When Dora made that last remark, the face of Mrs. Tice grew red and indignant. She looked at the girl with a fiery eye, and demanded crossly what she meant by saying such a thing. Knowing the attachment of the housekeeper to Allen, this was natural enough.
"The fact is," explained Dora, "Mr. Joad accuses Allen of murdering Mr. Edermont."
"And what next, I wonder!" cried Mrs. Tice in high dudgeon; "it is more likely Mr. Joad killed the man himself! Can he substantiate his accusation?"
"He can state that Allen was in this house on the night of the murder."
"That does not say Mr. Allen committed the crime," retorted Mrs. Tice, her face a shade paler. "Mr. Allen told me in confidence that he had seen the dead body, and had kept silent for his own sake. I quite agreed with him that it was the best thing to do. And he told you also, Miss Carew?"
"Yes, he told me also; but he did not inform Joad."
"Then how does Joad know that Mr. Allen was here on that night?"
"He saw him from the door of his cottage," said Dora quietly; "but you need not be afraid for Allen, Mrs. Tice. I can save him, and close Joad's mouth."
"But how, my dear?" asked the housekeeper, greatly perplexed.
"By becoming the wife of Mr. Joad."
"Mercy on me, Miss Carew! You would not do that!" exclaimed Mrs. Tice, lifting up her hands in horror.
"I won't do it unless I am forced to," said Dora gloomily. "But supposing Joad denounces Allen, how can he defend himself? I know that he is innocent; but his presence here on that night looks guilty."
"Appearances are against him, certainly. But if Mr. Allen is arrested, he will have to save his life by denouncing your father as the murderer."
"My father is not the murderer."
"I say that he is!" cried Mrs. Tice emphatically. "For twenty years George Carew has been hunting down Mr. Dargill--I suppose Lady Burville told you his real name?--and he caught him at last and killed him."
"You are wrong," said Dora, shaking her head. "I thought as you did before Mr. Pallant arrived. He undeceived me."
"What does Mr. Pallant know about it?"
"He knows everything. He met my father in San Francisco two years ago, and my father told him the whole story before he died."
"Died! Do you mean to say that George Carew is dead?"
"He is dead and buried."
"Captain Carew dead!" muttered Mrs. Tice in a bewildered tone; "dead--and without avenging himself on the man who stole his wife! Then, who killed Mr. Dargill--or rather, Mr. Edermont?"
"I do not know. That is just what I wish to find out."
"No one else had any reason to kill him," said the housekeeper in dismay, "and yet he is dead--dead--murdered. You are right, my dear," she added in a firm tone; "this is a serious matter for Mr. Allen. Joad hates him so that he would willingly perjure himself to see my dear boy hanged. But we must save him, you and I; we must save him, Miss Carew."
"To do so, we must understand one another," said Dora; "you must tell me all."
"I shall do so," cried Mrs. Tice energetically--"yes. Hitherto I have said nothing, out of consideration for your feelings. Now I shall tell you why Captain Carew--your father, my dear--hated Mr. Edermont so deeply. But first let me hear what your mother revealed. I may be able to relate those things which she kept hidden from you."
Thus adjured to confess, Dora related the story of the past, as told to her by Lady Burville--she could not bear even to think of her as "mother." Mrs. Tice listened in severe silence, only nodding her head now and then at some special point in the story. When Dora concluded, she sat quiet for two minutes, then gravely delivered herself of her opinion.
"I see that you do not look upon this woman as a mother, my dear young lady," she said solemnly, "and you are right to do so. May I speak plainly?"
"As plainly as you like, Mrs. Tice. I have no filial feeling for the mother who deserted me, and left her helpless child to be brought up by a stranger."
"Mr. Dargill was scarcely a stranger," corrected Mrs. Tice: "he was your mother's second husband, as she told you. Oh, heavens! you are quite right! Mrs. Carew, as I knew her, was always a light-headed, selfish woman, given over to vanity and pleasure. She cared only for money and idleness, and I'll be bound she was only too glad to get rid of you, so as to give herself a chance of a third marriage as an unencumbered widow. Yet what she came through would have sobered many a woman. But there, Mrs. Carew was always a feeble, frail coquette. She loved only one thing in the world then, and she loves only one thing now--herself."
"Was what she told me true?"
"Oh yes; the tale she told is true enough, but it is trimmed and cut to suit her own ends. She was ashamed to tell you everything, I suppose. A wicked woman she is, Miss Carew, for all that she is your mother. Owing to her coquetry and love of money, poor Mr. Dargill came to his end as surely as if she had killed him herself."
"We don't know that yet," said Dora thoughtfully. "Remember, it was not her first husband who killed him."
"That is true," assented Mrs. Tice. "Nevertheless, I can think of no other person who had an interest in your guardian's death. But I had best tell you my story, Miss Carew, and you can judge for yourself."
"Will your story enable me to discover the real murderer?"
"I don't say that," replied Mrs. Tice reluctantly; "as I said before, you must judge for yourself."
She took her spectacles off and laid them on the table; then, folding her mittened hands on her lap, she began the amended version of that story which Lady Burville had told to Dora. The missing portion, supplied by the memory of the housekeeper, was by far the most exciting episode of the tale.
"The whole affair took place at Christchurch, in Hampshire," she said slowly; "you were right in your guess as to the locality, Miss Carew. I was born and brought up and married there, but twenty-five years ago my husband died, and to support myself I had to go out again to service. Dr. and Mrs. Scott took me in as a nurse to their newly-born child--Mr. Allen, that is. His mother died shortly after giving him birth, and his bringing up was left to me. Dr. Scott took little heed of the child. He was a handsome man, clever in his profession, but fond of going about the country to pleasure parties, and of flirting with his lady patients. He was said to be deeply in love with Mrs. Carew."
"Was my father with her then?"
"No, my dear. This was two years after Mr. Allen was born, and your mother was not married then. A Miss Treherne she was, a pretty, fair-haired girl, shallow and frivolous. She had three suitors: Dr. Scott was one, Mr. Julian Dargill was the second, and Captain Carew the third."
"Was Mr. Edermont rich then?"
"Mr. Julian Dargill was rich," corrected Mrs. Tice. "I prefer to talk of Mr. Edermont by his real name, my dear. He was a weak, effeminate little man, with a noble head, and even then his hair was of a silvery whiteness. It was your description that made me recognise him on the day I showed you his picture."
"He wore no beard then?" said Dora, remembering the portrait.
"No; he was clean shaven. No doubt he afterwards adopted the beard as a disguise to escape Captain Carew. Well, Miss Treherne hesitated between the three suitors for many months. At last her parents decided for her, and for some reason forced her to marry Carew. Why, I do not know, for the Captain was not rich; he was of a violent temper, and usually he was absent at sea. However, she married him and became Mrs. Carew, and shortly after the honeymoon her husband went to sea. While he was absent Mrs. Carew carried on with Mr. Dargill and Dr. Scott. I must say she behaved very badly, and public opinion was quite against her--so much, indeed, that six months afterwards she left Christchurch."
"Had she received news of my father's supposed death then?" said Dora, flushing a little at the disapproving way in which Mrs. Tice spoke of her mother.
"Yes; the mate of Captain Carew's ship was saved, and came home to tell the story. Then Mrs. Carew went away with what small property she had. It was supposed she went to London, and it was noticed that Mr. Dargill left Christchurch after she did. When she reappeared at Christchurch she brought you, Miss Carew, and her new husband, Mr. Dargill."
"That was a year afterwards?"
"Yes, it was quite a year, if not more," said Mrs. Tice. "But she married Mr. Dargill as soon as she could after the report of her first husband's death."
"Was my mother in love with Mr. Dargill?"
"In love!" echoed the housekeeper contemptuously. "She was never in love with anyone but herself."
"Are you not rather hard on her, Mrs. Tice?" said Dora, reflecting that after all this despised woman was her mother, and entitled to some consideration.
"Far from it, my dear young lady," was the emphatic rejoinder of Mrs. Tice; "indeed, out of pity for your position and feelings, I am speaking as well as I can of her. But what can you think of a woman who marries three husbands, and leaves her child to be brought up far away from her? In all these twenty years, Miss Carew," added the old dame, nodding, "I dare swear your mother has not given you a single thought."
"She was willing enough to recognise me," said the girl, attempting a defence of the indefensible.
"She made the best of a bad job, you mean," retorted Mrs. Tice. "If you had not produced that brooch, and showed Lady Burville plainly that she was in your power, she would never have acknowledged the relationship. She knew you could not denounce your own mother, and that is why she spoke up."
"She might wish to make amends for her conduct."
Mrs. Tice shook her head.
"Laura Carew, Laura Dargill, Laura Burville, whatever you like to call her," she said, "is not the kind of woman to regret her conduct in any way. No, no; don't you deceive yourself. Lady Burville was in a trap, and she used her knowledge of your birth to get out of it."
"But all this is beside my question," said Dora, wearied of this constant blame; "I asked you if my mother was in love with Mr. Dargill?"
"No, she was not. What woman could love that miserable little creature? You saw enough of him, Miss Carew, and I am sure you neither loved nor respected him."
"No, I certainly did not," said Dora gravely; "and yet, seeing that he brought me up out of charity, I should certainly have paid him more attention."
"He acted well by you, I don't deny," answered Mrs. Tice reluctantly; "and it was good of him to help Lady Burville by taking charge of you. But what I cannot understand is why he did not stay with her."
"How could he, Mrs. Tice? For, in the first place, his marriage was void, as my father was alive. And in the second, you may be sure that Captain Carew kept a watch on my mother to see if Mr. Dargill would come near her. No doubt he thought to trap him in that way."
"Perhaps," replied Mrs. Tice ambiguously; "but if your father kept watch upon his wife, why did he permit her to marry Sir John Burville?"
"I cannot say," said Dora, colouring; she knew her mother's opinion on that point. "But my mother thought that Captain Carew was dead, else you may be sure that she would not have married again."
"I am not so sure of that," grumbled Mrs. Tice. "Your mother would do anything for money. I remember that she took----"
"Spare me further details," said Dora, blushing, "and finish your story. I have not heard yet why Allen cannot marry me."
"I will say no more, then," said Mrs. Tice hastily; "but, to make a long story short, Captain Carew was not dead, and returned to claim his wife. As I have said, he was madly jealous of his wife, and he had a fearful temper; when he heard that his wife had married again, he swore he would kill her second husband. Dargill was away at the time, and Captain Carew kept such a watch on his wife that she could send no warning. He wished to kill Dargill, who was expected back by a late train. All this came out at the inquest, my dear. It was Dargill's habit to cross the lawn and enter the drawing-room by the French window. As afterwards was stated by the servants, Captain Carew found this out, and hid himself in the drawing-room with a pistol. He saw a man approaching at nine o'clock, and as the stranger stepped into the room he shot him."
"Shot Mr. Dargill?"
"No, Miss Carew," said Mrs. Tice, shaking her head; "he made a mistake. He shot Dr. Scott."
"Dr. Scott--Allen's father!" cried Dora, rising to her feet with a pale face.
"Yes, Mr. Allen's father. Mrs. Dargill, your mother, had sent for him to see how her second husband was to be saved from the fury of Captain Carew. He fell into the trap laid for Mr. Dargill, and was shot through the heart. Then Captain Carew fled, and was never caught. It was supposed that he had gone to the Continent. And now, Miss Carew, you know why Mr. Allen cannot marry you."
"Because--because of that murder!" gasped Dora in broken tones.
"Yes. Mr. Allen cannot marry the daughter of the man who killed his father in cold blood."
Mrs. Tice was right: marriage with Allen was out of the question. He could not make the daughter of a murderer his wife; no power, human or divine, would sanction such a union. Dora no longer wondered at Allen's strange silence. It was natural that he should shrink from telling her so terrible a story, and from branding her father with the terrible name of assassin. She remembered how she had been glad to know that her father had died without killing Edermont; that he had gone to his account without blood on his hands. No wonder Pallant had chuckled at her ignorance, and had forborne to enlighten her. George Carew had taken a life in cold blood, with deliberation and malice aforethought. She, Dora Carew, was the daughter of a criminal.
Dora said little to Mrs. Tice after the story had been told. Indeed, there was nothing to say; for she knew her fate only too well. She could never marry Allen; and if she did not become Joad's wife, to save her lover from arrest, and possibly condemnation, she would be forced to remain single for the rest of her life, lonely and sorrowful. The sins of the father had been visited on the child, and Dora was reaping the harvest of blood which George Carew had sown. Morally speaking, the end of all things had come to Dora.
"I shall go over to Canterbury with you," she said to Mrs. Tice, "and say good-bye to Allen. I can never marry him; but I can at least see him for the last time, and tell him that he is safe from Joad."
"But, my dear young lady, you will not marry that wicked man?"
"If I can save Allen in no other way, I must," said Dora firmly. "Consider his position, Mrs. Tice, should Joad accuse him of the crime! He quarrelled with Edermont, he came here at the very hour of the murder, and when he left the house Edermont was dead. To all this circumstantial evidence he can oppose only his bare word. I tell you he is in danger of being hanged, Mrs. Tice. Nothing is left for me to do save to marry Joad. He dare not speak then."
"The real assassin may be found yet," suggested Mrs. Tice hopefully.
"There is little chance of that, I am afraid. When all these hundreds of men, stimulated by that gigantic reward, have failed to track the murderer, how can I hope to succeed? No, Mrs. Tice; the name of the criminal will never be known, so it only remains for me to see Allen for the last time, and return here to be Joad's wife."
The housekeeper sighed. This indeed appeared the sole way out of the difficulty, and she could offer no advice on the subject. It went to her heart that Dora should marry so disreputable a creature; but as the reason for such marriage was the safety of Allen Scott, she was content that it should take place. In her love for Allen, the old nurse would have sacrificed a hundred women. Dora's fate was hard; she admitted that, but it was necessary.
Allen proved less ill than they expected to find him. He was annoyed that Mrs. Tice had been sent for, although he was glad to see both her and Dora. Nevertheless, he protested against being considered a sick man, or that he should take to his bed.
"I'm not well enough to go about my work," he said candidly; "at the same time, I am not sufficiently ill to retire to a sick-room. I shall be all right in a day or two."
He did not look as though he would recover in so short a time. In default of bed, he was lying on a sofa in the dining-room, covered with a rug, and he appeared to be thoroughly ill. His eyes were bright, his hands were burning, and every now and again he shivered with cold, as though suffering from an attack of ague. Mrs. Tice made him some beef-tea, and insisted upon his taking it, which he did after much persuasion.
"You see, Dora," he said, with a smile, "the doctor has to be prescribed for by his old nurse. All my science and knowledge goes for nothing in comparison with Mrs. Tice's remedies."
"I know what is common-sense," said Mrs. Tice, smiling also. "Lie still, Mr. Allen, and keep warm. Miss Carew will sit with you here while I look after the house. I dare say it has been dreadfully neglected in my absence."
"That is hardly a compliment to my management," said Allen, trying to smile.
"Oh, as to that, no gentleman can look after a house, Mr. Allen. It's woman's work to see to such things. Let me manage at present, and when I am gone your wife can take my place."
"Wife!" echoed Dr. Scott, with a sigh. "I shall never marry."
Dora said nothing, but bent her head to hide the despair written on her face. Feeling that she had said too much, Mrs. Tice hastened to excuse herself; in doing so, she only succeeded in making matters worse. The name of Joad occurred in the midst of her excuses, and Allen made a feeble gesture of displeasure.
"I wish you would not mention that creature," he said, clasping Dora's hand. "I hate him as much as Dora does. He is her enemy and mine."
"But, for all that, I must marry him, Allen."
"No. You must not sacrifice yourself."
"Mr. Allen, be sensible!" cried Mrs. Tice. "You stand in a dreadful position; you are at the mercy of Joad. Should he speak you are lost."
"I can tell my story."
Dora shook her head.
"It will not be believed in the face of Joad's evidence," said she dolefully. "And then the quarrel you had with Mr. Edermont gives colour to his accusation."
Dr. Scott made a gesture of dissent, but Mrs. Tice supported Dora.
"She is right, Mr. Allen. If Joad speaks you are lost. Talk it over with Miss Carew, sir, and I'll hear what you think when I come back. Just now I must look after the house."
When she left the room, Allen waited until the door was closed, then turned to look at Dora. She was sitting by the side of the sofa with a drooping head, and a sad expression on her face. Moved by her silent sorrow, and ascribing it rightly to the unhappy position in which they stood to one another, he took her hands within his own.
"Do not look so sad, Dora," he said softly; "I shall be better shortly. It is the knowledge of what was told to me by Mr. Edermont which has made me ill. But I shall recover, my dear, and bear my troubles like a man."
Dora burst into tears.
"I can only bear my troubles like a woman," she sobbed. "Oh, Allen, Allen! what have we done, you and I, that we should be made so unhappy? You are in a very dangerous position, and I can save you only by marrying a man I detest."
"Dora, you must not marry Joad. I cannot accept safety at the price of your lifelong misery."
"What does it matter about my marrying that creature?" she said, drying her tears. "I can never become your wife."
Allen groaned.
"True, true; ah, how true it is that the sins of the father are visited on the children! It is shameful that we should suffer as we do for the evil of others."
"We cannot help our position, Allen. There is no hope."
"You are right," said Allen in a despairing tone; "there is no hope. Ah, Dora, if you only knew the truth!"
"I do know the truth."
"Who told you?" he asked, sitting up with a look of astonishment.
"Lady Burville told me that----"
"Lady Burville!" he interrupted sharply; "what does she know?"
"Everything. And it is no wonder, seeing that she is the root of all the evil."
"How do you mean that she is the root of all the evil?"
"Lady Burville is my mother, Allen."
"Great heavens! Your mother--Mrs. Carew!"
"Yes. Mrs. Carew, Mrs. Dargill, Lady Burville--whatever you like to call her. I know her story, Allen, and what she failed to relate Mrs. Tice told. I know that my father killed yours, and that we can never marry."
"Lady Burville--your mother told you this!" he stammered; "and I was so careful to hide the truth from you!"
"I know you spared me, in the goodness of your heart, Allen, but it was better that I should know the truth. Yes, I went up to town; I restored the pearl brooch to Lady Burville--I cannot call her my mother--and I heard her story."
"Dora!" Allen seized her hand again. "Did your mother kill Mr. Edermont?"
"No. Thank God, she is innocent of that crime!"
"Then how was it I found her brooch by the dead body?"
"She dropped it in the room when she went to see Mr. Edermont on that night."
"But why did she see Edermont?"
"He sent for her to deliver up a packet of letters she had written to him. It is a long story, Allen, and a sad one. Listen, and I will tell you all."
Allen signified his desire to hear the story, and listened eagerly while she told him what her mother had related. To make the information complete, Dora passed on to the history of the murder, as told by Mrs. Tice. When she finished, and Allen was in possession of all the facts, she waited for him to comment thereon. This he was not long in doing.
"I see that you know all, Dora," he said with a melancholy smile. "Yes, this is what Mr. Edermont told me on that day. I lost my head when he ended; I believe I advanced towards him in a threatening manner, to thrash him for the share he had taken in the matter. It was then that he threw up the window and cried out that I wished to kill him. Probably I was wrong to act as I did, as the miserable little creature was not responsible for the death of my father; but I did not consider that at the moment. When he cried out to you and Joad, I left the room, and the house. You remember, I would not speak to you when I went. I could not, my dear; the revelation had proved too much for my self-control. I felt half-mad, for I saw that I had lost you for ever."
"And why did you go up to London?" asked Dora anxiously.
"Edermont referred me to a file of theMorning Planet, containing an account of the tragedy which ended in the death of my father."
"You went up to see an account of your father's murder?"
"Yes. I could not bring myself to believe that matters were so bad as he made out. But in London I went to the office of the paper; I turned up the report, and it was true enough. Your father shot mine, as was stated by Edermont. Afterwards I went down to Christchurch, and found out the rest of the story from an old housekeeper."
"Did you learn that Lady Burville was my mother?"
"No: nor did Edermont tell me so. Why, I do not know. He only stated the bare facts of the case, and how my father had been killed. Now you know why I told you nothing, Dora--why I kept silent. I was afraid lest your father should be arrested for the double murder, and bring shame and pain on you, my poor dear."
"The double murder?"
"Yes. George Carew killed my father; and, in accordance with his oath, I believe he murdered Mr. Edermont--found him out after many years and killed him."
"You are wrong, Allen. I told you how Pallant blackmailed my mother, and learnt the whole story from my wretched father. Well, Captain Carew died two years ago in San Francisco."
"Are you sure?"
"I am certain. He died in Mr. Pallant's arms. Pallant has no reason to lie over that story."
"Then, if Carew did not kill Edermont, who did?"
"Ah," said Dora with a weary sigh, "that is just what we must find out, if only to save your life and prevent my marrying Joad."
"Dora," said Allen after a pause, "do you know why Pallant wanted that packet of letters?"
"Yes. He desired to confirm his possession of my mother. By threatening to show the letters to Sir John Burville, he hoped to get whatever money he wished."
"The scoundrel! What particular information did the letters contain to render them so valuable?"
"I don't know. Mr. Pallant hinted that they were about me."
"About you?" Allen reflected for a few moments. "Dora," he said at length, "I dare say those letters passed between your mother and your guardian after the tragedy at Christchurch. Probably they contained a full account of the crime, and details as to how your mother parted with you. In fact, I believe they contained a summary of Lady Burville's life. If Pallant had obtained those letters, no wonder he could have extorted money. If they had been shown to Sir John Burville, his wife--your mother--could have denied nothing. Her own handwriting would prove the falsity of her denial."
"I quite understand," said Dora; "but Mr. Edermont was wise enough to give them to my mother himself."
"And that is just it!" cried Allen. "Supposing Lady Burville had unconsciously let Pallant know that she was going to the Red House to receive the letters; supposing he followed her, and was too late to intercept the packet. Do you think he might have killed Edermont in a fit of rage at losing the letters?"
"No, Allen, I do not think so for a moment. Mr. Pallant is too cautious to act so foolishly. Besides, if it was as you say, he could easily have followed Lady Burville along that lonely road, and have forced her to give him the letters. No. Whoever killed my guardian, it was not Mr. Pallant."
"Then who is guilty?" asked Allen in despair.
"Ah!" said Dora with a melancholy sigh. "That secret is worth fifty thousand pounds and your life, my dear Allen."
When Dora took leave of Allen, she returned to the Red House with the firm conviction that to save the doctor she would be obliged to marry Joad. In the face of this old man's evidence, she did not see how Allen could defend himself. It was true that he could produce the letter of Mr. Edermont, giving him a midnight invitation to his study; but such production would not mend matters. It would only show that he had been present at the very hour of the murder, and would confirm the evidence of Joad. Once that was proved, what plea could he put forward to prove his innocence? None. A quarrel might have taken place on the subject of their previous conversation, and Allen might have killed Edermont in a fit of rage. That was the view, Dora truly believed, which the judge and jury would take of the matter. And on the face of it what view could be more reasonable?
It was no use bringing Lady Burville into the question, for her evidence could throw no light on the subject. When she left the house Edermont was alive; when Scott arrived the old man was dead, and there was nothing to show that anyone had been in the study between Lady Burville's departure and Dr. Scott's arrival. Medical evidence could prove that Lady Burville was too feeble a woman to strike so terrible a blow, of too nervous a character to carry out so brutal a crime. No; if Lady Burville came into court, it would be to save herself, and to condemn Allen. Under these circumstances, it only remained to hush the matter up by granting Joad's wish. Dora hated the man, but for the sake of Allen she decided to marry him. Yet, as she still had a few days' grace before giving him his answer, she resolved to say nothing of her resolution at present. It might be that in the interval the real criminal might be discovered.
All that night Dora tossed and tossed on her bed, courting sleep in vain. She was like a rat in a trap, running round and round in the endeavour to escape. She would have done anything rather than consent to this marriage with Joad; but unless some miracle intervened, she saw no chance of escaping the ceremony. To be saddled with such a husband! to live in constant companionship with such a satyr! The poor girl wept bitterly at the very thought. What would she feel when Joad demanded payment of the price of his silence?
Towards morning she fell into an uneasy slumber, and awoke more despondent than ever. It was with a listless air that she descended to breakfast, and only with a strong effort could she force herself to eat. Meg Gance, who brought in the meal, informed her Mr. Joad was already in the library, engrossed in his daily occupation.
"He come here afore nine," said Meg, who was a large, stupid countrywoman, with more muscle than brains; "it wasn't so when master lived, was it, Miss Dora?"
"No. But I don't suppose it matters much now when Mr. Joad comes, Meg."
"I dunno 'bout that," said the servant, putting her large hands on her hips; "it takes long to clean up bookshop, it do. I rarely get it done afore nine. I declare, miss, when Mr. Joad come this morn, I couldn't believe 'twas so late. Thought I, Clock's gone wrong again."
"What clock?" asked Dora, remembering the strange remark made by Pallant.
"Lor, miss, how sharp you speak!" said Meg, rather startled by the abruptness of the question. "Why, clock in hall, for sure!"
"Was it ever wrong, Meg?"
"A whole hour, miss; though how it could have lost hour in night I dunno. But it was ten when I looked at it in morning, while kitchen clock was nine. Too fast by hour, Miss Dora."
"On what night was it wrong?" asked Dora, eagerly feeling that she was on the verge of a discovery.
"Why, miss, it went wrong on night master had head bashed. Not as I wonder, miss, for my aunt had husband as died, and clock--her clock, miss--struck thirteen. Seems as clock knows of deaths and funerals," concluded Meg reflectively.
"Was the clock in the hall wrong by an hour when you saw it in the morning after the crime had been committed?"
"For sure, Miss Dora. But Lor' bless you, miss, it don't matter. I jes' put it right by kitchen clock, as has never lost a minute since I came here, and that's six years, miss."
"Why did you not mention that the clock was wrong when you gave your evidence?"
Meg stared at her mistress.
"I never thought, miss," she said gravely; "and I wasn't asked about clock. It didn't matter, I hope?"
"No," replied Dora carelessly, "it didn't matter. You need say nothing about it to Mr. Joad, or, indeed, to anyone."
"I aren't much of a chat at any time, miss," cried Meg, tossing her head; "and as for Mr. Joad, I'd as lief speak to blackbeetle! I won't say naught, bless you, no, miss."
"Very well, Meg. You can clear away."
This Meg did with considerable clatter and clamour; while Dora left the room, and without putting on a hat walked slowly across the lawn, in the dewy freshness of the morning. On reaching the beehive chair under the cedar, which was Joad's favourite outdoor study, the girl sat down, and looked contemplatively at the scene before her. A space of sunlit lawn, with a girdle of flaming rhododendrons fringing it on the right; tall poplars, musical with birds, bordering the ivy-draped wall; and beyond the wall itself the red-tiled roof of Joad's cottage, showing in picturesque contrast against the delicate azure of an August sky. After regarding the scene to right and left, as it lay steeped in the yellow sunlight, Dora's gaze finally rested on the glimpse of Joad's house. There it stayed; and her thoughts reverted to the remark about the clock made by Pallant, and to the later explanation given by Meg Gance. What connection these things had with Joad may be gathered from the girl's thoughts.
They ran something after this fashion: "Could it be possible that Joad had killed Edermont? There seemed to be no motive for his committing the crime, and he was not the kind of man to run needlessly into danger. Yet the discovery about the clock was certainly very strange. I knew it was correct on the night of the murder," meditated Dora. "I set my watch by it before I went upstairs. That was at half-past nine, and my watch has been right ever since. When Meg looked at it in the morning, it was an hour wrong; therefore, somebody must have put it wrong with intent. It is impossible that so excellent a clock could suddenly slip for an hour, and then go on again. Could Joad have been in the house on that night, and have put it on an hour? At the time of the murder the clock struck one, and at that hour Joad, according to his own showing and Mr. Pride's corroboration, was in the cottage. If the clock had been put wrong, the murder must have taken place at twelve, since it was an hour fast in the morning. There was ample time for Joad to commit the crime at twelve, and be back in his cottage by one."
Dora got up, and walked restlessly to and fro. She could not quite understand why the clock should have been put on an hour, so as to give a false time, when there was no one to hear it in the night. That she had woke up and heard it strike was quite an accident, although there had been nights when she had heard every hour, every chime, strike till dawn. Suddenly she remembered that once she had said something to Joad about her sleepless nights. On the impulse of the moment she walked into the library.
"Mr. Joad," she said to the old man, who was reading near the window, "that hall clock."
It seemed to Dora that a pallor crept over the red face of the man she addressed. However, he looked up quietly enough, and spoke to her with the greatest calmness.
"What about the hall clock, Miss Dora?" he asked in a puzzled tone.
"It is disturbing me again. I really must have it removed. In the dead hours I hear it strike in the most ghostly, graveyard fashion. As it did on that night," she concluded under her breath.
"Do you have many sleepless nights now?"
"How do you know that I have sleepless nights at all?" she asked quickly.
Joad looked at her in surprise.
"You told me so yourself shortly before we lost Julian," he said quietly. "It was toothache, was it not?"
"Yes--something of that sort," she answered carelessly. "But it is not toothache now. Still, I lie awake thinking."
"Of me?" said Joad with a leer.
"The week is not yet over, Mr. Joad," she said coldly; "till the end of it you have no right to ask me such a question. Good-bye for the present; I am going out on my bicycle."
This was an excuse. Confident that Joad had altered the clock, on the chance that she would hear it during her sleepless nights, she was confident also that for such reason, and for a more terrible one, he had been in the house on the night of the murder.
"He put on the clock so as to prove an alibi," she thought, wheeling her bicycle down the path to the gate. "If he killed Edermont at twelve o'clock--the right time when it struck one--he would have ample opportunity of getting back to his cottage through the postern. I quite believe that he was with Pride at one o'clock; but I also believe he was in the study at twelve."
She had proved to her own satisfaction that Joad could have been in the house; she wished to discover if he had killed Edermont. The assassin had committed the crime to obtain the manuscript containing the story of her guardian's life. If Joad were guilty, that manuscript would be in his possession. This was why Dora excused herself on a plea of riding her bicycle. She was determined to search Joad's cottage, and find out if the manuscript was hidden there.
With this intent she hid the bicycle behind the hedge on the other side of the road, and went to the cottage. There was plenty of time for her to search, as Joad took his mid-day meal in the Red House and never returned to his house until nine at night. She had the whole day at her disposal, and determined to search in every corner for the manuscript she believed he had hidden. If she found it, she would then be able to prove Allen guiltless and Joad guilty. It would be a magnificent revenge on her part. The man would be caught in his own trap.
It can be easily guessed by what steps Dora had arrived at this conclusion--the chance remark of Pallant anent the possibility of the clock being wrong; the chance explanation of Meg which proved that the clock was an hour fast on the morning after the murder had taken place; the memory of her own remark to Joad about her sleepless nights; and the conclusion that the old man had put the clock wrong for purposes of his own. The inference to be drawn from these facts was that Joad had been in the house on the night of the second of August. If he had been in the house, it was probable that he had killed Edermont, since Allen and Lady Burville, the only other people who had been present at the same hour, were innocent. It had been proved by sundry scraps of evidence that the murder had been committed to obtain possession of the manuscript. Therefore, if Joad were guilty, he must have hidden the fruits of his crime. Where? In the cottage, without doubt.
The front door of the cottage was locked, so Dora went round to the back. She knew that Joad was in the habit of hiding the key of the back door under the water-butt, and sure enough she found it there. To open the door and pass into his study was the work of a moment. So here she was in the stronghold of the enemy. But where was the manuscript?
The room was not very large, and lined on all four sides with books. A writing-desk, littered with papers, stood before the single window, and a few chairs were scattered round. There were also a horsehair sofa, a small sideboard of varnished deal, three or four china ornaments, and a little clock on the mantelpiece. The floor was covered with straw matting, but what the pattern of the paper was like no one could tell, for it was hidden completely by the books. The whole apartment looked penurious in the extreme and very untidy. Books lay on chairs and sofas, and the fireplace was filled with torn-up letters, newspapers, and hastily scribbled manuscripts.
"The books first," decided Dora, after a look at this chaos.
There was no need to go through them one by one, for dust lay thickly upon bindings and shelves. She had only to glance to see those which had been disturbed within the last few weeks. Those that had been taken down she examined carefully, but could find no trace of the manuscript. She looked on the top of the bookcase, went down on her knees to search the lower shelves, and still found nothing. At the end of an hour Dora had gone through the whole library of Joad, but had come across no trace of the wished-for paper. He had hidden it--always presuming that it was in his possession--more cunningly than she had thought.
"Now for the desk."
Another hour's search in drawers and pigeonholes and blotting-pad likewise revealed nothing. Dora emptied out the wastepaper basket, and sorted every scrap, and still she was unsuccessful. Then she lifted portions of the matting, removed the cushions of the chairs, searched the sideboard, and dived into the recesses of the sofa. All to no purpose.
"Perhaps he has not got it after all," thought Dora, disappointed, "or he has burnt it."
Burning suggested the fireplace; but she saw that there had not been a fire for months in the grate. It then struck her that Mr. Joad might have taken an idea from Poe's "Purloined Letter," and have hidden the manuscript in some conspicuous place. The fireplace alone was unsearched, so she went down on her knees and turned out the disorderly mass of papers. Her patience was rewarded at last. From under the heap she drew forth a crumpled mass of paper, foolscap size, and spread it out carefully. Then she uttered a cry. "The Confession of Julian Dargill, better known as Julian Edermont," she read. "Ah! I was right. Here is the stolen story of the past, and Joad is the man who killed my guardian."
With the recovered manuscript in her hands, with the knowledge where it had been found, and with the memory of the clock being wrong, Dora felt convinced that Joad was guilty of the crime. Without doubt he had designed to kill Edermont on that night, and had prepared the alibi so as to prove his innocence should such proof be needed. But what was his motive for the perpetration of so detestable a crime? Why had he stolen the manuscript, and why had he not destroyed so dangerous a piece of evidence? Dora believed that the answer to these questions was to be found in the manuscript itself. The reading of it would probably solve the whole mystery.
Having accomplished her task, she slipped the paper into the pocket of her dress, ran out of the house, and, having locked the door, repaired to the place where she had hidden her bicycle. To give colour to her excuse to Joad, she mounted and rode down the road for some considerable distance. Indeed, she felt inclined there and then to go to Canterbury and assure Allen that he was safe, and that she had won a fortune by discovering the actual criminal; but her desire to do away with any possible suspicions on the part of Joad induced her to abandon such intention. When he found the manuscript gone, he might suspect her if she went directly into Canterbury, whereas, if she behaved as usual, he could have no doubts on the subject.
"Besides," said Dora to herself, as she turned her face towards Chillum, "Joad never goes to his cottage during the day, and therefore he will not find out his loss until to-night. Should he suspect that I have discovered his secret, he may do me an injury, or take to flight. I must allay his suspicions, and see Allen about the manuscript. We will read it together, and then take such steps as may be necessary to save him and arrest Joad."
On approaching the gates of the Red House, Dora received a shock, for on glancing at Joad's cottage, she saw its owner coming out of the door. Perhaps her questions about the clock had induced him to depart from his usual routine, and by rousing his suspicions had created a desire to assure himself that the manuscript was safe; but whatever might be the reason, Dora had never known Joad to revisit his domicile in the daytime. A qualm seized her lest he should guess what she had done; but the memory of what was at stake nerved her to resistance, and she confronted the approaching old man with a mien cool and composed. Certainly she needed all her courage at that moment, for Joad was conducting himself like a lunatic.
His face was redder than usual with suppressed rage; he swung round his arms in a threatening manner, and, hardly seeing her in his blind fury, babbled about his loss. Dora did not need to hear his words to be assured that he had discovered the loss of the manuscript. But she strained her ears to listen, in the hope that Joad might say something likely to incriminate himself.
"Lost, lost!" muttered Joad, as he shuffled near her--"and after all my care. What am I to do now? What--what--what?"
"Is anything wrong, Mr. Joad?"
The man paused before Dora with a dazed look, and suddenly cooled down in the most surprising manner. Knowing the dangerous position in which he was placed by the loss of the manuscript, he saw the necessity for dissimulation. His rage gave place to smiles, his furious gestures to fawning.
"No, Miss Dora; there is nothing wrong. I have lost a precious book, that is all. But I know who took it," he broke out with renewed fury.
Dora felt nervous, and for the moment she thought that he suspected her. But the next moment--still talking of the manuscript under the flimsy disguise of a book--his words reassured her. "Oh yes," he repeated; "I know who stole it, but I'll be revenged;" then he shook his fists in the air, as though invoking a curse on someone, and returned to the Red House.
When Dora reached her own room, she took out the manuscript. It was a lengthy effusion, evidently carefully prepared, and certainly clearly written. With a thrill of excitement the girl sat down to read the story, and learn from it, if possible, the motive of Joad in becoming a midnight assassin. Before she had read two lines, Meg knocked at her door. Dora hid away the precious paper hastily in her wardrobe, and called on Meg to enter.
"Dinner is up, miss," said the stout countrywoman, "and Mr. Joad waits. He don't look well, Miss Dora. Sheets ain't nothing to face of he."
"Is he in a bad temper, Meg?"
"Lordy, no, miss! He ghastly pale and quiet like."
Meg's report proved to be true. Joad's rage had died out into a subdued nervousness, and his red face had paled to a yellowish hue. He said little and ate little, but Dora noticed that he drank more than his ordinary allowance of whisky-and-water. Every now and then he cast a furtive glance round the room, as though waiting anxiously for the unexpected to happen. His conduct reminded Dora of the late Mr. Edermont's behaviour in church during the Litany, and there was no doubt in her mind as to Joad's feelings. He had received a shock, and in consequence thereof he was thoroughly frightened.
Towards the end of the meal he grew more composed, under the influence of the spirits and water, and it was then that he abruptly informed Dora that he was going into Canterbury.
"You are going into Canterbury," she echoed, fairly astonished, "this afternoon?"
"Yes; I have not been in the town for months. But I wish to consult--a lawyer."
"About the loss of your book, I suppose?"
Joad raised his heavy eyes, and sent a piercing glance in her direction.
"Yes," he said, in a quiet tone, "I wish to consult about that loss."
"Will you see Mr. Carver?"
"On the whole," said Joad, with great deliberation, "I think I shall see Mr. Carver. He knows much; he may as well know more."
"What do you mean?" asked Dora, startled by the significance of this speech.
"You will know to-morrow, Miss Carew."
He left the room, and shortly afterwards the house. Anxious to learn if he intended to fly, and so escape the consequences of his crime, Dora followed him down to the gate. This had not been kept locked of late, and Joad swung it easily open. Stepping out, he cast a glance to right and left in an uneasy fashion, and suddenly staggered against the wall with his hand to his heart. In an instant Dora was beside him.
"What is the matter, Mr. Joad?"
"Only the old trouble--my heart, my heart," he muttered; "it will kill me some day. The sooner the better--now."
Dora took this speech as an acknowledgment of his guilt, and withdrew a little from his neighbourhood. Joad took no notice of this shrinking, but explained his plans.
"I go to my cottage to change my clothes," he said calmly, "then I will get a trap from the hotel, and drive to Canterbury to see Mr. Carver. You need not expect me at the Red House to-night, Miss Dora. I shall stay in my own cottage. It will not do for me to be out after dark."
"Why not, Mr. Joad? You are in no danger?"
"I am in danger of losing my life," retorted the old man, and, flinging her detaining hand rudely aside, he ran across the road with an activity surprising in one of his years and sedentary life.
When he disappeared Dora returned to the house. She was at a loss what to do with regard to Joad. His actions and speech were so strange that she was afraid lest he should fly. If he did, his complicity in the crime might never be proved, and so Allen's safety might be compromised. Dora was determined that this should not be. She decided to get into Canterbury before Joad, to see Mr. Carver and ask his advice; afterwards to call on Allen and show him the manuscript. In some way or other she would contrive to circumvent the discovered villain.
Having come to this decision, Dora put the manuscript in her pocket, assumed her hat and gloves, and took out her bicycle. Joad was not yet out of his cottage, so she hurried in hot haste, and spun up the road at full speed. By the time he had got to the hotel and ordered the trap she hoped to be in Canterbury preparing the ground for his arrival, so that his efforts to fly--if indeed he intended to do so--might be baffled in every direction. Dora felt that a crucial moment was at hand, and that it behoved her to have all her wits about her if she hoped to save Allen and win the fifty thousand pounds.
On her arrival at Canterbury, Dora lost no time in seeking the lawyer. He was busy in his dingy back office as usual, and betrayed no surprise at seeing his visitor. With a dry smile he shook hands, and placed a chair for her, then he gave his explanation of her appearance.
"You have come to ask further about your five hundred pounds," said he; "if so, I am afraid you are wasting your time."
"I do not intend to waste my time on that matter, Mr. Carver," replied Dora quietly, "nor yours either. The object of my visit is far more important. I have discovered who killed Mr. Edermont."
If she hoped to astonish Mr. Carver by this speech, she was never more mistaken in her life. He did not display any surprise, but merely laughed and rubbed his dry hands together.
"Have I, then, to congratulate you on gaining fifty thousand pounds?" he asked satirically.
"You can judge for yourself, Mr. Carver," said Dora quietly; and then and there, without further preamble, she related the finding of the manuscript, the behaviour of Joad, and the evidence of the clock.
Carver betrayed his interest by frequent raisings of his eyebrows, but otherwise remained motionless until the conclusion of her story. She might as well have been speaking to a stone.
"And this manuscript," he asked; "have you it with you?"
"Yes," Dora laid it on the table, "here it is. The story of Mr. Edermont's early life."
"You have read it?"
"No; not yet. I have not had time to do so. I have brought it in to read with Allen--that is, unless you require it."
Carver thought for a moment, and shook his head.
"No," he said in an amiable tone, "I do not require it at the present moment. I shall see Mr. Joad first, and then call on Dr. Scott to hear his and your report on this paper."
"Do you think Mr. Joad is guilty?" asked Dora, replacing the manuscript in her pocket.
"Circumstantial evidence is strongly against him," replied Mr. Carver cautiously, "but I shall reserve my opinion until I hear his story."
"Do you think he will call on you?"
"He told you that he intended to do so, Miss Carew."
"Very true, Mr. Carver. All the same, he may have done so to save time. For all we know, he may design to go straight to the railway-station and catch the London express."
"Oh, I can frustrate that scheme," said Carver, rising. "Mr. Joad's conduct is sufficiently suspicious to justify his detention on the ground of complicity, if not of actual guilt. A word to Inspector Jedd, and Mr. Joad will not get away by the express. Go and see Dr. Scott, my dear young lady, and leave me to deal with your friend."
"You won't let him escape?"
"No," said Carver dryly. "On the whole, I had rather you got the fifty thousand pounds than anyone else."
And then he conducted Dora to the door with a courtesy he had never extended before to any female client, and at which his clerks were greatly astonished. Congratulating herself on having thus made all safe, Dora went to see Allen. He was still unwell, but felt better than he had done on the previous day. He was surprised at her visit, and gathered from her bright looks that she had something of importance to communicate to him.
"What is it, Dora?" he asked anxiously; "good or bad news?"
"Good! You are safe!"
"Then you intend to marry Joad?" said Allen in a tone of despair.
"Indeed, I intend no such thing! Mr. Joad has other things to think about besides marriage."
"What other things?"
"How to save his neck. Yes, you may well look astonished, Allen. Joad, and none other, killed my guardian! Here is the proof!" and Dora flung the manuscript on the table.