"Ah yes!" said the lawyer, inquiringly. "Will you call yourself Krill or Norman, Miss Sylvia?"
"Seein' her name's to be changed to Beecot in a jiffy," cried Deborah, "it don't matter, and it sha'n't matter. You leave Krill and its old Baileys, if old Baileys there are in it, alone, my lovey, and be Miss Norman till the passon and the clark, and the bells and the ringers, and the lawr and the prophets turn you into the loveliest bride as ever was," and Deborah nodded vigorously.
"I wish father had mentioned my name in his will," said Sylvia, in a low voice, "and then I should know what to call myself."
Paul addressed the lawyer. "I know little about the legal aspect of this will"—
"This amateur will," said Pash, slightingly.
"But I should like to know if there will be any difficulty in proving it?"
"I don't think so. I have not gone through all the safes below, and may come across the marriage certificate of Miss Krill's—I beg pardon, Miss Norman's—mother and father. Then there's the birth certificate. We must prove that Miss Sylvia is the daughter of my late esteemed client."
"What's that?" shouted Deborah. "Why, I knowed her mother as died. She's the daughter right enough, and—"
"There's no need to shout," chattered Pash, angrily. "I know that as well as you do; I must act, however, as reason dictates. I'll prove the will and see that all is right." Then, dreading Deborah's tongue he hastily added "Good-day," and left the room. But he was not to escape so easily. Deborah plunged after him and made scathing remarks about legal manners all the way down to the door.
Paul and Sylvia left alone looked and smiled and fell into one another's arms. The will had been read and the money left to the girl, thereby the future wasall right, so they thought that Pash's visit demanded no further attention. "He'll do all that is to be done," said Paul. "I don't see the use of keeping a dog and having to bark yourself."
"And I'm really a rich woman, Paul," said Sylvia, gladly.
"Really and truly, as I am a pauper. I think perhaps," said Beecot, sadly, "that you might make a better match than—"
Sylvia put her pretty hand over his moustache. "I won't hear it, Paul," she cried vehemently, with a stamp of her foot. "How dare you? As if you weren't all I have to love in the world now poor father—is—is de-a-d," and she began to weep. "I did not love him as I ought to have done, Paul."
"My own, he would not let you love him very much."
"N-o-o," said Sylvia, drying her eyes on Paul's handkerchief, which he produced. "I don't know why. Sometimes he was nice, and sometimes he wasn't. I never could understand him, and you know, Paul, we didn't treat him nicely."
"No," admitted Beecot, frankly, "but he forgave us."
"Oh, yes, poor dear, he did! He was quite nice when he said we could marry and he would allow us money. You saw him?"
"I did. He came to the hospital. Didn't he tell you when he returned, Sylvia?"
"I never saw him," she wept. "He never came upstairs, but went out, and I went to bed. He left the door leading to the stairs open, too, on that night, a thing he never did before. And then the key of the shop. Bart used to hang it on a nail in the cellar and father would put it into his pocket after supper. Deborah couldn't find it in his clothes, and when she went afterwards to the cellar it was on the nail. On that night, Paul, father did everything different to what he usually did."
"He seems to have had some mental trouble," said Paul, gently, "and I believe it was connected with that brooch. When he spoke to me at the hospital he said he would let you marry me, and would allow us an income, if I gave him the serpent brooch to take to America."
"But why did he want the brooch?" asked Sylvia, puzzled.
"Ah!" said Beecot, with great significance, "if we could find out his reason we would learn who killed him and why he was killed."
Sylvia wept afresh on this reference to the tragedy which was yet fresh in her memory: but as weeping would not bring back the dead, and Paul was much distressed at the sight of her tears, she dried her eyes for the hundredth time within the last few days and sat again on the sofa by her lover. There they built castles in the air.
"I tell you what, Sylvia," said Paul, reflectively; "after this will business is settled and a few weeks have elapsed, we can marry."
"Oh, Paul, not for a year! Think of poor father's memory."
"I do think of it, my darling, and I believe I am saying what your father himself would have said. The circumstances of the case are strange, as you are left with a lot of money and without a protector. You know I love you for yourself, and would take you without a penny, but unless we marry soon, and you give me a husband's right, you will be pestered by people wanting to marry you." Paul thought of Grexon Hay when he made this last remark.
"But I wouldn't listen to them," cried Sylvia, with a flush, "and Debby would soon send them away. I love you dearest, dear."
"Then marry me next month," said Paul, promptly. "You can't stop here in this dull house, and it will be awkward for you to go about with Deborah, faithfulthough she is. No, darling, let us marry, and then we shall go abroad for a year or two until all this sad business is forgotten. Then I hope by that time to become reconciled to my father, and we can visit Wargrove."
Sylvia reflected. She saw that Paul was right, as her position was really very difficult. She knew of no lady who would chaperon her, and she had no relative to act as such. Certainly Deborah could be a chaperon, but she was not a lady, and Pash could be a guardian, but he was not a relative. Paul as her husband would be able to protect her, and to look after the property which Sylvia did not think she could do herself. These thoughts made her consent to an early marriage. "And I really don't think father would have minded."
"I am quite sure we are acting as he would wish," said Beecot, decisively. "I am so thankful, Sylvia sweetest, that I met you and loved you before you became an heiress. No one can say that I marry you for anything save your own sweet self. And I am doubly glad that I am to marry you and save you from all the disagreeable things which might have occurred had you not been engaged to me."
"I know, Paul. I am so young and inexperienced."
"You are an angel," said he, embracing her. "But there's one thing we must do"—and his voice became graver—"we must see Pash and offer a reward for the discovery of the person who killed your father."
"But Mr. Pash said let sleeping dogs lie," objected Sylvia.
"I know he did, but out of natural affection, little as your poor father loved you, we must stir up this particular dog. I suggest that we offer a reward of five hundred pounds."
"To whom?" asked Sylvia, thoroughly agreeing.
"To anyone who can find the murderer. I thinkmyself, that Hurd will be the man to gain the money. Apart from any reward he has to act on behalf of the Treasury, and besides, he is keen to discover the mystery. You leave the matter to me, Sylvia. We will offer a reward for the discovery of the murderer of—"
"Aaron Norman," said Sylvia, quickly.
"No," replied her lover, gravely, "of Lemuel Krill."
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A BOLT FROM THE BLUE
Paul's reason for advertising the name of Lemuel Krill was a very natural one. He believed that in the past of the dead man was to be found his reason for changing his name and living in Gwynne Street. And in that past before he became a second-hand bookseller and a secret pawnbroker might be found the motive for the crime. Therefore, if a reward was offered for the discovery of the murderer of Lemuel Krill,aliasAaron Norman, something might come to light relative to the man's early life. Once that was known, the clue might be obtained. Then the truth would surely be discovered. He explained this to Hurd.
"I think you're right, Mr. Beecot," said the detective, in his genial way, and looking as brown as a coffee bean. "I have made inquiries from the two servants, and from the neighbors, and from what customers I could find. Aaron Norman certainly lived a very quiet and respectable life here. But Lemuel Krill may have lived a very different one, and the mere fact that he changed his name shows that he had something to conceal. When we learn that something we may arrive at the motive for the murder, and, given that, the assassin may be caught."
"The assassin!" echoed Paul. "Then you think there was only one."
Hurd shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows?" he said. "I speak generally. From the strange circumstancesof the crime I am inclined to think that there is more than one person concerned in this matter. However, the best thing to be done is to have hand-bills printed offering the five hundred pounds reward. People will do a lot to earn so much money, and someone may come forward with details about Mr. Krill which will solve the mystery of Norman's death."
"I hope you will gain the reward yourself, Hurd."
The detective nodded. "I hope so too. I have lately married the sweetest little wife in the world, and I want to keep her in the way she has been accustomed to be kept. She married beneath her, as I'm only a thief-catcher, and no very famous one either."
"But if you solve this mystery it will do you a lot of good."
"That it will," agreed Billy, heartily, "and it will mean advancement and extra screw: besides the reward if I can get it. You may be very sure, Mr. Beecot, that I'll do my best. Oh, by the way," he added, "have you heard that Mr. Pash is being asked for many of those jewels?"
"No. Who are asking for them? Not that nautical man?"
Hurd shook his head. "He's not such a fool," said he. "No! But the people who pledged the jewels are getting them back—redeeming them, in fact. Pash is doing all the business thoroughly well, and will keep what jewels remain for the time allowed by law, so that all those who wish to redeem them can do so. If not, they can be sold, and that will mean more money to Miss Norman—by the way, I presume she intends to remain Miss Norman."
"Until I make her Mrs. Beecot," said Paul, smiling.
"Well," replied Hurd, very heartily, "I trust you will both be happy. I think Miss Norman will get agood husband in you, and you will gain the sweetest wife in the world bar one."
"Everyone thinks his own crow the whitest," laughed Beecot. "But now that business is ended and you know what you are to do, will you tell me plainly why you warned me against Grexon Hay?"
"Hum," said the detective, looking at Paul with keen eyes, "what do you know about him, sir?"
Beecot detailed his early friendship with Hay at Torrington, and then related the meeting in Oxford Street. "And so far as I have seen," added Paul, justly, "there's nothing about the man to make me think he is a bad lot."
"It is natural you should think well of him as you know no wrong, Mr. Beecot. All the same, Grexon Hay is a man on the market."
"You made use of that expression before. What does it mean?"
"Ask Mr. Hay. He can explain best."
"I did ask him, and he said it meant a man who was on the marriage market."
Hurd laughed. "Very ingenious and untrue."
"Untrue!"
"Certainly. Mr. Hay knows better than that. If that were all he wouldn't think a working man would warn anyone against him."
"He guessed you were not a working man," said Paul, "and intimated that he had aliaisonwith a married woman, and that the husband had set you to watch."
"Wrong again. My interest in Mr. Hay doesn't spring from divorce proceedings. He paints himself blacker than he is in that respect, Mr. Beecot. My gentleman is too selfish to love, and too cautious to commit himself to a divorce case where there would be a chance of damages. No! He's simply a man on the market, and what that is no one knows better than he does."
"Well, I am ignorant."
"You shall be enlightened, sir, and I hope what I tell you will lead you to drop this gentleman's acquaintance, especially now that you will be a rich man through your promised wife."
"Miss Norman's money is her own," said Paul, with a quick flush. "I don't propose to live on what she inherits."
"Of course not, because you are an honorable man. But I'll lay anything you like that Mr. Hay won't have your scruples, and as soon as he finds your wife is rich he'll try and get money from her through you."
"He'll fail then," rejoined Beecot, calmly. "I am not up to your London ways, perhaps, but I am not quite such a fool. Perhaps you will enlighten me as you say."
Hurd nodded and caught his smooth chin with his finger and thumb. "A man on the market," he explained slowly, "is a social highwayman."
"I am still in the dark, Hurd."
"Well, to be more particular, Hay is one of those well-dressed blackguards who live on mugs. He has no money—"
"I beg your pardon, he told me himself that his uncle had left him a thousand a year."
"Pooh, he might as well have doubled the sum and increased the value of the lie. He hasn't a penny. What he did have, he got through pretty quickly in order to buy his experience. Now that he is hard up he practises on others what was practised on himself. Hay is well-bred, good-looking, well-dressed and plausible. He has well-furnished rooms and keeps a valet. He goes into rather shady society, as decent people, having found him out, won't have anything to do with him. But he is a card-sharper and a fraudulent company-promoter. He'll borrow money from any juggins who is assenough to lend it to him. He haunts Piccadilly, Bond Street and the Burlington Arcade, and is always smart, and bland, and fascinating. If he sees a likely victim he makes his acquaintance in a hundred ways, and then proceeds to fleece him. In a word, Mr. Beecot, you may put it that Mr. Hay is Captain Hawk, and those he swindles are pigeons."
Paul was quite startled by this revelation, and it was painful to hear it of an old school friend. "He does not look like a man of that sort," he remonstrated.
"It's not his business to look like a man of that sort," rejoined the detective. "He masks his batteries. All the same he is one of the most dangerous men on the market at the present in town. A young peer whom he plucked two years ago lost everything to him, and got into trouble over some woman. It was a nasty case and Hay was mixed up in it. The relatives of the victim—I needn't give his title—asked me to put things right. I got the young nobleman away, and he is now travelling to acquire the sense he so sadly needed. I have given Mr. Hay a warning once or twice, and he knows that he is being watched by us. When he slips, as he is bound to do, sooner or later, then he'll have to deal with me. Oh I know how he hunts for clients in fashionable hotels, smart restaurants, theatres and such-like places. He is clever, and although he has fleeced several lambs since he plucked the pigeon I saved, he has, as yet, been too clever to be caught. When I saw you with him, Mr. Beecot, I thought it just as well to put you on your guard."
"I fear he'll get little out of me," said Paul. "I am too poor."
"You are rich now through your promised wife, and Hay will find it out."
"I repeat that Miss Norman's money has nothingto do with me. And I may mention that as soon as the case is in your hands, Mr. Hurd—"
"Which it is now," interpolated the detective.
"I intend to marry Miss Norman and then we will travel for a time."
"That's very wise of you. Give Hay a wide berth. Of course, if you meet him, you needn't tell him what I have told you. But when he tries to come Captain Hawk over you, be on your guard."
"I shall, and thanks for the warning."
So the two parted. Hurd went away to have the bills printed, and Paul returned to Gwynne Street to arrange with Sylvia about their early marriage. Deborah was in the seventh heaven of delight that her young mistress would soon be in a safe haven and enjoy the protection of an honorable man. Knowing that she would soon be relieved from care, she told Bart Tawsey that they would be married at the same time as the young couple, and that the laundry would be started as soon as Mr. and Mrs. Beecot left for the Continent. Bart, of course, agreed—he always did agree with Deborah—and so everything was nicely arranged.
Meanwhile Pash worked to prove the will, pay the death-duties, and to place Sylvia in full possession of her property. He found in one of the safes the certificate of the girl's birth, and also the marriage certificate of Aaron Norman in the name of Lemuel Krill. The man evidently had his doubts of the marriage being a legal one if contracted under hisalias. He had married Lillian Garner, who was described as a spinster. But who she was and where she came from, and what her position in life might be could not be discovered. Krill was married in a quiet city church, and Pash, having searched, found everything in order. Mrs. Krill—or Norman as she was known—lived only a year or two after her marriage, and then died, leaving Sylvia to the care ofher husband. There were several nurses in succession, until Deborah grew old enough to attend alone on her young mistress. Then Norman dismissed the nurse, and Deborah had been Sylvia's slave and Aaron's servant until the tragic hour of his death. So, everything being in order, there was no difficulty in placing Sylvia in possession of her property.
Pash was engaged in this congenial work for several weeks, and during that time all went smoothly. Paul paid daily visits to the Gwynne Street house, which was to be vacated as soon as he made Sylvia his wife. Deborah searched for her laundry and obtained the premises she wanted at a moderate rental. Sylvia basked in the sunshine of her future husband's love, and Hurd hunted for the assassin of the late Mr. Norman without success. The hand-bills with his portrait and real name, and a description of the circumstances of his death, were scattered broadcast over the country from Land's End to John-O'Groats, but hitherto no one had applied for the reward. The name of Krill seemed to be a rare one, and the dead man apparently had no relatives, for no one took the slightest interest in the bills beyond envying the lucky person who would gain the large reward offered for the conviction of the murderer.
Then, one day Deborah, while cleaning out the cellar, found a piece of paper which had slipped down behind one of the safes. These had not been removed for many years, and the paper, apparently placed carelessly on top, had accidentally dropped behind. Deborah, always thinking something might reveal the past to Sylvia and afford a clue to the assassin, brought the paper to her mistress. It proved to be a few lines of a letter, commenced but never finished. But the few lines were of deep interest.
"My dear daughter," these ran, "when I die youwill find that I married your mother under the name of Lemuel Krill. That is my real name, but I wish you to continue to call yourself Norman for necessary reasons. If the name of Krill gets into the papers there will be great trouble. Keep it from the public. I can tell you where to find the reasons for this as I have written—" Here the letter ended abruptly without any signature. Norman apparently was writing it when interrupted, and had placed it unfinished on the top of the safe, whence it had fallen behind to be discovered by Deborah. And now it had strangely come to light, but too late for the request to be carried out.
"Oh, Paul," said Sylvia, in dismay, when they read this together, "and the bills are already published with the real name of my father."
"It is unfortunate," admitted Paul, frowning. "But, after all, your father may have been troubled unnecessarily. For over the fortnight the bills have been out and no one seems to take an interest in the matter."
"But I think we ought to call the bills in," said Sylvia, uneasily.
"That's not such an easy matter. They are scattered broadcast, and it will be next to impossible to collect them. Besides, the mischief is done. Everyone knows by this time that Aaron Norman is Lemuel Krill, so the trouble whatever it may be, must come."
"What can it be?" asked the girl anxiously.
Paul shook his head. "Heaven only knows," said he, with a heavy heart. "There is certainly something in your father's past life which he did not wish known and which led to his death. But since the blow has fallen and he is gone, I do not see how the matter can affect you, my darling. I'll show this to Pash and see what he says. I expect he knows more about your father's past than he will admit."
"But if there should be trouble, Paul—"
"You will have me to take it off your shoulders," he replied, kissing her. "My dearest, do not look so pale. Whatever may happen you will always have me to stand by you. And Deborah also. She is worth a regiment in her fidelity."
So Sylvia was comforted, and Paul, putting the unfinished letter in his pocket, went round to see Pash in his Chancery Lane office. He was stopped in the outer room by a saucy urchin with an impudent face and a bold manner. "Mr. Pash is engaged," said this official, "so you'll 'ave to wait, Mr. Beecot."
Paul looked down at the brat, who was curly-headed and as sharp as a needle. "How do you know my name?" he asked. "I never saw you before."
"I'm the new office-boy," said the urchin, "wishin' to be respectable and leave street-'awking, which ain't what it was. M'name's Tray, an' I've seen you afore, mister. I 'elped to pull you out from them wheels with the 'aughty gent as guv me a bob fur doin' it."
"Oh, so you helped," said Paul, smiling. "Well, here is another shilling. I am much obliged to you, Master Tray. But from what Deborah Junk says you were a guttersnipe. How did you get this post?"
"I talked m'self int' it," said Tray, importantly. "Newspapers ain't good enough, and you gets pains in wet weather. So I turns a good boy"—he grinned evilly—"and goes to a ragged kids' school to do the 'oly. The superintendent ses I'm a promising case, and he arsked Mr. Pash, as is also Sunday inclined, to 'elp me. The orfice-boy 'ere went, and I come." Tray tossed the shilling and spat on it for luck as he slipped it into the pocket of quite a respectable pair of trousers. "So I'm on m'waiy to bein' Lord Mayor turn agin Wittington, as they ses in the panymine."
"Well," said Beecot, amused, "I hope you will prove yourself worthy."
Tray winked. "Ho! I'm straight es long es it's wuth m'while. I takes m'sal'ry 'ome to gran, and don't plaiy pitch an' torse n'more." He winked again, and looked as wicked a brat as ever walked.
Paul had his doubts as to what the outcome of Mr. Pash's charity would be, and, being amused, was about to pursue the conversation, when the inner door opened and Pash, looking troubled, appeared. When he saw Paul he started and came forward.
"I was just about to send Tray for you," said he, looking anxious. "Something unpleasant has come to light in connection with Krill."
Beecot started and brought out the scrap of paper. "Look at that," he said, "and you will see that the man warned Sylvia."
Pash glanced hurriedly over the paper. "Most unfortunate," he said, folding it up and puffing out his cheeks; "but it's too late. The name of Krill was in those printed bills—a portrait also, and now—"
"Well, what?" asked Paul, seeing the lawyer hesitated.
"Come inside and you'll see," said Pash, and conducted Beecot into the inner room.
Here sat two ladies. The elder was a woman of over fifty, but who looked younger, owing to her fresh complexion and plump figure. She had a firm face, with hard blue eyes and a rather full-lipped mouth. Her hair was white, and there was a great deal of it. Under a widow's cap it was dressedà laMarie Antoinette, and she looked very handsome in a full-blown, flowery way. She had firm, white hands, rather large, and, as she had removed her black gloves, these, Paul saw, were covered with cheap rings. Altogether a respectable, well-dressed widow, but evidently not a lady.
Nor was the girl beside her, who revealed sufficient similarity of features to announce herself the daughter of the widow. There was the same fresh complexion, full red lips and hard blue eyes. But the hair was of a golden color, and fashionably dressed. The young woman—she likewise was not a lady—was also in black.
"This," said Pash, indicating the elder woman, who smiled, "is Mrs. Lemuel Krill."
"The wife of the man who called himself Aaron Norman," went on the widow; "and this," she indicated her daughter, "is his heiress."
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A CUCKOO IN THE NEST
Paul looked from the fresh-colored woman who spoke so smoothly and so firmly to the apish lawyer hunched in his chair with a sphinx-like look on his wrinkled face. For the moment, so taken aback was he by this astounding announcement, that he could not speak. The younger woman stared at him with her hard blue eyes, and a smile played round her full lips. The mother also looked at him in an engaging way, as though she rather admired his youthful comeliness in spite of his well-brushed, shabby apparel.
"I don't know what you mean," said Beecot at length, "Mr. Pash?"
The lawyer aroused himself to make a concise statement of the case. "So far as I understand," he said in his nervous, irritable way, "these ladies claim to be the wife and daughter of Lemuel Krill, whom we knew as Aaron Norman."
"And I think by his real name also," said the elder woman in her deep, smooth contralto voice, and with the display of an admirable set of teeth. "The bills advertising the reward, and stating the fact of the murder, bore my late husband's real name."
"Norman was not your husband, madam," cried Paul, indignantly.
"I agree with you, sir. Lemuel Krill was my husband. I saw in the newspapers, which penetrate even into the quiet little Hants village I live in, thatAaron Norman had been murdered. I never thought he was the man who had left me more than twenty years ago with an only child to bring up. But the bills offering the reward assured me that Norman and Krill are one and the same man. Therefore," she drew herself up and looked piercingly at the young man, "I have come to see after the property. I understand from the papers that my daughter is an heiress to millions."
"Not millions," said Pash, hastily. "The newspapers have exaggerated the amount. Five thousand a year, madam, and it is left to Sylvia."
"Who is Sylvia?" asked Mrs. Krill, in the words of Shakespeare's song.
"She is the daughter of Mr. Norman," said Paul, quickly, "and is engaged to marry me."
Mrs. Krill's eyes travelled over his shabby suit from head to foot, and then back again from foot to head. She glanced sideways at her companion, and the girl laughed in a hard, contemptuous manner. "I fear you will be disappointed in losing a rich wife, sir," said the elder woman, sweetly.
"I have not lost the money yet," replied Paul, hotly. "Not that I care for the money."
"Of course not," put in Mrs. Krill, ironically, with another look at his dress.
"But Idocare for Sylvia Norman—"
"With whom I have nothing to do."
"She is your husband's daughter."
"But not mine. This is my daughter, Maud—the legal daughter of Lemuel and myself," she added meaningly.
"Good heavens, madam," cried Beecot, his face turning white, "what do you mean?"
Mrs. Krill raised her thick white eyebrows, and shrugged her plump shoulders, and made a graceful motion with her white, be-ringed hand. "Is there any need for me to explain?" she said calmly.
"I think there is every need," cried Beecot, sharply. "I shall not allow Miss Norman to lose her fortune or—"
"Or lose it yourself, sir. I quite understand. Nevertheless, I am assured that the law of the land will protect, through me, my daughter's rights. She leaves it in my hands."
"Yes," said the girl, in a voice as full and rich and soft as her smooth-faced mother, "I leave it in her hands."
Paul sat down and concealed his face with a groan. He was thinking not so much of the loss of the money, although that was a consideration, as of the shame Sylvia would feel at her position. Then a gleam of hope darted into his mind. "Mr. Norman was married to Sylvia's mother under his own name. You can't prove the marriage void."
"I have no wish to. When did this marriage take place?"
Beecot looked at the lawyer, who replied. "Twenty-two years ago," and he gave the date.
Mrs. Krill fished in a black morocco bag she carried and brought out a shabby blue envelope. "I thought this might be needed," she said, passing it to Pash. "You will find there my marriage certificate. I became the wife of Lemuel Krill thirty years ago. And, as I am still living, I fear the later marriage—" She smiled blandly and shrugged her shoulders again. "Poor girl!" she said with covert insolence.
"Sylvia does not need your pity," cried Beecot, stung by the insinuation.
"Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Krill, sadly, and with the look of a treacherous cat, "I fear she needs the pity of all right-thinking people. Many would speak harshly of her, seeing what she is, but my troubles have taught me charity. I repeat that I am sorry for the girl."
"And again I say there is no need," rejoined Paul,throwing back his head; "and you forget, madam, there is a will."
Mrs. Krill's fresh color turned to a dull white, and her hard eyes shot fire. "A will," she said slowly. "I shall dispute the will if it is not in my favor. I am the widow of this man and I claim full justice. Besides," she went on, wetting her full lips with her tongue, "I understood from the newspapers that the money was left to Mr. Krill's daughter."
"Certainly. To Sylvia Krill."
"Norman, sir. She has no right to any other name. But I really do not see why I should explain myself to you, sir. If you choose to give this girl your name you will be doing a good act. At present the poor creature is—nobody." She let the last word drop from her lips slowly, so as to give Paul its full sting.
Beecot said nothing. He could not dispute what she said. If this woman could prove the marriage of thirty years ago, then Krill, or Norman as he called himself, had committed bigamy, and, in the hard eyes of the law, Sylvia was nobody's child. And that the marriage could be proved Paul saw well enough from the looks of the lawyer, who was studying the certificate which he had drawn from the shabby blue envelope. "Then the will—the money is left to Sylvia," he said with obstinacy. "I shall defend her rights."
"Of course," said Mrs. Krill, significantly. "I understand that a wife with five thousand—"
"I would marry Sylvia without a penny."
"Indeed, sir, that is the only way in which you can marry her. If you like I shall allow her twenty pounds for a trousseau."
Paul rose and flung back his head again. "You have not got the money yet, madam," he said defiantly.
Not at all disturbed, Mrs. Krill smiled her eternalsmile. "I am here to get it. There is a will, you say," she added, turning to Pash. "And I understand from this gentleman," she indicated Beecot slightly, "that the money is left to Mr. Krill's daughter. Does he name Maud or Sylvia?"
Pash slapped down the certificate irritably. "He names no one. The will is a hasty document badly worded, and simply leaves all the testator died possessed of to—my daughter."
"Which of course means Maud here. I congratulate you, dear," she said, turning to the girl, who looked happy and flushed. "Your father has made up to us both for his cruelty and desertion."
Seeing that there was nothing to be said, Paul went to the door. But there his common sense left him and he made a valedictory speech. "I know that Mr. Krill left the money to Sylvia."
"Oh, no," said the widow, "to his daughter, as I understand the wording of the will runs. In that case this nameless girl has nothing."
"Pash!" cried Beecot, turning despairingly to the little solicitor.
The old man shook his head and sucked in his cheeks. "I am sorry, Mr. Beecot," said he, in a pitying tone, "but as the will stands the money must certainly go to the child born in wedlock. I have the certificate here," he laid his monkey paw on it, "but of course I shall make inquiries."
"By all means," said Mrs. Krill, graciously. "My daughter and myself have lived for many years in Christchurch, Hants. We keep the inn there—not the principal inn, but a small public-house on the outskirts of the village. It will be a change for us both to come into five thousand a year after such penury. Of course, Mr. Pash, you will act for my daughter and myself."
"Mr. Pash acts for Sylvia," cried Paul, still lingering at the door. The lawyer was on the horns of adilemma. "If what Mrs. Krill says is true I can't dispute the facts," he said irritably, "and I am unwilling to give up the business. Prove to me, ma'am, that you are the lawful widow of my late client, and that this is my late esteemed client's lawful daughter, and I will act for you."
Mrs. Krill's ample bosom rose and fell and her eyes glittered triumphantly. She cast a victorious glance at Beecot. But that young man was looking at the solicitor. "Rats leave the sinking ship," said he, bitterly; "you will not prosper, Pash."
"Everyone prospers who protects the widow and the orphan," said Pash, in a pious tone, and so disgusted Paul that he closed the door with a bang and went out. Tray was playing chuck-farthing at the door and keeping Mr. Grexon Hay from coming in.
"You there, Beecot?" said this gentleman, coldly. "I wish you would tell this brat to let me enter."
"Brat yourself y' toff," cried Tray, pocketing his money. "Ain't I a-doin' as my master tells me? He's engaged with two pretty women"—he leered in a way which made Paul long to box his ears—"so I don't spile sport. You've got tired of them, Mr. Beecot?"
"How do you know Mr. Beecot's name?" asked Hay, calmly.
"Lor', sir. Didn't you and me pull him from under the wheels?"
"Oh," said Grexon, suddenly enlightened, "were you the boy? Since you have washed your face I didn't recognize you. Well, Beecot, you look disturbed."
"I have reason to. And since you and this boy pulled me from under the wheels of the motor," said Paul, glancing from one to the other, "I should like to know what became of the brooch."
"I'm sure I don't know," said Grexon, quietly. "We talked of this before. I gave it as my opinion,if you remember, that it was picked up in the street by the late Aaron Norman and was used to seal his mouth. At least that is the only way in which I can conjecture you lost it."
"You never saw it drop from my pocket?"
"I should have picked it up and returned it had I seen it," said Hay, fixing his eye-glass. "Perhaps this boy saw it."
"Saw what?" asked Tray, who was listening with both his large ears.
"An old blue-velvet case with a brooch inside," said Beecot, quickly.
Tray shook his head vigorously. "If I'd seen it I' ha' nicked it," he said impudently; "catch me givin' it back t' y', Mr. Beecot. There's a cove I knows—a fence that is—as 'ud give me lots fur it. Lor'," said Tray, with deep disappointment, "to think as that dropped out of your pocket and I never grabbed it. Wot crewel luck—ho!" and he spat.
Paul looked hard at the boy, who met his gaze innocently enough. Apparently he spoke in all seriousness, and really lamented the lost chance of gaining a piece of jewellery to make money out of. Moreover, had he stolen the brooch, he would hardly have talked so openly of the fence he alluded to. Hay the young man could not suspect, as there was positively no reason why he should steal so comparatively trifling an article. Sharper as he was, Hay flew at higher game, and certainly would not waste his time, or risk his liberty, in stealing what would bring him in only a few shillings.
"Why don't you ask the detectives to search for the brooch," said Hay, smiling.
"It is in the detective's possession," said Paul, sullenly; "but we want to know how it came to pin Norman's lips together."
"I can't imagine, unless he picked it up. If lost at all it must have been lost in the street the oldman lived in, and you told me he wanted the brooch badly."
"But he wasn't on the spot?"
"Wot," cried Tray, suddenly, "the one-eyed cove? Ho, yuss, but warn't he? Why, when they was a-gitin' the ambulance, an' the peelers wos a-crowdin' round, he come dancing like billeo out of his shorp."
Beecot thought this was strange, as he understood from Deborah and Bart and Sylvia that Norman had known nothing of the accident at the time. Then again Norman himself had not mentioned it when he paid that visit to the hospital within a few hours of his death. "I don't think that's true," he said to Tray sharply.
"Oh, cuss it," said that young gentleman, "wot d' I care. Th' ole cove come an' danced in the mud, and then he gits int' his shorp again. Trew is trew, saiy wot y' like, mister—ho."
Beecot turned his back on the boy. After all, he was not worth arguing with, and a liar by instinct. Still, in this case he might have spoken the truth. Norman might have appeared on the scene of the accident and have picked up the brooch. Paul thought he would tell Hurd this, and, meantime, held out his hand to Hay. In spite of the bad character he had heard of that young man, he saw no reason why he should not be civil to him, until he found him out. Meantime, he was on his guard.
"One moment," said Grexon, grasping the outstretched hand. "I have something to say to you," and he walked a little way with Paul. "I am going in to see Pash on business which means a little money to me. I was the unfortunate cause of your accident, Beecot, so I think you might accept twenty pounds or so from me."
"No, thank you all the same," said Paul gratefully, yet with a certain amount of caution. "I can struggle along. After all, it was an accident."
"A very unfortunate one," said Hay, more heartily than usual. "I shall never forgive myself. Is your arm all right?"
"Oh, much better. I'll be quite cured in a week or so."
"And meantime how do you live?"
"I manage to get along," replied Paul, reservedly. He did not wish to reveal the nakedness of the land to such a doubtful acquaintance.
"You are a hard-hearted sort of chap," said Hay coldly, but rather annoyed at his friendly advances being flouted. "Well, then, if you won't accept a loan, let me help you in another way. Come and dine at my rooms. I have a young publisher coming also, and if you meet him he will be able to do something for you. He's under obligations to me, and you may be certain I'll use all my influence in your favor. Come now—next Tuesday—that's a week off—you can't have any engagement at such a long notice."
Paul smiled. "I never do have any engagements," he said with his boyish smile, "thank you. I'll look in if I can. But I am in trouble, Grexon—very great trouble."
"You shouldn't be," said Hay, smiling. "I know well enough why you will not accept my loan. The papers say Sylvia, your Dulcinea, has inherited a million. You are to marry her. Unless," said Hay, suddenly, "this access of wealth has turned her head and she has thrown you over. Is she that sort of girl?"
"No," said Paul quietly, "she is as true to me as I am to her. But you are mistaken as to the million. It is five thousand a year, and she may not even inherit that."
"What do you mean?"
"I am not at liberty to say. But with regard to your dinner," added Paul, hastily changing theconversation, "I'll come if I can get my dress-suit out of pawn."
"Then I count on you," said Hay, blandly, "though you will not let me help you to obtain the suit. However, this publisher will do a lot for you. By Jove, what a good-looking girl."
He said this under his breath. Miss Maud Krill appeared on the doorstep where the two young men stood and stumbled against Grexon in passing. His hat was off at once, and he apologized profusely. Miss Krill, who seemed a young woman of few words, as Paul thought from her silence in the office, smiled and bowed, but passed on, without saying a "thank you." Mrs. Krill followed, escorted by the treacherous Pash who was all smiles and hand-washings and bows. Apparently he was quite convinced that the widow's story was true, and Paul felt sick at the news he would have to tell Sylvia. Pash saw the young man, and meeting his indignant eyes darted back into his office like a rabbit into its burrow. The widow sailed out in her calm, serene way, without a look at either Paul or his companion. Yet the young man had an instinct that she saw them both.
"That's the mother I expect," said Hay, putting his glass firmly into his eye; "a handsome pair. Gad, Paul, that young woman—eh?"
"Perhaps you'd like to marry her," said Paul, bitterly.
Hay drew himself up stiffly. "I don't marry stray young women I see on the street, however attractive," he said in his cold voice. "I don't know either of these ladies."
"Pash will introduce you if you make it worth his while."
"Why the deuce should I," retorted Hay, staring.
"Well," said Beecot, impulsively telling the whole of the misfortune that had befallen him, "that is thewife and that is the daughter of Aaron Norman,aliasKrill. The daughter inherits five thousand a year, so marry her and be happy."
"But your Dulcinea?" asked Grexon, dropping his eye-glass in amazement.
"She has me and poverty," said Paul, turning away. Nor could the quiet call of Hay make him stop. But at the end of the street he looked back, and saw Grexon entering the office of the lawyer. If Hay was the man Hurd said he was, Paul guessed that he would inquire about the heiress and marry her too, if her banking account was large and safe.