There it glared at me--the glass eye for which I sought. As Striver had said, it was a mere shell, on the outward curve of which was depicted the pupil and the iris of a gray eye, the white portion of the fabric being delicately streaked with thin red veins. Uttering an ejaculation I tipped it over with my finger, and just had time to see that there was a piece of silver the size of a threepenny bit--and perhaps indeed a threepenny bit--fastened inside the concave, when I heard Mr. Monk's voice calling me on the terrace. It flashed across me in an instant that he must not see the eye, which apparently Gertrude had carelessly left lying on the table. I should have picked it up to slip into my pocket, but the sight was so very unexpected that I had not my presence of mind and stepped back again on to the terrace, leaving the sinister object on the table. At the same moment Mr. Monk coming round the corner of the terrace, slipped his arm within my own. "I heard your voice," he said gently and it guided me towards the corner, "come and see the green-house. There are some orchids there I should like you to examine. I am fond of these weird plants. Such a well-bred taste, too," added Mr. Monk, languidly. "The love of a man for orchids is like the love of a woman for lace."
I replied mechanically, for my head was in a whirl, and submitted to be led to a far distant corner of the garden where the greenhouses nestled under the red brick wall. Here, while Mr. Monk discoursed learnedly on flowers,--about which he knew less than nothing,--I wondered in my own mind what might be the meaning of my discovery. The glass eye could have been left in the drawing-room by no one but Gertrude, since I already possessed her cloak to show--what I had hitherto shrunk from acknowledging even to myself--that she was the lady who had stolen my motor-car. Then again, she was the one person who had a right to the fifty thousand pounds when found. I groaned. It really seemed that my pearl amongst woman was guilty of theft and murder. And yet, even at the eleventh hour, I could not make up my mind to believe that she was guilty.
Mr. Monk mistook my groan for weariness, and became offended. "I fear you don't take much interest in flowers, Mr. Vance," he said, glaring at me through his pince-nez.
"Oh, yes; they interest me; pray proceed," I said, hastily.
"No. The air of this place is so dense that it gives me a headache. The day is uncommonly warm for this season of the year. Let us return to the house. I have a new song I should like to show you. To-morrow I return to London, and shall not see you for some time."
"Oh, I can call on you when I go back to town," I said idly, for my brain was still preoccupied with the glass eye problem.
"No! No! Pardon me, no," said Mr. Monk decidedly and hastily. "I am going away for a few weeks to the Continent--on business of course."
"Business," I echoed, "I thought you were free, Mr. Monk."
He sighed and shrugged his shoulders, as we slowly walked across the lawn towards the shallow steps of the terrace. "I have five hundred a year," he declared, "and what is that, a mere pittance. I have to allow Gertrude something and have this house to keep up. Also my flat in London has to be rented. I can't do that on ten pounds a week."
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him why he did not remain at Burwain and play the part of a country gentleman, to reduce his expenditure, when he proceeded. "Yes, I am in business of a sort, connected with commissions on loans. That is, you will understand, Mr. Vance, I am not a money lender--far from it. I simply find people who have no money and who want it and agree to procure them money from those who possess it, on condition that I have a ten per cent commission. In a word I induce my many friends to benefit each other and so benefit myself. Come Mr. Vance, you are a rising dramatist who should be better known in the West End. Suppose you allow me--at ten per cent--to arrange a loan for you to produce one of your better class plays."
"I have no security," I objected.
"I can arrange that," said Mr. Monk with an airy wave of his hand, "and if you can find that eye," I started violently, but he did not appear to notice, "and get the fifty thousand pounds, I shall let you have the money myself at the same percentage. I shall not charge any commission," he ended generously, quite forgetting that he was proposing to gamble with his daughter's money. But that obtuseness was Mr. Monk all over.
"If I could see you in town,"--
"Later on: later on," he said hastily mounting the steps, "say in three or four months when I return from the Continent. Then we can have a talk."
"Your address is?"--
He interrupted again. "I shall see you here: I shall see you here. It will be much more convenient for me," and he passed through the French window into the drawing-room.
Mr. Monk puzzled me, as I did not understand why he should refuse to see me on his--so to speak--business premises, seeing he desired to speak with me on a business matter. However, all his froth and small talk were driven out of my head by my discovery that the glass eye had disappeared from the small table. I suppose Gertrude had put it into her pocket, as she was in the room arranging some flowers in a vase. I glanced at her keenly, but she appeared to be perfectly cool.
"Where is your aunt?" asked Monk, looking around.
"She has gone home again: she only came to see if she could get Joseph to attend to her place," said Gertrude, busy with her flowers, "good-morning, Mr. Vance."
"Good-morning," I answered looking hard at her--so hard that she blushed becomingly, but certainly not guiltily.
"What is the matter?" she asked, putting her hand to her head, "is my hair out of order?"
"No--o--o--o," I said hesitatingly, for her coolness amazed me. "I was only delighted to see you looking so well."
She blushed again. "Thank you," was her laughing reply, "for that compliment you shall have a flower," and she actually handed me a late rosebud.
I placed it in my button-hole, feeling quite bewildered. It was impossible that she could be guilty, and yet the eye had certainly been on the table, and perhaps had found a place in her pocket.
Meanwhile Mr. Monk was fuming with injured egotism at being left out of the conversation. "Attend to me, Gertrude, if you please," he said sharply. "I wish you would tell your aunt that I disapprove of her trying to get Joseph to attend to her garden. She will not pay him, and the man can't work for nothing."
"Oh, I think he can," said Miss Monk, putting the vase of now-arranged flowers on the mantelpiece. "Mrs. Caldershaw left him quite a fortune for a man in his station of life. But why don't you speak to my aunt yourself."
"No! no! no! She upsets my nerves. We always quarrel."
"Exactly what happens when I speak to her" rejoined Gertrude with a shrug; "so I am never pleased when she comes here. It's your fault, papa; when you are away she never calls. I really think she must be in love with you, dear. You had better take care, papa. Since the Deceased Wife's Sister's Bill is law now, aunty may wish to marry you."
Monk laughed, and smiled, not ill-pleased by this tribute to his looks. "I shall chose a younger wife than your aunt, my dear. The stepmother I may give you will be young and charming."
His daughter looked at him in dismay. "Papa, are you thinking of marrying again?" she demanded quickly.
"No, my love. I am too poor to marry; but if I met a rich woman, well----" he stopped, pulled up his collar, glanced in a near mirror and adjusted his tie, apparently thinking he was worthy to be wooed by an heiress.
Gertrude laughed, more at ease in her mind. "It would be foolish to marry at your age, papa. You have a comfortable house and a good income, so why not enjoy yourself as you are doing now."
But it appeared that she had said the wrong thing, since her father was excessively touchy. "At my age, Gertrude," he remarked in an offended tone, "you forget that I am still comparatively young, and that when you marry I shall be very solitary. As to my income, it is a mere pittance to a man of my artistic tastes."
His daughter might have reminded him that he spent most of his income on himself, and kept her on next to nothing. But she passed over the whole speech save one remark: "I shall never marry, papa," she said quietly.
"Why not? why not?" fumed Mr. Monk, startled.
"No one will have me," she said demurely.
"Oh," her father laughed, "that is all right; I haven't been unmindful of you, my child, when in town. There are one or two men to whom I must introduce you with a view to matrimony. I shall arrange----"
"Please don't, papa; I prefer to arrange the question of marriage myself."
"Foolish, foolish child," said Monk, his touchy temper again getting the better of him, "you shall do as I tell you else you will place me in the disagreeable position of Lear," and he walked out of the room just like a child, annoyed because the bad naughty table has hurt it.
"Oh, dear me, how easily papa is offended," sighed Gertrude, shrugging when he banged the door, "this must be unpleasant for you, Mr. Vance."
"What must be?"
"These family jars."
"Oh, dear, no, don't think that," I answered easily. "I see you have to humor your father."
"He's a dear father, Mr. Vance, but sometimes he is difficult to deal with; I offend him without meaning to, he is so sensitive."
I thought the man selfish myself, but it was none of my business to say so, therefore I dropped the subject and asked Miss Monk to grant me a favor.
"I wish you to come to tea to-morrow at the inn. Mrs. Gilfin will play the part of chaperon, if your father can't come."
"I don't think papa can, as he is going back to London in the morning. I accept with pleasure."
"Shall I ask your aunt."
"Oh, no, please don't. I would rather Mrs. Gilfin were present. Not that it needs anyone to play propriety, as I am sure you can behave yourself. At what time do you want me to come?"
"Four o'clock, unless you like to come earlier and go for a drive in my motor."
"No. I shall come to The Robin Redbreast at four. I wish to ask your advice on a very important subject."
"To renew our conversation of the night when your father entered so unexpectedly?"
"Yes. As I said then, I want a friend."
"And I said----"
"I know what you said. If you say it again, I shall begin to think I must have a chaperon for your proposed tea after all. Now you must go. I have heaps and heaps of housework to do. Also I must pack papa's portmanteau."
I internally blessed Mr. Monk and his confounded portmanteau, then took my departure, as I had entered, by the middle window. As I passed out I could not help glancing again at the table whereon I had seen the glass eye. Miss Monk saw my inquiring gaze and came forward. "Have you lost anything?"
I was more confounded than ever. "No--nothing," I said hurriedly. "Good-day," and I departed at top speed, entirely at sea as regards the true state of affairs. And yet, apart from the evidence of the cloak, the presence of the glass eye at The Lodge seemed conclusively to prove the guilt of Gertrude.
On my way back to the inn I wondered if by any chance Miss Destiny had seen the eye. On reaching the house, it was not impossible that after my capture by Mr. Monk, she might have entered the drawing-room; in which case, being--as I had frequently found--of an inquisitive turn of mind, it was certain that she had caught sight of the object. It was even possible that she had taken the eye in order to find the secret hiding-place of the fortune. Miss Destiny was a miser; Miss Destiny had no great love for her niece, so the theft of the eye would appeal to her avarice and love of making herself disagreeable. And of course, she would know very well, that her niece could say nothing without getting herself into trouble.
No sooner had this idea entered my mind, than I wheeled about and took the road to Miss Destiny's hovel, with the intention of asking questions. But these were not easy to formulate. If she possessed the eye, she certainly would not acknowledge the theft: if she did not, I might reveal my suspicions of Gertrude and thus would place a weapon in the little old lady's hand, which she would undoubtedly make use of. But in my hurried walk to my destination, there was no time to arrange what to say, so I determined to trust more or less to chance. And in this doubtful state of mind I arrived at the tin house.
Miss Destiny herself opened the door, and explained that Lucinda was shopping in the village. She appeared to be her usual mincing self, and betrayed no uneasiness. I was invited into her sordid, shabby sitting-room, and she entered into a long complaint about her brother-in-law's treatment. "Walter is so very mean," lamented Miss Destiny, sitting down, "I believe he grudges Joseph coming to work for me."
"Mr. Monk has engaged Joseph to attend to his own garden," I reminded her.
"The Lodge garden is in good order," she snapped, "whereas mine needs a lot of attention. Walter might send the man along."
"If you pay Joseph, Miss Destiny----"
"Pay him," she interrupted with a shriek, and throwing up her hands, "my dear Mr. Vance, it is as much as I can do to keep bread in my mouth. I am reduced to this"--she glanced round--"which is by no means the abode of a gentlewoman. But Gertrude and her father would let me starve sooner than behave as relatives should."
"Oh, no, no," I protested. "Miss Monk is extremely kind."
"Have you found her so?" demanded the vindictive aunt.
"I have found her charming," was my cautious reply.
"Charms don't pay taxes, Mr. Vance. I suppose," she added abruptly, "that you intend to marry her. Oh, don't look so astonished, young man. I remember how you admired her photograph in Anne's house, and you didn't come here for nothing. Oh dear me, no."
"I came here to learn all I could about the glass eye, so that I might trace the assassin of Anne Caldershaw."
"Oh, indeed," Miss Destiny's sharp eyes twinkled wickedly, "and you haunt my niece in order to ask questions?"
"Why not?" I ventured cautiously.
Miss Destiny laughed significantly. "Why not indeed," she echoed, "it's my opinion that Gertrude knows much more about the glass eye than she dares to tell you, or anyone else."
My blood ran cold, for the moment. Apparently this disagreeable old woman had seen the eye on the drawing-room table, and thence had drawn the very worst conclusions. I ventured on a bold stroke. "Do you mean to say that Miss Monk has the glass eye?"
"I don't say that."
"Then she has not the glass eye," I said impatiently, and drawing a breath of great relief.
"I don't say that either."
"Then whatdoyou say, Miss Destiny."
"Nothing, except that you will be wise to go away from Burwain and give up all idea of marrying my niece."
"Why?" I asked very directly.
"Because--as I said--Gertrude knows something about the murder."
"That is a serious thing to say, Miss Destiny. On what grounds do you make such an accusation?"
She made no direct reply, but rocked to and fro, "I know, I know," she said, with a cunning look, and a malicious chuckle.
I ventured still further on the dangerous ground upon which I was treading. "Have you seen the glass eye in Miss Monk's possession?"
"No," she said, and her reply startled me, for I had made sure that she dared to speak thus freely from having espied the object on the drawing-room table, "I never said that she had the glass eye."
"Then on what grounds----"
"Oh, I don't wish to say anything," she interrupted.
"Having said so much, you must say more," was my firm reply, "you have no right to make dangerous accusations without proof."
"Gertrude herself can supply the proof."
"I would not insult her by asking her to."
"No," screeched Miss Destiny, jumping to her feet like a small fury, "because you are a fool. Every man who loves is a fool. And you love Gertrude. Heaven only knows what you see in her."
"I see a lovely girl and an accomplished lady, a good daughter and an honorable gentlewoman."
"Four people rolled into one," sneered the spiteful little creature, quivering with wrath. "She may be lovely in your eyes--I know what fools men are--but, good and honorable she is not."
"Prove what you say," I cried, but she only trotted about the room, tremulous with anger and jealousy. I determined to enrage her still further, as if she completely lost her temper she might unexpectedly come out with all she knew. I was therefore pointedly rude. "The fact is, Miss Destiny, you are jealous of your niece's beauty."
"Me!" she quavered, and her eyes flamed, "me jealous?"
"Yes, you are also annoyed because your niece has Gabriel Monk's money."
"Has she? If she has, she committed murder to get it."
"That's a lie."
"You forget, sir, that you speak to a lady."
"I do not," I retorted, still carrying out my plan, "I am speaking to a jealous old woman who is trying to harm an innocent girl."
This last speech brought about the desired result. "Innocent!" she cried, and stamped her foot, "if she is innocent, what was she doing at Anne Caldershaw's on the night of the murder."
"She was not there."
"Yes she was; yes she was; yes she was," chattered Miss Destiny, thrusting her angry face close up to mine. "I said nothing about it at the inquest, as I did not wish to get her into trouble. But now that you dare to say I am jealous of that--that minx"--she brought out the word with a gasp. "I shall speak out, and I dare Gertrude to contradict me. I arranged to meet her at Anne's house at five o'clock. I started on the previous day in the trap with Lucinda, and stopped the night with a friend at Saxham. Next day I went on, but owing to the state of the roads and the slowness of the horse I did not reach Anne's house until after the crime was committed. But Gertrude intended to go to Murchester, and thence walk to Anne's house on the day when the murder took place. I am sure that she was at Mootley at five o'clock to keep the appointment. And it was after that time that Anne was stabbed with the hat-pin. A hat-pin with a blue glass head," cried Miss Destiny triumphantly. "I gave Gertrude three pins like that myself as a Christmas present last year. Now you see, she is guilty."
It certainly looked like it, but I declined to admit even the shadow of a suspicion. "I don't see," said I, tartly, and controlling myself with an effort. "Miss Monk may have called at five o'clock and not finding you there may have returned to Burwain by the evening train."
"Oh, did she," mocked Miss Destiny cruelly, "then what about the blue glass-headed hat-pin? What about her presence at Mootley about the time Anne was killed? What about the lady who stole your motor car?"
"You can't prove the lady was Miss Monk?"
"Yes I can. That man Giles said the lady wore a white cloak. I saw her with the white cloak myself. And Gertrude had such a white cloak."
"Really," I said bantering, although these proofs of guilt made me tremble; "perhaps you recognized Miss Monk when the motor car nearly collided with your cart--I beg pardon--your trap."
"No, I didn't recognize her," said Miss Destiny, sitting down sullenly, "It was darkish, and Gertrude was the last person I expected to see in a motor car. I saw that the lady had a white cloak, and knew my niece possessed one; but it never struck me that Gertrude was the driver, until I came to Mootley and heard that Anne had been murdered. The information about the glass-headed pin made me certain."
"All this has to be proved," said I, after a nervous pause, for there was no denying that Miss Monk's position was perilous, "have you accused her?"
"No, I haven't. I asked her why she didn't meet me at Mootley, and she said that she had decided not to go. A lie--a lie," cried Miss Destiny, leaping to her feet again, "she was there, and she murdered Anne."
"And stole the eye, perhaps?"
"I can't say that for certain. I only speak of what I know. But, as Anne was murdered for the sake of the eye--everyone seems to think that--I have no doubt that Gertrude has it."
"Have you seen it in her possession?"
"You asked me that before. I have not seen it in her possession. I only speak of what I know," she said again and looked dogged.
There was a few minutes' silence. Putting together Miss Destiny's statements and what I knew about the eye and the cloak, it would seem that the proofs of guilt against Gertrude were overwhelming. Prejudiced as I was in her favor, and blinded, more or less by love, I could not help acknowledging that the evidence was dead against her. If Miss Destiny spoke out, and Gertrude was arrested, she would be hard put to prove her innocence. Only one thing remained to be done: to silence Miss Destiny, until Gertrude could explain herself.
"Of course you will say nothing," I said sternly.
Miss Destiny looked at me sulkily. "Of course," she asserted. "I don't love Gertrude; all the same I don't wish to see her hanged."
"Not that word," I rose and put out my hand, wincing.
"Hanged! hanged! hanged!" screamed the furious old woman, "you are so blinded by love, you fool, that you can't see her wickedness--the murderess."
"She is not."
"The thief."
"She is not." I turned on my heel and flung open the door. Miss Destiny leaped to my side.
"What are you going to do?"
"I intend to see Miss Monk, and ask her to disprove your accusations."
"She can't; she daren't."
"We shall see," I snapped, and left the house, while Miss Destiny jeered and made mouths after me like a wicked foul old witch.
As may be guessed, I passed a very perturbed four and twenty hours until my arranged interview with Miss Monk. Miss Destiny had not seen the glass eye in the drawing-room, and so far could prove nothing against her niece. I believe that, so far, she was speaking the truth, as if she had seen the eye, she would have only been too pleased to adduce its presence as a proof of Gertrude's guilt. But, as things were, what she knew was damning enough. She could swear to the girl's presence at Mootley on the evening of the murder, and to the ownership of the white cloak, worn by the lady who had stolen my motor car. Fortunately, from sheer shame, since Miss Monk was her niece, Miss Destiny promised to hold her tongue.
In the face of what the old woman had said and that I already knew, it seemed certain that Gertrude was guilty. Miss Destiny could even declare that her niece had possessed certain blue glass-headed hat-pins, with one of which the crime had been committed. Then again Gertrude wished to get the money, which, after all, was rightfully her own. It seemed probable--on the face of it--that while waiting with Anne Caldershaw for Miss Destiny's arrival, she had tried to learn what the ex-housekeeper knew as to the whereabouts of the money. Anne may have boasted that the secret was locked up in her glass eye, and then--well, I shuddered to think of what took place. Nine people out of ten would have pronounced Gertrude guilty with the greatest promptitude: but I happened to be the tenth, and I hesitated to give an opinion. But then I was in love, and my decision was biassed.
But I really could not believe that so lovely a girl was guilty. Besides, her demeanor was not that of a brazen criminal, and she had seemed really puzzled by my over-attentive gaze. Tossing and turning on my bed, I tried to see some ray of light, but all was utter darkness. The evidence was dead against Gertrude Monk, and her fate was in the hands of her vindictive aunt. Miss Destiny might hold her tongue for the time being, but it would take very little to set it wagging. And being a miser, she might try to blackmail her niece. My brain ached with trying to get at the truth. To Inspector Dredge it would have have been readily apparent; but in the face of stern facts I refused to believe the girl to be guilty.
Then there was Giles. During the night I thought a good deal of Giles, whom I had met that very evening when I returned to the Robin Redbreast. He was remaining there for the night, and informed me that he had come over to Burwain that day in order to see Striver about the lease of the corner shop.
"You see, Mr. Vance," said Giles, shortly before I retired to bed, and while we were in the bar, "my wife wants to have a shop of her own, so I thought I would get Mr. Striver to make over the lease of Mrs. Caldershaw's shop to me. My wife is set on having it, and I think Mr. Striver will agree to the terms I propose."
"You have seen him, then?"
"Yes, sir. I went to his house to-day and found he was at the Lodge, working in the garden. I sought him out there and we had a talk, just before Miss Destiny came to bother him. I went away then, and afterwards you came."
"Oh," my mind swiftly ran over the events of the day, "then you were in the grounds of the Lodge before I arrived?"
"Yes, Mr. Vance," said Giles, readily enough. "Mr. Striver wasn't in the garden at the time, as he had gone round to the back of the house. I walked up to the front door and asked for him. The servant sent a message, and we were talking over our deal when the little old lady arrived. She spoilt the business, for the time being; but I saw Mr. Striver this evening, and we have arranged about the matter. My wife will have the shop."
I thought a good deal about this conversation when in bed. Giles had been alone in the grounds of The Lodge and had gone up to the house to seek for Striver. Might he not have placed the eye on the table, since he could easily do so, when the middle French window was open. But then I had absolutely no reason to suspect Giles, as the glass eye would be meaningless to him. But stop! Would it indeed be meaningless? Certainly Mrs. Giles had denied that she knew about Mrs. Caldershaw's glass eye, but then she had admitted that the ex-housekeeper had said she would never die in her bed. In one way or another Mrs. Giles may have learned the secret of the hidden money, and thus Giles might have killed Mrs. Caldershaw to obtain the glass eye which was the clue. But after reflection I dismissed this theory as utterly ridiculous. Giles could not have gained possession of the hat-pin belonging--according to Miss Destiny--to Gertrude Monk; and certainly, having the eye, would not come over to Burwain to leave it in the drawing-room of The Lodge. Giles, on the face of it, was utterly innocent. Yet it was strange that he should have been in the grounds of the Jacobean house nearly at the time I had seen the glass eye, and that [it] had disappeared. If Giles had not placed it there, he might have taken it.
"No! no! no! no!" I muttered in drowsy tones; "it's absurd. Giles has nothing to do with the matter. He merely came over to arrange about the shop. He did not place the glass eye there: nor did Striver. If Striver had possessed the eye he would have gained possession of the money. Besides, he was not at Mootley until the funeral took place. Mr. Monk! He's innocent enough, as he was in London when the crime was committed. Moreover, if he possessed the eye, he also would be in possession of the fortune. Gertrude is the only person to whom suspicion points. I shall insist upon a full explanation to-morrow. I alone can save her if she is guilty." And then I fell into a troubled sleep, reproaching myself for daring to doubt my divinity.
Giles departed next morning before I arose, and I did not see him again. Haunted still by undefined suspicions, I regretted his departure, and determined later to look him up at Mootley. Of course, the mere idea of thinking that the respectable sturdy greengrocer was guilty seemed ridiculous, but in my anxiety to save Gertrude from danger I was willing to sacrifice anyone and everyone. To such a state does love bring the most just of mankind.
By the midday post I received an impetuous letter from Cannington, who informed me that he had snaffled--the word is his own--a couple of weeks' leave. For the present he was staying with his aunt, Lady Denham, because Mabel wished it, but proposed, when I came up, to take rooms at a hotel, where he would--as he put it--be less tied by the leg. Then he went on to say that I had remained long enough at Burwain, and that if I did not come to him he would come to me, like Mahomet and the proverbial mountain. Bearing in mind Mr. Monk's aspirations for a titled son-in-law, this was the last thing I desired, so I arranged promptly in my own mind to accept his invitation. Besides, after my interview with Gertrude, in which I hoped to come to an understanding, there would be no need for me to remain at Burwain. Her story might send me farther afield in search of new clues.
Reading between the lines of Cannington's letter, I saw that he was devoured with curiosity concerning Miss Monk. He knew that I had fallen in love with the portrait, and as he had always regarded me as a particularly staid, sedate personage, he naturally doubted if I would carry on so fantastic a romance. However, he evidently had his suspicions, since I chose to linger in a dull country village, and therefore was desperately anxious to see the lady who could thus move my elderly heart. As Cannington was a most pertinacious mortal, I wrote by the next post that I would be in London next week, and then would have much to tell him about the case. And as a matter of fact I did wish to have some safe person with whom to discuss matters. I could always rely on Cannington to hold his tongue, even if his advice did not prove to be particularly good. At all events the boy could always be relied upon to keep silent, which was more than I could say for many people I know. So to Cannington I resolved to confide the full tale of my discoveries, and--in the interests of my wooing--I ended my letter with a repetition of the fact that I was coming to see him. Had I not emphasized this the boy might have appeared the next day to make inquiries.
After posting this letter I consulted with Mrs. Gilfin about afternoon tea, and that able old creature bustled about to some purpose. She arranged flowers in my sitting room, stoked the fire, dusted the furniture unnecessarily, and spread a truly gorgeous tea for my visitor. I protested that neither one of us could eat so many cakes and buns and jam and bread as loaded the table. Mrs. Gilfin--who had some idea of my state of mind--admitted with a beaming smile that love did spoil the appetite. But she objected to the presence of my second portmanteau in the sitting-room.
"It do spile the looks of things," said Mrs. Gilfin; "why not put it in the bedroom, Master Cyrus?"
"I have use for it here, Cuckoo," I answered, and so I had, for in it was snugly folded the celebrated cloak, which I proposed to show to Gertrude when the time came for explanations.
At four o'clock all was spic and span, as the room was as comfortable as the afternoon tea was tempting. Miss Monk duly arrived--this time without Puddles as an escort--and looked more beautiful than ever in her plain dress. Poor girl, she nearly always wore the same frock, which showed how very short in cash Mr. Monk kept her. She should have been arrayed in silk attire, and I inwardly swore, when establishing her in a deep-seated armchair by the fire, that some day she should be, at my expense. Meantime I handed her a cup of tea, and piled her with thin bread and butter, much to Mrs. Gilfin's satisfaction. That good lady had looked in to see that we were comfortable. "Eat all you can, miss," urged Mrs. Gilfin, "you don't look as fat as you ought to be."
Gertrude shuddered. "I don't want to grow fat," said she, laughing.
"There's worse things than fat," said Mrs. Gilfin sensibly. "Lean people with wrinkles are never so nice as them without. If Miss Destiny had more flesh on her bones she be more popular," and after delivering herself of this dictum the landlady departed with a fat chuckle.
Gertrude's face clouded when her aunt was mentioned. I noticed this and commented thereon. "You are not fond of Miss Destiny," I remarked.
"I have little reason to be," she replied with a nervous air. "Aunt Julia----"
"Is that her name?"
"Yes. Julia Destiny--a strange name, isn't it? Well, then, she has always behaved harshly to me. Even when I was a child she never liked me, and since Uncle Gabriel left me this fortune she has scarcely been able to bear the sight of me. Then this morning----"
"What about this morning?" I asked, seeing her hesitation.
"Aunt Julia came to me and said all manner of dreadful things. Even if you had not arranged this afternoon tea, Mr. Vance, I should have come to see you. I need a friend more than ever."
I privately thought--and I was right in thinking so--that Miss Destiny had been making herself disagreeable over the visit to Mootley, and perhaps had added threats. However I said nothing for the moment, as I wished Gertrude to tell her story in her own way. "Take some cake and another cup of tea," I murmured sympathetically, "then we can talk."
Gertrude handed me her cup. "I can't eat or drink anything more, thank you, Mr. Vance. I want to speak seriously to you. No one can hear us, I hope?"
I glanced at the door and window; both were closed. "No one can hear us," I assented, taking the chair opposite to her, "and you can depend upon my being secret about whatever you choose to tell me; you know that."
"Yes." She looked straightly at me, and her royal beauty impressed me anew. "I have studied your character closely, so that I might be certain of making no mistake."
"And you are satisfied?"
"Perfectly." She glanced round again, then leaned back in her chair. "Listen, Mr. Vance, and don't interrupt me more than you can help, as it is difficult for me to tell my story clearly."
"I am all attention," said I, leaning forward.
"You know that I told you of the fifty thousand pound, which my Uncle Gabriel left me."
"Yes, the fortune which is missing."
Gertrude nodded. "Uncle Gabriel was a miser, and concealed his riches. My father has inherited the income and the property, but the fifty thousand pounds has been hidden away. When the will was read I learned that such a sum had been left to me, but its whereabouts could not be discovered. I searched through all my late uncle's papers without result. Then, about the end of July, I came across an old box in the attic filled with foolscap sheets covered with figures. Also there was some writing in the form of a diary, two or three loose sheets pinned together."
"Have you the diary and the other papers?"
"Yes; you can see them when you come to The Lodge. Meanwhile it is easier for me to tell you the contents, as the writing is extremely. crabbed. I learned that Uncle Gabriel had for years used the family income of five hundred per annum in purchasing diamonds."
"Really! He could buy many valuable stones at such a price."
"You forget that he had the income for forty years or thereabouts and lived like a pauper. He was always saving money and buying diamonds. At times--as the diary said--he went to London and Amsterdam and Paris and traded in stones. He turned over what he had bought, as a matter of fact, and in one way and another managed to accumulate fifty thousand pounds' worth of jewels."
"Then the fortune, which is hidden, consists of diamonds?"
"Exactly. In the diary Uncle Gabriel hinted that the jewels were for me, but that he mistrusted my father, and would put them safely away."
"Why did he mistrust your father?" I asked, although I had a very shrewd suspicion of what the answer would be.
The girl flushed. "Uncle Gabriel was never just to my father," she said in a low voice. "Oh, I know that papa has his faults, but his heart is in the right place. Papa has no idea of money: he is like a child; so Uncle Gabriel thought that if papa secured the diamonds he might squander their value."
"What!" said I, significantly, "when they belonged to you?"
She colored again. "I think papa believes what is mine is his. You see Uncle Gabriel died when I was about sixteen--five years ago--and he thought that if papa could lay hands on the jewels then that they would not come to me. He mistrusted papa."
"And with very good reason," I murmured, too low for Gertrude to hear. Walter Monk, as I truly believed; would act exactly in the way his brother suspected he would.
"What's that you say?"
"Never mind. I understand that the diamonds were concealed so that your father might not be tempted. But surely your uncle intended them to come into your hands sooner or later."
"Yes. The diary said that the jewels were hidden in a certain place."
"What place?" I asked abruptly.
"Ah, that was kept secret. But Uncle Gabriel talked about trusting Anne----"
"Ah!" I said, rubbing my hands with satisfaction, "now we are coming to the gist of the matter. Any mention of the eye?"
"No. You see, in the diary--it can hardly be called one--Uncle Gabriel only jotted down scraps of the scheme in his head. To make a long story short, I gathered that he had entrusted the secret of the whereabouts of the diamonds to Anne Caldershaw, as he had known her for years and esteemed her an honest woman."
"I see; and she was not honest."
"Don't you think so?"
"No. Evidently she intended to tell Striver the secret, since she left him the glass eye in the will. He was to get the money, and then--I daresay--he could ask you to marry him."
"Ridiculous," said Miss Monk, coloring.
"Perhaps. Nevertheless I believe that such was the scheme of Mrs. Caldershaw, for she intended to enrich her nephew at your expense, hoping that you would marry him, and thus gain the benefit of what was rightfully your own. The idea of a marriage salved her conscience, as it were."
"The idea is absurd. I would never marry a man like Joseph, although he is handsome and fairly well educated."
"You know that he loves you."
"Yes, I know," she replied, blushing, but in a somewhat cold tone. "Never mind: the thing--as I say--is absurd. But it might be as you say, Mr. Vance, that Anne had such a scheme in her head. However, you understand that I gathered from the so-called diary that she knew of the whereabouts of the jewels."
"Yes. I know that. What did you do?"
"I determined to go over and see Anne Caldershaw."
"And did you?"
"Yes." She looked at me nervously.
"You were at Mootley then, when--when----"
"No," she burst out fiercely. "Not though Aunt Julia swears I was."
"Oh. You did not go to Mootley at all?"
"Yes I did. I arranged to meet Aunt Julia at Anne's house at five o'clock. I got there before that time."
"Then you were at Mootley on the evening of the murder."
"I have never denied it," she said, cresting her head like a snake and looking haughty, "but I do deny that I was in the house when the crime was committed. I was not the woman who ran away with your motor car, whatever Aunt Julia may say."
"Who was the woman, then?"
"I don't know. I never set eyes on her."
"Ah!" said I thoughtfully, "talking of eyes, was Mrs. Caldershaw's glass optic in her head when you spoke to her?"
"Yes, it was. And remember, please, that I never knew--as it appears from your ingenious theory--that the secret was hidden in that eye. I came at half-past four, and went into the back room, where I talked with Anne. I related to her what I had discovered, and asked her to tell me where the diamonds were. She said she did not know."
"She did not know," I echoed in utter astonishment.
"So she said. She declared that Uncle Gabriel had given her a cipher, in which he had concealed the whereabouts of the diamonds. Anne could not read it herself, so she had no idea of where the jewels were."
"Did you ask her for the cipher?"
"Yes, I did. She refused to give it to me."
"On what grounds?"
Gertrude grew red and looked nervously into the fire. "I may as well be quite frank," she said, with an outburst of candor. "Anne really did wish me to marry her nephew, and said she would give me the cipher if I promised to marry Joseph. I refused, and then----"
"Well, what then?" I asked impatiently, and indignant at the plot between the dead woman and the gardener to force Miss Monk into unwilling matrimony.
"Then I heard a voice in the shop calling for Mrs. Caldershaw. She went away, and shortly afterwards returned to ask me to leave at once. There was someone who wished to speak to her, and she did not wish me to meet this person. Therefore she asked me to leave at once."
"Did you know who this person was?"
Gertrude hesitated. "I could answer you that frankly," she said, after a pause, "as I caught a glimpse of the person through the half-open shop door. The mere sight of this person sent me away, as I did not wish to meet----" Here she hesitated.
"Him or her?" I asked inquisitively.
"I would rather not say just now," she replied with reserve.
"But you must say," I insisted. "Don't you see that this person, whether man or woman, may have been the one who murdered Mrs. Caldershaw."
She grew pale. "I have thought of that myself," she said hurriedly, "therefore I refuse to tell you who the person was. If a certain contingency happens I shall speak out."
"You won't tell me now?" I said, somewhat wounded.
"No. Don't ask me to. Perhaps later on." She seemed greatly distressed. "You see it's a terrible thing for me to give the name of a person who might be accused of the crime. If this person was hanged, even if guilty, I should not be able to rest in my bed." She shuddered and burst into tears. "My position is very hard," she wailed.
"But I can assist you if you will speak plainly."
She shook her head. "I cannot speak plainer than I am doing. Later on, yes, later on, I may tell you, but just now I dare not--I dare not," and again she began to weep.
As it was evident that she had some strong reason to conceal the name of this mysterious person I did not press her further, although I was most anxious to learn all about the matter. Instead, I asked another question in soothing tones. "How did you leave?"
"By the back door," said Gertrude, drying her eyes. "In that way I escaped coming face to face with the person in question."
"But there is no gate out of the back yard by which you could escape. I examined the fence myself."
"You did not examine it carefully enough. The gate is at the side of the house, and is exactly like the fence. When it is closed no one could tell that there was a gate. I expect that is why you overlooked it. Outside the gate, a path led amongst those elm-trees some little distance, until it came out on to the high road some distance down the slope. I went along the path, and on gaining the road I walked to Murchester, where I caught the half-past six train. So you see that I had nothing to do with the murder. I was horrified when I heard of it, and seeing the danger I was in of being suspected, I held my peace. I even denied to Aunt Julia that I had been to Mootley at all, saying that I had changed my mind."
I recalled the conversation with Miss Destiny, and recognized that Gertrude was speaking the exact truth. "Mrs. Caldershaw was alive and well when you left her?" I asked, rising to drag out my portmanteau.
"Quite well. What are you doing?"
"I'll show you in one moment. Mrs. Caldershaw did not appear to be afraid of being killed?"
"No; she was quite her usual self."
"Did you take your cloak with you?"
"My cloak?" She rose, much agitated. "How do you know that I wore a cloak?"
"You must have had one to take such a journey," I said evasively.
"Yes," replied Gertrude, somewhat reassured; "but--oh!" she gasped, as I displayed the garment I had produced from the portmanteau.
"Yes," I said, unfolding it, "this is the cloak worn by the lady who took my motor car. I found it concealed in the field. And it is your cloak?"
"Yes," she admitted with white lips, "it is my cloak."