"When things to outward view are smooth,'Tis wisest to disturb them not.Restrain the prying eye of youthWhen things to outward view are smooth;For should ye seek to learn the truthMuch evil may by chance be wrought.When things to outward view are smooth,'Tis wisest to disturb them not."
"When things to outward view are smooth,'Tis wisest to disturb them not.Restrain the prying eye of youthWhen things to outward view are smooth;For should ye seek to learn the truthMuch evil may by chance be wrought.When things to outward view are smooth,'Tis wisest to disturb them not."
When he entered the room Archie looked very pleased, and a trifle excited, which happy demeanour was noticed at once by Mrs. Belswin.
"Good news?" she asked, as he greeted her, and walked over to Kaituna with the eager step of an expectant lover.
"Very good news," he replied gaily, "the best of news. Toby is going out to Australia to look after your fortune, Kaituna."
"My fortune," echoed Kaituna, faintly, raising her eyes to his bright face. "I'm afraid my fortune is a myth."
"Not at all! Not at all!" replied Maxwell, kissing her pale cheek. "Your fortune at present is not in the clouds, but in the earth; and when The Pole Star Company find that rich lode they are now looking for, you will be a female Crœsus."
"I hope so, for your sake."
"I hope so, for both your sakes," said Mrs. Belswin, bluntly; "and then there will be no more talk of breaking off the engagement."
"What, our engagement?" cried Maxwell, in an astonished tone, looking from the one to the other. "Why, what do you mean?"
"Ask Donna Quixota there, my dear Mr. Maxwell. She has been talking the high-flown nonsense which the virtuous heroine uses on the stage when she appeals to the gallery. She knows you love her for herself alone, and that I cannot live without her; yet she talks about leaving us both on some absurd scruple of honour."
"My dear Kaituna, you are surely not in earnest," said Archie, smoothing the girl's dark hair. "Mrs. Belswin is jesting, I suppose?"
"No! she is repeating my words in a slightly different way."
"But, Kaituna?"
"Now you are going to begin a discussion," said Mrs. Belswin, good-humouredly, "so I will leave you for a time. But first, Mr. Maxwell, tell me about your friend. You say he is going out to Melbourne?"
"Yes! I got a letter from him to-day. Miss Valpy and his father are both agreeable, and he starts by one of the Orient line in a fortnight."
"But the money?" said Mrs. Belswin, in some dismay, thinking of her straightened means. "What about the money?"
"Oh, that is all right," answered Maxwell in a satisfied tone. "Providence has tempered the financial wind to the Clendon lamb. He is going to write a series of articles on Australian cities forThe Weekly Scorpion, so the benevolent editor of that paper pays his expenses."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Belswin, with a sigh of relief, turning towards the door, "I'm so glad. It's a good omen for the silver mine. I hope he'll come back as prosperous as he leaves. Now I'm going away for a few minutes, so I'll leave you, Mr. Maxwell, to convince Kaituna that things will turn out better than she expects."
When Mrs. Belswin vanished, Archie took Kaituna by the chin, and turned her face towards his own.
"You wicked young woman," he said, laughing; "how can you speak, even in jest, about leaving me?"
Kaituna rose to her feet, and walked backwards and forwards several times in deep thought. Then she paused before Archie, and looked steadily at him with her clear, honest eyes.
"Archie," she said, at length, "believe me, I did not speak without reason. While my father was alive there was a chance of our marrying, for I would have persuaded him to consent some time, and Mrs. Belswin would have helped me. But he is dead, and I have not a penny in the world. How then can I marry you, who have nothing but your profession to depend upon, and that profession one which means constant travelling? If you married me you would have to leave me, for we should not be rich enough to travel together. You would find me a drag upon you. Enough for one is not enough for two. I love you! You know I love you! And it is for that very reason that I want to break off our engagement, and not be a burden to you in the future."
Maxwell laughed, as she ended this long speech, and seizing her hands drew her towards him.
"What a capital lawyer you would make," he said, with an indulgent smile; "but let us look on the other side of the question. Say that these shares turn out to be worth a lot of money, will you expect me to give you up?"
"No, no! Oh, no!"
"Ah! you see then that the case is the same with me. You love me for myself. I love you for yourself. It is no question of money between us. With you as my wife, I would work hard. I shall only be too proud to work for you. We shall not be rich; but we should be happy. No, my dearest, I should indeed be unworthy of your love did I look at the future from your point of view. I love you! You are mine; and rich or poor, we will always be together."
"But----"
"But me no buts," said Maxwell, in a peremptory tone, putting his arm round her neck. "You know what I say is right. You love me, do you not?"
"Yes."
"And you will never leave me?"
Kaituna kissed him, with tears in her eyes.
"No; I will never leave you."
Archie pressed her to his heart with a cry of joy, and at this moment Mrs. Belswin entered.
"Well, young people?"
"I have explained away all objections," said Maxwell, as Kaituna withdrew her arms from his neck, "and we are going to marry on nothing a year."
"Meanwhile," said Mrs. Belswin, satirically.
"Meanwhile," echoed Maxwell, rising, "I am going to speak to you for a few minutes, and then take Kaituna for a walk in the Park. You'll take compassion on a lonely bachelor, will you not, dearest?"
"Yes. I'll go and put on my things at once," said Kaituna, whose face now looked much brighter than before.
"Archie."
"Yes."
"I am afraid you'll be a dreadful tyrant when I marry you."
She laughed, and ran out of the room, whereat Maxwell also laughed out of sympathy; but when the door closed the laugh died away on his lips, and he turned gravely to Mrs. Belswin, who had resumed her seat.
"Well," said that lady, with a half smile, glancing at him; "you look as gloomy as a November day. What are you thinking about?"
"Sir Rupert's death."
Mrs. Belswin half expected this reply; but, notwithstanding, gave a sudden start at the abruptness of his speech.
"You are still determined to find out the cause of his death?" she said, slowly.
"I don't think there is any question on that point," he replied, with emphasis. "He was shot, and I want to find out who shot him."
"What good will that do?"
"It will set Kaituna's mind at rest."
His listener played with the plain gold ring on her finger--the ring which had been the symbol of her marriage with the murdered man--and frowned.
"If I were you, I'd let sleeping dogs lie," she said, at length, without raising her eyes.
"No! I will not! See here, Mrs. Belswin, I know quite well that Kaituna is anxious to find out the murderer of her father. If she does not it will embitter her whole life. She cannot bear to think of him lying unavenged in his grave. Herself, she can do nothing, but I, her promised husband, can."
"I'm afraid you over-calculate your powers as a detective."
"Perhaps I do," he answered, calmly; "but I'm going to try, at all events, and see if I can unravel this mystery. Did I intend to let sleeping dogs lie, as you phrase it, I would have gone out to Australia myself to look after the silver mines, but as Clendon has taken that trouble off my hands I am going to devote myself to finding out the man who murdered Sir Rupert."
He spoke with such determination that she felt convinced he would carry out his intention, and fidgeted about in her seat for a few moments, then, walking to the window, stood looking out into the dull street, while she made her next remark.
"I don't think it will do any good. Where the police have failed you cannot hope to succeed."
"I hope to do so, with your help."
"My help?" she echoed, facing round suddenly so that her back was to the light and her face comparatively in the shadow. "What can I tell you?"
"Mrs. Belswin," said Maxwell, gravely, "you were one of the last people who saw Sir Rupert alive."
"Yes, that is so," she answered without moving a muscle, "but I told all I knew at the inquest."
"I suppose you did; but can you think of nothing else?"
She looked at him with a piercing glance, as if trying to read his soul, but saw nothing that could make her think that he suspected her in any way of being connected with the murdered man.
"I told all I knew at the inquest," she repeated. "I had an interview with Sir Rupert about your marriage with Kaituna. He refused his consent, and I left the study. Kaituna had gone to bed with a bad headache, so I did not wish to make it worse by my ill news. Therefore I retired to rest at once, and knew nothing more until the next morning."
"You heard no pistol shot?"
"None."
"Strange!" said Maxwell, thoughtfully: "no one seems to have heard a pistol shot, and yet such an unusual thing must have attracted attention."
"You forget that Sir Rupert's study was some distance away from the sleeping apartments, and I think at the time he was killed every one was in bed."
"But he was not shot in the room, but from the terrace."
Mrs. Belswin started again,
"How do you know that?"
"I don't know it, I only presume so. The body was found lying half in and half out of the window; so my theory is that Sir Rupert came to the open window for a breath of air, and the assassin, concealed in the shadow of the terrace, shot him through the head."
"It's a very excellent theory--still, it is only theory."
"Yes, I know that," said Maxwell, ruefully. "You don't know if Sir Rupert had any enemies, Mrs. Belswin?"
"I! Why I did not even know Sir Rupert himself until I spoke to him that night in his study."
There was no doubt that Mrs. Belswin was a magnificent actress, for she uttered this lie without the least hesitation.
"No, of course not," answered Maxwell, after a pause. "I know he was a stranger to you. Still he must have had enemies. I wonder if Kaituna could tell me."
"Ask her!"
"No, I won't. It will only upset her. She is so agitated over the whole affair. I'll go and see the detective who had the case in hand, and I won't tell Kaituna anything until I can say, 'This is the murderer of your father.'"
"It's a wild-goose chase."
"Perhaps. Still something may be discovered."
At this moment Kaituna returned, dressed for walking, and after bidding fare well to Mrs. Belswin, Archie went out with his sweetheart, leaving the chaperon still standing by the window.
Mrs. Belswin twisted her hands together, and looked at the carpet with an angry frown.
"Something maybe discovered," she repeated in a thoughtful tone. "I don't think so. The assassin came out of the night, fulfilled his mission, and disappeared again into the night. Not all the machinery of the law could find out the truth, and where the law failed I don't think you'll succeed, Archibald Maxwell."
I."The present becomes the future.Yes! but the present does not again become the past;Time goes forward forever--we cannot return on his footsteps,For the laws of the universe are unalterable, unchangeable and fixed.II."Yet when I see you before me,I am inclined to doubt all that has existed since the shaping ofthe earth from chaos.For you appear as you did in those far-distant days,When love and sin made up the sum of our lives.III."Phantom!Vanish again into the darkness from whence my memory hathcalled thee!As a God I have re-created thee--as a God I condemn thee todisappear.I live the present, the future--but the past I will not renew.Lest such phantoms as you should turn the past into the present."
"The present becomes the future.Yes! but the present does not again become the past;Time goes forward forever--we cannot return on his footsteps,For the laws of the universe are unalterable, unchangeable and fixed.
"Yet when I see you before me,I am inclined to doubt all that has existed since the shaping ofthe earth from chaos.For you appear as you did in those far-distant days,When love and sin made up the sum of our lives.
"Phantom!Vanish again into the darkness from whence my memory hathcalled thee!As a God I have re-created thee--as a God I condemn thee todisappear.I live the present, the future--but the past I will not renew.Lest such phantoms as you should turn the past into the present."
In a private sitting-room of the Langham Hotel sat Mr. Silas P. Oates, of New York City, millionaire, who had come to England with his wife and daughter to spend his money, secure a titled husband for his only child, and look round generally.
He had made his money in a somewhat unexpected way by sundry dealings in stocks and shares, besides which he had bought a clever invention cheaply of the inventor--a poor man--and by dint of dexterous advertising and persistent pushing had boomed it into a big success. A far-seeing man was Mr. Oates, none too scrupulous, who regarded his fellow-men as so many sheep to be shorn of their rich fleece; but he always kept to the letter if not the spirit of the law, and therefore regarded himself as a keen business man, who had made his enormous fortune honestly. All his little knavish tricks, his taking advantage of his fellow-creatures when they were in difficulties, and his unscrupulous, unblushing lying, he designated under the collective name of business; and however scandalous his dealings might appear to God, they certainly appeared legitimate to his brother business men, who mostly acted the same way.
Therefore Silas was called "a sharp business man." All his twistings and turnings and chicanery and sailing close to the wind went to pile up the dollars; and however he might have ruined less clever men than himself, however he imposed, gulled, and swindled the public, he was generally admitted in the Land of Freedom to be a 'cute man, who was a worthy representative of the great god Mammon. Charity, according to the Bible, covers a multitude of sins, but money occupies a much higher place nowadays in the covering process, and all the doubtful ways by which he had acquired his fortune disappeared in the eyes of the condoning world under the golden cover of the fortune itself.
This worthy product of the nineteenth century was a short, thin, active little man, with a parchment-coloured skin, dark hair, moustache, beard, eyebrows, and eyes, and a quick, delicate restlessness about him, like a bright-eyed bird. He was dressed neatly in a quiet gray suit, wore no jewellery, not even a watch-chain, and was always on the alert to see something to his advantage. Outwardly, he was a quiet, respectable, decent little fellow, who, as the saying goes, would not harm a fly; inwardly, he was an astute blackguard, who called his evil doing "business," who always kept well within the law, and had dethroned the Deity in favour of himself. His past was bad and tricky, so much so that it would hardly bear looking into by a man with a conscience; but even though Mr. Oates had no conscience, he did not indulge much in retrospection: not that he dreaded remorse, but simply looked upon such dreaming as a waste of time.
At present he was perfectly happy. He had made a lot of money, he had a pretty wife for whom he cared nothing, a charming daughter for whom he cared a great deal, and was now going to show the Old World what the New World could do in the way of making a splash. It was a very enviable frame of mind to be in, and one quite beyond the reach of an honest man, who would have been disturbed at the memory of how he had made his money. But Silas only thought how pleasant it was he had made so much money, for the making of which he had to thank no one--not even God, who, in His inexplicable mercy permitted this gilded worm to reap the golden reward of a life of legitimate legalised rascality.
Mr. Oates, therefore, was happy, and thought no one could upset that happiness in any way; but he found out his mistake when the waiter brought in a card inscribed, "Mrs. Belswin."
"Well, sir," drawled Silas, looking doubtfully at the card, "this lady wants to look me up?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mrs. Belswin!" soliloquised the American in deep thought. "I can't fix her nohow. Ask the lady to step this way."
"Yes, sir."
The alert, active waiter disappeared, and Mr. Oates pondered. He did not know the name; he had only arrived in England the previous day, and was unacquainted with any one. What then did this strange lady want with him? Luckily, Mrs. Hatty K. Oates had gone out shopping with her daughter, else the situation might have been awkward for Silas, whose domestic hearthstone was not quite free from connubial rows caused by jealousy. His wife, however, was away, and would not be home for the next few hours, so Mr. Oates, feeling rather curious as to the business of his fair visitor, was by no means sorry that he had a chance of passing his afternoon in feminine society.
His visitor entered the room heralded by the waiter; then the latter retired, closing the door carefully after him, leaving the pair alone. The lady was dressed in black, and wore a heavy crape veil, which suggested mourning to the astute Silas; and after he had gathered as much as he was able from a keen glance at this draped veiled figure, he politely placed a chair for her.
"You wish to see me, madam?" he asked, resuming his own seat.
"I do, for a few minutes. I am an old friend of yours."
Mrs. Belswin's voice was muffled by the veil, and moreover Silas had not heard it for nearly twenty years, so he did not recognise his visitor in the least, and was considerably puzzled by the concluding part of her speech.
"An old friend!" he said doubtfully, smoothing his chin. "From the States?"
"Yes; down 'Frisco way."
"Oh!"
Mr. Oates started. He had many acquaintances down 'Frisco way, but they could hardly be called friends, as they very much disapproved of his method of doing business.
"I've got an eye for faces," said Silas, in a jaunty manner, "so if you put up that veil I've no doubt I can fix you."
"I'm afraid I shall startle you."
"I'm not easily startled, madam. My nerves are in good working order."
"Are they? Then I'll put them to the test."
Mrs. Belswin suddenly threw back her veil and bent forward so that her face was in the strong light, whereupon Silas gave a whoop like a wild Indian, bounded from his chair and gasped.
"I'm afraid you over-estimate the working order of your nerves, Silas," said Mrs. Belswin, scoffingly; and then leaning back in her chair, waited for Mr. Oates to make the next move in the game.
"Great Scott! It's Mrs. Pethram. I thought you were dead!"
"And wished it too, I've no doubt," said Mrs. Belswin, bitterly. "Well, are you not glad to see me?"
"No!" replied Silas, truthfully; "I'm uncommon sorry."
"Ah! you've learned to speak the truth since I saw you last," observed the lady, raising her eyebrows, "otherwise you're not much changed. The same ugly little monkey with whom I ran away from New Zealand. I've often wondered why I did run away with you," pursued Mrs. Belswin with charming candour, "and now I see you again I wonder more than ever."
Silas grinned in an uneasy manner. He would have preferred her to be less cool, to pay more deference to his position, but she seemed as candid as ever, and he almost expected to have something damaging flung at his head, as had been her custom in the old days. It was a very disagreeable position, so Silas rose to the occasion, and immediately set to work to emulate her coolness, and find out how he could circumvent this unwelcome visitor from the past.
"I see you're still in the vinegar line," he said easily, resuming his seat. "I guess you did turn me over for a bit. It takes a pretty stiff dose to do that, but this time you've raised Cain proper."
They were delightfully amiable to one another, the more so as a feeling of distrust pervaded the whole conversation; but as Mrs. Belswin wanted to waste no time, in case the wife of her former lover should turn up, she opened fire at once--
"I dare say you're surprised to see me."
"It's no good beating round the bush. I'm surprised and sorry."
"You'll be sorrier before I've done with you."
"Hello! What are y' going to show your teeth about?"
"Nothing, if you'll do what I ask."
"See here, Mrs. Pethram," said Silas, leaning forward with his shrewd, sharp, foxy face, "it's no good your tryin' to play low on me. I've cut my eye teeth, I can tell you. You think you've got the whip hand of me. That's as I take it. Well, you can drop that dodge. I ran off with you to 'Frisco 'cause I was a born fool. I did love you, only you were more like a redskin than a civilised woman. We agreed to part company twenty years ago, and I've kept my part of the contract. I've gone right along in the money line, and this time I've come home on the winner. I'm married and straight now, and I don't want no one to put things wrong between my wife and me. As you're an old friend I'll act square by you if it's money, but if it's blackmail your looking you'd better believe it."
Mrs. Belswin was in all things a headstrong, impulsive woman, without any craft or power to disguise her feelings. She had come to Oates with the fullest intention of threatening to tell his wife their former relations if he refused to give her money; but here was her adversary calmly placing the whole of her nefarious scheme before her, and she felt completely nonplussed. Oates, on the other hand, was so accustomed to trickery that Mrs. Belswin was a mere child in his hands, and the course he was now adopting was certainly the only means by which he could hope to checkmate her.
"Well, madam!" said Silas, seeing his plain speaking had taken Mrs. Belswin aback, "what do you say?"
Mrs. Belswin acted like a fool, lost her temper and stormed.
"You despicable little wretch," she said, starting to her feet, with her eyes blazing with anger, "how dare you speak to me like this? Was it not for your sake that I lost my husband, my good name, my position in the world? And yet you dare to taunt me with it. You are now rich, married, and respectable. I, on the other hand, am poor--yes, poor, otherwise my life for these last twenty years has been above reproach. Oh, you may laugh! You judge me by yourself, but I tell you since I left you I have led a decent life. The reason I refuse to tell you. Now hear what I have to say. I would not have come to you unless it was a case of dire necessity, I hate you too much to have ever desired to set eyes on you again, but I was compelled to come, because I want money. Give me a cheque for £500 and I won't trouble you again. Refuse, and I'll tell your wife all."
"Will you, indeed?" sneered Silas, mockingly. "Don't try the black-mailing game, for you won't bounce a cent out of me. That's so, Mrs. Pethram. My wife knows all about you. I told her all when I was married."
"That's a lie," said Mrs. Belswin, fiercely. "I don't believe it."
"I reckon it's true, though."
"I won't take your word for it, so I'll ask your wife."
"She'll be here at three-forty. You can wait."
It was all bravado on the part of Oates, as he was in deadly fear lest his wife should come in and learn all. True this discreditable connection had taken place before his marriage: but Mrs. Oates would not take that fact into consideration, and would make things very unpleasant for him. With all his cleverness and craft, Silas was a coward at heart; so as Mrs. Belswin sat there, evidently determined to await the arrival of his wife, he skirmished round, in order to find out some weak spot in her armour by which he could beat her. Had he betrayed fear, Mrs. Belswin would have at once perceived that she had the advantage; but he did nothing but sit smiling before her, and all she could do in her mad rage was to tell all to Mrs. Oates, thereby cutting her own throat, and benefiting nothing by revelation.
"Say," queried Mr. Oates, airily, "why don't you look up Pethram?"
"He is dead.'
"Is that so?" said Oates, somewhat startled. "Died in New Zealand, I guess?"
"No, he didn't. He died in England."
"What did you kill him for?"
It was simply an idle, malicious question, as Silas never for a moment dreamed that the husband and wife had met, or that there had been anything strange about the husband's death. Foolish Mrs. Belswin, never thinking, flashed out at once, on the impulse of the moment, quite forgetting that she was putting a sword into her enemy's hand.
"I didn't kill him. How dare you say so? No one knows who murdered him."
Silas jumped up from his seat with an exclamation of surprise, as his apparently idle question had evidently drawn forth something important.
"Oh, he was murdered, then?"
"Didn't you know," said Mrs. Belswin, haughtily, "when you spoke to me like that?"
"I know nothing," returned Silas, coolly. "I only spoke because I know if you had met Pethram in one of your fiendish tempers you would have put a knife in him."
Mrs. Belswin saw that she had raised a suspicion in the mind of Silas, so was now careful as to what she said.
"You're talking at random. Pethram is dead, and some one shot him; I don't know who. You can see all about it in the papers."
Silas made no answer, as he was thinking. Owing to Mrs. Belswin's unsuspicious nature he had learned a very important fact, which might possibly lead to his circumventing her demands for money. So he made up his mind at once how to act, and acted.
"See here," he said, good-humouredly, pulling out his cheque-book; "I'll do what I can for you. Tell my wife or not, if you like; but now, if five hundred dollars are of any use, I'll give you that lot straight off."
"Five hundred dollars," said Mrs. Belswin, coolly--"one hundred pounds. Well, that will do in the meantime; but I'm to have the rest next week, or I'll make things hot for you, Silas."
The American had his own opinion on the subject, but, with his habitual craft, said nothing. Filling up the cheque, he gave it to Mrs. Belswin, who took it without a word of thanks, and put it in her purse.
"I've made it payable to Mrs. Belswin," said Oates. "That's your last name, I guess?"
"It has been my name ever since I left you in 'Frisco," retorted Mrs. Belswin, fiercely. "You need not insinuate that I have been leading a bad life. I've no doubt my past would bear more looking into than yours."
"You've the same old style, I see," said Silas, insolently, "all gunpowder and dynamite. Well, I guess that now you've got what you came for you'll get."
"As you elegantly phrase it, I'll get," rejoined the lady, letting down her veil. "But let me hear from you next week about the rest of the money, or I'll come and interview your wife."
"Oh, I'll write you straight," answered Silas, with a peculiar smile, as he accompanied her to the door. "Good-bye, Mrs. Pethram--beg pardon, Mrs. Belswin."
"Neither correct, sir," said his visitor, jeeringly. "My Lady Pethram."
Silas closed the door after her, with a smile which faded from his face when he found himself alone.
"Lady Pethram!" he echoed thoughtfully "I reckon then that Pethram got his handle. Well, now I'd better look after that murder case, and then I'll fix that she-devil right along the line."
Having thus made up his mind, he sent for a file of theDaily Telegraphof the previous month, and went steadily to work to read up the Thornstream case, which he had no difficulty in finding. He also discovered the address of a private inquiry office, and at once wrote a letter instructing them to send him a detective. This business being concluded, he lighted a cigar, rubbed his dry, lean hands together and chuckled.
"Two can always play at a game, my lady," he muttered; "but this time I guess you'll stand out."
"'Tis very hard to play the game of life;For tho' you keep your eye upon the board,And move your puppets in well-thought-out ways,Just when the winning seems within your grasp,Some pawn is touched by stealthy-fingered Chance,And straight the would-be victor looses all."
"'Tis very hard to play the game of life;For tho' you keep your eye upon the board,And move your puppets in well-thought-out ways,Just when the winning seems within your grasp,Some pawn is touched by stealthy-fingered Chance,And straight the would-be victor looses all."
In his dingy office sat Mr. Dombrain before his desk, in deep thought; and judging from the frown on his coarse face, his thoughts were not of the pleasantest. He bit his hard nails, he pulled at his stubbly red moustache, drummed on the table with his large hairy hands, and in fact displayed all the symptoms of a man very much disturbed in his mind. The cause of this disturbance was Mrs. Belswin, and, seeing that he was alone, Mr. Dombrain for the moment threw off his professional suavity and cursed the lady heartily. Had she been present, she would have laughed at his outburst of wrath; but as she had just left the room, he was free to make as rude remarks as he pleased, and he certainly took full advantage of his solitude. The wrath of Mrs. Belswin and the subsequent flattening out of Mr. Dombrain arose out of the following circumstance.
The lawyer, seeing that Kaituna had been left penniless, except for certain shares, which he truly assured her were not worth the paper they were written on, had, in a spirit of philanthropy, offered to buy those shares off her at his own price--which was a very small one--so that Miss Pethram would have something to live on. He wrote a letter--a generous and noble letter, from his point of view--in which he offered to take these undesirable shares in the Pole Star Mining Company off her hands at a great sacrifice to himself, and Mrs. Belswin had answered the letter on behalf of Kaituna in person. As she was a lady who never minced matters, however unpleasant, and moreover never exercised any self-control, Mr. Dombrain had rather a bad time of it for a quarter of an hour. He had seen that phrase in a French novel, but had never thoroughly understood its significance until Mrs. Belswin illustrated it to him in her own graphic manner. She said--oh, he hardly remembered what she said, except that she used the word "swindler" pretty often, and made several pointed allusions to the disgrace of an ex-convict exercising an honourable profession in London.
Mr. Dombrain could have said something rather disagreeable to her, which would certainly have shut her up, but this modern Xantippe gave him no opportunity of saying a word. She came, she saw, she raged, stormed, crushed, conquered, and finally departed in a whirlwind of passion, telling him that Clendon was going to look after the shares in Melbourne, and that if he dared to try any tricks on her she would--she would---- Mr. Dombrain shivered when he thought of what she said she would do.
Now, however, that she was out of the room, and he had collected his thoughts, scattered by her terrific onslaught, he began to think, and after several minutes of thinking and frowning, he grinned. Not a pleasant grin by any manner of means--a nasty Mephistophelean grin that boded ill to his adversary. She had been unpleasant to him; well, he could now be unpleasant to her, and in a way she wouldn't like. He constructed a little scheme in his head which he thought would answer his purpose, and was about to make a few notes relative to the same, when a card was brought in to him.
"Silas P. Oates."
Mr. Dombrain shivered, and had the clerk not been present he would have sworn. As it was, however, he merely told the clerk to show the gentleman in, and then trembled at the thought of this second phantom of the past which had succeeded to Mrs. Belswin. She knew about his little mistake in New Zealand, so also did Mr. Oates; and Mr. Dombrain groaned in dismay as he thought of the double chance of exposure now threatening him. Did the American come as a friend, as an enemy, or in ignorance? Dombrain hoped the first, dreaded the second, but felt pretty confident that the third was the American's state of mind, as he certainly would never connect Dombrain the solicitor with Damberton the convict. However, it would be decided in another minute, so Mr. Dombrain smoothed his hair, imposed a nervous grin on his mouth, and waited the advent of this second bogie with inward fear but outward calm.
The millionaire entered, quite unaware of the second shock which awaited him; for his purpose in seeking out Mr. Dombrain was wholly unconnected with the idea that he would find an old friend. The fact is, Mr. Oates had read the Thornstream case, had noticed that Mrs. Belswin was mixed up with it, and had sought out Mr. Dombrain--whose name was also in the papers--with the idea of finding out the precise position held by Mrs. Belswin in the house of her former husband. Sir Rupert's solicitor could tell him this if it was drawn from him artfully. Mr. Dombrain was Sir Rupert's solicitor, so to Mr. Dombrain came the wary Silas, wholly ignorant of what awaited him.
Silas did not notice Dombrain particularly at first, but sat down in the chair beside the table and cast about for some good idea wherewith to begin an extremely awkward conversation. Dombrain saw that he was not recognised, so kept his face in the shadow as much as possible, and spoke in a low, gruff voice, as if his throat was stuffed with cotton wool.
"I have called, sir," observed Mr. Oates, after a preliminary cough, "to speak to you about the late Sir Rupert Pethram."
"Yes?"
"You, sir, I understand, were his lawyer. Is that so?"
"That is so," replied Dombrain, unconsciously dropping into the Americanisms of the speaker.
"A friend of mine, sir," pursued Mr. Oates, after another pause, "was connected, I believe, with the deceased. I allude, sir, to Mrs. Belswin."
"Mrs. Belswin!"
The name so startled Dombrain, that he forgot his intention of keeping his identity concealed from his visitor, and speaking in his natural voice started forward so that his face was clearly seen by Silas. Now Mr. Oates, in addition, to his many other gifts for getting the better of his fellow creatures, possessed a remarkably retentive memory in the matter of faces, and in spite of the alteration Mr. Dombrain had made in his appearance, recognised him at once. This time his nerves did not belie the reputation he gave them, and after a slight start he leaned back in his chair with a slight, dry smile.
"I opinionate," remarked Silas, reflectively, "that I've been on your tracks before."
"No!"
"It was," continued Silas, without taking any notice of the denial, "it was in New Zealand, sir. Dunedin was the city. A healthy gaol, sir, according to the guide books."
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Dombrain, doggedly, resuming his seat. "I never saw you before, and I'm a stranger to you."
"Dombrain is a stranger, I confess," said Silas, fixing his clear eyes on the sullen face of the man before him, "but I can size up the party called Damberton without much trouble. I reckon I can tell you a story about him, Mr. Dombrain, if you want particulars."
"No, no!" said Dombrain hoarsely, wiping his forehead; "it's no use beating about the bush. I am Damberton, but now I'm quite respectable. You surely are not going to----"
"I'm goin' to do nothin', sir. You ain't upsettin' my apple-cart. No, sir. That's a fact, anyhow."
"Then what do you want me to do for you?" asked Dombrain, with a sigh of relief.
"Well, now," replied Silas, thoughtfully, "that's just what I've got to find out. Mrs. Belswin--hey! Do you know who Mrs. Belswin is?"
"Yes, the she-devil! Pethram's wife. She was here half an hour ago."
"Is that so? I say, you ain't playin' in the same yard, I guess. Not much, when you call her names."
"I hate her!" said Dombrain, fiercely; "she is the curse of my life."
"I reckon she's been raisin' Cain here," observed Silas, shrewdly. "Well, that ain't any of my business, but she's been tryin' the same game on with me. Now I'm a quiet man, sir, and I don't want no catamount spittin' round my front door, so I want you to put the set on that lady."
"What can I do?"
"I've been readin' your noospapers, sir. They can't scream like the American eagle. Not much! But I read all about that shootin' case, and I see you were waltzin' round! hey! Mrs. Pethram wasn't far off neither, I guess."
"No; she was companion to Miss Pethram."
"Well, you do surprise me, sir. I s'pose her daughter didn't rise to the fact that Mrs. Belswin was her mamma."
"No; she knew nothing. Mrs. Belswin obtained the situation while Sir Rupert Pethram was absent. When he returned she had an interview with him, and----"
"And he passed in his cheques," concluded Silas, musingly. "Queer thing that, anyhow."
"You don't think," began Dombrain hastily, when Silas interrupted him promptly.
"I don't think at all," he said, rising and putting on his hat. "I don't want to think. Compoundin' a felony isn't in my line nohow."
"But surely, sir----"
Oates, who had turned away, faced round suddenly, with a sharp look in his foxy face which made Dombrain feel somewhat ill at ease.
"See here, Mister," he said slowly. "Mrs. Belswin's been round at my hotel tryin' to get dollars. I gave her five hundred, and now this bank's shut. She gets no more, I guess, this fall, because you'll tell her she's not to come gavortin' round my claim no more."
"But I can't stop her."
"No?" said Silas, interrogatively, "I guess you can. See here, Mr. Damberton, I know what you are--none better, and that's straight. You know what Mrs. Belswin is, and if she plays low on you, sir, just ask her where she got the little gun to fix up things with her husband."
"But she didn't kill him."
Silas laughed disbelievingly.
"I don't know nothin' of that game, sir. It's a cut beyond me, and that's a fact. All I say is, that if Mrs. Belswin comes on the war-path to my ranch, I'll tell some things about Mr. Damberton that Mr. Dombrain won't smile at. You take me, sir, I fancy."
"Yes!" said Dombrain, slowly, while the great drops of sweat gathered on his forehead, "I understand."
"Bully for you," replied Mr. Oates, in a friendly tone, going to the door. "Good-mornin', sir. I'm pleased to see you again. It's like the old days, and that's a fact."
Mr. Oates sauntered out with his hands in his pockets and Dombrain flung himself in his chair, and, burying his face in his hands, sobbed like a child.
"My God," he sobbed passionately, "am I to lose all after these years?"
"Those who went forth in brave arrayReturn again at the close of day,With tattered banners that flaunted gay,And swords now broken that once could slay;Their march is sad and slow."Oh, sorrow for those who could not die,Who, lion-hearted, were forced to fly,And now for ever in chains must lie;For hark, there rises the terrible cry--'Woe to the vanquished, woe.'"
"Those who went forth in brave arrayReturn again at the close of day,With tattered banners that flaunted gay,And swords now broken that once could slay;
Their march is sad and slow.
"Oh, sorrow for those who could not die,Who, lion-hearted, were forced to fly,And now for ever in chains must lie;For hark, there rises the terrible cry--'Woe to the vanquished, woe.'"
When Mrs. Belswin received a letter from Mr. Dombrain asking her to call, she was considerably astonished, as she had thought her last interview with him would have pretty well resigned him to the loss of her society. But evidently he was now throwing down the gage of battle, so Mrs. Belswin, like an old war-horse at the sound of a trumpet, felt a certain exultation at the thought of the coming fight, and lost no time in assenting to the request of the solicitor.
What he wanted to see her about she could not imagine, unless it was to make another offer for the Pole Star shares, and as she had already set his mind at rest on that point, it seemed ridiculous to think that he would waste his time in trying to encompass the impossible. She was now quite at ease in her own mind regarding money matters, as the hundred pounds she had obtained from Silas, together with what she already had in the bank, would enable her and Kaituna to live in comfort for the next three or four months in an economical way. Of course, she quite expected to be in possession of the other four hundred the next week, which would place them in affluence until the report of Toby came home about the Pole Star shares, and judging from the offer made by Dombrain, Mrs. Belswin, with feminine acuteness, guessed that the shares were more valuable than they now appeared to be, so that their sale in a few months would realise a decent sum for Kaituna. If this turned out to be the case, Mrs. Belswin intended to persuade Kaituna to marry Archie at once, and the future of her child being thus secured, she cared little for herself. She could certainly marry herself, as both Ferrari and Belk were devoted to her, but she despised the first for his cowardice in the matter of removing her husband, and the latter, in spite of his good looks, was of too lowly a station for her to think seriously of in any way.
Since her departure from Thornstream, Belk had written to her several times--ardent, passionate letters, which showed plainly how deeply in love he was with her; and Mrs. Belswin could not but feel a thrill of pride at the thought of her own attractions, even at the mature age of forty-five. At present, however, she had more important things to think of than marriage, and drove along to Dombrain's office in a puzzled state of mind, trying to think of the reason why he wanted to see her, so that she could be prepared to hold her own.
That Silas had stolen a march on her she never for a moment dreamed; and had she guessed the real object of the interview sought by Mr. Dombrain, she would doubtless have felt somewhat ill at ease. As it was, however, she knew nothing; and thus, ignorance being bliss, she walked boldly into the dingy office, and took her accustomed seat with her usual defiant air.
Dombrain himself was rather nervous, although he now assumed a bullying manner towards the woman he was afraid of. She had held a power over him which had hitherto precluded him from talking to her as he would have wished; but now he had discovered something about her life which gave him the advantage, and he determined to use his power to insult, sneer, and crush her; in fact, treat her in the same way as she had hitherto treated him.
In spite of her violent temper, her foolish impulses, Mrs. Belswin was not without a certain amount of feminine cunning; and, as she was quite in the dark concerning the object of the interview, and, moreover, did not like the ill-concealed look of triumph on the part of the solicitor, she held her tongue, waiting for him to begin the attack, so that a chance word might afford her an opportunity of fathoming his motives.
"Well, Mrs. Belswin," said Dombrain, with a nasty grin on his coarse-looking face, "and how are you to-day, after your conduct in our last interview?"
Mrs. Belswin looked him up and down in a sneeringly insolent manner, which made him writhe.
"I think I ought to ask that question," she said, disdainfully, "considering that I left you crushed, like the little reptile you are."
"Oh, no. None of those compliments, if you please. Last time you had it all your own way; this time I have it all mine."
"Two can play at every game."
"Yes; but one generally holds trumps. This time I hold trumps. Do you play cards, Mrs. Belswin? If so, you know that the game is to the player with the strongest hand."
"I congratulate you on your knowledge of gambling. And may I ask what you are talking about?"
"All in good time, Mrs. Belswin--all in good time. First and foremost, I wish to know about your visit to Silas Oates. Ah! you start at that. You are not quite so confident as you were at our last interview."
"I think you are mistaken," replied Mrs. Belswin, coldly. "There can be nothing to interest you in my interview with Mr. Oates. If you fancy your knowledge that I called on him makes me afraid, you were never further from the truth in your life. I am not to be terrified by an ex-convict."
It was the old threat that had formerly reduced Mr. Dombrain to silence; but now it appeared to have lost its power, for the ex-convict leaned back in his chair and laughed insolently.
"People who live in glass houses should not throw stones."
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I say."
"You seem to have been at your private whiskey-bottle," said Mrs. Belswin, rising impatiently; "but as I am not in the mood to listen to your drunken ravings I will go."
"Oh, no, you won't. Of course you can if you like; but you had better hear what I have to say."
"I will give you five minutes," replied Mrs. Belswin, resuming her seat, "no more."
"That will be enough. Now, just listen to me. Mr. Oates has called, and informed me of your attempt to blackmail him. You have got one hundred pounds, and he says he will not give you any more."
"That is a question that has nothing to do with you, sir."
"Oh, yes, it has," retorted Dombrain, coolly. "He asked me to stop you from calling on him again, and I intend to do so."
Mrs. Belswin laughed long and loudly.
"Do you, indeed? And may I ask how you intend to stop me?"
Mr. Dombrain leaned across the desk, glanced round to make sure they were alone, then whispered slowly--
"By asking you how you killed your husband."
She sprang to her feet with a pale face, her eyes flashing fiercely.
"It's a lie! You know I had nothing to do with it."
"I'm afraid a jury wouldn't take that view if they heard my evidence."
"Your evidence! the evidence of a felon."
"That's a pretty name, but instead of abusing me, you'd better look after yourself."
Mrs. Belswin sat down again and spoke deliberately.
"I don't know what your object is in talking like this, but I will take it as a favour if you will let me know precisely how you connect me with my late husband's death. You say I killed him. You hint you can prove it. That's a lie, because if that was the case I should be in prison now. No! No! Mr. Damberton, you are not the man to spare a woman."
"Certainly not you, who have made my life a hell for the last few months."
"We can exchange these compliments afterwards. First your story."
Dombrain, who was growing weary of all this fencing, lost no time in responding to this request, and began at once.
"As you know, I was staying at Thornstream on the night you arrived. Ostensibly, I had come down to see Sir Rupert on business, but my real motive was to see how you intended to meet him. You did not appear at dinner, and I thought you would put off the interview until the next day. I was tired with my day's work, and was about to retire to rest when I saw you descending the stairs, upon which I hid myself, lest you should see me."
"Coward!" ejaculated Mrs. Belswin, disdainfully.
"No, I was no coward, but had I been foolish enough to have spoken to you, in one of your paroxysms of anger, you might have revealed my true position to Sir Rupert, out of spite."
Mrs. Belswin thought how she had really done this, and how ignorant the man before her was of his narrow escape from exposure--an exposure only prevented by the death of Pethram.
"Therefore," resumed Dombrain, coldly, "I hid myself, but I watched the door of the study. You entered there, and the door was closed. A long time passed--the servants put out the lights, shut up the house, and retired to rest. Miss Pethram, I have learned since, retired early on account of a headache, and as the whole Thornstream household kept country hours, by the time the clock struck ten--the hall clock I am speaking of--all the house was asleep except you, Sir Rupert, and myself. The half-hour sounded, still you had not left the study--the three-quarters struck, but the door was still closed. I waited, and waited, and wondered. Eleven sounded from the clock in the hall, and at a few minutes past the door opened, and you appeared, pale and ghastly, like a guilty spectre. Closing the door softly after you, with a furtive look round, lest some one should be watching, you fled upstairs, brushed past me, and went into your bedroom. This was all I wanted to see. I knew you had met your husband, that he had not turned you out of the house, so never dreaming that you had committed a crime to screen your real self, I went to bed. Next morning----"
He flung open his arms with a dramatic gesture, quite in keeping with the stagey way in which he had told the story, and became silent, with his small eyes viciously fastened on the unfortunate woman before him.
She was sitting like an image of stone, pale and still, with tightly compressed lips, and a lurid fire burning in her fierce eyes. Only the nervous working of her hands lying in her lap betrayed her deep agitation, and when he had finished, she looked at him with a smile of disdain.
"And you saw all this wonderful thing like a cat in the dark," she said, scoffingly.
"No! You know perfectly well that the hall lamp was still lighted, for Sir Rupert himself had told the servants not to wait up, as he would work late, and he would put it out himself. I saw perfectly well all I have described and you know it."
"So you think I killed my husband?"
"I'm sure of it. According to the evidence at the inquest, the time of his death was between ten and eleven. I can prove that you left the room at eleven o'clock, so you must have left your dead husband behind you."
"If you saw all this, why did you not tell it at the inquest?"
"Because I wished to spare you."
"No! No! Don't lie to me like that. I am your bitter enemy! Why did you spare me?"
"I will tell you. Whether you killed Sir Rupert or not was nothing to me, personally. My reputation as a lawyer is a great deal to me. Had I denounced you, the result would have been----"
"That I should have told all about you, and you would have been struck off the rolls. Ah! I thought you had some motive for sparing me. Well, what do you intend to do now?"
"Tell all, unless you promise to leave Oates alone."
"If you do your position will still be lost."
"I know it, I know it!" cried Dombrain in despair; "but what can I do? If I do not stop your going to Oates, he knows me, and he will tell all. If I do stop you, then you in revenge will tell all."
"I see, you are between two fires," said Mrs. Belswin, calmly. "Well, set your mind at rest; I will trouble Silas Oates no more."
"You will not?"
"No. All I wanted out of him was money, but as to that you will take his place and be my banker."
"I?"
"Yes, you! Pshaw, man, you needn't look so scared! You know well enough that the money will be returned to you when those shares are sold."
"But they are worth nothing."
"So I thought until you wanted to buy them," said Mrs. Belswin, with a sneer.
"You forget I hold your life in my hand!" cried Dombrain, threateningly.
"Well, and I hold your position in mine," retorted Mrs. Belswin. "My life is a great deal to me, your position is everything to you. I am willing to leave Silas Oates alone if you give me money when I require it; if not, you can denounce me when you like."
"And then you will be hanged!" said Dombrain, spitefully.
"Bah! I can prove your story to be a lie."
"How so?"
"I'll tell you now. Good heavens! did you think that if I was guilty I'd think my life safe in your keeping? My neck against your position? Bah! the thing is ridiculous. I can clear myself and ruin you at the same time, but I want no scandal, nor my daughter to know who I am, as she inevitably must had I to publicly defend myself of your charge of murder. So you see that on my side I have as much a desire as you to keep matters quiet. Now then, I'll leave Silas Oates alone, I will not go near him; but if I want money you must supply it."
"I will do so--to any reasonable amount," replied Dombrain, hastily. "But you say you are innocent?"
"And I am."
"After what I've seen I don't believe it. If you did not kill him, who else had a motive?"
"How do I know? I was not in all the secrets of Sir Rupert's life. But I can tell to you, so afraid of losing your pettifogging position, what I dare not tell any one else. I saw Sir Rupert's dead body on that night, but I did not kill him."
"Then you know who did?"
"No, I do not."
"Let me hear your story," said Dombrain, with a disbelieving smile.
"When I entered the study," began Mrs. Belswin, without further preamble, "I saw my husband. He recognised me at once. We had a stirring interview, and he turned me out of the house. I left by the French window, where he was found lying dead; and in order to get shelter for the night, I went to 'The Chequers' in Deswarth. I'm not telling you all the story, mind you, but only what suits myself. In the dock I should tell everything. Well, to resume. I waited at 'The Chequers' for some time, and then determined to return to Thornstream to say good-bye to my daughter, as I knew Sir Rupert would prevent me seeing her the next day. I arrived on the terrace just when the hour of eleven sounded. There was still a light in Sir Rupert's study, and stealing along in the dark, I saw his dead body lying half in and half out of the window. A full sense of the danger of my position flashed on me, and I saw that if I was arrested I was lost. I dare not try to enter the house by any door as they were all locked, and if a servant admitted me I should have to account for my being out at that hour of the night, which would lead to my being accused of the murder. The only way to regain my own room in safety was across the dead body of my husband, so I entered by the French window, left by the study door, and regained my bedroom without any one having seen me--except you. I did not kill him! I swear I did not!"
"I'm afraid that story would not go down in a court of law."
"I told you I had kept some of the story to myself. To use your favourite illustration, I still hold my trump card."
There was silence for a few moments, during which Mrs. Belswin, considerably agitated, used her smelling-bottle freely. Then Dombrain spoke.
"Well, there's nothing more to be said."
"I think not," said Mrs. Belswin, rising. "You know my conditions!"
"And you know mine, I think," retorted Dombrain with a malignant grin.
She cast upon him a glance of supreme contempt, and went to the door.
"I'll see you again when I want money," she said, and vanished.
"Humph!" said Mr. Dombrain, thoughtfully; "if I can find out the part of the story you won't tell, I may be able to stop your seeing me altogether."