked up sharply to see how Dora was affected by it. Her face had flushed hotly, and her eyes had brightened. In place of sorrow, her whole expression was that of relief and gladness. Pallant could not forbear a cynical remark on her want of feeling.
"You do not seem sorry to hear that your father is dead, Miss Carew."
"I do not know why I should display a sorrow which I do not feel," she replied quietly. "You must remember, Mr. Pallant, that my parents are nothing to me. I was taken away from them when I was a year old, and I have no feeling of love towards them. I am glad that my father is dead."
"May I ask why?"
"Because, had he lived, he might have been guilty of murder. At least, I am spared the dishonour of having a criminal for a parent."
Pallant chuckled, and seemed about to speak. However, he thought better of it, and merely turned away his face to hide a peculiar smile. Dora took little notice of his action, being absorbed in her own thoughts.
"Is this what you told Mr. Edermont in the conversation you had with him?"
"Yes. I was sorry for the miserable little creature. The thought of Carew roaming the earth in search of him was his constant nightmare. It did not matter to me whether he knew or not. Certainly, it did not affect my plans, so--I never inflict useless cruelty, Miss Carew--I told him the truth: that his lifelong enemy was dead and buried; that henceforward he could sleep in safety."
"The result proved your assertions to be false."
"What is that to me?" said Pallant with a shrug. "I am no prophet, to foretell the day and hour of a man's death. I said that Carew was past harming him. That was true. Carew did not kill him."
"Then who did?"
"My dear young lady, if I could tell you that I should be the richer by fifty thousand pounds; but on that point I am as ignorant as you are. I held your father in my arms when he died; I saw him buried. It was not Carew who killed Dargill,aliasEdermont, and there is nothing in the story told to me by your father likely to throw light on the mystery."
"You--you do not think my mother killed him?" faltered Dora.
Pallant scoffed at the idea.
"Could those little hands wield a heavy club? Could those weak muscles deliver so terrible a blow? No, Miss Carew; your mother is too weak, too--if I dare say so--cowardly, to do such a thing. She is as innocent of this death as your father. Dargill's fate is not due to the vendetta of the past."
"It must be due to something of the sort, Mr. Pallant. No one had any interest in killing so harmless a man."
"No one in this neighbourhood, you mean."
"Yes; I have lived here all my life, and I know everything about my guardian. He had few friends, and lived quietly among his books and flowers. Beyond his constant fear lest my father should find him out, I never saw him distressed in any way. And in some things Mr. Edermont was as transparent as a child. If he had been threatened by any person about here, I should have known of it."
"Then you think his death must be due to what took place twenty years ago?"
"Don't you think so yourself, Mr. Pallant?"
"No, Miss Carew, I do not," replied the red-haired man quietly. "If your father had lived I might have held a different opinion. But, knowing the story of the past, you can see for yourself that, excepting Carew, no one had any motive or desire to kill Dargill."
"Then what is your own theory?" asked Dora, rather confounded by this argument.
"Burglary. Yes! Mr. Edermont was known to be rich; this house is in a lonely situation, and I dare say the burglar made himself acquainted with the garrison of the mansion. Two women and one old man--small odds against a sturdy villain. Inspector Jedd, of Canterbury, is also of my opinion. The burglar, or burglars, broke in, ransacked the desk, killed Edermont, who interrupted them, and then bolted. That is my theory, Miss Carew."
"I do not agree with you," replied Dora calmly; "you forget that nothing was taken out of the bureau but that manuscript containing the story of the past."
"How do you know that the manuscript was in the bureau?"
"Mr. Edermont said so in his will."
"Nevertheless, he might have changed its hiding-place," said Pallant coolly, "or my information that his enemy was dead might have induced him to burn it as useless. With the death of Carew ceased all necessity to keep that story in writing. And again, Miss Carew, how do you know but that money or jewels may have been hidden in the bureau?"
"It is possible, but not probable," replied Dora cautiously; "I don't think Mr. Edermont kept anything there save bills and letters. No doubt he preserved also the packet of letters you wished to obtain."
"And which he gave to Lady Burville," said Pallant. "Very possibly. I was vexed at not getting those letters."
"What information did they contain?"
"Much that I know, and you don't," answered Pallant; "they related to you."
"To me!" cried Dora in surprise. "What about me?"
"Ah!" said Pallant grimly, "that is exactly what I wanted to find out. However, Lady Burville has them now, and she'll keep them."
He made this speech in a tone of such genuine regret that Dora saw he was in earnest. It was no use questioning him upon matters of which he was ignorant, so she changed the subject.
"You warned me once against Allen Scott," said she, after a pause. "Did that mean you believed him to be guilty?"
"No. At the time I made the remark Edermont was alive. Why I warned you was to make you give up the idea of marriage with him. I know from Lady Burville that Scott was here on the night the crime was committed; but for all that I do not believe him to be guilty."
"I am thankful to hear you say so, Mr. Pallant."
"You need not be," replied Pallant coldly. "If I thought Scott was guilty, I should have no hesitation in denouncing him. But I do not see what motive he had to commit so terrible a crime. He could not win you for a wife by doing so; he could not gain a fortune, and he would be running into danger without hope of reward. No; Allen Scott is innocent."
"I believe he is myself," said Dora emphatically; "but you know, Mr. Pallant, he refuses to tell me the secret which Mr. Edermont confided to him, and which prevents our marriage."
"He is quite right to do so, Miss Carew. I know that secret also, and it would do you no good to learn it. Besides, that knowledge had nothing to do with the death of Mr. Edermont."
"But what about the paper taken out of the bureau?"
"If it was not destroyed," said Pallant, "it is hard to say what became of it. The manuscript, as we are told by the will, contained the story of Mr. Edermont's past life. Now, through Carew I know that story, and therefore the contents of that paper. Excepting Carew himself, I know no one who would have killed your guardian for the possession of that written information."
"But undoubtedly the murder was committed to gain possession of the manuscript."
"We don't agree on that point," said Pallant; "but granting for the sake of argument it was so, that is exactly why I can't name the assassin. If the possession of that paper was essential to his safety, if his name was mentioned in it in connection with the past of Mr. Edermont, I am ignorant of some of the past. Evidently Carew did not tell me all."
"It is just as well he did not," said Dora, curling her lip; "you have made bad use of what you do know."
"Oh, a man must live, you know," retorted Pallant coolly, as he rose to take his leave. "I prefer to get money without work, if I can. We all do."
"I'll put a stop to your----"
"Quite right," was the insolent answer, "if you can; but you see, my dear young lady, you can't."
After which remark Pallant bowed himself out of the room. Dora accompanied him as far as the gate, and as he passed through she asked him a question which had been in her mind all the time of the interview. "Why did you come down here?" she asked abruptly. "It was not to condole with me."
"No, it wasn't," candidly admitted Pallant; "but I want fifty thousand pounds, and I thought you might help me to get it."
"I decline to do so," said Dora coldly; "and I don't see how I can help you."
"As you decline to give your aid," said Pallant quietly, "there is no necessity to discuss the matter. But I fancied you might be able to tell me something about Mr. Joad."
"You don't think he killed Edermont?"
"Why not? Certainly I did not know his name in connection with Mr. Edermont's past. But for all that he might have killed his patron."
"For what reason, Mr. Pallant?"
"That is just where I require to be enlightened by you."
"I am afraid I cannot enlighten you," she replied, "and I would not if I could. There is no sense in believing Joad killed my guardian. In the first place, far from being desirable, Mr. Edermont's death was a bad thing to happen for Joad's comfort. In the second, Mr. Joad was in his cottage at one o'clock in the morning, as was proved by Mr. Pride. To my own knowledge, the murder was committed about that time, so Mr. Joad could not have been the assassin."
"It all seems clear enough," said Pallant, preparing to climb into the trap which was waiting for him; "but, all the same, I mistrust Joad. You say the murder was committed at one o'clock. Joad says he was in his cottage at one o'clock, and calls upon Mr. Pride to substantiate his statement. Very good. We will believe all that. But," added Pallant, gathering up the reins, "your clock in the hall might have been wrong."
After which remark he raised his hat, and drove off smiling. Dora did not think that his remark about the clock was worthy of consideration, for she had set her watch by it before retiring to bed on the night of the second of August. It was right then, and no one could possibly have put it wrong in the meantime. Joad had proved his alibi clearly enough, and there was no possible suspicion that he was guilty of the crime, especially as its committal had not been to his advantage.
Curiously enough, Joad knew nothing of Pallant's visit, nor did Dora intend to inform him of it. He had been in the library all the morning, reading ancient books, and sipping brandy out of the flask he carried constantly in the tail pocket of his dingy coat. Not wishing to disturb him in the midst of his pleasures, Dora returned to her own sitting-room, and sat down to think. While thus employed, Mrs. Tice entered the room with a letter in her hand. She looked distressed.
"My dear young lady," she said hastily, "I am afraid I must return to Mr. Allen. He is ill."
"Ill!" cried Dora, jumping up. "What is the matter with him?"
"I fancy he has fretted himself into a kind of fever," said Mrs. Tice, glancing at the letter. "This has just been sent over. Emma wrote it." Emma was a servant in Scott's house. "Mr. Allen did not want me to be told, but Emma thought it best I should know. I must really return and nurse my dear Mr. Allen," concluded Mrs. Tice, smoothing down her apron with trembling hands.
"You shall go this afternoon," cried Dora. "I'll send Meg to the hotel for a trap, and we will go over together."
Mrs. Tice smiled and looked grateful.
"I hope you won't think me unkind, Miss Carew?"
"Oh dear no! Meg will protect me against Joad," said Dora. And, after a pause, she added abruptly: "You do not ask me what I was doing in London yesterday."
"I did not think you wished to let me know, miss. You refused to tell me last night."
"I know I did; but I'll tell you now, because you may be able to help me. Mrs. Tice," said Dora solemnly, "I have seen Lady Burville."
"Yes, miss; and what of that?" asked Mrs. Tice cheerfully.
"Do you know who Lady Burville is?"
"I know nothing about her, miss, save she's a patient of Mr. Allen's."
"Then I'll tell you, Mrs. Tice: she is my mother."
The housekeeper's ruddy face paled, and she sat down on the nearest chair.
"Your mother, Miss Carew! Are you sure?"
"I am certain. Lady Burville informed me of the relationship, and told me her story."
"In that case," said Mrs. Tice with emphasis, "you know now why a marriage between you and Mr. Allen is impossible."
"That is just what I do not know," was Dora's reply. "My mother did not tell me all her story. Now, I want you to relate what she kept hidden."
"Tell me what you have heard, miss, and I'll see," said Mrs. Tice, after a pause.
"Very good," said Dora, taking a seat near the old dame. "I'll tell my story, you will tell yours, and between us we may save Allen's life."