Generally speaking, it seemed as though Mallien's prophecy of Carrington picking Rupert's pockets was likely to come true. Owing to circumstances, the barrister had found a perfectly legitimate way of getting money from his friend, and intended to take every advantage of the opportunity. He explained to Hendle that it would be necessary for him to remain at The Big House until all these crooked affairs were straightened out, and that, his time being valuable, he would require a handsome fee for his services. The Squire professed himself quite willing that things should be so arranged, but he was scarcely so dense as Carrington believed him to be. He saw that the visitor was anxious to make money, and concluded that perhaps it was best to settle matters on this coldly legal basis. The cut-and-dried situation was thus perfectly understood by both men, and they got on very amicably together. On the surface everything was as it should be.
But below the surface, things were scarcely so pleasant. Rupert's susceptibilities for Carrington, dating from Rugby days, had received a shock. He had looked to find in the barrister an intimate friend, only to discover that he was a hard business man. Had Carrington looked into matters without stipulating for a fee, and had behaved as a chum, Hendle would have gladly dealt handsomely with him, knowing that he was not particularly successful in his profession. But the Squire, with the memory of his school hero-worship in his mind, was dismayed to find that his former idol had feet of clay, and that Carrington was quite willing to use him as a means to an end. Rupert was by no means sentimental, yet he felt anxious for sympathy in his present unpleasant position. That sympathy should be sold, as the barrister was selling it, chilled his ardent nature, and made him less confidential with his school-friend than otherwise he would have been. Everything seemed to be for sale, and nothing appeared to be given as a gift. Mallien, Mrs. Beatson, Carrington, all had an eye to the main chance; and even the late vicar had hinted in a veiled way that the will would be given up if his Yucatan expedition was financed. It seemed to Rupert that his only true friend was Dorinda, who loved him for himself, and not for what she could get out of him. And Dorinda was nearer and dearer than a friend, since she was to be his wife. Hendle, who was deeply religious in his unobtrusive way, silently thanked God that he had one staunch comrade. And such Dorinda was, therefore their marriage would certainly be happier, when founded upon so solid a foundation, than if it were a mere romantic passion.
For the next three days, the two men paid daily visits to the Vicarage and hunted high and low for the missing will. They examined every paper; they opened every book; they looked through the pockets of old clothes, and turned out every cupboard. Rupert expected that Mallien, being so keen about his rights, would search also; but the day after Carrington's arrival, he went up to London, and remained absent for some time. Apparently he disliked coming into contact with the sharp-tongued barrister, and probably would not return until his enemy took his departure. Carrington, of course, was not Mallien's enemy, as he had no reason to be, but Mallien in his odd misanthropic way regarded him as such. He therefore would not have been pleased had he learned that on the third day of his absence, Dorinda entertained the two men at dinner.
Miss Mallien did not like Carrington any more than did her father, but for the sake of helping Rupert, she extended the hand of hospitality. In fact she gave quite a little dinner-party, as Kit Beatson and Miss Tollart were also present. The master of the house always objected to these small entertainments, as they cost money; but Dorinda paid no attention to his objections, as she claimed a reasonable right to amuse herself. Nevertheless, she considered her father's feelings so far as only to ask her neighbors to luncheon, afternoon tea and dinner when he was absent. Yet, notwithstanding this concession, there was always trouble when Mallien returned; and, since Carrington had been invited, it was probable that, on this occasion, there would be a royal row. Dorinda did not mind, as she was used to rows. The only way in which she could make her situation bearable was by standing up for herself and defying her father in small matters. If she did not do so, he would bully her still more, for every inch she gave meant several ells with him. Her mild entertainments were therefore useful in preserving her independence, and in coloring a somewhat drab existence.
With the assistance of the small servant, Miss Mallien had prepared a simple but appetizing meal, which was done full justice to by the quartette of guests. Afterward, they sat in the tiny drawing-room, and enjoyed a real old English evening of the Albert Period type, including games and music. Carrington had brought some jig-saw puzzles from London, and when the excitement of putting tricky pictures together palled, music supplied new pleasure. Sophy Tollart, who had been well-trained, rendered scraps of very up-to-date harmony, which began anyhow and ended nowhere. Kit sang sentimental ballads in a pleasant uncultivated tenor, and Dorinda delighted her hearers with old time songs such as "Kathleen Mavourneen" and "Robin Adair." Finally, as the evening waned, the company gathered near the open window to chat about this and that and the other thing. Sophy recounted her experience as a militant suffragist; Kit informed everyone of what progress the motor industry was making, and, of course, the coming of the new vicar supplied interesting conversation. It was Miss Tollart who introduced the topic.
"He will arrive in a fortnight," she explained, bending her black brows in quite a tragic way, "and has a family of four girls. I hope to interest them all in the movement."
"Votes for Women?" asked Carrington, who found Sophy very amusing, since she knew little and asserted much.
"Of course. What other Movement is there?"
"Well, you see, Miss Tollart, Women's Rebellion isn't the only pebble on the beach. Humanity has other interests also."
"Then it shouldn't have," retorted Sophy daringly. "Until women have votes, the world will never be put right."
"Things have gone on very well so far," ventured Rupert, only to be crushed.
"How can you say so, Mr. Hendle, when there's nothing but war and bankruptcy, and silly football matches, and smart society, and----"
"Sophy! Sophy! that's enough to go on with," cried Dorinda, smiling. "Don't give us too much to think about."
"You never think at all, Dorinda. You are fainthearted about our votes."
"I don't think you'll get them by destroying property and having hunger strikes," replied Dorinda, with a shrug. "What do you say, Kit?"
Kit blushed and wriggled, for Sophy's eye was on him. "I don't say anything you know. I never do. The motor business takes up all my attention." Then he hurriedly changed the subject, lest his lady-love should fall foul of him for his shirking. "I hope Sophy will gain her ends easier in Australia."
"I'm not going to Australia, Kit. I told you that and I told your mother."
"Mrs. Beatson," said Carrington, pricking up his ears. "Does she want you to go to Australia, Miss Tollart?"
"She wants to go herself."
"That's news to me," observed Hendle, with a start.
"It's news to all of us," put in Kit, dismally. "The worst of mother is that you never know what she'll be up to next. The other day she came to me and said that she soon hoped to inherit an annuity of two hundred a year and intended to go to Australia. She wants Sophy and me to come with her."
Hendle, Dorinda and Carrington exchanged glances. "Who is leaving this annuity to your mother?" asked Rupert, guessing the source of the windfall.
"She didn't say," replied Kit, "some old aunt, I fancy. But I don't want to go with mother. She and Sophy never get on well together."
"How can we when she wants everyone to bow down to her?" said Miss Tollart, who hated Mrs. Beatson thoroughly. "I'm not of the bowing-down sort. And when I marry, I want my house to myself."
"Natural enough," observed Carrington, who was listening eagerly. "And Mrs. Beatson wants you all to live together on her annuity?"
"Not exactly that," said Kit reluctantly. "She won't keep us, but hopes that in Australia I shall make more money out of motors."
"She may hope," said Sophy positively; "and, if she is disappointed, she will have to be. You are not going to Australia, Kit. My father needs my care, and I can't leave him."
It seemed to Carrington that between Kit's mother and his future wife's father, the poor young fellow was in a most uncomfortable position. However, for obvious reasons, connected with Sophy, he did not say so and contented himself with the remark that he thought Dr. Tollart very clever. "When I came down here first, I called in to get a cure for toothache and he gave me one which acted like a charm."
Sophy, who seemed to have a deep affection for her disreputable parent, colored with pleasure as she rose to go. "Father has his faults, but he is a very clever man," she said emphatically; "but for his failing he would be in Harley Street as a Specialist."
"Great men have more room for faults than small men," quoted Carrington. "Don't look angry, Miss Tollart; I really mean what I say. Your father is clever."
"I'm glad to hear that some one does him justice," said the girl bitterly, and looking more womanly as she spoke. "Usually everyone is against him. But Kit will help me to keep him straight when we are married. Mrs. Beatson would drive him crazy."
"Sophy! Sophy! She is my mother," expostulated Kit, blushing.
"I know that," snapped Miss Tollart tartly. "It is the only thing I have against you as my husband. But so long as she lives at a distance--well, it's no use talking. Dorinda, I'm going now."
She went out to put on her hat and cloak, while Kit stood irresolutely by the door he had just opened, looking so downcast that Hendle clapped him on the back. "Cheer up, old boy; it will be all right," he said, feeling profoundly sorry for the lad since Mrs. Beatson was decidedly a very disagreeable mother. And then Carrington put a question.
"When does your mother expect her annuity?"
"She says she may get it at any time," replied Kit, rather stiffly, as he did not see why a stranger like the barrister should interfere; "but I know very little about it. All she told me was that she was to get two hundred a year and would leave Mr. Hendle to go to Australia."
"Oh, I shall place no obstacle in her path," observed Rupert somewhat grimly. "After all, as I soon marry Miss Mallien, there will be no need for me to have a housekeeper."
It was at this moment and before Carrington could ask further questions, which he very much wished to do, that Sophy returned. Evidently she had been crying, for her eyes were red, but her emotions were quite under control and, after taking leave of her hostess and the two men, she went away with Kit. They seemed to be rather a forlorn young couple. Dorinda remarked as much when she returned to the drawing-room after seeing them to the door.
"What else can you expect," asked Carrington coolly, "when they are connected with a drunkard like Tollart and a shrew like Mrs. Beatson? So she intends to go to Australia, does she? I don't want to hurt your feelings, Miss Mallien, but I see your father's finger in this."
"Say as little about my father as is possible," answered Dorinda, with a rich color flushing her fair cheeks. Little as she respected her shady parent she did not intend to discuss him with a stranger whom she disliked.
Carrington was diplomatic enough to skate away from the thin ice. "Rupert and I have taken all the papers and clothes and odds and ends of Leigh to The Big House," he remarked; "and there they can stay until we hear from the Australian sea-captain who inherits. The London lawyer has written him."
"And the will?"
"We have not found it yet."
"I don't think we ever will find it," commented Hendle soberly. "I have searched the Vicarage from cellar to attic without success. I really believe, Dorinda, that, after all, Leigh was dreaming, and that the will doesn't exist."
"Either that," said Carrington deliberately, "or Mrs. Beatson made away with Leigh and stole it."
"I can't believe that," protested Dorinda, turning pale. "I told you so before when you first broached the idea, Mr. Carrington. She is not a nice woman, but I don't think she would commit a murder."
"There is nothing Mrs. Beatson would not do, if she were assured that her crime would remain undiscovered," insisted the barrister grimly. "After all, if Mrs. Beatson didn't kill Leigh, who did? Rupert and I and the housekeeper knew of the will and of its value. As I was in town I am innocent, and we know, Miss Mallien, that Rupert is not the man to commit such a crime. There only remains Mrs. Beatson, who told your father, when she made all things safe."
Dorinda started, and looked searchingly at the barrister. "How do you mean?"
Carrington smiled meaningly. "I believe that Mrs. Beatson murdered Leigh and now has the will. She intends to sell it to your father for this annuity."
Dorinda grew red and her eyes grew bright. "How dare you say such a thing to me, Mr. Carrington? In the first place, my father would never condone a crime even to gain a fortune; in the second, the moment Mrs. Beatson offered to sell him the will, he would know her to be guilty."
"Yes, of course," replied Carrington soothingly, "and naturally would hand her over to the police. It was only the idea of the annuity which suggested the idea to me, and maybe it is far-fetched. I apologize, Miss Mallien."
Dorinda bowed silently. She did not like the ironical tone in which the barrister spoke, as she felt convinced that he still held to his preposterous idea. What is more, in her own mind, she did not consider that the idea was so preposterous as she declared. Her father had been prepared to hush up the matter when he believed Rupert to be guilty, so it was not improbable that he would make terms with Mrs. Beatson, provided he secured the will. Still, the girl did not intend to let Carrington know what she thought, and therefore stood up for her absent parent. "I don't believe that Mrs. Beatson is guilty of such wicked conduct," she repeated, after a pause. "What grounds have you to say such a thing?"
"Well," murmured Carrington with a shrug. "No very good grounds, I admit. But Mrs. Beatson knew about the will before Leigh was murdered, and I firmly believe that he was got rid of for the sake of the will. This suggestion of an annuity hints that she has the will and is trying to dispose of it at a price. Perhaps Hendle----"
"She has said nothing to me," interrupted Rupert quickly, "and, after all, Carrington, you have watched her for the last few days without seeing anything suspicious."
"Mrs. Beatson is a sly creature, who will not give herself away easily," returned the barrister dryly. "I shall continue to watch her. There's ten o'clock, Hendle," he added, as the mellow tones of the church bell floated through the warm night. "We must not keep Miss Mallien from her beauty sleep."
Dorinda did not suggest that they should remain, although she would have liked to speak privately with her lover. But while Carrington was at his elbow, that was impossible, and she did not wish to talk freely in the presence of a man she mistrusted. The two young men said good-night to their hostess and went away, leaving Dorinda in anything but a happy frame of mind. What had been suggested about her father trading with the housekeeper worried her considerably. There might or might not be some truth in the idea. She tried to dismiss it from her mind; but it would not be dismissed, and troubled her far into the small hours of the morning.
Meanwhile, Rupert and his friend sauntered leisurely homeward. It was so hot that they did not wear coats over their evening suit, and so dry underfoot that they walked to and from the cottage in shoes. The sky was radiant with innumerable stars, and although there was no moon, there was ample light in which to see surrounding objects. Through the shadowy world, warm and peaceful, the young men wandered, taking their way across the fields, as the high-road was so dusty and hard. For a time neither spoke, for each was busy with his own thoughts, which had to do with the case. Finally, Carrington broke the silence, and spoke soft, as though he feared listeners.
"I did not press my point, Hendle," he remarked significantly, "as the little I did say rather offended Miss Mallien."
"You were rather libellous about her father, you know, Carrington."
"If the saying, that the greater the truth the greater the libel is true, I certainly was," retorted the barrister, "for what I said I hold to."
"That Mrs. Beatson is the guilty person?"
"Yes. And that she is trading with Mallien to give him what he wants."
"The will?"
"Of course. I am as certain of that fact as I am that I live. She has the will, and she intends to deliver it to him--if she hasn't done so already--on condition that he gives her the two hundred a year annuity, which she told her son comes from a mythical aunt."
"Well," said Rupert, after a pause, "since Mallien was willing to come to terms with me, I see no reason why he should not come to terms with Mrs. Beatson, always provided that she is guilty."
"She is," insisted Carrington bluntly. "It is no use my giving you my reasons again, I think."
"If things are as you say I don't see how Mrs. Beatson's part of the business can be concealed. The will is of no use to Mallien unless he makes it public. And if he does, he will have to explain how he became possessed of it. I suppose his confession of the deal with Mrs. Beatson would bring him into trouble as an accessory-after-the-fact?"
"It would, and I am wondering how Mallien intends to make himself safe on that score. There is only one thing to be done, Hendle. We must wait until Mallien produces the will. Then we can move."
"It's an infernal messy business altogether," growled the big man, restlessly; "and I wish we were all well out of it. I don't want Mallien to get into any trouble for Dorinda's sake."
"I think you can be pretty certain that Mallien will look after his own precious skin," said the barrister dryly; "and if--hush!--not a word." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Who's that?"
"What?" Rupert looked round, as Carrington caught his arm, and pulled him off the footpath into a clump of hazels.
"Don't speak," whispered Carrington with his mouth close to Rupert's ear; "and button your coat as well as you can over your shirt-front. The white may betray us." He acted on his own advice, and kept Hendle well behind the shelter of the leafy trees. "Now watch."
Hendle did so with all his eyes, straining his sight through the shadowy night, and by this time had seen the reason of Carrington's action and caution. The two men had reached the red brick wall which ran round the park, and saw that the postern gate through which they intended to pass was open. A tall dark figure in flowing robes was slipping out, and when Carrington pulled his friend into shelter behind the hazels, the woman--for such it was--closed the postern stealthily. After a glance to right and left, she walked swiftly along the footpath, going in the direction whence the watchers had come. As she swept past the hazel clump, Rupert nearly uttered an exclamation, for, in spite of the black-silk hood pulled well over her head and face, he was absolutely certain that this night walker was none other than his respectable housekeeper. What she was doing outside the house at this time of night and whither she was going he could not conjecture. But Carrington could, and when the woman passed away into the shadows, he whispered an exultant explanation.
"It's Mrs. Beatson, Hendle. She's going to look for the will. Quick! let us follow; but take care she doesn't see us."
"The will!" breathed Rupert, cautiously, as they stole out on the trail. "What do you mean?"
"She has hidden the will somewhere, I am sure, and now is going to get it. We will catch her red-handed if we are careful. What luck!"
"But it's impossible, and----"
"Don't talk," interrupted Carrington, in a savage whisper. "Do you want to give the show away? It's a wonderful chance of learning the truth. Come."
Hendle silently agreed with his companion, although he found it hard to believe that Mrs. Beatson was such a conspirator. Whether her night excursion had to do with the missing will or not, he could not be sure; but it was evident that she was bent upon some shady business, into which he should inquire, as her master. The adventure appealed to him as a welcome break in his monotonous existence, and he felt his nerves thrill, as with Carrington he followed cautiously. In the half-light they saw the black figure of the woman climb the stile at the end of the meadow and enter a spinney, which belted the high road. By the time they reached this, and emerged on to the travelled thoroughfare, Mrs. Beatson had vanished. Carrington bent to run, but halted a moment to whisper.
"If there is any truth in my belief, she has gone to the Vicarage. There, if anywhere, she has hidden the will in the jungle."
Hendle nodded without reply, and the two men sped swiftly along the road until they came to the bend. They were just in time to see Mrs. Beatson vanish through the rickety gate, which, as usual, was standing wide open. Carrington stopped, dodged, stooped, then crossed the road to run alongside the hedge until he halted just outside the gate. Peering round the corner with Rupert breathing hard beside him, the barrister saw that Mrs. Beatson carried a lantern, which she had just lighted, for it gleamed like a star in the darkness of the tall trees.
"We can wait here," whispered Carrington, delaying Rupert, who wanted to enter the grounds. "She will come back this way. We may attract her attention if we make any noise in that jungle."
This was good advice which Rupert was sensible enough to take. Keeping well within the shadow of the hedge, and looking up the avenue, they waited for the woman's return. They had put their collars up and had buttoned their dress coats over the shining expanse of shirt-front, so there was no gleam of white to betray them, as they crouched, two dark figures, in the dry ditch under the hedge. With beating hearts they waited anxiously, taking a peep every now and then. Mrs. Beatson was a long time absent--Hendle judged about a quarter of an hour. Then, unexpectedly, she appeared running swiftly down the grass-grown avenue with her lantern swinging in her hand. At the gate and within touch, she waited to extinguish the light, but before doing so set it on the ground to look at a rustling parchment by its gleam. The moment she stooped with the document, Carrington's arm shot out and it was snatched away. With a shriek Mrs. Beatson straightened herself to face her master and his guest. She had, indeed, been caught red-handed.
Paralyzed by extreme fright, Mrs. Beatson stood as motionless as a stone image, staring blankly at her captors with open mouth and unwinking eyes. Her face was whiter than the dingy parchment of which she had been deprived, and her breath came and went in short quick gasps, which echoed audibly through the still night. Rupert looked at her for a moment and then turned away his head; his manhood was shamed by the silent agony of the miserable creature. Carrington, more hardened by experience, stooped to the light, and read, "This is the Last Will and Testament of John Hendle," in vividly black Latin lettering. That was enough to assure him of the truth, and, rolling up the parchment, he turned sternly on the panic-struck woman.
"You are a clever fool, Mrs. Beatson," he remarked quietly--"clever in getting the will and hiding it so skillfully; but a fool to examine so compromising a document here, when the village policeman may pass at any moment."
The word "policeman" galvanized Mrs. Beatson into life and action. With a final gasp she suddenly became, as it seemed, conscious of her peril, and bolted. Down the road and across the road she sped, and was in the spinney before the two men could grasp the situation. For a single moment they stared after the flying figure, then simultaneously started in pursuit. With terror-winged feet the housekeeper fled as swiftly as the wind, and it was not until the brick wall, encircling the park, again loomed through the shadows that they caught up to her. Instinctively, like a homing pigeon, she made for the only place where she thought she would be safe. Much, as Carrington grimly thought, after the fashion of a child, who believes himself to be free from danger when smuggled between the blankets. It was while she was fumbling with the lock of the postern that he laid a detaining hand on her shoulder. With a terrified cry she dropped on her knees.
"Mercy! Mercy! I am innocent--innocent," she wailed, and hugged his legs in a frenzy of fear.
"Here, get up!" said the barrister, roughly pulling her to her feet. "Come inside and explain yourself."
"There's nothing to explain," cried Mrs. Beatson, suddenly defiant; "and you are not my master."
"I am more than your master; I am the man who has found you out," stated Carrington, in a hard tone, and pushing open the postern. "Walk in, I tell you."
"Gently, Carrington, gently," said Rupert, sorry for the shaking woman, who was desperate enough to say anything or do anything. "We can deal with this matter reasonably. Take my arm, Mrs. Beatson, and come to the house. You can no doubt give us an explanation."
"I shan't give it to him," muttered the housekeeper, trying to control her shattering emotions. "What has he got to do with me, I should like to know? You are always a gentleman, Mr. Hendle, and I wish you a better friend. Spying and prying, watching and following. Call yourself a man, do you? Ha! Ha! call yourself a man? God help the woman who marries you, say I."
Neither of the two made any reply to this aimless speech, and babbling incoherently, Mrs. Beatson was led by Hendle to the house. Fortunately none of the servants were in the entrance-hall, and when Rupert opened the door with his latch-key, Mrs. Beatson swept in toward the drawing-room, which was lighted up. Carrington and his friend followed close behind, to find her seated in an armchair, fanning her heated face with the hood which she had removed. Her color had returned and her self-possession, so that she eyed the pair defiantly. Her attentions were mostly directed toward Carrington, and if a look could have slain him, he would have dropped dead there and then.
"Come now," said the barrister, when the door was closed and the trio were alone, "what have you got to say to all this?"
"I shan't answer you," snapped Mrs. Beatson viciously. "You aren't going to bully me."
"I think you had better answer," said Hendle, sternly. "This is not the time to play the fool."
"Are you against me also, sir?"
"I am advising you for your good. As to being against you, what attitude do you expect me to assume toward you, seeing how treacherously you have behaved, Mrs. Beatson?"
"Treacherously?"
"Yes! You listened to a conversation not meant for your ears and reported the same to Mr. Mallien."
"Did he tell you so?"
"There was no need for him to tell Mr. Hendle," said Carrington pointedly. "The mere fact that Mr. Mallien knows about this will proclaims your guilt."
"Guilt! Guilt!" repeated the housekeeper violently. "I shall thank you, sir, not to use that word in connection with me."
"I shall use it. Don't be a fool, woman! You knew about this will before Mr. Leigh was murdered, and you killed him to get it."
"It's a lie!"
"Then how do you explain your possession of the will?"
"What is your supposition?" demanded Mrs. Beatson, more like a judge than a criminal.
"If you will have it," returned the barrister, smoothly. "I believe you murdered the vicar to get the will, and having found it, buried the same in that jungle. Then you made your terms with Mr. Mallien, and he agreed to give you an annuity of two hundred a year, if you passed the will along to him. When you thought that all was safe, you went to dig the will up again, and here it is."
Carrington pulled the soiled parchment from his pocket, where he had placed it for safety, doubled up into a packet, and shook it in her face. Mrs. Beatson changed from red to white, and from white to red, but maintained a scornful look. "You are talking nonsense," she said briefly.
"Perhaps," put in Hendle quietly, "and we wait for you to talk sense."
"I shall say nothing," said the woman, obstinately.
"In that case I shall send for Kensit and give you in charge."
"You would not do that, Mr. Hendle."
"Indeed, I shall do it within ten minutes if you do not speak out."
"I can--I can--exonerate--exonerate myself," stuttered Mrs. Beatson, her dry lips scarcely able to form the words.
"You had better do so to us," advised Carrington agreeably.
"And if I don't?" she snarled, turning on him.
"Then Inspector Lawson shall examine you."
"What do I care when I know that I am innocent?"
"Well,"--Carrington shrugged his shoulders--"it's your own affair. Ring the bell, Hendle, and send one of the servants down for Kensit."
"No, don't!" cried Mrs. Beatson, when she saw her master walk toward the fireplace to touch the ivory button. "I can explain."
Hendle nodded and returned to his seat, while Carrington replaced the will in his pocket and waited for the confession. Mrs. Beatson wiped her face and glared at the two like a tigress at bay. Only the knowledge that she was driven into a corner made her speak out. "I overheard your conversation with Mr. Leigh, sir," she said to her master and ignoring Carrington. "Oh, I didn't mean to, you know. I only listened as I thought you intended to discharge me when you married Miss Mallien, and fancied you might explain yourself on that point to the vicar."
"I understand. But why did you report the conversation to my cousin?"
Mrs. Beatson looked down sullenly. "You don't know what it is to be poor," she muttered irrelevantly. "I am born a lady, and through the fault of a spendthrift husband I am reduced to act as your housekeeper. It is only natural that I should try and improve my position, so when I learned about a will which would give your property to Mr. Mallien, I thought it wise to make money by speaking about it to him."
"Why not to me in the first instance?"
"Because you are too honest," burst out the woman, raising her pale eyes. "If you got the will you would have made its contents public, even though, as Mr. Leigh stated, you would lose all. For that reason I had no hold on you and would never have got money from you. By telling Mr. Mallien I managed to extract a promise from him that when he came into the property he would give me an annuity."
"Of two hundred a year?" inquired Carrington.
"We did not mention any sum," retorted Mrs. Beatson, "but that was the amount I intended to ask."
"And the amount which you told your son a mythical aunt was leaving you."
"I had to give my son some reason for being possessed of the annuity."
"Hum!" said Carrington with a shrug. "You haven't got the annuity yet, and now you never will have."
"I am not so sure of that. After all, if I hadn't told, Mr. Carrington, the cousin of my master would never have known of his good fortune."
"Then the will really does leave the property to Eunice Filbert?" questioned Rupert nervously.
"I don't know. I have not read the will."
"Come now," said Carrington contemptuously, "you don't expect us to believe that. You must have read the will before you buried it."
"I didn't bury it."
The barrister heaved a weary sigh and glanced at Rupert as if to invite his attention to the way in which the woman was lying. "I don't know why you are wasting our time in this fashion," said Carrington sharply. "Why can't you speak straightforwardly? Twisting and turning won't help you now. You are in a corner, and however you may fight you will not get out of it. Be frank, Mrs. Beatson, and tell us how you killed the vicar."
Mrs. Beatson rose white-faced and trembling, holding on to the back of the chair as she replied. "I did not kill the vicar," she insisted. "I would not do such a thing. I haven't the nerve, and I'm honest enough as people go. Only the sudden temptation to make money easily made me tell Mr. Mallien about the will. But I did no more. I wasn't near the vicarage, and no one was more astonished than I was when I heard of the murder."
"Listen to me," said Carrington, making a sign to Rupert that he should hold his tongue and leave the examination to him. "The police could not find out any reason why the vicar should have been killed, because they knew nothing about this will. Kensit unconsciously hinted at the truth when he said that the papers and books in the vicarage study were all in disorder, as if some search had been made. I believe that such a search was made, and by you, for this will, after you murdered the poor man."
"It's a lie!" screamed Mrs. Beatson savagely. "How dare you sit there and tell lies about me?"
"If it is a lie," said Carrington, quite unmoved by her sudden fury, "how comes it that the will is in your possession?"
"I dug it up."
"And how did you know the spot where it was buried?"
"The letter told me."
"The letter!" Rupert looked up surprised. "What letter?"
Mrs. Beatson fumbled in her breast, and pulling out a torn envelope threw it across the room into Hendle's lap. "I got that this morning," she declared in sullen tones, "and acted as it advised. As there is no name to it, I don't know who wrote it. Don't let Mr. Carrington get it; I trust you, sir, not him."
Rupert picked up the envelope and examined it, while the barrister looked over his shoulder. It was directed to "Mrs. Beatson, The Big House, Barship, Essex," and had evidently, judging from the postmark, been sent through the General Post Office of the metropolis. Having ascertained this, the young man took out a double sheet of tolerably good notepaper, upon which in a backward sloping hand probably disguised, were written a few lines, to which no signature was appended. These intimated abruptly that the will of John Hendle was to be found buried at the foot of the sundial in the vicarage garden, and that Mrs. Beatson could find it by searching. While the two men read and reread this anonymous letter, the housekeeper went rambling on.
"I intended at first to keep it, and show Mr. Mallien when he returned. But then I thought--not trusting him--that if I had the will I could hold it until he gave me a deed making safe the annuity I wanted. For that reason I took advantage of your dining at the cottage, Mr. Hendle, to go and get it. I knew that the sundial was hidden among the grasses and shrubs of the vicarage garden, so there was no difficulty in finding the place mentioned. I did not think that you would return early from the dinner, and so left the thing until it was too late. I dug up the will easily, as it was only a little way under ground and the earth was piled loosely over it. Then I came out and stopped at the gate to make sure that it was the will I had found."
"A silly thing to do, seeing that Kensit on his rounds might have caught you," said Carrington, returning to his seat. "Now how much of this tale are we to believe?"
"The whole of it," retorted Mrs. Beatson, distinctly amazed. "It's the truth."
"Hum!" said Carrington reflectively, "it may be; but did you not send that letter from yourself to yourself?"
"Me!" Mrs. Beatson's voice leaped an octave.
"Hush! hush!" said Hendle, hurriedly glancing at the door. "You'll bring in the servants. I need hardly tell you that it is best to thresh out this matter among the three of us."
Thus warned, the housekeeper sank her voice, and took refuge in angry tears, always a woman's last resource. "I'm so tired of being insulted," she sobbed loudly. "Ever since you came across me, Mr. Hendle, that friend of yours has been taking away my character."
"I rather think you have taken it away yourself by behaving so treacherously to me," said Rupert grimly. "However, I don't agree with Mr. Carrington that you sent that letter to yourself from yourself."
"How could I," sobbed Mrs. Beatson, "when I haven't been near London? And I'm not a conspirator. It's a shame blaming me for trying to help myself. Why can't you leave me alone? Two men on to one woman. You ought to go on your knees and beg my pardon."
This amazing view of the case extorted a contemptuous smile from Carrington. He had much experience in his profession of the fair sex, and knew the marvellous way in which women extricated themselves from difficulties which would overwhelm a mere man. Logic, as he was well aware, formed no part of the feminine nature. "I shan't try to argue with you," he said mildly, "for you would be sure to get the better of me. But you have behaved very badly to Mr. Hendle."
"No, I haven't. I had a right to look after myself."
"Not at his expense. He has always treated you kindly and----"
"Well, why shouldn't he?" demanded Mrs. Beatson, rolling up her handkerchief into a damp ball and dabbing her red eyes. "I have always done my duty, I hope, and at a small salary, too. I could get a better place any day."
"Then I advise you to look out for one," said Rupert, astonished at this ingratitude. "You certainly shan't stay here."
"What?" Mrs. Beatson gasped and stared.
"Well, why should you when you can be happier elsewhere?"
"I didn't say that I would. And if you discharge me--as I knew you would when you talked of marrying Miss Mallien--I shall ask for one year's wages and a letter saying how thoroughly I attended to my duties."
"I had no idea of discharging you until I discovered your treachery," protested Hendle sharply. "It's your own fault and----"
"Mrs. Beatson's future can be settled later," interrupted Carrington at this point of the argument. "Just now she must answer me some questions."
"I shan't!" raged the woman, furious at her humiliating position. "It's all your fault that I have lost my----"
"If you don't answer," interrupted the barrister again, "I shall hand you over to Kensit to be taken to Lawson at Tarhaven."
"You wouldn't dare. Mr. Hendle wouldn't let you."
"Oh, yes, I should," said Rupert sternly. "I'm not going to play fast and loose with the law."
Mrs. Beatson's sour face became gray and pinched. "I know nothing about the matter, more than I have told you," she cried, greatly terrified at the prospect of being locked up. "I told Mr. Mallien about the will, and I dug it up when I got that letter."
"When did you tell Mr. Mallien?" asked Rupert, remembering how he had intended to put this question before and had not.
"On the day after I overheard the conversation," whimpered the housekeeper, very much subdued.
"When I was in London?"
"Yes. I went in the afternoon to the cottage. Miss Mallien had gone to tea with Miss Tollart, and I saw Mr. Mallien. He told me to hold my tongue and he would speak to you about the matter. Also he said that if he got the property he would give me an annuity."
"Did you tell him before the crime was committed?" asked Carrington.
"Am I not saying so?" shrieked Mrs. Beatson, virulently. "I told him on the very afternoon of the next day, and you know quite well that it was at eleven o'clock of the same night that Mr. Leigh was murdered. And no one was more astonished than I was."
"Had you any idea who murdered him?"
"No. How should I have any idea?"
"Have you any idea now?"
"No, I haven't, unless it was the person who sent that letter?"
"Who sent it?"
Mrs. Beatson stamped. "What a fool your are, Mr. Carrington! You have the letter and know as much about the matter as I do."
The barrister thought for a few moments, then turned his back on the angry woman to address Rupert. "Do you think she is speaking the truth, Hendle?"
"Yes, I do."
"Of course you do," cried the housekeeper, looking viciously at the pair. "I am not accustomed to having my word doubted."
"Hold your tongue, or it will be the worse for you," said Carrington sharply. "You have behaved very badly and ought to be locked up. All the same, I advise Mr. Hendle to leave matters as they are for a day or so, until we examine this will and make inquiries as to who sent this letter."
"That letter is mine!" cried Mrs. Beatson, stretching out her hand.
Rupert put it into his pocket. "It will go to the police if you don't hold your peace," he threatened, for strong measures were necessary in dealing with such a woman. "I agree with Mr. Carrington. Go away and say nothing about anything, not even to Mr. Mallien. Do you hear?"
"What are you going to do?"
"Never mind. You know whatyouhave to do." Rupert walked to the door and opened it. "Now go to bed."
Mrs. Beatson tossed her head and moved toward the door. She greatly wished to continue the conversation and defend herself, but a glance at Hendle's stern face made her change her mind. Never had she seen her good-tempered master so angry and so decided. Foolishly as she had talked, the woman was well aware that her position was a critical one, therefore she refrained from making bad worse. "I'm going and I'll say nothing," she snarled; "but when you are turned out of this house----"
"Please," said Rupert, nodding toward the hall.
"Beast!" said Mrs. Beatson under her breath lest the servants should hear, "both of you, beasts!" and she sailed out of the room triumphantly, having secured the last word, and so soothed her angry mind.
Hendle closed the door and returned to Carrington. "Take out the will and let us have a look at it," he said in a weary voice.
"Won't you wait until to-morrow?" asked Carrington, glancing at him. "This row has upset you."
"No. I want to see the will now. It may disappear again."
Carrington took out the crumpled parchment from his pocket. "Look after it yourself, then, and you can be certain that it is safe."
"All right. But let us look at it together. Move that lamp nearer."
Carrington did so, and Hendle spread out the rustling sheets--three or four of them, as the will was tolerably long. It was written, as wills of the early nineteenth century usually were, on parchment in a clear, scholarly hand, the writing being excellently engrossed and excellently preserved. The parchment itself was soiled and dog-eared, blotched here and there with coffee-brown stains: but it had suffered little damage during its hundred years' imprisonment in the muniment chest. With Carrington seated beside him the Squire slowly read the faded brown writing, and gradually made himself master of the contents. When he came to the signature of the testator and the names of the two witnesses, he drew a long breath and looked at the barrister in frank dismay.
"It seems quite legal," he said in a despairing voice.
"Quite," agreed Carrington. "So far I can't see anything wrong."
"And John Hendle by this"--Rupert struck the parchment--"leaves all his property, with the exception of sundry legacies to people now dead and buried, to Eunice Hendle, afterward Eunice Filbert, and her heirs. Yes. Leigh said as much. Frederick would have been disinherited had this will been produced in the year 1815. I wonder how it got lost."
"Frederick may have----"
"No, he didn't," interrupted the barrister sharply. "Frederick knew nothing about it, or he would have put it into the fire. I expect John Hendle made it--or rather his solicitor did--and then threw it into the chest where it was overlooked. Queer that the solicitor didn't mention it when the old man died."
"Perhaps he did," said Rupert sadly. "We know nothing of what took place at Hendle's death, save that Frederick inherited and that there was no question of Eunice coming into the property. But the same is left to her and her descendants; so Mallien, as her sole representative, inherits."
"Will you dispute the will?" asked Carrington anxiously.
"No," said Rupert, putting the document into his pocket; "it seems fair enough, and I must act honorably. When Mallien returns I shall give it to him--or rather I shall take it to our family lawyer along with Mallien."
"And lose the property?"
"My honor," said the young man gravely, "is dearer to me than money."