"How did you know my husband was in England?" Maria asked.
"I didn't," the Countess confessed. "I looked for him all over the Continent. I should have written to him, only I had mislaid his card, which I found at length after a long search. Seeing that the address was Fitzjohn Square, I thought I would come and interview Mr. Delahay. It was quite late at night that I found that he was staying at the Grand Hotel, and as things were very pressing indeed, I sent him an express letter asking for an interview early in the morning. In response I received a telegram saying that he would see me at once, and if I could manage to be at the corner of Fitzjohn Square at one o'clock in the morning. I told you just now that things were very urgent, because I had taken this house furnished, and I had already had one or two unpleasant interviews with the landlord, who naturally wanted his money. The telegram seemed to be reasonable enough. Artists are very late people, and, besides, it occurred to me that Mr. Delahay had probably had those jewels in his house. At any rate, I met him. You can imagine how astonished he was when he saw my face. Of course, he naturally concluded that I was your sister, but he seemed to think that you had told him that I was dead. I suppose that was so."
"Certainly it was," Mrs. Delahay said. "I was definitely told that you were dead. And when I related our unhappy story to my husband, I always spoke of you as one who was no more."
"Yes; I quite see. Well, we went along very pleasantly together to the house, and it seemed to me that all I had to do was to get those jewels and come and call upon you. Naturally, I had not heard of you for years. Indeed, I regarded you as dead, much the same as you were under the impression that I no longer lived. But when we reached the studio, a light was burning there, and, looking in, I saw a man painting, a handsome man whom your husband told me was Lord Ravenspur. You can imagine that neither of us wanted to be seen. There was no occasion to raise any doubts in the intruder's mind, and so we waited till he was gone. Then my case of jewels was handed over to me, and I came straight back here. Not till late the next afternoon did I know what had happened."
"Then there is nothing more you can tell me?" Mrs. Delahay asked.
"I am sorry to say there is not. But since you have been here certain suspicions have begun to grow in my mind which fill me with dread. It would not be fair to utter them yet, until I am more certain of my facts. Still, I am glad you have come now, because I think you will be of assistance to me. You heard me speak just now of Luigi Silva, but, of course, you will remember him perfectly well?"
"I recollect him," Mrs. Delahay said. "A queer-tempered man, with strange and wayward moods, but he was sincerely attached to us. I should like to see him again."
"Youshallsee him," the Countess said. "And if you have half an hour to spare it shall be this very night. When I discovered that my daughter had been stolen I got in touch with Silva, who, as I told you just now, was under the impression that I had taken Vera away and placed her in safe custody, lest the authorities should interfere and remove her from my influence. When he found that I had barely given Vera a thought all these years, he was furiously angry with me. Indeed, his rage knew no bounds. He had always been so faithful; he had always worked so hard for me, that I was astounded. He refused to have any more to do with me. He went off without leaving his address, and for some little time I have been searching for him in vain. Quite by accident I found him the other night. He seems to have turned his athletic powers to advantage, for he is performing in London now as a kind of flying man. I have seen the performance, and it is exceedingly clever. But that isn't what I want to talk to you about. I know where Silva, or Valdo, as he now calls himself, is to be met with. Within a few moments I want you to come along and add your persuasion to mine."
"I will do anything you like," Mrs. Delahay said; "anything to get to the bottom of this singular mystery."
The Countess started up at once, and proceeded to don her hat and cloak. Then she led the way to the back of the house.
"There is a way out here," she said, "which leads into a lane. Now, come along. We have not very far to go."
They turned out of the lane presently into a quiet, secluded thoroughfare, where the Countess stopped. They had not long to wait, for presently two figures came down the road, talking earnestly together. The light was not good, but it was quite sufficient to show Mrs. Delahay that one of the men was James Stevens.
"The witness, Stevens," she whispered. "He must not see us together. There are many reasons why it is inadvisable that he should learn the truth. The other man looks like Silva; only it is difficult to be sure after all these years. Let me stand in this doorway till you have managed to get rid of Stevens."
The Countess nodded her approval, and Maria Delahay slipped into the shadow of the door. From where she stood it was quite possible to see what was going on. She saw her sister approach the two men. She did not fail to note Stevens start as he recognised, or thought he recognised, the woman who was known to him as Maria Delahay. On the still air she could catch a word or two.
"Very well," she heard Silva say sullenly. "I have one or two things to say to my friend here, and then I'll come back to you."
The two men came past where the woman was standing in the doorway. They were conversing in deep whispers, so that the listener could catch only a word or two, yet those words filled her with vague apprehension. She caught the name of Ravenspur as it came hissing from Silva's lips. Then there was something she could not follow, and, finally, clearly enunciated the one word "tonight." A moment later and Stevens was shuffling off down the street, while Silva returned to Countess Flavio. As Mrs. Delahay joined them, the little Italian glanced from one to the other.
"So you are both here," he said.
There was something in the insolence of his manner that moved Mrs. Delahay to anger.
"I should hardly have known you," she said; "certainly I should not have known you from the tone in which you are addressing us. Have you quite forgotten what you owe to your late master's children?"
"I have forgotten nothing," Silva said. "Why do you come here persecuting me like this? Why cannot you let me alone? But for me your sister would have been in a dishonoured grave by now. I saved her life. I saved the good name of the family. And how am I repaid? What does she care so long as she saves herself. And yet I remember her a sweet and innocent child, just as I remember her own little one. Ah, I was fond of her, and she was fond of me. I could never have gone off and hidden myself, and left little Vera to the tender mercies of the world. I, a man, no relation, couldn't have done that. But that her mother could have done such a thing--ah, it seems unnatural, unwomanly."
"You will find her for me?" the Countess said timidly.
"I have found her," Silva whispered fiercely. "But whether I have found her for you or not is quite another matter. I was your good friend once. I was your devoted slave and servant. I would have laid down my life for you both, and you know it. But all that I felt for you was as nothing compared to my love for your little one. And when you told me that you had left her without another thought, my blood fairly boiled with passion. I thought you had taken her with you. I fondly imagined that you were devoting the rest of your life to her welfare and happiness. And then, one day, you come coolly to me and ask me where you can find your child. You go your own way, and leave me to go mine. I suppose you have found out that I come this way home, and so have waylaid me. But you will never get me to raise a finger on your behalf again. Still, it does not much matter. I know where the child is. I shall know how to act when the time comes. My vengeance is ready, when I care to stretch out my hand to take it."
The words poured from the speaker's lips in a torrent of passionate vehemence. He fairly quivered with rage. He seemed to be beside himself with anger. There was something almost akin to madness in his eyes.
"Oh, calm yourself," the Countess said. "My good Silva, I make every allowance for your feelings, but you are going altogether too far. You, above all men, ought to know how I longed to get away from anything that reminded me of my husband. Don't forget that she was his child as well as mine, and that she had her father's eyes and charm of expression. Besides, I was barely responsible for my actions then. Consider what I had had to go through. Consider my mental torture and degradation. And yet you say it was my duty day by day to watch my child and see the hateful pleasantness of her father's smile looking at me from behind her innocent features. Oh, I couldn't do it. I tried to persuade myself that it was my duty, but all to no avail. I was in such a state of nervous exhaustion then, so near the borderland of insanity, that I believe I should have taken the life of the child if she had gone with me. And, naturally, I thought that she was with friends. I knew that you would see that she was all right. And, in addition to all this, she was her father's heiress."
"But who was interested in taking her away?" Mrs. Delahay asked. "I don't see how anybody could gain anything by saddling themselves with a child like that."
"It is plain enough to me," Silva growled; "but then I am acquainted with the facts of which you two know nothing. With all his faults, Count Flavio was passionately attached to his little girl. Through her he could see a means of stabbing his wife to the heart, and he was never the man to hesitate where a piece of refined cruelty was concerned. He arranged that kidnapping himself."
"Incredible," Mrs. Delahay cried. "And why?"
"Have I not just told you so?" Silva went on. "You remember Count Flavio and his brother twenty years ago? You recollect what a handsome man he was? No one was more popular or sought after. No one was more pleasing and fascinating. But behind that fair exterior was the nature and disposition of a devil. Oh, I knew it before that unhappy marriage took place. And that was why I insisted upon accompanying Signora Carlotta when she fled with the count. It was not long before she found him out. It was not long before he began to employ the petty tyrannies which poisoned her life and made existence almost unendurable. I have stood behind his chair when guests have been present. I have seen his clever simulation of affection, whilst all the time he was saying things that wound sensitive women and drive them to despair. Many a time I have been tempted to thrust a knife between his shoulders. More than once I have had my hand upon a blade. But if I stayed here all night I could not sum up the catalogue of that man's diabolical cruelties. And when at length he paid the penalty of his crime, I stood by my mistress, and saved her from a felon's grave. It was hard work, for everything was so cunningly laid that my mistress stood convicted from the very first. Perhaps Count Boris reckoned upon an untimely end. At any rate, all his servants, and the greater part of his tenantry, followed one another in the witness-box and gave him the character of a saint, whilst his wife was painted in the blackest colours. But for a little scheme of mine, she would have been convicted beyond the shadow of a doubt. Still, we are getting away from the point. I was going to prove to you how I knew that the Count had arranged for his daughter to be kidnapped before his death. Some time previous to his marriage one of his greatest friends was an English nobleman, called Lord Ravenspur. Quite by accident, a few months before the tragedy, I saw a letter which the Count had written to Lord Ravenspur imploring the latter to give him a secret interview at once. In that letter the most horrible charges were levelled against the Countess. But we need not go into those now. I managed to get hold of the reply to the letter, and I had no scruples in reading it. Mind you, I did not think then that there was a plot on foot to kidnap the child, and I was prevented from attending the interview owing to the cunning of the Count, and within a few weeks afterwards I had plenty of things to occupy my attention, so that those letters were forgotten. And so things went on for years, until I heard from the Countess again, and I found that she knew nothing of her child. Oh, I have made no secret of my feelings in that matter. I have spoken quite freely tonight."
Silva paused for a moment, and wiped his heated face.
"From that time forward," he went on, "I have devoted myself almost exclusively to my search for the child. It did not occur to me till comparatively recently that Lord Ravenspur had had anything to do with it. In fact, that nobleman's name had quite gone out of my mind. I heard him spoken of from time to time as a great artist. I am fond of pictures myself, and about three years ago I went into a private view in Bond Street, and there I saw a face which attracted my attention. It was the head of a young girl precisely what little Vera would have been by that time. The more I studied those features, the more convinced was I that here was the object of my search. And when I asked the name of the artist, I was told that it was none other than Lord Ravenspur.
"Then it came upon me like a flash that my search was at an end. The recollection of those letters came to me; then I knew as plainly as possible that, at the instigation of the Count, Lord Ravenspur had taken the child away. Those two were in league together. But the one who still lives shall not escape his punishment. I will see to that."
"But are you quite sure?" the countess asked eagerly. "Have you seen Vera? Does she live with Lord Ravenspur?
"That I don't quite know," Silva said. "I have hung about the house; I was determined to find out things for myself without raising suspicions in the minds of the servants. I gradually discovered what the household consisted of. On and off for the last two years I have watched and waited, but I saw no sign of anybody resembling the girl of whom I was in search. And gradually I began to think that I had made a mistake. Business took me away to the North for some months, and when I came back again I put in a day or two more in Park Lane in the faint hope that I might be rewarded at last. And I was. At length I saw her. And now you know where your daughter is to be found if you want to see her again. I am perhaps wrong to tell you this----"
"But where had she been?" the Countess exclaimed.
"Ah, it is easy to be wise after the event," Silva said. "She had been at school on the Continent for the past three years, and that is why all my efforts ended in failure. I did not mean to tell you this. I meant to have kept it to myself as a punishment for your heartless conduct all these years. But I must own that your arguments impressed me. I can see now how the child would have reminded you of her father. And that is why I have said so much. But, at the same time, this thing has been an indignity to the family which I cannot overlook. Lord Ravenspur will have to pay the price of his audacity. Blood is thicker than water----"
Silva appeared as if he would have said more. But he checked himself, and his words died away in low mutterings. In some respects it seemed to Mrs. Delahay that the man was sane enough. In other matters she was convinced that he was little better than a dangerous lunatic. Were they on the eve of another dreadful tragedy, she asked herself, or was this man merely uttering vapouring threats when he spoke in this fashion of Lord Ravenspur?
"You will do nothing rash?" she said.
A queer smile flickered about the corners of Silva's lips. His eyes were glittering like stars.
"Oh, I will do nothing rash," he said significantly. "I have been brought up in the wrong school for that. When we South Italians take our vengeance, we strike and strike hard. But it is done in the dark, so that the right hand does not know what the left is doing. But we never forget, and we never forgive."
Silva turned on his heel, and walked slowly and thoughtfully away. The Countess called for him to come back, but he took no heed. He might have been deaf to the sound of her voice.
"It doesn't matter," she said; "at any rate, I shall know where to find him again. But are you not coming back with me?"
"I think not," Mrs. Delahay said. "It is getting very late, and I must be returning to my hotel. But, if you like, I will come and see you again, only it must be stealthily and in the dark. You will quite see the advisability of our not being much together till this cruel mystery has been cleared up."
They parted at the corner of the street, and Mrs. Delahay continued her way slowly, always keeping the figure of Silva in sight. An impulse to follow him had suddenly seized her, though she had said nothing of this to her sister. She recollected vividly enough now the words that had passed between Silva and Stevens as to Lord Ravenspur, and the things that were going to happen tonight. For all she knew to the contrary, she might be the means of preventing another tragedy. She felt almost sure of this presently as Silva turned into Park Lane, and pulled up before Lord Ravenspur's house.
The street was quite deserted, so that the man had no great need for caution. He stood there just a moment longer; then coolly entered the garden by way of a side gate. Apparently he had come prepared for this. He let himself into the garden with a key. Very cautiously Maria Delahay followed. She noticed how dark the garden was, the shadows being all the more dense by reason of the blaze of light which came filtering through the glass dome of the studio. Though the glass was stained, and it was impossible to see through, the light inside was strong and steady.
Half hidden behind a bush the watcher waited developments. Presently she heard Silva creep cautiously to the side of the studio. Then, a moment later, to her amazement, she saw that he was slowly climbing to the top of the dome, by means of one of the ribs in the roof. The man appeared to be as lithe and active as a cat. The smallest foothold seemed to suffice him. He made his way to the top of the dome, and Mrs. Delahay could see him peering in curiously. He stood just for a moment debating.
There was no time for further hesitation. It was very late now. Probably all the household had gone to bed, and doubtless Lord Ravenspur was alone in the studio. She knew something of his habits from her husband. Without a moment's hesitation she flew back into the road, and ran to the front door of the house.
She pressed the button of the bell. She could hear the ripple right through the house. It seemed to her as if no one was ever coming. Then presently there was the sound of a footstep inside, and the door was flung open by Walter Lance.
"Not a moment," she gasped. "Get to the studio at once."
The great house in Park Lane was brilliantly lighted up, and passers-by asked themselves what distinguished company Lord Ravenspur was entertaining tonight. Inside the house the master of it all was counting the moments till he should be alone. He was only giving an informal dinner, but the guests numbered upwards of thirty all the same. And now they were disported all over the house. Ravenspur sat in the great hall, with its mosaic floor and wonderful marble pillars. It was one of the show places of London, the envy of many whose means were greater than Ravenspur's. The veiled lights shone through palm and fern. The sultry evening seemed to be rendered cooler by the murmur of the fountains. It was possible to sit there and see the fish darting hither and thither, so that the effect of being somewhat far away in the seclusion of the woods was complete. A tall, fair woman, marvellously attired, was languidly singing the praises of the place to her host.
"There is nothing like it," she said. "It is absolutely unique. We have tried the same effect in America, but, somehow or another, it seems so artificial, so wanting in repose. You are the most fortunate of individuals, Lord Ravenspur."
"So my friends tell me," Ravenspur smiled. "But you must not always judge by appearances."
If his guest only knew, Ravenspur thought. If she could only guess what his feelings were at that moment. The beauty of the place had been a delight to him at one time. He had enjoyed the planning and building, but now he would have changed it for the meanest cottage, if only he could approach to peace and comfort thereby. The house seemed full of omens. Danger seemed to lurk everywhere. No doubt those banks of palms behind the water gave a charming effect to the hall, but, then, an assassin might have hidden behind them, for they afforded plenty of cover. The genial smile was still on Ravenspur's face. No one would have guessed the grey tenor of his thoughts. Even the pretty woman by his side had no idea how anxiously he was watching the clock in the gallery.
Meanwhile, the guests flitted from place to place, and Ravenspur could hear the click of the balls in the billiard-room. Somebody was playing brilliant music in the drawing-room. Usually, Ravenspur's guests were loth to leave, and tonight was no exception to the rule; but presently they began to drift away, until, at length, Ravenspur was alone.
He heaved a deep sigh of relief. He rose and turned in the direction of the studio. As he did so a slim, white figure came down the broad stairs, and Vera Rayne stood before him. She was looking her very best tonight. There was an extra dash of colour in her cheeks, a sparkle in her eyes. The look that Ravenspur turned upon her was half affectionate and half sad.
"You did very well tonight," he said, "considering this is the first time you have done me the honour to act as hostess to my guests. You played your part quite to the manner born, Vera. We shall have no occasion to call in the services of Lady Ringmar any more. You will find yourself paragraphed in the papers now."
Vera did not appear to be listening. Her beautiful face had a grave look upon it now. She hesitated for a moment before she spoke. There was no hurry about her words, but Ravenspur could not fail to see that she was palpably nervous.
"It will not be for long, then," she said. "My dear guardian, can I have a few moments' conversation with you? It is not so very late, and one so seldom gets an opportunity."
"How grave you are," Ravenspur smiled. "We will go as far as the library, if you like, and then I can smoke a cigar and listen to your weighty utterances. Come along."
It was cosy enough in the library, and much more inviting of confidences than the stately splendour of the pillared hall. Ravenspur threw himself back in an armchair and lighted a cigar. Then he signified to Vera to proceed. Her lips were trembling now. Something bright and diamond-like twinkled under her lashes.
"You have been very kind to me," she said unsteadily.
"Have I really, my dear? Nothing out of the common, I am sure. And what have I done? Given you a good education and found you a comfortable home; and from first to last you have never caused me a moment's anxiety. I have become as fond of you as if you were my own child. It will be a genuine grief to me when the right man comes along and takes you away from here."
"There is not much fear of that," Vera smiled wistfully. "Of course, you may think me ungrateful. You may say that I am showing a great deal of dissatisfaction----"
"My dear girl, you are not dissatisfied, surely?"
"I am afraid I am. You see, things cannot go on like this. I hate to have to talk in such a fashion, but the time has come when I must speak. All these years you have been showering benefits upon me. You have been treating me as if I were your own flesh and blood. The money alone that I must have cost you is enormous; and, so far as I know, I have not a penny."
"You will have when I die," Ravenspur said lightly.
"Oh, please don't talk like that; it makes my task all the more difficult. I have realised for a long time now that I cannot stay here, a dependant on your bounty. I can never feel sufficiently grateful for what you have done for me in the past. I could not possibly put my feelings into words; but I have made up my mind that I must get my own living in the future. It is a very hard thing to say, but I am going to leave you."
"Did anybody ever hear anything so foolish?" Ravenspur cried. "Why, this is your home. Is it your fault that you are utterly incapable of getting your own living? When I brought you here--a child in arms--I gave your father a solemn assurance that you should be my own daughter in future. I have made provision for you in my will. Some day you will be rich, as things go. And now you talk of leaving me in this cold-blooded fashion. Don't you see that I cannot do without you? But let me try and touch that gratitude of which you spoke. Surely, after watching over you so carefully all these years, you are not going to leave me at the very moment when you can make something like an adequate return? You are practically mistress of the house now, and my welfare is entirely in your hands. Need I say any more after that?"
"Oh, you try me sorely," Vera cried; "and yet my path is quite plain. Even at the risk of incurring your displeasure, I cannot remain here. And now I come to the point. Before I go I want you to tell me who I am, and who my parents are."
"Yes; I think you have a right to know that," Ravenspur said thoughtfully; "but, if you don't mind, we will not go into that tonight. It is too late, and the story is too long. Believe me, you will be the happier for asking no questions. There is a dark tragedy behind your young life which is now forgotten, and I am perfectly sure you would bitterly regret it if you stirred the scandal up again. 'Let sleeping dogs lie,' Vera. Be content to know that you are of good family, and leave the rest alone."
The girl's face grew a shade paler. Her eyes had a suggestion of pain in them as she turned to the speaker.
"I think I understand," she murmured. "If my suspicions are correct, this is a great blow to me; but, having said so much, I think I must know the rest. And now, now you see how impossible it is that I can remain here much longer."
Ravenspur was silent for a moment. He had forgotten the little scene which he had witnessed some time ago between Vera and Walter Lance. So that was why she was going. She had given her heart to Walter, and only too late she had discovered that a marriage between them was out of the question.
The same subject was uppermost in Vera's mind. They were both looking at the same thing from a different point of view; and it seemed to Vera that if Ravenspur's words meant anything, it meant that she was not even entitled to the name she bore. Every drop of blood appeared to have left her heart. She stood there, white and breathless. Yet, amidst all her storm of thoughts, one dominant idea possessed her. The time had come to strike now. There must be no further delay. She must leave the house. She must go out into the world to get her own living. She would stay here no longer under these shameful conditions.
"You have spared my feelings," she began. "I almost wish now that I had not asked you any of these---"
Vera broke off abruptly as the door opened, and Walter Lance came into the room. He looked uneasy and anxious. He started to say something to Ravenspur, then he paused, as he saw that Vera was standing there. In spite of the girl's utter misery and dejection, she did not fail to see that she was in the way now.
"I am just going," she said. "I am going as far as the drawing-room. When you have finished with your uncle I should like to have a few words with you, Walter."
"You had much better go to bed," Ravenspur said, with a sudden stern inflection in his voice. "It is getting late, and I am sure that you must be tired, Vera."
The girl made no reply. She walked through the door on the far side of the library and made her way into the drawing-room. Uncle and nephew stood there facing one another; they could hear the sound of Vera's piano softly played.
"Well, and what is it now?" Ravenspur asked. "You look as if you had seen a ghost. Is there anything new in this ghastly business? Have the police solved the problem?"
"On the contrary, the problem gets more bewildering every hour," Walter said. "As you know, I was going to talk over our side of the puzzle with Inspector Dallas, and he gave me some startling information. As soon as ever I mentioned the Flavio business he told me that he had made a discovery which connected it closely with the death of poor Louis Delahay. It appears that there is in England at the present moment an Italian detective, called Berti, who had the Flavio affair in hand."
"I recollect the name perfectly well," Ravenspur murmured.
"It appears that Berti has seen Mrs. Delahay since the inquest. He was rather interested in the affair, and he contrived to get a sight of Mrs. Delahay. And now comes the most extraordinary feature of the story. Berti is absolutely certain that Mrs. Delahay is no other than Carlotta, Countess Flavio."
"Impossible," Ravenspur cried. "The man is mistaken."
"He is prepared to swear to his statement, any way," Walter said. "And, after all, I don't see why it should be impossible. In fact it is not in the least impossible, and I'll tell you why. After this amazing thing came out I thought it my duty to go back to the hotel and see Mrs. Delahay. I told her what Berti said, and taxed her with being a principal in the Flavio tragedy."
"And she denied it promptly, of course?"
"She did. She told me quite calmly that she had never heard of the Flavio affair. I confess her words staggered me, because they were so calm and self-possessed. I watched her narrowly when I was speaking, and she never so much as changed colour. Even when I told her the story she appeared to be as mystified and puzzled as ever. She said, as she has always said, that for the best part of her life she has been more or less a recluse, and altogether out of touch with the world's happenings. You see, Berti was so confident, and Mrs. Delahay so self-possessed, that I was utterly puzzled."
"There is nothing to be puzzled about," Ravenspur said. "The Italian detective has made a mistake. His recollections of Carlotta Flavio's features after eighteen years have become blurred. For goodness sake, don't let us harp upon this absurdity. Surely, there are enough complications without this!"
"So I thought at first," Walter said. "But you will recollect telling me the story of your friend Count Flavio and his unhappy marriage. There were two Descartis--Carlotta, who married your friend, and Maria, who disappeared and was not heard of for years. Now isn't it rather significant, bearing in mind what Berti says, that Mrs. Delahay's name should be Maria?"
Ravenspur looked up with a startled expression.
"Well, yes," he exclaimed. "But I see you have more to tell me. Will you please go on?"
"I am coming to the interesting part now," Walter said. "Though I was prepared to believe that Mrs. Delahay knew nothing of the Flavio affair, I was by no means satisfied. I felt that there must be something in the Italian's story. I was certain of it when Mrs. Delahay admitted that her maiden name was Descarti. Oh, please let me finish. It was Mrs. Delahay's sister Carlotta who was the wife of your friend the Count. Hence the very natural mistake made by Berti. He had not seen the Countess, but her sister. The strong likeness between them would account for the misunderstanding."
"And this is really a fact?" Ravenspur cried. "Strange that it should not have come out before."
"But why should it, my dear uncle? You say that you never saw Count Flavio's wife. You have not the slightest idea what she was like. All you know is that she was an exceedingly bad woman, and that you rescued her child from a questionable future. On the other hand, Maria Delahay is secluded from the world for eighteen years. She is told by her parents that her sister is dead. She knows nothing of the terrible Flavio scandal. This is a fact, because she told me so herself. Indeed, we had it all out. She has to come back to the world again when her parents die. She is compelled to get her own living. It is only natural that she should change her name, and there you are."
Lord Ravenspur pondered over the matter for some time in silence.
"You saw a great deal more of the Delahays than I did," he said. "Practically I have not seen them together at all. Now how do they strike you? I mean, before their marriage, did you think that the woman really cared anything for our poor friend?"
"I am sure she did," Walter said emphatically. "Of course, there was no passionate attachment between them; they were too old for that. But I am quite certain that Maria Delahay's affection was sincere enough. After what I have seen the last day or two, I decline to believe that she had anything to do with her husband's death. I believed her when she said she never saw him from the time she left the hotel till she found him dead in the studio."
"And that opens up another theory," Ravenspur exclaimed. "If it wasn't Maria Delahay the witness Stevens saw that night in Fitzjohn Square, then it must have been her sister Carlotta."
"My word, that never occurred to me!" Walter cried. "And yet the solution is as simple as it is probable. I wonder if it is possible to obtain a photograph of the Countess?"
"There were plenty of them published at the time of the trial," Ravenspur said. "Of course, I mean in the illustrated papers. I have got the whole of them somewhere upstairs. Not that I pay much attention to newspaper photographs, as they are rarely any use. I'll go and see if I can find one."
Ravenspur turned hurriedly and left the room. He was gone some considerable time, leaving Walter to stand there and ponder over the result of his night's adventure. The more he thought the matter over, the more complicated it became. He put the thing away from him almost petulantly. He was suddenly conscious of the fact that the music in the drawing-room was very soft and soothing. Then it flashed across him that Vera had something to say. Ravenspur might be a little time longer, and there was no opportunity like the present.
Only a portion of the drawing-room lights were on, together with the piano candles, and Vera sat there half in the shadow, a pathetic looking figure enough, in her white dress. As Walter approached he could see that her face was very pale, and that her eyes showed signs of recent tears.
"What is the matter?" he asked. "What fresh trouble is this?"
Vera's hands fell away from the keys. She rose from her seat.
"It is not altogether a fresh trouble," she murmured; "it is only the old one become more acute. Do you remember my telling you the other day that I felt how impossible it is for me to remain here any longer? But I must go away."
"My dearest girl, why?" Walter asked. "You know perfectly well how much I care for you. You know perfectly well that you could not look me in the face and declare that you do not love me as well as I love you. Now, could you?"
"That is what makes it all the harder," Vera whispered. "Oh, I am not going to prevaricate about it. We have always been good friends, Walter, and in the last few months I have realised that friendship has given way to a more tender attachment. Perhaps it was that which opened my eyes. Perhaps it was that that made me ask myself some questions. I felt quite sure that Lord Ravenspur had guessed nothing of our secret. In fact, it was a secret to me till one afternoon in this very room. . . ."
"I am not likely to forget," Walter said tenderly.
"Well, then, you see I began to think. No father could have been kinder to me than Lord Ravenspur. I owe him a debt that I can never repay. But, though he has taken me into his house, and brought me up as if I belonged to his own flesh and blood, it does not follow that he considers me good enough for his nephew, the future holder of the title. And when he did find out not long ago, I saw at once what a dreadful disappointment it was to him."
"I am afraid it was," Walter said grudgingly. "But he did not set his face against it when I placed the thing before him in a proper light. He merely stipulated that our engagement must be a secret between us for the present. I am sure he is much too just a man, much too kind-hearted to spoil our happiness. You are too sensitive, Vera; your sense of honour is too high."
The girl's lips quivered piteously.
"Perhaps I am," she whispered. "But there is another thing which I have learned tonight, a thing which prevents me from remaining here an hour longer than is necessary. It is the question of my birth. I learned that tonight for the first time. Oh, do not humiliate me any further. Do not force me to speak any more plainly. If you knew the shameful story of my parents you would realise at once how unfitted I am to become----"
The girl said no more. She covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears. As to Walter, he was too astonished to speak. In the tense silence that followed the hall bell rang violently again and again. Vera looked up swiftly.
"You had better go yourself," she said. "It may be important." (She was deeply grateful for the interruption.) "Go yourself; everybody else is in bed."
Walter choked down an ugly word that rose to his lips. He resented the intrusion just at a moment when he particularly desired to be alone with Vera. Who was it, he wondered, who came so late? And who rang so imperiously and persistently for admission? He flung back bolt and chain, and opened the door. With her nerves all unstrung, and with a certain intuition of impending calamity upon her, Vera had followed him into the hall. She had dried her eyes now; she showed little sign of her recent agitation. She heard Walter's exclamation as he recognised the intruder.
"Good heavens, it is Mrs. Delahay!" he cried. "What can you want here at this hour?"
"The studio," Mrs. Delahay gasped. "Get to the studio at once. If your uncle should happen to be there----"
"You can reassure yourself on that point," Walter said. "Lord Ravenspur is at present in his bedroom."
Maria Delahay pressed her hand to her heart. She gave a little gasp of relief. She was too breathless to explain. All she needed now was a chair to support her failing limbs. As Walter stood there it flashed upon him that something wrong must be taking place in connection with the studio. He had not forgotten the vivid incident of the other night. Perhaps at this very moment the clue to the puzzle was in his hands. He turned round, and his gaze fell upon Vera, who was watching Mrs. Delahay curiously.
"Take this lady into the drawing-room," he said, "and wait till I come back. I shan't be very long."
Vera came forward with a sympathetic smile upon her face. A light was shining on her features. Maria Delahay could see how fair and sweet she was. And so this, she thought, was her sister's child. This was the girl from whom her mother had voluntarily separated herself for upwards of eighteen years. It seemed impossible, incredible to believe, but there it was. And the girl's hand was under Mrs. Delahay's arm now. She was being gently assisted as far as the drawing-room.
"I am sure you are Mrs. Delahay," Vera said, in her most sympathetic voice. "If all had gone well we should have met before now. I cannot tell you how sorry I am for you. I do hope this dreadful mystery will be cleared up before long. And now can I get you anything? I suppose you came to see Lord Ravenspur?"
Maria Delahay hesitated for a moment. There was no occasion to tell this beautiful child the dread import of her presence there. It seemed a wicked thing to bring her within the range of the trouble.
"I should like to see Lord Ravenspur, yes," she said "So you are his ward, Vera Rayne? Really, I cannot see any likeness between you and your father."
The words had slipped unconsciously from Maria Delahay's lips before she had time to think what she was saying. It was only when she noted the startled look in Vera's eyes that she realised the full extent of her imprudent speech.
"Did you know my father?" Vera cried.
"What am I saying!" Mrs. Delahay exclaimed. "My head is so dazed and confused that I don't know what I am talking about. Just for a moment I was filled with a foolish idea that you were Lord Ravenspur's daughter. It would be strange if you bore a likeness to him, seeing that he is only your guardian."
Vera was silent for a moment. Mrs. Delahay's impetuous speech had filled her with misgivings. She did not know, she could not feel sure that, after all, Lord Ravenspur might stand in closer relationship to her than that of a guardian. But she put the trouble out of her mind now. She had other things to occupy her attention. And after all said and done, the poor creature by her side was in deeper grief and anxiety than herself.
"I think I will go up and tell my guardian you are here," she said. "I know he will be glad to see you."
Vera was spared the trouble, for at that moment Ravenspur came into the room with a bundle of papers in his hand. He started as he caught sight of Mrs. Delahay.
"You here at this hour!" he exclaimed. "I hope----"
"No; there is nothing particularly wrong," the woman said. "I should like a few words with you if I am not intruding."
Vera discreetly left the room, and walked off towards the library. There was a stern expression on Ravenspur's face as he looked at his visitor. He waited for her to speak.
"I daresay you will think this is rather singular of me," she faltered, "but I came here tonight because your life is in danger. I believe that the man called Luigi Silva is under your roof at the present moment. You know who I mean?"
"I know perfectly well," Ravenspur replied. "It would be absurd to pretend to misunderstand you. And so it turns out after all that you are the sister of my poor friend Flavio's wife. Did Delahay know your identity before he married you?"
"He knew all there was that was worth knowing," the woman said, a little defiantly. "He knew the story of my miserable youth, for instance. I don't want you to misunderstand me. I don't wish to pretend that I had any ardent passion for my husband. But my affection was deep and sincere, and my loss is almost more than I can bear. Oh, I know what you are going to say. You are going to ask what I know about that wretched Flavio affair. I repeat in all sincerity that I knew nothing till the other day. I did not even know that my sister was alive, not until I visited her tonight at her house in Isleworth Road. I was not aware that she had married Boris Flavio. I did not know that she had a child----"
"Do you know who the child is?" Ravenspur asked swiftly.
"Yes; I knownow," was the significant reply. "I have just been talking to her. What a beautiful girl she is! How sweet and natural! How open and candid is her face! It seems almost incredible to me that my sister could have forgotten her child all these years. I could not have done so."
"No; nor any other woman worthy of the name," Ravenspur said grimly. "But though you lived with your sister till early womanhood, you had no real conception of her character. I never met her myself, for which I am devoutly thankful. But I learnt enough, and more than enough, of her character from Flavio's letters to me. If ever a man was cursed with a fiend incarnate in the shape of a wife, Flavio was that man. Oh, I don't wish to give you pain, for you have suffered enough of late. But I know what I am talking about. The mere fact that you alluded to just now is proof positive that your sister is incapable of affection for her child. More or less by accident you have made this discovery tonight. By sheer chance you know that your sister's daughter is under my roof. For a long time past I have known that some agency has been at work to deprive me of the girl, an agency so utterly unscrupulous that my very life is in danger. I suppose that man is acting for your sister, who has a sudden whim to gain possession of her child once more. And now I am going to ask you a favour. You are to say nothing of what you have found out tonight. I have told you what your sister is, and no doubt my words will prove true before long. I am going to ask you to give me a solemn promise that----"
"It is too late," Mrs. Delahay exclaimed. "Whatever my sister may be is all beside the point. She knows where her daughter is, and Luigi Silva knows also. He told us everything not long ago. I found out by accident that he was coming here. I saw him enter the house a few moments ago. I believe he is in your studio at the present moment. That is why I rang the bell so furiously; that is why I prayed I should not be too late."
Ravenspur started violently.
"Oh, this is intolerable," he cried. "One could hardly believe it possible that this is London in the twentieth century. I had thought that those insane vendettas had died out before this, even in Corsica. I must go at once and see----"
As the speaker turned away Maria Delahay held out a detaining hand. Her face was pale and pleading.
"Your life is too valuable to be risked in that headstrong fashion," she said. "Besides, I have already warned your nephew, who appears to know everything. He went off to the studio at once. I have no doubt that he has scared Silva away by this time. But why don't you put this matter in the hands of the police? Why run this risk when a few words would prevent any danger? And there need be no scandal. Silva could be warned. He would have to leave the country, and then there would be an end----"
"And this from you who are a half Corsican yourself," Ravenspur said reproachfully. "I could free myself from Silva, no doubt, but before many months had passed another man would take his place and my danger would be greater than ever. You see I have the advantage of knowing my present assailant. To quote the old saying. 'Better a devil you know than a devil you don't know.'"
Maria Delahay had nothing to say in reply. She was turning the matter rapidly over in her mind. It seemed to her that she could see a way out of the difficulty.
"I think," she began, "that perhaps----"
The words were never finished, for suddenly the tense silence of the house was broken by a quick cry and the tinkling sound of broken glass. Then, in the distance somewhere, a door banged sullenly, and silence fell over the house once more.