Flip was a small dried-up looking boy, born and brought up in a London slum. He had no parents--at least, none that he could remember, and had he been asked how he came into existence, he would probably have answered Topsy-like that he "growed." His mother and father had both deserted him at an early age, giving him nothing to remember them by, not even a name, so he was thrown on the world a squalling brat. Nevertheless, he managed to get along somehow to the age of fifteen, at which period of his life Dowker chanced on him, and his prospects began to improve.
Dowker, underneath his drab exterior, concealed a kind heart, and, having met Flip one night in the rain, had taken compassion on the miserable morsel of humanity, and given him a cup of coffee to warm him and a roll of bread to satisfy his hunger. Flip was so touched at this disinterested kindness that he attached himself with dog-like fidelity to the detective, and tried to serve him to the best of his small ability.
Having had to fight his way in the world, Flip had developed a wonderful sharpness of intellect at a very early age, and Dowker turned this hunger-educated instinct to good account, for he often set the little urchin to follow cabs, run messages, and do other small matters which he required. Flip performed all these duties so well and promptly that Dowker began to take an interest in him, and set to work to cultivate this stunted flower which had sprung up amid the evil weeds of the slums. He had a meeting place appointed with Flip in Drury Lane, and, whenever he wanted him, went there to seek him out. Flip listened to his patron's instructions carefully, and, having a wonderfully tenacious memory of an uncivilized kind, he never forgot what he was told. In return for services rendered, Dowker gave him a shilling a week, and on this small sum Flip managed to exist, with occasional help from casual passers-by.
Dowker did not give him an education or dress him in decent clothes, as he thought this would spoil his instinct and appearance, both of which were essentially useful in their own particular way, so Flip remained ragged and ignorant; but it was his patron's intention to give him a chance of rising in the world when he grew older.
He had no name except Flip, and the origin of that was a mystery--no clothes except a pair of baggy trousers and a tattered shirt--and his home was a noisome den in the purlieus of Drury Lane. His language was bad, so was his conduct; yet this small scrap of neglected humanity had in him the makings of a useful member of society. There are many such in London, but the Christians of England prefer to help the savages who don't want them to the savages who do. The Chickaboo Indians have existed for centuries without morals, religion, or clothes, and can very well exist for a longer period while the ragged denizens of the most civilized city in the world are being relieved.
Everyone in London knows Drury Lane, that quaint, dirty narrow street leading to the Strand. The very name conjures up the shades of Siddons and Garrick, and the neighbourhood is sacred to the Dramatic Muse. Who has not seen that weather-stained picturesque house from the window of which gossipy old Pepys saw Mistress Nell Gwynne leaning out and watching the milkmaids go down to the Strand Maypole for the pleasant old English dance. But, alas! Nell and the milkmaids with their quaint chronicler have long since passed into the outer darkness--even the Maypole has become but a memory, yet the grim tumble down house still remains in the dirty lane.
'Tis a far cry from Charles to Victoria, and the merry milkmaids with their clinking pails have given place to frowsy old women, battered-looking young ones, and a ragged mixture of men and boys. Not an unpicturesque scene, this dilapidated-looking crowd, slouching over the rugged stones, and an artist would have stopped and admired them, but Dowker was not an artist, so looked not for scenic effect, but for Flip.
Flip was sitting considering at the edge of the pavement with his feet, for the sake of coolness, in the gutter, and his eyes fixed on three dirty pennies lying in his own dirty brown palm.
"'Am," said Flip, deliberating over the expenditure of his fortune. "'Am an' bread, an' a swig o' beer--my h'eye, wot a tuck h'out I'll 'ave. 'Ere," suddenly, as Dowker touched him with his foot, "what the blazes are you kicking? Why I'm blest if 'taint the guv'nor."
He jumped to his feet, and slipped the pennies into the waistband of his trousers, which did duty with him for a pocket.
"Wot's h'up, guv'nor," he asked with a leer. Flip's leer was not pleasant--it had such an unholy appearance, "more larks--my h'eye, I thort I'd never twig you agin. 'Ave you bin h'over the gardin-wall arter a prig?"
"Hold your tongue," said Dowker sharply. "I want you to do something for me--are you hungry?"
"Not much," said Flip coolly, "but I don't mind a 'am san'wich."
Dowker cast a sharp glance at the ragged little figure walking beside him.
"Where have you been getting money?" he asked.
"My h'eye, it's a rigler game," said Flip, rubbing his grimy hands together, as they turned into a ham and beef shop, "I'll tell yer all--'am I'll 'ave, an' bread."
Being supplied with these luxuries at the expense of Dowker, Flip stuffed his mouth with a liberal portion and then began to talk.
"Larst Monday," he began.
"Ha," said Dowker, suddenly recollecting the date of the murder, "yesterday?"
"No, the Monday afore," said Flip, "it were at nite, h'awful foggy, my h'eye, a rigler corker it were. I was as 'ungry as a bloomin' tyke an' couldn't find you nohow, so h'up I goes to Soho to see h'old Jem Mux, you know's 'im, guv'nor, the cove as keeps the 'Pink 'Un.'"
"Yes, the sporting pub," replied Dowker.
"Same game," said Flip, "'e gives me sumat to eat when I arsks it, so I goes h'up to cadge some wictuals, I gits cold meat, my h'eye, prime, an' bread an' beer, so when I 'ad copped the grub, I was a-gittin' away h'out of the bar when a swell cove comes in--lor' what a swell--fur coat an' a shiny 'at. Ses 'e to the gal, ses 'e, 'Is that 'ere sparrin' comin' ort this evenin'?' 'Yes, says she, 'in the drorin'-room.' 'Right you h'are,' ses 'e, 'I want to see it afore I leave Hengland. I was a-goin' down to my yotsh,' ses 'e, but I'll put it orf till to-morrow as I wants to see this set to,' then 'e twigs me an' ses 'e, 'Are you cold?' 'Yes,' ses I. ''Ungry?' 'Not much,' ses I. ''Ere's some tin for you, you pore little devil,' an' I'm blessed if 'e didn't tip me a sov, so I've bin livin' like a dook on it since I sawr you--nice game, ain't it, guv'nor?"
During this recital Dowker had not paid much attention till Flip spoke of the yacht, then he suddenly pricked up his ears, for it dawned on him that this unknown benefactor of Flip's might possibly be Lord Calliston.
"Monday night he was going out of town," murmured Dowker, "but he was always a sporting blade, so perhaps he stopped for this fight and then went down next morning. I wonder where he met Lady Balscombe. Ah, well, it's nothing to do with the murder at all events; but I'd like to know if he really did leave town on the night."
Then he turned to Flip.
"Did the swell see Jem Mux?" he asked sharply.
"Rather," said Flip, "an' Jem 'e called 'im my lord, so 'e must 'ave been a bloomin' blindin' toff."
"My lord," repeated Dowker thoughtfully. "Oh! no doubt it was Lord Calliston. I wonder if he's had anything to do with the death of his mistress, it's curious if he stopped in town all night that he didn't go back to his chambers. About what time was this?" he asked aloud.
"About nine," said Flip promptly, "or harf-parst."
"Nine," echoed Dowker; "then in that case he must have stayed in town all night, as the last train to Shoreham is about half-past. I'll look into this business, but meantime I want to find out Desmond's little game."
Flip had now finished, his meal and was waiting impatiently for instructions from his chief.
"Wot's h'up, guv'nor?" he asked, his black beady eyes fixed on the detective.
Dowker glanced at his watch.
"It's about two," he said, replacing it, "and I want you to meet me at the Marble Arch about a quarter to three."
"Wot for?"
"To follow a lady and gentleman and overhear what they say," said Dowker; "I'll show you whom I mean. Don't lose a word of their conversation and then repeat it all to me."
"I'm fly," said Flip with a wink, and then this curiously assorted pair departed, Dowker to his office for a few minutes, and Flip to wend his way to the rendezvous at the Marble Arch.
May Penfold was a very pretty girl, tall and fair-haired, with a pair of merry blue eyes, and a charming complexion. Her parents died when she was young and left her to the guardianship of Sir Rupert Balscombe, who certainly fulfilled his trust admirably. He had her well educated both intellectually and physically, so when she made herdébutin London Society she was much admired. An accomplished musician and linguist, a daring horse-woman and a kindly disposition, it was no wonder that she was much sought after; but when added to these gifts it was also discovered that she possessed twenty thousand a year in her own right, she became the catch of the season, and many were the attempts made by hard-up scions of noble houses to secure her hand in marriage.
But alas, for the contrary disposition of womankind, she would have none of the gilded youth but fixed her affections on Myles Desmond, a poor Irish gentleman, with nothing to recommend him but a handsome face, a clever brain and a witty tongue. In vain Lord Calliston asked her to be his wife, she coolly refused him, telling the astonished nobleman that neither his morals nor his manners were to her liking, and informed Sir Rupert that she intended to marry Myles Desmond.
The baronet was furious at this declaration, and as May was under age and could not marry without her guardian's consent, he forbad Myles the house and ordered his ward not to speak to him. But see how the duplicity of love can circumvent the watchfulness of guardians. May and Myles met secretly in the Park, at garden parties, and at balls, whenever they chose, and so cleverly did they manage their meetings that Sir Rupert never for a moment suspected the truth. He wanted his ward to marry Calliston, but when that fickle young man ran off with Lady Balscombe he changed his tune altogether, and had May been clever enough to have taken advantage of his dismay, he would doubtless have consented to her union with Myles despite the disadvantages of the match. Sir Rupert was paralysed at the scandal caused by his wife's elopement. He was deeply in love with her, and having known Calliston from his boyhood it had never entered his head that such a thing could happen. He was a very proud man, and when he discovered the elopement he shut himself up in his library, refusing to see anyone. The guilty pair had gone to the Azores, and knowing that sooner or later they would return to England, he awaited their coming with the intention of divorcing his treacherous wife and punishing her seducer.
Sir Rupert having taken up this position, May was left a good deal to herself, and as the whole affair caused such a scandal she, as a ward of Balscombe's, refused to go out into society until some definite settlement of the matter had been arrived at. She had written several times to Myles asking him to see her, but on some plea or another he had always refused to come, much to her bewilderment. When she received his telegram asking her to meet him at the Marble Arch, she was delighted; and slipping out of the house in Park Lane, went to keep her appointment.
At this time of the year there were comparatively few people in town who knew her nevertheless, for the sake of safety, she dressed herself plainly in a dark dress and wore a thick veil which concealed her face. Thus disguised she had no fear of being recognised, and arrived at the rendezvous about five minutes past three o'clock. There she found Myles waiting for her and they walked together into the Park, feeling perfectly secure from interruption or detection. But they did not know that they were being shadowed by a small ragged boy who was apparently playing idly about them.
Dowker recognising Myles pointed him out to Flip and departed at once, lest he should by seen by Desmond, so when Flip saw May join the young Irishman he knew it was the couple whose conversation he was there to overhear and followed them promptly.
Myles and Miss Penfold walked a short distance into the Park and then seated themselves for a while--two ordinary looking figures not calculated to attract much notice, for, the day being cold, Myles was muffled up in a large ulster and May's dress, as previously noticed, was not conspicuous.
Flip sat down on the grass at the back of them, apparently engaged in spelling out a dirty bit of newspaper, but in reality drinking in every word the lovers uttered.
They were continuing a conversation begun when they first met.
"Does this man suspect you?" said May, evidently referring to Dowker.
"I'm afraid so," he replied gloomily, "and I cannot open my mouth to defend myself."
"Why?"
"Because my only defence would be an explanation of the events of that night, and I cannot explain."
"Why not?"
He remained silent, at which the girl turned pale.
"Is there any reason--strong reason?"
"Yes."
"Is that reason--a woman?"
Myles bowed his head.
Miss Penfold grew a shade paler and laughed bitterly.
"A pleasant reason to give me," she said, with a sneer. "I have given up all else for your sake, because I thought you loved me, and you--you--talk of another woman to me."
"This is nonsense," he answered impatiently. "There is no love in the case; it simply involves the breaking of a promise given to a woman, and you would be the last to ask me to do that. Can you not believe in my honour?"
May looked at him doubtfully.
"Can I believe in any man's honour?" she replied sadly.
"That depends who the man is," answered Myles quietly. "It is simply a case of Lovelace over again:
"'I would not love thee dear so much,Loved I not honour more.'
"It is absurd--quixotic--ridiculous--to talk about honour in these days, I grant you, but unfortunately I inherit loyal blood, and--well, I must ask you to trust me till I can speak."
"And you will speak?"
"Yes; if it comes to the worst," he replied with a slight shiver.
The girl gave him her hand, which he took and pressed slightly. So thus, mutely, they made up their quarrel.
All the foregoing conversation about honour was Greek to Flip, who, after some cogitation, came to the conclusion it was a scene out of a play. But now they began to talk on a subject more suited to his comprehension.
"May," said Myles, "I want you to tell me all that Lady Balscombe did on--on that night."
"The night when she eloped?"
"Yes."
"Let me see," said May, knitting her pretty brows, "we went to a ball--to Lady Kerstoke's."
"At what time?"
"Between nine and ten."
"And what time did you leave?"
"Very early--about half past ten; in fact, we were there only a few minutes. Lady Balscombe said she had a headache and went home. You know our house is only a few doors away. I expect she only went there to avert suspicion as to her elopement."
"What happened when she came home?"
"There was a woman waiting to see her in her boudoir."
"A woman?" repeated Desmond; "who was she?"
"I don't know; I didn't even see her. She saw Lady Balscombe and then left the house, between eleven and twelve."
"How do you know?"
"My maid told me."
"And what time did Lady Balscombe leave?"
"I don't know. I did not see her again that night. She went to bed because of her headache, and, I suppose, departed early in the morning to catch the train to Shoreham."
"Where was Sir Rupert all this time?"
"He had been down in Berkshire, but arrived some time before twelve--he and Lady Balscombe had quarrelled lately and occupied different rooms. Besides, he went off to his club on arriving in town, so he would not know of her flight till the morning."
"Did she leave a letter for him?"
"I suppose so; but why do you ask all these questions?"
"Because I want to save my neck, if possible. The woman who was murdered is said to be Lena Sarschine, whom I saw during the day. I saw a woman in Calliston's rooms on the same night, whom the detective thinks was the same person. Now, between the time I left the chambers and the time I met Spencer Ellersby I was wandering about the streets and, as I spoke to no one, I cannot prove an alibi. Ellersby met me coming up St. James' Street, and the scene of the crime was not far off, so, if I am arrested, circumstances will tell very hard against me. Nobody will believe my assertion that I did not see the dead woman that night, and I cannot prove it without breaking my promise."
"I see what you mean, but what has Lady Balscombe to do with it?"
"Simply this. I am anxious to find out if Calliston really left town on that night, because I want to know if he had anything to do with the death of his mistress. He left his chambers to catch the ten minutes past nine train from London Bridge; but did he catch it? I think not, because he would not have left town without Lady Balscombe, and from your own showing, she did not leave her house till early on Tuesday morning. So I think Calliston must have remained in town at some hotel, where she joined him, and they went down to Shoreham by the first train in the morning."
"But you don't think Calliston killed this woman?"
"No, I don't think so," he answered thoughtfully. "I really don't think so, but I would like to have all his movements on that night accounted for. As for myself, I am in a very awkward position, for, if arrested, I cannot extricate myself from it till Calliston returns."
"Why?"
"Because till his yacht comes back I cannot prove my innocence."
"But you are innocent?"
"Yes; can you doubt me?"
"I was certain of it."
"I hope the jury of twelve good and lawful men will be as certain," he replied grimly, as they walked away.
Flip followed them at a distance, but only caught scraps of conversation which seemed to him to be about trivial matters. So, with all the conversation he had heard in the Park indelibly inscribed on his brain, Flip darted away, to give his patron an accurate report and thus add another link to the chain which was gradually encircling the murderer of Lena Sarschine.
Flip, having a wonderfully tenacious memory, did not forget the conversation he had overheard between Myles and Miss Penfold; so going to his patron's office, he repeated it in due course to Dowker. The result was that the detective became much exercised in his mind over the whole affair. He could not understand Desmond's refusal to tell the name of the woman he saw on the night of the murder. True, Desmond denied it was Lena Sarschine, but then his denial went for nothing, as he would do so to save himself from suspicion. Mrs. Povy said Lena Sarschine had been there between eleven and twelve, and it was unlikely she would be wrong, seeing how well acquainted she was with the appearance of the dead woman. But then, judging from the drift of Desmond's remarks, his refusal to speak was dictated by a desire to screen the honour of a woman. If so, it could not have been Lena Sarschine, for she had no honour to lose, and his refusal to speak would be a piece of Quixotism, which he, as a man of the world, would be one of the first to recognize. At this moment, a sudden thought flashed across Dowker's mind--could it have been Lady Balscombe herself who had the interview with Desmond? Here, indeed, would be a strong motive for Desmond to keep silence, as the visit of a lady to a bachelor's rooms at night would endanger her reputation. Lady Balscombe had, it is true, flung reputation to the winds, but on Monday night it would not have been too late to save her, so if she had seen Desmond, he might have tried to persuade her to give up the elopement, and failed.
"I think I see it all," said Dowker, musingly. "She was to have met Lord Calliston on that night to go down by the nine train, but went to the ball first to avoid suspicion. He got tired of waiting for her, and went off to The Pink 'Un.' She would have let him know her plans by telegram, and called at his rooms after the ball to explain. He was away and did not get the telegram, so when she arrived at the rooms she found Desmond. He tried to persuade her to go back; she refuses, and after some angry words goes out in a rage, stays all night somewhere, and goes down to Shoreham in the morning, but all this does not explain Lena Sarschine's death. It can't be possible that Lady Balscombe killed her--no, it can't be that--there is no connection between the two."
He ran over in his mind the principal items of the conversation as reported by Flip, and his thoughts took a new turn.
"Lady Balscombe did not leave her house in Park Lane till after midnight, so that would not have given her time to be at Lord Calliston's chambers and have an interview with Desmond, therefore it cannot have been her. I wish I could find out the name of the Woman who saw Desmond, and I'd also like to know the name of the woman who saw Lady Balscombe on that night, and discover what was the exact time Lady Balscombe left the house--let me see."
He took out his note-book, and wrote the following memoranda:
1. To find out name of woman who called at Calliston's chambers on Monday (night of murder) between eleven and twelve.
This could only be proved by Myles Desmond himself, as Mrs. Povy asserted it was Lena Sarschine, and Desmond denied it; therefore there was a dead-lock--affirmation and denial.
Memo.--To see Desmond and find out name of visitor.
2. To ascertain appearance and, if possible, name of woman who visited Lady Balscombe on night of murder, as it might possibly have some bearing on case.
A servant in Lady Balscombe's house could probably furnish this information.
Memo--To try and find out said servant.
3. To discover exact time Lady Balscombe left her house on Tuesday morning, also ascertain subsequent movements. This would also have to be discovered through a servant--as to finding out subsequent movements, discover, if possible, train she left London by, and what she did between time of leaving her house and leaving by train.
Memo.--These discoveries must be left to future developments of case.
4. To find out what has become of missing dagger.
Possibly this might be discovered in Desmond's possession.
Mem.--Search his room--secretly--employ agent--say Flip.
5. To search out early life of Lena Sarschine!
Might be discovered in a small measure from Lydia Fenny, who, being confidential maid, might possibly have gathered information from casual remarks.
Mem.--To see Lydia Fenny.
Having thus arranged his plan of action satisfactorily, Dowker turned his attention to Number four of his memoranda, and proceeded to tell Flip what he wanted him to do.
"You see this?" asked Dowker, showing Flip the dagger he had abstracted from Cleopatra Villa.
Flip intimated by a vigorous nod of his head that he did.
"I've got an idea," explained Dowker smoothly, "that a dagger very similar to this is to be found in the possession of Mr. Myles Desmond, the gentleman you saw to-day, so I want you by some means to get into his rooms and find out if it's there."
Flip screwed his face into a look of profound thought, and then smiled in a satisfied manner.
"I'll do it, Guv'nor," he said, sagaciously.
"How?" asked Dowker, curious to learn how this juvenile detective proposed to deal with the problem.
"I'll doss on his doorstep to-night," said Flip, "and when he comes 'ome do a 'perish'--you knows"--in an explanatory tone--"say I'm dyin' for victuals--'e'll take me inside, and when I gits there you leave me alone, guv'nor, I'm fly!"
"Well, you can manage it as you please," said Dowker. "But don't you prick yourself with it, as it's poisoned, and Flip, if you bring me this dagger without him knowing about it, I'll give you half a sov."
"Done, Guv'nor!" said Flip, joyfully, and bidding adieu to his patron, went off to get something to eat and prepare his plan of action.
It was now about six o'clock and very dark, the sky being overcast with clouds. Soon it began to rain steadily, and the streets became sloppy and dismal. Flip drew his rags round him, shivered a little in a professional manner, and then, going off to a cook-shop he patronised in Drury Lane, had a hunch of bread and a steaming cup of coffee for a small sum.
Being thus prepared for his work, Flip wiped his mouth, and, sallying forth into the dirty Lane, took his way up to Bloomsbury, combining business with pleasure by begging on the road.
Turning into Primrose Crescent, he soon found the house he wanted, and curling himself up on the doorstep, waited patiently for chance to deliver Myles into his designing hands.
The rain continued to pour down steadily, and as it was now dark Flip could see the windows all along the street being lighted up. The gas-lamps also shone brightly through the rain, and were reflected in dull, blurred splashes on the pavements. Occasionally a gentleman would hurry past with his umbrella up, and a ragged tramp would slouch along singing a dismal ditty. It was dreary waiting, but Flip was used to such times, and sat quite contented, thinking how he could lay out his promised half-sovereign to the best advantage, till his quick ear caught the sound of footsteps inside.
This was his cue, so he immediately lay down on the wet stones, and commenced to moan dismally: Myles opened the door, and would have stumbled over him, for he was right in front of the entrance after the fashion of the clown in the pantomime, only he caught sight of him in time.
"Hullo," said Myles crossly, "what the deuce is the matter?"
Flip made no reply to this, but groaned with renewed vigour, upon which Desmond, who was a kind-hearted man, bent down and touched the ragged little figure.
"Are you ill?" he asked gently.
"Oh, lor'--awful--my insides," groaned Flip pressing his dirty hands on his stomach. "Ain't 'ad a bit for days."
Myles was doubtful as to the genuineness of this case as he knew how deceptive tramps are, but as the poor lad did seem in pain, and it was raining heavily, he determined to give him the benefit of the doubt.
"Can you rise?" he asked sharply, "if so get up and come inside. I'll give you something to do you good."
With many groans and asseverations of extreme pain Flip struggled to his feet, and aided by Myles went inside, up the stairs, and was at last safely deposited on the hearthrug in front of the fire, where he lay and groaned with great dramatic effect.
"I'll give you some hot port wine," said Myles, going to the sideboard and taking out a glass and a bottle, "so I'll have to go downstairs and get some hot water--you wait here."
Flip groaned again and gyrated on the floor like a young eel; but when the door had closed behind his benefactor, he sprang to his feet and took a survey of the room.
It was a large and lofty apartment, with a pair of folding doors on one side, which being half open showed Flip that the other room was a bed-room.
There was a sideboard in the sitting-room and near this a writing-table, towards which Flip darted and commenced to turn over the papers rapidly with the idea of finding the dagger hidden underneath.
Nothing however rewarded his efforts, and though he looked into the sideboard, examined the book-case and lifted up the covers of the chairs, he found no sign of the weapon.
"Must be in the bed-room," thought Flip, scratching his head in perplexity and wondering how he could get in, when suddenly it occurred to him that he had not examined the mantel-piece.
There was not a moment to be lost, as Myles might return at any moment, so in a second Flip scrambled up on a chair, and was eagerly looking among the ornaments on the mantel-piece.
There was a mirror framed in tarnished gold, and in front of this a tawdry French clock under a glass shade, two Dresden china figures simpering at one another, and two tall green vases at each end. Flip saw nothing of what he wanted till he peered into one of these vases, when he saw something looking like steel, and drew forth a slender shining blade with no handle.
"Wonder if this is what the guy'nor wants," he said to himself, turning it over gingerly, "tain't got no 'andle."
He thought for a moment, and then, as he had been so lucky with one vase looked into the other, and found a cross handle--he joined the two and they fitted perfectly. Being certain this was what Dowker wanted, he was thinking how he could take it, when he heard Myles ascending the stairs. Jumping down he hid the broken blade and the handle securely among his rags, being very careful not to prick himself as he remembered Dowker's warning about the poison, then he lay down on the hearthrug again, and was groaning loudly when Myles entered with the hot water.
"Feeling bad?" asked Myles sympathetically, pouring out some port wine.
"Awful," groaned Flip feeling not a bit of compunction at the treacherous part he was playing. "It's cold I think--cold and 'unger."
"Here drink this," said Desmond, kneeling down beside him, and giving him the steaming tumbler. "It will do you good."
"Thanks, guv'nor," said Flip gratefully, feeling if the broken blade was all safe, "it 'ull warm me up."
Desmond lighted his pipe and sat watching the ragged little Arab drinking the hot wine, never thinking for a moment that he was nourishing a viper--a viper that would turn and sting him. Honest himself, he never suspected wrong-doing in others, and while succouring this outcast he did not know he was doing an evil thing for himself.
After Flip had finished the wine he declared he felt better, and with many asseverations of gratitude took leave of his benefactor.
"Poor little devil!" said Desmond as he closed the door and saw the ragged little urchin scudding away into the darkness, "he seemed very bad--well I've done one good action, so perhaps it will bring me a reward."
It did, and the reward was that next morning Myles Desmond of Bloomsbury, journalist, was arrested for the murder of Lena Sarschine.
Though he had arrested Myles Desmond, Dowker was by no means certain that he had got a hold of the right man. Judging from the conversation reported by Flip, Desmond himself appeared to have strong suspicions about Calliston, and Dowker in his own mind became convinced that there was some connection between the elopement of Lady Balscombe and the murder of Lena Sarschine.
He wanted to find out the name of the woman who visited Lady Balscombe on the night of the murder, for a sudden thought had presented itself, that this unknown visitor might have been Lena Sarschine. But the idea seemed absurd, for a woman of such a character as Lord Calliston's mistress could hardly have the audacity to visit Lady Balscombe.
"And yet," pondered Dowker, "I don't know--these two woman both loved the same man, and a free-lance like Lena Sarschine would not hesitate for a moment in slanging any woman who took her man away--but why did not Lady Balscombe kick up a row and order her to leave the house?--I'm hanged if I can get to the bottom of this!"
At length Dowker decided that the best thing to be done would be to find out from some servant of the Balscombe household all that took place subsequent to Lady Balscombe's departure. First, however, he decided on seeing Lydia Fenny and finding out if Lena Sarschine had let fall any hint of calling on her rival.
Lydia Fenny received the detective eagerly, as she evidently loved her mistress and wanted to do all in her power to further the ends of justice. As there was no time to be lost, Dowker plunged at once into the subject matter of his visit.
"Did Miss Sarschine state on the night of her murder where she was going?" he asked.
"Yes," replied Lydia, "as I told you before she said she was going to Lord Calliston's rooms."
"Nowhere else?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Humph! she did not make any remark that would lead you to believe she was going to Lady Balscombe's?"
"Lady Balscombe's!" echoed Lydia in astonishment, "why what would she want to do there?"
"I don't know, but I think she was there on that night," and Dowker detailed to Lydia the conversation overheard by Flip, at the conclusion of which she said:
"I suppose you want to find out from the servants if Miss Sarschine was there?"
"Yes; do you know any of the servants?"
"One--Lady Balscombe's maid--Anne Lifford."
"Oh!" said Dowker in a satisfied tone. "Can you ask her to come along here and see you? I can find out all I want to know from her."
"I daresay I can get her to come here to-day, as her mistress being away she cannot be busy."
"Good!" replied the detective, "send for her at once. I will wait here."
"Very well," said Lydia, and was leaving the room when Dowker called her back.
"Could you let me see your mistress's private desk?" he asked.
"What for?" demanded Lydia, rather taken aback.
"Because I want to look over her papers; from them I can gather her past life, and find out if anyone had a motive in killing her."
"Oh!" said Lydia after a pause, "you don't think then that Mr. Desmond is guilty?"
Dowker shrugged his shoulders.
"How can I tell?" he replied; "as far as I can see he had no motive, and one does not commit a murder for sport--but come, show me her desk."
Lydia looked at him doubtfully.
"I don't know if I ought to let you see her private papers."
Dowker laughed in a subdued manner.
"Why not?" he said lightly, "she is dead, and we want to find out who killed her--looking at her papers cannot do any harm and may save the life of an innocent man."
Lydia Fenny hesitated no longer, but leading the detective to the end of the drawing-room showed him a recess wherein was placed a very handsome desk of the ordinary office character. Dowker tried some of the drawers.
"Locked," he said quietly. "Have you the keys?"
"No, she had them with her."
Dowker made up his mind to commit a burglary.
"Bring me a chisel."
"At once," replied Lydia Fenny, going, "and I'll also send for Anne Lifford."
She left the room, and Dowker sitting down in front of the desk examined it carefully. It was one of those table desks with a knee-hole in the centre and a row of drawers on each side. At the back were a number of pigeon holes containing papers, and these Dowker examined, but found nothing more than bills and blank sheets of paper.
"Whatever private papers she's had," said Dowker, on discovering this, "are in these drawers."
Lydia Fenny arrived with the chisel and a small hammer, both of which she handed to Dowker, telling him at the same time she had sent for Anne Lifford. Dowker nodded carelessly and began to force open the drawers.
After half-an-hour's hard work this was the result of his labours.
First, a bundle of old letters addressed to "Miss Helena Dicksfall, Post Office, Folkestone," signed F. Carrill.
Second, a photograph of a handsome white-haired old man, on the back of which photograph was written, "Your loving father, Michael Dicksfall."
Third, a photograph of Lena Sarschine, taken in a white dress with a tennis racket in her hand.
Dowker examined the photographs carefully, and then coolly read all the letters, of which there were about ten. After doing this, he turned to Lydia Fenny who had been watching him all the time, and said:
"I can read a whole story in this; the name of your mistress was not Lena Sarschine, but Helena Dicksfall--she lived at Folkestone with her father, Captain Michael Dicksfall, and a lady she calls Amelia, whom I take to be her sister. Lord Calliston went down to Folkestone, saw her and fell in love--all these letters show how he conducted his intrigue, which he did under the name of Frank Carrill. He loved Miss Dicksfall but did not wish to marry her; at last he persuaded her to run away with him, and at last she did so. Ashamed of her position, she changed her name to Lena Sarschine so as to conceal her identity. The portrait of the old gentleman is that of her father, Captain Michael Dicksfall, and this one is herself."
Lydia Fenny listened in silent amazement to the way in which he had pieced the story together, and then taking the portraits in her hand she looked at them long and earnestly.
"Yes," she said at length, laying down the photographs with a sigh. "It is Miss Sarschine, but it must have been taken some time ago, for I never saw her in that dress, and I have been with her for about a year."
Dowker was about to make a reply when the door opened and a woman entered. Tall, thin, with a pale face, dark hair, and an aggressive manner, dressed in a green dress, and bonnet to match.
"Oh!" observed Lydia on seeing her, "is this you, Anne?"
Dowker looked sharply at the new comer, whom he now knew to be Lady Balscombe's maid, and she returned his gaze with a look of suspicion.
"Well, sit," she said at length, in a rather harsh voice, "I hope you'll know me again."
Dowker laughed, and Lydia hastened to introduce him to Miss Lifford, who being an extremely self-possessed young person took the introduction very calmly, though she manifested some surprise when she heard Mr. Dowker's calling.
"This gentleman," said Lydia when they were all seated, "wants to ask you a few questions."
"And for what?" asked Miss Lifford, indignantly, "my character I hope being above policemen's prying."
"I'm not a policeman," explained Dowker, smoothly, "but a detective, and I want to know all that took place on the night your mistress eloped."
"Are you employed by Sir Rupert?" asked Anne, grandly, "because though I knows they fought bitter, yet wild bulls won't drag anything out of me against my mistress, she being a good one to me."
"I don't want you to say anything against your mistress," replied Dowker, mildly, "but I am investigating this case of murder."
"Murder!" echoed Miss Lifford in a scared tone, "who is murdered--not Lady Balscombe?"
"No," said Lydia, bursting into tears, "but my poor mistress, Miss Sarschine."
"A person of no repute," sniffed Anne, coldly.
"Leave her alone," said Lydia passionately. "She's dead, poor soul, and even if she was not married, she was better than Lady Balscombe, carrying on with Lord Calliston."
"Oh, indeed, miss," said Ann, rising indignantly. "This is a plot, is it, to mix up Lady Balscombe with your mistress? I won't have anything to do with it."
Dowker caught her wrist as she arose, and forced her back into her chair.
"You'll answer what I want to know," he said sternly, "or it will be the worse for yourself."
Upon this Miss Lifford began to weep, and demanded if she was a slave or a British female, to be thus badgered and assaulted by a policeman. At last, after some difficulty, Dowker succeeded in making her understand that what he wanted to know was not detrimental to her mistress, upon which she said she would tell him what he required. So Dowker produced his note-book and prepared to take down Miss Lifford's evidence.
"First," asked Dowker, "do you remember the night when Lady Balscombe eloped?"
"Not being a born fool, I do," retorted Miss Lifford sharply. "Such goings on I never saw."
"Can you tell me all that took place on that night?"
Miss Lifford sniffed thoughtfully.
"There was a ball they was going to."
"Who were going to?"
"Lady Balscombe and Miss Penfold. They did go, and left shortly before ten, but before I had time to turn round, they were back again, as Lady Balscombe said she had a headache."
"Oh, so I suppose she went to bed?"
"Then you suppose wrong," retorted Anne triumphantly, "for there was a pusson waiting to see her."
"A lady?" asked Dowker, eagerly.
"I don't know," retorted Miss Lifford sharply. "She had a veil on."
"Can you describe her dress?"
Miss Lifford thought a moment, while Lydia bent forward anxiously to hear her answer.
"A hat trimmed with blue and brown velvet, and a sealskin jacket."
Lydia Fenny sank back in her seat with a groan.
"Oh, my poor mistress!"
"Your mistress!" echoed Miss Lifford, turning sharply. "It could not have been Miss Sarschine who called on that night."
"But I'm certain it was," said Dowker.
"What impertinence!" muttered the virtuous Anne.
"Never mind," said Dowker sharply, "go on with your story,"
Miss Lifford sniffed indignantly and resumed:
"Lady Balscombe returned at half-past ten and went up to her dressing-room, where this--this lady was waiting for her. Miss Penfold went to bed. I don't know how long the lady was with my mistress, as I was told that my mistress would not require me again that night; but I waited about in case I should be wanted, and saw the lady leave the house shortly after eleven."
"Miss Sarschine?"
"Yes--at least, the lady in the sealskin jacket, and you say it was Miss Sarschine, so I suppose it was. I then went to Lady Balscombe's room, but found the door locked, so as I thought she had gone to bed I went downstairs to get my supper. When I came upstairs again, about twelve, the door was still locked, so I went to bed."
"Lady Balscombe could not have gone out in the meantime?"
"No, because I asked the footman if anyone had gone out or come in, and he said no one."
"She could not have gone out without attracting the notice of the servants, I suppose?"
"No, they would have recognised her at once. I think she waited till everyone was in bed and then went off to meet Lord Calliston."
"But you are sure she did not leave till after twelve?"
"I'd swear it anywhere," returned Miss Lifford impatiently.
"In that case," muttered Dowker, "it could not have been Lady Balscombe who saw Mr. Desmond at Lord Calliston's chambers, so it must have been Lena Sarschine."
"Do you want to know anything more?" asked Miss Lifford icily.
"Yes. Tell me, what was Lady Balscombe like?"
Miss Lifford laughed contemptuously.
"Why, don't you know?" she replied. "You ought to, as she was one of the beauties of the season. Her portrait was all over the place. Why," catching sight of the photograph on the study-table, "you have one."
Dowker handed her the photograph.
"Do you say that is Lady Balscombe?"
"Yes, certainly."
"What nonsense!" said Lydia, "why, that is Miss Sarschine."
"I never saw Miss Sarschine," retorted Miss Lifford, "but I know that's Lady Balscombe."
"I never saw Lady Balscombe," replied Lydia, angrily, "but I know that's Miss Sarschine."
Dowker looked from one to the other, and then slipped the photograph into his pocket along with the letters and the other photograph.
"There's only one way of settling this," he said quietly, "I'll call on the photographer and ask him who it is."
He gave Anne Lifford some money, and then left the house wrapped in thought.
"This is a new complication," he said to himself, "this resemblance--they must be very like one another if their maids mix them up like this--and then Lena Sarschine calling on Lady Balscombe, I wonder if there can be any relationship between them--not likely--a lady of title, and a woman of light character--well," finished up Dowker, philosophically, "I think the best thing for me to do is to discover as much about Lena Sarschine's previous life as possible, and to do this, I'll run down to Folkestone, and look up Captain Michael Dicksfall."