I could have seen Gertrude before leaving for London, but I did not think it wise to do so. She would certainly ask questions, and if, by chance, I let slip that my visit was to her father, trouble would ensue. When had he returned from America? Why had he returned from America? For what reason did he wish to see me? Where was the letter or telegram, which I had received? These questions Gertrude would assuredly ask, and if I answered them truthfully, she would probably insist upon coming with me. That would be impossible, as her presence would only complicate matters. And Heaven knows they were sufficiently complicated as it was.
For this reason I simply sent a note saying that I had been called to London on business, and drove over to Tarhaven in Mrs. Gilfin's trap to catch the midday train. I just managed to escape Cannington, whom I saw in the street, as I drove up to the station, and was glad that he had not noticed me. I did not wish to enter into further explanations, and invent theories, and conjecture possibilities. So many lies were being told and so many secrets were being kept, that it was difficult to understand the actual position of affairs. The corner shop at Mootley seemed to have been a kind of rendezvous for all manner of people, and on that fatal evening Mrs. Caldershaw appeared to have held quite a reception. Gertrude, her father, Striver, and Miss Destiny had all been making for that goal, and the consequence of their presence--in a broad sense I speak--had been the death of the old woman. The sole person whose innocence could be proved beyond all doubt was Miss Destiny, as she had not arrived until I had discovered the body of Mrs. Caldershaw. Of course I truly believed that Gertrude was innocent, but the police might have taken a different view. For this reason I was anxious to learn the exact state of things with regard to Striver and Monk. In my opinion one of the two was guilty, and I anxiously waited for three o'clock to learn the absolute truth. Then, being enlightened, I should know how to act.
At three o'clock I drove in a taxi to Stratford Street, and was admitted by a demure-looking man in black--Monk's valet, I suppose--to the flat. Apparently the servant expected my arrival, for he led me directly into the Moorish smoking-room where I had previously been. Striver and Mr. Monk were both present, seated in opposite chairs and glowering--as the Scotch say--at one another. They resembled a couple of ill-tempered dogs chained together. Monk, I thought, looked haggard and worn and anxious, quite different to his usual complacent self. But Striver's handsome face wore a determined, confident expression. I judged that he was master of the situation. This augured ill for Monk's innocence. As soon as I entered the elder man, quivering with nervousness, rose quickly to his feet and rushed forward to clasp my hand. "I am so glad you have come, Vance," he said, dropping his affected speech. "I need your assistance in dealing with this--this-- blackmailer."
"That's a lie," growled Striver, who looked dangerous, and probably was; "why don't you introduce me as your secretary?"
"Yes," cried Monk, his under lip twitching, "that's what he calls himself, Vance--my secretary. He followed after me to New York, and has been in my company ever since. To explain his presence I called him my secretary. But he is a blackguard--a blackmailer."
"I have never asked you for a shilling," retorted Striver with a shrug.
"No, you ask me for what I value more--the hand of my child."
I sat down and laughed outright, in spite of the seriousness of the situation. "Hasn't Mr. Striver given up hope in that quarter?"
"No, I haven't," snarled the gardener, "nor shall I. I intend to marry Gertrude."
"Miss Monk, to you, if you please. As to your marrying her, that is out of the question. She is engaged to me, and I don't intend to give her up. Now, Mr. Striver, I haven't come here to listen to bombast and froth, but to hear facts. For what reason do you persecute Mr. Monk?"
"I don't persecute him. I just followed him to New York to ask his help in marrying Ger--well, Miss Monk, if you will have it so."
"Mr. Monk can't help you there," I said calmly. "We'll see about that," said Striver, with an evil look.
"Of course. That is why I am here. Mr. Monk, would you mind giving me a cigar, please? I recommend one to you also, Striver. Smoking may soothe your nerves."
"Mind your own business."
"Oh, your nerves are my business, since they may lead you into making mischief. Thank you, Mr. Monk," I said, taking the cigar he passed me. "A light, please." I struck a match. "Now," I ended, when comfortably smoking, "let me hear all about it."
"All about what?" demanded Striver, annoyed by my coolness.
"About the means you propose to use in forcing Mr. Monk into supporting your preposterous desire to marry his daughter."
"He is guilty of my aunt's murder."
"It is a lie, a lie," cried Monk, sitting down and clasping his hands.
"Last time we had the pleasure of speaking together, Mr. Striver," I said easily, "you accused Miss Monk; now you assert her father to be the guilty person. On what grounds do you base your last accusation? I know those on which you base your first, and I told you to tell them to the police. Instead of doing this you attempt to coerce an old man. I had some sympathy with you, because you loved in vain; now I have none, as I think you are simply a scoundrel, using illegal means to accomplish the impossible."
"How dare you!"--he sprang to his feet with flashing eyes--"how----"
"That will do, my man," I interrupted coldly, "sit down, and speak when I ask you questions."
"I'll break your head," he muttered between his teeth, but obeyed.
I laughed. "I think we tried physical conclusions at The Lodge, and you got the worst of it. Hold your tongue, confound you," I commanded sternly. "Mr. Monk!" I turned to my future father-in-law, who was shivering with apprehension, "you say that this person accuses you of murdering Anne Caldershaw?"
"Yes, he does. He came here and learned that I had gone to America and followed. He has never left me since."
"Why didn't you kick him out?"
"I couldn't, I couldn't," said Monk, shivering again, while Striver sneered. "He threatened to tell the police. I kept him near me as my supposed secretary, and have been compelled to pay his expenses."
"Oh, you can easily do that, Mr. Wentworth Marr," scoffed Striver, "seeing that you have secured the fifty thousand pounds which rightfully belongs to your daughter, Miss Gertrude."
"What?" I cried, alive with curiosity.
"It's not true," said Monk hastily, and his face grew red with anger, "the money I have comes from my Australian cousin, whose name I took in accordance with the conditions laid down in the will. I told you so."
"Yes, and I did not believe you." "Mr. Vance--" Striver shifted his position so as to face me--"I truly believed when I left Burwain that Miss Gertrude was guilty, on the grounds I explained to you at The Lodge. I came to London to see Mr. Monk, whom I knew to be masquerading as Marr----"
"I did not masquerade," broke in Monk indignantly.
"Shut up," said Striver contemptuously, "and let me tell my story in my own way or it will be the worse for you."
"No threats, Striver. Tell me the story without side issues; I am aware that you learned about Mr. Monk's change of name. You doubtless came here to say that if he didn't help you to marry Miss Gertrude you would denounce her to the police."
"Yes, I did," said Striver sullenly, "but I learned from the caretaker of these rooms that Mr. Monk--Marr, the man called him--had gone to New York, and had left an address to which his letters were to be forwarded. I got that address----"
"The caretaker had no right to give it to you," cried Monk indignantly.
"Oh, a little money soon makes that sort of person speak," sneered the gardener. "However, I had no difficulty in learning where Mr. Monk was stopping in New York. I had plenty of cash, with my aunt's legacy and my own income, to say nothing of the sale of the corner shop lease to Giles, so I determined to follow. I reached New York in due course, and compelled Mr. Monk to take me as his secretary, so that I could keep him under my eye."
Monk groaned. "I have had a cruel time with you; a cruel time."
"Better than you deserve. I swear," added Striver, turning again to me, "that I never believed Mr. Monk to be guilty until I found the eye."
"What?" I sprang to my feet in sheer astonishment. "You found the eye?"
Monk, changing alternately from white to red with nervous fear, would have burst out into emphatic denial, but Striver cast such a black look in his direction that the words died on his lips. Then the gardener took out of his pocket a small morocco case, such as jewellers use to enclose watches, and passed it along to me. I opened it silently, and there, on the puffy white silk, lay a glass eye. "I found that," said Striver slowly, "while searching the luggage of Mr. Monk."
"You had no right to search my luggage," whimpered Monk, "it was most unfair."
"Unfair be hanged! You were so certain that Miss Gertrude was innocent, and talked so much about defending her with your life that I began to suspect you of the deed. I hunted, when you were out, amongst your luggage and papers for some proof of your guilt. I found my aunt's glass eye."
"I never saw it before," cried Monk, rising in his excitement; "you placed it amongst my papers to incriminate me."
"Mr. Vance," said Striver coldly, "look at the initials on the outside of that case. You will see they are Wentworth Marr's initials--W. M. They also stand for Walter Monk," ended Striver with a sneer, and when I glanced at the case I saw that he spoke the truth.
"The case is mine, I admit," said Monk, trying to speak calmly, "it was in my dressing-case----"
"Where I found it, containing the eye," put in Striver sharply.
"You did not, you did not. The case was empty, as I was wearing the watch--this watch." Monk jerked a golden chronometer out of his waistcoat pocket. "The jeweller, whose address is inside the case, can prove that the watch was in it when he sold it to me."
"I daresay," sneered Striver quietly, "but you wore the watch and placed the eye in the empty case. Yes, and with that eye you learned the secret of the whereabouts of Miss Gertrude's fifty thousand pounds, and you have been living on it under the name of Wentworth Marr. The story of your Australian legacy and Australian cousin is a mere invention."
"I tell you I have spoken the truth. I deny everything."
"Do you deny that you were in Mrs. Caldershaw's shop?" I asked, preventing Striver from speaking by a gesture.
Monk stared and winced. "How do you know that?"
"Mr. Wentworth Marr was at Murchester on the day when the crime was committed. He came down in his motor and stopped at the Lion Hotel. He left a card for Lord Cannington at Murchester Barracks. He also went to Mootley to see Anne Caldershaw."
"You can't prove that," said Monk, and wiped the perspiration from his brow nervously. "I admit that I did motor down to Murchester to ask Cannington to influence his sister in my favor. I called in the afternoon and left a card. Then I stopped the night at the Lion Hotel, and returned to town the next morning."
"And after you found that Cannington was absent--about three o'clock, that was--you went to Mootley to see Anne Caldershaw."
"Prove it, prove it."
"I daresay Mr. Striver can prove it. He was concealed upstairs."
"I was asleep for a time," said Striver abruptly, "but I woke in time to see Mr. Monk. I peered down the stairs and saw him talking to my aunt in the shop. The sound of their voices raised high woke me up. They were quarrelling."
"I don't deny that I was there," said Monk, wiping his face again, "but I want to know how Vance learned my whereabouts. It's a guess based on my leaving the card on Cannington."
"It is not," I said sharply; "your daughter was in the back room and saw you through the open door. She refused to tell me this, but as she said that the sight of a certain person drove her hastily out of the back door, so hastily that she left her cloak behind her, I believe that person was you, Mr. Monk."
"I was simply calling on Mrs. Caldershaw. There was no reason why Gertrude should not say so, although I did not know that she was there."
"She believed that you were guilty because of your presence there, and did not tell me, even though I pressed her. You are the sole person she would shield at the risk of losing her liberty, though you aren't worth it, Mr. Monk. Am I not right?"
"I admitted that you were right. Striver saw me, and Gertrude saw me. I cannot deny my presence in the shop. But that does not prove me to be guilty of murder."
"How, then," asked Striver, "did you become possessed of the eye?"
"The last time that I saw the eye was in Mrs. Caldershaw's head," snapped Monk, whose nerves were entirely giving way under the strain of cross-examination. "You pretended to find it amongst my baggage and slipped it into that case, which is really mine. It's part of your plan of blackmail."
"There may be some truth in that," I remarked, for, knowing what I did, I had not much belief in Striver's story.
"How can you talk such damned nonsense?" cried Striver roughly, "when you know that Mr. Monk has been posing in London as a rich man under the name of Wentworth Marr. He has five hundred a year under his brother's will, and that house with the acres surrounding it. Where did he get his money?"
"My Australian cousin----"
"Oh, hang your Australian cousin. I don't believe he ever existed. Mr. Vance, I swear that I found that eye amongst Mr. Monk's luggage. You must believe, in the face of that," he pointed to the case, which was still open in my hand, "that Mr. Monk is guilty."
"No, I don't, if this"--I shook the case--"is all the evidence you can bring."
Monk heaved a sigh of relief, and Striver stared uneasily. "On what grounds do you say that?" he asked grimly.
"On the grounds of common-sense, Mr. Striver. I saw the eye on a small table in the drawing-room of The Lodge, near the middle French window."
"Mr. Monk placed it there: it only proves his guilt more conclusively."
"I think not. In the first place, if Mr. Monk had been possessed of the eye he would scarcely be such a fool as to leave it about. In the second case, when I re-entered the drawing-room the eye had disappeared, and all the time from when I saw it to when I returned to the room Mr. Monk was with me. He could not have secured it again, even though--according to you--he placed it there, which I don't believe.Youtook the eye from the table."
"How dare you say that!" cried the man, but his color changed, and I guessed that my chance remark asserted the truth. "On what grounds----"
"You have supplied the grounds yourself," I said quickly, "by saying that you found the eye in Mr. Monk's dressing-bag. You found the watch case, but you certainly brought the eye to place in it, for the furtherance of your infernal plans. You were working in the garden, Striver, and saw by my face, when I came out to meet Mr. Monk, that I was startled. Out of curiosity and jealousy you went up to the window, saw the eye, and secured it. Finding that I supported Miss Monk, and you could not incriminate her, you made use of the eye to incriminate Mr. Monk."
"I do not," he stuttered, changing color again and again.
"You did, and by your own showing. For all I know, you may have placed the eye on the table, since it was easy to do so with the window open."
"How could I get the eye? Do you accuse me of murder?"
"The police might if they knew all that we know. But I shall give you the benefit of the doubt, and say that you found the eye in the shop after the murder was committed."
"But according to the police," said Monk doubtfully, "the murder was committed for the sake of the eye."
"Of course it was," insisted Striver, "and by you."
"I am perfectly innocent."
"In that case, how did you get your money unless by----"
"Stop!" I interrupted impulsively, "there also I can defend Mr. Monk. Long before the murder, he was living as wealthy Mr. Wentworth Marr in London, as Lord Cannington informed me. If he did not get the money until the eye was found--and by your own showing, Mr. Striver, he could only find the hidden treasure in that way--how could he pose long before as a rich man? Answer me that, Mr. Striver."
The gardener, seeing that I could beat him on every point, maintained a sullen silence. Mr. Monk, cheered by my several defences of his actions, leaned forward eagerly. "No doubt this is a false clue," he said, pointing to the case; "it may not be the real eye. Striver would never allow me to examine it, in case," he smiled bitterly, "I should destroy it."
"Which you would have done," said the other bluntly. "I wouldn't trust you a single inch, Mr. Monk. The eye is the one worn by my aunt right enough, and contains the cipher of which she spoke. Look at the back?"
Remembering the glimpse I had seen of the concave of the eye when it was on The Lodge table, I delicately turned over the object of the case. It may seem odd that I had not examined it before, but the interest of the conversation between Striver and Monk had held me spellbound. It was imperative, as is obvious, that I should lose no single word of the ill-assorted pair.
However I did now what I should have done before, and tilted the eye, to behold in the hollow the piece of silver I had seen before. There it lay, and looked more than ever like a threepenny bit. Monk bent forward curiously and stared.
"It's a silver coin--a threepenny bit," he explained, half to himself. "Gabriel told me that he had engraved the cipher on a threepenny bit, but he would never tell me where it was hidden. A very ingenious idea to hide it in Mrs. Caldershaw's eye. See, it is fastened by a piece of gold wire to the center of the pupil."
It was as he said, the coin was so fastened and in the dense black of the pupil appeared the glint of a tiny piece of gold. In no other way could the coin have been kept in its place. But as it was sunken a good way into the concave of the artificial eye, the same, when worn, could not produce any irritation to the wearer. It was, as Monk said, a very ingenious idea.
"I never saw it before," he murmured, and I believed that he was speaking the truth; "so this is how Gabriel concealed his secret?"
I tried to read what was on the coin, but failed, as the engraving was so very small. "Have you a magnifying glass, Mr. Monk?" I asked.
"Not to my knowledge," he said promptly; "however, I'll look for one," and he rose to make a search.
I examined the eye again; then closed the case, and placed it on the table, intending to pocket it when I had used the magnifying glass. "Though I daresay," said I to Striver, who was seated in his chair looking very dejected, "you can tell me what the cipher consists of."
He did not answer my question, but leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. To my surprise I saw the tears forcing themselves between his fingers. I hate to see a man cry, but on this occasion I was glad, for these tears showed that Striver had broken down. He was not cut out by nature for a villain, and now that I had thwarted his schemes he could contrive no new ones. He was beaten, and he knew that he was beaten. I felt quite sorry for him, badly as he had behaved.
"Striver!" I placed my hand on his bowed shoulders.
"Don't touch me," he said in a choking voice, and rising to his feet he walked rapidly to the end of the room, where there was an ottoman. Here he flung himself down at full length, sobbing bitterly. I followed, and waited until the paroxysm passed away. Then, finding him in a gentler mood, I hoped to get at the truth, which I felt convinced he knew. And indeed, seeing that he had been concealed in the house during the commission of the crime, he must know who had stabbed his aunt. Unless----
"Striver," I said sharply, "pull yourself together and answer me. Did you murder this unfortunate woman?"
"No," he sobbed in a stifled voice, "I did not. I was hidden in the bedroom, and came down to find her dead. The rest, as to taking your car and escaping, I have told you."
"What's to be done, then?" I muttered, much perplexed.
"This is to be done," he said, sitting up, with his handsome face tear-stained and his hair dishevelled, "you have won and I have lost. I surrender all claim to the hand of Miss Monk."
"You never had any claim," I reminded him sharply.
"Perhaps not," was his dejected reply, "but I am a man and I cannot help my feelings. Gertrude is the only woman I have ever loved, and the only woman I shall ever love. She is lost to me, because she loves you. Well, I daresay it is better that she should marry a gentleman. But I wish--I wish----" He broke down again.
"Striver," I said, for the third time, and placed my hand on his shoulder, "I am very sorry for you, although you have not acted well."
"All is fair in love and war," he said, sitting up again.
"There are some things a gentleman cannot do, even to win the woman he loves, Striver," I said gently, "so all isnotfair in love and war."
"I am not a gentleman: I never pretended to be a gentleman."
"Then be one now," I urged, "you know the truth of this murder since you were in the house all the time. I believe myself that you are innocent."
"Why should you think that?" he asked in a curious voice and with a curious look.
"Because I believe you to be a good fellow, Striver. Your nature has been warped by the influence of this mad love and by the influence of your dead aunt. She always promised you Miss Monk as a bride and this fifty thousand pounds for yourself."
"Yes, she did," he said, his bright blue eyes steadily fixed on me.
"Well, then, these things have drawn you into wrongdoing. You love Miss Monk. Prove your love by preventing her from getting into trouble about this murder. Until the truth is discovered, she is in danger of arrest because of her unfortunate visit to Mootley and because of the cloak left behind."
"Perhaps! perhaps. But her father will say nothing, he dare not."
"No, but Miss Destiny might. She knows that her niece was at Mootley on that night, and threatens to betray her unless she receives half the fifty thousand pounds when it is found."
"Miss Destiny threatens," said Striver rising, "and for the sake of money. Ah! that old lady always was a miser. Well?"
"Well, can't you show your love for Miss Monk and thwart the aunt by telling the truth."
"Why, do you think I know the truth?"
"You were in the house all the time. I feel certain that you can unravel the mystery."
Striver looked away, and became very silent. At this moment Monk entered, and began to bustle about. "Hunter," this was his valet, I afterwards heard, "says that there is a magnifying glass in the desk here."
I paid no attention to him as I was looking at Striver. After a long silence the gardener spoke. "I do know the truth," he said slowly, "and I shall save Gertrude's good name. Marry her, and may you be happy."
"But----" I cried, following him as he was walking towards the door.
"I have nothing more to say," said Striver, and disappeared. I wondered if he was guilty after all, and whether he intended to confess. Before I could think out the matter, Monk touched my elbow.
"I can't find the magnifying glass," he said, handing me the case, which he had picked up off the table; "better go to a jeweller and borrow one."
"Thanks," I said, slipping the case into my pocket and reaching for my hat and coat. "Good-day, Mr. Monk."
"Don't go," he urged me. "I have much to say, and much to thank you for."
I put on my coat and made for the door. "I decline to remain in your company, Mr. Monk," I said, "because you are a scoundrel, and if you were not Gertrude's father I would thrash you willingly, old as you are. For her sake only have I saved you."
"How dare you speak to me in this way!" he cried furiously, and followed me into the hall, plucking at my sleeve.
"Because it is just as well someone should tell you the truth," I retorted heatedly; "you have acted in the most cruel manner towards your daughter."
"I have not. I deny it," he panted, looking white and wicked.
"You have lived in luxury in London while she has been practically starving down at Burwain. She knows that you are Marr."
"You told her?" he cried, falling back a pace.
"Yes, I was forced to tell her, because Lady Mabel recognized your photograph in the drawing-room. I warned you that Lady Mabel was going down to Burwain to see Mr. Weston's airship."
"You had no right to tell; you promised, if I went away, to hold your tongue."
"So I did for a fortnight."
"Not with regard to Gertrude. I was to tell her myself."
"You never came back to tell her, but bolted to America. You never intended to return, and would not have done so had not Striver forced you to defend yourself. I can't say if you are guilty, or if he is guilty, but I am quite sure that one of you is guilty. However, you have money from your Australian cousin, Mr. Monk, a new name and a secretary who knows what a blackguard you are, so I wish you joy for the future. My advice to you is to go to America, and never return. Gertrude is done with you."
This struck him to the heart. "My little child--my own child."
"Exactly, and you deserve your fate entirely. Good-day and good-bye," and I walked out of the chamber and down the stairs. That was the last I ever saw of Mr. Walter Monk, alias Mr. Wentworth Marr.
On the way back to Tarhaven, and in the train, I opened the case to again examine the famous glass eye. It was gone: the case was empty.
Here was a discovery! Well might I talk about the disappearing eye, for it vanished every time it was found. It had disappeared out of Mrs. Caldershaw's head when she was murdered; it had disappeared from the drawing-room table, and now it had disappeared from the watch case of Mr. Walter Monk. And this final vanishing seemed to be the strangest of all. I could not understand how it had taken place since I was in the room and the closed case was on the table all the time. Striver could not have secured the eye, for I had held him in conversation.
Then I remembered that Mr. Monk had been hunting the smoking-room for a magnifying glass in order to decipher the inscription. Engaged with the repentant gardener, I had paid very little attention to his movements, so it was probable that when my back was turned he had taken the opportunity to slip the incriminating eye into his pocket. Also I recalled the fact that he had handed me the closed case himself, recommending me to get a magnifying glass from a jeweller. Had I been clever enough to mistrust him--as I had every reason to--I should there and then have opened the case to see that the eye was safe. But I had not done so, and now, in the train, when Monk was out of reach, I discovered the loss.
Of course I guessed that he had taken it, so as to obviate any accusation being brought against himself, and probably by this time he had got rid of it for ever. It was useless for me to do what I settled on the spur of the moment to do, and return by the next train to London from one of the intermediate stations. Monk would only lie, and I could not force him to surrender the eye--always presuming that he had not destroyed it--by threatening to tell the police. The fulfilment of such a threat meant danger to Gertrude, and he would simply laugh in my face. There was nothing for it but to continue my journey to Burwain and consult with Gertrude. If I placed the matter before her, she might see a way out of the dilemma.
And it was a dilemma, for I had not found time to decipher what was on the threepenny bit, and so could not hope to find the hidden money. If I only knew what kind of a cryptogram Gabriel Monk had engraved on that piece of silver, I felt certain that in one way or another I could read the same. Failing my own capability, I knew a man in London who possessed a Poe-like talent for unravelling such puzzles. And for Gertrude's sake I desired to find her fortune, since Mr. Monk--now that he had nothing to gain, and knew that his daughter loved him no longer--might withdraw the money he allowed her. He might even sell the house and grounds, for though the income was entailed the property was not. Then Gertrude would be homeless and penniless until her father died and the five hundred a year by the entail reverted to her. No wonder I was vexed at the loss of the eye.
On arriving at Burwain, Mrs. Gilfin informed me that Lord Cannington had been inquiring for me, and, failing my company, had passed the day in Weston's yard. I did not get to the inn until seven o'clock, so Weston, always working late, had not put in an appearance. Then I found--and to my great satisfaction--that Dicky had gone in his motor to Tarhaven with Cannington to dine and sleep at the Buckingham Hotel. The boy had left a note asking me to come over also when I returned, but I sent a wire from the village post-office, excusing myself on the ground of fatigue, and sat down to my dinner. Afterwards--about eight o'clock, in fact--I walked to The Lodge to explain my absence to Gertrude.
She was in the quaint drawing-room, arrayed in a dinner dress of some soft, white, clinging material, and looked almost as pale as her frock. There were dark rings round her eyes, and a weary look on her face. Without a word she came forward to kiss me, and sighed as she laid her head on my breast.
"What is the matter, my own?" I asked, kissing the soft dark hair.
"I am so tired," she whispered. "I have had a white night, as the French call it, and all day I have been longing to talk to you. Why have you not been to see me, Cyrus? What took you to London? I was so disappointed when I received your note. I wanted you so much--so very, very much."
"What for, dear?"
"I made up my mind last night to tell you everything."
"What if I know everything already?"
Gertrude withdrew from my arms and looked at me in a frightened way. "What do you know? What have you learned?"
"Dear," I took her hand and led her to a chair near the fire, "sit down, for I have much to tell you. I have been to London in answer to a telegram from your father."
She rose from the seat in which I had placed her. "Oh," she exclaimed in a fright, "has he returned to England? How foolish, when----" She stopped.
"When what, Gertrude?" I asked, looking at her keenly.
"If you know all, you must know why I wish my father to remain absent from England," she replied, sinking to the chair with a white face.
"Never mind what I know, tell me."
"My father," she began, and then her voice died away in her throat and she cast a frightened look at the door.
I knelt at her feet and took her cold hands within my own. "We are quite safe, dearest. Tell me, tell me, trust me fully." I knew pretty well what she was about to say, but wished her to voluntarily give me her full confidence.
"It was my father I saw through the door," she whispered, bending over me anxiously, "he called to see Anne on that day. She came back and told me he was there. I did not wish to meet him, as already I had caught a glimpse of his face. Therefore I ran out of the back door, leaving my cloak behind me."
"Why did you not wish to meet him?"
"Because he would have insisted upon knowing why I had come to Mootley. If he had learned what I had found in the diary he would have got the secret from Anne, and then the money would have passed into his possession, to make bad use of. I thought it better to go, and I fled on the impulse of the moment. I had no time to think."
"Dear, I believe that your father knew Mrs. Caldershaw possessed the secret, else why should he have come to see her."
"Then you guessed that I was shielding him?"
"Yes, I guessed, and now I know for certain."
"Who told you, Cyrus?"
"Your father himself."
Gertrude rose unsteadily to her feet, grasping my arm. "But--but," she stammered, "has he confessed that he is guilty."
I rose also and at the same moment. "No, dear. He is the last man to confess anything that would get him into trouble. He swears that he is innocent."
"Oh, I hope so--I think he must be." She clasped her hands and her eyes shone in her pale face like twin stars. "Papa is foolish and--as I see now--selfish. But he would never commit so cruel a murder."
"I think he would do anything, provided he was not found out," I said in a cynical manner. "Of course you left before the termination of his interview with Mrs. Caldershaw, so you can't say for certain if he is innocent or guilty. But Striver accuses him."
"Striver," she grasped my arm again in her fright, "and he was concealed in the bedroom, but he was asleep. He said that he was asleep."
"He woke--according to his story--at the sound of voices, and saw your father in the shop. He accuses him of the murder because he found the glass eye amongst your father's luggage in America."
"In America. Has Joseph been to America?"
"Yes. He followed your father there to force him to insist upon the marriage--which he apparently intended to bring about by threatening you. Then he found--so he says--the glass eye in your father's dressing-bag and accused him. To keep Striver quiet, your father made him his secretary and brought him back to England. This morning I received a wire from your father asking for my assistance. I went up and"--I shrugged--"that is all."
"It is only the beginning," said Gertrude quickly. "Sit down and tell me all about your interview. First--to set my mind at rest--is my father guilty?"
I reflected. "I really can't say. Sometimes I think he is and again I think he is not. There is much to be said for both opinions. Striver--if anyone--knows the truth, and yet he only bases his accusation on the finding of the glass eye."
"But surely," said Gertrude, in great agitation, "that is strong evidence."
"Yes," I assented dryly, "if it were true. But I believe that Striver stole the glass eye from yonder table and took it to America to frighten your father into helping with the marriage. If he had real, true evidence against Mr. Monk, he would not have resorted to faked evidence with the glass eye. On those grounds I believe that your father is innocent."
"Oh, what a relief!" She sighed and sat down.
"On the other hand," I continued quietly, "your father has made me change my opinion by stealing the eye again."
"What do you mean, Cyrus?"
I took my seat beside her and gained possession of her hands. Then I related all that had taken place in the Stratford Street rooms. She interrupted me frequently with ejaculations. When I had finished, she appeared more struck with Striver's sudden collapse than with any other portion of my narrative.
"He knows the truth and he will save my good name," she said slowly to herself, "that would seem as though Joseph knows for certain that my father is innocent, since his name is my name."
"Not exactly, my dear. His name, by Act of Parliament, is Marr, and yours is Monk. But when you change it to Vance," I gathered her into my arms to kiss her fondly, "there will be no need for Striver to bother."
"There will always be a need until the truth becomes known," murmured Gertrude anxiously. "I shall never be safe from my aunt's threats until the assassin of Anne is found."
"Well, then, let us leave it to Striver," I said cheerfully. "He is ready to behave decently, now that he finds you will never be his wife. Meanwhile, I want you to go to London to-morrow and see your father."
Gertrude shrank from the suggestion. "Oh, I don't want to see him again after he has treated me so badly. Besides, he must be angry with me."
"Never mind. You are strong enough to face his anger, which is sure to be of a puny kind. I wish you to see him, so that you may regain the glass eye, which I feel certain he took out of the case when my back was turned."
"Why do you want the glass eye?"
"To read the cipher, and find the money."
Gertrude shook her head. "I feel as though that money would bring us a curse, Cyrus. Already it has caused a murder and no end of unhappiness. Besides, you can never read the cipher."
"I should try, dear, and if I fail there is a clever friend of mine who can unravel anything. As to the money, or rather the diamonds, they are rightfully yours and ought to be in your hands. Get the eye and----"
I did not finish the sentence. Eliza suddenly opened the drawing-room door to deliver a letter to me. "It came by express," said Eliza, "and the boy is waiting at the door."
"Take him into the kitchen and feed him," I said, glancing at the superscription. I did not recognize the writing. "You can go, Eliza," for she still lingered--out of curiosity, I expect.
I opened the envelope, and besides the letter--a long one written on foolscap--there was a folded paper, which fell to the floor. Gertrude picked it up, while I turned instantly to the signature. "Joseph Striver!" I read in wonderment. "What can he be writing about to me in such a hurry that it requires an express delivery?"
"Read! read!" cried Gertrude, with bright eyes, and crushing up the folded paper in her hands without looking at it. "He said that he would save my good name. Perhaps that letter contains the truth."
I hastily skimmed the contents, then walked towards the door. Gertrude very impatiently followed me. "Where are you going? Why don't you read me the letter?" she inquired imperatively.
"I shall read it when I have dismissed the messenger. It's all right," and at once I went to the kitchen. Here I gave the boy a shilling and sent him off. On my return to the drawing-room I found Gertrude looking at the folded paper, which she had smoothed out.
"What does this mean?" she asked bewildered, and I looked also.
The paper contained a rude drawing representing a kind of bird. Whether kite or owl or barn-door fowl I could not say. Around were a number of spots, and beneath were two large letters: an "A" reversed, and an "S" twisted in the wrong direction. "What does it mean?" asked Gertrude.
"Let us read the letter," said I, sitting down, and we did so together, she looking over my shoulder.
Striver wrote that by this time no doubt I had found out the disappearance of the glass eye. Mr. Monk had taken it, he said, when my back had been turned, and had destroyed it. The glass portion he had smashed up, and had afterwards gone out to throw the silver coin with the inscribed cipher into the Thames. Thus wrote the gardener: "You can never learn the cipher from the eye itself. But I enclose a drawing I made of what was on the threepenny bit while it was in my possession. What it means I can't say, or I should have found the treasure for myself. You were right, Mr. Vance, in thinking that I had taken the eye from the drawing-room table. I did. When you left the window I saw that you were disturbed, and, moreover, was very jealous, as I fancied you had just exchanged a word with Gertrude. On the spur of the moment I ran to the window when you turned the corner of the terrace with Mr. Monk, and saw the eye. I was greatly amazed, as I could not think how it came to be there, and I was still more amazed to think you had not secured it----"
"I was a fool," I interjected, "but I had not my wits about me."
The letter went on to say that, finding he would make no impression on Gertrude with me beside her, Striver had taken the eye to America in order to lay a trap for Monk. But he swore solemnly that Monk did not possess the eye, "unless," wrote Striver, "he placed it on the drawing-room table. I think myself that he is innocent, as I watched him all the time he was talking to my aunt. He did not leave the shop, but after a quarter of an hour he went away down the road. I believe he left his motor car at Murchester and walked over. Hence--as no one came to the corner shop on that afternoon--his visit was not noticed. After he departed I went back to the bedroom to lie down, and told my aunt I was weary. She did not come up the stairs and I did not go down them. She went into the back room, and I lay down again in the bedroom. Then--but I shall not tell you the truth now. When the time comes you shall know all, and Gertrude need have no fear that she will ever be troubled again by the Mootley murder."
"Thank God for that," said Gertrude; "but who is guilty?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "We must wait until Striver speaks out. Perhaps he killed his aunt himself, and wished to escape abroad before confessing. But let us read the rest of his letter," and I continued.
The writer went on to say that he intended to leave England, as he had plenty of money. He could not return to Burwain to see Gertrude the wife of another, so probably he would go to Australia.
"Very foolish of him to tell us that, seeing he may be guilty," I said.
"Cyrus, he knows that he can trust us," she said rebukingly. "I am sorry for the poor man. He is making amends."
"I shall say so when I hear that he has told the truth about the murder," I remarked grimly. "How he intends to do so I can't say. But, look, Gertrude, do you see how he finishes? Your father, after getting rid of the cipher coin in the river, came back and took all his things away. He told Striver--here it is--that he was returning to America and would never come to England again. Well"----I paused.
"Poor papa," sighed Gertrude, "why could he not have come down and asked me to help him? After all, he is my father, and I could never be hard on him."
"I don't think he is worthy of your regrets," I said, for really Mr. Walter Monk's behavior sickened me, "but, as he has departed, there is no use your going up to see him to-morrow about the eye."
"Especially as the eye is now destroyed," said Gertrude, taking up the paper, "and the cipher is set down here. What do you make of it, Cyrus?"
I put Striver's letter into my pocket--there was no more writing after the information of Mr. Monk's departure for America--and bent over the paper. "It's a bird in the middle of a lot of dust," I said.
"Dust." Gertrude pointed out two of the specks. "Then dust has wings."
"Oh, then it's a bird midst a cloud of insects."
"And these odd signs?"
"An 'A' reversed, and an 'S' turned in the wrong direction."
Gertrude thought for a moment: then her face brightened. "Cyrus, what kind of a bird is this?" and she pointed.
"It might be a peacock," I said ironically. "Mr. Striver has not much notion of drawing."
"Do you think it is an eagle?" she asked in an excited tone.
"Good heavens, no!" I retorted. "Did you ever see an eagle like that?"
"Joseph is not an artist." said Gertrude impatiently.
"He certainly is not clever."
"Neither are you, Cyrus, for all your talent. Oh, to think that the secret hiding-place should be in this very house."
"What?" I stared alternately at Gertrude and at the paper.
"Can't you see? Don't you understand," she cried, greatly excited, "an eagle amidst a cloud of flies--Aquila non capit muscas."
I stared at her. "I have heard that sentence before."
"And you have seen the drawing better executed in carving. Cyrus, what is the first letter of the motto?"
"'A'--for Aquila--eagle. Yes?"
"And the last letter?"
"'S,' the terminal formuscasfor flies. Well?" She caught me by the hand. "Come into the smoking-room and light the lamps."
"Oh, by Jove!" I saw her meaning now. She referred to the heavy beam across the smoking-room to which Mr. Monk had drawn my attention. We ran, hand in hand, like children, into the dark room. Gertrude struck a match and I, taking the box from her hand--and a shaking hand it was--struck another. In a few moments the powerful oil lamps were illuminating the room brilliantly. We both looked at the beam.
"An eagle catching flies," cried Gertrude, pointing--"Aquila non capit muscas. My ancestors' queer old motto. The diamonds are there."
"Hidden in the beam?"
"Of course. Come and get a ladder from the outhouse. No; that won't do, as Eliza is so filled with curiosity. I don't want her to suspect anything. What are we to do?"
"I can place this chair on the table, and as I am tall I can easily reach up to the beam," I said, suiting my actions to my words. "Close the door, Gertrude, so that Eliza can't come spying."
Gertrude, who was all excitement, promptly locked the door. "But how are you to get the beam open? Shall I get an axe?"
"Nonsense," I said, consulting the paper of Striver; "this is the hiding-place right enough. The beam must open in some way, but how?"
"What about the reversed letters?" questioned Gertrude, "they are not reversed on the beam."
"No; but they are on the paper. I know, Gertrude, these letters on the beam are raised so as to give one a grip. Get a candle, will you, or hand up a lamp."
So as to lose no time she stretched with the lamp. I held it close to the raised carving of the beam, and particularly examined the first and last letters, "A" and "S." Circular lines appeared faintly round these, which were not visible round the other letters. I handed the lamp back.
"What are you going to do?" asked Gertrude, replacing the lamp on its stand.
"Twist these first and last letters into the position indicated by the cipher. Then we shall see what will happen."
I put forth my strength to the "A," and found that with an effort it twisted with considerable ease. "Hurrah!" I cried, "this is the secret."
The final "S" was more difficult to move, but at last I contrived to get it twisted completely round. Gertrude's bright face looked up anxiously. "Stand away; stand away," I cried hastily.
It was just as well that I had warned her, for suddenly the whole broad board containing the motto clattered to the floor before I could save it.
"The diamonds! the diamonds!" cried Gertrude excitedly.
A cavity was revealed, and I passed my hand along. It was empty. "Gertrude, the diamonds are gone!" I cried in dismay, and our spirits fell to zero.