The little gentleman minced into the room, smiling and bowing. As I stood in the shadow, removed from the strong light of the electrics, he did not catch sight of me when he first entered. Exactly as he behaved at Burwain, so did he behave in London--that is, as a specious humbug. Of course he looked as though he had just been taken out of a bandbox, and hispetit-mâitreair was more pronounced than ever. With the assurance of a man accustomed to attention, he made a tour of the circle.
"Lady Denham, you are looking more charming than ever. Lady Mabel, the good wine of your beauty needs no bush to advertise its perfection. Cannington, I am delighted to see you again. Mr. Weston "--this last name was pronounced less effusively--"I trust the airship stocks are rising. Ha! ha!" then he tittered at his small joke, made a comprehensive bow, and looked at me.
I quite expected to see him turn pale: I half expected to see him fly from the house where he was sailing under false colors. But I had yet to learn the complete self-possession of Mr. Walter Monk, alias Mr. Wentworth Marr. He might have foreseen the meeting, so coolly did he eye me through hispince-nez. The tables were turned with a vengeance, for I felt more like the culprit than did Mr. Monk.
"This is our oldest friend," said Mabel, and unless she had spoken I do not know how the little traitor would have acted, "Mr. Cyrus Vance."
"The dramatic author, I believe," remarked Mr. Monk--it is just as well to call him by his true name to prevent confusion--and bowed politely.
"Yes," said I, with a cool smile. There was no reason at that moment why I should denounce the little man, and he played his comedy so deliciously that, from sheer admiration of his impudence, I felt compelled to take a judicious part in the same. "I am happy to meet you Mr.--er--er----"
"Marr, old chap," put in Cannington, quite unaware that anything was wrong.
"Yes, of course, Mr. Marr."
"Thank you," observed the fraud with a bow, "you flatter me, Mr. Vance."
He was--as I have said--as cool as a cucumber, to all outward appearances. Nevertheless, as he turned sideways to answer a question put by Lady Denham, I saw the perspiration bead his forehead. I knew that he was controlling himself with a great effort, although he never turned a hair. He was evidently taken aback by my complete calmness, yet it relieved his mind when he saw that I did not intend to make a scene. Yet, had I denounced him he undoubtedly would have been prepared with a crafty explanation, for he was too clever a schemer to leave anything to chance. And as I guessed, my chance observation that I knew Cannington had placed him to a certain degree on his guard.
With wonderful self-control he spoke to Lady Denham, and laughed with Mabel, and deftly led the conversation on to theatrical topics. When it became general he strolled over to me in a light and airy manner, until he was at my elbow. "And when are we to see a play at the West End by Mr. Cyrus Vance?" he asked gaily, dropping his voice immediately at the end of the question to whisper: "Explanations when we leave."
"Oh," said I loudly, and replying to his public inquiry, "I hope next year will see me successful as the author of a comedy." Then I in turn dropped my voice: "Count on my silence."
Monk drew a long breath of relief, but went on with his comedy. "I hope you will put me down for a box," he said effusively; "I am a great admirer of the drama."
"You shall be on the free list, Mr. Marr," I said, with ostentatious gush.
The whispered words had not been heard by anyone in the room, so Mr. Marr and I understood one another thoroughly without anyone being the wiser. I half fancied Cannington's observant eyes might have seen our byplay and his sharp ears might have overheard: but for once he seemed to have missed his opportunity. Shortly Mr. Monk, more at ease, was conversing gaily on the news of the day. Lady Denham seemed to favour him, but Mabel had a contemptuous look on her face several times when he addressed her. I felt certain that only his supposed wealth attracted her, and that she had no respect for his tame-cat antics. And the cream of the joke was, that Mr. Walter Monk, passing himself off as Mr. Wentworth Marr, had only five hundred a year. I could not help giving vent to an audible laugh as the humour of the situation struck me.
"Why do you laugh, Cyrus?" asked Mabel, turning suddenly.
"I have thought of a good joke for a comic scene in a drama" said I grimly.
"May we hear it?" asked Mr. Monk audaciously, for he must have guessed the reason of my unseasonable merriment.
"Certainly not, sir. When you pay your money in the stalls you shall hear the joke delivered on the stage."
"I hope it's a good one," said Cannington scoffingly.
"It's as funny a joke as I ever heard of," I replied cheerfully, and my eyes sought those of Mr. Monk significantly.
"I shall look forward to hearing it," he said, bowing politely, "and perhaps--as I know several of the managers--I may be able to assist you in getting your masterpiece staged. My card," and he passed along a piece of pasteboard, which was inscribed: "Mr. Wentworth Marr, 3 Stratford Street, St. James's." "I am in rooms there, Mr. Vance, as I don't intend to take a house until I can find a lady to preside at my dinner-table."
Weston scowled at this, and Lady Denham smiled benignly. "Oh, you millionaires are so modest," she said, in her slow, cool voice, "why, you have a country house in Essex, a shooting-box in Scotland, and a villa at Nice."
With tremendous audacity the fraud bowed as each place was mentioned. "I hope to receive you in them all, dear lady. Mr. Vance also, I trust, will honor me with his company."
"Oh, I'll come and see you with pleasure," said I grimly. Mr. Monk impressed me as a kind of Casanova, so matchless was his impertinence. I wondered how an honorable girl such as Gertrude undoubtedly was, came to have so scheming an adventurer as a father. I was also puzzled to think why Mr. Monk, whom I knew to be almost penniless, should wish to marry a pauper aristocrat like Lady Mabel Wotton. But as yet I was not in a position to fit the pieces of the puzzle together, and had to await enlightenment from the arch-rogue himself.
"I just looked in, my dear ladies," said Mr. Monk, accepting the title of millionaire quite complacently, "to invite you to a box at the Curtain theatre early next week--Tuesday is the day, to be quite precise. There is a new play, which I think you will enjoy, Lady Denham."
"Delighted," she yawned. "I like going to the theatre. One can sit still all the time and say nothing."
"The performers on the stage say all that is to be said," replied Mr. Monk, smiling suavely. "Lady Mabel, may I count on you?"
"Certainly," she answered swiftly, with a sly glance at the scowling Weston.
"And perhaps Lord Cannington----?"
"Thanks, no, Mr. Marr, I have to go back to Murchester. Leave's up."
"That's a pity. Mr. Vance?"
"If I am in town I shall be delighted," I answered mildly, and wondered more than ever at the audacity of the little man. He knew that I could expose him as a fraud, and must have been puzzled to know why I did not, yet he had the hardihood to drag me into his schemes of posing as a millionaire.
"Then that is all settled. And now," he added, making a comprehensive bow, "really and truly I must take my leave. Perhaps Mr. Vance, I can give you a lift in my motor?"
"You are really too good," I replied, accepting promptly, and with scarcely a repressed chuckle.
"But I say, Vance, I want you to go to dinner at the Savoy with me, and afterwards to the Empire," cried Cannington, catching my arm, while Mr. Monk was shaking hands and taking his leave.
"My dear boy, in any case I must go home and dress. Let us change the dinner into a supper at the Savoy, and I'll come here at nine o'clock to accompany you to the Empire."
Cannington was satisfied with this alteration, and nodded. Then, in my turn, I took leave of the ladies and departed in the company of my proposed father-in-law. At the door a really magnificent motor, far surpassing my machine, was waiting, a brougham motor, with a chauffeur and a liveried footman. How Mr. Monk contrived to live in this style on five hundred a year I could not conceive: the machine alone must have cost three times the amount of his entire income. Then, with indignation, I thought of my dear, uncomplaining girl at Burwain, with her one poor frock and her touching belief in the honesty and kind-heartedness of this little villain.
When we were safe in the motor and the footman had received his orders to take the vehicle "Home!"--to Strafford Street, no doubt--Mr. Monk made himself comfortable, then patted my knee in a most amiable manner. "Very good indeed, my dear sir, very good indeed," he said suavely, and in a most self-controlled manner, "you kept my little secret in a way worthy of a man of the world."
"Thank you. I am waiting for an explanation now," I said dryly.
"Do you think I owe you one?"
"I am of that opinion, Mr. Monk."
"Hush!" He glanced anxiously through the glass at the backs of the footmen and chauffeur. "Here, in London; I am Mr. Marr."
"Mr. Wentworth Marr," I said mockingly. "May I ask why?"
"I do not see," he said smoothly, "that you have any right to ask questions concerning my private business."
"I must correct you there," I answered hotly. "Lady Mabel Wotton, her brother, and Lady Denham are friends of mine. I do not wish to see them deceived, Mr.--er--er--Wentworth Marr."
"That is very creditable to your heart, Mr. Vance. But I fail to see how I am deceiving them."
"You wish to marry Lady Mabel?"
"Is that a crime? I am a widower, and am free to take another wife."
"Not under the pretence that you are a wealthy man."
"How do you know?" asked Mr. Monk, smiling politely, "that I am not a wealthy man, Mr. Vance?"
"Pshaw, man!" I rejoined heatedly, for his cool insolence was getting on my nerves. "You have a life interest in five hundred a year and a tumbledown house with a few acres of land at Burwain."
"So far as you know, Mr. Vance, those are all my possessions, but when we reach my rooms," he leaned forward and peered through the misty glass, "we are nearly there now, I am glad to say, you will have an explanation which will astonish you. Had you recognized me when at Lady Denham's----"
"I did recognize you."
"Had you denounced me, I should have said," he went on pleasantly, "I should have made the explanation then and there."
"Ah!" said I meaningly, "I thought my chance mention of Cannington's name at Burwain forearmed you."
He nodded, and chuckled in his infernally oily manner. "It was just possible, seeing that Lord Cannington and Lady Mabel, to say nothing of Lady Denham, were our mutual friends, that we might meet, so I made ready. I certainly did not expect to meet you quite so soon, however. Tell me," he glanced sideways at me curiously, "why did you not address me by my real name?"
"I remembered that you were Gertrude's father."
"How lucky--for me," said Mr. Monk sarcastically. "Julia Destiny hinted that you were in love with my daughter."
"She didn't hint enough. I amengagedto your daughter."
"Without my consent."
"I ask it now."
"Then you shall not have it."
I laughed. "Your consent matters very little, Mr. Monk."
"Marr, I tell you, Marr. And Gertrude will never marry you without my permission. You may be sure of that."
"I am not at all sure of it. She loves you better than you deserve, but when she finds that you are keeping her in poverty at Burwain, while you live in splendor in London, and under another name, which looks fishy, will she continue to regard you as the perfect father?"
Mr. Monk moved uneasily in his seat. "Here we are," he said, when the car stopped in a somewhat dark street; "in my rooms I can explain. And in any case I am obliged to you for carrying off the situation so well. Not that I was unprepared, had you driven me into a corner. But as a gentleman, I do not like stage melodrama in private life."
"Yet you make ready for every opportunity to exercise it," I retorted, as the footman opened the door. "Your explanation----"
"Will take place in private," he said sharply, and we alighted. The motor departed hastily--to the nearest garage, I suppose--and Mr. Monk ushered me up a flight of well-lighted stairs. "These are my quarters," he said complacently, and I was shown into a really splendid hall, perfectly decorated.
It is useless to describe the rooms in detail, but Mr. Monk had done himself full justice in the way of art and comfort. We went into a Moorish smoking-room, which reminded me of Cairo, and I accepted coffee and cigarettes. Perhaps Mr. Monk had some hazy idea connected with the Eastern decorations that, having partaken of his bread and salt, I would not betray him, for he pressed tobacco and Mocha on me very assiduously. I took all he offered, but reserved my private right of judgment. To save Lady Mabel from this fraudulent adventurer by denouncing him was not a betrayal in my eyes. The sole thing that had prevented me stripping him of his fine feathers hitherto had been the undoubted fact that he was Gertrude's father. And so I had told him in the motor.
"You see that I am comfortable here," said Mr. Monk, who was smoking a very fine cigar, "but I beg leave to contradict you when you say that I do not give my daughter sufficient money. Gertrude has whatever she asks for, and, being fond of the simple life, is quite content."
"Pardon my contradicting you, but, thinking that you have but five hundred a year, and knowing your luxurious tastes, Miss Monk denies herself all, save the necessaries of life, so that you may have more money to spend. Did she know you were a millionaire----"
"I am not a millionaire," said Monk, snapping for the first time, as hitherto he had kept his temper in a most aggravating manner.
"I understood Lady Denham to say that you were," I reminded him politely.
"Like all women, Lady Denham exaggerates. I have a good many thousands, but I cannot call myself a millionaire."
"And the house in the country----"
"In Essex, remember. That is true enough."
"Oh, yes, though it can hardly be called an estate. But the shooting-box in Scotland?"
"I rented one last year for a time."
"I see, you saved the situation in that way. And the villa at Nice?"
"A friend of mine lends me his. I can ask anyone there."
"And apparently intend to pass it off as your own."
"No," he said, smiling graciously, "you are mistaken. It is true that I asked Lady Denham and Lady Mabel to Nice. I mentioned the villa, but I did not declare it was mine. They hastily concluded that it was."
"From what you left unsaid, I presume. Well, and your change of name?"
"That has to do with my money. A distant cousin of mine died three or four years ago in Australia and left me nearly one hundred thousand pounds on condition that I took his name. I complied with the necessity in a legal manner, without letting my daughter know, and now enjoy the money. I am quite rich enough to marry Lady Mabel if she will have me."
"That may be. But when she learns that you have a daughter as old as she is, I doubt if she will accept you. Particularly, as----"
"I know what you would say. Particularly as that Weston man loves her."
"Not quite that, Mr. Marr. Particularly as she loves the Weston man. But may I ask why you keep your daughter in ignorance of your change of name and your possession of wealth?"
"Listen," he said, throwing away his cigarette. "I inherit five hundred a year from my late brother--that is, as you say, I have a life interest in it. After my death it goes to Gertrude. As a matter of fact she enjoys it now, as it goes to keep up The Lodge at Burwain, and pay for her necessary needs. That she chooses to dress plainly and live plainly is not my fault. The money is to her hand when she wants it. Under these circumstances, since she has all she requires, I do not see why she need know that I live a different life in London, as she would not join me here if I offered to take her. On my part, I am a man still young, and I wish to marry again, since I am well off. Why, then, should I encumber myself with a grown-up daughter?"
"I can't answer that question, as I don't quite follow your eminently selfish reasoning. But as it is I propose to take charge of your grown-up daughter. Then you can do what you like, so long as you don't marry Lady Mabel under false pretences."
"You will tell Lady Mabel?"
"Yes, and Cannington also. I should not be surprised if he horsewhipped you."
Mr. Monk winced. "I shall take my chance of that," he said bravely enough, and to do him the justice he was no coward so far as flesh and blood was concerned. "But suppose I get ahead of you and explain myself."
"In that case Lady Mabel will not marry you."
"It's probable, although, beyond the fact that I forgot to tell her of my change of name, I have done nothing wrong."
"Nothing wrong, when you masquerade----"
"I tell you I don't masquerade," he cried, with sudden heat, and springing to his feet; "my name has been legally changed and the money is mine by right. I really am, under an Act of Parliament, Mr. Wentworth Marr. I daresay it was vanity on my part to lessen my years by not confessing to having a daughter of Gertrude's age, but that is not a crime. But you are not going to blackmail me, Mr. Vance, so don't think it.'
"I don't propose to. I simply intend to tell Cannington and Lady Mabel the truth. Then they can deal with the situation."
Monk snapped his delicate fingers. "Tell them the truth by all means," he said derisively; "it's bound to come out sooner or later. Striver knows that I appear in London as Marr."
"Striver, the gardener. How did he learn?" I asked, taken aback.
"Ah," sneered the little man, "you don't feel quite so certain that you hold the keys of the situation, do you, Mr. Vance? Yes, Striver knows. He saw me in Piccadilly when I was getting out of my motor, and went to ask my chauffeur questions?"
"What sort of questions?"
"About my possessing a motor, I suppose. Striver knows my income, and didn't see how I could afford such a machine. Also he has the impudence of old Nick himself. At all events, he learned from my chauffeur that I was Marr, and, thinking something was wrong, as you did, he learned my address and had an interview. To prevent his telling Gertrude I was obliged to shut his mouth and confess all."
"How did you shut his mouth?" I asked hastily.
"I intimated," said Monk coolly, "that if he could get money enough, and went to school to improve his education, he could marry Gertrude."
"What!" this time I sprang to my feet, and a fine rage I was in, "you dared to make a bargain with that fellow."
"I had to shut his mouth," said Monk sullenly, and sat down.
"So he lives in a fool's paradise. You don't suppose that Gertrude would marry Striver?"
"I never thought so for one moment, no more than she would marry you."
"She is going to marry me," I insisted, at white heat.
"Nothing of the sort," said the little man obstinately; "now that you have learned the truth, I am not going to be under your thumb. I shall give up any idea of marrying Lady Mabel. I shall bring Gertrude to London and I shall marry her to Lord Cannington."
"You'll do nothing of the sort."
"Who will stop me?"
"There is no stoppage in the matter of the kind you mean. Whether I or your own self tell Lady Mabel the facts of the case matters very little. But when the truth becomes known, she will not marry you, and Cannington, who is my best friend, will not marry Gertrude. He would not even admire her, unless I gave him permission, since he knows that she is my promised wife."
"Who told him that?" asked Monk wrathfully.
"I did. It is true. Gertrude is going to marry me, and you can do your best to prevent it. And another thing, Mr. Monk, or Marr, or whatever you choose to call yourself, you had better confess the truth at once. Weston is going to set up his airship factory at Burwain, and Lady Mabel is bound to go down and see him. You will understand the necessity to retreat gracefully from your position before you are kicked out. As to Striver----"
"What about Striver?" sneered the little villain, who was desperately pale by this time, for my words had gone home. "He won't give in. You have got the better of me, but Striver will get the better of you."
I snapped my fingers, as Mr. Monk had done himself a few minutes previously. "That for Mr. Striver!" I said contemptuously. "Do you think I care for a country bumpkin such as he is. Gertrude has promised to be my wife, so the rest matters little."
Monk nursed his chin on his hand, and looked remarkably sullen. After a couple of minutes' silence he looked up. "See here, I shall make a bargain with you. If I withdraw from Lady Mabel's society and court her no more, will you hold your tongue?"
"No. Lady Denham must learn the truth. You are at her house under false pretences."
"As you choose!" he shrugged, but his eyes glittered wickedly behind thepince-nez, "but if you will hold your tongue, for, say a fortnight, until I can retreat gracefully from my position by feigning to make a trip to the Continent, I will offer no opposition to your marriage with Gertrude."
"Oh, I have no wish to be hard on you, Mr. Monk. Your opposition to my marriage doesn't matter, since Gertrude will think very little of you when she learns the truth. I shall hold my tongue for a fortnight, and you must give up Lady Denham's acquaintance altogether: also Lady Mabel's and Lord Cannington's acquaintance."
"And you'll let me tell Gertrude myself," he entreated, now beaten.
"Yes," said I, after a pause, "I shall let you tell Gertrude yourself."
"Thank you," said Monk in a low tone, "and in return I advise you to beware of Striver. You have conquered me: you won't conquer him," and he smiled in a most evil manner.
I was having my fill of surprises by this time, and was beginning to wish that the matter should end. By the matter I mean this Mootley crime, the present cause of all these happenings. By stumbling on that fine adventure, I had become engaged to Gertrude, and, to keep Cannington from plundering my preserves, I had come to London. Here, at his aunt's house, I had met Gertrude's father masquerading as a millionaire. There was no use his denying this. His change of name may have been legal, and he may have acquired a competency by the death of his Australian cousin: but he certainly could not rank with the Park Lane fraternity. Yet Lady Denham believed him to be one, and he encouraged the idea.
I took my leave of the smooth-faced little man with the resolve to keep my promise. So long as he abstained from calling on Lady Denham, and withdrew his pretentions to Lady Mabel's hand, there was no need for me to strip him of his peacock's feathers. There was no need even to tell Gertrude, as the revelation would not change her feelings towards me in any way. Certainly the ingenious Mr. Striver knew, and I wondered that he had not made use of his information before, to force Monk's hand. But Striver was a patient man and perhaps had waited until he had acquired his aunt's wealth before pressing his suit. Then, if Gertrude refused, he could threaten to tell her of Monk's secret doings, unless that gentleman exercised his parental authority so far as to insist upon the unequal marriage. But--and the reflection made me chuckle--they were both a day after the fair, for Gertrude had promised to be my wife and I was equal to Striver in the knowledge of which he hoped to make use. It was a poor lookout for the handsome Joseph, and, in spite of Monk's warning, I had no fears that the man could harm myself or my darling in any way.
I remained a week in London, and enjoyed myself along with Cannington--that is, I went to the theatres, to various At Homes, to certain small dances, and to suppers, dinners, motor drives, and all the rest of it, including bridge drives, although I had no particular regard for that fashionable game. But my heart was far away with Gertrude, and I felt very much bored in spite of the boy's lively society. I think he noticed my abstracted condition at times, for he proposed that I should leave him and return to Burwain. I refused, since I had arranged to remain a week. I heard from Gertrude every day, and replied at length, so that somewhat ameliorated my desperate situation. Moreover, I wished to remain in London to see if Mr. Monk intended to keep his promise.
One day--the last of my stay in town, as a matter of fact--Cannington turned up at my club with two pieces of news. He delivered both over a brandy and soda and a cigar.
"Weston has been to Burwain, and has got his land lease for a few months," said Cannington, "and to-morrow he is taking down a gang of men to erect fences. Within a week--so he says--the fences will be up, and in a fortnight the sheds will be erected. Then he can take down the various parts of his airship to put the beastly thing together."
"But to get fences and sheds rigged up in such a hurry will take a very great number of men."
"Of course. However, Dicky has thirty thousand pounds a year----"
"So much as that? Why doesn't Mabel marry him, then? She wants money and love. Weston can give her both."
"Do you think so, really, old chap?"
"I am certain of it. He was dreadfully jealous of our friend, Mr. Marr."
"Well, I think he is. You see Dicky looks on Mabel as his own property, and hates anyone to poach. I wish he would adjust the situation, but hang him, he won't--that is, he has done his best, and can't."
"Why don't you ask him his intentions? You are the head of the family."
Cannington grew red. "Oh, hang it, I can't. It would look as though I were shying Mabel at the chap's head. It will all come right in time."
"Unless Mabel, in a fit of pique, accepts Marr."
"She won't do that. He's bunked out of the business."
"Really!" said I, with feigned surprise, "and why?"
"Lord only knows," said Cannington indifferently. "Aunt Lucy is in a fine state about his clearing. He wrote and said he had a sudden call on business to South America--something to do with a silver mine, I fancy--and would be away for a year. Aunt Lucy says this means he has given up any idea of making Mab his wife, and she blames poor Mab, and says it was her flirting with Dicky that sent old Marr off."
"It's just as well, Cannington. Weston is a much better match for your sister, and is quite rich enough, besides being younger. But has Marr really gone away?"
"I suppose so. I haven't seen him about town lately, and he said that he was sailing soon for New York. I'm sure I don't care: he can go hang for me." He laughed. "Aunt Lucy said I ought to thrash him for compromising Mabel. But that's all bosh. Mab's quite able to look after herself, and I can't lay hands on a man old enough to be my father. What do you think? Ought I to thrash him?"
Privately I thought that it would do Mr. Marr-Monk good to have a trifle of physical pain, and when Cannington knew the whole truth I was not at all sure but what he would reconsider his position and thrash the scoundrel. But since Monk had kept his promise I had to keep mine, so I merely shrugged my shoulders. "He's too old, boy. Besides, your sister never cared for him. When the airship is floated--is that the correct term--Weston is sure to propose."
"And you expect Mab to take him with a 'Thank you,'" flashed out the boy, growing red and haughty.
"Well," said I, with a look of surprise, "she loves him."
"That's true enough, but she's not going to be at the beck and call of Master Dick, as I told him."
"When?"
"When he came grumbling to me that Mab had refused him."
"He asked her to marry him?" I exclaimed.
Cannington nodded. "Dicky got so mad with the way in which Aunt Lucy talked that evening you were there, and with the way in which Marr seemed to be so sure of his ground, that he proposed the next day. Mab refused him at once, as he seemed to think he only to ask and to have. I told him it served him jolly well right, and that I admired Mab's spirit."
"So do I," was my hearty reply, "but I don't think Weston meant his offer to be taken in that light. He's a absent-minded man and--"
"Oh, hang it! a refusal will do him good," said Cannington crossly, "and perhaps he'll drop being such an ass. Of course he wants me to persuade Mab, but I told him I wouldn't lift a finger. Well, then, Vance, you see that Mab has lost both her lovers at once. Marr has sheered off--like his impudence, although I'm glad--and Dicky has been sent away with a flea in his ear, and serve him jolly well right."
"And how is Mabel?"
"As jolly as a sandboy, bless her, in spite of Aunt Lucy's nagging. I have asked her to come down to Murchester for a week. She can take rooms at the Lion Hotel, and collar some old woman as a chaperon. Then we can have a good time together. Come down also."
"No, boy. I must return to Burwain to-morrow."
"And when am I to be asked down to see Miss Monk?"
"Very shortly, as soon as I have her father's consent."
"Oh, she has a father?"
"Yes, but no mother. By the way," I said swiftly, to avert further questions, "you didn't give me your opinion of the case I put to you."
"I don't know what sort of opinion to give," said Cannington testily; "the best thing to be done is to find out who it was entered the shop when Miss Monk went away. I can think of nothing else."
Cannington’s opinion was mine also. But if Gertrude refused to speak I did not see what I could do. Besides, she was anxious for me to abandon the case. I felt inclined to do so myself, much as the mystery piqued me. However, I ceased to discuss it with Cannington--who really took very little interest in intricacies—and we spent the evening at theatre. Next day I furbished up the Rippler and departed at top speed for Burwain.
I flew, so to speak, on the wings of love, as I was desperately anxious to reach the side of my darling. It was a wet day and the roads were in a very bad condition. Nevertheless I broke every rule with regard to speed and defied the police traps. I broke through three, I know, and managed to escape having the number of my car taken. By the time I reached Burwain I had accumulated a tidy sum in fines. I did not care. I would have paid three times as much to reach Gertrude. But the fun of it was that, owing to my desperate haste, there was no chance of my being made to pay the money, as I had flown past with the speed of a kingfisher. "More haste, less speed" was not a true proverb in this instance.
So anxious was I to hold Gertrude in my arms that I halted the Rippler before the gate of The Lodge and proposed, dripping as I was, to have an interview before driving on to the Robin Redbreast. I soon made my way to the door, and rang the bell. The house looked forlorn and dismal in the misty rain, and there was a chill in the atmosphere. But love cares very little for such discomforts, so I smiled gaily at Eliza when she appeared at the door. She was a sour-faced, elderly woman, with a silent tongue, and usually never opened her mouth, even to me, although I was a constant visitor. But on this occasion, with a somewhat disturbed face, she spoke eagerly and seemed pleased to see me.
"Thank goodness you have come, sir," she whispered, with a backward glance, "I know you'll make him clear out."
"Make who clear out, Eliza?" I asked, staring.
"That Joseph, sir."
"The gardener?"
"Yes, sir. Ever since you have been away, he's been haunting the house. It's sheer lunacy, sir, but he's in love with Miss Gertrude, and follows her like a dog. An hour ago he forced himself into the house, and is now talking with her in the drawing-room, and--oh, sir," she caught hold of me, as I compressed my lips and strode past her, "don't anger him: he's a desperate man."
"I'll break his neck," said I drily; "let me go, woman," and wrenching my sleeve from her grasp, I walked to the drawing-room door, and flung it open.
"Cyrus!" Gertrude saw me at once, and flung herself across the long room to nestle in my arms, "I am so glad you are here. He--he"--she pointed to the gardener--"he's quite mad."
Striver, dressed much the same as he had been when I interviewed him in the Mootley corner shop, stood sullenly at the end of the room. Apparently he had pinned Gertrude in a corner, but his turning to see who was entering had given her the chance, and now she was safe by my side. The fellow looked as handsome as ever, but his face was scarlet with anger, and his fists hung clenched by his side. Feeling myself to be the master of the situation I was comparatively cool.
"What the devil do you mean, man?" I said, with pointed and intended insolence.
"He is mad: he is mad," cried Gertrude, clinging to me, and replying for the man, who still kept a sullen silence. "He forced his way into the house and has been saying dreadful things."
"Things you cannot deny," said Striver, moistening his dry lips with his tongue. "Mr. Vance, you had better keep out of this, or it will be the worse for her," and he pointed to Gertrude.
I removed her arms from my neck and walked straight across the room. Before Striver was aware of my intention I had my hands on his throat and was shaking him as a terrier does a rat. With desperate efforts he tried to tear away my grasp, but could not do so, and his face was rapidly turning black with strangulation, when Gertrude ran to my side. "Don't kill him, for God's sake, Cyrus."
I loosened my grip, and Striver, staggering back, fell into a chair. Then, somewhat unjustly, I turned on Gertrude. "Are you thinking of him?" I demanded in a thick voice, for at the moment I was not master of myself.
"I am thinking of you," she replied, clasping her hands, "who else would I think of? I don't wish to see you hanged for murder."
"You would hang together," gasped the gardener, recovering his breath with a gigantic effort; "with my dying breath I would tell the truth."
"What truth?" I asked fiercely.
Gertrude clung to me. "Don't listen to him; don't listen to him."
"Ah," Striver sneered with pale lips, "she's afraid, you see."
"I am not afraid," cried Gertrude, her eyes flashing, and drawing herself up to her full height. "Cyrus knows everything. I only asked him not to listen because I wish you to go away and rid me of your hateful presence--your hateful presence," she repeated incoherently.
Striver gave a sob. "If you knew how I loved you!"
"Stop!" I had control of my feelings by this time. "It is no use your saying these things, Miss Monk is engaged to me."
"She'll never marry you, never," said the man between his teeth. "I shall denounce her to the police."
"As what--be quiet, Gertrude--as what, Mr. Striver?"
"As the woman who murdered my aunt," he cried, staggering to his feet.
I laughed, and the two stared at me in astonishment. The sound of merriment at such a tragic moment startled them. But I saw swiftly that it was useless to act a melodramatic scene, and was half sorry that I had so nearly strangled the gardener. Now I was cool and composed and, before proceeding to act, wished to know where I stood. "Sit down, Striver; sit down, Gertrude." They did as I asked them in sheer amazement. "Now then," I took a seat myself, "perhaps you will explain."
"He forced his way----" began Gertrude, when I stopped her.
"I know that much. Mr. Striver is in love with you. I don't blame him for that, since no man can help his feelings. He has forced his way into this house to compel you by threats to be his wife. I condemn him on those grounds, for no human being has a right to coerce another. Now then, the situation being plain, perhaps, Striver, you will speak out."
If I had been violent the man could have met me more easily. But my perfect fairness and coolness confounded him, and he stared stupidly at me. I grew impatient. "Come, Striver, speak up. I don't wish to condemn you unheard. On what grounds do you accuse Miss Monk of this crime?"
"She was at my aunt's house on that evening."
"I know as much from her own lips. I also know that she left her white cloak behind and a certain hat-pin. Well?"
He was more confounded than ever. "She stabbed my aunt," he muttered.
"I never did, I never did," cried Gertrude breathlessly.
"My dear," said I, patting her hand, "there is no need for you to deny that, I am aware of your innocence. But I wish to know upon what grounds Mr. Striver bases his accusation."
"I shall tell them to the police," said the gardener, rising.
"You can't do that," struck in Gertrude, "without incriminating yourself."
"Oh, indeed," said I lightly; "perhaps you will explain, Striver. You see, I am treating you with all justice."
"I don't want your justice," he said rudely.
"Ah!" I retorted meaningly, "perhaps you want the justice of a British jury, Striver. Come, out with it."
The young man clenched his fists. "If I ruin myself, I shall ruin her. You shan't have her if I can't."
"Allow me to tell you, Striver," I said, repressing Gertrude, "that all this bombast has no effect on me. Prove your accusation."
"You can't without incriminating yourself," repeated Gertrude, drawing a breath. "Cyrus, he told me that----"
"I'll tell him," interrupted the gardener fiercely. "I know that I run the risk of standing in the dock. But you, Miss Monk, will be by my side. It's my love for you which makes me risk my neck."
"So that you can put a rope round the neck of the woman you love," I said cheerfully, although I confess that the man's decisive tone made me uneasy. "That is an affectionate way of acting." "Well, are you going to confess?"
"I am not afraid to confess," said Striver, in thick tones, but more composed. "You can't make use of my confession without proving her"--he pointed to Gertrude--"to be a murderess and a thief."
"A lie, a lie," moaned the girl.
"I have been very patient with you, Striver," I said, suppressing my anger with an effort, "but if you call Miss Monk names I'll knock your teeth down your throat."
"I'm not afraid of you, Mr. Vance."
"No; you're afraid of the police."
"And so is she," he pointed again.
"I am not," denied Gertrude, and stood up calm and unflinching to deny it.
"Oh, damn your fencing, come to the point. Forgive me for swearing, Gertrude, but this long-winded ass would provoke a saint."
Striver took no notice of the insult. He plunged, with a gasp, directly into the middle of his story, and I soon saw how it was that he did not dare to denounce Gertrude. "My aunt wished me to marry Miss Monk," he said rapidly, and with his eyes on the carpet--he was standing up, by the way--"and as I loved her I wished for nothing better. My aunt said that she could give me Gabriel Monk's money after her death, as she had concealed its whereabouts in her glass eye."
"Oh," I said, half to myself, "so I was right."
"Yes, you were right," assented Striver quickly. "I wanted my aunt to show me the eye when she was alive, but she always refused and said that it would remain in her head until she died."
"A violent death, Mr. Striver."
"Yes. She always declared that because of this secret she would not die in her bed. She was afraid that Miss Monk would kill her."
"Oh, rubbish!" I interrupted impatiently. "Miss Monk would not kill a fly, as you well know. Mrs. Caldershaw must have been mad."
"I think she was," murmured Gertrude, clinging to me.
"She was not mad enough to give away the secret of the eye to me," said Striver savagely. "I heard from Miss Destiny that Miss Monk had learned from some diary of Gabriel Monk's that my aunt knew the secret of the money."
"Yes," interrupted Gertrude, looking up, "but not of the eye."
"Seeing that you murdered my aunt, I believe you did," contradicted the gardener bluntly. "Miss Destiny said that you were going over to Mootley to see my aunt. I went over also."
"On that evening?" I asked, startled.
"Yes, and some time before Miss Monk arrived. I saw my aunt and asked her to tell me the secret. She refused, as she only wished me to have the money after her death. Then Miss Monk arrived, and my aunt smuggled me up the stairs into a bedroom. From above I saw Miss Monk enter the back room with my aunt. I returned to the bedroom to wait, and fell asleep. When I awoke it was quite dark. I stole down the stairs into the back room, and found it in darkness. Also I found my aunt's body and the eye missing. My aunt was not quite dead, as she moaned. While I was wondering what to do, I heard a motor arrive."
"My motor?" I asked swiftly.
"Yes. I then saw in a flash that being found with my aunt dying I might be accused of murder and of stealing her eye, seeing that I wanted it so much. I could not risk anyone entering the back room, so I fumbled for the key. It was on the outside, and you entered the shop, Mr. Vance, before I could get it. But there was a bolt on the inside of the door, and this I slipped. When you tried the door you could not get in. Afterwards, when you were filling your tank with petrol, I came out softly and stole up the stairs with the white cloak."
"Why did you take the white cloak?"
"I knew that it belonged to Miss Monk, as I had frequently seen her wearing it. I wished to keep it as evidence that she had murdered my aunt in the back room."
"I left the cloak, when I had to depart in a hurry," said Gertrude defiantly.
"So you say," sneered Striver, "but I believe differently. However, I managed to get safely back to the bedroom, and wondered how I could escape. It then struck me that I could assume the cloak as a disguise. I found a veil also, and put that round my cap. In the dusk, with the long cloak and the veil, I thought I would look like a woman, and could steal out."
"Oh," I said, with a gasp, "then you ran away with my car."
"Yes, I did," he said with a sort of triumph. "I waited my chance to get out of the place, as I was afraid lest I should be accused of the murder. When you entered the back room----"
"Attracted by the moan of the dying woman. Yes, go on."
"Well, then I stole down the stairs and turned the key, which, I already knew, was on the outside. You had set your motor going, so I ran out and leaped in. That man Giles saw me--although I did not know his name at the time--and I put on all speed to escape. Luckily you had turned the motor round in the Murchester direction. I spun along and met Miss Destiny in her trap, as you know. At the time I didn't think it was her. Then it struck me that she--a stranger, as I believed--might say how she had seen the motor and I would be traced. I therefore slewed the machine into the field through the gate. I left it stranded there, and concealed the cloak----"
"Which I found, along with the veil," I put in. "Go on, Mr. Striver."
"There's nothing more to tell," he said sulkily. "I walked to Murchester and caught a train. As I had not the motor or the white cloak, I felt that I was safe. And so I was."
"You are not very safe now," I remarked, rising to stretch myself. "Suppose I tell the police?"
"Then I denounce Miss Monk as guilty; she was in the back room----"
"I had left long, long before," interposed Gertrude, very pale.
"I was in the back room also, Striver, yet I am innocent. However, I can see that if I talk you can talk, so, for the present, in any event, I shall say nothing about the matter. You can go." I pointed to the door.
He stood his ground and looked at Gertrude. "You are in my power," said he.
"And you are in ours," I retorted cheerfully, "it won't do, Striver, things shall remain as they are for the present. Miss Monk is not for you."
"I shall tell the police," he threatened.
"By all means, and cut your own throat. Go!" I flung open the door.
He looked with deadly hatred at Gertrude and myself, then departed in silence.
When I turned towards my darling, she had fainted.