Mallow stared at her, astonished at the earnestness with which she spoke. "I am afraid I don't quite follow you," he said at length. "Of course Carson knows Dr. Drabble. He met him at Casterwell."
"That is just the point. Was it for the first time he met him at Casterwell?"
"I--I suppose so; but, so far as I could see, he was never very intimate with the man."
"Then why should he present him with a pair of gold wrist-buttons," said Olive--"especially the pair he wore himself; the pair he had made to match that bracelet?"
"Yes that is strange," admitted Mallow.
"It would be, if it were a fact," said Olive. "But I do not for one moment believe that he gave them to Drabble at all."
"Then how do you suppose Drabble came by them?"
"That," said Olive, "is just where I am at a loss, and where I need your help. That is what we must find out."
"But, Mrs. Carson----"
"One minute, Mr. Mallow. Am I Mrs. Carson?"
"Well, I presume so. You were married to him," said Mallow, somewhat bewildered.
"I was married to some one, yes; but is that some one Angus Carson?"
Mallow jumped up hurriedly.
"You are not thinking of that absurd story I told you?"
"I am. Not that I think it absurd now. On the contrary, I am coming to believe more in the sense of it each hour."
"No, no," said Mallow. "I made every possible inquiry in London immediately before your marriage. I visited Athelstane Place; I questioned the police. But I could find nothing, absolutely nothing, to connect your husband in ever so remote a degree with that murder. Besides, look at the facts in his favour. Mr. Brock recognized him simply from his resemblance to his father, and his appearance corresponds exactly with the description of him given by Mrs. Purcell, even to the wearing of his bangle."
"I don't remember seeing him wear the wrist-buttons," said Olive. "Women, you know, are observant of these little things. Do you remember Mrs. Slarge reading out her sister's letter in the presence of Angus?"
"Yes, perfectly. It was then Carson showed us the bangle."
"Yes. Well, I looked then for these wrist-buttons, but I noticed he wore silver sleeve-links."
"On that particular occasion, perhaps?"
"But he never wore the others," retorted Olive. "Again and again I watched for them. This is the first I have seen, and it comes from Margery, not from Angus."
"Did you speak to your husband about it?"
"No; as I say, I was busy when Margery gave it to me, and I slipped it into my pocket without thinking. It was only on looking at it again, the other day, that its resemblance to the bracelet struck me. I wear it as a stud rather than as a brooch; you see, it has no catch-pin."
"Well, I think perhaps the best way would be to ask your husband how Dr. Drabble comes to possess a wrist-button so similar to his bracelet."
Olive turned suddenly pale, and hung her head. "I cannot," she said, faintly; "he has left me."
"Left you?" repeated Mallow, scarcely able to believe his ears. "Why--when?"
"Nearly a fortnight ago. It was not possible for us to continue living together. I hated him, and he did not care in the least for me. It was solely for my money that he married me; and now that he has it, he has no further use for me. We agreed it was best to separate. I was glad to do so."
"And this is the man you left me for!"
"Not of my own free will. You know I was the victim of circumstances. I told you everything about my father's letter. Here it is; read it yourself, and tell me if I could have acted otherwise."
In silence Mallow took the letter from her. He noticed that her hand trembled. In silence he read it through.
It was a strange letter, and it had apparently been written under stress of great mental excitement. The man might have been in mortal terror when he penned those lines. The warning at the close was a very cry of anguish.
"What do you say now?" asked Olive.
"I can say nothing. We seem to move in a world of mystery."
"You admit that I acted rightly?"
"I admit that you were forced to obey the letter," answered Mallow. "Whether you acted rightly is not quite the same thing."
"You are not just to me," cried Olive, passionately. "I loved my father dearly. He was always so good to me. I should have been wicked to ignore so solemn a command. Had it been only a question of money, I would readily have surrendered it all to Mr. Brock. But my father's dying wish--I could not disregard it, I could not."
"I admit that," said Laurence, reluctantly. "But what a miserable result it is!"
Olive covered her face with her hands. "I know, I know!" she cried. "The sins of the father are visited on the children. Oh, what can there have been in my father's life to make him sacrifice me so cruelly?"
"Mr. Brock was your father's oldest friend. He might, perhaps, know."
"He does not know, for I asked him the very day before this hateful marriage of mine. He could give me no answer. He could not understand the letter. Both in India and in England, he said, my father's life was above reproach."
"Yet there must be something," mused Mallow. "There are few men who have not a turned-down page somewhere in the book of their life, and as a rule it is not shown even to the dearest and closest of friends. 'We mortal millions live alone,' as Arnold puts it."
"Well, it can't be helped," said Olive, despairingly. "There is nothing to be gained by probing the past. But in the present we may be able to do something. To return to those wrist-buttons: in the first place, Carson never wore them----"
"One moment," interrupted Mallow. "You must be quite sure of that before we can accept it as evidence of any value. It is always possible he may have had them by him, yet not have worn them. Whether or no he gave them to Dr. Drabble is another matter; you had, perhaps, better write and get Mrs. Drabble to ask her husband."
"That is exactly what I did. But she replied that it was more than she dared to do. You know she is frightened to death of him. On the contrary, she implored me not to tell him lest Margery should get into trouble."
"The man can hardly blame her for following his own teaching," said Laurence, grimly. "He has been at some pains to teach her to look upon other people's belongings as her own; naturally the child thought she was doing no wrong. So Mrs. Drabble won't speak to her husband? Well, I must do so myself, then, when I get back to town."
"Have you the doctor's address there?"
"Yes. It so happens that he has been trying to enlist my sympathies towards his revolutionary projects. He gave me his town address and asked me to call." Mallow took out his pocket-book. "49, Poplar-street, Soho; that's where he lives. A veritable hotbed of foreign rascality, no doubt. Well, that disposes for the present of one more piece of evidence. What else have you?"
"Two days ago," said Olive, "I received this from Angus" (producing a letter). "He said that he was going to London, possibly even abroad. He has evidently gone abroad, for this is written from Florence."
"So I see," said Mallow, glancing over the letter. "Florence as an address is somewhat vague."
"He fears I may follow him, I suppose. Pray read the letter, Mr. Mallow."
Laurence did so. There were merely some half a dozen lines to the effect that the writer did not intend to return, that he gave his wife her full freedom, and apologizing for anything he might have done to distress her.
"He is a bad lot," said Mallow, in disgust, "Still, I cannot see how this letter is going to help you, nor, for that matter, what doubt it casts upon his identity."
"Can't you see," burst out Olive, "why he wrote that himself--and, moreover, he wrote it with his right hand. I have seen the writing of his left. It can be read only with great difficulty. This is perfectly plain and easily legible. Yet, when he was here, he always declared his right hand was much too painful to use in any way."
"Yes, I admit there may be something in it," said Mallow; "but might not some one else have written it for him?"
"Perhaps; that is, of course, just possible. But I doubt it. I don't believe his right hand was hurt at all. He merely feigned its uselessness for his own ends."
"But Mrs. Purcell declared that it was useless."
"She alluded to Carson's hand. This man, I tell you, is not Carson. I remember one day when we were out we climbed a slight cliff. I scrambled up first. On looking back, I saw Angus climbing up with both hands. There were other times, too, when he forgot himself. I have even seen him take his arm right out of the sling and use his hand perfectly freely. When I spoke to him about it he always would have it I was mistaken. I tried to get him to remove the bandages and show me his hand, but his excuse was that the doctor had strictly forbidden him to do so. No, believe me, Mr. Mallow, I am right. That letter was written by the man himself, and with his right hand. Carson is an impostor."
"Really that is very well argued," said Mallow, puzzled. "But there are flaws. However, we can consider those later. Pray go on. What is your third reason?"
"Mr. Dimbal writes to me that Angus--let us call him that for the present--has realized all securities, and has placed the proceeds to his own credit at the Crédit Lyonnais in Paris. Now, the real Angus Carson would not do that."
"I don't quite see why he should not," said Mallow; "but I admit, of course, it is strange. Still, even so, I find it difficult to believe the man is an impostor without more direct and convincing evidence."
"He is; I tell you he is," replied Olive, resolutely. "I truly believe that man who was murdered in Athelstane Place was the real Carson. The right hand--the diseased hand, you remember--was cut off, no doubt to procure the bracelet for this impostor. This man's clothes smelt of sandal-wood--a most unusual perfume--so did those of the poor wretch who was killed. The newspaper description of the dead man corresponds exactly with the man who calls himself my husband. He never by any chance spoke to me of his father or of his life in India. He never cared for me, and was only too ready to part from me. His only action of note since we were married has been to sell the stock and transfer the proceeds to a foreign bank, where he can deal with it. I am convinced, Mr. Mallow, that he was not Angus Carson. I go even further. I believe that he murdered Angus Carson in order to impersonate him. I am as sure of it as I am that--well, that I am alive; and, God help me, I am married to the wretch!"
Olive became so agitated that Mallow begged her to lie down. Do and say what he would, he could not shake her conviction. When he saw her somewhat more composed he left her and started off for a good brisk walk, that he might turn things over in his mind.
It was quite dusk when he got back to Sandbeach. Half an hour later and he would probably have failed to see a small white package lying on the path-way. He was in a narrow side street leading from the esplanade to the railway station. As it was, he not only saw it, but took the trouble to stop and pick it up. It proved to be a somewhat bulky letter addressed to Jeremiah Trall, Esq., 49, Poplar Street, Soho, London. Mallow's instinct as soon as he read this was to drop it. But the tall figure of a woman coming quickly round the corner arrested his attention. He saw that she was eagerly searching for something. She came up to him. "My letter sir," she ejaculated hurriedly. "I dropped it. Thank you." She snatched it from him, and before he had time to recover himself she was gone.
"Clara Trall!" he gasped, thunderstruck. "Shall I follow her? No, I have no right to do that. Yet the address of that letter is the address of Dr. Drabble in London. More mystery--more scheming. What on earth can it mean?"
But it was many a long day before Mallow found an answer to that question.
For various reasons, Mallow had not taken up his abode in the same hotel as Olive. He had found a clean, unpretentious, little place near the station, which suited him well enough in his present mood. Here he ate a solitary dinner, cooked and served in thoroughly English style. Invariably fastidious over his food, Laurence was not now inclined to be any more particular about it than he was about his lodging. He ate but little. A good cigar and some strong black coffee, he felt, would do more for him just now than any food. He inquired from the waiter how the trains ran to London, for he had no doubt that on the morrow it would be necessary for him to use them. Curiously enough the waiter knew all about the trains, notwithstanding the fact that he was an aboriginal as well as a waiter.
"On'y two decent ones from 'ere to Lunnon," said this Ganymede; "you'll see 'em, sir, in the time-tables. There's one leaves ten 'o the mornin', an' another at six at night. You gits to Lunnon in about three hours; so, yer see, they ain't express like even then."
"Ten in the morning," mused Mallow. "Ah! that's a trifle too early. I may as well have another day with Olive, to cheer her up. The evening train will suit me. I can see Drabble in Soho the next morning--that is, if he is in town."
Mallow finished his coffee and cigar. Then he lit a fresh one, slipped on his coat--for the night was chilly--and strolled round to the big hotel. He was shown at once to Mrs. Carson's sitting-room. He found her almost as much agitated as she had been when he left her.
"Oh, Laurence!" she said, calling him by his Christian name in her excitement. "How glad I am that you have come. She has gone!"
"She has gone? Who has gone?" asked Laurence, pausing in the act of removing his coat.
"Clara--my maid," replied Olive. "I cannot understand it at all. She appeared perfectly content with her place, and said nothing about leaving. It was only when I sent for her to dress me for dinner that I found she had gone. What can it mean?"
"It probably seems extraordinary to you," replied Mallow, coolly; "but I confess I am not surprised. Your Clara has gone to join Carson."
Olive gasped. "To join my husband?" she said incredulously. "What has Clara to do with him?"
"That is what I should like to know. Carson has been in the habit of meeting this girl for some time past. Before you were married, Aldean saw them together; but he carefully refrained from letting me know anything about it until quite recently. I suppose he was afraid of what I should do to the scoundrel. Save, under the present circumstances, I should not have told you. But, as I have little doubt she has gone to him, it is right you should know."
"Oh!" cried Olive, suddenly recollecting; "then she was the woman I saw! The night before my husband left me I saw him talking with a woman quite close to the hotel. I recognized him but her face I could not see. Yes, it must have been Clara."
"The scoundrel!" murmured Mallow, "there is clearly something between him and the girl. She was probably a spy."
"A spy--on me? For what reason?"
"Semberry could probably explain that. I understand that he was instrumental in finding the girl for you."
"That's true. A Mrs. Arne, whose address he gave me, was anxious to find a place for her; so I wrote, of course, in the usual way for her reference. It was an excellent one, and I did not hesitate to engage her. So far as that goes, she was a first-class servant.'
"She probably was no servant at all," said Mallow, bluntly. "She had neither the appearance nor the manners of one. Even Aldean noticed that. By the way, have you Mrs. Arne's letter?"
Olive nodded. "I keep all my letters for six months before I destroy them," she said, rising. "I should have hers. Wait one moment, I will go and fetch it."
Mrs. Carson returned with the letter. Mallow read it through carefully, but could gather nothing from it. He noted the address, 30, Amelia Street, Kensington, and commented on the firm, masculine character of the writing. "Mrs. Arne is evidently a woman of strong will and considerable character," he said, replacing his pocket-book. "For all we know, she may be mixed up in this plot."
"Plot?" echoed Olive, looking scared. "What plot?"
"Well," said Mallow, "I can hardly say definitely. There is certainly a plot of some kind. Sooner or later we shall know more about it. At present we must be content to know its object, which was undoubtedly to secure this fifty thousand pounds."
"For whom?"
"That is the question. Carson, Semberry, Clara Trall, or even Dr. Drabble--they all seem to have something to do with it."
"Then you think there is some connection between my husband and that horrid doctor?"
"Yes, I do. I must tell you that shortly before six o'clock this evening, as I was coming home from my walk, I picked up, in one of the small streets here, a letter, dropped evidently by this Clara of yours; for just as I was reading the address on it, she came rushing round the corner, snatched it from my hand, and flew off with it before I had time to do more than notice that it was she. It is more than probable that she left by the six-o'clock train."
"For London?"
"No; I don't think she went to London."
"Oh! I see. You think she has gone off to Florence to my husband?"
"Yes, I think that; and something more, Mrs. Carson. The letter I picked up was addressed to Jeremiah Trall, 49, Poplar Street, Soho."
"Clara's father, I suppose?"
"Well, it may be her father or it may be Dr. Drabble--49, Poplar Street, happens to be the town address he gave me. It would not surprise me in the least to find that in pursuit of his Anarchistic schemes he found it useful to have--well, let us call it anom de guerre."
"But why should he take Clara's name?"
"We don't know that Trall is Clara's real name," retorted Mallow. "Mind you, this is purely hypothetical. Jeremiah Trall may or may not be Drabble. At all events, the address is the same; and Soho is the hotbed of Anarchism in London. The possession of that wrist-button by Drabble seems to me clearly to point to some intimacy with Carson."
"The so-called Carson?" interrupted Olive.
"Well, we have not quite proved that yet. The links of the chain run something like this: Mrs. Arne, whoever she may be, gives Clara (whoever she may be) a character which is palpably false. I mean false as regards her identity, not her capability; for that you proved to be all that was said for it. From this fact we are justified in concluding that she, Mrs. Arne, is in some way implicated. I feel convinced myself that Clara was not a servant. Semberry induces you to engage her--that proves his connection; and Carson meets Clara several times, and clearly is intimate with her. The wrist-button would seem to connect Drabble with Carson, and the Soho address associates him with Clara. Save the address and the wrist-button, which, of course, are substantial facts, the rest is deduction pure and simple. But it is logical deduction, and, to my thinking, it points strongly to a secret association for some secret purpose between all these people. The purpose, I take it, was to secure this sum of fifty thousand pounds."
"But what makes you think that Clara has not gone to London?"
"That letter," replied Mallow, promptly. "It was very bulky. I believed it contained a report of our conversation here to-day. Clara was in the next room. You remember how, when she heard my voice, she came in with an obviously feigned excuse? I noticed when she returned to the bedroom she left the door ajar. Overhearing us, of course, she became aware of your doubts as to Carson's identity. She probably became alarmed lest you should go further and discover her connection with him. That, I think, is the reason of her sudden departure; whilst the very existence of the letter seems to me to show that London was not her destination. Had she been going there, she need not have written it. She could have called at Poplar-Street, Soho, and said what she had to say. Do you follow? She has probably got out at some station on the way up, and is now on her way to Dover,en routefor Italy."
Olive passed her hand over her forehead. "It's all very confusing," she said, in a troubled voice.
"And all very fanciful, you might add," rejoined Mallow. "Are you sure she has taken her box?"
"The chambermaid said so."
Mallow shook his head. "We had better not rest content with second-hand evidence when we can have first," said he. "Where is her room? Can we go and see?"
"Oh yes. I should have gone before, but I have been so confused with one thing and another. Let us go and search it at once."
Taking a lighted candle from a side table, Olive led the way along the corridor. The room was not far away. They could find no box there.
"She must have removed it while I was out," said Olive in dismay. "I took a stroll shortly after you left; my head was aching so. Oh, what a wicked, artful girl!"
"She is probably quite used to these fittings," said Mallow, looking round the room. "Hallo! torn-up paper in the grate! We must look at this. Hold the candle a moment, please, Mrs. Carson."
Clara had not been fool enough to leave behind anything likely to betray her. But one envelope which Mallow found proved the truth of one of his suppositions. It had an Italian stamp on the corner, and was addressed "Miss Clara Trall, Grand Hotel, Sandbeach, Inghilterra."
"My husband's writing!" cried Olive, as Mallow rose and dusted his knees.
"Yes; and from Florence--dated four days back. Look at the post-mark. This puts the matter beyond a doubt, Mrs. Carson. Your husband wrote to her to join him in Italy. She has gone to Dover, not to London."
"But, surely, what can Clara be to that man?"
"An accomplice, certainly."
They returned to the sitting-room. Mrs. Carson sat down looking hopelessly bewildered. "What are we to do now?" she asked. "Communicate with the police?"
"No," said Mallow; "we have no facts to give them. We know that Carson has possession of the money; but, you must remember, he has legal possession of it. We know that he is in Italy, and that Clara has joined him. There is nothing there for the police, is there? Beyond this we can say nothing; not even that Carson is an impostor. But it will not be long now before we are able to settle that point; Mrs. Purcell arrives from India in a couple of days' time, and a portrait of Carson----"
"I have one," interrupted Olive. "He was so vain that he actually had some done by one of these men on the beach. There were some copies in this room. I dare say I can find them. But tell me, Mr. Mallow, what do you intend to do now?"
Whilst she was hunting for the photographs, Mallow explained. "I think," he said, "I had better go to London and see this Mrs. Arne. Then I shall look up Semberry, and after that--well, then, I think I'll drop in on Dr. Drabble in Soho."
"Will you broach the matter directly?"
"No; I don't think it would be wise to do that. If things are as I suspect, we have to deal with a dangerous lot. I'll find out all I can without letting them have any suspicion--that is to say, from Mrs. Arne and Semberry. As for Drabble, I intend to join him. I shall become an Anarchist."
"Become an Anarchist?" echoed Olive, turning round, the photographs in her hand.
"Yes; it is my only chance of gaining his confidence. I must do it if I am to get at the truth."
"But you will bring trouble upon yourself."
"Oh no," laughed Mallow, "I shall stop short of throwing bombs, I promise you."
"Oh, it is dangerous," said Mrs. Carson, sighing. "How can I thank you sufficiently for all the trouble you are taking--here are the photographs."
Laurence glanced at one. It represented Carson standing straight and stiff against a stone wall for all the world as if he were going to be shot. It was not a work of art, but the likeness was excellent. Mallow nodded as if he were well satisfied.
"It will serve our purpose capitally," he said, putting it in his pocket. "Mrs. Purcell should have no difficulty in saying if this is or is not the man she saw in Bombay. Well, Mrs. Carson," he added abruptly. "I must say good night."
"Good night. What time to-morrow do you leave?"
"Not until the evening train--six o'clock. Mrs. Purcell does not arrive for two days yet, so I have plenty of time. Good night."
Thus did Mallow take his first step on the dark and tortuous way he was to follow. It led him downward into an under-world of crime and danger. But he found some good even in those sordid depths. Doubt and mystery surrounding him, holding his life in his hand, on and on he went, never flinching, never yielding, never losing sight of his clue until at last it led him to the truth.
For a long time past Mallow had been turning over in his mind the scheme of a new novel upon which he was most anxious to commence work. But now that Mrs. Carson had called upon him to aid her to the solution of the many mysteries by which she seemed to be surrounded, he was obliged to put all thought of it from him. With all the energy he could command he threw himself into the business on hand. Here was a romance in real life surpassing the most elaborate inventions of fiction. It was his task to round it off to a satisfactory finish. And this was not easy. Of actual fact he had but little to guide him. Neither could he hope to extract much from those chiefly concerned. He was forced to grope his way in well-nigh utter darkness. Only by the light of fresh material yet to be gathered would he be able to use to advantage that which was already at his command. And of procuring such fresh material he saw but small chance at present. Here, as in most things, it was the first step which was so important. He inclined to think that two heads were better than one. From Sandbeach he had written at some length to his friend Aldean, telling him all that had taken place there, and how he had shifted Olive's troubles (so far as he was able) on to his own more capable shoulders. The result was that Aldean came up to London almost immediately, and presented himself at Mallow's chambers in Half-Moon Street, full of curiosity and anxiety to assist in the crusade against Carson and Company. In substantiation of his belief in the old proverb, Mallow accepted his offer. Here was another head, at all events, if not an exceptionally brilliant one. And so Aldean took up his quarters at his house in Kensington, and prepared himself for an exciting time.
"It is good of you, Jim," said Mallow, at their first meeting. "I know you would much rather be at Casterwell playing with Amaryllis in the shade, according to your habit."
"Amaryllis comes to London next week," replied Jim, with something of a blush. "Mrs. Purcell has invited her."
"Oh, in that case your patience will not be put to so great a test. Has Mrs. Purcell arrived?"
"Yes, she is in town now, settled in a friend's house which she has taken over for the winter. Miss Slarge showed me a long Johnsonian missive, in which Mrs. Purcell stated she was 'elevating her shingle' in Guelph Road, Campden Hill."
"And how, may I ask, did Mrs. Purcell translate 'elevating her shingle' into English?"
"Oh, I can't remember the old lady's long-winded sentences, but she is now in Guelph Road. Miss Slarge, with Miss Ostergaard, comes up next week. Of course, Mrs. Purcell knows nothing of Mrs. Carson's matrimonial troubles, or I dare say she would have asked her too."
"She must ask her," said Mallow, hastily. "I shall call on Mrs. Purcell, and explain the circumstances. It will never do for Mrs. Carson to be left alone in her troubles."
"Take care, Mallow; your interest in Mrs. Carson may be misconstrued."
"Oh, rubbish! Mrs. Purcell is a woman of sense, I am sure. So long as I keep my own counsel, she can say nothing. I want Mrs. Carson to revert, as much as possible, to the condition of affairs before this unhappy marriage. When all this mystery is cleared up, she will be able to start fresh."
"That will depend, of course, mainly upon the identity of this man Carson," said Aldean.
"Nothing of the sort," contradicted Mallow, sharply, but wincing all the same; "whatever he is she is his wife--there's no getting past that fact."
"She may get a divorce. Carson's gone off with that girl."
"Quite so; but he has not so far treated her with cruelty, and--well, you know the idiotcy of the D.C. For Heaven's sake, Jim, drop Mrs. Carson."
"All right," assented Aldean. "I see your nerves are jumpy on that subject. Let's get to the matters in hand. About this Carson mess; what do you think of it?"
"A big business, Jim; a nasty painful business, with a strong element of criminality it it. Of course it is all very vague and confused on the surface, but beneath, I am convinced, there is a very orderly and well-constructed conspiracy progressing."
Mallow sat down and lighted his pipe. "Now, let us look at the facts," he said. "There can be no doubt that Semberry forced that girl on Mrs. Carson as a spy. Carson, too, must have known her before he came to Casterwell, or he would not have been meeting her on the quiet so soon after she came there. She overheard my conversation with her mistress in the sitting-room of the hotel (unfortunately it was not till I was about to leave that I noticed she had left the bedroom door ajar, or I would have closed it). However, she lost no time in reporting what she had heard to 49, Poplar Street, which, you understand, is the same address that Drabble gave me as his own. That, I consider, brings him into the business. Then she bolted to join Carson in Florence; that I think is proved by the envelope which I found in the grate of her bedroom. These are the main facts."
"And you really think that Drabble is in the swindle?"
"I do, from the fact of that address, and also from this wrist-button turning up; so far as we know, he could only have got it from Carson. That would seem to show that he knew Carson somewhere before he came to Casterwell. Presents argue a certain degree of intimacy."
"That is one view," said Jim, quickly, "but there is another. If Carson is a fraud, you may be sure that it was the real man who was murdered in Athelstane Place. The sandal-wood scent forms a link between the true and the false."
"Well, admitting that, even then the wrist-button must have passed through the false Carson's hands to reach Drabble. We have nothing to lead us to suppose that the doctor had anything to do with the murder."
"Humph! The papers said, you remember, that only a surgeon could have amputated the right hand so neatly."
"That is a wild theory," said Mallow. "Let us stick to the facts. Whoever Carson may be, you forget we have yet to prove him an impostor. The one thing we are sure of is that Clara Trall was a spy."
"Do you intend questioning Semberry about her?"
"No, that would put him on his guard at once. I shall go to Amelia Street, and see this Mrs. Arne."
"The same thing applies to her, surely?"
"No. I shall merely call on Mrs. Carson's behalf to inform her that Clara left her mistress's service without warning of any kind, and ask her if she can throw any light on her eccentric behaviour. It is quite natural Mrs. Carson should wish to know. I shall thus throw the onus of any explanation on her."
"She will only lie to you. She may not even do that,--probably she will express her very great regret, and confess her inability to understand it."
"Well, of course, that is probable. I must chance it. She may let fall something of value."
Aldean put on his hat and coat. "So you intend to begin with this clue?" he asked dubiously.
"Well, I think it is the most likely to bear fruit."
"And what about the murder?" asked Aldean.
Mallow pointed to a neat pile of newspaper cuttings. "I am refreshing my memory on that point. But, for the present, I think I shall leave it alone. We have not yet anything sufficiently strong to connect Carson with it. That sandal-wood is not enough. I believe in going slowly and relying on facts only."
"Well, old man, good-bye and good luck," said Lord Aldean. "See you again soon;" and he took himself off to transact some small business of his own.
The same afternoon Mallow dressed himself smartly and strolled down to Kensington through the park. Without any difficulty he found Amelia Street. It proved to be in the centre of a fashionable locality, and its inhabitants were evidently people of wealth. As he mounted the steps of No. 30 he could not help wondering at Mrs. Arne's connection with the very shady matter he had in hand. For the moment the clue did not look promising.
"Is Mrs. Arne at home?" he asked the footman who came to the door.
"Mrs. Arne, sir?" said the man with a stare; "I know no one of that name, sir."
Mallow felt a sudden shock of surprise at the unexpectedness of the answer. "But this is Mrs. Arne's house, surely?" he asked hastily.
"No, sir," replied the man, "Mr. Dacre lives here."
"Is Mr. Dacre in?" demanded Laurence, after a few moment's reflection.
"He is not, sir; Mr. Dacre is at present out of town, sir. Mrs. Dacre is at home, sir."
"In that case, please give her my card, and ask her if she will be so good as to see me for a few moments."
The footman departed, and shortly returning conducted Mallow upstairs to a magnificently furnished drawing-room, where he was received by a pretty, though vulgar-looking woman, shrill of speech and horribly over-dressed. At a glance Mallow guessed she had become possessed of unlimited cash late in life. Mr. Dacre had probably made a fortune in the rapid manner which is characteristic of our latter days, and his wife was now in the throes of acclimatization to her altered circumstances. In all directions there was copious evidence of a huge banking-account.
"Mr. Mallow," said Mrs. Dacre, assuming a dignity which suited her not at all, and looking at his card through an eye-glass.
"Yes, I have taken the liberty of calling upon you to ask you if you know anything of a Mrs. Arne who lived here."
Mrs. Dacre looked at him in surprise. "I do, and I do not know Mrs. Arne. She is hardly an acquaintance of mine; I only know her as a dressmaker."
"A dressmaker?" repeated Mallow, with a gasp.
"She is not really even that," continued the voluble lady--"pray be seated Mr. Mallow. Mrs. Arne is, in fact, a person who goes out sewing. She was recommended to me as an intelligent needlewoman by one of my friends. As I wished some costumes altered, I employed her for a few weeks."
"Is she here now, Mrs. Dacre?"
"Oh dear no. She finished her work, and I dismissed her some weeks ago."
"Do you happen to have her address?"
"No, indeed, I have not. What should I do with such a person's address. I engaged the woman; she did my bidding; I dismissed her. I am not likely ever to see her again. May I ask (this with increasing stateliness) if this person is a friend of yours?"
"No, I have not even seen her," replied Mallow, hastily; "but a lady friend of mine in the country requires a maid, and she heard that Mrs. Arne had one for whom she wished to find a situation."
Mrs. Dacre grew scarlet with anger. "Absurd--ridiculous!" she burst out. "Why, Mrs. Arne was quite a common person; clever with her needle, I admit, and quite respectful. But the idea of her recommending a maid!"
"Nevertheless she did so," said Mallow, taking a delight in touching upon the weak spot of the purse-proud little lady. "My friend wrote to Mrs. Arne at this address, and received this reply." As Mrs. Dacre's eyes, through the medium of her double glasses, fell on the letter which Mallow placed in her hand, she almost screeched.
"My own paper," she gasped, "the hussy! she must have stolen it. Clara Trall?--she recommends Clara Trall, a creature of whom I have never heard as a good maid--a maid! Oh! and she herself a sewing-woman too; a common, vulgar dressmaker. Mr. Mallow, Mr. Mallow, what are the lower orders coming to?"
"That is a very large question, Mrs. Dacre. At present, perhaps we had better confine ourselves to this one. Do you happen to know a Major Semberry?"
"No, I never heard of him."
"Did Mrs. Arne ever mention him?"
"Not that I know of. But, of course, I spoke but little to her. I will say she knew how to hold her tongue. Did Major Semberry know her?"
"I believe so. At all events, he gave my friend this address as Mrs. Arne's."
"And he a major too! Upon my word, it doesn't sound at all respectable. 'Enry (she lost her h's simultaneously with her temper)--'Enry shall know of this. Mrs. Arne recommending maids from our 'ouse on my writing-paper."
Mallow shrugged his shoulders. He had got all the information he was likely to get, so he prepared to take his leave. Mrs. Dacre was too intent upon her own grievance to attempt to stop him. At the door (whither she followed him) he asked her one more question.
"What was Mrs. Arne like, Mrs. Drace? Can you give me any description of her appearance?"
"A dark, foreign-looking person, with eyes always on the floor, and a tread like a cat. I think she was a foreigner, for all her English. Never, never shall a foreigner enter these doors again."
Mallow bowed himself out, stopping at the door for a word with the smart footman. "Mrs. Arne was in this house for some time, your mistress tells me; how is it you did not tell me so?"
"I've only been here a week, sir," replied the man. Mallow gave him a shilling and went off.
"A dark, foreign-looking woman," he repeated. "Strange again! that is very much like the description the newspapers give of the housekeeper at Athelstane Place. And Semberry knows her, and Carson of Casterwell is Semberry's bosom friend. Humph! I shouldn't be surprised if the murdered man was the real Carson after all!"
After his interview with Mrs. Dacre, Mallow's first impulse was to see Semberry and tax him with the deception he had practised upon Olive. But he was not a man who gave way to his impulses. He quickly realized that to do that at this stage would simply be to put the Major on his guard. Plainly he was connected in some way with Mrs. Arne, and it seemed more than likely, from the description of her given by Mrs. Dacre, that this so-called dressmaker was identical with the so-called housekeeper of Athelstane Place. In dealing with people so astute and so dangerous, Mallow saw that his only chance lay in gaining their confidence in some way. His next move must be to see Drabble, if necessary, in the character of a convert to his views. The doctor's vanity would be flattered, and in his enthusiasm he would not hesitate to welcome him as a member of the band. Once let him become acquainted with the schemes of these Anarchists, and he might hope for much knowledge which, by any other means, would be unattainable. The risk was considerable, that he knew well--for thus to connect himself with a set of fearless fanatics, was to play with fire with a vengeance. Once the oath taken, he was the tool of these ruffians; if he broke it--and that might be necessary for Olive's sake--he became their prey. He had no fancy to be blown to pieces or to be stabbed in the dark. But that was a risk he must perforce accept if he was to carry the thing through. He decided to take it, and affiliate himself with the brotherhood. His mind made up on that point, he found himself even looking forward with a certain thrill of excitement to the risks he was about to run. Plainly speaking, he was a spy venturing into an unknown land of snares and pitfalls. The least false step might prove fatal, not only to his hopes, but to his life. However, before actually involving himself, he called on Mrs. Purcell. He was anxious to tell her all about Olive, and to induce her to take the girl under her protection for the time being. He presented himself at Campden Hill one afternoon about five o'clock, and was graciously received by the old lady, with whom he was an especial favourite. Tui and Miss Slarge had already arrived, and were established there as Mrs. Purcell's guests, but Olive was still at Sandbeach. She shunned meeting even Tui and Miss Slarge. She knew that they would ask questions which would necessitate her explaining the invidious position in which she was placed. They were still under the impression that her husband was with her, and wondered why the happy pair did not return to the Manor House. On this point Mallow preserved a judicious silence for the present, though he had fully made up his mind to take Mrs. Purcell into his confidence. That would be necessary in order to enlist her sympathies for Olive, and to carry out his purpose. The subject was a delicate one, and would require careful handling.
A majestic female was Mrs. Purcell, with a haughty eye and a Roman nose. She was as stout as her sister was lean, and was draped with funereal pomp in silk and crape, and ornaments of glistening jet. She moved slowly and spoke slowly, and she modelled her speech on the best traditions of her hero, Dr. Johnson. Her looks were monumental, her conversations ponderous. She resembled the ideal Britannia--without, be it said, helmet or trident--in domestic life. She had flippantly been compared to Gibbon's "Decline and Fall," and, indeed, there was something of the epic about her, awe-inspiring and stately. She had never made or enjoyed a joke in her life. Pallas, Lady Macbeth, Hannah More--Mrs. Purcell was a combination of all three.
"Mr. Mallow," she said, bearing down on the visitor with full canvas, "I am glad to welcome you to my temporary hearth. With my sister, as with the vivacious Miss Ostergaard, you are already acquainted. We expect Lord Aldean, but for the time being our circle is limited, as you observe."
Mallow greeted the two ladies.
"And how is your book getting on?"
The authoress sighed.
"Only moderately well, Mr. Mallow," she said wearily. "I am at present employed in identifying the Etruscan lituus with the Pontifical crosier, and some of the accounts are so contradictory that it is not easy to reconcile them."
"How is Olive?" demanded Tui, irrelevantly. "Is she well and happy?"
"Is not that a superfluous question, under the circumstances?" replied Mallow, evasively.
Tui looked at him.
"Hardly, or I would not have asked it. On the contrary, her letters give me a different impression. I fear from them that she does not get on well with her husband."
"Tis difficult," observed Mrs. Purcell, who had returned to the tea-table, "for a newly-married pair to live in complete accord with one another. The effect of their respective trainings has to be taken into account, and only the influence of time, coupled with forbearance on either side, can adapt the idiosyncrasies of one to those of the other. Olive has been reared in our island home, Mr. Carson has not. Therefore it is not unlikely that they experience some difficulty in blending their respective dispositions into one harmonious whole."
"East is east, and west is west," said Mallow, "and two parallel straight lines cannot meet."
"Let us hope that, in this case, judicious yielding on the part of each of these young people will create an exception to the invariable truth of that axiom, Mr. Mallow. Can I give you a dish of tea?"
"Thank you, Mrs. Purcell. Ah, here comes our mutual friend."
Aldean entered. He was welcomed by Mrs. Purcell with all the pomp she considered due to a member of the nobility.
Tui was joyous. "I thought you were never coming," she said. "I see that it is out 'of sight, out of mind' with you."
"By Jove! I wish it were," sighed Jim; "I should be a happier man."
"Oh, surely I don't make you miserable?"
"Never mind; it is misery I would not be without. Tell me, how is Major Semberry?"
"Good gracious, Lord Aldean, how should I know? I have not seen him for years."
"'Tis to be hoped that you will not again come into contact with Major Semberry," said Mrs. Purcell, wagging her turban; "he is not a suitable acquaintance for a young lady."
"No, I am quite sure he is not," assented Aldean; upon which Tui at once took up arms on behalf of the absent.
"Major Semberry is the most charming of men," she declared, with a pout.
"The serpent," rebuked Mrs. Purcell, "is ever beautiful to the eye but unfortunately is possessed of noxious qualities which far exceed his beauty. Rubina, in my letter to you I think I stated my opinion of Major Semberry. From that opinion I have seen no reason to depart."
"In plain English, Mrs. Purcell, you consider Semberry a rascal?"
"Mr. Mallow, I consider him a profligate and an undesirable acquaintance. How Dr. Carson came to entrust his son to such a man I cannot understand."
"They got on very well together."
"Then the one or the other must have changed very much, Lord Aldean. In Bombay, Mr. Carson was by no means friendly with his travelling companion. His rigid sense of right and wrong did not allow him to countenance Major Semberry's laxity of principle."
"You like Mr. Carson?" asked Mallow, quickly.
"My acquaintance with him was not of sufficient duration to enable me to speak quite so definitely as that, but I consider Mr. Carson to be an admirably conducted young man, calculated to render any woman happy in the matrimonial state."
"Oh, lor!" muttered Jim; "how he must have altered!"
"Well," said Tui, outright, "I don't like Mr. Carson at all. I never did."
"You surprise me," said Mrs. Purcell, in her most majestic manner. "My judgment is seldom at fault, and I considered Mr. Carson, when I saw him in Bombay, to be the type of all that is most excellent in the male sex."
The discussion had not the remotest interest for Miss Slarge. Indeed, she had already drifted back to Babylon. Observing vaguely that the great red dragon of Revelations was the fiery serpent of Chaldean worship, she left the room to return to her beloved studies, and Mrs. Purcell was left with her three guests. Lord Aldean was carried off by Tui to a distant corner where she could torment him without fear of interruption, and Mallow at once seized the opportunity for a talk with his hostess about Olive. It took all Mrs. Purcell's philosophy to hear unmoved his tale of Carson's treachery.
"Mrs. Purcell," said Mallow, plunging at oncein medias res, "you are aware that I have known Mrs. Carson for many years, and that I take a deep interest in her welfare. I am sorry to tell you that she is very unhappy in her marriage."
"Did she inform you of this fact?" said Mrs. Purcell, with some displeasure.
"She did. I received a letter from her asking me to go to Sandbeach, where she was spending her honeymoon. On arriving there I found that her husband had left her."
"Mr. Carson has left Olive!"
"Yes; he is now in Italy, and, I believe, with another woman."
"You amaze me, Mr. Mallow; I may say, you pain me. What is the meaning of this terrible state of affairs?"
"Ah! that is a difficult question for me to answer. My only way of doing so is to tell you all that I have learned concerning Mr. Carson and Major Semberry, and leave you to judge for yourself."
"That will be best, Mr. Mallow. I shall then be enabled to deliver my unbiassed judgment."
Thereupon Laurence related all that had taken place since Carson's arrival at Casterwell, and particularly detailed the steps which had led to the engagement of Clara Trall.
"So you see, Mrs. Purcell," he concluded, "she can hardly help being unhappy. Her husband has left her, and has taken her money--to spend it, I presume, on another woman. She is now alone and worried, at Sandbeach. I want you to ask her up here and take her under your wing. She needs a friend. You will be that friend?"
"You may depend upon my doing what is just and right," said Mrs. Purcell, vigorously. "I will communicate with Olive at once; yes, and I will invite her to come here. That Mr. Carson should behave so basely is a matter of the most profound astonishment to me. I had read his character otherwise. I can but ascribe this deterioration to the counsel and wiles of Major Semberry."
"That is one way of explaining it," said Mallow, taking out his pocket-book; "but there is yet another and more conclusive one. This is a portrait which Mr. Carson had taken at Sandbeach. May I ask you to look at it carefully, and to tell me what you think of it?"
Mrs. Purcell took the photograph and examined it.
"This is either an extremely bad portrait, or Mr. Carson has altered sadly for the worse," she said at length.
Mallow felt his heart beating furiously.
"In what way has Mr. Carson altered?" he asked, anxiously.
"Oh, his whole expression is quite different, Mr. Mallow. When last I saw him, Mr. Carson's face was replete with intellectual vigour; he was sad and sombre, too, not bright and smiling as he is depicted here. His moustache was very much heavier, and he certainly was not so tall as this picture represents him to be."
"It would not surprise you then, Mrs. Purcell, if I were to tell you that this was not Mr. Carson's portrait at all?"
"No, Mr. Mallow, it would not. At first glance, I did not notice many things that appear to me as I look into it. Mr. Carson's face may, of course, have changed. The circumstances of his life may have caused his expression to brighten. It is possible, too, that his moustache may be of less luxuriant growth, but I confess I do not understand how he can have become less of stature. No, Mr. Mallow, the man here represented is not Mr. Angus Carson!"