Of course in daring Striver to do his worst I knew that I was running considerable risk. The man was crazy with love, and might be sufficiently reckless of consequences to himself to tell the police all that he had confessed to us. Then Gertrude would certainly be arrested on his evidence. Striver, as an accomplice after the fact would be arrested also: and then Justice would have to remove the bandage from her eyes to learn which of the two was guilty. In my own mind I had no doubt of Gertrude's innocence, but an unbiassed jury might take, and probably would take, on the declarations of Striver, a very different view. I had dared much on the spur of the moment, and had defied a jealous man. Therefore for the next two or three days I was uneasy.
But I did not permit Gertrude to see that I was doubtful of Striver's silence. When she recovered from her faint she expressed herself afraid lest he should speak out, and, in point of fact, voiced my sentiments. But in order to pacify her I made light of her fears.
"My dear, much as the man loves you, he certainly will not place his neck in a noose to be revenged on you," I said again and again. "He is too deeply implicated, by running away with my car and with your cloak, and with being in the house when the crime was actually committed, to dare to tell the police the truth. Even if he did go with his story I doubt if you would be arrested, as on the face of it he looks much more guilty."
"Do you think heisguilty, Cyrus?" she asked tremulously.
"Well," I spoke doubtfully, "some such thought struck me once or twice. He was in the house, he wanted the eye to learn the secret of the hiding-place, and he knew that you had paid a visit. He might have murdered the old lady with your hat-pin so as to throw the blame on you, and then might have hoped to implicate you still further by using your cloak as a disguise. That Giles mistook him for a woman--which he counted upon--would, of course, aid him to entangle you yet more in the snare. But I can't be sure if he is actually guilty."
"I hope not, I hope not," murmured Gertrude anxiously, "it would be such a terrible thing for him to murder his relative. I don't mind Joseph at all if he would only get rid of this crazy affection he has for me. I don't know why he loves me so?"
"Look in the glass, and you'll see," I said, kissing her.
"Oh, nonsense, Cyrus," said Gertrude impatiently, "how can you joke when things are so serious. I am a very ordinary girl, and Joseph is half mad, I really believe. Oh"--she stopped short and looked at me--"that eye."
I saw what she meant. "Yes," I nodded, "that struck me also. Joseph might have been the one who placed it on that drawing-room table to implicate you. In that case--if we can only force him to confess as much--he must be guilty of the murder."
"I hope not--I hope not," she said again shiveringly, "and yet"--then she went off on a new line of thought--"if he placed the eye there, why should he take it away again?"
"He may not have done so. Do you know, Gertrude, I should not be surprised if your Aunt Julia had it. She wanted the eye, as we know, because she desires to handle the money. Apparently she told Joseph of your visit to Mootley, so that he might go there on the same day and anticipate your learning the secret from Mrs. Caldershaw."
"But what would she gain by that?"
"She would be able to make Joseph give her part of the money when he found it," I replied quickly.
"Then you think she anticipated the murder?"
"Not for one moment, my dear. With all her faults, your aunt is not wicked enough to deliberately urge a man to commit murder. But she sent Joseph ahead first, trusting that Mrs. Caldershaw would tell him the secret before you arrived. Then he could return with the cipher and they could understand it together--solve it, that it. But, as things turned out--all this is pure theory mind--Joseph did not show her the eye."
"But he could not have had it, by his own confession," insisted Gertrude.
"Quite so. But who else could have placed the eye on the drawing-room table, my dearest? I suspected Giles; I suspected you; and, I think, in a way, I suspected Striver, since he was working in the garden. Now I am sure. He put it there, because he was unable to read the cipher and so made use of it to implicate you. Miss Destiny found it and probably now it is in her possession. That glass eye has a trick of disappearing."
"The Disappearing Eye," said Gertrude, with a wan smile, "but you are wrong about Aunt Julia, Cyrus. She was with me all the time when you saw the eye, and I walked with her to the gate myself. We were not in the drawing-room."
I was disappointed when I heard this. "In that case, she could not have taken it," I mused. "Mr. Monk, could not, as he was with me all the time."
"Cyrus, how can you think that papa would do such a thing?"
I smiled covertly. My experience of Mr. Monk showed me that he could act in an extremely underhanded and mean way when it suited his own tricky ends to do so. But, bearing my promise in mind, I did not dare to explain myself to the girl. I merely said that perhaps, after all, Striver took the eye back again, as he had every opportunity of doing so.
"But he would have produced it when we talked," insisted Gertrude again.
"No. That would incriminate him too deeply. However, this eye, as I have said, seems to have a trick of appearing and disappearing, so it will turn up again. Meanwhile we will give Mr. Striver the benefit of the doubt and assume him to be innocent, although I'm hanged if his actions look like it. He won't say anything, you may depend upon that."
Striver did not, and evidently my policy of daring him to do his worst had proved successful. He remained a week in Burwain, but did not come near the house. Then he disappeared. Mrs. Gilfin told me the news. Striver had given his cottage into the charge of some cousin and had gone away for an indefinite period.
"Didn't say where he was going," chatted Mrs. Gilfin. "I asked John to find out from the gossip in the bar, but he couldn't. But, knowing men as I do, I know where he's gone."
"Where, Cuckoo?" I asked anxiously, for, bearing in mind what the gardener knew, I was eager to know his whereabouts.
"To London town," said Mrs. Gilfin solemnly, "young men with money always go there to have a spree. And since you've caught the eye of Miss Gertrude, Master Cyrus, dear, that young man's given up trying. With his aunt's money he's gone to enjoy himself."
I doubted it. Striver was too deeply in love to get rid of his crazy passion so easily. Still it was possible that he had gone to London to drown his disappointment in an orgy, so I took the news of his departure to Gertrude, although I did not tell her of Mrs. Gilfin's belief. I found the girl puzzling over a letter from her father.
"He's going to New York on business," she said, handing me the letter; "now I wonder what his business can be, Cyrus. And why did he go away without coming down to tell me personally and say good-bye?"
I read Mr. Monk's precise handwriting carefully. He had kept to my agreement with him, and had left the country. He would be away, he wrote to his daughter, for an indefinite period, and hoped to return a wealthy man. I guessed that such a mean creature would probably stay in America and marry there, leaving his daughter to look after herself. Luckily there was a postscript stating that if Gertrude wanted money she was to apply to a lawyer whose address was given. I handed back the letter with a shrug. Since Mr. Monk had departed there was no reason for me to say anything at all, although I had limited my silence to a fortnight.
"I expect he's found some business which will make him rich, and has had to go off in a hurry. You can't miss him very much, Gertrude, darling, for he is never here."
"No, that is true," she said thoughtfully, folding up the letter, "and since you have come into my life, Cyrus, I miss my father very little, still he might have come to say good-bye. I am afraid," she ended, sighing, "that papa is a little selfish."
"Well, never mind. He'll return with wealth, as he says."
"Do you think he will?"
"I am sure of it," I replied, kissing her, for if Mr. Monk did appear in Burwain again, a contingency I could not be sure would take place, he would doubtless admit his possession of the Australian cousin's money to his daughter. Meanwhile, as I pointed out, he was gone, and Striver was gone, so all we had to do was to enjoy ourselves.
"Then there's no danger of Joseph seeing the police?"
I kissed her again. "No. Set your mind at rest!" And truly, when day after day went past and no news came I began to believe that Mr. Striver and his suggested revenge had passed away altogether. The murder of Mrs. Caldershaw--unless the gardener was guilty--still remained a mystery, but so long as Gertrude was not troubled I cared very little if it were never solved.
September passed into October, and that damp month gave place to foggy November. I remained very comfortably lodged at the Robin Redbreast, and saw Gertrude every day. The lawyer sent her a weekly sum, so all was well financially, and for the rest, she no longer felt lonely, since she had my company to an unlimited extent. We motored a great deal, we sometimes visited the Tarhaven theatre, and we spent long evenings together over the piano, for Gertrude was a very good musician. If ever a man had an opportunity of knowing what kind of wife he was marrying, I was that lucky individual. Our wooing was odd and unconventional, to say the least of it, and I was known in Burwain village as "Miss Gerty's young man." Only Puddles acted as chaperon, although Miss Destiny sometimes assumed that office.
The little old lady was extremely gracious to me, and actually asked me to afternoon tea in her tin house, an unprecedented favour, considering her avaricious nature. Gertrude privately informed me that her aunt did not again refer to the hidden money, and evidently was quite ready to wait until it was found. If it was, and she did not receive her half, I had no doubt that she would show her teeth, but meanwhile she was bland and smiling and agreeable. I disliked her myself, as I knew she was holding a whip over Gertrude. Still, so long as she did not use it, I had no cause to complain. Gertrude's position--owing to circumstances over which she had no control--was an extremely delicate one, and Miss Destiny, as a possible scandalmaker, had to be propitiated. I was therefore as amiable to her as she was to me, but I fancy she hated me under her feigned mask of friendship, as several times I caught sly glances revealing the smouldering fires of her suppressed feelings.
I had, through those damp months, a companion at the Robin Redbreast in the small person of Dicky Weston. True to his intention, he had leased a few acres of waste land outside the village and, having enclosed it with a high tin fence, had erected sheds for his three or four workmen--in the construction of his airship he did not retain more--and for the housing of the vessel (as I presume it may be called). The various parts were brought from London, and Weston spent his days in putting them together. Meanwhile he lived along with me at the inn, and we had a common table. I rather liked Weston, although he was confoundedly absent-minded. He told me--for we grew confidential--that he had proposed to Mabel and that she had refused him.
"I believe she's in love with that Marr fellow," said Weston savagely.
"She is in love with you, my dear chap," I assured him; "anyone but a half-blinded inventor could see that."
"Then why didn't she accept me?"
"Do you expect a girl to drop into your mouth like a ripe apple, just because between the intervals of what you regard as more important business you propose to her. Women need to be wooed in order to be won, Weston, and Lady Mabel--very rightly, declined to be considered a side issue of your life interest."
"But I love her no end, Vance."
"Pooh! You would sacrifice her and a dozen like her to your Moloch of an airship," I said lightly.
"I wouldn't," he insisted; "but Mabel couldn't expect me to throw over everything to dance at her heels."
"She could expect it, and she did expect it. Weston, you don't know the sex."
"I know Mabel, and I love Mabel," he muttered, "but since she won't have me there is no more to be said. I expect to hear she has married Marr."
"You expect wrongly then," said I with a shrug; "Marr has gone to America for an indefinite period, and is out of the running."
"Then there's a chance for me," he said, his dark face lightening up.
"If you play your cards properly."
"Show me how to play, then," he asked me, and I laughed.
"Good Lord man, you aren't a child, to be shown what to do. Make a fuss with Mabel, and show her--as she deserves to be shown--that she is the one woman in the world for you."
"So she is, so she is. I love her no end. Upon my soul I do."
"You have not shown that by your actions," I replied dryly; "if your love was so ardent you certainly would not be daunted by a single refusal."
Weston sighed. "I don't understand girls," he confessed.
"You certainly don't, my friend. However, if you are willing to make another attempt, ask Mabel down to see your airship."
"She won't come: she can't come."
"Why not? It isn't a long journey."
"From Italy it is," he said dolefully. "Lady Denham and her niece have been in Florence for some weeks. Lady Denham wrote and told me they were going."
"Oh, she wrote you, did she? That shows that, now Marr is off the scene, Lady Denham will favor your suit. Cannington's at Florence also. I got a letter from him a few days ago. The whole party are coming back to England for Christmas, as Lady Denham virtuously intends to spend the festive season at her country house in the good old English fashion."
"It's a fortnight to Christmas," ruminated Weston anxiously. "I wonder if Lady Denham would ask me down."
"I am quite sure she would. Men with thirty thousand a year are not easily picked up. Marr, the millionaire," I laughed when I said this, "having sheered off, Lady Denham will be delighted if her niece will marry you."
"But Mabel doesn't love me for my money, I hope."
"No. She's too decent a girl. You will be a lucky man if you win her. Lord knows what she can see in you, Weston. You're not handsome, not entertaining, and your mind generally floats in the clouds with your blessed airship."
Weston laughed, in no wise offended. "I'll tell you what," he said after a pause, "I'll wire Cannington asking him to bring his sister down here when they return to England."
"Won't a letter do? Why are you in such a hurry?"
"I haven't time to write a letter," confessed Weston candidly, "a wire is just as good, if more expensive. But if they come down I can then show Mabel the airship and ask her to use it with me for the honeymoon. She can't mistake that offer."
"It's an odd one, but she certainly can't," I answered laughing.
The consequence of this conversation was that Weston sent his telegram, and then promptly forgot all about it in the interest of his infernal aerial tramp. Cannington did not reply, so I wrote him a long letter, detailing my conversation with the inventor, and pointing out that Lady Mabel was the dream of the little man's life. So she was, in a way, although Weston had a queer method of showing it. My letter crossed another one from Cannington, and I learned that the party had returned to England sooner than was expected. Thus Weston's wire to Florence had not reached Lady Mabel. I posted another explanation to Cannington, and Weston, during the course of the week before Christmas, received a hasty note from the boy, saying that he was bringing down his sister to see--me. This made Dicky furious.
"Good Lord!" he grumbled, "are you in love with Mabel?"
"Considering that I have introduced you to my future wife, how can I be?"
"Then why does Cannington bring her to see you, confound you?"
"Because you have behaved badly to his sister."
"I haven't. I asked her to marry and she----"
"Very rightly refused to have you. Weston, you are a complete ass. Leave me to arrange this matter, and when you get the chance throw yourself at Mabel's feet and let her trample on you."
"I'll do whatever you like," said Weston, who was about as much in love as a man divided between science and humanity well could be.
The result of my efforts came about in due course. Cannington appeared on the scene in a walking kit, along with his sister, and announced that they were stopping at the Buckingham Hotel, Tarhaven, for a few days. The boy looked very well after his foreign tour, and Lady Mabel was as blooming as a rose. Weston being as usual in his yard attending to his darling airship, I gave Cannington and the girl afternoon tea, and we had a long chat, which included news on both sides.
"Mabel got an offer from an Italian count," said Cannington gaily.
"And I refused," replied Mabel. "I have made up my mind to be an old maid."
"You look like the sort that become old maids," I retorted, admiring her fresh comeliness, "and Weston will have a word to say to that."
Mabel set her mouth obstinately. "I sha'n't accept Dicky," she said, with a fine access of color; "he seems to think he has only to ask and to have."
"Well, then, he found that he asked and didn't get," I said teasingly; "he has been punished enough, Mabel, and loves you desperately. He can't get on with his work for thinking of you. Accept him, my dear girl, and then, the matter being settled, he can attend to his work."
"If I accept him I shall have to be his work," said Mabel wrathfully. "I am not going to be neglected for his airship. But let us leave Dicky alone for the present. If he asks me again, I might--mind you, I don't say that I will--but I might box his ears and accept him. Meanwhile, what about Miss Monk? I am dying to see her."
"So am I," chimed in Cannington, pushing back his chair.
"One at a time, boy. Mabel, you come along with me to The Lodge and we shall see Gertrude. Then you can give me your opinion on my extremely good taste. As to Cannington, he had better look up Dicky in his yard."
"I'd rather come and see Gertrude--I mean Miss Monk."
"No. To-morrow you shall be presented. Go and talk to Dicky like a Dutch uncle--he deserves it--while Mabel and I call on Gertrude."
Cannington nodded, although I could see that he was not very well pleased with the arrangement. On the way out of the inn he tugged at my sleeve while Mabel was speaking to Mrs. Gilfin. "I say, have you learned anything more about the Mootley business?"
"Not lately," I replied in low tones. "I'll tell you all I know when we have more time. Go and see Dicky. By the way," I caught his sleeve this time, "have you heard anything of Marr?"
"Not a word. Why?" He stared wonderingly.
"Oh, nothing. Never mind."
"Mabel," I turned to the girl, "I am at your service."
Cannington shrugged his square shoulders and the three of us walked to The Lodge. Weston's yard was farther on, quite beyond the village, so I directed Cannington to go straight on, telling him that he could not miss the workshop. Then I took Mabel inside the grounds of The Lodge and up to the door. Eliza opened the door and conducted us to the drawing-room. While she went to inform her young mistress of our arrival, Mabel glanced round admiringly.
"What a charming old room!" she said delightedly; "it must have been built by William the Conqueror: all except the horrid windows."
"They are rather out of place," I admitted; "some Vandal of a Monk, put them there during the Albert period, when everything was ugly."
"I shall get Dicky to give me a room like this--without the French windows, of course," chatted Mabel.
"Oh! then you intend to marry him."
"Certainly not. I intend to box his ears if he has the cheek to speak to me again. The idea!"
"What shall I give you for a wedding present, Mabel?" I asked, laughing.
"Dicky's head on a charger," she replied promptly.
"In that case there would be no wedding. Come, Mabel, you know you love Weston and intend to marry him."
"Well, I do, on one condition."
"What is that?"
"He must burn or smash his horrid airship before my very eyes."
"Well," said I, thoughtfully and with intent, "he loves you so much that I believe he'll even do that."
"Oh, Cyrus, would he"--her eyes sparkled--"does he really love me?"
"Desperately. He's been miserable since you refused him."
"Oh, poor Dicky--" she began, but got no further, for Gertrude entered as the words left her lips and came forward with a smile.
"Lady Mabel," she said, holding out her hand, "I have no need to ask your name, as Cyrus has described you to me so often."
"Oh, we've known each other for ages," said Mabel warmly. "Cyrus is just like my elder brother. I am so glad to meet you. Cyrus told me--well, I daren't tell you what he told me, it would make him blush."
"I have not blushed since I was a baby," I retorted. "Gertrude, Lady Mabel is stopping at Tarhaven with her brother and----"
"Don't call meLadyMabel. It's very rude. Miss Monk, why don't you keep him in better order?"
"Don't call me Miss Monk," said Gertrude, smiling. "I know you quite well from what Cyrus has told me, and, indeed, Mr. Weston."
"Oh, Dicky," Mabel blushed, "he's such a silly man, Miss--well then, Gertrude."
"Hurrah, Gertrude! you are received into the family circle," said I.
"Not until she meets Cannington," said Mabel, rising. "What a lovely, lovely room you have, Gertrude," she moved from one point to another; "it's as lovely as--you are."
"What a nice speech, Mabel."
"Yes, isn't it? I always make nice speeches, and--and--oh!" she stopped short.
"What's the matter?" asked Gertrude, seeing that her visitor was staring at a photograph in a silver frame, "that is my father."
"Your father," repeated Mabel, and my blood ran chill, for I guessed what was coming. "Why, it's a photograph of Mr. Wentworth Marr, who wished to marry me."
I sat and shivered in my brown shoes. In bringing Lady Mabel to The Lodge I had quite overlooked the possibility that she might espy the photograph of Monk which stood always, as I very well knew, on the piano in the drawing-room, and the worst of it was that the photograph had only been taken a few months, so there was no possibility of mistaking the face. It was certain that Mabel would appeal to me for confirmation of her assertion, since I had met Marr in her presence, so what could I do? While the two girls stared alternatively at one another and at the photograph, I tried to make up my mind what course it would be best to pursue.
"I think you must be mistaken," said Gertrude, who looked puzzled, "the photograph is certainly one that my father had taken early this year."
"Then your father is Wentworth Marr," insisted Mabel, examining the photograph more closely.
"Walter Monk is my father's name," said Gertrude with some stiffness, "there is no need for him to change it."
Mabel looked round at me, and I shivered again. The heavens were falling. "I ask you, Cyrus," she cried imperatively, "isn't this," she touched the photograph, "Mr. Marr."
"There is a likeness," I admitted cautiously.
"Nonsense! it's Mr. Marr himself. You met him at Aunt Lucy's. You must know."
"Know what?" I asked doggedly and uneasily.
"That this," she touched the photograph again, "is Mr. Marr."
I was silent, and looked at my toes, wondering what was best to say. Certainly I had made a promise to Monk to be silent, provided he fulfilled certain conditions. He had done so, and therefore my lips were sealed. Then I recalled the fact that I had limited the time of concealment to a fortnight and thus, in all honor, I was now free to tell the truth. It seemed necessary to do so at the moment, as no other course was open to me. Mabel was a most pertinacious young woman, and would never leave things alone until her doubts were set at rest. Moreover, Gertrude was looking at me inquiringly, as she had noticed my obvious embarrassment.
"Cyrus," she asked, and I raised my eyes, "what does this mean?"
"It's a long story," I said weakly.
"Oh," Mabel walked up to me, "then there is a story. Just you tell it." She sat down with a determined air. "I don't move from here until I know how Mr. Marr's photograph comes to be here under the name of Mr. Monk."
There was no help for it. I had to speak out and make the best I could of a most uncomfortable situation. "Mr. Walter Monk goes by that name in Burwain," I blurted out, "but in London he is known as Mr. Wentworth Marr."
"Well I never!" Mabel drew a long breath and looked at Gertrude, who had sat down, and was staring hard at me.
"Why has my father two names?" she asked apprehensively.
"Oh, there's nothing wrong," I said hastily, "he is Wentworth Marr by Act of Parliament."
"Perhaps he is a millionaire also by Act of Parliament," said Mabel sarcastically. "Can you say that he is, Cyrus?"
"Papa is not a millionaire," put in Gertrude hastily. "All he has is this house and five hundred a year."
"Oh," Mabel drew another long breath, "and he gave Aunt Lucy to understand that he was a rich man."
"Did he give her to understand that he was actually a millionaire?" I asked.
"Well no, not exactly. Aunt Lucy exaggerates. But he did say that he had no end of money and asked her permission to pay his addresses to me."
"To you!" cried Gertrude, her color coming and going; "why, I thought that you were engaged to Mr. Weston."
"I am in love with Mr. Weston," said Mabel straightforwardly, "but I am not engaged to him, although I may be. I refused him once, and my aunt wished me to marry you--that is, Mr. Marr!" She paused, then spread out her hands in a foreign fashion, "I can't understand what it means."
"Cyrus understands," said Gertrude, and her voice sounded cold. "Perhaps you will explain, Cyrus."
"Willingly," I said, nerved to desperate coolness, "but you will understand in your turn that I was bound by a promise made to your father not to say anything if certain conditions were fulfilled.
"Was that fair to me?" asked Mabel angrily.
"Perfectly fair," I snapped. "I learned the truth when I met Mr. Marr at Lady Denham's house. Then I recognized him as Mr. Monk, and afterwards I had an explanation with him."
"Why didn't you tell us his real name when you set eyes on him?" demanded Lady Mabel crossly.
"I did not wish to make a scene. It was only fair to await an explanation."
"What?" cried the girl, her color rising, "when Mr. Marr was calling on my aunt under a false name----"
"He has a perfect legal right to the name."
"And under the pretence of being a rich man."
"He is a rich man," I assured her, "to the extent of one hundred thousand pounds."
Gertrude looked at me in astonishment. "That isn't true," she denied.
"My dear girl, I have the word of your father for the amount."
"It's all very strange," said Mabel, calming somewhat, and hiding a covert smile. "Oh, great heavens! I wonder what Aunt Lucy will say!" She laughed outright. "It's like a play: to think that a man with a daughter as old as I am should wish to marry me."
Gertrude colored, and I saw that her mind was tormented to think that her father should act in this underhand way. To lessen her anguish I hastened to relate all I knew--this is, I explained about the Australian cousin, the legal change of name and reason for the suppression of the Burwain household, and the conditions upon which I had held my peace. The two girls listened quietly, Mabel with astonishment and Gertrude with pain. Certainly Walter Monk, alias Wentworth Marr, had not committed a crime, but he had scarcely acted straightforwardly.
"Well," said Mabel, drawing a long breath as usual when I had ended, "I never heard of such a thing. Why on earth didn't Mr. Marr, or Mr. Monk--I'm sure I don't know what to call him--tell me the whole truth? There was no reason to keep quiet that I can see."
"I was the reason, evidently," said Gertrude, with crimson cheeks, for she was heartily ashamed of her father. "Papa did not think you would marry him if you saw me."
For answer, Mabel, who was an extremely kindhearted girl, jumped up and kissed those same flushed cheeks. "My dear, I liked your father well enough, and would have no objection to you as a step-daughter." She laughed merrily at the idea. "But the fact is, I never intended to marry Mr. Marr, whatever Aunt Lucy said. I always loved Dicky Weston and I always shall, although he's so horrid."
"I'm glad of that," said Gertrude quickly, "for now I can see that my father is not the man to make any woman happy. I always thought that he was a kindhearted, harmless man, a trifle frivolous, perhaps, but quite honest. Now I understand that I have been deceived--in more ways than one," she added half to herself, and I could not understand what she meant. I did later.
"Do you blame me, Gertrude?" I asked, rising to take her hand.
"Of course she doesn't," said Mabel very rapidly; "you made a promise on certain conditions to keep quiet for an agreed time, and you have done so. No blame can possibly attach itself to you."
"Gertrude?" I said anxiously, taking no notice of Mabel's defence.
She pressed my hand. "I wish you could have told me," she said, in a low voice, "but my father was too clever for you. I understand."
"And you forgive me?" I pleaded.
"There is nothing to forgive."
"Of course there isn't," cried Mabel, kissing Gertrude again, "and don't let this make any difference to our friendship, dear. You will marry Cyrus and I shall marry Dicky--if he goes down on his knees to apologize for daring to ask me again--and everything will be well. But when I meet your father," ended Mabel wrathfully, "I shall speak my mind."
"I don't think that you will see him again," said Gertrude quietly. "He has gone to America, and went without a word of farewell or explanation to me. I think he will stop there. I see now that my affection was wasted on him, since he apparently cares for no one but himself."
"Never mind." Mabel caressed her. "You have Cyrus."
"Yes; thank God for an honest man," and she threw herself on my breast.
Mabel looked at us, and walked to the door. "I'll leave you together and go after Cannington. If Dicky's anything of a lover he'll meet me on the road--in his airship, if possible"--and with a laugh to relax the tension of the situation she vanished. Shortly, we heard her open the front door and pass out. Then only did I speak.
"Don't worry, Gertrude. He isn't worth it."
"He's my father, after all," she moaned; "it's terrible to think that he should deceive me so."
"Well, he hasn't done any real harm. He told me that he gave you the whole five hundred a year to yourself, more or less."
"That is not true. He has kept me very short."
"Hang him, he----" I stopped. After all, as she said, the man was her father, and I could not very well speak what was in my mind to his daughter. "Don't think of him any more, Gertrude," I whispered coaxingly. "I have you and you have me. Let us forget him."
"It will be best," she said, drying her eyes, for the ready tears had filled them, and small blame to her. "Do you think papa will come back?"
"No. He will probably stop in the States and marry an heiress."
"Thank God he will not come back," she muttered, half to herself. "I never want to see him in England again."
I thought that this was rather a strained view to take of Monk's delinquencies, seeing how fond Gertrude had been of him until she discovered his true character. But that is the way with true affection: it is all or nothing. Gertrude, a truthful, honest girl, could never trust her father again.
"No, I could never trust him," she said, speaking exactly what was in my mind. "He would only deceive me when it suited him. I always knew that my father was more or less selfish, but I looked upon him as a child. His character is not a deep one."
"It is deeper than we supposed," I said grimly.
"I can see that now, and--and--oh!" she rose and pushed me away--"I must go to my room to think matters over."
"What matters?"
"What you have told me and--and--others," she stammered.
I caught her hands. "Gertrude, what is it?"
She wrenched away her hands and glided towards the door. "I daren't tell you, I daren't tell you," she whispered, and her lips were as white as her face as she waved me back. "Wait, wait," she muttered, "when I can make up my mind, you shall know all." And she disappeared.
"All what?" That was the question I asked myself as I returned to the inn. Apparently Gertrude knew something more about her father than what I had told her. But what could it be that could so move her to tears? Of course the discovery of her father's doubtful behavior had given her a shock, but it scarcely explained her uncontrolled emotion. I began to wonder if Mr. Monk had any connection with the Mootley murder. But, on reflection I could find no connecting link. Until Gertrude gave me her entire confidence, I could not explain anything.
"Her entire confidence!" I stopped short when the two words flashed into my mind. I remembered that Gertrude had refused to give me the name of the mysterious person who had driven her out of the back door by the mere sight of him. Yes--him, for I truly believed that the person in question, although she had kept me in ignorance of the sex, was Walter Monk. On this assumption it was easy to guess why the poor girl had refused to speak the name. She dreaded lest her father should be implicated in the crime, and so, in the face of the danger to herself, had held her peace even to me, her staunch friend and devoted lover. This was what had brought her tears so readily. Notwithstanding she had seen him in the shop--as I now believed--she had hitherto refused to credit him with the murder. But the sudden discovery of the duplicity of which he was capable had aroused in her breast the latent doubt to active life. She now wished to be alone in order to consider if her father was guilty of murder as he had been guilty of deception. At least that was my belief, although I had little grounds to go upon. But Gertrude, as I had always thought, was shielding someone whom she had seen in Mrs. Caldershaw's shop. Who could that someone be but her father, since that relationship alone would be a powerful motive for her to hold her tongue, even at the risk of losing her liberty? But, try as I might, I could not see how Walter Monk could be connected with the death of Anne Caldershaw.
That same evening after dinner, Weston and I walked back to Tarhaven with the brother and sister. The sky was clear, and the atmosphere was not too chilly: also we walked along the cliffs under a full wintry moon. Naturally Weston and the girl he loved were together, and seemed to be quarreling pretty freely. In fact, Dicky told me that night, when we walked back, that several times he had attempted to propose again, but that Mabel had always laughed at him, so that he could not get the words out. She teased him and tantalized him, and drew him on and I repulsed him like a true daughter of Eve, so that his cold, scientific blood--to put it picturesquely--began to warm. Perhaps this was what the young minx desired. At all events, Dicky Weston understood her after that walk to Tarhaven much better than he had ever understood her before, and began to think that there were other things in the world than airships.
Cannington and I walked behind, chatting and smoking. Mabel either had not found time to tell him of her discovery, or had thought it best to leave the explanation to me. At all events Cannington knew nothing, so, to be beforehand, I judged it well to relate what I knew.
"Boy," I said abruptly, when we had settled well into our swing, "I have something to tell you: something you should have known before. And would have known," I added emphatically, "had I not been bound to hold my tongue for a certain period."
"What are you talking about, Vance?" asked Cannington, turning a surprised and youthful face to mine.
"Listen, and don't get your hair off!" said I, then rapidly and clearly told him of my recognition of Marr as Monk: of the conversation I had enjoyed with him in the London chambers, and finally detailed how Mabel had seen the photograph in The Lodge drawing-room which had proved the two men to be one. The boy listened quietly enough, although once or twice I heard him swear under his breath. "Well," said I, when I had finished, "do you blame me?"
"No," he said promptly, "since you arranged that the man should drop Aunt Lucy's acquaintance, and should drop courting Mab, I don't blame you. But I wish you had told me when the fortnight was up."
"My dear boy, how could I? You were going to Italy, and it was useless to communicate the news by letter. Especially," I added, "when Monk went to America, and intends apparently to stop there."
"Yes, yes. I suppose you acted for the best. But what a beast!"
"Come, that's a trifle hard," I protested. "Monk has a legal right to the name of Marr and has plenty of money. He is not a bad match for Mabel."
"I never liked him," said Cannington truculently, "and I am glad Mabel did not listen to him."
"She said that she never intended to listen to him, and now you may be sure that she will be Lady Mabel Weston very shortly."
"That depends upon Dicky's behavior," said Cannington sharply; "unless he is all that I can desire he sha'n't marry my sister."
"You leave things in the hands of Mabel, my son. She'll manage the affair all right. But Marr----"
"Damn him! I should like to give him a thrashing."
"I don't see upon what grounds you could, Cannington. It is true that he suppressed the fact that he had a grown-up daughter, but that is not a crime, and the suppression was due only to vanity. I daresay he intended to tell the truth if Mabel had accepted him."
"I daresay," muttered the boy, still wrathful, "but I wouldn't give the little beast the benefit of the doubt. I can't exactly call him to account either legally or socially, I suppose, but if he dares to speak to me again----" Cannington's fist clenched itself in his deerskin glove.
"I don't think you will set eyes on him for many a long day," I said carelessly; "he'll stop in the States and marry."
"What does his daughter say?"
"She is very much cut up at the way in which he has behaved. Fancy his having all that money--one hundred thousand pounds--and keeping his daughter down to the simple necessaries of life."
"Perhaps he hasn't the money at all," said Cannington abruptly.
"He must have," I insisted; "look at the motor car he drove in: and then his rooms are beautifully furnished."
"He might have got all that by swindling."
"In that case, you certainly are justified in thrashing him, since he obtained an introduction to Lady Denham under false pretences. But I don't think Mr. Monk has the nerve to swindle."
Cannington laughed grimly. I had never seen the easy-going boy so angry. "I think he has the nerve for anything, after what he has done--even for murder, Vance."
I started, remembering my belief that Gertrude was shielding her father. "I don't understand."
"He might have murdered Anne Caldershaw."
"Oh, nonsense. Mr. Monk wasn't even in the neighborhood."
"Mr. Walter Monk, under his real name, wasn't: but Mr. Wentworth Marr was!"
"Cannington?"
"Don't you remember how I told you that Marr called on that mess shortly before we arrived. He was stopping at the Lion Hotel in Murchester, and went off without seeing me again."
"Then you think that he went to Mootley to see Anne Caldershaw and murdered her straight away?"
"I can't be sure that he murdered her," said Cannington doubtfully, "but you can see for yourself that the man is game for anything. According to what you tell me, Mrs. Caldershaw was murdered for the sake of that glass eye, which contains the clue to a fortune. Monk or Marr, or whatever you like to call the beast, might have murdered the woman and stolen the eye and have got the money. I daresay," added Cannington, with a grim laugh, "he is really wealthy."
"I can't believe it," said I, desperately hoping against hope, for it was unpleasant to think that Gertrude might be the daughter of a criminal. "Long before the Mootley murder, he was courting your sister as a rich man."
"I daresay: he might have anticipated the fortune. However, that is my opinion, Vance, so you can take it or leave it. I don't want to hear the man's name again. I only hope he'll have the good sense to stay in the States, as I sha'n't answer for my temper when we meet."
"All right, boy, don't get your hair off with me."
"I haven't," said Cannington stiffly, "but the whole affair is unpleasant."
"If it is for you, think what it must be for me, when I am going to marry the daughter of such a rotter."
"You will keep to your engagement, then?"
"Of course," I returned indignantly. "What do you take me for?"
"A jolly good chap," said the boy, giving me a friendly dig. "I expect she--the lady, I mean--is worth it. Mabel says that she is no end of a beauty."
"Mabel is one of the few girls who can praise beauty in another. For that pretty speech she shall have the best wedding present I can procure."
"It may not be wanted," grunted Cannington.
I laughed and looked ahead at the pair quarreling in the moonlight. "On the contrary, I shall have to see to the matter at once," said I lightly.
On that night when I got back to the inn and retired to bed I thought long and deeply. Cannington's chance remark about Marr being in the neighborhood during the time the crime was committed convinced me that the man had been to Mootley. Gertrude had caught sight of him when she was in the back room, and had fled. For this reason she had declined to tell me the name of the mysterious person. And again, the presence of the glass eye on the drawing-room table was explained in a reasonable way. Monk had left it there, and apparently by chance, since, knowing, he would never have allowed such evidence of his guilt to remain there. How he had recovered it again I could not say, as he had been with me all the time until we re-entered the drawing-room together. It might be that Gertrude, in spite of her denial, had chanced on the eye, and, remembering her father's presence in the shop, had concealed it, thinking--and with good reason--that he was guilty. Even to me, under the circumstances, she would deny the truth, so I did not blame her overmuch. But I arranged in my own mind to see her the next day and learn for certain if she really believed her father to be guilty. On the grounds set forth he assuredly seemed to be.
But when the next day came, I did not call on Gertrude, for--as the saying goes--I had other fish to fry. At ten o'clock I received a telegram, asking me to be in London that afternoon at three o'clock. And the wire was from Mr. Walter Monk, or, as it was signed, Wentworth Marr. "Come up to my rooms at three to-day," ran the wording, "S. threatens. I want you to deal with him. WENTWORTH MARR."
There was a prepaid reply, so I sent an answer saying I would be in Stratford Street at the appointed time. Then I sat down to consider the meaning of the summons.
"'S. threatens.' That is, Striver is on the old man's trail. Humph! So Mr. Monk has returned from the States, where he had intended to remain. I daresay Striver followed him there and forced him to return. Now I wonder if Striver accuses Monk or Gertrude? That is the question. He may be threatening Monk with his daughter's disgrace so as to force him to get her to marry himself--Striver, that is. Or else he suspects Monk and can prove his guilt. Or else----" I stopped, and put the telegram into my pocket. "The crisis seems to be approaching," said I very prophetically. And I was right.