Mrs. Pellypop was an epitome of all that was good; a happy mixture of Hannah More and Florence Nightingale, with just a slight flavour of Mrs. Candour to add piquancy to her character. She was an excellent housekeeper, a devout Christian, rigorous in all her social duties, a faithful wife--and yet, the late Mr. Pellypop must have been glad when he died. She was too overpoweringly virtuous, and wherever she went showed herself such a shining example of all that was excellent, that she made everyone else's conduct, however proper it might be, look black beside her own. The fact is, people do not like playing second fiddle, and as Mrs. Pellypop always insisted on leading the social orchestra, her room was regarded as better than her company.
Her father had been a clergyman, and when she married Mr. Pellypop, who was in the wine trade, and came out to Melbourne to settle, she never lost an opportunity of acquainting people with the fact. Mr. Pellypop died from an overdose of respectability, and left his widow fairly well off, so she declined to marry again--not having any chance of doing so--and devoted herself to the education of her only daughter, Elizabeth, whom she nearly succeeded in making as objectionably genteel as herself. Elizabeth was good, gentle, and meek, and as Mrs. Pellypop wanted a son-in-law of a similar nature, she married Elizabeth to the Rev. Charles Mango, who was then a humble curate in Melbourne.
After marriage, the Rev. Charles turned out to have a will of his own, and refused to let Mrs. Pellypop manage his household as she wished to do. Indeed, when he was created Bishop of Patagonia for his book on "Missionary Mistakes," he went off with his meek little wife to his diocese in South America, and absolutely refused to let his upright mother-in-law accompany him. So Mrs. Pellypop made a virtue of necessity, and stayed behind in Melbourne; talked scandal with her small circle of friends, bragged about her son-in-law the Bishop, gave tracts to the poor, which they did not want, and refused them money, which they did, and, in short, led, as she thought, a useful, Christian life. Other people said she was meddlesome, but then we all have our enemies, and if the rest of her sex could not be as noble and virtuous as Mrs. Pellypop, why it was their own fault.
At last she heard that the Bishop and his wife had gone to England to see that worthy prelate's parents, so Mrs. Pellypop sold all her carefully preserved furniture, gave up her house, and took her passage on board the "Neptune" in order to see her dear children before they went back to the wilds of South America. On board the ship she asserted her authority at once, and came a kind of female Alexander Selkirk, monarch of all she surveyed. Two or three ladies did indeed attempt a feeble resistance, but Mrs. Pellypop made a good fight for it, and soon reduced them to submission. Her freezing glance, like that of Medusa, turned everyone into stone, and though the young folk talked flippantly enough about her behind her back, they were quiet enough under the mastery of her eye.
When the ship left Gibraltar, late in the afternoon, Mrs. Pellypop was not pleased, and sat in her deck chair steadily knitting, and frowned at the grand mass of the Ape's Head on the African coast as if that mountain had seriously displeased her. She was annoyed with the conduct of Miss Cotoner who took an independent stand and refused to be dictated to by Mrs. Pellypop or anyone else; so the good lady, anxious to guide the young and impulsive girl, and find out all about her, determined to speak to her and subjugate her, if possible. So she sat in her chair knitting away like one of the Fates, and pondering over her plan of action, for Mrs. Pellypop never did anything in hurry, and always marshalled her forces beforehand.
Carmela, with the Marchese on one side and Ronald on the other--both of which gentlemen were exchanging scowls of hate--was looking at the romantic coast of Spain as they steamed through the Straits. The rolling, green meadows--undulating, like the waves of the sea, with the glint of yellow sunlight on them made a charming picture, and, turning to the other side, she could see the granite peaks of the Ape's Head with wreaths of feathery clouds round it, and, a little farther back, the white houses of Ceuta. Add to this charming view, a bright sky, a fresh breeze, which made the white sails belly out before it, and two delightful young men to talk to, it was little to be wondered at that Carmela felt happy.
"So these are the Pillars of Hercules?" she said, looking from one side of the strait to the other.
"Yes," answered her cousin, "so the Greeks said. I don't think much of Hercules as an architect--do you?"
"Indeed I do," replied Carmela, enthusiastically; "what can be grander than Gibraltar and the Ape's Head?"
"They are not exactly alike," said Ronald, looking at Vassalla, "and the Marchese likes consistency."
"Of course, I do," retorted Vassalla, with an angry flush on his cheek, "especially in women," with a significant look at his cousin.
"Then my dear Matteo, you are sure to be disappointed," retorted Miss Cotoner, calmly, "for you'll never get it--the age of miracles is past my friend."
Ronald laughed, and was rewarded by a scowl from the Marchese, and then Carmela, tired of keeping peace between these hot-headed young men, went off to talk to Mrs. Pellypop. Without doubt, there would have been high words between the rivals had not a steward come up to Ronald with a message that the captain wanted to see him. So Ronald retreated, leaving Vassalla in possession of the field, and the Marchese, seeing there was no chance of talking to Carmela, went off to solace himself with a cigarette.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Pellypop received Carmela with an affectation of friendliness, and proceeded to question her in a Machiavellian manner.
"What a pretty place Valletta is," said the matron, dropping her knitting and rubbing her plump white lands; "I suppose you know it very well?"
"I ought to," answered the girl laughing; "I've lived there nearly all my life."
"Yet you speak English well," said Mrs. Pellypop sceptically.
"Yes, there are so many English people in Malta; and, besides, my mother was English."
"Oh," thought Mrs. Pellypop, noticing the use of the past tense, "her mother is dead." "So you are going home to your mother's people I suppose?" she asked aloud.
"Just on a visit," replied Carmela carelessly.
"Indeed, they live in London I presume?"
"No, at Marlow on the Thames."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Pellypop, sitting up suddenly, "is that so? I am going down there myself on a visit to my son-in-law. He's the Bishop of Patagonia, my dear, and his parents live near Marlow. Mango is the name. I believe they are well known."
"Yes; I've heard of them," said Carmela cordially. "A dear old couple I believe."
Mrs. Pellypop drew herself up stiffly: "The parents of a bishop should never be called 'a dear old couple';" it savoured of the peasantry.
"May I inquire the name of your relative?" she asked, coldly, taking up her knitting.
"Sir Mark Trevor."
"Indeed," said Mrs. Pellypop, impressed with the fact that the young lady was connected with a baronet. "It's a Cornish name, is it not?"
"I believe so. He has estates in Cornwall; but also has a house on the Thames, where he stays for the summer."
"Oh! a bachelor's place I presume?" said Mrs. Pellypop artfully.
"Not exactly; he's a widower, and has one daughter nearly as old as I am, and they are going to meet me London, and then we intend to go to Marlow for the summer."
"Then I shall probably see you there," said Mrs. Pellypop cordially.
"It's not unlikely," replied Carmela rising. "Good-bye, for the present, Mrs. Pellypop, I'm going to lie down for an hour before dinner."
"Good-bye, my dear," said the matron, resuming her knitting. "I hope I shall meet you on the Thames. I should like you to know the bishop."
Carmela laughed as she went downstairs.
"She's quite pleased with me now," she said gaily; "and all because I have a cousin who is a baronet. Heavens, how amusing these people are!"
Mrs. Pellypop was pleased with Miss Cotoner; and what she had termed forward conduct before, she now called eccentricity. This young lady had aristocratic relatives, which relatives lived near the place to which Mrs. Pellypop was going. So the worthy matron, who had a slight spice of worldliness, resolved to cultivate the girl from Malta as a desirable acquaintance.
"She needs a mother's care," thought good Mrs. Pellypop, "so I must try and look after her."
What would Mrs. Pellypop's conduct have been had Carmela told her that her cousin was a butcher? Just the same of course; for how could a good woman attach any importance to such idle things as rank and wealth?
Meanwhile Ronald was in the captain's cabin talking over the mysterious crime which had takes place on board the "Neptune;" and both of them were in considerable doubt how to proceed.
"I want the affair cleared up," said Templeton, "if only for the credit of the ship; it won't encourage people to travel with us if they think there's a chance of being murdered on board."
"The difficulty is how to start," replied Ronald thoughtfully; "you see there is absolutely no clue to follow."
"Precisely," answered the Captain leaning forward, "let me state the case. A gentleman comes on board at Melbourne, and conducts himself in a rational and sane manner, which puts the idea of suicide quite out of the question--just before we arrive at Malta he is restless and uneasy, and tells you the story of his life, which affords strong grounds for suspicion that his wife wanted to kill him--he goes on shore, spies his wife, and returns at once on board--he goes to bed before the ship sails, and the deck is crowded with all sorts and conditions of people, such a crowd that there's absolutely no chance of knowing any of them. He is found dead next morning, with an Italian stiletto in his breast, a weapon which a Maltese would probably use in preference to a knife. There is no evidence to show that anyone was seen near his cabin. Now your theory is that his wife came on board before the ship sailed, killed him, and escaped on shore in the confusion?"
"Yes; that is my theory, but only founded on the story he told me."
"Very good! We then find he told you that Ventin as not his real name. I search his boxes and papers, ad find no other name but Lionel Ventin, and yet he distinctly denied that that was his proper name?"
"He did--distinctly."
"I place all the facts and evidence in the hands of he authorities at Gibraltar, and they are equally mystified, with ourselves--they suggest that it might have been a lascar or a steward."
"Impossible! there was no motive."
"No robbery, certainly," answered Templeton; "but do you think there could have been any other motive?"
"How could there? With the exception of myself, he was very reserved with everyone else on board."
"Then we dismiss the steward and lascar theories; it must have been the wife. Now I have stated the case; how do you propose to unravel the mystery?"
"Ask me something easier," replied Ronald with laugh.
"Think again--he told you his story, did he mention any names?"
"One; Elsie Macgregor."
"Good: now do you see a clue?"
"Ah!"--Ronald thought a moment,--"yes, I see what you mean, if Ventin were divorced, Elsie Macgregor must have been joined as co-respondent."
"Exactly," answered Templeton; "I see you've caught my idea; now I can't take up this case, and though I'll have to put it into the hands of the authorities, they are sure to make a mess of it, so if you want to unravel this mystery, you must find out the murderer or murderers of Lionel Ventin yourself."
"I see," said Ronald, pulling his mustache, "you want me to find out the divorce case."
The Captain nodded triumphantly.
"But Macgregor is such a common name," objected Ronald; "there may be dozens of co-respondents called Macgregor."
"Very likely, but what about the sex? The co-respondent you look for must be a woman called Elsie Macgregor.
"Yes," cried Ronald, quickly, "and then I'll find out Ventin's real name."
"Of course," answered the Captain, "and once you find out his real name you'll soon find the wife."
"And then?"
Templeton shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, then you'll have to prove the truth of his story to you."
"But if I find out all about her, the stiletto will have to be put in evidence."
"Of course," answered Templeton; "and that you can get from the authorities at Gibraltar, in whose hands I placed it."
"I have a letter of introduction to the son of an old friend of my father," said Ronald; "he is a barrister, of the Middle Temple."
"Oh--young?"
"About thirty."
"The very man," replied Templeton rising, "go and see him and tell him all about it; if he's anxious to make a mark in the world----"
"Which he hasn't done yet," interjected Ronald.
"He'll go in for this case; gad, I wish I could go into it myself; I ought to have been a private detective."
"Well," said Ronald, as they went out on to the deck; "I came for a pleasure trip, but it looks as if I shall have to work all the time."
"Yes, but think of the time you will have of it putting this puzzle together," replied Templeton, "it will be most exciting; besides, if you bring this crime home you'll get your reward; if not on earth, at least in heaven."
"I'd rather have it on earth," said Ronald, thinking of Carmela.
There is no sadder word in the English language than "Farewell." How many quivering lips have said it with breaking hearts and scalding tears--the soldier marching away with flying banners and martial music--the emigrant sitting on deck, seeing the blue hills of the land of his birth fading away in the shadows of the night--the young man going forth into the world, and turning once more to see through tear-dimmed eyes the old house where he was born, and the lovers parting--never to meet again. Yes it is a sad word, and has caused more tears and heart-aches than any we use. Now that the voyage was coming to an end, those who had been in close companionship for nearly six weeks, knew that they must separate in a short time and, that the memory of the pleasant company on board the "Neptune" would soon be only a dream of the past. No wonder then, that as the steamer glided up the Thames, everyone was a little melancholy.
The voyage from Gibraltar had been pleasant. They had seen the famous Trafalgar Bay, where Nelson won his Waterloo--passed Cape St. Vincent in the night--caught a glimpse of the mouth of the Tagus in the early morning, and steamed safely through the Bay of Biscay, which did not act up to the reputation gained for it by the song, but was as calm as a mill-pond.
On arriving at Plymouth, some of the passengers had gone to London by rail, in preference to facing the chance of a collision in the English Channel. It was Ronald's first glimpse of England, and Chester, who was very patriotic, asked him what he thought of it?
"It's the best groomed country I've seen," said Ronald, with a smile, and, indeed, though the epithet was odd, it was very appropriate, for after all the barbaric colouring they had seen at Colombo--the arid rocks of Malta and Gibraltar, and the sandy shore of Port Said, this wonderfully, vividly green land, with fields and well-kept hedges cultivated down to the water's edge, looked, as the Australian said, "well groomed."
They anchored for about two hours at Plymouth, but there was no time to go on shore, so they gazed longingly at the quaint town so famous in English History. The Hoe--the bowling green where Sir Francis Drake played bowls when the Armada was descried "stretching out like a crescent,"--and Mount Edgecumbe, which the commander of the great fleet designed for his residence when England was conquered. Ronald stood silent, looking at all this beauty, when a remark of Pat's made him laugh.
"I say," said Pat, mindful of Colombo and Aden, to Chester, who was quite inflated with patriotic pride, "will the people here come off, and dive for pennies?"
Chester glared at him viciously, and then stalked away too indignant to speak, while all around roared at the queerness of the remark.
"Well I thought they might," explained Pat to his grinning auditors; "the natives did it at all the other places."
"There are no natives here confound you!" said Chester, who had returned.
"Oh, indade!" replied Pat innocently, "this England's inhabited by foreigners."
After this Chester concluded to leave Pat alone.
It was night when they sailed up the Channel, and they could see in the distance the twinkling lights of Folkestone, Dover, Margate, and all the other well-known places, and as it was the last night on board, there was a general jubilation in the smoking-room after the ladies had retired. Songs were sung, toasts were proposed, speeches were made, and when the electric light was put out, candles were produced, and the concert kept up far into the night, or rather morning, One gentleman said he could play musical glasses, and broke fifteen tumblers in demonstrating his ability to do so--then they had more liquor, sang "God save the Queen," and went off to bed one by one, and everything was quiet.
And what a curious appearance the deck presented next morning--everyone in his best--no more flannel suits and straw hats, but accurate frock coats and tall hats, while the ladies came out in dresses of the newest fashions. Knots of people were talking together--giving addresses, making appointments, and promising to write, until it was queer to hear the jargon like this:--
"You won't forget--the Alhambra you know--best shop in London--lace veils cheaper than----address will always find me--Piccadilly Circus, on----cheap hotel; just off--Margate's the jolliest--Oh! the devil take the--nicest girl you ever--set foot on shore," and so on, until Ronald, who stood by Carmela, could not help laughing. The Marchese was looking after his own things, and as Ronald had his luggage in perfect order, he had Carmela all to himself.
"So this is the Thames," he said, looking at the dull, leaden stream, flowing between the dingy banks.
"The Thames of commerce, not of poetry," she corrected, smiling, "you must come down to Marlow and see the real river."
"May I?" he asked, eagerly, thinking he detected an invitation in her tones.
"Of course you may," she answered, carelessly. "I don't control your movements."
"Not at present, but you might," he replied, hurriedly.
There was an awkward pause, luckily broken by Pat, who came rushing along with his usual impetuosity.
"Ah Miss Cotoner, an' is that you?" said Pat, dolefully; "the best of friends must part, and we may niver meet again."
"We might," answered Carmela, with a laugh; "the world is small."
"Begad, I wish me heart was," said Ryan, sadly; "it's large enough to hold all the girls on board--you included."
"Much obliged," retorted the young lady, with a bow, not in the least offended, for Pat was a licensed Jester; "but I'll not consent to be one of many."
"Ye'd rayther have one honest heart?" asked Pat, looking keenly at her.
She turned his remark off with a laugh.
"Depends upon the owner of the heart," she replied, gaily.
"Ah begad thin I'm out of it," said Pat, and ran off, leaving them in exactly the same awkward situation as he found them.
"What are you going to do when you reach London?" asked Carmela after a pause, during which Ronald kept his eyes on her face.
"Many things," he answered, calmly; "first I am going to set to work to find out who killed my friend Ventin."
"I'm sure I hope you will be successful," she replied, heartily; "but why in London--the crime was committed at Malta?"
"Yes, but the motive for the crime will, I think, be found in London."
"They say a woman killed him."
"I think so, but it is purely theoretical."
"I dare say; for what motive could any woman have for such a crime?"
"Do you think a woman always requires a motive?" She looked at him in surprise.
"Certainly I do; there can be no cause without an effect."
"In some cases yes," he replied, gravely; "in this case I believe the woman had no motive in committing the crime."
"Then why did she do it?" asked Carmela, looking at him.
"That is what I have to find out," he answered, and so the conversation ended.
It was one o'clock when the steamer got into St. Katherine's Docks, and on the shore crowds of people were waiting to meet their friends. No one, however, came to meet Pat and Ronald, so their mutual sense of loneliness drew them yet closer together.
"Where are you going to stop?" asked Pat, linking his arm in that of the Australian.
"The Tavistock," replied Ronald, "the Australian cricketers generally stop there, so it will feel home-like."
"I'll go there too," sail Ryan promptly, "we'll go to the Alhambra or the Empire to-night, and to-morrow call at the Langham."
"To see whom?"
"Oh a lot of passengers are going to stop there; Miss Lester among the number," said Pat, with a slight blush.
"Oh Pat, your heart is lost there," observed Ronald, smiling.
"And what about your own and the girl from Malta?" asked Pat, whereat Master Ronald also blushed, and the two friends went below to get their stewards to look after their luggage.
Among those who had come on board was a tall elderly gentleman, very straight and severe-looking, scrupulously dresses, with gold-rimmed spectacles, accompanied by a pretty, vivacious-looking brunette, who was clinging to his arm.
"I don't see her Bell," said the gentleman, looking inquiringly round.
"Perhaps she's below papa," said the young lady. "Oh!" with a little scream, "there she is--there she is--Carmela! Carmela!" and with another ejaculation, she ran forward to where Miss Cotoner was standing talking to Vassalla.
"My dear Bell," said Carmela kissing her, "how good of you to come and meet me; how do you do Sir Mark?" and she gave her hand to the elderly gentleman, who now advanced.
"I am pleased to see you looking so well my dear Carmela," he said in cold, measured tones, and then turned an inquiring glance on Vassalla.
"My cousin," said Carmela introducing him; "this is his first visit to England."
Sir Mark and the Marchese both bowed and murmured something, indistinctly.
"We are stopping at the Langham Carmela," said Bell brightly, looking up in Miss Cotoner's face; "papa doesn't like our town house you know, and we're going to stay a fortnight in town! Isn't it Jolly?"
"Bell!" reproved her father, "do not use slang I beg of you."
"I can't help it," said the vivacious Bell, "it was born with me, and--Oh my!" with another little scream, "what a good-looking boy! who is he?"
The quartette turned their heads and saw Ronald, looking handsome and high-bred in his frock coat and tall hat, advancing, evidently with the idea of saying good-bye.
"It's Mr. Monteith," said Carmela, paling a little at the thought that she might not see him again. "You are going away?" she asked, aloud, holding out her hand.
"Yes," he answered, gravely; "Mr. Ryan is with me, and I am going to explore the wilds of London."
"Let me introduce you," said Carmela, despite the black looks of Vassalla; "Sir Mark Trevor, Mr. Monteith; Miss Trevor, Mr. Monteith."
The Australian bowed in his usual grave manner, and then said good-bye to Carmela.
"I shall see you, I presume, in London?" he said, lingering a little.
"If you like to call at the Langham Hotel, I shall be there for a fortnight," she answered, and his face lit up with a happy smile as he went off.
"Why did you do that Carmela?" asked the Marchese in a vexed tone; "we don't want to see him in London."
"You may not; I do," replied Miss Cotoner, with calm contempt. "Shall we go on shore now Sir Mark?" and without another word, she went off with the Baronet and his daughter, leaving him alone.
"So he has not given up the chase yet," muttered Vassalla, as he looked after the luggage, "well, we shall see, we shall see."
Mrs. Pellypop, to her disgust, found no one to meet her, so went off to the Langham Hotel, and wrote a severe letter to the Bishop, which had the effect of bringing the prelate up to London next day.
And so they all went their different ways, and the happy family on board the "Neptune" was scattered abroad through the streets of London town.
Ronald saw the Captain before he left, and had a talk with him about Ventin's death, promising to look up his barrister friend on the morrow. Then he went with Pat to the Tavistock, where they had a capital little dinner, after which they patronised the Alhambra, followed by a supper at the Cavour. Then, though Pat was inclined to make a wet night of it--particularly as they had met several of the boys at the theatre--Ronald went to his hotel, and retired soberly to bed, first, however, posting his letter of introduction to Gerald Foster, of Middle Temple, so that he could call on him on the morrow, and speak with him about the mysterious death of his friend.
"I'll find out who killed poor Ventin," he said as he went to bed, "and then I'll marry Carmela."
"Everything comes to those who know how to wait." What an excellent proverb for a briefless barrister! Let Mr. Briefless sit in his chambers, surrounded by his law books crammed with learning, and ready to undertake anything--if he wait, will Fame come to him? Not she. Fame is a lazy goddess except when she flies away, and then it is difficult for even the most industrious to catch her and clip her wings.
"He who would seek the wealth of the Indies must take out the wealth of the Indies." Is not that saying a true one? In order to gain fame, riches, and ease, must not one bring industry, perseverance, and knowledge? If Mr. Gerald Foster, barrister, of the Inner Temple, had adopted the motto of knowing how to wait, he might have done so till the end of the chapter, and then have been no better off at the end than the beginning.
But Mr. Foster was not of this fatalistic creed; he did not believe that what must be must, and that if a man is to be famous he will be so whether he idles at home or goes out into the world and works. No; he saw clearly that every day the prizes were fewer and the multitude of competitors greater, and so he did not rest idly on his oars after being admitted to the bar, but went in for hard study, both of men and books. Books, as he knew, are all very well, but according to Pope, the proper study of mankind is man, and Gerald went out into the world and neglected no opportunity of getting fish into his net. He went into the theatrical world, and knew all the most famous actors and actresses in London; he went into the political world, and had all the burning questions of the day at the end of his tongue; he noted the rising and falling of shares on the Stock Exchange, and knew exactly how the money market stood, and he went into society and became acquainted with the follies of the hour.
All this work was for a purpose, for he was a young gentleman who never lost an opportunity, and his sprats were all sent forth to catch mackerel. As yet, in spite of his assiduity to work, and his cultivation of the follies and virtues of his fellow-men, he had succeeded but little, but then he was only twenty-eight years of age, and fortune is not a goddess to be wooed roughly, so he went on, keeping his brain cool, his eyes open, and his mind cultivated, and had no doubt in his own mind that he would succeed. With such indomitable perseverance Gerald knew he must win at last. Fortune, fickle though she he, becomes weary of incessant assaults, and yields in the end to the persevering suitor. So Mr. Gerald Foster, aged twenty-eight, with clever brains, good health, and plenty of tact, worked assiduously at his profession, waiting for the hour that would bring him fame and riches.
Not a handsome man, certainly not; that is, he was not an oiled and curled darling of society. He dressed well, because it was part of his business; but even his kindest friend could not hove pronounced him handsome. A bald head, with a thick fringe of brown hair round it, a prominent nose, a clean-shaven face, with a thin-lipped mouth, and two brilliantly black eyes under bushy eyebrows, he would have been ugly, but for the wonderful charm of his smile. A most delightful smile, that changed all his features, and turned him from the ugly beast into the handsome young prince of the fairy tale. And, above all, his face was one that inspired confidence--an invaluable quality in a lawyer.
On the morning after the arrival of the "Neptune," he sat in his office in the Temple looking over his letters. Accurately dressed, in frock coat, black trousers and tie, and spotless linen, he was turning over his letters, when he came on that of Ronald's, and something in the handwriting of Mr. Monteith senior, seemed to strike him, for he opened it first. Reading it over carefully, he gave vent to a low whistle of astonishment.
"Hum," said Mr. Foster' surveying the letter thoughtfully, "'friend of your father's--only son--first visit to England--would like you to look after him--exactly,'"--laying down the letter--"a cub I expect, with no looks, and less manners, brought up in the wilds, and can't eat his food properly--a delightful aboriginal to introduce into London society. Well, I suppose I must. I love my dear old father too well to think of refusing to do a good turn to any friend of his. Confound it! I'm sure this son is awful. Well, perhaps he'll be rich, and that will cover a multitude of sins. We are fond of whited sepulchres now-a-days."
He put the letter of introduction on one side, and proceeded with the rest of his correspondence, carefully answering each letter, and putting it neatly away. Then he rang for his clerk, and giving him a pile of letters, told him to post them, and taking up the "Daily Telegraph," proceeded to read that paper and wait for clients. Of course, he went first for the money market; then he looked over the political news, glanced at the law reports, and read all the leaders, ending with the theatres. These principal items being finished, he glanced idly over the paper, and at last came on something that interested him.
"Hum," said Mr. Foster, thoughtfully, "a murder committed on board the 'Neptune.' That is the boat the cub came home in. Think I'll read it, that I may have something to talk about when he does come."
He read the article carefully, which told all about Ventin's murder, and the suspicions entertained by Monteith, after which he laid the paper down, and rising from his seat, walked slowly up and down the room with his hands behind his back.
"Don't think the cub can be so bad after all," he said, musingly. "Indeed, judging from his evidence, he seems rather a clever fellow. Queer case, and one I'd like to have a hand in: to unravel a mystery like that would make a fellow's fortune; but these things don't come my way, confound it!"
Here he was interrupted by a knock at the door, and his clerk, a red-headed boy, with a large appetite and fearful dislike for work entered, with a card held in his grimy fingers.
"Gen'lum waitin' sir," said the red-headed youth, who breathed hard in an apoplectic manner. "Ronald Monteith," read Foster on the card; "hum! the cub--show him in Berkles."
Berkles grinned, vanished, and shortly afterwards threw open the door, and announced "Mr. Ronald Monteith."
If ever Gerald Foster got a shock in his life it was seeing the cub of his fancy transformed into the handsome young man of reality. There he stood at the door, hat in hand, tall and noble-looking, quite a distinct being from the ordinary lounger of Regent Street and Hyde Park. Accustomed to rapid observation, Foster took the whole of that stalwart figure and honest countenance in at a glance, and with the sudden liking of instinct advanced towards him with outstretched hand.
"Mr. Monteith I believe?" he said, as Ronald stepped into the room.
"Yes," answered Ronald, grasping the proffered hand--and what an honest firm grip was that of the young Australian; "I sent my letter of introduction to you last night."
"It is here," replied Foster, pointing to the table, as Ronald took his seat.
"I am very glad to see you Mr. Monteith; my father was a great friend of your father's--let us hope the friendship will be hereditary."
"It is very kind of you to say so," said Monteith, in some surprise, "I am quite a stranger to you."
"You are," answered the young lawyer, "but I am a student of Lavater, and I can read faces--therefore, I say, I hope we shall be friends."
"I'm certain we shall," said Ronald, heartily holding out his hand, which the other grasped again.
"You had a pleasant voyage?" asked Foster, in a conversational manner.
"Very, except for one incident."
"Which I know all about,"--pointing to the newspaper.
"I'm glad of that, because, I have just called to see you about it."
"Eh!" said Foster sitting up in his chair; "by Jove, hope you'll put the case in my way. I was just thinking before you came in what a splendid chance was to make a name if one only had the case."
"Well Mr. Foster," said Ronald, slowly, looking keenly at him, "I am very much interested in the case, Ventin was an intimate friend of mine, and as no one that I can hear of is going to try and clear up the mystery of his death, I am going to take that duty on my own shoulders."
"I see," observed Foster nodding sagely; "and you want help?"
"I do--your help."
"You shall have it," cried Foster impulsively; "a subtle case like this is what I require to make my same. At present I am a briefless barrister, but give me the chance and I'm all right. Archimedes wanted a world whereon to rest his lever and move the earth. I am like the Greek. I have the lever--videlicet my brains, now I want a world, namely, a case--this, as far as I can gather from the papers, will be an excellent chance."
"Then you shall have it," said Ronald heartily, "and I am only too glad to think I have such an enthusiastic worker."
"So be it; now tell me the story in your own way; these newspaper accounts are so meagre."
Whereupon Ronald told Foster all about the case, and his own suspicions regarding it, to all of which the young barrister listened carefully, then leaned back in his chair, and put the tips of his fingers together.
"Hum!" he said, thoughtfully, looking up at the ceiling; "you have made out a very strong case against this Maltese wife I must confess; but the evidence is surely circumstantial."
"But who else would have done it?"
"A man might have committed the crime."
"But with what motive?"
"Because he was told to do so."
"But I don't see----"
"Of course you don't," said Foster coolly; "but I will explain, from what you have told me, Mrs. Ventin--we will call her so as we do not know her real name--must have been a woman of very strong passions. Now is it likely that such a woman would remain faithful to her husband? No; I am sure she would not. Depend upon it, she had lovers, or else married again. In the latter case, she might have committed the crime herself, as husbands are not fond of endangering their necks for wives, however pretty; but if she had lovers, depend upon it one of them committed the murder for her sake."
"That's all very well," said Ronald impatiently; "we must not be content with vague speculations but get a clue. Now, how are we to start?"
"I think the idea of Captain Templeton is best," said Foster, thoughtfully, "to look up the divorce case."
"You do not remember it?"
"Not I; there are dozens of divorce cases every year--we are such a moral nation, you know. I can't keep them all in my head; but I will look it up."
"And then?"
"Then I will see the solicitors who had the case in hand, and ask all about Ventin; you knew the man, they knew him, and if your descriptions tally, we will soon establish his identity."
"So far so good," said Ronald, impatiently; "but what follows?"
"Then we must find out where this Maltese wife is----"
"In Malta," said Ronald, abruptly.
"She might not be, by the time we find out her husband's real name," said the barrister coolly; "don't hurry my dear toy; but when we discover where she is, we must set a detective on her to find out her movements on that night when the murder was committed; if she can account for them satisfactorily your theory must fall to the ground."
"But if she can't?"
Foster shrugged his shoulders.
"Then we must be guided by circumstances; we can hardly arrest a woman on the existing evidence; it's a very difficult case, and we must be careful."
"When will you look up this divorce case?"
"To-day, and let you know all about it to-morrow; meanwhile, you had better come and lunch at my club."
"Thank you very much," said Ronald, blushing; "if you will let me away immediately afterwards. I have to make a call."
"Certainly," replied Foster, glancing at his companion's tell-tale face as they went out; "I'll bet he's going to see a woman," he thought, looking at Monteith. "What a transparently honest man he is."
Business being concluded, as a natural thing, pleasure followed, and having had luncheon with Foster at "The Excelsior," a club much frequented by rising young men, Ronald took leave of the barrister, and went off to his hotel,--there to attire himself for an afternoon call.
It might have been the fashion in the past for lovers to become exceedingly negligent in their dress, and pass their time in writing amatory odes to Chloe and Lydia, not daring to name openly the object of their affections, but now-a-days this is all changed. Strephon puts on his smartest suit, wears his brightest smile, and shows Chloe plainly that he adores her. Instead of wasting his time in writing poetry, he gets Chloe tickets for the theatre, takes her presents of flowers and music, and, on the whole, conducts himself in a matter-of-fact-fashion. So Master Ronald, adopting the modern manner of love-making, dressed himself carefully, placed a flower in his coat, and went off in a hansom cab, to call on Miss Cotoner. He also got a box at one of the theatres and not knowing his divinity's taste in theatricals, judged it by his own, and decided she would like to go to the Frivolity Theatre, at which the sacred lamp of burlesque was burning.
Of course, he found Mr. Ryan there--that young gentleman having come to call on Mrs. Pellypop, and naturally met Miss Lester also--such a delightfully unexpected meeting--the young humbug. It is wonderful how people, who have travelled together, gravitate towards one another on shore, and when Ronald was shown upstairs, he found Mrs. Pellypop, Miss Lester, Carmela and the Marchese, all together having afternoon tea.
Sir Mark and Miss Trevor were also present, and appeared to be enjoying themselves very much. Ronald's entrance was hailed with great delight by all except Vassalla, who scowled at the Australian in a way that showed his animosity had not in any way abated. Carmela came forward with a pretty flush on her cheek, and gave him a cup of tea, after which they all began to talk.
"And what were you doing last night, Mr. Monteith?" asked Mrs. Pellypop, who presided over the tea-service.
"Oh!" said Ronald, innocently, not understanding the violent gestures Pat was making to him. "Pat and I went to the Alhambra."
Mrs. Pellypop put down her cup with a look of horror.
"That dreadful place?" she said, looking severely at Pat; "why, Mr. Ryan, you said you were at Exeter Hall."
Everyone laughed at this, and Pat muttered something about a mistake.
"Oh! the Alhambra isn't a bad place," said Sir Mark, good naturedly; "the ballets are very good."
"It's more than the young women are," retorted Mrs. Pellypop, viciously; "I would not like the Bishop to go there."
"No," said Carmela, with a laugh; "it's hardly the place for a bishop."
"I'm sorry you don't like theatres," began Ronald, to the matron, "but----"
"I do like some theatres," answered Mrs. Pellypop; "and any play of Shakespeare's."
"Ah! you see, they aren't playing Shakespeare just now," said Ronald, dryly; "but I've got a box at the Frivolity to-night, and thought the ladies might like to come," looking straight at Carmela.
Everyone looked grave at this. The Frivolity was such a fast theatre.
"You don't know London very well," said Vassalla, in a sarcastic tone of voice, "or you would find out that the Frivolity is as bad, if not worse, than many a music-hall."
"Oh, I've erred through ignorance, then," retorted Ronald, with a flush, "but I don't think music halls are so very bad; and besides, as far as I can judge, your acquaintance with London is not so extensive as to enable you to correct me, Marchese."
Vassalla would have made an angry reply had not Carmela interposed.
"What are they playing there?" she asked.
"A burlesque," cried Kate Lester, "'Artful Artemis and the Shy Shepherd.'"
"Kate," cried Mrs. Pellypop, in a severe tone, "how can you talk so? In my young days girls knew nothing of such things."
"I wish she wouldn't go back into the dark ages," whispered Pat to Carmela, "she must be a hundred, and young at that," whereon Carmela laughed.
"Well," said Ronald, dismally, "if none of the ladies will come, perhaps the gentlemen will."
"I'm engaged," said Vassalla, promptly.
"Thank heaven," thought Ronald, muttering the regrets which politeness demanded.
"I will come, Mr. Monteith," said Sir Mark, "and I've no doubt Mr. Ryan----"
"Oh, I'll be all there," said Pat, gaily; "I adore burlesque; the stage educates the people, begad, and a mighty nice schoolmaster it is."
"That will be three all together," said Ronald, "so I'll ask my friend, Mr. Foster, to make a fourth; but what are the ladies' plans for to-night?"
"I am going to take my cousin and Miss Trevor to the Italian Exhibition," said Vassalla, quickly.
"Not to-night," replied Carmela, coldly, "I am going to write letters."
"And I am going to wait in to see the Bishop," said Mrs. Pellypop.
"In fact," said Bell Trevor, sarcastically, "we are going to have a quiet, domestic evening."
"I hope you'll enjoy yourself," whispered Pat to Miss Lester, as he rose to go.
"Oh, bother," retorted that young lady, crossly; "I might as well be in a convent. The way Mrs. Pellypop looks after me! However, my father is coming to London this week, and then I'll go everywhere."
"May I come too?" plaintively asked Pat.
"If you're good, yes."
As Ronald said good-bye to Carmela, he asked her what she would be doing in the afternoon of the next day.
"Oh! Sir Mark, Miss Trevor, and I are going to the Italian Exhibition."
"And the Marchese?"
"He'll very likely be there also." she replied, coldly.
Whereupon he took his leave, and determined, privately in his own mind, that he also would be at the Exhibition, and would speak to Carmela on the subject nearest his heart.
"I'm madly in love with her," he told Pat, as they went down the street, "you don't know how much."
"Oh, begad I do," retorted Pat, "haven't I got a heart and a girl of my own? I wonder what Lester père is like."
"If he's as nice as Lester fille, it will be all right," laughed Ronald, and they went along to the Temple, as Monteith wanted to introduce Pat to Foster.
This being accomplished, they all went home to dress for dinner, and Sir Mark also turning up, they had a pleasant meal about seven o'clock, and, as all the party suited one another, they became quite jolly. The baronet soon showed himself to be a capital companion; a little cold, perhaps, but with lots of appreciation of fun, and as for Foster, he kept them all amused by his stories and jokes. Pat was in his best form, and the champagne only made him more exuberant in spirits, while Ronald, forgetting all his love and detective work for the moment, was gay as any of them. After dinner they all went to the Frivolity, and arrived just as the curtain was rising on the new burlesque.
The theatre was crowded, as the Frivolity invariably was, and Ronald saw, with some amusement, that the celebrated masher brigade, of whom he had heard so much, was in full force in the stalls. They looked like rows of waxworks with their immovable faces and phlegmatic manners.
"They look as if they ought to be wound up like clockwork," remarked Pat, gaily.
"Oh, they only keep going on tick, if that's what you mean," said Foster, laughing.
"Oh, what a pun!" observed Ronald in disgust; "as if those in the burlesque weren't bad enough."
"Well, they couldn't be much worse," said Sir Mark, putting up his opera glass.
The burlesque of "Artemis" was in the usual style; the author had taken the beautiful Greek myth of Diana and Endymion, and vulgarised it hopelessly. In it, Artemis, the virgin huntress, was represented as an old maid in love with Endymion, who, of course, was in love with some one else, being, in his case, another man's wife, and the other man, being an apothecary, gives Endymion a powder, which sends him to sleep. In fact, the whole burlesque was written to show that women hunt after men, and that the most amusing thing in life is to get as near divorce as possible, without the actual law business taking place. Artemis was acted by a celebrated lion comique, who sang local songs about the Government and the Royal Family, and Endymion was given by a little girl with yellow hair and saucy, blue eyes, who sang and danced like a fairy. Indeed, when she sang her great song, "Slightly on the Mash," Pat fell head over ears in love with her, and felt inclined to join in the chorus with these beautiful words:--