Dallas shrugged his shoulders indifferently. Truth to tell he was both annoyed and disappointed. He had looked forward with every assurance to laying his hand on the actual culprit in the person of Cooney. As it was now, the whole thing looked like beginning all over again. A suspicion of the real truth was dawning on his mind. "It was like this," Cooney said, in a harsh, strained voice. "I have been pretty short of a job for some time, and I promised to pay for a lot of furniture I bought for my house by a given time. I had the stuff on the hire-purchase system, and I knew precious well what would happen if I did not keep the instalments up. I had only a day or two to spare, and I was getting pretty anxious. That same evening I met Stevens in a public house. I hadn't seen him for some time, and, naturally enough, I asked him what he had been doing. Then he told me that on behalf of a party, whose name he didn't mention, he had been shadowing a certain house in Fitzjohn Square. I wasn't particularly interested until he let out that he could tell me a good deal about the houses there, and how some of them would be easy work for the likes of a chap such as me, for instance. Then I asks a few questions, and hears all about Mr. Delahay's studio. Thinks I to myself, here's a bit of luck for you, Jim Cooney. I had all the information I wanted. The next night I goes round and has a look at the studio. The thing was as easy as eating your dinner. I waited till it got pretty late, and then I got into the house from the back. When I did get there, I was rather alarmed to see a light in the studio. I crept along to the door, and looked in. You can imagine my surprise when I saw a gentleman painting there. When I looked at him again I had no difficulty in recognising Lord Ravenspur.
"What he was doing there, I don't know. But seeing it wasn't his own house, I reckoned he wasn't likely to stay long, so I just sat down to wait patiently for such a time as I could have the place to myself. It wasn't more than an hour before I heard the door open, and two other people came in. They were a lady and a gentleman, but who the lady was I don't know from Adam. The gentleman, as you will guess, was Mr. Delahay himself. I suppose the lady was really Mrs. Delahay, too; I mean, the woman who is suspected of the murder. But I am getting a bit away from the point. I had hardly time to hide myself behind a recess with a curtain in front of it before the newcomers came into the hall and began to talk. They were conversing more or less in whispers, so that I could not follow very well, but I could see that they were annoyed to find Lord Ravenspur there, and they were casting about for some means of getting rid of him. Presently the lady said something about the light and the cable, and the gentleman seemed to fall in with her suggestion. Anyway, I saw him take a knife from his pocket, and go down into the basement. A moment later the whole place was plunged in darkness----"
"You mean that the cable was cut?" Dallas asked. "Well, I am glad that mystery is cleared up. I am bound to tell you, gentlemen, that that cut cable has caused me no end of trouble. It started me on a dozen, more or less impossible, theories. I see exactly what happened now. Mr. Delahay and his companion doubtless thought that if they cut off the light, they would get rid of Lord Ravenspur."
"That is exactly what they did," Cooney resumed. "I heard his lordship fussing about, and trying the electric switches, but he gave it up as a bad job, and after a bit left the house. Mr. Delahay appeared presently from somewhere, with a lamp, which he carried into the studio, and the lady followed him. I was close enough at hand to see what took place. The lady had come, evidently for some valuable jewelry, for Mr. Delahay produced a case from a safe, and handed it over to her. My word, but those stones did sparkle! It seemed to me that I was in luck that night. My game obviously was to take no further heed of the studio, but to follow the lady as soon as she left the house. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning, and there wasn't a soul about. In my mind's eye I saw those stones already in my pocket. But, unfortunately for me, Mr. Delahay walked with his visitor as far as the front gate, and stood looking up the road until the lady was safe in a hansom. It was as much as I could do to get back to the house again without being discovered, but I managed it all right. There were several valuable articles I had marked down, and directly Mr. Delahay was back in the studio I began to gather them together. I dropped one trinket, which tinkled on the floor, and my heart was in my mouth. I thought that the sound didn't reach the ears of Mr. Delahay. But I was mistaken. A minute or two later I heard him coming, and I bolted through the window into the garden. I waited there perhaps for an hour before it seemed safe for me to go back, and then I went. I turned on the light. . . . My heart was fair in my mouth. Then I looked down at the floor. There lay Mr. Delahay as dead as a rabbit. I believe I howled for a moment, I was taken to! But there he lay, and there was his watch-chain a-shining in the light, and then it comes into my head that, if I'd got pluck enough, here was a way to pay for them sticks of furniture of mine. It was hard work, but I managed to screw myself up to it at last. After all said and done, I'd only come here to take what I could get, and it wasn't me that knifed the poor gentleman. Besides, he might have died a natural death for all I knew. There was no sign of blood about, and nothing that suggested violence. All the same, I couldn't go through it again if you offered me ten thousand of the best."
Cooney paused and shuddered. Great beads of perspiration poured down his face. Then he resumed once more.
"Well, he was dead, and there was an end of it. Just for the moment I wasn't thinking about much besides my little happy home. I pocketed all the valuables I could lay my hands upon, and carried them away. You may say that that was a mad thing to do, but after I saw Mr. Delahay lying dead at my feet, it seemed to me as if he wasn't likely to miss 'em. Oh, I know as I stand in what the papers call a serious position. But that's the gospel truth, and I can't tell you any more. It seems to me I have said enough. And now, if you will call a cab, sir, I am ready for you."
A cab was called, and Dallas drove off in the direction of Bow Street with his prisoner. He stopped just a moment to exchange a few words with Lance and Venables.
"There is no reason why Mrs. Delahay should not know this just yet?" Walter asked. "You may be sure that she feels her position keenly. Would there be any objection to getting her to accompany us as far as Cannon Green tonight? You will understand why."
"None at all," Dallas said. "I'll send a message to the man who is watching outside the Grand Hotel, and let him know that his presence there is needed no longer. All the same, we have still got to find the culprit. It isn't Cooney. He told us the truth, I'm certain. The culprit is at Cannon Green! What a fool I've been!"
Mrs. Delahay received her visitors in a dull, apathetic way, which had never left her since the night of the tragedy. But her face cleared, and her manner became more soft and gentle as she listened to the story which Walter had to tell. She dropped into a chair, and for some moments the tears ran unrestrainedly down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes presently. There was something like a smile on her lips as she turned to Walter.
"I believe those tears saved my reason," she said. "I have not been able to cry. I have not been able to feel the last few days. The death of my husband was bad enough. The knowledge that I was suspected of his murder was worse, but the feeling that my own sister possibly had a hand in the tragedy was worse than all the rest. There are one or two matters to be explained yet, but the great truth is growing plain, and I feel like a living being once more. Oh, yes; I will come down to Cannon Green with you; I am looking forward to it with something like pleasure. I know that when I have seen my sister everything will be cleared up."
It was a different woman who came down from her room half an hour later, ready for the journey. She looked sad and pathetic enough in her deep mourning. The trouble still brooded in her eyes, but the look of stony despair was no longer there. They came at length to the house on the common. The windows were lighted up, the hall looked comfortable and cheery.
In the drawing-room were the Countess Flavio and Vera. They rose as Mrs. Delahay entered.
"I have brought your sister," Walter explained briefly. "She has much to say to you. Perhaps I had better leave you alone."
It was getting exceedingly late now, but the two sisters Descarti, together with Vera, were still in the drawing-room. Nobody cared to disturb them. It was felt that they would have much to say to one another. And no doubt, all they had to tell would be disclosed when the proper time came. Valdo had not recovered consciousness again. He lay there overhead, with a vigilant-eyed nurse watching him. Venables had not come down with Mrs. Delahay and Walter. He had excused himself on the plea of business, and on the understanding that he would visit Cannon Green the following day. In the dining-room for the last hour or two Walter had been seated, deeply engrossed in the slim, parchment-covered volume which had been sent him by Countess Flavio at the urgent request of her dying servant.
Time was going on, and still Walter did not look up from the book. It was long past two before he finished. Then with a firm step and a determined air he went up to the little library where Lord Ravenspur was busy writing letters. The latter looked up, and demanded to know what his nephew wanted.
"I want you to look at this," Walter said quietly. "It is a diary written by your late friend Count Flavio, whose handwriting you will, of course, recognise. The diary came into the hands of Silva after his master's death. Now Silva told me some time ago--in fact, during that memorable interview in your studio--that he had in his possession documentary evidence which would prove that his mistress was an injured woman, and his master a scoundrel of the deepest dye. When I asked him why he did not produce this book at the trial, he shrugged his shoulders, and said that it would have been useless. Public opinion against the Countess ran so high that nobody would have believed that it was anything but a forgery. But that will be for you to judge. Before we go any further, I want your assurance that this is your dead friend's own handwriting."
Lord Ravenspur turned over the leaves of the manuscript, more or less languidly. One leaf after another he fluttered over; then he handed the book back to Walter again.
"I am not going to contest the point," he said. "Beyond question, this is my unfortunate friend's handwriting; though the letters are quite plain, the writing could not be easily forged. Indeed, to forge such an amount as that would be the work of half a lifetime. But what do you want me to do?"
Walter signified that he would like his uncle to read the whole of the volume, but Lord Ravenspur shook his head.
"I am afraid I cannot," he said. "I can speak Italian fairly enough, as you know, but that is merely colloquial, and I had never time really to master the language. But, seeing that you spent three years of your life there, don't you think that you had better read it out to me. I suppose it is interesting?"
"I never read anything that fascinated me more," Walter said. "Mind you, this is the secret diary of Count Flavio. He had no idea that anybody would ever read it. I have gone through the volume from start to finish, and I am forced to the conclusion that your friend was the poisonous scoundrel that Silva declares him to be. I tell you, if this book was published, it would cause a great sensation from one end of Europe to the other. It is the work of a brilliant man with a fine style and an imaginative mind--the history of an attempt to deprive a woman of her will, and of her reason. For the three years during which the Count and Countess Flavio lived together the woman's life was one long, incessant torture. Mind you, there was no actual violence, but the tortures were exquisite and cruel all the same. And here we have them in the Count's own words. It is absolutely necessary that you should listen to some extracts from this amazing work."
"Go on," Ravenspur said quietly; "I am all attention."
Walter bent back the book, and began to read:
"February 17th, 1887. What man is there who has ever succeeded in penetrating the unfathomable depths of a woman's mind? What fools we men are to assume a knowledge of the sex until we are married, and have the object lesson before us day by day! There is Carlotta, for example. Carlotta's prevailing trouble is that she is jealous of me. She seems to think that because she cut herself off from her family for my sake, I am to be at her beck and call henceforth and for ever. This peculiar form of jealousy interests and amuses me. It is a pleasure to study it from a scientific basis. This morning I told her I was going to Florence for a day or two, and she wept because I would not allow her to accompany me. I could see that she does not trust me, wherefore I caused a friend of mine who can imitate a woman's writing excellently, to write me a passionate love-letter, which fell quite naturally into Carlotta's hands.
"The scene which followed was exquisitely amusing. I have never seen a woman weep to such an extent before. Positively my charming Carlotta was enchanting. I was quite sorry at length when she assumed a mantle of dignity, and left me. Still, this is only the first of many such scenes if I engineered them properly. I see that Carlotta is in possession of all the emotions, so that, by studying her alone, I shall be in a position to add some really extraordinary chapters to my great book on women and their ways.
"March 19th, 1887. Carlotta has afforded me a month of absolute enjoyment. Why do people pay money to sit in stuffy theatres and watch comedies and tragedies when they can see and hear the real, palpitating thing for nothing? Outwardly, Carlotta and myself are at daggers drawn. She thinks I am unrepentant and angry, but, as to myself, I have never been more cheerful and happy in my life. And when Carlotta threatens to leave me, I ask her why she is going, knowing perfectly well that she has not the slightest intention of leaving me. Women are very much like cats in these matters--they will make many sacrifices for the sake of the domestic hearth. I was talking to Dr. Sacci, the great surgeon, the other day, and he was telling me of the fierce joy that comes through some new discovery which has been the outcome of vivisection. But, then, Sacci is only working in the interests of humanity, whereas my vivisection allows me to see the exquisite suffering of the patient. I can study the nerves, and the palpitating wound, at the very moment when the knife enters.
"December 21st, 1887. The last chapter in my book is by far the most brilliant and searching which I have yet added to that fascinating volume. Whatever Carlotta suffers in the present, she shall go down to posterity as the martyr of her sex. I will place her on a pinnacle as high as my own. Indeed, I was almost sorry when I had to tell her the story of the love-letter, and how I had been playing on her feelings all these months. At the same time, I looked forward to the explanation, because I knew that it would open up to me a fresh phase of womanly nature. And I confess that it did with a vengeance. Carlotta turned pale. She stood there looking as if she were filled with the greatest physical agony, her eyes filled with tears which did not fall. I don't know how many days it is since she spoke to me last, but certainly it must be upwards of a fortnight. This is not exactly what I expected. It is only when a woman talks that one can judge of how the experiment is progressing. Tomorrow, all being well, I am going to adopt a new scheme which I hope will have the desired effect.
"December 22nd, 1887. Our little Vera has disappeared. Evidently she has been kidnapped with a view to a reward. The whole neighbourhood is up in arms, and my wife is distracted. It has often been a favourite theory of mine that every man takes a second place in a woman's affections as soon as her first child is born. I look back now with a vivid recollection of the early days when I first met Carlotta. I look back to her passionate love scenes, and her declarations that I should be first with her, then and always. Even though I was very much enamoured, I had my doubts when I was alone, and in a position to debate the matter clearly. The time has come to put the question to a test, and thus it became necessary for Vera to disappear. I might say at once that my theory has been vindicated to the letter. I now know that Carlotta cares far more for Vera than she does for me. The reflection is not soothing to one's vanity, but there it is. There is a wildness and intensity in her grief, which she never would have experienced had I been brought home to her in the last stage of dissolution. I must keep this up. I must work this phase as long as it lasts, which will not be an indefinite time, because I must not drive my patient too far. She begins to show signs of collapse already. I think at the end of a week I must have Vera brought back again. By the expiration of that time, I fancy I can add another chapter to my remarkable book."
Walter stopped for a moment, his voice was full of loathing and disgust. An honest indignation almost choked him. He saw now that his anger and contempt were reflected on the face of Ravenspur.
"Do you want me to read any further," he said, "or is that sufficient? Shall I tell you, for instance, what happened after this inhuman wretch brought his child home again? Shall I tell you of other tortures and tyrannies, and how this scoundrel rejoices in the fact that his neighbours like him and pity him because he is married to a bad-tempered woman, who makes his life a burden? That is the note that runs all through this extraordinary diary. The man uses it as a weapon to play upon the feelings of his wife. If you are not yet satisfied I will pick out----"
"No, no," Ravenspur cried, as he rose to his feet. "I have heard enough and more than enough. Flavio must have been a madman; and yet I regarded him as one of the best and noblest of men. I never dreamt he had an enemy. I never knew anybody say a word against him. And to think that a man of the world like myself should be deceived in this way! Everything is now growing wonderfully clear before my eyes, Walter. I can even understand why the Countess left her daughter behind her. Fancy suffering all that trouble and humiliation to find, later on, that the child you had done so much for was likely to turn out as her father had done! In the last ten minutes you have proved that I was wrong, and the Countess was right; and yet it seemed to me that I was justified in my actions. I don't know what I am going to do. I don't know what steps I can take to convince that unhappy woman that I acted for the best. At any rate, I must make a beginning before I go to bed tonight."
Ravenspur took up the volume and went down the stairs. In the drawing-room, the Countess, Mrs. Delahay, and Vera were still seated, talking earnestly together. Ravenspur crossed the room to the Countess's side and held out the book.
"Do you know what this contains?" he asked. "I suppose you have read it from cover to cover?"
"Once," said the Countess, with a shudder, "but never again."
"I can quite understand your feelings," Ravenspur said. "I have only heard extracts, but they have been quite sufficient for me. And now let me do my best to try and convince you that I acted in what I conceived to be the true interests of your child. I know now how wrong I was. I know that you have been made the victim of a scoundrel and a madman; and if you can forgive me for what I have done, I will be your grateful servant in the future."
"One moment," the Countess said. "There is another, and yet more painful thing to confess. I understand from your nephew that the police think that they have a most important clue to the murder of Louis Delahay. The police are all wrong. It is incredible to me that they have not discovered the truth before; that they have not blundered on it. Surely you can guess who it is who is responsible for the death of my poor sister's husband?"
"I am afraid," Ravenspur murmured, "that I cannot----"
"Not even after it was known that you were at work in the studio that night?"
"No, unless, perhaps--good heavens, you don't mean to say Silva?"
"Nobody else. The man tracked you to Fitzjohn Square. There was not one of your movements that he did not know. But come this way. I dare say the nurse will not mind us talking to the patient for a few moments alone. You shall hear Silva confirm what I have said to you."
Ravenspur stumbled to his feet. He was dazed and numbed with surprise; and yet the more he came to think of it, the more plausible it seemed. No, the nurse had no objection, it would not harm the patient. He was very near to his end now. Weak as he was, his eyes gleamed as he caught sight of Lord Ravenspur, the old wolfish look was on his face.
"We have been mistaken, my dear Silva," the Countess said. "Lord Ravenspur has been one of my best friends if I had only known it. He was deceived by my husband, as hundreds of others were. His lordship was led to believe that the Count was a martyr to a dreadful wife, a woman incapable of looking after a child. The kidnapping of my daughter was part of his vengeance upon me, so that he could reach me from the other side of the grave. Everything has been explained, the diary has been read by Lord Ravenspur; and he has forgiven you, he has come to your bedside to say so before you--you----"
"Die," Silva said, with an effort. "Curse his forgiveness. If I could stand up now----"
He could say no more, the malignant hate, the fire of madness, still gleamed in his dark eyes. He would hold the same tradition to the end. There was no chance of anything like a reconciliation here.
"I expected nothing else," the Countess said sadly. "Only a Corsican could understand his feelings. It is his blood, his religion. But if you can't forgive, my poor Silva, you can confess. It may be the means of saving an innocent life. It was you who were responsible for the death of Mr. Delahay?"
Silva nodded quite coolly. There was an upward heave of his shoulders that was very expressive. It was like one who confesses to a mistake.
"I understand," the Countess resumed. "It was a misunderstanding. You had traced Lord Ravenspur to the studio. You were going to kill him there. Only Mr. Delahay and myself interrupted you. You were probably hiding somewhere outside, waiting for your opportunity, when we arrived. You did not see us, you were not aware of anything till the lights were out. I may make errors in details, but in the main I am quite correct. No, don't try and talk--a nod is sufficient. When Mr. Delahay returned to the studio, after Lord Ravenspur was driven away, and after I had gone, you were in the studio. You mistook Mr. Delahay for Lord Ravenspur, and killed him with a glass Corsican dagger. You did not know till you saw the papers the next day that you had made a mistake?"
Silva nodded again. He did not appear to feel the least remorse, but his hungry eyes testified how he regretted that he had so signally failed. The old wild spirit was still there, even the approach of death could not quench it. Ravenspur turned away, filled with disgust and sadness.
"Really, there is nothing more to be said," he murmured. "I should like to put the heads of the confession down and get the unhappy man to sign it."
Silva affixed a straggling signature to the confession. Then he turned over on his side and refused to listen any more. Evidently he was going to die as he had lived--hard, unfeeling, carrying his bitter hatred to the grave.
"According to his lights," Ravenspur murmured, "let us hope that he will not be judged too harshly where he is going so soon."
The hard, cold face had softened slightly. It seemed to Ravenspur that there was something akin to a smile in Countess Flavio's eyes when once more they were alone in the drawing-room together.
"Let us try and forget that dreadful scene," she said, "as I will try and forget what a hard, misunderstood life mine has been."
"It must have been terrible," Ravenspur exclaimed; "and yet there was not a man in Europe for whom I had a higher regard than I had for your husband. To me he was the soul of honour. I always found him generous and liberal-minded. I have seen him do the most spontaneous acts of kindness to strangers. It seemed hard to think that he was wholly bad."
"He was an enigma," the Countess replied. "In his brain lay a curious vein of madness, which vented itself upon me. No one else suffered, and, indeed, no one knew that I suffered, with the solitary exception of that poor lost soul who is lying at death's door upstairs. When I fled from my father's house, knowing that I had cut myself off entirely from my own flesh and blood, Silva followed me. From the first he began to see how I was suffering. From the first he began to entertain a malignant hatred of my husband."
"And finally poisoned him," Ravenspur suggested.
"Ah, there you are wrong," the Countess exclaimed. "With all the earnestness in my power I want to impress upon you that my husband poisoned himself. As you have been informed, for generations there had been a feud between the Descartis and my husband's family. After my marriage it would have been an easy matter for my father to summon some of his retainers, and command them to avenge the honour and dignity of the family. My father chose not to do it. He was satisfied with the solemn assurance that only one child of his remained. The summons was sent out by Silva. He did not tell me. I did not know in the least what he was doing till afterwards. But the sign went forth, and my husband received his warning. There was no escape for him, and he knew it. That is why he took his own life. No doubt in doing so he was actuated by some extraordinary motive, for, with all his faults, he was no coward; but even from beyond the grave he persecuted me. His body was found in circumstances that pointed to me as the murderess. Oh, you may start and shrink, but what I tell you is absolutely true. The whole thing was planned, with diabolical ingenuity, by the Count on the night of his death. Had it not been for Silva I should have gone down to my grave execrated by all who knew me."
"But you were not there," Ravenspur expostulated. "It was proved that you were in Florence at the time."
"That was where Silva's cunning and ingenuity came in. During the few hours that preceded and followed that tragic event I saw nobody. I was utterly worn out and prostrated. I could not drag myself from my bed. But nobody saw me, for I had given strict orders that I was not to be disturbed. I did not know then that my sister was alive. In fact, I had got into such a state that I had no interest in anything. At that time my sister Maria was taking a holiday in Florence, and Silva was aware of the fact. When I ask you to notice the extraordinary likeness between us, you will have no trouble in guessing what happened. Silva was in a position to bring over scores of people from Florence, who swore that I was in that town at the time of the tragedy. It was a bold thing to do, and nobody guessed, nobody doubted the sincerity of the witnesses, and thus my life was saved."
"It is a most extraordinary story," Ravenspur murmured. "But, really, there is no reason for you to justify yourself any further. We know that you are absolutely innocent of any sort of crime. I know now what kind of a life Flavio led you. Had I been aware at the time I should never have interfered. And yet Flavio managed to convey to me the impression that you were the last woman in the world who ought to have the custody of a child. I committed an illegal act at the earnest request of my old friend. I ran a great risk, but it seemed to me that I was justified in what I did."
"I see you are now," the Countess said thoughtfully. "For many, many years no doubt you have rejoiced in the fact that you saved Vera from a life of misery and unhappiness. You never expected to see or hear from me again. You looked upon the child as your own. And now, to a certain extent, I must justify myself. I stand in your eyes as a deeply wronged and injured woman, and yet you might say to yourself that as a mother I have been lacking in my duties. I tell you for a long time after the death of my husband my mind trembled on the borderline between reason and insanity. I was afraid to see my child. I was fearful lest I should find in her some trace of her father; and, if I had done so, I believe that I should have taken her life. But, gradually, as the years went on and I grew older, a longing to see my child came over me that amounted almost to a passion. I left my retreat in the mountains, and came into the world again. It was at this time that I met Silva once more, and for three years he was looking for my child. I need not tell you, Lord Ravenspur, how he got on the track."
Lord Ravenspur shivered and nodded in reply.
"I would have prevented that if I could," the Countess went on quickly. "I wanted no violence. But I knew that Silva would go his own way. I knew that nobody could check his fanaticism. In his eyes you were marked down for slaughter. You had violated the dignity and honour of the family, and therefore you must be removed. Let me be quite candid--I think I hated you almost as much as Silva did. You had robbed me of my child at the instigation of my cruel husband. Not unnaturally, I regarded you as being little or no better than Count Flavio. All the same, as I said before, I wanted no violence. That was one of the reasons why I did not come to your house and claim my child. I felt sure that you would defy me, and place Vera somewhere beyond my reach."
"Most undoubtedly I should," Ravenspur said candidly. "You see, I did not know then that you were capable----"
"Of looking after my daughter," the Countess interrupted. "And, from your point of view, your actions would have been justified. As soon as the danger threatened seriously you made arrangements to get away from England until Vera was of age, and capable of acting for herself. But Silva found out----"
"One moment," Vera cried eagerly. "Was your servant, Silva, in Park Lane disguised as a blind organ-grinder?"
"I understand so," the Countess went on. "At any rate, Silva managed things, in his usual able manner. He contrived to get Vera away from Lady Ringmar's party, and bring here down her. I daresay you will think that this was all very melodramatic and unnecessary, but, as I pointed out to you before, I wanted no violence. I thought when Silva's plan was successful that I should be able to persuade him to forego the rest of his vengeance. I thought that once I had my daughter back in my own hands, I could take her out of the country and get Silva to accompany me. Then you, Lord Ravenspur, would have been safe. But in certain matters Silva is quite as insane as my husband was. It was in vain that I appealed to him. He had made his vow, and he was going to carry it out. It is only fitting that he should have brought so just a punishment upon his own shoulders."
"And yet there is something magnificent in a vengeance like his," Ravenspur said, thoughtfully. "Now that everything is cleared up, how simple it seems. There is only one thing that puzzles me, and that is your connection with my unfortunate friend Louis Delahay. It seems a remarkable thing that both you sisters should have known Delahay. How did it come about?"
"That I have just been explaining at some length," the Countess said. "But for your benefit I will go over the ground again."
Ravenspur listened with the greatest interest to the story which the Countess had to tell. She told him vividly enough of the eventful night when she had made up her mind to leave her husband's roof, and how her life had been saved at a critical moment by a total stranger, who turned out to be Louis Delahay--the same Delahay who, years afterwards, met Maria Descarti and made her his wife. She told the story of the jewels, and how the time had come when she needed them, to turn into money to aid her in her search for Vera. Then she went on to speak of her meeting with Delahay.
"One moment," Ravenspur said. "When Louis married you, Mrs. Delahay, did he not notice your extraordinary likeness to the Countess, whom he had befriended so many years ago?"
"He couldn't," the Countess exclaimed. "Not only was our interview in the dark, but I was wearing a veil. Oh, you may say it was an extraordinary thing to trust my valuables to a perfect stranger, but more amazing things happen every day, and I was beside myself with grief and terror and despair at the time. At any rate, I did it, and I got my jewels back again. I can tell you, if you like, the story of that strange interview. I can describe how I went down to the studio with Mr. Delahay, and how we saw you there. But we are wasting time and it is getting late. There is only one thing to regret now, and that is the death of my sister's husband; but it has always been useless for a Descarti to expect anything like happiness in this world. Never was one of our family yet, who was not born to misery and despair. Still, one can now look forward to a more pleasant time. I am quite sure, after what has happened, that you will not try to stand between Vera and myself any longer, Lord Ravenspur. I can only thank you from the bottom of my heart for what you have done."
"Vera has been very dear to me," Lord Ravenspur said, with some emotion. "I daresay we shall be able to explain matters satisfactorily, so that people will not be in a position to talk. And now, as it is getting so very late----"
It was well into the following afternoon when the trained nurse came quietly down the stairs, and announced to Lord Ravenspur that her task was finished. Silva had died in his sleep. The troubled spirit was at rest, the tardy confession had been made, and Lord Ravenspur had no longer any occasion to fear the vengeance that had followed him so long. There would have to be an inquest, of course--as there was. But there was nothing much here to arouse public curiosity. A servant at the house on the common had been severely mauled by a savage dog prowling about, and he had succumbed to the shock. The newspapers had a few paragraphs, but in a day or two the incident was forgotten, nor was there any occasion to worry the owner of the house, seeing that the place had been taken by Silva in the proper name of his mistress. The servants had seen nothing either, so that scandal was entirely checked. It would, perhaps, be a difficult matter later on to explain the unexpected reappearance of Vera's mother, but it seemed to Ravenspur that he could see a way to solve that problem. And after the lapse of eighteen years, nobody would identify the Countess Flavio with the Italian scandal that had been a sensation in Europe back in the 'eighties. Ravenspur and the Countess were good enough friends now, and Mrs. Delahay was beginning to recover her health and strength again. Already the Fitzjohn Square murder had ceased to occupy public attention now that the tragedy had been solved, and there was no chance of the culprit being brought before an earthly tribunal. As to Cooney, he got off quite as lightly as he deserved. And there are always new sensations to follow the old.
"I think, on the whole, you had better remain here for the present," Ravenspur suggested. "You have the house on your hands for two months, and, really, it is a very pleasant place. Everybody is out of town for the present, and very few of my friends will be back in London again before the autumn. This will give us time to invent some plausible story to account for your reappearance. I don't like that kind of thing as a rule, but is is quite essential in this case."
"What are you going to do yourself?" the Countess asked.
"I am going to have a couple of quiet months on the continent. As you can imagine, my nerves are considerably shaken, and I am not so young as I used to be. I shall miss Vera, of course, but I think it is far better for her to stay here with you, so that you can get to know one another properly. But has it ever occurred to you, Countess, that before long Vera will have another and a closer guardian than either of our two selves?"
"I suppose that is inevitable," the Countess said as she looked thoughtfully across the flower-beds. "Still, the fault is my own. I deliberately wasted eighteen years, and it is hardly to be expected that Vera--but don't let us anticipate."
"I am afraid the mischief is done," Ravenspur smiled. "From a remark that Vera let slip the other night, I learnt a great deal that has been going on in her mind. Goodness knows how she got the impression, but she honestly believed that I was something more than her guardian, and that, between you and myself--but I mustn't pain you by being more definite. Anyway, I now know why Vera appeared to be so unhappy and miserable a few weeks ago, and why she conceived the idea of leaving my house, and going out into the world to get her own living. To make matters quite plain, she and my nephew have fallen in love with one another and she thought that I should oppose the match. As a matter of fact, I did. But not for the reasons that Vera supposed. What I was afraid of was that the vengeance intended for me might have been transferred to Walter, had he married Vera then. Of course, matters are on a totally different footing now, and nobody is more delighted than myself. Walter is a fine fellow. He will be rich some of these days. He will succeed to the title at my death. If I were you, Countess, I would not interfere with that arrangement."
"I am afraid it would be too late in any case," the Countess said, sadly. "I have no right to say a word. And, from what I have seen of your nephew, I should say that he will make a good husband for any girl. Still, it is rather a disappointment to find that I have been supplanted in this way, though I am bound to admit that the fault is entirely my own."
Ravenspur was quite content to leave it discreetly at that, and all the more so because Vera herself was at that moment coming down the garden path. The girl's face was bright and happy now. The look of trouble had vanished from her eyes. The sun was shining full in her face, and as the Countess regarded her daughter critically she could see no suggestion of her father in her face. As Lord Ravenspur moved away, Vera took her place by her mother's side.
"What have you two been plotting?" she asked gaily.
"We have been discussing your future," the Countess replied. "Lord Ravenspur has been telling me something which, apparently, I ought to have guessed before. I was looking forward to a year or two in your company, but I am told that that is more than I can expect. There is a certain young man----"
"You are speaking of Walter," Vera murmured. A little colour crept into her cheeks. Her eyes were bright and smiling. "Positively there has been no time to tell you about Walter. Do you know, mother, that Walter and myself have been lovers ever since I was fourteen? There has never been anybody like Walter in my eyes. And then, a few months ago, it seemed to come to me in a different way altogether. I suppose when I came to years of discretion I could see things more plainly. But how could I marry Walter when I had no name of my own? I felt sure that Lord Ravenspur would be sternly opposed to anything of the kind. And that is why I wanted to leave his house and earn my own living. But now that I am a Flavio, that is a different matter. We are quite as well born as the Ravenspurs, and so far as my guardian is concerned----"
"The path is smooth enough now," the Countess smiled. "Lord Ravenspur told me just now that he was delighted with the turn of events. There is no girl he knows he would rather have for a niece than yourself. But I wasn't going to say that, Vera. What I want to impress upon you is this--I am not going to stand between you and your happiness for a moment. If your lover wants you now, go to him and don't consider me. Take your happiness when you get the opportunity. Let me before I die see one Descarti, at least, who has her heart's desire. And now we won't say any more about it, my child. After all, I am better treated than I deserve."
The dusk was beginning to fall at length. The garden was fragrant with the scent of flowers, holding their heads high to reach the dropping dew. It was a warm evening, and the French windows in the dining-room were widely open. Dinner was almost over. The table was littered with fruit. There was just the suggestion of scented tobacco smoke hanging on the air. Ravenspur sat chatting almost gaily with the Countess and her sister. The gloom had lifted from his face now. He appeared to be years younger during the last few days. Vera rose from her chair and stood by the window, drinking in the subtle delights of the evening. Walter crossed over to her side, and placed his arm under hers.
"Come outside," he said. "It is a shame to stay indoors a night like this. Besides, I have something important to say to you."
Vera turned and smiled into her lover's face. She had never felt the least shy or awkward with him--they were too good friends for that. They walked in silence together down the path, with the roses rioting on either side. They came at length to a little secluded terrace looking over the common. Behind the bracken and the heather the sun was sinking in a track of golden glory. The after-light shone in Vera's eyes, and rendered them glorious. Walter turned to her eagerly. He had his arm about her waist now, her head bent towards his shoulder. It all seemed the most natural thing in the world, the fitting crown to their romance.
"How long is it," Walter asked, "since you wanted to run away and leave us? I won't ask you why you wanted to go, because my uncle has told me that. My dearest girl, there is no occasion for you to blush and look uncomfortable. I am sure that your motives did you every credit. But we will pass over that. We need never allude to it again. I have spoken to your mother, and what my uncle's feelings are you know for yourself. All the dangers and troubles have gone now. Everything lies fair and smooth between us. And now, little Vera, when are we to be married?"
Vera turned slowly and thoughtfully. She laid her hands upon Walter's shoulders, and looked steadily and lovingly into his smiling eyes. Her words were low and sweet.
"Dear old boy," she said, "we have always been friends, and more than friends, and in my heart of hearts I have ever felt that it must come to this, whatever obstacles stood in the way. I am not so brave as I thought I was, Walter, and I don't believe I could have left you when it came to the pinch. Oh, I'll marry you, dear; I'll marry you gladly and willingly, and be the happiest girl in all the world. But not yet; not till our time is up here; not till I have spent the next two months with my mother. And you won't love me any the less because I have thought of her as well as you?"
Walter kissed the sweet, serious lips.
"It shall be as you say, sweetheart. And now let us go back, and tell the others all about it."
"There is only one thing that remains," Walter said, as he and Lord Ravenspur walked up and down after dinner, with their cigars. "That photo, uncle. The one that you were so worried about, in the studio on the night when Sir James was attacked by Silva in mistake for you. Where did it come from, and why did it agitate you so?"
"I had almost forgotten that," Ravenspur smiled. "Well, that photo was tied, with a small packet of jewels, round Vera's neck when I carried her away from Italy. I did not know till lately that it was a photo of her mother. She must have been a lovely woman then. Being an artist, I rather idealised that photograph--indeed, I painted the picture that Silva stole from it. It was only when the picture was finished that I discovered I had made a very strong likeness to Vera; and then I had my doubts. Here was Vera's mother in the flesh again. Had I done wrong? Had Flavio deceived me? The thing has troubled my conscience ever since. A woman with a face like that to be a fiend! Never. And yet----
"Still, it is all over now. There have been faults on all sides, so that we can all afford to forget and forgive. And that, my dear boy, is all I have to say."