In these progressive times, the duration of proverbial wonderment has been reduced from nine days to nine hours. The Dukesfield murder case was mysterious and dramatic, yet, even with these elements of popularity, it became stale and out of date within the week. The attention of the masses and the classes was more or less concentrated on the visit of an Eastern potentate, whose amazing jewels, and still more amazing barbarisms, appealed to the popular humour. Moxton's death and the strange circumstances attendant thereon ceased to be commented upon by the newspapers; they faded out of the public mind, and continued to be talked about only in the neighbourhood wherein the tragedy occurred. Yet even in Dukesfield, after a fortnight of discussion, the interest grew languid.
It was just as well for Mrs. Moxton that circumstances stood thus, for, in defiance of public opinion, she still continued to inhabit Myrtle Villa. Her husband's maltreated body was quietly buried in the Dukesfield cemetery, so quietly, indeed, that, save the necessary undertaker and his men, not a single person followed the unfortunate victim to his untimely grave. It is only justice to say that Mrs. Moxton would have done so but for the earnest advice of Ellis. Knowing her unpopularity and its cause, he warned her against thrusting herself forward. Like a wise woman, the widow took the hint, but passionately resented the reason for which it was given. When the ceremony was at an end, Ellis came to tell her about it, and she defended herself to him after the fashion of women, with many words and much indignation. As soon as he could obtain a hearing, the doctor assured her that in his case such arguments were needless.
"I am a firm believer in your innocence, Mrs. Moxton," he declared, in all earnestness, "and you must not trouble about the idle gossip of the neighbourhood. People will talk, and it is just a chance that they did not call you a martyr instead of a criminal."
"It is shameful that a friendless woman should be so abused!"
"You are not altogether friendless, Mrs. Moxton. If you will accept me as your champion, I shall be proud to occupy the position."
The widow looked steadfastly at Ellis, and something--perceptible to a woman only--which she saw in his eyes caused her to lower her own. She replied indirectly, with true feminine evasion,--
"I shall always be glad to have you for a friend, doctor. You have been--you are--very good to me."
But after this speech Mrs. Moxton became reserved and hesitating, finally silent; so that Ellis, aware that his eyes had revealed too much, took his leave in a few minutes. By this time he was conscious that he had fallen in love with the pretty widow, and marvelled that he should lose his heart after three weeks' acquaintance. In the opinion of some, love at first sight is a fallacy, and at one time Ellis had been of these wiseacres. Now his personal experience proved the truth of the saying. Mrs. Moxton was not a supremely beautiful woman, but she had a young and comely face, and an extraordinarily fascinating manner. It was to this last that Ellis succumbed, and he made scarcely any effort to resist its influence. Yet Mrs. Moxton was a woman with a humble--if not a doubtful--past, and there was a slur on her reputation as the widow of a murdered man. Ellis could not help admitting to himself that she was no wife for a struggling doctor, yet, in spite of such admission, he was bent upon marrying her, should the opportunity offer itself. In the meantime he kept his own counsel and told no one--not even Cass--of this new element in his life.
That same evening Ellis and his friend sat down after supper to discuss again their domestic affairs and the state of the exchequer. The outlook was now considerably improved, for Cass had returned with a good piece of news, which he lost no time in imparting to the doctor.
"The gods of things-as-they-ought-to-be have awakened to the injustice of my terrestrial treatment, Bob," he announced gleefully. "I have been made theatrical critic for theEarly Bird, and a story of mine has been accepted by thePiccadilly Magazine."
"Good news, old boy; I congratulate you. What is the reason for this sudden discovery of your merits?"
"Moxton's murder, I think. My editor was pleased with the blood-and-thunder report I gave of it."
"Hence he sets you to criticise the drama," said Ellis, drily.
"I suppose so. Perhaps he thinks that if I can describe the murder of a human being I can deal with the slaughter of drama and comedy by incompetent actors."
"The profession would be flattered by your preconceived ideas of their capabilities, Harry."
"Nonsense! I am thinking of extreme cases only. But now that I have a better salary I can help you, Bob. I shall be like the Auvergnat carrier in Balzac's story, and aid a great physician to reach his rightful position for the benefit of humanity."
"Thank you, Harry, but I fear I am not sufficiently gifted to deserve your self-denial. Besides, I have been discovered also."
"What? You have a patient?"
"Yes, a morbid lady with nerves. She saw my name in connection with the discovery of that poor devil's body, and came to see me about her own trouble."
"Nerves and murder. I don't see the connection."
"She did, however," said Ellis, with a shrug, "and asked me to save her life. It is in no danger, as you may guess. She is nothing but an excitable female with too much money and no employment. I wrote her a prescription, humoured her hypochondria, and so pleased her that she departed, pronouncing me to be a charming young man who thoroughly understood her 'system.' She intends to send all her friends to me."
"That's capital," cried Cass, shaking hands with his friend. "Once you get the start you will soon roll on to fame and fortune. I'll meet you on Tom Tiddler's ground, Bob, and we'll pick up the gold and silver in company. Dr. Robert Ellis, of Harley Street, specialist in eye diseases, and Henry Cass, the great, the only novelist! But I say, Bob," added the journalist, "don't degenerate into a humbug, old man."
"My dear fellow, in dealing with women, one must be a humbug more or less. They like it."
"That is true in every case. Women always prefer the graceful humbugs of this world to the genuine, honest creatures. That is why I have not been snapped up by a rich heiress."
Ellis laughed absently, being more taken up with his own thoughts than with the humour of his friend. "Yes, I believe this patient will send me others, and that, sooner or later, I shall scrape together a practice in Dukesfield. In years to come I may even be able to set up as an eye specialist."
"In Harley Street, Bob, in Harley Street."
"In any street so long as I can make a good income. When I become known as an authority on diseases of the eye----"
"You are known, Bob," interrupted Cass, vigorously. "That book on the eye you wrote is well known."
"Stuff! My book fell still-born from the Press. Besides, if it is known, only my medical brethren have the knowledge. I wish to be popular with the masses, Harry, to have a name with them, for it is the public who pay."
"Well, well, that will come. I believe in your future, Bob. You will have all you wish for--an income, a name, and a wife."
"A wife!" Ellis turned restlessly in the comfortable old arm-chair, and laughed in a somewhat embarrassed fashion. "A wife!" he repeated doubtfully.
"Of course; you don't intend to remain single all your days, do you? You must marry, Bob, for a doctor without a wife, a tactful wife, mind you, is like a coach without wheels. I hope, however," and here Harry's tone became serious, "that you will not marry a widow."
"A widow! I don't quite understand."
"Or," continued Cass, inattentive to the interpolation, "or the wife of a man who has met with a violent death."
"Harry, what makes you think that Mrs. Moxton--" So far Ellis proceeded violently, then stopped with the conviction that he had betrayed his secret.
"The cap fits, I see," remarked Cass, pointedly, and shut up in his turn.
For the next few minutes there was an embarrassed silence, neither man being willing to speak, lest a word should act like a spark in a powder magazine. Ellis threw down his pipe, and, as was his fashion when annoyed, took to rapid walking in the limited space of the sitting-room. Cass eased his position on the sofa and waited developments.
"Yes, it is true," said the doctor, in a loud voice, so as to drown opposition. "I am in love with Mrs. Moxton. Now, what do you say?"
"Only this. It is hard enough for you to make a career without seeking for a clog which will prevent you rising in your profession."
"How do you know Mrs. Moxton would prove such a clog?"
"I don't know; I surmise only. I am ignorant of the lady's personality, save from what I have learnt in chance moments. You are in the like position."
"I know her better than you do."
"Possibly. But do you know her well enough to risk making her your wife?"
"I didn't say that I intended to ask her to marry me."
Cass laughed. "That is a quibble. With honourable men a declared passion is always the prelude to marriage."
"But I have not declared my passion," argued Ellis, in vexed tones.
"Not yet, maybe, but you will do so when the time comes."
"After all, Harry, she is a charming woman."
"Charming and pretty, no doubt. But is she the wife for you? Before you can answer that question, you must know her past and whitewash her present."
Dr. Ellis sat down aghast. "Good heavens, Cass! Surely you don't think her guilty?"
"I don't know enough about the case to say," said Cass, meditatively; "but Mrs. Moxton puzzles me, I confess. For instance, she tells lies."
"Tells lies!" repeated the widow's champion, with great indignation.
"Yes, and in the most unblushing manner. At the inquest she said that she took her husband's body in her arms and felt the blood flowing from the wound in his back. Now, it is my impression that she never touched the body."
"How can you prove that?"
"Very simply. When she came into this room she wore a plain black dress, with cuffs of white linen. Now, if she had handled the body and had touched the wound, it is only natural to suppose that those cuffs would be stained with blood. I noticed, however, that they were not."
"But that is all the stronger proof that she is innocent."
"Of the actual murder, maybe, Bob; but it does not prove that she is ignorant of who killed the man. She told lies about the handling of the body, as I said. It seems to me," added Cass, reflectively, "that Mrs. Moxton is shielding the assassin."
"But why should she shield a murderer?"
"Ah, that you must learn from the woman herself. But if she is completely in the dark about the matter, why does she tell falsehoods? Then that cypher, those blood signs on the arm--the dying man wrote them to indicate to his wife the name of the murderer."
"You can't prove that!" cried Ellis, much excited.
"Only by deduction. Why should the man write in a cypher if his wife did not know the cypher?"
"The information, whatever it is, might have been intended for someone else."
"I don't think so. Moxton knew that his wife would be the first to discover his dead body, and wrote the message in cypher for her information. It is only reasonable to think so."
"Mrs. Moxton says she does not know what the cypher means."
"Precisely. She is telling lies and shielding the true criminal."
"How do you know that the cypher contains the name of the criminal, Harry?"
"Because I can read the cypher," was Cass's unexpected reply. "I found out the key yesterday. Look here, Bob." He jumped up from the sofa and, crossing to the writing-table, hastily scrawled two diagrams. "You see," he added, "here is a criss-cross, and a St. Andrew's cross with two letters in each angle which exhausts the alphabet."
Ellis looked at the diagrams with amazement and shook his head. "I am as much in the dark as ever. Explain."
"Well, you use the angles and the central criss-cross square for letters, with an added dot for the second letter. If you wish to write your name, 'Ellis,' in signs, you take the first letter of the third angle in the criss-cross, the two second letters of the sixth angle; the first letter of the square, and the first letter first angle St. Andrew's cross."
"I see, and 'L' being the second letter of the sixth angle you put a dot."
"Of course. If I wrote 'K' I should put no dot," replied Harry, and took a morsel of paper out of his pocket. "Here," said he, "is a copy of the sign on the dead man's arm. The second letter of ninth angle criss-cross: the first letter second angle St. Andrew's cross, and the second letter fourth angle of the same. Do you see? Now take this pencil, Bob, and use the key to turn them into letters."
Ellis did so, and produced three letters on the paper given to him. "'R U Z,'" he read slowly. "What does that mean? Is it a word?"
"I don't think so. There is no word spelt 'Ruz' in any language that I am acquainted with. I believe those three letters are the initials of the man who killed Moxton. For some reason the dying man did not desire to give up his murderer to justice, but at the same time he wished to let his wife know who struck the blow, hence the cypher. Mrs. Moxton can read the meaning, depend upon it, Bob."
"It seems strange," assented Ellis, surveying the letters thoughtfully. "Do you think there are three names here, or only two?"
"I can't say. 'R U' may mean Rupert or Rudolph, but I am in the dark so far. I have discovered the letters, Bob; it is for Mrs. Moxton to explain them to you."
"What about this other sign?" said the doctor, evading a reply.
"Well, at first I thought it was a serpent, but as it has four feet and a wriggle of a tail, I conclude it is a lizard. Mere guessing, you understand."
"What connection can it have with the letters?"
"I don't know. Ask me something easier, or rather," said Cass, with a peculiar smile, "ask Mrs. Moxton. She knows the truth about letters, and lizard and murder. But she won't tell it to you."
"Why not?" asked Ellis, angrily.
"Because, my poor fellow, I firmly believe that the murderer of Mr. Moxton is the lover of Mrs. Moxton."
Needless to say, Ellis, in his then state of mind, declined to believe that the widow had intrigued with a lover, or had--according to the theory of Cass--armed his hand with the knife. In her evidence she declared that she knew no one in Dukesfield and went nowhere, and this statement was substantiated by Mrs. Basket. The landlady, with feminine curiosity about matters which did not concern her, was as good as a detective, and from the first coming of the mysterious Moxtons to Myrtle Villa, she had watched their movements. Knowing this, Ellis made a few inquiries when Mrs. Basket was clearing the breakfast-table. Harry having already departed to Fleet Street, the doctor was alone, and conducted the examination as he pleased and at his leisure. Mrs. Basket, only too willing to talk, chattered like a parrot, and, indeed, her green dress with yellow trimmings resembled the plumage of that bird in no small degree. She was a gaudy, irresponsible gabbler.
"Bless your 'eart, sir, she didn't know no one," declared Mrs. Basket. "A prisoner in a gaol, that is what she was at Myrtle Viller; not but what she oughtn't to be in a real one. I don't say as that Moxton," Mrs. Basket shivered, "wasn't a brute in his treatment of her, but she did for him as sure as I'm a living woman. She did for him."
"The jury did not think so, Mrs. Basket!"
Mrs. Basket snorted. "A jury of them swindling tradesmen," said she, contemptuously. "What do they know of it? Mrs. Moxton killed him with the carving-knife, and threw it away arterwards.
"How do you know she threw it away?"
"'Cos it ain't in the 'ouse. Yes! you may look, an' look, doctor, but it ain't in the 'ouse. I've bin there and know."
"You have been in Myrtle Villa?" said Ellis, astonished. "Do you know Mrs. Moxton, then?"
"For the sake of law and order and Queen's justice I made it my business to know her, sir. The other morning I went over to offer to buy some of her furniture, 'earing as she was leaving Dukesfield."
Ellis jumped up. "She is not leaving Dukesfield," he denied.
"Oh, that was my idear of getting into the 'ouse," explained Mrs. Basket, complacently. "She said she wasn't, and told me so in the kitching, where it was I wished to be. Then she looked so poorly that I offered to make 'er a cup of tea, and she said I might, asking me questions about the people 'ere in the meantime."
"What sort of questions?"
"Oh, what was thought of her, and if they called her names," returned Mrs. Basket, incoherently. "But I made 'er the tea and she 'ad it. For a few minutes she went into the front parlour, and I looked in all the dresser drawers for the knife, but it wasn't there. No, doctor," repeated Mrs. Basket, with emphasis, "I do assure you it wasn't in the 'ole of that there kitching, though I searched most perticler."
"Someone might have stolen the knife."
"There weren't nobody in the 'ouse to steal it. Not a soul ever went near the viller but tradesmen, and they never got no further than the back door. Sir, I do believe as she murdered him with the knife, and 'id it way arterwards--p'r'aps in them brickfields," concluded Mrs. Basket, vaguely.
"Well, we can't be sure of that. You are certain that Mrs. Moxton had no visitors?"
"Quite, sir."
"And she saw no one?"
"Not a blessed soul save 'er 'usband as she did for. And if you'll excuse me, doctor, I've my work to look arter," whereupon the gossip waddled away with the breakfast tray.
It may appear strange that a cultured man like Ellis should listen to the coarse babblings of an uneducated woman, but he had a reason for doing so. For the sake of protecting Mrs. Moxton it was needful that he should know the gossip of the neighbourhood, and none could so well enlighten him on this point as Mrs. Basket. Several times her openly-expressed conviction of Mrs. Moxton's guilt made Ellis wince, and but for the above reason he would have ordered her out of the room. However, his self-control gained him two pieces of information; firstly, that Mrs. Moxton had received no masculine visitor since her arrival in Dukesfield, and, secondly, that the carving-knife with which the murder--from the nature of the wound--might have been committed, had disappeared. Ellis was now satisfied that the widow had no lover, but he was disturbed over the concealment or loss--he did not know which to call it--of the carving-knife. If no one but Mrs. Moxton was, or had been, in the house, she must know the whereabouts of the knife. For enlightenment on this point, and in order to satisfy his doubts, Ellis made up his mind to call on the widow, and, acting on the impulse of the moment, did so.
Strangely enough Mrs. Moxton not only welcomed him eagerly, but informed him that his arrival was opportune. "If you had not come I should have sent for you," said she, and conducted him into a cheerful little sitting-room all white paint, Chinese matting, and furniture covered with bright-hued chintz.
"What is the matter, Mrs. Moxton? There is nothing wrong, I hope."
"Oh, no! but I want your advice. You are my only friend."
"I am proud of the position, Mrs. Moxton, and I hope you will permit me, as a friend, to ask you a few plain questions?"
The little woman's resolute face grew pale. "About the death?" she murmured.
"Yes! You know that there is a slur on your name in connection with that. As your friend, I wish to remove that slur by assisting you to hunt down the murderer."
It was an odd but true thing that Mrs. Moxton had the same habit as Ellis of walking up and down the room when annoyed. At the conclusion of the doctor's last speech she rose suddenly and took a turn to compose her mind. "It is very good of you to think of helping me," she said abruptly, "but why should you?"
"Because I wish to be your friend, and I know that you are in danger."
"I am in no danger if you allude to this preposterous accusation that I killed my husband. If needs be I can protect myself should the occasion arise."
"By denouncing someone else?"
Mrs. Moxton turned on Ellis with a frown. "What do you mean?"
"Rumour says that if you did not murder Moxton yourself you know who did, and that you are shielding him."
"Him! Oh, I am shielding a man," said the widow, catching at the final word. "Set your mind at rest, doctor, I am shielding no man."
"Mrs. Moxton, why not be candid and tell me all?"
"I told all I knew at the inquest," she replied sullenly.
"Can you swear that you do not know who killed your husband?"
"I was on my oath at the inquest, I tell you," cried the woman, passionately. "I will not swear again--to you."
"Very good," said Ellis, coldly. "I see that you doubt me."
"I doubt you! I trust you more than you think. Doctor Ellis, in spite of what I said to you before, I am surrounded on all sides by difficulties and dangers. One false step and Heaven knows what may happen! I can't tell you all--I dare not. But you are my friend and must help me."
"How can I when you won't confess the truth?"
"If I only dare!" Mrs. Moxton took another turn up the room, and came back to Ellis with a more determined expression on her face. "Listen, doctor! I will tell you what I can. Afterwards you can ask me what questions you will, and I shall reply to the best of my ability. Thus we shall understand one another."
Ellis looked at her trim little figure in the black dress, at the widow's cap on the fair hair, at the candid face beneath it. As has been before stated, Mrs. Moxton was comely rather than pretty, but she had a firmly-moulded chin, a resolute expression on her lips and in her grey eyes, and was, on the whole, a woman of courage and resource. How one so sensible could have tied herself to a brute like Moxton, and could have submitted to neglect and cruelty for long months was more than Ellis could understand. Perhaps it was one of those unanswerable problems of the feminine nature which women themselves cannot explain. Ellis was puzzled, and in the hope of gaining some insight into this apparently contradictory nature, waited eagerly for the promised explanation.
"On the day after the murder--in the morning, that is," said Mrs. Moxton, "I had a visitor. His card, with the name Richard Busham, was brought to me by a charwoman I engaged, but owing to the events of the previous night I refused to see him. He went away saying he would call again, but up to the present he has not done so."
"Who is Richard Busham? Do you know him?"
"Not personally. I never saw him, and he has never met me. But he is the cousin of my late husband, the nephew of Moxton of Bond Street. Now, I believe that he came to see me about the will, and I am vexed at not having admitted him."
"Why not call on him? Have you his address?"
"I heard it from Edgar. Mr. Busham is a solicitor, and has his office in Esher Lane, near the Temple. The late Mr. Moxton, of Bond Street, was a mean, shabby man who employed the cheapest labour he could get, and I believe his nephew did all his legal business for him. Now, Edgar and Mr. Busham hated one another, and when my husband was disinherited Mr. Busham was declared heir by old Moxton. If that will held good he would not waste time coming to see me, but from the very fact of his visit I believe that Edgar's father repented at the last moment, and made a new will, leaving the property to us."
"You can make certain of that by seeing Busham."
Mrs. Moxton looked troubled. "I am afraid," she said faintly. "I am terribly afraid."
"I do not see why you should be."
"Mr. Busham called on the morning after the murder; he must have learnt then of my loss. Yet he has never repeated his visit, has never written a line. I can't conceive his reason for acting in this way, unless," here she hesitated, "he believes that I murdered Edgar."
"He would not be so foolish as to believe that without evidence, and even if he did, the inquest must have disabused his mind of the idea."
"For all that I am afraid to call. I have heard Edgar talk of Mr. Busham; he is a dangerous man, Dr. Ellis, and for all I know may be laying a trap for me."
"Tell me the truth and I will prevent your falling into this trap."
Mrs. Moxton hesitated, and then burst out defiantly: "What is it you wish to know?"
"Firstly, if you know the meaning of the blood signs on your husband's arm?"
"No! I do not."
"Then I am wiser than you, for I do."
"You!" Mrs. Moxton bit her lip. "What do you know?"
"That the signs stand for the letters R. U. Z. What the lizard, as I think it is, means I don't know. Mrs. Moxton, what is the meaning of the three letters R. U. Z.?"
"I don't know, really I don't!"
"Had your husband any friend with a name beginning Ruz, or with initials R. U. Z.?"
"Not that I ever heard of."
"What about the lizard?"
"I cannot understand its meaning."
"And you don't comprehend either the letters or the cypher?"
"No! no! no!"
This triple denial was so emphatic that Ellis was forced to believe her. Yet it appeared strange that she should be so ignorant of matters which virtually concerned the death of her husband. He looked keenly at her for some sign of confusion, but the brow of Mrs. Moxton was as open as the day. If she lied she was a wonderful actress, but Ellis did not believe that she lied, being too much in love to consider her so deliberately base.
"Well!" said he, making an attempt in another direction to fathom the mystery. "My landlady, Mrs. Basket, called to see you the other day."
"To spy out the land. Oh, I saw through her pretended kindness at once. She wished to find some proof of my guilt, but as I had nothing to conceal I gave her the opportunity of convincing herself that I was innocent."
"The very proof you gave convinced her of your guilt," said Ellis, warmly. "Mrs. Basket is a dangerous woman, Mrs. Moxton; one of those well-meaning people who do so much harm. She has no special grudge against you, but she has got it into her mind that you killed your husband with the carving-knife."
"But I did not. It is nonsense talking like that!"
"Then where is the carving-knife? Mrs. Basket searched but could not find it, and now she believes that you have hidden it."
"What rubbish!" said Mrs. Moxton, with contempt. "Edgar threw it away."
"Threw it away? Why?"
"Because he knew that I kept it by me to protect myself against tramps or burglars, so, out of sheer devilry, the week before he died, he threw it into the garden behind some bushes."
"Is it there now?"
"No. I searched everywhere for it after the murder and could not find it. Why do you ask?"
"Because a broad-bladed knife was used to kill your husband, and it might have been the carving-knife. The murderer must have picked it up and made use of it. And----"
The woman appeared uneasy, and interrupted Ellis. "How would the murderer know that the knife was in the garden? Only two people knew where it was thrown. One was Edgar, the other myself."
"I would not advise you to say that in public, Mrs. Moxton, as people might count it as good circumstantial evidence that you killed Moxton."
"Oh!" cried the widow, clenching her fists. "Do you believe me guilty?"
"No, I do not. Is there any need to ask me that question?"
"Why? why? You have plenty of evidence against me. I have placed myself in your hands by confessing about the carving-knife. Why do you not denounce me as guilty?"
"How can you ask?" cried Ellis, carried out of his usual equable self by her vehemence. "Don't you know--can't you see--I love you! I love you! that is why I believe you guiltless."
In placing herself in the dock, so to speak, Mrs. Moxton had been defiant, loud-voiced and reckless, daring Ellis to denounce her for a crime of which she knew herself innocent. His refusal, and the cause he gave for such refusal, took her by surprise. Long since she had guessed that the doctor loved her, but she did not count on his proclaiming the fact so soon. Nor would he have done so had he not been thrown off his guard by her appeal. But her demand and his answer to it produced on both sides a stupefied calm. Ellis, frightened at his own boldness, remained silent after uttering the fatal words; Mrs. Moxton, on the other hand, felt her wrath die away in sheer surprise. Then her cheeks flushed from an unexplained emotion, and a light beamed from her eyes.
"You love me!" she murmured softly, and looked at Ellis.
Something in her regard, her tone, in her whole attitude, seemed to melt the frozen silence of the man. He sprang forward and touched her hand.
"You are not angry?" he asked, with eagerness.
The touch recalled Mrs. Moxton to a sense of what she owed to herself, and woke in her a feeling of wrath at the audacity of the man, who could speak the word to a woman lately widowed in so terrible a manner.
"How dare you!" she cried angrily, retreating. "What must you think of me to talk like that!"
"I think the world of you," replied Ellis, doggedly. "I have said the truth."
"You deceive yourself. What you take for the truth is fantasy. You cannot love one whom you have known only three weeks."
"Love can be born of a glance."
"In romances, I grant, but not in real life." She paused and burst out laughing. "Oh, it is too absurd."
Ellis was piqued. "I fail to see the absurdity. I speak as I feel."
For the moment Mrs. Moxton appeared to meditate an answer to this plain statement. Suddenly she bit her lip, drew back and shook her head. "You speak folly. You think madness," she said. "Consider! I am a three weeks' widow. My husband died by violence, and his death is not avenged. My name is smirched. My--no! This is no time for such talk. Let us forget the words you have uttered."
"I cannot forget."
"Then I must lose my friend," said Mrs. Moxton, determinedly. "I really cannot meet you on these terms. I am a newly-made widow, not a possible wife for you."
"But in the future?"
"Let the future look after itself," she cried petulantly. "What we have to do, is to attend to the present. You wish to help me. Do so by leaving this crime to be punished by Heaven."
"But your smirched name?"
"I can bear that. I have borne worse things. Oh, do not look so astonished, Dr. Ellis. I have had a queer up-and-down, topsy-turvy sort of life. Some day I may tell it to you, but we don't know each other well enough for that yet. If I find that you deserve my confidence---" She broke off the sentence abruptly. "Never mind that now. I have work to do. Yes! I shall take your advice about calling on Mr. Busham. This very day I shall call and ask him about the will. Could you meet me here at three o'clock, doctor?"
Ellis felt his breath taken away by the boldness of the demand. "If you wish me to come."
"Of course I wish it or I would not ask. Remember, doctor, you are my friend. No, don't repeat that folly. We are comrades at present, nothing more. You do not understand me now. You will when I explain."
"Will you ever explain?"
"Yes! No! I can't say. So much depends upon what kind of a man I find you to be. Now, go, please, as I must dress for my visit. Mind, I shall expect you at three o'clock, to tell you the result of my interview."
"At three o'clock," repeated Ellis, earnestly, and so they parted.
When the doctor found himself in the broad, cheerful sunshine of the Jubilee Road he was not quite certain if he was asleep or awake. To him Mrs. Moxton was more of an enigma than the murder itself. He could not understand her attitude, nor could he guess what motive she had in acting thus strangely. She was apparently pleased that he loved her; she was angry at his abrupt declaration; he could not gain her confidence; yet she requested him to meet her at three o'clock to ask his advice about her visit. What was he to understand from such a medley of contradictions? He sought in his own mind for every possible explanation, but could find none, so concluding that it was the more sensible course to possess his soul in patience until this sphinx explained her own riddle, he returned home. Here, to his surprise, he found a friend of the morbid lady's come to consult him about her heart, and in the joy of such promise of an increasing practice he forgot Mrs. Moxton and her eccentricities. In a similar situation a woman would not have forgotten, but Byron's lines give the reason for that:
"Man's love is of man's life a thing apart;'Tis woman's whole existence."
"Man's love is of man's life a thing apart;'Tis woman's whole existence."
Nevertheless, when his mind was less occupied with material things, the feeling about Mrs. Moxton revived, and he waited impatiently for the hour of three. It would seem that circumstances were about to involve him in the drama,--it might be tragedy--of this woman's life, and he felt eager for the call to step on the stage. What part would be assigned to him he could not guess. Was he to be the husband of the heroine or merely the friend, or would he pose as the foil to that shadowy lover in whose existence and guilt Cass believed? Altogether Ellis was in the dark, afraid to venture forward for fear of the unknown. He waited for a hand to draw him on to his doom--in plain English, for the hand and guidance of Mrs. Moxton. These strange thoughts, passing through the doctor's mind, made him fear that its usually accurate balance was disturbed.
Shortly after three o'clock struck from the bran-new brick tower of the bran-new Dukesfield church, he saw her walking briskly down the road. Even in his pre-occupation he noted her trim figure, the decided way in which she set down and lifted her feet, and the general air of alert resolution which stamped her whole being. Here was a woman of mind, of decision, of character, with few feminine failings, and more than ever Ellis wondered at her past history, as related by herself at the inquest. He began to suspect that there might be something after all in the ideas of Harry Cass. Mrs. Basket declared the woman "was a deep 'un." That also might be true.
"Good news! good news!" cried Mrs. Moxton, when she arrived. "I have seen Mr. Busham and I am right. Old Moxton made a will leaving the property to Edgar."
"But he is dead. How do you stand now?"
The widow let the gate click behind her, and walked up the path with a wrinkled brow, betokening thought. "That depends upon Edgar's will."
"Did he make one?"
"I think so. In one of his good humours he made a will leaving all his property to me. I believe the will was signed and witnessed at Monte Carlo. He told me about it, but I never saw it."
"Then how do you know it exists?"
"Edgar told me of it," repeated Mrs. Moxton. "It will no doubt be in his despatch-box, or in this room."
By this time the pair were again in the cheerful parlour, and her gaze was fixed upon a well-filled bookcase. "I should not wonder if it was hidden amongst the books," said Mrs. Moxton, pensively.
Ellis showed some amazement at this strange remark. "Why should he have put a valuable document amongst his books, Mrs. Moxton?"
The widow sat down and signed to Ellis to do likewise. "My dear doctor, do you know anything about drunken men?"
This was even a stranger remark than the former.
"I have come into contact with them," said Ellis, with a slight smile, "but what has that to do with this will?"
"More than you think," she retorted. "Edgar was never very sane at the best of times; but when drunk, as he often was, he took leave of his senses completely. Drunken men, as I daresay you know, have each their various idiosyncrasies which display the true animal within. Edgar's indwelling animal was a magpie."
"Oh!" The doctor seized on her meaning at once. "You believe that he concealed things!"
"Yes! When drunk he would hide his watch, chain, jewellery, money, and when sober could not remember where he put them. I was set to hunt them out, and often found them in that bookcase. Lately he took to hiding papers, so it is not unlikely he concealed his will. However, it may be in his despatch-box after all. That is in the bedroom, and I have the keys, so I shall go and look. In the meantime, doctor, would you turn out those books and see if it is concealed there?"
"Certainly; but one moment, Mrs. Moxton," he added as she was about to leave the room; "if your husband has left no will, what becomes of the property?"
"Half goes to Mr. Busham as the next-of-kin, and half to me as the widow, but, of course, I get all if Edgar left a will in my favour."
"Mr. Busham won't like that."
"No!" Mrs. Moxton frowned. "I'll tell you what he is," she burst out; "a mean, grasping miser. His manner to me was most disagreeable. I feel sure he suspects me of the murder. While he can get half the property I daresay he will hold his tongue, but if all comes to me I am certain he will make trouble."
"About the murder?"
"Yes, but I am not afraid. I can defend myself, and I have you for a friend."
"But what can I do?"
"Defend me!" Mrs. Moxton threw a searching glance at the amazed face of Ellis. "Look for the will," she said abruptly, and left the room.
By this time the doctor's capacity for astonishment was completely exhausted. Mrs. Moxton's conduct became more extraordinary at every interview, and it was worse than useless trying to account for it. Only further acquaintance and observation could explain her personality and apparently purposeless remarks; therefore Ellis, taking this sensible view, devoted himself to the task of searching for the will.
The bookcase was of white-painted wood, of no great size, and with three shelves. French novels in yellow and green paper covers predominated and Ellis tumbled these ruthlessly on to the floor. To all appearance the taste of the late Mr. Moxton had not been over-refined, for the majority of the novels were by the most sensual Parisian authors. But mingled with these decadent works were a number of old-fashioned books, mostly educational, with here and there a slim old-fashioned volume of travels. For the first ten minutes of his search Ellis paid no attention to these, but looked for the will at the back of the shelves. It was not to be found in any one of them, but he came across an amazing number of music-hall programmes, headed: "The Merryman, Viper Street, Soho." Evidently someone had been an assiduous attendant at this place of amusement, if the programmes were to be taken as evidence.
"Moxton!" said Ellis to himself, when this idea occurred to him. "So this is where he went night after night." He examined the dates of the programmes. "Yes! all within the last three months, one night after another. H'm! Mrs. Moxton said that she did not know where her husband went, yet these programmes must have informed her even if he held his tongue. Extraordinary woman! I can't understand her actions or denials."
Failing to find the will on the shelves, Ellis examined the books. One of these, a fat little brown volume, entitled,The Universal Informer, was inscribed on the flyleaf, "Janet Gordon, from her father, Thomas Gordon, Edinburgh," both of which names were unknown to Ellis. The book opened of itself at a turned-down page, on which was set forth a list of the towns and cities of the world. Now, what struck Ellis as strange was the fact that the turned-down page was towards the end of the list, and contained the towns beginning with "Z." This was one of the letters concealed in the blood signs, and to say the least it is not a letter generally used. Wondering if he was on the track of a discovery, Ellis glanced down the page. His eye caught the word "lizard," and he eagerly read the paragraph in which it was contained. Four lines informed him that "Zirknitz is a town in Austria, and that in its environs is found a peculiar species of lizard." Ellis reflected. "On the arm was the letter 'Z' concealed in a sign, and the representation of a lizard. This book, which opens of itself at this particular page, mentions an Austrian town called Zirknitz and a peculiar lizard. There must be some connection between the murder and this paragraph, but I can't see it myself. What can an Austrian town have to do with the crime in Jubilee Road?"
Finding no answer to this question he pursued his search. The old-fashioned books seemed to belong to Thomas Gordon, of Edinburgh, but in one or two he had inscribed their presentation to his "daughter Janet," or to his "daughter Laura."
"Laura!" murmured Ellis. "That is Mrs. Moxton's name. Perhaps she is the Laura Gordon who owns these books. In fact, she must be. If so, she has a sister Janet; it is the first I have heard of her sister. Hullo, what's this?"
"This" was a novel of Catulle Mendes, which had a name scribbled in pencil on the outside. The name was "Rudolph Zirknitz."
"R. U. Z.," said the doctor, staring at the pencilled autograph; "so it stands for Rudolph Zirknitz, who evidently takes his name and the totem of the lizard from that Austrian town."
At this moment Mrs. Moxton entered with a disconsolate air. "Have you found the will, doctor?" she inquired; "it is not in the despatch-box."
"No, Mrs. Moxton, I have not found the will, but I have learnt the name of the man who killed your husband."
The widow became as grey as the wall-paper, and leant against the door for support. "What? Who? I--I do not understand," she gasped.
"The murderer is called Rudolph Zirknitz," explained Ellis. "Now, who is Rudolph Zirknitz?"
Mrs. Moxton made no attempt to answer this question. Closing her eyes she slipped quietly on to the floor, and lay at the feet of Ellis, white and insensible.