Joe Leaver, worn out after nearly a week's work of watching the movements of Mr. Holymead, had fallen asleep in an empty loft above a garage which overlooked Verney's Hotel in Mayfair. He had seen Mr. Holymead disappear into the hotel, and he knew from the experience gained in his watch that the K.C. would spend the next couple of hours in dressing for dinner, sitting down to that meal, and smoking a cigar in the lounge. So Joe had relaxed, for the time being, the new task which his master had set him, and had flung himself on some straw in the loft to rest. He did not intend to go to sleep, but he was very tired, and in a few minutes he was in a profound slumber.
In his sleep Joe dreamed that he had attained the summit of his ambition, and was being paid a huge salary by an American film company to display himself in emotional dramas for the educational improvement of the British working classes. In his dream he had to rescue the heroine from the clutches of the villains who had carried her off. They had imprisoned her at the top of a "skyscraper" building and locked the lift, but Joe climbed the fire escape and caught the beautiful girl in his arms. The villains, who were on the watch, set fire to the building, and when Joe attempted to climb out of the window with the heroine clinging round his neck, the flames drove him back. As he stood there the wind swept a sheet of flame towards Joe until it scorched his face. The pain was so real that Joe opened his eyes and sprang up with a cry.
A man was standing over him, a man past middle age, short and broad in figure, whose clean-shaven face directed attention to his protruding jaw. He was wearing a blue serge suit which had seen much use.
"You are a sound sleeper, sonny," said the man, grinning at Joe's alarm. "But when you wake—why you wake up properly; I'll say that for you. You nearly broke my pipe, you woke up that sudden."
He made this remark with such a malicious grin that Joe, whose face was still smarting, had no hesitation in connecting his sudden awakening with the hot bowl of the man's pipe. It was a joke Joe had often seen played on drunken men in Islington public-houses in his young days.
"You just leave me alone, will you?" he said, rubbing his cheek ruefully."It's nothing to do with you whether I'm a sound sleeper or not."
"That's just where you're wrong, young fellow," was the reply. "It's a lot to do with me. Ain't your name Joe Leaver?"
Joe nodded his head.
"How did you find out?" he asked.
"Perhaps a friend of mine pointed you out to me."
"Perhaps he did, and perhaps he didn't," said Joe. "Anyway, what is your name?"
"Mr. Kemp is my name, my boy. And unless you're pretty civil I'll give you cause to remember it."
"What have you got to do with me?" asked the boy in an injured tone."I've never done nothing to you."
"You mind your P's and Q's and me and you'll get along all right," said Mr. Kemp, in a somewhat softer tone. "When you ask me what I've got to do with you, my answer is I've got a lot to do with you, for I'm your guardian, so to speak."
Joe looked at Mr. Kemp with a gleam of comprehension in his amazement. He had had some experience in his Islington days of the strange phenomena produced by drink.
"Rats!" he retorted rudely. "I've never had a guardian and I don't want none. What made you a guardian, I'd like to know?"
"Your father did," was the reply.
"Oh, him!" said Joe, in a tone which indicated pronounced antipathy to his parent. "Do you know him? Are you one of his sort?"
"Now don't try to be insulting, my boy, or I'll take you across my knee. We won't say nothing about where your father is, because in high society Wormwood Scrubbs isn't mentioned. All we'll say is that he has been unfortunate like many another man before him, and that for the present he can't come and go as he likes. But he has still got a father's heart, Joe, and there are times when he worries about his family and about there being no one with them to keep an eye on them and see they grow up a credit to him. He has been particularly worried about you, Joe. So when I was coming away he asked me to look you up if I had time, and let him know how you was getting on, seeing that none of his family has gone near him for a matter of three years or so, though there is one regular visiting day each week."
"I don't want to see him no more," said Joe. "He's no good."
"That's a nice way for a boy to talk about his own father," said Mr. Kemp, in a reproving tone. "I don't know what the young generation is coming to."
"If you want to send him word about me, you can tell him that I'm not going to be a thief," said Joe defiantly.
"No," said Mr. Kemp tauntingly, "you'd sooner be a nark."
"Yes, I would," said the boy.
"And that's what you are now," declared the man wrathfully. "You're a nark for that fellow Crewe. I know all about you."
"I'm earning an honest living," said Joe.
"As a nark," said Mr. Kemp, with a sneer.
"I'm earning an honest living," said the boy doggedly. So much of his youth had been spent among the criminal classes that he still retained the feeling that there was an indelible stigma attached to those individuals described as narks.
"How can any one earn a respectable honest living by being a nark?" asked Mr. Kemp contemptuously. "And more than that, it's one of the best men that ever breathed that you are a-spying on. I'll have you know that he's a friend of mine. That is to say he's done things for me that I ain't likely to forget. There's nothing I won't do for him, if the chance comes my way. I'll see that no harm happens to him through you and your Mr. Crewe. You've got to stop this here spying. Stop it at once, do you understand? For if you don't, by God, I'll deal with you so that you'll do no more spying in this world! And I'd have you and your master know that I'm a man what means what he says." Mr. Kemp shook his fist angrily at Joe as he moved away to the door of the loft after having delivered his menacing warning. "My last words to you is, Stop it!" he said, as he turned to go down the stairs.
Half an hour later Mr. Kemp entered the lounge of Verney's Hotel as though in quest of some one. Most of the hotel guests had finished their after-dinner coffee and liqueurs, and the hall was comparatively empty, but a few who remained raised their eyes in well-bred protest at the intrusion of a member of the lower orders into the corridor of an exclusive hotel. Mr. Kemp felt somewhat out of place, and he stared about the luxuriously furnished lounge with a look in which awe mingled with admiration. Before he could advance further, a liveried porter of massive proportions came up to him and barred the way.
"Now, now, my man," said the porter haughtily, "what do you think you are doing here? This ain't your place, you know. You've made a mistake. Out you go."
"I want to see Mr. Holymead," said Mr. Kemp in a gruff voice.
Verney's was such a high-class hotel that seedy-looking persons seldom dared to put a foot within the palatial entrance. The porter, unused to dealing with the obtrusive impecunious type to which he believed Mr. Kemp to belong, made the mistake of trying to argue with him.
"Want to see Mr. Holymead?" he repeated. "How do you know he's here? Who told you? What do you want to see him for?"
"What's that got to do with you?" retorted Mr. Kemp. "You don't think Mr. Holymead would like me to discuss his business with the likes of you? That ain't what you're here for. You go and tell Mr. Holymead that some one wants to see him. Tell him Mr. Kemp wants to see him." Mr. Kemp drew himself up and buttoned the coat of his faded serge suit.
The porter, uncertain how to deal with the situation, looked around for help. The manager of the hotel emerged from the booking office at that moment, and the porter's appealing look was seen by him. The manager approached. He was faultlessly attired, suave in demeanour, and walked with a noiseless step, despite his tendency to corpulence. It was his daily task to wrestle with some of the manifold difficulties arising out of the eccentricities of human nature as exhibited by a constant stream of arriving and departing guests. But though he approached the distressed porter with full confidence in his ability to deal with any situation, his eyebrows arched in astonishment as he took in the full details of the intruder's attire.
"What does this mean, Hawkins?" he exclaimed, in a tone of disapproval.
The porter trembled at the implication that he had grievously failed in his duty by allowing such an individual as Mr. Kemp to get so far within the exclusive portals of Verney's, and in his nervousness he relaxed from the polish of the hotel porter to his native cockney.
"This 'ere party says 'e wants to see Mr. Holymead, Sir."
The manager went through the motion of washing a spotlessly clean pair of hands, and then brought the palms together in a gentle clap. He smiled pityingly at Hawkins and then looked condescendingly at Mr. Kemp.
"Wants to see Mr. Holymead, does he?" he said, transferring his glance to the worried porter. "And didn't you tell him that Mr. Holymead has gone to the theatre and won't be back for some considerable time?"
"That's a lie!" said Mr. Kemp, who had acquired none of the art of dealing with his fellow men, and was too uneducated to appreciate art in any form. "I've been watching over the other side of the street, and I saw him passing a window not ten minutes ago. I'm going to see him if I wait here all night. I'll soon make meself comfortable on one of them big chairs." He pointed to an empty chair beside a man in evening dress, who was holding a conversation with a haughty looking matron. "You tell Mr. Holymead Mr. Kemp wants to see him," he said to the manager.
"What name did you say?" asked the manager in a tone which seemed to express astonishment that the lower orders had names.
"Mr. Kemp. You tell him Mr. Kemp wants to see him on important business." He walked towards the vacant chair and seated himself on it. He dug his toes into the velvet pile carpet with the air of a man who was trying to take anchor. Fortunately the man on the adjoining chair, and the haughty matron, were so engrossed in their conversation that they did not notice that the air in their immediate vicinity was being polluted by the presence of a man in shabby clothes and heavy boots.
The manager despatched the porter in search of Mr. Holymead and then went in pursuit of Mr. Kemp.
"Will you come this way, if you please, Mr. Kemp?" he said, with a low bow.
He saw that Mr. Kemp was following him and led the way into an unfrequented corner of the smoking room, where, with the information that Mr. Holymead would come to him in a few moments, he asked Mr. Kemp to be seated.
The manager withdrew a few yards, and then took up a position which enabled him to guard the hotel guests from having their digestions interfered with by the contaminating spectacle of a seedy man. To the manager's great relief, Mr. Holymead appeared, having been informed by the hall porter that a party who said his name was Kemp had asked to see him. The manager hurried towards Mr. Holymead and endeavoured to explain and apologise, but the K.C. assured him that there was nothing to apologise for. He went over to the corner of the smoking room, where the visitor who had caused so much perturbation was waiting for him.
"Well, Kemp, what do you want?" There was nothing in his manner to indicate that he was put out by Mr. Kemp's appearance. He spoke in quiet even tones such as would seem to suggest that he was well acquainted with his visitor.
"Can I speak to you on the quiet for a moment, sir?" whisperedKemp hoarsely.
Holymead looked round the room. The manager had gone back to the booking office and Hawkins had vanished. The few people who were in the room seemed occupied with their own affairs.
"No one will overhear us if we speak quietly," he said as he took a seat close to Kemp. "What is it?"
"You're watched and followed, sir," said Kemp in a whisper. "Somebody has been watching this place for days past and whenever you go out you're followed."
"By whom?" asked Holymead.
"By a varmint of a boy—a slippery young imp whose father's in gaol for a long stretch. I got hold of him this afternoon and told him what I'd do to him if he kept on with his game. He's living in an old loft at the back of the hotel garage, and he keeps a watch on you day and night. I thought I'd better come here and tell you, as you mightn't know about him."
"You did quite right, Kemp. What's this boy like?"
"An undersized putty-faced brat with a big head. He's about fourteen or fifteen, I should say."
"Who is he? Do you know him?"
"Leaver is the name, sir. To tell you the truth, I don't know him as well as I know his father. His father is a 'lifer' for manslaughter. I've known him both in and out of gaol. And when I was coming out four months ago Bob Leaver, this here boy's father, asked me to look up his family and send him word about them. I went to the address Bob told me, in Islington, but I found they had all gone. The mother was dead and the kids—a girl and this here boy—had cleared out. The old Jew who had the second-hand clothes shop Mrs. Leaver used to keep told me that the boy had gone off with that private detective, Crewe, more than two years ago. So it looks to me as if he has turned nark and Crewe has put him on to watch you."
"Can you describe this boy more closely?"
"Well, sir, I don't know if I can say anything more about him except that he has red hair and big bright eyes that are too large for his face."
"I thought so," said Holymead as if speaking to himself. "It's the same boy."
"What did you say, sir?" asked Kemp.
"Nothing, Kemp, except that I think I've seen a boy of this description hanging about the street near the hotel."
Holymead rose to his feet as he spoke, as an indication that the interview was at an end. Kemp got up and looked at him anxiously.
"I beg your pardon, sir, for coming here," he said, fumbling with the rim of his hat as he spoke. "I didn't know how you'd take it, but I hope I've done right. They didn't want to let me see you."
"You did quite right, Kemp. I am very much obliged to you." He was feeling in his pocket for silver, but Kemp stopped him.
"No, no, sir. I don't want to be paid anything. I wanted to oblige you like; I wanted to do you a good turn. I'd do anything for you, sir—you know I would."
"I believe you would, Kemp. Good night."
"Good night, sir."
As Kemp passed down the hall he met the manager, who was obviously pleased to see such an unwelcome visitor making his departure. Kemp scowled at the manager as if he were a valued patron of the hotel and said, "It seems to me that you don't know how to treat people properly when they come here."
It was the first occasion on which Mrs. Holymead had visited her husband's chambers in the Middle Temple. Mr. Mattingford, who had been Mr. Holymead's clerk for nearly twenty years, seemed to realise that the visit was important, though as a married man he knew that a meeting between husband and wife in town was usually so commonplace as to verge on boredom for the husband. There were occasions when he had to meet Mrs. Mattingford, but these meetings were generally for the purpose of handing over to the lady her weekly dress allowance of ten shillings out of his salary, so that she might attend the sales at the big drapery shops in the West End and inspect the windows containing expensive articles that she could not hope to buy. Mr. Mattingford was an exceedingly thrifty man, and his wife possessed some of the qualities of a spendthrift. Thus it came about that Mr. Mattingford kept up the fiction that he had no savings and that each week's salary must see him through till the next week. Mrs. Mattingford knew that her husband had saved money, and theoretically she would have given a great deal to know how much. She repeatedly accused him of being a miser, but this is a wifely denunciation which in all classes of life is lightly made when the purchase of feminine finery is under discussion. There are some men who resent it, but Mr. Mattingford was not one of these. Protests and prayers, abuse and cajolery, were alike powerless to win his consent to his wife's perpetual proposal that she should be allowed to draw her dress allowance for some months, or even some weeks ahead. Mr. Mattingford had a horror of bad debts. He endeavoured to show his wife that the transaction she proposed was unsound from a business point of view and reckless from a legal point of view. She had no security to offer for the repayment of the advance—even if he were in a financial position to make the advance—and he stoutly declared that he was not. She might die at any moment, and then he would be left with no means of redress against her estate because she had no estate. Of course, if she first insured her life out of her dress allowance and handed the policy to him it would constitute protection for the repayment of the advance, in the event of her death, but it was not any real protection in the event of her continuing to live, for a newly-executed policy had no surrender value. As his own legal adviser, Mr. Mattingford strongly urged himself not to consider his wife's proposal, and such was his respect for the law and for those who had been brought up in a legal atmosphere that he had no hesitation in accepting the advice.
He was a little man of nearly fifty years, with a very bald head and an extremely long moustache, which when waxed at the ends made him look as fierce as a clipped poodle. He knew Mrs. Holymead from his having called frequently at his chief's house in Princes Gate on business matters, and he admired her for her good looks, but still more for her good taste in staying away from her husband's chambers. There were some ladies, the wives of barristers, who almost haunted their husbands' chambers—a practice of which Mr. Mattingford strongly disapproved. It seemed to him an insidious attempt on the part of an insidious sex to force the legal profession to throw open its doors to women. As a man who lived in the mouldy atmosphere of precedent, Mr. Mattingford hated the idea of change, and to him the thought of a lady in wig and gown pleading in the law courts indicated not merely change but a revolution which might well usher in the end of the world. So strict was he in keeping the precincts of the law sacred from the violating tread of women that he never allowed his wife to set foot in the Middle Temple. Their meetings on those urgent occasions when Mrs. Mattingford came to town for her dress allowance in order to go bargain-hunting took place at one of the cheap tearooms in Fleet Street.
Although Mr. Mattingford was somewhat flustered by the unexpected appearance of Mrs. Holymead, he did not depart from precedent to the extent of regarding her as entitled to any other treatment than that accorded to clients who called on business. He asked her if she wanted to see Mr. Holymead, placed a chair for her, then knocked deferentially at his chief's door, went inside to announce Mrs. Holymead to her husband, and came out with the information that Mr. Holymead would see her. He held open the door leading into his chief's private room, and after Mrs. Holymead had entered closed it softly and firmly.
But the formal business manner of Mr. Mattingford to his chief's wife seemed to her friendly and cordial compared with the strained greetings she received from her husband. He motioned her to a chair and then got up from his own.
"I wrote to you to come and see me here instead of going to the house to see you," he said, "because I thought it would be better for both. It would have given the servants something to talk about. I hope you don't mind?"
She looked at him with her large dark eyes in which there was more than a suggestion of tears. What she had read into his note, when she received it, was his determination not to go to his home to see her for fear she would interpret that as a first step towards reconciliation.
"What I wanted to speak to you about is this detective Crewe whom Miss Fewbanks has employed in connection with her father's death," he continued.
Her breath came quickly at this unwelcome information. She noted that he had spoken of Sir Horace's death and not his murder.
He began pacing backwards and forwards across the room as if with the purpose of avoiding looking at her.
"This man Crewe is a nuisance—I might even say a danger. I don't know what he has found out, but I object to his ferreting into my affairs. He must be stopped."
She nodded her assent, for she could not trust herself to speak. Each time he turned his back on her as he crossed the room her eyes followed him, but as he faced her she turned her gaze on the floor.
"There is no legal redress—no legal means of dealing with his impertinent curiosity," he went on. "He is within his rights in trying to find out all he can. But if he is allowed to go on unchecked the thing may reach a disastrous stage. I have no doubt that he knows that I was at Riversbrook the night that man was killed. He was not long in getting on the track of that. And the more mysterious my visit seems to him—and the fact that I have not disclosed to the police that I went up to Riversbrook and saw Sir Horace on the night of the tragedy is to his way of thinking very significant—the more reason is there for suspecting me of complicity in the crime."
When he turned to cross the room her eyes lingered on him and she glanced quickly at his face.
"I don't want to dwell on matters that must pain you—that must pain us both," he said slowly, "but it is necessary that you should be made acquainted with the danger that threatens me from this man. I am anxious to avoid anything in the nature of a public scandal—I am anxious quite as much if not more on your account than my own. But if this wretched man is allowed to go on trying to build up a case against me—and I must admit that he would probably obtain circumstantial evidence of a kind which would make some sort of a case for the prosecution—there is grave danger of everything coming out. If he went to the length of having me arrested and charged with the crime, there are bound to be some disclosures and the newspapers would make the most of them. It is impossible to foresee the exact nature of them, but I do not see how I could adopt any line of defence which would not hint at things that are best unrevealed. You yourself might be so ill-advised as to tell the whole story in the end. Of course, I would try to prevent you, and as far as the trial is concerned, I think I could use means to prevent you. But if the result was unfavourable—and knowing what eccentric things juries do, we must recognise the possibility of an unfavourable verdict—you might consider it advisable to disclose everything in the hope of having the conviction quashed by an appeal."
For the first time since she had sat down he looked at her, and as he caught her upward gaze he flushed.
"I would tell everything if you were arrested," she said, in a low voice.
"Ah, so I thought," he said, in a tone of disapproval. "The question now is what means can be adopted to prevent a catastrophe. I have thought earnestly about it, and as you are almost as much concerned in preventing public disclosures as I am, I desired to consult you before taking any definite course. It is this man Crewe who is the danger, and the question is how are we to stop him proceeding to extremes. One way is for me to see him and take him into my confidence—to explain fully to him what happened. He would not be satisfied with less than the full story. If I kept anything back his suspicions would remain; in fact, they would be strengthened. I would have to explain to him why and how I induced Sir Horace to return unexpectedly from Scotland on that fatal night, and what took place at Riversbrook. You will understand why I have hesitated to adopt that course. I would not suggest it to you now except that I see it would save you from the danger of something a great deal worse. Of course it would save me from the annoyance of being suspected of knowing something about the actual murder, but it is your interests that come first in the matter. It would be effective in putting an end to all our fears—all my fears. I would bind him to secrecy, of course. I do not ask you to come to a decision immediately, but I do ask you to think it over and let me know. I have been extremely reluctant to put this proposal before you, because I should hate carrying it out, because I should hate telling this man of things which are really no concern of anyone but ourselves. But I cannot disguise from myself that it would remove a greater danger. I believe the secret would be safe with him. I understand that in private life he is a gentleman, and that I would be safe in taking his word of honour. It would not be necessary for him to tell the police—still less to tell Miss Fewbanks."
"Is there no other way?" she asked. "Have you thought of any other way?"
"Yes. The only other way out that I have been able to find is for me to see Miss Fewbanks and ask her to withdraw the case from Crewe. I would not tell her everything—I would not bring you into it at all. But I could tell her that I had had an urgent matter to discuss with her father; that he came from Scotland to discuss it with me, and that after I left him he was murdered. I would tell her that it was quite impossible for me to disclose what the business was about, but that Crewe, having learnt that I had seen her father that night, was extremely suspicious. I would ask her to accept my word of honour that I had no knowledge of who killed her father, and to relieve me of the annoyance of the attentions of this man Crewe. I think she would agree to that proposal. That is the other way out, and from something which has happened this morning I am inclined to think that it is the better and quicker course to pursue."
She was thinking so deeply that she did not reply. At length she became conscious of a long silence.
"It is very good of you to ask my opinion—to consult with me at all. It is you that have everything at stake. I would like to do my best, but I think if you gave me time—Is there any great urgency? Two days at most is all I want."
"I cannot give you two days," he replied, with a sombre smile. "You must decide to-day—at once—otherwise it will be too late."
She looked at him with parted lips and alarm in her eyes.
"What do you mean?" she breathed. "What have you hidden? Is the danger immediate?"
"I think so. For some days past my movements have been dogged by a boy in Crewe's employ. Nearly a week ago I decided, after the worry and anxiety of this—this unhappy affair, to go away for a short trip. I thought a sea-voyage to America and back might do me good and fit me for my work again." He sighed unconsciously, and went on: "Crewe has become acquainted with my intended departure and has placed his own interpretation on it. He assumes that I am seeking safety in flight—that I have no intention of coming back to England. The result has been that the boy Crewe had set to watch my movements has been replaced by two men from Scotland Yard—one watching these chambers from the front, and the other from the rear." He walked across to the window and glanced quickly through the curtain. "Yes, they are still here."
She sprang from her seat and followed him to the window.
"Where are they?" she gasped. "Show them to me."
"There. Do not move the curtain or they will suspect we are watching them. Look a little to the left, by the lamp-post. The other you can catch a glimpse of if you look between those two trees."
"What does it mean? Why are they waiting?" she burst out. Her face had gone very pale, and her big dark eyes glared affrightedly from the window to her husband.
"Hush! I beg you not to lose your self-control; it is essential neither of us should lose our heads," he said, warningly.
She regained command of herself with an effort, and whispered, rather than spoke, with twitching lips;
"What does the presence of these men mean?"
"It means that Crewe has already communicated with Scotland Yard."
"And that you will be arrested forhismurder?" Her trembling lips could hardly frame the words.
"I think so—it's almost certain. But apparently the warrant is not yet issued, or those men would come here and arrest me. But they are watching to prevent my escape—if I thought of escaping. We may yet have a few hours to arrange something, but you must come to a prompt decision."
"Tell me what to do, and I will do it. Oh, let me help you if I can. What is the best thing to do? To see Crewe?"
"No. I forbid you to see Crewe," he said harshly. "If we decide on that course I will see him myself."
"And you may be arrested the moment you go out of these chambers," she returned. "Oh, no, no; that is not a good plan—we have not the time. I will go to Mabel Fewbanks at once, and beg her, for all our sakes, not to allow this to go any further."
He shook his head.
"You must not sacrifice yourself," he said. "That would be foolish."
"I will not sacrifice myself. I would tell her just what you have told me—that her father came from Scotland to discuss an urgent matter with you, and that he was murdered after you left. I feel certain this man Crewe is going to extremes without her knowledge or consent, and that she will be the first to bury this awful thing when she learns that you have been implicated. Is not this the best thing to do?"
"It is," he reluctantly admitted. "But I do not wish you to be mixed up in it at all."
"I am not mixing myself up in it—I am too selfish for that. But I swear to you if you do not let me do this I will confess everything. I know Mabel Fewbanks, and I repeat, she is not aware of what this man Crewe has done. She would not—will not, permit it. I shall go down to Dellmere at once." Her face was pale, and her eyes glittered as she looked at her husband, but she spoke with unnatural self-possession. With feverish energy she pulled on a glove she had taken off when she entered, and buttoned it. "I will—I shall—arrive in time. In two hours—in three at most—you will hear from me."
She passed out into the outer office before her husband could reply, and closed the door behind her. Mr. Mattingford dashed to open the outer door of his room leading into the main staircase. He thought Mrs. Holymead looked strange as she passed him and descended the stairs, and he rubbed his hands gleefully. He came to the conclusion that she had come in for a cheque for £50 as an advance of her dress allowance, and that her request had been refused.
She left her husband's chambers with her brain in a whirl, hardly knowing where she was going until she found herself held up with a stream of pedestrians at the island intersection of Waterloo Bridge and the Strand. She thought the policeman who was regulating the traffic eyed her curiously, and, more with the object of evading his eye than with any set plan in her mind, she stepped into an empty taxi-cab which was waiting to cross the street.
"Where to, ma'am?" asked the driver.
"Where to?" she repeated vacantly. With an effort of will she concentrated her thoughts on the task in front of her, and hastily added, "To Victoria, as quick as you can. No—wait—driver, first take me to the nearest bookstall."
The taxi-cab took her to a bookstall in the Strand, where she got out and purchased a railway guide. As the taxi-cab proceeded towards Victoria she hastily turned the pages to the trains for Dellmere. She had never been to Dellmere, but she had heard from Miss Fewbanks that her father's place was reached from a station called Horleydene, on the main line to Wennesden, and that though there were many through trains, comparatively few stopped at Horleydene. But she was unused to time-tables, and found it difficult to grasp the information she required. There was such a bewildering diversity of letters at the head of the lists of trains for that line, and so many reference notes on different pages to be looked up before it was possible to ascertain with any degree of certainty what trains stopped at Horleydene on week-days, that, in her shaken frame of mind, with the necessity for hurry haunting her, she became confused, and failed to comprehend the perplexing figures. She signalled to the driver to stop, and handed him the book.
"I cannot understand this time-table," she said, in an agitated way. "Would you find out for me, please, when the next train leaves Victoria for Horleydene?"
The driver consulted the time-table with a businesslike air.
"The next train leaves at 12.40," he informed her. "After that there isn't another one stopping there till 4.5."
Mrs. Holymead consulted her watch anxiously.
"It's almost half-past twelve now. Can you catch the 12.40?" she asked.
The driver looked dubious.
"I'll try, ma'am, but it'll take some doing. It depends whether I get a clear run at Trafalgar Square."
"Try, try!" she cried. "Catch it, and I will double your fare."
She caught the train with a few seconds to spare. She had a first-class compartment to herself, and as the train rushed out of London, and the grimy environs of the metropolis gradually gave place to green fields, she endeavoured to compose her mind and collect her thoughts for her coming interview with the daughter of the murdered man. But her mind was in such a distraught condition that she could think of no plan but to sacrifice herself in order to save her husband. With cold hands pressed against her hot forehead, she muttered again and again, as if offering up an invocation that gained force by repetition:
"I must save him. I will tell her everything."
The train ran into Horleydene shortly after two, and Mrs. Holymead was the only passenger who alighted at the lonely little wayside station which stood in a small wood in a solitude as profound as though it had been in the American prairie, instead of the heart of an English county. The only sign of life was a dilapidated vehicle with an elderly man in charge, which stood outside the station yard all day waiting for chance visitors.
"Cab, ma'am?" exclaimed the driver of this vehicle in an ingratiating voice, touching his hat.
"No, thank you," replied Mrs. Holymead. "I'll walk."
Miss Fewbanks was astonished when the parlourmaid announced the arrival of Mrs. Holymead. She hurried to the drawing-room to meet her visitor, but the warm greeting she offered her was checked by her astonishment at the ill and worn appearance of her beautiful friend.
"Please, don't," said the visitor, as she held up a warning hand to keep away a sisterly kiss. She looked at Miss Fewbanks with the air of a woman nerving herself for a desperate task, and said quickly: "I have dreadful things to tell you. You can never think of me again except with loathing—with horror."
The impression Miss Fewbanks received was that her visitor had taken leave of her senses. This impression was deepened by Mrs. Holymead's next remark.
"I want you to save my husband."
There was an awkward pause while Mrs. Holymead waited for a reply andMiss Fewbanks wondered what was the best thing to do.
"Say you will save him!" exclaimed Mrs. Holymead. "Do what you like with me, but save him."
"Don't you think, dear, you would be better if you had a rest and a little sleep?" said Miss Fewbanks. "I am sure you could sleep if you tried. Come upstairs and I'll make you so comfortable."
"You think I am mad," said the elder woman. "Would to God that I was."
"Come, dear," said Miss Fewbanks coaxingly. She turned to the door and prepared to lead the way upstairs.
"Sleep!" exclaimed Mrs. Holymead bitterly. "I have not had a peaceful sleep since your father was killed. I have been haunted day and night. I cannot sleep."
"I know it was a dreadful shock to you, but you must not take it so much to heart. You must see your doctor and do what he tells you. Mr. Holymead should send you away."
At the mention of her husband's name Mrs. Holymead came back to the thought that had been foremost in her mind.
"Will you save him?" she exclaimed.
"You know I will do anything I can for him," answered the girl gently.Her intention was to humour her visitor, for she was quite sure that Mr.Holymead was in no danger.
"Will you stop Mr. Crewe?"
"Stop Mr. Crewe?" Miss Fewbanks repeated the words in a tone that showed her interest had been awakened. "Stop him from what?"
"Stop him from arresting my husband."
"Do you mean to say that Mr. Crewe thinks Mr. Holymead had anything to do with the murder of my father?"
"If I tell you everything will you stop him? Oh, Mabel, darling, for the sake of the past—before I came on the scene to mar the lives of both of them—will you save him? It is I—not he—who should pay the penalty of this awful tragedy. Will you save him?"
"Tell me everything," said the girl firmly.
To the stricken wife there was a promise in the demand for light, and in broken phrases she poured out her story of shame and sorrow. With a feeling that everything was falling away from her the girl learnt from her visitor's disconnected story that there had been a liaison between her murdered father and her friend. Mr. Holymead had discovered it after Sir Horace had gone to Scotland and husband and wife were away in the country. He was at first distracted at finding that his lifelong friend had seduced his wife, then he made her promise not to see or communicate with Sir Horace until he made up his mind what course of action to take. Three days later he caught an evening train to London and told her he was not returning, but would write to her.
It crossed her mind that he had gone up to London to meet Sir Horace, and in her distress at the thought of what might happen when they met she consulted her cousin Gabrielle, who had always been in her confidence. Gabrielle had offered to go to Riversbrook to see if Sir Horace had returned from Scotland, or was expected back. Her train was delayed by an accident, and when she arrived at Riversbrook it was after half-past ten. She arrived a few minutes too late to prevent the tragedy. She found the front door open and the electric light burning in the hall. She went up the staircase and in the library she found Sir Horace, who was lying on the floor at the point of death. She tried to lift him to a sitting position, but with a convulsive gasp he died in her arms.
She laid him down and then looked hurriedly around the room with the object of removing any evidence of how or why the crime had been committed, her main thought being to save her friend from the shame of a public scandal. She picked up a revolver which was lying on the floor near Sir Horace, turned out the lights in the library and in the hall so that the house was in darkness, and then closed the hall door after her as she went out. But Mr. Crewe had discovered in some way that Mr. Holymead had visited Sir Horace that night. Only a week ago Gabrielle had gone to him and tried to put him off the track, but it was no use.
The wretched woman made a pathetic appeal for her husband's life. She deplored the sinfulness which had resulted in the tragedy. She took on herself the blame for it all. She had sent one man to his death, and her husband stood in peril of a shameful death on the gallows. But it was in the power of Mabel to save him. On her knees she pleaded for his life; she pleaded to be saved from the horror of sending her husband to the gallows. If Mabel's father could make his wishes known he too would plead for the life of the friend he had betrayed.
The door opened and the parlourmaid entered. Miss Fewbanks stepped quickly across the room so that she should not witness the distress of Mrs. Holymead. The servant handed her a card and waited for instructions. Miss Fewbanks looked at the card in an agony of indecision. Then she made up her mind firmly.
"Show him into my study," she whispered to the girl.
She returned to her visitor, who was sitting with her face buried in her hands.
"Mr. Crewe has just motored down," she said. "I will save your husband if I can."
She was conscious that the revelation that her father had been killed by Mr. Holymead was a less shock than the revelation that her father had dishonoured the great friendship of his life by seducing his friend's wife. Her father had been dead three months, and her grief had run its course. The shock caused by the discovery that he had been murdered had passed away, and she had begun to accept his violent death as part of her own experience of life. But the discovery that he had betrayed his best friend, in a way that a pure-minded woman regards as the most dishonourable way possible, was a fresh revelation to her of human infamy.
The knowledge that her father had been a man of immoral habits was not new to her. His predilection for fast women had long ago made it impossible for her to live in the same house with him for more than a week at a time. But that he had trampled in the mire the lifelong friendship of an honourable man for the sake of an ignoble passion revealed an unexpected depth of shame. That Mr. Holymead had killed him seemed almost a natural result of the situation. It was not that she felt that a just retribution had overtaken her father, but rather that she was glad his shameful conduct had come to an end. As she thought of her dead father—dead these three months—she gave a sigh of relief. The wretched guilty woman, who had shared with him the shame of his ignoble intrigue, had said that if her father could make his wishes known he would plead for the life of the friend he had dishonoured. But it was not her father's plea for the life of his friend that would have impressed her so much as a plea to bury the whole unsavoury scandal from the light. She had promised to save Mr. Holymead if she could, but that promise had sprung less from the spirit of mercy than from the desire to save her father's name from a scandal, which would hold him up to public obloquy.
She greeted Crewe with friendly warmth in spite of the feeling of oppression caused by the consciousness of the situation in front of her. He did not sit down again after greeting her, but stood with one hand resting on an inlaid chess table, with wonderful carved red and white Japanese chessmen ranged on each side, which he had been examining when she entered the room.
"I came down to make my report to you because I think my work is finished," he said.
"You have found out who killed my father?" she asked quietly.
Crewe had sufficient personal pride to feel a little hurt when he saw the calm way in which she accepted the result of his investigations, instead of congratulating him on his success in a difficult task.
"I think so," he said. "Before I tell you who it is you must prepare yourself for a great shock."
"I know who it is" she said—"Mr. Holymead."
There was no pretence about his astonishment.
"How on earth did you find out?"
She smiled a little at such a revelation of his appreciation of his own cleverness in having probed the mystery.
"I did not find it out," she said. "I had to be told."
"And who told you, Miss Fewbanks?" he asked. "Has he confessed to you?How long have you known it?"
"I have known it only a few minutes," she said. "Will you tell me how you got on the track and all you have done? I am greatly interested. You have been wonderfully clever to find out. I should never have guessed Mr. Holymead had anything to do with it—I should never have thought it possible. When you have finished I will tell you how I came to know. The story is extremely simple—and sordid."
The fact that the key of the mystery had been in her hands only a few minutes was a solace to Crewe, as it detracted but little from the story he had to tell of patient investigations extending over weeks.
He pieced together the story of the tragedy as he had unravelled it. Hill, he said, had conceived the idea of blackmailing her father after he had discovered the existence of some letters in a secret drawer of Sir Horace's desk. The fact that Sir Horace had kept these letters instead of destroying them as he had destroyed other letters of a somewhat similar kind showed that he was very much infatuated with the lady who wrote them. That lady, as doubtless Miss Fewbanks had guessed, was Mrs. Holymead—a lady with whom Sir Horace had been on very friendly terms before she married Mr. Holymead.
"What became of the letters?" asked Miss Fewbanks. "Have you got them?"
"I think they are destroyed," he said. "Mrs. Holymead removed them from the secret drawer the day after the discovery of the murder. She removed them when the police had charge of the house, and almost from under the eyes of Inspector Chippenfield. It was a daring plan and well carried out."
Miss Fewbanks heaved a sigh of relief on learning the fate of the letters. It had been her intention to endeavour to obtain them if they were in Crewe's possession, and destroy them.
Crewe explained that Hill was afraid to take the letters and then boldly blackmail Sir Horace. The butler conceived the plan of getting Birchill to break into the house. He did not take Birchill into his confidence with regard to the blackmailing scheme, but in order to induce Sir Horace to believe the burglar had stolen the letters he told Birchill to force open the desk, as he would probably find money or papers of value there. But in order to prevent Birchill getting the letters if he should happen to stumble across the secret drawer, Hill removed them the day before. His plan was to go to Riversbrook in the morning after the burglary, and after leaving open the secret drawer which had contained the letters, to report the burglary to the police. When Sir Horace came home unexpectedly Hill had just removed the letters and had them in his possession. Hill was greatly perturbed at his master's unexpected return, and had to get an opportunity to replace the letters in the secret drawer, but Sir Horace told him to go home, as he was not wanted till the morning. Hill went to that girl's flat in Westminster, and there saw Birchill. He told Birchill that Sir Horace had returned unexpectedly, but he urged Birchill to carry out the burglary as arranged, and assured him that as Sir Horace was a heavy sleeper there would be no risk if he waited until Sir Horace went to bed. Hill's position was that if the burglary was postponed Sir Horace might make the discovery that the letters had been stolen from the secret drawer. In that case Sir Horace would immediately suspect Hill, who, he knew, was an ex-convict. It was just possible that Sir Horace, before going to bed, would discover that the letters had been stolen—that is, if he went to bed before Birchill got into the place—but Hill had to take that risk.
It was the fact that the burglary Hill had arranged with Birchill took place on the night Sir Horace was killed that had given rise to the false clues which had misled the police. Crewe, as he himself modestly put it, was so fortunate as to get on the right track from the start. His suspicions were directed to Holymead when he saw the latter carrying away a walking-stick from Riversbrook after his visit of condolence to Miss Fewbanks. Crewe explained what tactics he had adopted to obtain a brief inspection of the stick in order to ascertain for his own satisfaction if it had belonged to Holymead. His suspicions against Holymead were strengthened when he discovered that the latter, when driving to his hotel on the night of the tragedy, had thrown away a glove which was the fellow of the one found by the police in Sir Horace's library.
"The next point to settle was whether Holymead had had anything to do with your father's sudden return from Scotland," said Crewe, continuing his story. "If that proved to be the case, and if evidence could be obtained on which to justify the conclusion that these two old friends had had a deadly quarrel, the circumstantial evidence against Holymead as the man who killed your father was very strong. I may say that before I went to Scotland I came across evidence of the estrangement of Holymead and his wife. Do you remember when you and Mrs. Holymead were leaving the court after the inquest that Mr. Holymead came up and spoke to you? He shook hands with you and was on the point of shaking hands with his wife as if she were a lady he had met casually. Then, on the night of the murder, the taxi-cab driver at Hyde Park Corner drove him to his house at Princes Gate, but was ordered to drive back and take him to Verney's Hotel. All this was interesting to me—doubly interesting in the light of the fact that Sir Horace had known Mrs. Holymead before her second marriage, and had paid her every attention.
"I went to Scotland and made inquiries at Craigleith Hall, where Sir Horace had been shooting. My object was to endeavour to obtain a clue to the reason for his sudden journey to London. The local police had made inquiries on this point on behalf of Scotland Yard, and had been unable to obtain any clue. No telegram had been received by Sir Horace, and he had sent none. Of course he had received some letters. He had told none of the other members of the shooting party the object of his departure for London, but he had declared his intention of being back with them in less than a week. It had occurred to me when the crime was discovered that his missing pocket-book might not have been stolen by his murderer, but might have been lost in Scotland. I made inquiries in that direction and eventually found that the man who had attended to Sir Horace on the moors had the pocket-book. His story was that Sir Horace had lost it the day before his departure for London. He had taken off his coat owing to the heat on the moor, and the pocket-book had dropped out. He ascertained his loss before he left for London, and told this man Sanders where he thought the pocket-book had dropped out. Sanders was to look for it, and if he found it was to keep it until Sir Horace came back. He did find it, and after learning of your father's death was tempted to keep it, as it contained four five-pound notes. Sanders is an ignorant man, and can scarcely read. He professed to know nothing of the pocket-book when I questioned him, but I became suspicious of him, and laid a trap which he fell into. Then he handed me the pocket-book, which he had hidden on the moor, under a stone. In the pocket-book I found a letter from Holymead asking your father to come to London at once as there were to be two new appointments to the Court of Appeal, and that Sir Horace had an excellent chance of obtaining one if he came to London and used his influence with the Chancellor and the Chief Justice, who were still in town. The writer indicated that he was doing all that was possible in Sir Horace's interests, and that he would meet Sir Horace at Riversbrook at 9.30 on Wednesday night and let him know the exact position. There is nothing suspicious in such a letter, but my inquiries concerning new appointments to the Court of Appeal suggest that the statements in the letter are false.
"Now let us consider the conduct of Holymead and his wife since the night of the murder. His course of action has not been that of a man anxious to assist the police in the discovery of the murderer of his old friend. We have first of all his secrecy regarding his visit to Riversbrook that night; the fact of the visit being established by the stick, and the glove he left behind. We have the estrangement of husband and wife. We have Mrs. Holymead's visit to Riversbrook on the morning that the first details of the crime appeared in the newspapers. Ostensibly she came to see you and pay her condolences, but as she knew that you had been away in the country she ought to have telephoned to learn if you had come up to London. Instead of telephoning, she went to Riversbrook direct, and when she found you were not there she was admitted to the presence of my old friend, Inspector Chippenfield. He is an excellent police officer, but I do not think he is a match for a clever woman. And Mrs. Holymead is such a fine-looking woman that I feel sure Chippenfield was so impressed by her appearance that he forgot he was a police officer and remembered only that he was a man. She managed to get him out of the room long enough to enable her to open the secret drawer in Sir Horace's desk and remove the letters. No doubt Sir Horace had shown her where he kept them, as their neat little hiding place was an indication of the value he placed upon them. She was under the impression that no one knew about the letters, and her object in removing them was to prevent the police stumbling across them and so getting on the track of her husband. But as I have already told you, Hill knew about the letters, and on the night of the murder had them in his possession. On the night after the murder, while Inspector Chippenfield was making investigations at Riversbrook, Hill had managed to obtain the opportunity to put the letters back. He naturally thought that if the police discovered some of Sir Horace's private papers in his possession they would conclude that he had had something to do with the murder.
"The next point of any consequence is Holymead's defence of Birchill and the deliberate way in which he blackened your father's name while cross-examining Hill. If we regard Holymead's conduct solely from the standpoint of a barrister doing his best for his client his defence of Birchill is not so remarkable. But we have to remember that your father and Holymead had been life-long friends. His acceptance of the brief for the defence was in itself remarkable. The fee, as I took the trouble to find out, was not large; indeed, for a man of Holymead's commanding eminence at the bar it might be called a small one, and he should have returned the brief because the fee was inadequate. We have, therefore, two things to consider—his defence of the man charged with the murder of your father, and his readiness to do the work without regard to the monetary side of it. Much was said at the time in some of the papers about a barrister being a servant of the court and compelled by the etiquette of the bar to place his services at the disposal of anyone who needs them and is prepared to pay for them. A great deal of nonsense has been said and written on that subject. A barrister can return a brief because for private reasons he does not wish to have anything to do with the case. It was Holymead's duty to do his best to get Birchill off whether he believed his client was guilty or innocent. Could Holymead have done his best for Birchill if he had believed that Birchill was the murderer of his lifelong friend? Would he have trusted himself to do his best? No, Holymead knew that Birchill was innocent; he knew who the guilty man was, and, knowing that, knowing that his action in defending the man charged with the murder of an old friend would weigh with the jury, he took up the case because he felt there was a moral obligation on him to get Birchill off. His conduct of the defence, during which he attacked the moral character of your father, was remarkable, coming from him—the friend of the dead man. As the action of defending counsel it was perfectly legitimate. It gave rise to some discussion in purely legal circles—whether Holymead did right or wrong in violating a long friendship in order to get his man off. The academic point is whether he ought to have violated his personal feelings for an old friend, or violated his duty to his client by doing something less than his best for him.
"Apart from the circumstantial and inferential evidence against Holymead, there is the fact that his wife knows that he committed the crime. Her acts point to that; her conduct throughout springs from the desire to shield him. Even the removal of the letters from the secret drawer was prompted more by the desire to save him than to save herself. Their discovery would not have been very serious for her, but it would have put the police on her husband's track. If I remember rightly, she asked you to keep her in touch with all the developments of the investigations of the police and myself. You told me that she was greatly interested in the fact that I did not believe Birchill was guilty, and particularly anxious to know if I suspected anyone. At Birchill's trial she did me the honour of watching me very closely. I was watching both her and her husband. When she discovered through her womanly intuition that I suspected her husband; that I was accumulating evidence against him; she sent round her friend, Mademoiselle Chiron, with some interesting information for me. An extremely clever young woman that—like all her countrywomen she is wonderfully sharp and quick, with a natural aptitude for intrigue. Of course, the information she gave me was intended to mislead me—intended to show me that Mr. Holymead had nothing to do with the crime. But some of it was extremely interesting when it dealt with actual facts, and some of the facts were quite new to me. For instance, I had not previously known that a piece of a lady's handkerchief was found clenched in your father's right hand after he was dead. The police very kindly kept that information from me. Had they told me about it I might have been inclined to suspect Mrs. Holymead and to believe that her husband was trying to shield her. His conduct would bear that interpretation if she had happened to be guilty. The police unconsciously saved me from taking up that false scent.
"I have detained you a long time in dealing with these points, Miss Fewbanks, but I wanted to make everything clear. I have all but reached the end. Let us take in chronological order what happened on the night of the tragedy. We have your father's sudden return from Scotland. Hill was at Riversbrook when he arrived, and having the secret letters in his possession, was greatly perturbed by the unexpected return of Sir Horace. He went to Doris Fanning's flat in Westminster to see Birchill. In his absence Holymead arrived. It is probable that he took the Tube from Hyde Park Corner to Hampstead and walked to Riversbrook. He rang the bell; was admitted by your father, and, leaving his hat and stick in the hall-stand as he had often done before, the two went upstairs to the library. There was an angry interview, Holymead accusing your father of having wronged him and demanding satisfaction. My own opinion is that there was an irregular sort of duel. Each of them fired one shot. It is quite conceivable that Holymead, in spite of his mission, being that of revenge, gave your father a fair chance for his life. A man in Holymead's position would probably feel indifferent whether he killed the man who had ruined his home or was killed by him. But whereas your father's shot missed by a few inches, Holymead's inflicted a fatal wound. When he saw your father fall and realised what he had done, the instinct of self-preservation asserted itself. He grabbed at the gloves he had taken off, but in his hurry dropped one on the floor. He ran downstairs, took his hat from the hall-stand, but left his stick. Then he rushed out of the house, leaving the front door open. He made his way back to Hampstead Tube station, got out at Hyde Park and took a cab to his hotel.
"Within a few minutes of Holymead's departure from Riversbrook the Frenchwoman arrived. She may have passed Holymead in Tanton Gardens, or Holymead, when he saw her approaching, may have hidden inside the gateway of a neighbouring house. She had come up from the country on learning that Holymead had come to London. She caught the next train, but unfortunately it was late on arriving at Victoria owing to a slight accident to the engine. I take it that she was sent by Mrs. Holymead to follow her husband if possible and see if he had any designs on Sir Horace. She took a cab as far as the Spaniards Inn and then got out, and walked to Riversbrook. When she arrived at the house she found the front door open and the lights burning. There was no answer to her ring and she entered the house and crept upstairs. Opening the library door, she saw your father lying on the floor. She endeavoured to raise him to a sitting posture, but it was too late to do anything for him. With a convulsive movement he grasped at the handkerchief she was holding in one hand, and a corner of it was torn off and remained in his hand. When she saw he had breathed his last she laid him down on the floor. Since she had been too late to prevent the crime, the next best thing in the interests of Mrs. Holymead was to remove traces of Holymead's guilt. She picked up the revolver, which she thought belonged to Holymead, turned off the light in the room, went downstairs, turned off the light in the hall, and closed the hall door as she went out.
"She behaved with remarkable courage and coolness, but she overlooked the glove in the room of the tragedy, and Holymead's stick in the hall-stand. Later in the night we have Birchill's entry into the house, his alarm at finding your father had been killed, and his return to the flat where Hill was waiting for him."
When Crewe had finished he looked at the girl. She had followed his statement with breathless interest.
"You have been wonderfully clever," she said. "It is perfectly marvellous."
Crewe's eyes had wandered to the inlaid chess-table and the Japanese chessmen set in prim rows on either side. Mechanically he began to arrange a problem on the board. His interest in the famous murder mystery seemed to have evaporated.
"I was very fortunate," he said absently, in reply to Miss Fewbanks."Everything seemed to come right for me."
"You made everything come right," she replied. "I do not know how to thank you for giving so much of your time to unravelling the mystery."
"It was fascinating while it lasted," he replied, his fingers still busy with the chessmen. "Of course, I am pleased with my success, but in a way I am sorry the work has come to an end. I thought that the knowledge that Holymead was the guilty man would come as a great shock to you. But I am glad you are able to take it so well."
"A few minutes before you arrived I learned that it was Mr. Holymead. But what has been more of a shock to me, Mr. Crewe, is the discovery that my father had ruined his home. Oh, Mr. Crewe, it is terrible for me to have to hold my dead father up to judgment, but it is more terrible still to know that he was not faithful even to his lifelong friendship with Mr. Holymead."
"Your nerves are unstrung," he said. "You want rest and quiet—you want a long sea voyage."
"Yes, I want to forget," she said. "But there are others who want to forget, too. Cannot we bury the whole thing in forgetfulness?"
Crewe's growing interest in the chessboard and his problem suddenly vanished. His eyes became instantly riveted on her face in a keen, questioning look.
"What is it to me or you that Mr. Holymead should be publicly proved guilty of this terrible thing?" she went on, passionately. "Why drag into the light my father's conduct in order to make a day's sensation for the newspapers? For his sake, what better thing could I do than let his memory rest?"
"Do you mean that Holymead should be allowed to go free?" he asked, in astonishment.
"Yes."
"I'm extremely sorry," he said slowly.
"Won't you let it all drop?" she pleaded.
"I could not take upon myself the responsibility of condoning such a crime—the responsibility of judging between your father and his murderer," he said solemnly. "But even if I could it is too late to think of doing so. There is already a warrant out for Holymead's arrest"