It took Audrey some time to recover from the announcement so unexpectedly made by Miss Toat. In fact, she felt so faint that the detective made her drink a glass of water. When better she asked a question which had been in her mind all the time.
"You don't accuse Mr. Shawe of--"
"No, no, no!" said Miss Toat, hastily. "How can you think of such a thing? Mr. Shawe is perfectly innocent. He wrote the letter because he suspected another person."
"Who is the other person?"
Perry Toat hesitated. "I think it will be best for you to ask Mr. Shawe to give you an explanation," she said a trifle stiffly. "I can't say for certain whom he suspects. But it must be someone known to you, or he would not have worded his letter in the way he has done."
Audrey leant her elbow on the table, and her now aching head on her hand. "I don't see how you can make out that Mr. Shawe wrote the letter," she said.
For answer Perry Toat placed before her the letters which she had taken out of the tin box. These were from Ralph, giving various instructions to the detective. Beside these she placed the anonymous epistle.
"You can see," said Miss Toat, quietly, "that although the handwriting of the anonymous letter is disguised, there is a great similarity to that of Mr. Shawe's. Here and here"--she pointed out several letters; and then, to clinch the matter, she said positively: "The paper is some which Mr. Shawe's office-boy keeps to make notes on. I have noticed that. Also the postmark is London."
"But all this is not strong enough to prove that Mr. Shawe wrote the letter."
"I think it is, Miss Branwin. However, it will be easy for him to deny the authorship if you ask him. I must say," added Miss Toat, determined to be perfectly frank, "that the evidence is slight, and I go mostly by the similarity of the writing. Also I told Mr. Shawe something which Parizade told me, which seemed to alarm him. Ever since then he has tried to stop me looking into the matter. Therefore I judge that to enlist you on his side he wrote this," and Miss Toat laid her lean hand on the anonymous epistle.
"But why couldn't he speak plainly to me? I see no reason why he should trick me in this manner," argued Audrey, distressed to find that Ralph had behaved in so underhanded a way.
"I can't answer that question; and, in spite of my belief, I may be wrong in suspecting Mr. Shawe. However, it is easy to learn the truth. Take any letter which Mr. Shawe has written to you and place it before him, along with this anonymous one. Then see what he says, and report to me his reply."
Audrey agreed to do this, and went away, much puzzled. The mystery of the case was affecting her nerves; and, now that Ralph seemed to be on the side of the enemy, she did not know which way to turn for advice. Perry Toat's intentions were good, but she seemed to be more clever at theorising than in finding real evidence likely to be of service for the elucidation of the problem. So far, what discoveries she had made--and these were but trifling--had resulted in nothing. Poor Audrey went home lamenting inwardly that the truth would never become known.
However, there was only one thing to be done, and she did it. That is, she wrote a short note to Ralph asking him to call at the Camden Hill house. As Mrs. Mellop was now absent, and Sir Joseph would probably go out in the evening according to his usual custom, the coast would be clear for Ralph's visit. Besides, Audrey was weary of playing a secret game, and wished her lover to come forward boldly, and claim her even at the risk of Sir Joseph's displeasure. This would fall on her sooner or later, so it was just as well to get it over at once. She sent the letter by special messenger, and then went to lie down, as her head was aching. It was not to be wondered at, seeing what a shock she had sustained.
Sir Joseph came home to express his satisfaction that Mrs. Mellop was out of the house, and ascribed his daughter's weary looks when she met him to regret for the loss of her friend. Audrey hastened to undeceive him.
"I told you that I did not like Mrs. Mellop, papa, and I have not changed my opinion," she said very distinctly.
"Well, my dear, you were right for once," replied Branwin, more amiably than usual. "She talked too much, and I began to feel that she was a nuisance. However, she has gone, and you needn't see her again." He paused, then abruptly made his announcement. "I intend to take you abroad."
"I don't care to go, papa."
"It doesn't matter what you care, you will do as you are told. A change of scene will do you good, as you look pale enough. I wish you to stop with Madame Lemain. She is a charming woman, and her husband is a very good friend of mine. You shall stay in Paris until you agree to obey me and marry Lord Anvers. Not a word. I have made up my mind."
"And I have made up mine," cried the girl, greatly angered. "I refuse to marry Lord Anvers, and I have told him so."
"Oh, that doesn't matter," Branwin assured her, coolly. "Anvers intends to propose again."
"He will receive the same answer."
"I think not, Audrey. A few weeks in Paris may cause you to change your mind, since you will not be seeing that rascal Shawe every day, as I have reason to believe you are doing."
"I see Ralph whenever I can," Audrey confessed, candidly and defiantly, "and if you do not consent to my marriage with him I shall run away."
"By all means, if you choose to risk the loss of your dowry," said Sir Joseph, grimly. "I hold the purse, remember, and if you disobey me not one shilling of my money will you get. I don't intend to talk of this matter any more to you. Either you do what I want or I shall disown you as a daughter. In Paris you may perhaps make up your mind," and without another glance at the pale-faced girl Branwin left the room.
But Audrey was still unconquered. Her father took the wrong tone with her when he hoped to bully her into compliance. Had he spoken affectionately and been more amiable she might have overlooked his previous neglect, and have striven to please him. "But whatever he said or did," muttered the girl to herself, "I should never consent to marry Lord Anvers." So it seemed that Sir Joseph's design of sending her abroad for reflection was likely to prove useless.
The time Audrey had appointed for her lover to call was eight o'clock; but he did not make his appearance. Sir Joseph had not gone out, as the girl had expected him to, and was writing letters in his library. Alone in her late mother's sitting-room Audrey paced to and fro, with her eyes on the timepiece. At half-past eight she grew quite sick with apprehension, as she began to believe that something must have happened to Ralph, or else that he was afraid to face her. Perhaps, after all, Ralph, since he had written the letter, had something to do with the crime, as he so pointedly avoided a meeting. Audrey felt that she could not pass the night without knowing the truth, and at a quarter to nine o'clock made up her mind that as her lover would not come to her she would go to him. He had chambers in the Temple, as she well knew; for when Lady Branwin was alive they had gone there to have afternoon tea with the young barrister. It was impossible to remain in a state of suspense any longer, so Audrey ran up to her room, changed from her dinner dress into a quiet walking frock, and stole out of the house as unobstrusively as she could. Fortunately she had a couple of pounds in her purse, so did not hesitate to call a cab. In a very short time she was speeding along in a taxi on her rash errand.
And it was rash. Here she was, a young girl, going by night to call on a young bachelor. Even though she was engaged to him, this daring was enough to make every matron in Society shriek with horror. While driving through the lighted streets, Audrey could not help thinking of what Mrs. Mellop would say did she know of this escapade; for the little widow herself was terribly afraid of Mrs. Grundy, and, although lively enough under the rose, would never have dared to act in this way. But the girl did not care. Mrs. Mellop was not likely to hear about the matter, and, even if she did, Audrey was too anxious and worried to take notice of spiteful remarks. Her whole life's happiness was at stake, and she felt that it was impossible to wait any longer for an explanation. Ralph apparently knew something, and in some way was connected with what took place on that fatal night. What that something might be Audrey dreaded to think. All the same, she was determined to know what it was. She could bear anything save suspense.
On arriving in Fleet Street the girl dismissed her cab, and walked into the Gardens, wherein rose the tall pile of buildings containing Shawe's chambers. A shilling and a word to a friendly hall-porter soon procured her admission into the building, and she went up in the lift to the third floor. Knowing Ralph's number, she rang the bell, wondering if he was at home, or if her journey had been in vain. In a few minutes the door was opened, and the barrister himself appeared. For the moment, as Audrey wore a veil, he did not recognise her in the dim light of the passage.
"May I inquire what you want?" he asked politely.
"Ralph!" said the girl, faintly, and leant against the wall, as the strength which had kept her up was now failing her.
"Good heavens, Audrey!" cried Shawe, dismay. "What are you doing here?"
"Mahomet would not come to the mountain, so the mountain has to come to Mahomet," replied Audrey, with an anxious smile.
"But, my dear girl, it isn't right, and you--"
"Oh! never mind appearances," she interrupted feverishly. "No one knows me as I wear this thick veil. Let me in, Ralph, I have much to say to you."
Shawe immediately conducted her into his sitting-room. There was nothing else to be done, as he knew that Audrey could be obstinate when she chose, and would refuse to depart without an explanation. Moreover--and this almost banished the enormity of her visit from his mind--he dreaded lest she should have learnt something which he particularly did not wish her to know. The young man felt sure that she really might have gained the forbidden knowledge, since she had dared to take such a bold step.
"Sit down here, dear," he said, wheeling forward a comfortable armchair. "You look pale; let me give you a glass of wine."
"No, I don't want any wine. I feel all right."
"But, Audrey," said Ralph, who could scarcely conceal his dismay, "how did you escape Mrs. Mellop and your father?"
"Mrs. Mellop has gone home," explained the girl, with a faint smile, as she thought of the little widow's discomfiture, "and my father was busy in his library. I slipped out quietly."
"But you should not have come here, darling. Think of what the world will say. It is so rash."
"I don't care what the world says," retorted Audrey, crossly. "The world is doing nothing for me that I should consider it. You blame me for coming to see you, when you have broken two appointments with me."
"I broke the first I admit, my dear; but I made no second appointment."
"You had my note asking you to come to me this evening?"
"Yes, but I did not come."
"You had no intention of coming?"
"No," said Shawe, without hesitation. "I had no intention of coming."
"Ralph"--Audrey caught his hand--"do you think that you are treating me in a straightforward way?"
"Yes and no. Perhaps I should be more open with you, and yet if I was you would be afraid and angry."
"I am angry in any case, seeing that you will not trust me; but afraid"--she looked at him very straightly--"why should I be afraid?"
Shawe dropped into an opposite chair with an air of lassitude. "If I explained that, Audrey, I should have to be more frank than I care to be."
"Why? For what reason?"
"There are things which I do not wish you to know."
"In connection with my mother's death?"
"Yes," said Ralph, after a second's pause, "in connection with your mother's death. Audrey"--he knelt at her feet and looked anxiously into her face--"why not leave this matter alone and marry me?"
"How can I when you refuse to trust me?" she said sternly.
"I do trust you. I trust you entirely."
"Then tell me what you know."
"I can't. It is too difficult."
"Is that why you chose to write me an anonymous letter?" she asked quickly.
The barrister rose and flushed a deep red, while he looked at her with startled eyes. "What do you mean?" he stammered.
"I mean what I say. Perry Toat examined that letter, and by comparing your handwriting with that of my unknown correspondent, by looking at the postmark, and by recognising the common paper as some used by your office-boy to keep notes, she is certain that you wrote the letter."
There was a long pause. Shawe, driven into a corner, said nothing, and did not even meet her reproachful eyes. Standing on the hearth-rug he stared at the floor, opening and shutting his hands.
"Well," said Audrey, after a pause, and very impatiently, "what do you say?"
"I wrote the letter, and for a very good reason," admitted the young man, nervously.
"What is the reason?" she demanded, looking at him searchingly.
"I can't tell you, Audrey; don't ask me."
"But I do ask you, and you must tell me. Why did you write that letter?"
"If you will have the truth," burst out Shawe, "I wished to spare you pain."
"So you said in the letter," Audrey assured him, coolly; "but what pain is it that you wish to spare me?"
"Never mind; never mind." Ralph impatiently waved his hand. "You should not be here, Audrey. Let me take you back home."
The girl laughed bitterly. "Is that all you have to say? I don't leave this room until you tell me the truth. I want to know why you wrote an anonymous letter instead of speaking to me openly."
"Had I spoken openly you would have asked questions which I could not answer."
"You must answer them now. Did you murder my mother yourself?"
"Good heavens! no. How can you ask such a thing?" cried Shawe, furiously. "Is this the opinion you have of me?"
"Very well," said Audrey, coolly; "you are innocent yourself, so we will let that pass. Miss Toat said that you have never been the same since she told you something that Parizade had said. What is it?"
Shawe reflected for a few moments. "I see that I shall have to tell you all, my dear," he said sadly, "although I have done my best to spare you the knowledge. Parizade, while wandering about the Pink Shop on the night of the crime, smelt a strong scent of Harris tweed. Listen," and Ralph told the girl in detail the same story as the blind woman had told Perry Toat.
"Well," said Audrey, much puzzled, "it seems that someone who wore Harris tweed was in the passage hiding. But what has this to do with your desire that I should know nothing?"
"Who is it that constantly wears Harris tweed--almost constantly, that is?" asked Shawe.
"Plenty of people wear Harris tweed--both men and women. Why, my father--"
"Yes," said Ralph, interrupting pointedly, "your father."
Audrey grew red and white by turns. "My father--you suspect my father?"
"I believe that he is guilty," said Ralph, solemnly, and nodded.
The moment Audrey became certain of the name of the person accused by her lover, she recalled what Mrs. Mellop had said about Sir Joseph. As the thought came into her mind she turned very white, and leaning back in the chair closed her eyes, feeling deadly sick. It really seemed as though Ralph had spoken the truth, and that her father, of all people, was guilty. No wonder the diamonds had not been stolen. Sir Joseph had not crept into the Pink Shop to steal jewels, but to rid himself of an undesirable wife. A nervous shiver shook the girl from head to foot, and she almost lost consciousness. But the touch of a cold glass rim on her lips made her open her eyes, and she saw that Shawe was offering her some wine.
"Drink this, darling, and you will feel better," he said anxiously.
This time Audrey did not refuse, as she felt that she needed to be sustained at the moment. Without a word she drank half the wine, and then motioned Ralph to remove the glass. In a minute or so the colour came back to her face, and she sat up with renewed strength.
"I am all right now," she declared firmly. "Ralph, sit down and explain."
"What is there to explain?" said Shawe, replacing the wine-glass on the table and resuming his former seat. "You know that I suspect Sir Joseph, and why I suspect him."
"And for this reason you wrote the anonymous letter?"
"Yes," said the barrister, frankly. "After Perry Toat told me what Parizade had said, and after what you mentioned about your father going out at night--ostensibly to help the poor--I suspected him. You mentioned your father's prowling before our Kensington Gardens conversation. I knew if I told you face to face that you would either be indignant with me or you would go straight to your father and make trouble. It was my desire to keep my suspicions quiet, since they are difficult to verify. For this reason I wrote you anonymously, and advised you to stop the search. I knew what grief it would cause you."
Audrey leant back and looked at her lover. "I have no reason to love my father, as you know," she said dully. "He has always been unkind to me, and he was unkind to my poor mother; but I can't think that he killed her."
"The evidence is slight, I admit," replied Ralph, gravely; "and perhaps it is evidence that would not stand in a court of law. All the same, to my mind, it certainly lays Sir Joseph open to suspicion."
"Parizade might have mistaken the smell?"
"No. Being blind, she has particularly keen olfactory nerves--her sense of smell is almost as highly developed as that of a dog. And the perfume of Harris tweed--if it can be called a perfume--that peaty smell, I mean--is so strong and so characteristic that even an ordinary person could guess that,--"
"Other people besides my father wear Harris tweed suits," interrupted Audrey, trying to find excuses.
"Quite so. Ladies wear tailor-made dresses of it and men wear suits. But as a rule that particular kind of cloth is mostly worn by those who shoot, and is worn as a rule in the country. It is rarely that one sees it in London--at all events amongst people of your father's class."
"Yes," admitted Audrey, "father is always particular about his dress. He goes to the City in a frock-coat and a silk hat, and invariably dresses for dinner. In fact, he does what most people in Society do in the way of dress. But remember that I told you how he went on the prowl."
"Which people in Society do not do, as a rule," said Ralph. "Quite so, my dear. But why I suspect your father is that he has quite a craze for Harris tweed, and once or twice told me that for ordinary suits he wears no other cloth. Besides, he certainly wants to marry Miss Pearl, and--"
"Yes, yes, yes! I quite understand, and I admit that he might have been lurking in the passage on that night. Certainly he was in Walpole Lane during the evening."
"How do you know?" demanded Shawe, rather startled.
"Mrs. Mellop saw him. He was on the hither side of the lane when I came to ask if my mother intended to remain for the night."
"Could Mrs. Mellop have been mistaken?"
"I don't think so, unfortunately," said Audrey, with a mournful look. "She knew him so well, and also she saw him in his tweed suit early in the evening when she came to take me to the theatre."
"I thought you told me that he was not at dinner, and went out very early?"
"So he did," said the girl, quickly; "but Mrs. Mellop came early also, and she passed him in the hall when he was going out. He did not stay to dinner. It was six o'clock when he went out--about the time Mrs. Mellop arrived. She mentioned the fact to me."
"And when did she say that she saw Sir Joseph in the lane?"
"To-day. That was one reason why I wished to see you. Mrs. Mellop has been trying hard to get my father to marry her. Yesterday she learnt from his own lips that he intended to marry Rosy Pearl, and lost her temper. My father asked her to leave, and she returned to her own home this afternoon. At our last interview she hinted that she believed my father had something to do with the death of my mother, and stated that she had seen him in the lane."
"Has she any other grounds upon which to base such a statement?"
"I don't think so. And I don't believe she believes what she says. It is simply the petty spite of a woman who has been disappointed. She can do no harm to my father in any way."
"Singly, I don't think she can," assented the barrister, thoughtfully; "but if Parizade's evidence became public property there would be trouble if it were taken in conjunction with what Mrs. Mellop saw."
"I don't think that Perry Toat suspects my father," said Audrey, after a lengthy pause; "at least, she did not say that she did. She told me to ask you for an explanation, as she declared that you seemed disturbed by Parizade's evidence."
"And with good reason," said the barrister. "No one but you and I know how important that evidence is, seeing that we are aware of your father's liking for Harris tweed."
"I can't think that he is guilty, all the same," said Audrey, tearfully.
Shawe walked up and down the room thoughtfully. "Well," he said finally, "I have kept my suspicions from you as long as I could; but now that you know, Audrey, I think you should question your father."
"Oh!"--she shrank back in her chair--"I dare not."
"If you don't Perry Toat may get to know what we have discovered, and as she is anxious to gain the reward she will certainly go to Sir Joseph herself."
Audrey shivered. "Oh, how angry he would be!"
"If he is innocent he certainly would show Miss Toat no mercy; on the other hand, if he is guilty, he would make terms."
"I can't think that he is guilty," cried the girl, in despair. "With all his faults, he surely would not strangle his own wife." She rose to her feet.
"It seems incredible, but--look at the evidence. Audrey, you must speak to your father or let me speak. But tell me one thing"--he took her in his arms--"have you forgiven me for my strange conduct, for I know that it seemed strange in your dear eyes?"
"Yes. I know why you acted as you did. It was to save me from grief. And if my father is guilty," said the girl, shivering, "it certainly will be the greatest grief of my life, as you said in the letter. How can I marry you should my father turn out to be a murderer?"
"My darling"--Ralph held her to his heart--"I don't visit the sins of the father on the child. If he murdered a dozen women I should still make you my wife; and I wish you would leave the whole of this horrible affair alone and marry me at once."
"Unless my father can exonerate himself I shall have to leave it alone. I dare not go on with a matter which involves his honour."
"And more than that. It involves his liberty and life, and--hush!"
He stopped short to listen, and Audrey listened also. It seemed for the moment, so still were they, that they had been changed into stone. "It's a ring at the front door," said Ralph, anxiously.
"Don't bring anyone in," pleaded Audrey, hastily letting down her veil.
"Trust me," replied Ralph, and left the room. He had only been gone two minutes and Audrey heard him open the door, when there came the sound of a loud and domineering voice. The girl recognised it at once.
"Oh"--she clasped her hands and shrank against the wall--"my father!"
It was indeed Sir Joseph who burst into the room, looking as furious as a mad bull. Ralph was trying to detain him, but in vain. "I'll break your head if you try to stop me," bellowed Sir Joseph, who was beside himself with rage. "Oh, there you are, you shameless girl. It is no use your hiding your face with that veil. I know you. I have followed you here."
"And what if you have?" demanded Audrey, throwing up the veil and looking at the intruder with flashing eyes.
"What if I have--what if I have," roared her father, clenching his big hands. "You jade, do you ask me that when I find you here in this scoundrel's rooms at ten o'clock in the evening?"
Ralph closed the door with a crash and faced the millionaire. "I am not a scoundrel."
"You are. Because I declined to allow you to see Audrey at my house you have decoyed her here."
"I came here of my own free will," said Audrey, who was deadly pale but quite firm.
"Then you go away at my free will," said her father, advancing. "I have a cab below. Come away at once. Oh, you minx! You little thought that I told Ranger to watch you." (Ranger was one of Sir Joseph's footmen.) "Yes, he did watch you, and by my orders. He saw you leave the house, and followed you to hear you tell the cabman to drive to the Temple. When he informed me I guessed that you had come to see this--this--" Branwin could not think of a name bad enough to call this barrister, so contented himself by shaking his fist furiously.
"You set one of your servants to spy on your daughter?" said Audrey, with a look of profound scorn.
"Yes, I did, and it is lucky for you that I took such care of your reputation, you hussy! I can silence the man, but if anyone else came to know of your presence here, think what the world would say."
"I don't care what the world says," said Audrey, contemptuously.
"I care. It is my good name you are dragging through the mud."
"What of your own good name which your own wicked actions are dragging in the mud?" cried Ralph, suddenly, and faced the millionaire defiantly.
"What the deuce do you mean?"
"I shall tell you what I mean. I would not do so but that you are treating Audrey so vilely. You were in the Pink Shop on the night your wife was murdered. Deny it if you can."
Branwin staggered against the wall, and glared at the speaker. "Deny it if I can!" he echoed wrathfully. "Of course I can deny it. You fool, what do you mean by saying such a thing?"
"You were in the Pink Shop on that night," said Ralph, doggedly.
"I was not."
"At all events, you were in the lane," said Audrey, suddenly.
"You also! You also!" Sir Joseph raised his big arm, and would have struck his daughter, but that Audrey swerved and Ralph caught him by the wrist. "Let me go! Let me go, hang, you!" cried Sir Joseph, only he used a much worse oath.
Ralph was the slighter man, but by a clever trick he succeeded in taking the millionaire off his guard and sent him spinning across the room.
"If you dare to lay a finger on Audrey I'll throw you out of the window!" said the barrister, and flung his arm round the weeping girl.
Branwin glared, and wiped his heated forehead. "She and you accuse me of--of murder?" he gasped, trembling with rage.
"No. We simply say that you were in Walpole Lane and in the Pink Shop on the night of the murder. Perhaps you can explain?"
"I was not there, confound you! In the lane--yes, I was in the lane, but I did not enter the shop. By what right do you accuse me of the crime?"
"I say again, as I said before, that I do not accuse you of the crime," replied Ralph, firmly. "But you wore a suit of Harris tweed on that night?"
"I did. I always wear Harris tweed. It is my favourite cloth. Well?"
"One of the girls in the Pink Shop--a blind girl who has a very keen sense of smell--told the detective that I am employing to learn the truth how on the night of the murder she smelt the peaty scent of Harris tweed."
"What has that got to do with me? Plenty of people wear Harris tweed suits."
"Plenty of people don't wish to get rid of their wives," snapped Shawe.
"Ah! so you do accuse me?" said Sir Joseph, who was now calming down. "And my motive for wishing to get rid of my wife?"
"Miss Rosy Pearl can best answer that question."
"What do you know of Miss Pearl? Speak of her with respect, as she is to be my wife."
"So I said," answered Ralph, calmly; "and she was stopping in the Pink Shop also on that night."
Branwin winced and became very calm. It was wonderful to see how rapidly he cooled down from his hot anger. "Miss Pearl was in the shop as a client of Madame Coralie's," he said with an attempt at dignity. "You can have no grounds for saying that she had anything to do with the matter."
"I never said so," rejoined Ralph, drily, "and I only suspect you because of your wearing Harris tweed. Someone clothed in such a cloth certainly lurked in the passage on that night. Was that person you?"
"No," said Sir Joseph, coolly; "and I defy you to prove it."
"Oh! papa, we don't wish to prove it," said Audrey, quickly. "Your word denying your presence there is sufficient."
Branwin turned on his daughter with a great show of courtesy. "Pardon me, but I have not the honour of your acquaintance," he said politely. "You are a stranger to me."
"Papa, what do you mean?"
"I mean that you have left my house to see your lover against my wishes. I now cast you off, and you can stay here. You shall never re-enter the home you have disgraced."
Audrey sank into a chair with a cry of dismay, and Ralph advanced furiously on the millionaire.
"Sir Joseph, you can't mean this?"
"I do mean it. Audrey has disobeyed me, and, moreover, in conjunction with you, she has accused me of committing a murder."
"I did not--I did not!" cried Audrey, wringing her hands.
"Pardon me, but you did," said Branwin, still ironically polite. "You can take your own way henceforth, and I should advise you to change your name as speedily as possible. You can't possibly care to keep my name, when I am in danger of arrest as the murderer of my own wife. Mr. Shawe"--he bowed to the barrister--"I congratulate you on your approaching marriage."
"But, Sir Joseph--"
"Not a word more. My doors are closed on that woman"--he pointed insultingly to Audrey. "Good-night--both of you!" and with a final bow he walked heavily out of the room. A moment later, and they heard the door bang.
The two young people remained alone, looking at one another, and feeling quite aghast at the position in which they now found themselves. They had not expected Sir Joseph's appearance, much less that he would behave in so brutal a manner. Moreover, he had repelled the hinted accusation so calmly, and had admitted so freely that he had been in Walpole Lane, that both Audrey and Ralph felt certain he was completely innocent. Certainly, they had not directly accused him of committing the crime--the girl especially would have been horrified at the mere idea--but Sir Joseph had taken what they said to mean that they suspected him, and so had revenged himself in the cruel way he had done.
The bang of the door startled both from the momentary state of stupor into which the unexpected behaviour of Branwin had plunged them. Audrey, with a white face and startled eyes, looked at her lover. "What is to be done now?" she asked in a low voice.
"You must drive back home at once," said Ralph, determinedly.
She shook her head. "It is useless. My father will go straight home and give orders that I am not to be admitted."
"Oh, that is impossible. Think of the scandal."
"Papa does not mind the scandal. Already he has shown how far he is prepared to go by having me watched by Ranger. Oh"--she clenched her hand--"think of the disgrace of it all!"
"Then you must stay the night at some hotel."
"I cannot--I have no baggage. What hotel would take me in with no baggage? I have very little money too, and only the clothes I stand up in."
"Oh, the money doesn't matter, my darling. I can provide you with what you require," said Ralph, hastily; then muttered through his teeth: "But it is a confoundedly awkward situation in any case. Your father is a brute."
"He is what he has always been," said Audrey, with a tired sigh, for the late conversation had quite broken her up--"a man who has always had his own way. There is only one thing to be done"--and she rose.
"What is that?" asked Shawe, hopefully.
"I must go to the Pink Shop and throw myself on the mercy of my aunt."
Ralph brightened. "You clever darling to think of that," he said, looking at his watch. "It's half-past ten o'clock. I wonder if she will be still up?"
"I daresay; if not, we can rouse her. Come, Ralph"--she pulled down her veil to hide a very white face--"let us go at once. Oh, I do hope that my father will say nothing of my being here to anyone. I now see how rash I have been. It's terrible."
"Darling, I really don't think your father will say anything; for very shame he cannot. He will account for your absence by saying that you refused to obey him with regard to this marriage with Anvers, and that he turned you out. Everyone who knows what an animal he is will believe this version. I am quite sure that your visit here will never be known."
Thus comforted, and seeing the commonsense view taken by Shawe, Audrey went down the stairs with her lover, and they passed out of the great block of buildings and through the Gardens. The porter was not visible, and as Audrey wore such a thick veil, it was not likely that he would be able to recognise her on any future occasion. In Fleet Street the barrister procured a cab, and they drove westward in silence. The whole thing seemed like a nightmare, and Audrey shivered like a leaf. It was terrible to think that she had no home. If Madame Coralie refused to take her in, Heaven only knew what she could do; but she had every hope that her aunt would stand by her at this crisis, particularly as she seemed to hate Sir Joseph.
"Audrey darling, I think we must get married," said Ralph, after a long silence; "things can't go on in this way."
"But your career?" said Audrey, faintly.
"Never mind my career. Your father has deserted you, so you must become my wife, in order that I may have the right to protect you. Madame Coralie can keep you with her until we can arrange matters."
"But if Mrs. Mellop comes to hear of--"
"When you are my wife no one will dare to say a word," said Ralph, decidedly. "If anyone does, he or she will have to reckon with me. Besides, as I told you before, your father, brutal as he is, will not be such a fool as to soil the name of his own daughter. Popularity is the breath of his nostrils, and people would cry out on him if he talked of your visit to me."
"Yes." Audrey felt cheered when Ralph talked in this way. "I think you are right. But I do hope my aunt will take me in."
"From what you told me of the interview I think she will, dear. She seems to hate Sir Joseph in a very healthy manner. Audrey, I really don't know how you came to have such a father. I don't believe that you are his daughter. There must be some mistake."
"I wish I were anyone else's daughter indeed," said the girl, sighing.
"You will soon be my wife, so that will settle everything," said Ralph, as the cab turned into Walpole Lane. "Here we are, dearest. There is a light in the upstairs window, so Madame Coralie has not yet retired."
Having dismissed the cab, Shawe rang the bell, and shortly Badoura appeared to open the door, and to look with astonishment at the pair. "Will you tell Madame Coralie that Miss Branwin wishes to see her," said Shawe. "She is just returning from the theatre, and we called in here on our way to Camden Hill."
As Audrey wore a long cloak over her dress Badoura could not see that she was in walking costume, and quite believed the story. Of course, she knew who Shawe was, since that young gentleman had accompanied Miss Branwin on the morning when the death of the poor woman had been discovered. She, therefore, readily accepted the false explanation as a true one, and invited the two into the shop while she went upstairs to Madame Coralie, who was, it appeared, working late in the still-room at some newly-invented lotion. In the perfumed and dimly-lighted shop the lovers waited.
"That girl does not suspect the truth, you see," whispered Ralph, hurriedly.
"Thanks to your clever explanation," replied Audrey, in the same low voice. "But what am I to say when I stay here all night?"
"Your aunt will invent an explanation. Don't trouble. Here she is."
Even as Shawe spoke the heavy footfall of the woman was heard, and she came into the shop hurriedly. Her eyes, which were visible above the black silk of the yashmak, looked startled and anxious, although the rest of her face could not be seen. Evidently, and with very good reason, she was alarmed by this late and unexpected visit.
"Aunt Flora," began Audrey, and had only uttered the name, when Madame Coralie pointed to Shawe with an alarmed gesture. "Oh, that is all right!" went on the girl, rapidly. "He knows all about it. I told you that I would tell him; don't you remember?"
"Yes," said Madame Coralie, in her harsh voice, and peering at the young man anxiously, "I gave you permission to tell him. But mind you hold your tongue, Mr. Shawe." Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned to Audrey: "What is the matter that you come here at this hour?"
"My father has turned me out of the house, Aunt Flora, and I come to you for shelter," said Audrey, rapidly. "I have nowhere to go."
Madame Coralie clutched her yashmak and stamped her foot. When she spoke her voice was almost inarticulate with rage. "Do you mean to say that Joseph has dared to turn you from your home at this hour?"
"Yes." And Audrey, assisted by Shawe, rapidly related all that had taken place, although they both suppressed, for obvious reasons, any account of the suspicions they entertained on the evidence of Parizade's keen sense of smell. "So you see," ended the girl, with a sob, "that unless you take me in I have no place to shelter my head."
"My dear!" Madame Coralie made as though to catch her niece in her arms, but checked herself abruptly. "Of course you shall stay here as long as you like. But Badoura told me you had come from the theatre."
"My excuse for this midnight visit," said Ralph, quickly; "and now, Madame, you must invent some reason for Audrey stopping here for the night."
"Oh, that is easy enough"--she stepped back and looked at the slender figure of the girl, scarcely visible in the dim light--"you are too thin, Miss Branwin, and you wish me to treat you."
"Will Badoura accept that excuse?" asked Audrey, timidly.
"Yes," said Madame, bluntly; "she will accept any excuse that I like to give her. If she doesn't she loses her situation. Don't trouble, Miss--"
"Why don't you call me Audrey, Aunt Flora?"
"Because I don't want the relationship known," said the woman, promptly; "it is just as well, therefore, that I should call you Miss Branwin. But we can't stay talking here all night. Go away, Mr. Shawe, and don't come here again until I give you permission."
"But I want to see Audrey."
"You can do so when she walks in Kensington Gardens as usual," replied Madame Coralie, sharply; "but if you come here people will talk, and the quieter this business is kept the better it will be for everyone."
"But if papa talks"--began Audrey, only to be cut short.
"Papa won't talk," said Madame Coralie, in a hard, dry voice. "He will have quite enough to occupy his mind in marrying Miss Rosy Pearl--that is, if he ever does marry the creature."
"Madame"--Ralph started forward--"what do you mean?"
"Never mind; go away at once." Madame unlocked the door. "It is too late to chatter, and Miss Branwin looks quite worn out."
Shawe admitted the truth of this speech, and after a farewell embrace, at which Madame Coralie looked benignly, he took his leave. When the door was once more closed, Audrey followed her aunt up the stairs to the still-room, wherein the four assistants were working.
"You can all go to bed now," said Madame Coralie, with a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Zobeide"--she used her fingers at this point--"you can go to bed. Badoura, Miss Branwin is staying here for the night. We spoke, when she saw me the other day, about treating her for the figure, as she is much too thin. She only made up her mind to come to-night. See that the bedroom opposite--No. 10--is made ready, Badoura."
"Yes, Madame," said Badoura; and, whatever she may have thought of the young lady's unexpected decision to remain for the night, she certainly showed no astonishment in her face as she disappeared. The other three girls departed swiftly, evidently glad to get to bed, as they were tired with their work. Audrey and her aunt were left alone, and the girl would have spoken.
"No," said Madame Coralie, quickly, raising her hand, "don't speak, or you will faint. You are highly strung, my dear, and this position is too much for you. Get a night's rest, and we can talk in the morning."
"But I must thank you, Aunt Flora, for your kindness."
"My kindness!" said the other, bitterly, and her harsh voice took on a softer note. "It is a kindness your coming to me, to cheer me in my loneliness. I hope you will stay long."
"But you have your husband, Aunt Flora."
"Eddy--oh, yes; but he does not sleep in this place. I found him such a nuisance that I gave him money to take chambers. I see very little of him, as I found what a mistake I had made in marrying him. He cares nothing for me, but a great deal for what money I have. Don't speak of him."
Before Audrey could say anything more Badoura returned with the information that the bedroom was ready. Madame Coralie, who seemed to be a singularly capable woman who knew her own mind, at once insisted that her visitor should retire. So it was that in a very short space of time Audrey found herself in a comfortable bed. For a few moments she mused on the strange chance that had brought her to sleep in the very house wherein her mother had been murdered; then the great fatigue she felt overcame her and she fell into a profound slumber, which lasted until the morning. So deep it was that she did not even dream.
At ten o'clock next morning she awoke, and found her aunt standing beside her with a cup of tea. Madame Coralie explained how she had looked in once or twice before, but that Audrey had been sleeping so quietly that she had not had the heart to waken her.
"Drink this tea and take another sleep," advised Madame Coralie, wisely; "as the more you sleep after last night's experience the better you will feel."
Audrey, who still felt languid, willingly consented, and Madame went out quietly. She did not, however, through absence of mind, quite close the door, and Audrey was therefore wakened some time later by the sound of two voices conversing softly. At once she remembered that the still-room was opposite to the bedroom she occupied. Evidently its door was open, and, as her own door was not closed, she could hear very plainly. Half awake and half asleep she listened, not meaning to eavesdrop, but simply because she felt too tired to close the door or to give any evidence of her presence.
The voices were those of a man and a woman, and Audrey recognised the latter one as that of Badoura. But who the man was she could not guess.
"You are very cruel," said Badoura, addressing her companion softly. "You are tired of me, I am sure."
"Well, you always worry me so," said the man's voice, gruffly. "I can't be always running after you."
"You would not have said that once, Eddy," replied Badoura, and the name suddenly enlightened Audrey to the fact that the forewoman was conversing with Madame Coralie's scampish husband. Ashamed of listening, even half involuntarily, the girl would have risen to close the bedroom door, when the next sentence of Badoura made her change her mind.
"If you are going to throw me over," cried Badoura, passionately, "I shall tell all I know."
"What do you know?" demanded Eddy, with a sneer. "There's nothing much you can tell my wife, if that is what you mean. She thinks that I am all that is bad, my dear silly girl."
"And so you are," snapped Badoura, sharply. "But does she know that you put back the clock in the still-room half an hour on the night Lady Branwin--"
"It's a confounded lie!" gasped Eddy Vail, interrupting.
"It's true, and you know it," said Badoura, triumphantly. "I was behind the curtain with Parizade working when you came in about five minutes to eight o'clock. Parizade is blind, and saw nothing, but I did. You put back the hand of the clock to 7.30."
"What if I did?" stammered Eddy, evidently trying to bluff the girl.
"What if you did?" cried Badoura, shrilly. "Why, it means that you were downstairs at the time Lady Branwin was murdered. You stayed until the clock hand was again nearly at eight, and then your wife came up, so that you were able to prove an alibi. I said nothing because I loved you, but since you are going to treat me like dirt I shall tell the police."
"You dare, and I'll kill you!" said Vail between his teeth.
"As you killed Lady Branwin," scoffed Badoura, who was in a towering rage.
"I didn't kill her."
"Yes you did, and you stole the diamonds, and--Hush! there's Madame." Then Audrey heard Badoura quickly leave the room, and the sound of Eddy throwing himself into a chair. She gasped with horror. Was he the criminal after all? The question was a terrible one, but the answer seemed certain.