Gerald Foster was eagerly awaiting the arrival of Ronald, in his chambers, for he was anxious to know what Carmela would say about her sister's movements on the night in question. He was pacing up and down his room, biting his nails, and casting impatient looks at the clock.
"He's a long time away," he said, aloud; "I wonder what on earth she's telling him. The worst of it is Monteith is so transparent that she will see through his motive at once, and, in order to shield her sister, will deny everything. They don't like one another, but for the credit of her own name she won't say a word--ah!" as a footstep on the stair attracted his attention, "here is my ambassador--I am anxious to learn the new move in the game. Well," as Ronald entered the room, "am I right or wrong?"
Ronald threw himself into a seat with an air of lassitude, and looked gloomily at the floor.
"You are right."
Foster gave a cry of triumph.
"I knew it; things are coming to a crisis my dear fellow, and we'll soon run this woman to earth."
"I hope not."
"You hope not--why?"
"Because I am anxious to marry Carmela, and I do not want to have a murderess for a sister-in-law."
"Whether it's made private or public, you are bound to have that," replied Foster, dryly; "my advice is not to marry her."
"But I love her, madly," said Ronald, raising his heavy eyes to his friend's face, "it would kill me to lose her."
"Men have died and worms have eaten them, but love did not kill them," said the barrister, cynically; "you'll get over this fancy in time--but come, tell me all about it."
So Ronald related his interview with Carmela, to which Foster listened attentively.
"I wonder what Vassalla will say to that?" he said, when the Australian had finished; "you see, Mrs. Verschoyle was on board after all."
"That does not prove her guilty of the murder," retorted Ronald.
"Then why does she try to prove analibi?quot; said Foster, quickly. "Why, everything we find out only makes the case stronger against her. I should like to have an interview with her."
"That will be easily managed: she is coming to England."
"You don't say so! When?"
"Miss Cotoner received a cablegram while I was there," said Ronald, "and her sister is on her way now."
"What the deuce does she mean by running her head into the lion's mouth?" observed Foster, in a puzzled tone. "She must know that such a crime cannot be passed over in silence."
Ronald looked up suddenly.
"What are you going to do next?" he asked, wearily.
"Wait, and see Roper. He is on his way also, and I should not be surprised if he came in the same boat with her. So he may, perhaps, give us clearer information than we have already received."
Ronald groaned.
"This is the irony of fate," he said, in a dull voice. "Had I known how this case was likely to affect the woman I love best in the world, I would not have undertaken it, and the thing might have remained a mystery for ever."
"Possibly," replied Foster, pointedly; "but you forget, others might have taken it up. Besides, when you started in the case you did not love Miss Cotoner, and, moreover, did not know how closely she was connected with the author of the crime."
Ronald rose to his feet and took his hat and stick.
"I am going to the hotel," he said, "to lie down. I feel quite worn out."
"When may I see you again?" asked Foster, accompanying him to the door.
"To-morrow, when Roper arrives," and Monteith left the room without saying good-bye.
"Poor boy!" said Gerald, as he went back to his work, "he is very much cut up--and no wonder! Where will it all end? I expect in smoke; because the evidence is too slight, even to convict that woman. Well, we shall see when Roper arrives."
Ronald walked along the crowded street as in a dream, and paid no attention to the buzz of voices around and the noise of the traffic. So preoccupied he was with his own sad thoughts that he did not see that a man was walking beside him, till the latter spoke, and then he looked up with a start, and saw Vassalla looking at him with an amused smile.
"Eh, my friend," said the Marchese, lightly, "in what day-dream are you lost?"
"Not a very pleasant one," returned Ronald, coldly. "I was thinking of our conversation this morning." Vassalla shrugged his shoulders.
"You might have had more pleasant thoughts," he said, with a sneer.
"I might," returned Monteith, emphatically. "I might have thought every word you said this morning true."
The Marchese changed colour a little, and drew himself up haughtily.
"Is this an insult, sir?" he asked.
"As you please," retorted Ronald, indifferently. "You will understand my meaning plainly, when I tell you that I had the pleasure of an interview with Miss Cotoner this morning."
"Indeed!" said Vassalla, his face looking as black as thunder; "and she said--"
"More than you would have cared to hear," replied the Australian. "She simply contradicted every word you said, and told me that her sister came on board and said good-bye to her, and that you, the Marchese Vassalla, knew she was there, and saw her down the gangway as she left the ship."
"It's a lie," retorted Vassalla, livid with rage; "Mrs. Verschoyle was not on board."
"Go and ask Miss Cotoner; she will tell you differently," said Ronald, fiercely. "You are playing a dangerous game, Marchese, for I have sworn to find out who killed Leopold Verschoyle, and, by God, I'll keep my word."
"You shall answer for this," hissed Vassalla between his teeth.
"When and where you please," retorted the Australian. "If the days of duelling are past in England, they are not on the Continent, and if you care to defend your damnable lies, I'll meet you anywhere you please."
"You shall hear from me, Monsieur," said Vassalla, hoarsely, and he walked away without another word.
"The black villain," muttered Ronald, as he strode along; "I believe he knows more about this affair than he cares to tell. I've been talking grandiloquently, I suppose; but I'll stick to my word, and I think I can hold my own both with pistol and rapier."
Quite a style of conversation of the time of George III., was it not? but all young men become romantic at times, and Ronald, brave lad that he was, meant all he said, being as much in earnest as any periwigged beau of the eighteenth century, though he carried a cane instead of a sword.
The Marchese Matteo Vassalla jumped into a hansom, and ordered the cabman to drive to the Langham Hotel, as he was anxious to see Carmela, and find out all that had taken place between her and Monteith. It was necessary for him to do this, as he was anxious to win her for his wife, and the least slip on his part might prove fatal to success.
He was mad with rage when he entered the cab, but by the time it arrived at the Langham was quite calm and self-possessed, for he knew he would need to have all his wits about him in the coming interview. He dismissed his cab, and went up to the drawing-room, where he found no one. Ringing the bell he asked after Carmela, and was informed that she had gone to lie down; but, determined to see her, he sent up a message that he wanted her immediately on important business, and then calmly sat down to think over his line of action.
The waiter soon returned with a message that Miss Cotoner would be down shortly, and almost immediately, after he retired, Carmela appeared, looking white and wan in her long, white dress, with her dark hair hastily fastened in a dishevelled knot at the back of her head. She came quickly into the room, and would have spoken, but Vassalla gave her no time.
"My cousin," he said, rapidly, in French; "I congratulate you on the success of your interview this morning."
"What do you mean?" asked Carmela, haughtily.
"Simply this," retorted the Marchese, quietly, "that I have seen Monteith, and he told me to my face that you gave me the lie in your conversation with him."
"I did," she retorted, defiantly; "my sister was on board, and you had no right to say otherwise."
"Bah! You cannot see an inch before your nose," retorted Vassalla, taking out his pocket-book: "read this, and then see what your truth-telling tongue has done."
He handed her Mrs. Verschoyle's letter, which she read eagerly, and, having finished, gave it back to the Marchese, with a cold smile.
"I see, she also denies being on board," she said, quietly; "so you are both telling deliberate falsehoods; will you kindly explain this riddle to me?"
"That will be easy enough, my cousin," answered the Marchese, with a sneer; "I presume Monteith told you all about the death of Leopold Verschoyle?"
"Well?" she asked, turning a shade paler: though Heaven knows, poor thing, she was pale enough before.
"Well!" he echoed, mockingly; "don't you know that your sister was his wife, and, if it were known she had been on board, ugly questions might be asked?"
"I understand what you mean," said Carmela, clasping her hands, "you think that she--had something to do with his death."
"I did not say so."
"No; but you hinted as much."
"Then accept the hint I give, and deny that your sister was on board."
"What! deny my own words?"
"Certainly," he replied, coolly, "better than," significantly, "the other thing."
"I don't believe it; I don't believe it," she cried, vehemently. "Bianca did not kill him."
"How do you know?" he asked, pointedly.
"Do you also accuse her?" she said, turning fiercely on him.
"I accuse nobody," he said, coldly, "I merely tell you to hold your tongue."
"I will justify myself to my sister, not to you," said Carmela, proudly; "she will be here next week."
"What!--Is she coming here?" "Yes."
"My faith! What cursed fools women are," he cried: "write, telegraph, anything, only say she must not come."
"Why not?"
"Because there is danger."
"Danger!"
"Yes; that meddling young fool of a Monteith is trying to find out about Verschoyle's death; if he is successful your sister is lost."
"Is she guilty?"
"For the second time, I say--I did not say so."
"Is she guilty?"
"Yes."
Carmela gave a cry and turned away; this answer parted her from Ronald for ever. In an instant Vassalla was at her side--she felt his hot breath on her cheek.
"But, I can save her, I can save her!" he said hurriedly,--"on one condition."
"And that?"
"Your hand," and he put his arm round her waist.
"Never!" She tore herself away with an indignant cry; "do you take me for hush money?"
"Either that, or your sister will reap the reward of her crime, and our name will be dishonoured for ever."
"Think of your name alone," she said, imploringly; "you will save her?"
"On the condition I mention. I don't care for the name, I only care for you. Why will you not marry me? You think of the Australian; he can be nothing to you. Would you marry the man who is hunting down your own flesh and blood; and would he marry the sister of a woman whom he knows is a murderess? Think again. I will save your sister and our family honour--on that one condition--you must be my wife."
"If not?" she asked, defiantly.
"Events must take their course. I will not interfere. If you marry me you will have an honoured name, and the satisfaction of knowing that you have saved your sister. If you refuse, you will lose your honourable name, your sister, and not even gain your Australian lover in return."
"Mercy!" she cried, falling at his feet.
"No!" He stood above her, calm and pitiless, stroking his beard.
"I will give anything but that," she murmured.
"I can accept nothing else."
"You are a devil!"
"Possibly. Your answer?"
She sprang to her feet with a face pale as marble, and clung to the mantelpiece for support; but though Vassalla saw she was weak he gave her no assistance.
"Your answer?" he demanded, pitilessly; "yes or no?"
"Yes," she whispered, and for the second time that day fainted.
"Carmela Cotoner to Ronald Monteith.
"My Dear Mr. Monteith,--I write to let you know that in the interview I had with you yesterday, you misunderstood some of my statements. My sister, Mrs. Verschoyle, did not come on board with me to say good-bye, when the 'Neptune' sailed, but did so before I left home.You will understand why I write this letter.quot;
"Yours truly,
Carmela Cotoner."
* * * * *
"Poor soul," said Ronald, handing the letter to Foster; "I can understand--she knows her sister is guilty, and would shield her."
"Yes, I can see that," said Foster, glancing rapidly over the letter; "but how does she know her sister is guilty?"
"I don't know," said Ronald, blankly.
"Hum," answered Gerald, looking keenly at him; "let us look into this. In the first place, did you think she thought her sister guilty when you saw her?"
"No," eagerly; "I'm sure she did not."
"Then she must have seen some one in the meantime who told her the truth," returned Foster; "now, whom did you see in the meantime?"
"No one, except Vassalla," returned the Australian, innocently.
"Exactly," said the barrister, "you saw Vassalla, and told him you knew that he and Mrs. Verschoyle had lied regarding her movements on the night in question?"
"Well?"
"Well!" echoed Foster, rather annoyed, "can't you see? Vassalla knew Mrs. Verschoyle was on board, and also that Ventin was her husband, and told Carmela Cotoner all about it; so, to save her sister, she has recanted, and written a lie--a white lie, poor soul! for which she will be forgiven in heaven."
"Then what do you think of the whole affair?" said Ronald, eagerly.
"I think that Vassalla knows more about this affair than we give him credit," replied Foster.
"Shall I answer her letter?" said Monteith, after a pause.
"If you like," returned the other, shrugging his shoulders.
"Then I will."
* * * * *
"Ronald Monteith to Carmela Cotoner.
"My Dear Miss Cotoner,--I have received your letter. Believe me, I admire and respect your silence.
"Yours truly,
"Ronald Monteith."
* * * * *
"And what about your marriage?" asked Foster. "I'll wait till I see how this thing is cleared up," said Ronald, "and then----"
"Well?"
"Whether her sister is guilty or not, I'll marry her."
"That's a mistake."
"What! A mistake to marry a noble woman like that?" said Ronald. "No, Foster, she has been tried in the furnace, and has, to my eyes, come out pure as gold."
"Amen to that sweet prayer," quoted Foster, in his usual, cynical voice.
* * * * *
"Carmela Cotoner to Mrs. Verschoyle.
"I cannot address you as sister till I know the truth of this terrible story. Your husband was on board the 'Neptune,' and you saw him there, though you denied doing so. The question I now ask you is, whether this awful thing is true? Did you have anything to do with your husband's death? I know that you are cruel and proud, but I do not believe you to be so base as Vassalla says. Before we can meet again, I want to be assured that your hands are free from your husband's blood.
"Your sister,
Carmela."
* * * * *
"How did she find out?" asks Mrs. Verschoyle of herself; "no one could have known that my husband was on board. Carmela certainly knew I went to see her off, but how did she discover that Lionel Ventin was my husband? There must be some traitor in the camp, and that traitor is Matteo Vassalla. I will go to him to-morrow and find out the truth. If it is as I suspect, he'll wish he had held his tongue!"
* * * * *
"Matteo Vassalla to Carmela Cotoner.
"So you are down at Marlow? I hope you are enjoying the country, and getting back the roses to your cheeks, for I want my bride to look her best when married to me. London is very dull, and the only excitement is the arrival of your sister, from whom I have a note, saying she will call on me to-morrow. I will report the result of our interview in some future letter, though I hope to deliver it by word of mouth, as I am coming down to Marlow shortly, and will call on you at Sir Mark Trevor's place. Mr. Monteith is still in town, and still on his wild-goose chase, from which I'm afraid he'll derive very little gratification. I am the only person who can prove, absolutely, that your sister saw her husband on board, and had anything to do with his death, and I will keep my own counsel on condition that I receive my reward--your hand. Adieu, my dear cousin, till we meet again.
"Yours for ever,
Matteo Vassalla."
* * * * *
"So I have to pay the penalty of my sister's crime," said Carmela to herself on reading this letter. "In order to save her, I have to sacrifice myself! Oh, it is cruel, cruel! and yet what can I do? If she is innocent, I am free to marry the man I love; but if she is guilty, God help me! I can do nothing but sacrifice myself to save her!"
* * * * *
"Ronald Monteith to Carmela Cotoner.
"Is it true? I ask you, is it true, this rumour which I hear, that you are engaged to your cousin, Vassalla? Oh, Carmela, why have you trifled with me in this way? You must have seen how I loved you, how I worshipped the very ground you trod on; and now you coldly throw me on one side, and accept the hand of a man whom you do not and cannot care about. Think of how you are ruining two lives--yours and mine--before you take this fatal step; once done, it cannot be recalled. I await your answer, and hope you may be able to deny this cruel lie.
"Ronald."
* * * * *
"Poor Ronald," mused Carmela, "I am cruel but only to be kind. He can never--marry into a family like ours, and the greatest kindness I can do him is to refuse him. God knows, I love him well enough, but he could never trust me, once he knows the secret of Leopold Verschoyle's death, and that he does know it I am convinced. He may blame me now, but he will bless me in the future; so I had better write and tell him that it is true, though my heart may break while I pen the words."
* * * * *
"Carmela Cotoner to Ronald Monteith.
"It is true! I am the fool of fortune, and this match is not of my own making. Forget that you have ever seen me, and your life's happiness will be the constant prayer of
"Carmela."
"My life's happiness!" said Ronald, with a sob. "God! She breaks my heart, ruins my life, and talks about praying for my happiness--so like a woman! so like a woman!"
Matteo Vassalla was in his sitting-room, walking to and fro with his hands in his pockets. The Maltese gentleman was very well satisfied with himself, as all his plans seemed likely to turn out as he wished. Carmela had promised to marry him, and, as she had plenty of money, this was very satisfactory to the impecunious nobleman. She did not love him, it was true; but then he agreed with Rochefoucauld, that it is best to begin marriage with a little aversion. And then he had the pleasure of taking the prize from under the very nose of his rival; the race had been a long one, and the prize had been awarded, not to the swiftest, but to the most diplomatic. Fate had played into Matteo's hands, and secure in the certainty of his good fortune, he strolled gaily up and down the room, humming to himself.
The only thing that troubled him was the coming interview with Mrs. Verschoyle, for he knew that lady loved him, and if she found out that Carmela was engaged to him, would do anything to stop the marriage. She would fling money, character, even life itself, to attain her ends, such was her passionate temper, and Vassalla knew she was a dangerous adversary. The only chance of getting the better of her was to keep cool, as she invariably lost her head, and gave her adversary time to espy the weak points in her armour, so the Marchese felt tolerably certain of winning the game; but still he had a bad quarter of an hour before him, and did not relish the prospect.
"Malediction on these women," he said, stopping in front of the mirror, and admiring himself; "why can't they accept the inevitable, and own themselves beaten? But no, this jade of a Bianca will fight to the last. I rather admire such tenacity of purpose myself, that is when I'm not the opponent in the game."
He went to his travelling writing-desk, which was lying on a side table, and, having unlocked it, took out Carmela's last letter, which he read carefully, the result of his reading being anything but pleasant to him.
"Wants me to release her," he muttered, throwing down the letter and resuming his walk, "not I--give up the quarry after it has been run to earth? My dear Carmela, you must think me a fool; without your fortune you'd be a pretty prize, but, with it, my faith, it's killing two birds with one stone--come in" as a knock came to the door.
"Mrs. Verschoyle!" announced the waiter, showing in that lady, and closed the door after him, leaving the two adversaries face to face with the feeling of battle in the air.
Mrs. Verschoyle, as she called herself, though she had no claim to the name, being divorced, was very like Carmela, only, not quite so handsome, while her expression was rather repellent, and her lowering eyebrows and firmly closed mouth warned Matteo Vassalla that she had come with hostile intentions. Matteo was the first to speak, and offered his visitor a chair.
"You will be seated, my cousin?" he asked, politely.
"When I choose," she said, harshly.
Vassalla shrugged his shoulders and produced a silver cigarette case.
"As you please," he said, carelessly opening it; "you will smoke?"
"No!"
"Drink?--there is excellent wine here."
"No!--I tell you," she retorted, viciously, "we can dispense with all these formalities, Marchese."
"Eh!" with a sudden lifting of the eyebrows, "why so precise, my cousin?"
"Because you are a villain!" retorted Mrs. Verschoyle, bringing her fist down on the table.
"So!" said Matteo, with a laugh, "perhaps you will give me your reasons for calling me such a name?"
"The best of all possible reasons, you deserve it!"
"Indeed--the world is not of your opinion."
"Bah!--the world does not know you."
"Ah! so you are going to be Madame Asmodeus, and unroof my house for the benefit of my neighbours?" And Vassalla, having lighted a cigarette, sat down and prepared to listen. He had not long to wait, for Mrs. Verschoyle burst out into a perfect volley of imprecations in Italian, to which, Vassalla listened very quietly.
"You're not improving," he said coolly, when she stopped for want of breath; "but all this is talk. I want to know the reason of your visit."
Mrs. Verschoyle took off her gloves, sat down in a chair, and dragging it up to the table, placed her elbows thereon, and began to talk rapidly.
"You Maltese dog!" she hissed between her teeth; "I know all--yes, all--did I not meet Signor Clement at the Strada Cristoforo, and did he not tell me that you were as the shadow of my sister Carmelo, and that you wanted to become her husband? speak, you traitor--is it not true?"
"Before I answer that question," sad Vassalla, calmly, knocking the ash off his cigarette, "first tell me who is this Signor Clement, that knows so much of my affairs?"
"He came from England."
"When?"
"Shortly after your ship arrived in London."
"Did he stop at the Signora Briffa's?"
"Yes."
"And asked questions?"
"He asked me none, but, ah!" with a gesture of impotent rage, "that Dexter, she gave him all the lies of me, I am certain."
"Exactly! and he told you that I was making love to Carmela, and advised you to come to England."
"How did you know?" asked Mrs. Verschoyle, looking at him with fiery eyes.
"Because I have my suspicions that this Clement is a spy."
"A spy--for what--on whom?"
"For murder--on you."
Mrs. Verschoyle grew deathly pale, she clenched her hands, and her two black eyes glared like burning coals at her cousin.
"Bah!" she said, at length, making a snatch at one of her gloves; "this is a child's story."
"No, upon my honour, it's not. I don't know for certain, but I could swear this man is a spy. Why should he go out to Valletta, lodge at the same house as you, and tell you this about me? Because he wanted you to come to England--because he is employed by an Australian devil called Monteith to hunt you down, and accuse you of the murder of your husband, Leopold Verschoyle."
Vassalla arose to his feet while speaking, and went over to the woman, who cowered in her chair like a savage beast, subdued for the moment, by a master's eye.
"It's a lie--a lie!" she hissed, tearing her glove, viciously; "who can prove I was on board?"
"Carmela."
"Carmela?" she bounded to her feet, her face working with fury; "she would not dare!"
"She has done so, and told Monteith."
"My God! my God!" cried Mrs. Verschoyle, stamping up and down the room; "Oh that my fingers were round her throat? She has taken my lovers from me, and now she'd take my life. Bah!" with a sudden change, "they can't prove anything. You can save me."
"Yes, but will I?"
Mrs. Verschoyle stole round the table, and laid her arm caressingly round his neck.
"Yes, you will, my Matteo. Think of the love I have for you. You will disappoint this bloodhound, when he thinks his game sure, and you will marry me. We will go back to our beautiful Malta, and there be happy."
This woman wooed with all the caressing fierceness of the South, her harsh voice sank to a liquid murmur, and her wonderful eyes lost their savage gleam, and became melting and tender.
"You will marry me," she whispered, softly.
Vassalla sneered to himself, then rising suddenly, removed her arms from around his neck.
"Impossible," he said, coldly; "I am engaged to Carmela."
Mrs. Verschoyle sprang back, her eyes blazing with anger, and dashed the fragments of her glove in his face.
"Ingrate! Traitor! Scoundrel! You shall suffer for this."
"Not at your hands," with a soft laugh.
"Yes! at my hands. I have your letters, written when you truly loved me. When you said you would kill----"
"Silence, devil!" and Matteo, his face set and stern, caught her arm.
"I will not be silent!" screamed Mrs. Verschoyle, struggling to get free. "You shall not marry Carmela."
"I shall; it is the price of your safety."
"My safety?" and she suddenly grew calm.
"Yes, Carmela would have married the Australian. I hated him, and wanted her. He has been searching for the person who killed Leopold Verschoyle, and the evidence all points to you. He asked me if you were on board that night? I said 'No.' I showed your letter. He asked Carmela? She said 'Yes.'"
"The fool!"
"I made her write a letter denying it. She will keep silent for your sake. No one but I can prove it. I will keep silent on condition that I marry Carmela. She has accepted me, and you will not refuse your consent."
"I will."
"You will not."
"Dog, let me go!"
"Not till you consent."
"No!"
Vassalla released her, and went to the door of his room.
"I will be back in a few moments," he said, coldly. "If you consent, and promise not to trouble me, I will save you; if not, you must take the consequences," and he went into his bedroom, and shut the door.
Mrs. Verschoyle recovered herself by a strong effort, and going to the sideboard, poured out half a glass of brandy, which she drank off. This seemed to do her good, for she put her bonnet straight, smoothed her hair, and producing another pair of gloves from her pocket, put them on. Then she went round the room looking at things until she came to the table, whereon lay Vassalla's portfolio. She saw Carmela's letter, and first glancing towards the door to make sure he was safe, snatched it up, and devoured every word of it. Then, throwing it down, she ransacked the portfolio with nimble fingers, evidently to see if there were more.
"It is here! it is here!" she muttered, glancing rapidly over the papers. "Ah!" and with a cry of delight she picked up a letter and slipped it into her pocket.
Just as she did this she heard Vassalla's foot, and knew he was returning. Pushing all the papers back, she ran noiselessly to the mirror, leaving the portfolio in the same disorder as she had found it, and was arranging her bonnet strings, when Vassalla, dressed to go out, entered the room putting on his gloves.
"Your answer?" he said, sharply.
Mrs. Verschoyle turned to him with a smiling face.
"I am beaten. Yes."
He looked at her suspiciously.
"You mean it?"
"On condition that you stop the bloodhound."
"Agreed; and now let us go out."
"Where is Carmela?" she asked, as he held the door open.
"At Marlow with Sir Mark Trevor. Do you want to see her?"
"No; that is, not at present," she answered, going down the stairs. "Where does the bloodhound live?"
"Why do you want to know?" he asked, sharply.
"You needn't tell me unless you like," said Mrs. Verschoyle, haughtily; "I only asked from idle curiosity."
"I believe he is stopping at the Tavistock Hotel in Covent Garden."
"Oh!" carelessly, as they stepped out to the street, "this is my cab. Can I take you anywhere?"
"No, thank you," said Matteo, helping her in. "Good-bye at present. I'll see you again soon."
"I hope so," replied Mrs. Verschoyle; and Matteo walked away as the cab drove off.
Mrs. Verschoyle lay back, and smiled.
"You think you have won," she murmured, glancing at the stolen letter; "but there are always two to a game, my dear Matteo! You forget that!"
Julian Roper, alias Signor Clement, had come to London in the same boat as Mrs. Verschoyle, and had made profitable use of his time by inflaming that lady's anger. On the morning after his arrival he went to Foster's chambers, in order to make his report, and there found his employer, Ronald Monteith, in anything but a joyful frame of mind. Poor Ronald was very much cast down by the news of Carmela's engagement to the Marchese, though Foster tried to console him to the best of his ability.
"She is acting under compulsion, my dear boy," said Gerald. "Vassalla has been telling her that Mrs. Verschoyle is the assassin of her husband, and has demanded her hand as the price of his silence."
"How does he know that Mrs. Verschoyle is guilty?" asked Ronald, fiercely. "We have proved nothing! She may be as innocent as you or I, for all we know!"
"My dear lad," said Foster, shrugging his shoulders, "we can only go by circumstantial evidence in this case, and you must acknowledge, things do look very black against Mrs. Verschoyle!"
"Oh, why did I ever start trying to find out the murderess of Leopold Verschoyle?" groaned Ronald, laying his head on the table.
"Rather, why did you fall in love with Carmela Cotoner?" said Foster, not unkindly.
"We'll talk no more of this," said Ronald, hastily rising to his feet, "till we see Roper, and hear what he has to say."
So Gerald, pitying the young man's sorrow in his kindly heart, went back to his musty law papers, and Signor Jilted-in-Love looked out of the window in sulky silence. Yet not sulky, poor lad, for his heart was aching with the thought of his future life being passed without Carmela, having, with the fine chivalrous feelings of youth, vowed he'd marry no other lady.
Soon Julian Roper arrived, and was welcomed with heartfelt joy by both gentlemen, who sprang with alacrity to their feet to greet him. He entered quiet and impassive as ever, but his sharp, blue eyes took in at a glance the haggard looks of the Australian.
"You've been fretting, Mr. Monteith," he said, looking keenly at him.
"Bah! don't mind me," said Ronald, peevishly; "I'm a little jaded with London gaiety. Tell us all you have learned."
"I have not much to tell," said Roper, smoothly. "You read my letter?"
"Yes, we read your letter," echoed Foster, quickly; "that Mrs. Dexter, said Mrs. Verschoyle had not been out of the house. Monteith saw Vassalla, who corroborated the fact, and showed me a letter from Mrs. Verschoyle, which proved Mrs. Dexter's statement to be true, but----"
"Go on," said Roger, calmly, "I like but's--there is always a chance of another step being made when 'but' comes into the question. What did you do after seeing Vassalla?" addressing himself to the Australian.
"I saw Miss Cotoner," burst out Monteith.
"Humph!"--there was a world of meaning in Roper's voice, "and she said----"
"That Mrs. Verschoyle had been on board."
"I thought so."
"And afterwards denied it."
"Indeed!" Roper's eyebrows went up. "At whose instigation?"
"Vassalla's," broke in Foster, hastily, before Ronald could speak.
"I thought so," said the detective, calmly.
"Why did you think so?" asked Monteith, impatiently.
"In the first place," remarked Roper, complacently, "I had the honour of coming home in the same boat with Mrs. Verschoyle; secondly, I made her acquaintance as Signer Clement, and she liked me very much. I had frequent conversations with her, and told her I was a friend of Vassalla's."
"But you don't know him," said Ronald.
"All's fair in love, war, and--detective work," observed Roper, quietly; "I told Mrs. Verschoyle,--who I knew, from Mrs. Dexter's diary, was in love with Vassalla,--that the Marchese wanted to marry Carmela Cotoner, her sister."
"That's true enough," said Foster; "he's engaged to her now," whereat Ronald winced.
"The result was I aroused her jealousy, and she swore that she would prevent the marriage."
"But how?" from Ronald, eagerly, fain to cling like a drowning man to a straw.
"That's what I could not find out," said Roper, thoughtfully; "she said she could stop the marriage, and Vassalla would have to obey her. Now, what logical inference do you draw from this?"
"That Vassalla committed the murder!" said Ronald, hastily.
"Not necessarily," replied Roper, dryly; "but this, that if Vassalla knew she was on board that night, he also knew she committed the murder, and would therefore have a power over her; but her determination to stop the marriage shows that she must have some power over him; so that either she is innocent, or he committed the murder himself, and she can force him by fear of exposure to do what she wants."
"And which of these theories do you think is right?" asked Foster.
"I am doubtful," said the detective, becoming a little agitated; "but I--I have a third theory."
"Yes?" said Ronald, in a quiet tone, looking strangely at the detective.
Roper arose to his feet, and took a walk up and down the room for a minute, then turned to the young men, who were puzzled by his curious manner.
"Of course, it's only a theory," said Roper, nervously; "but--but--I can only tell you what I think."
"Tell us, in heaven's name!" cried Foster, rising.
"Then I think Miss Carmela Cotoner committed the crime."
"What?" Ronald sprang to his feet, and made a spring at the detective, but Foster caught him and held him back.
"Be quiet Ronald, be quiet," he said, firmly.
"A lie, a cursed, black lie," panted Ronald, glaring at the detective, who stood quietly looking at him. "What proof, what pro-- D--n you, sir, where is your proof?"
Roper took out of his pocket-book the yellow scrap of paper given by Mrs. Taunton, and the fragment of a letter written by Carmela to her sister.
"I obtained these through Mrs. Dexter," he said, quietly placing them on the table; "look!"
Ronald looked for a moment, then reeled back into Foster's arms.
"My God! my God!" he sobbed. "My God!"
The handwritings were identical in every particular.
Foster went to a cupboard and got Ronald a glass of brandy, which he forced him to swallow; then, leaving the young man in the chair, with his face buried in his hands, he sat down at his own table, and began to speak to Foster.
"How did you make this discovery?" he asked, quietly.
"I remembered in Mr. Monteith's story," said Roper, "that both sisters loved the husband, and I wondered if it were not possible that the younger might commit the crime quite as well as the elder, though, I confess to you, I had no grounds for my suspicion. As I told you in my letter, I obtained a specimen of Mrs. Verschoyle's handwriting, and found, by comparison with this paper"--laying his hand on the yellow sheet--"that, though there was a similarity, there was also a slight difference. This began to confirm my theory, and by the kind aid of Mrs. Dexter, I obtained this letter of Miss Cotoner's, by which you will see they correspond in every particular."
At this moment Ronald arose from his seat, and staggering to the table, produced from his pocket-book the note written to him by Carmela before the "Neptune" reached Gibraltar.
Laying this down by the other papers, with a shaking hand, at the first glance it could be seen the handwritings were identical.
"It's true," groaned Ronald; "my God, it's true!" and he fell heavily into his chair again.
"And what is your opinion?" asked Foster.
"My theory," corrected Roper, "is this: I think Miss Cotoner saw her old lover on the boat, and committed the murder, trusting to the presence of her sister on board to shield her from the consequences of her crime.. I also believe that Vassalla knows she is guilty, and has threatened to tell unless she marry him."
"Yes, but what about Mrs. Verschoyle?"
"Oh! I think she knows that Carmela's guilty, and threatens to expose her, if she will not refuse to marry Vassalla."
"It all seems clear enough," said Foster, thoughtfully.
"Yes, but it's a d----d lie, for all that," said Ronald, springing to his feet, and oh, how haggard and worn his young face looked! "Look here, you fellows. I love Miss Cotoner, and I don't believe she's guilty. I think that cursed Vassalla is at the bottom of it all. I'm going to Marlow, where Carmela is, and there I'll act a part. I'll see her, speak to her, and find out everything, but I must have your promise not to move in the matter, till I tell you."
"We cannot promise," said Roper.
"Whose servant are you?" asked Ronald, fiercely; "will you do what I tell you?"
"The law----" began Roper.
"Hang the law, and you too," burst out Ronald; "if Carmela is guilty, you can't arrest her on the evidence you have, but she's innocent--innocent! d'ye hear? I'll stake my head on it. Give me a month to clear her, and if I don't do it by then, the law can take it's course."
"Agreed," said Roper.
"For my part," said Foster; "I don't care if the case stops now."
"I only want a month," cried Ronald, "and I'll prove her innocence, if I have to tear the truth out of Vassalla's black heart. Because of a little superficial evidence, you believe her guilty. I don't. I love her, and I'll clear her; so help me God!"
Theatrical, no doubt, but both the men felt that the lad spoke from his heart.
"I'll have another glass of brandy, Foster," said Ronald, quietly.
He got it, and drank it.
'Tis but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous.