Sir Daniel looked surprised when he heard Clarice's remark, and glanced from her to Ferdy. He saw that both brother and sister were white and troubled, but, feeling absolutely safe, he never ascribed their emotion to anything connected with himself. Advancing to the fire, he warmed his hands, and smiled more blandly than ever. "I should think you should know me by this time, Miss Baird," he said, cheerfully. "Wet weather, isn't it?"
Clarice said nothing, and Ferdy evaded the eye of Jerce, while Anthony, having put Jane out into the garden, returned and closed the drawing-room door. Considering what was to be said, it was best, as he thought, to keep the conversation as private as possible. The doctor also noted that Ackworth looked stern and white. By this time, he showed a slight uneasiness, as trouble was too palpably in the air for him to ignore it. Perhaps some thought of betrayal crossed his mind, for he suddenly looked apprehensively at young Baird. Ferdy dodged his eye again, and the doctor, to break an oppressive silence, made an uneasy joke.
"You are all very quiet," said he, smiling in a wry way. "Is it because I have forgotten my manners, and have not shaken hands? I ask all your pardons, and will do so now, Miss Baird."
"No," said Clarice, putting her hands behind her back, "and I wonder that you have the assurance even to speak to me."
"Considering that you asked me down, that is a strange speech," said Jerce, frowning, and losing his suave looks. "I thought that you were satisfied with my assurance that I never wrote that anonymous letter of which you complained?"
"I know that you did not write it."
"In that case, I shall be glad to know why you greet me in this way?" said Jerce, in icy tones. "Is it that Captain Ackworth is angry with me because I dared to love you?"
"No," said Anthony, in his turn, "and to save you further surmises as to what is the matter, allow me to inform you, Dr. Jerce--"
"Sir Daniel, if you please," interrupted the other, his large face becoming watchful and cunning; "give me my proper title."
"I can do that," said Clarice, who was restraining her wrath with great difficulty, "you are a scoundrel."
"Indeed," said Jerce, blanching and wincing, but maintaining his composure in a most wonderful manner, considering the provocation. "I regret that you should call an old friend by so harsh a name."
"An old friend who plotted the death of--"
"It's a lie," broke in Jerce, with a sudden flash of rage. "I never intended Horran any harm."
"By your own mouth you are condemned," said Anthony, quickly. "Miss Baird never mentioned names. Why should you think that she meant Mr. Horran, I ask you?"
"Because Horran is dead, and death was mentioned," said Jerce, striving to extricate himself from the difficulty. "Perhaps you will explain why I have been asked here to be insulted?"
"Would you rather that the police insulted you?" asked Anthony, coldly.
"You speak in riddles, Captain Ackworth."
"I think you can answer them, Sir Daniel."
"I fear that I cannot," rejoined Jerce, shrugging.
But with all his calmness, an air of fear pervaded his whole bearing, and his cold eyes glanced uneasily from one person to another. "Will you explain the meaning of all this, Ferdinand?" he said, addressing himself to the one person in the room who had not yet spoken.
"I have explained," said Ferdy, half afraid and half defiantly; "they know everything."
"Concerning what?" asked Jerce, wincing again, but still self-controlled.
"Clarice and Anthony know the whole business," cried the young man, his voice loud and angry, as he strove to assert himself in the presence of the man he so greatly feared. "I have told them how you got the Purple Fern stamp, and how you tried to make me kill Uncle Henry. There! You can say what you like now."
Sir Daniel's nostrils dilated, and his eyes grew hard. "You are talking nonsense, I think," he said, perfectly calmly.
"Nonsense!" stormed Ferdy, quailing under those stern eyes. "It is not nonsense, and you know it. I have had quite enough of being bullied by you, Jerce"--he did not pay him the compliment of a respectful use of the great man's title. "You have been my master too long. It is my turn now. And who are you to dictate to me?--you, who lead a fast life, who squander money, who play fast and loose with women of the worst--"
"Stop!" cried Jerce, so loudly that the young man's voice died away. "Remember that your sister is present. My character is high enough to need no denial to the charges you bring against it. The King does not honour men such as you have described, with knighthoods."
"Ah, you have always been clever enough to keep things dark," said Ferdy, bitterly. "But I overheard you talking to Barras. I know that you were in league with him to cheat Uncle Henry out of our money, and the forty thousand pounds went into--"
"You lie--you lie," interrupted the doctor, losing his temper, and a perspiration broke out on his high bald forehead. "You know that you lie. You can't prove a word you say."
"Barras can, and Barras will."
"Barras will not. Send for Barras now. I appeal to you, Miss Baird. I appeal to you, Captain Ackworth. My character is at stake. I demand that you telegraph to London for Barras, that he may be confronted with this young liar. I am not afraid to face the truth."
The doctor spoke so bravely and so fiercely that for the moment Anthony and Clarice wavered in their belief of Ferdy's story. They knew well that Ferdy was a supreme liar, and, on the face of it, Sir Daniel Jerce's character had always been above reproach. The doctor saw that he had made an impression, and followed up his advantage, swiftly and vehemently.
"That Ferdinand should accuse me is no surprise," he went on, in a ringing voice. "I have done so much for him, that it is natural he should be ungrateful. I have always found that those I have helped have been my worst enemies. Ferdinand is indebted to me for money, for advice, for education, and for liberty."
"For liberty?" echoed Clarice, drawing near to the speaker.
"Yes! That young whelp received a cheque from me for twenty pounds as a loan. He altered the figures and the writing to two hundred pounds with a cleverness which would have done credit to an accomplished forger. I could have put him in gaol. But I forgave him, and this ingratitude is my reward."
"One moment, Ferdy," said Clarice, checking her brother's speech with a gesture, "where is the forged cheque, Sir Daniel?"
Jerce was taken aback. "I gave it to Ferdinand," he said, sullenly.
"You did, when you could have used it to stop his evil doings?"
"I wished to give him another chance of reforming," protested Jerce.
"You liar!" shouted Ferdy, beside himself with rage. "You gave me the cheque after I had stamped Uncle Henry's dead body with the Purple Fern according to your directions."
"Yes," said Jerce, rashly losing his self-control, "and after you had murdered your guardian."
"I did not! I did not!"
"On what grounds do you base this accusation, Jerce?" asked Ackworth.
"On the grounds that Felix Exton, the young man who died in Tea Street, Whitechapel, gave me the stamp of the Purple Fern----"
"You never said that before."
"There was no need. I never said so, because Ferdinand stole the stamp from me, and I thought that he might make use of it. Horran was angry with him, and Ferdinand wished to get rid of him, thinking that he would then come into the money. I base my accusation upon the fact that the Purple Fern was stamped on my poor friend's forehead, and only Ferdinand, who possessed the stamp, could have done that. For your sake, Miss Baird, I have held my peace, cruelly though you have treated me; but now, when Ferdinand seeks to throw the blame of his wickedness on me, I must speak out, to protect myself. If need be I shall go to the police, and tell all that I know. I am not a man to be defied with impunity."
The clever turn which the doctor gave to Ferdy's story startled Clarice, as she saw how dangerous the man was, and to what lengths he was prepared to go to save his own skin. "You had the gold box," she said, rather weakly.
"Pardon me. Osip dropped that when he searched me."
"He denies that. He said that you had the box, for which he was looking, and threw it away."
"Osip says that--and how comes it that you have seen Osip?"
"I saw him by appointment at the Shah's Rooms last night," said Clarice, boldly; "and there I also saw you and Mr. Barras."
"What of that?" said Jerce, coolly. "I have a right to go to any place I choose, I should hope. So you saw Osip, and you did not have him arrested for the murder of your guardian."
"You forget," said Anthony, swiftly, "you have just accused Ferdinand of that crime, Sir Daniel."
"And I do still. Ferdinand is Osip's accomplice. Both of them are concerned in the matter. And I am accused falsely. There is no one can prove that I am guilty in any way."
A knock came to the door, and Mrs. Rebson made her appearance. "Will you please to come out here, Miss?" she said, "there is a gentleman wants to see you."
Sir Daniel wriggled uneasily, and went a shade whiter. But he still maintained his defiant attitude; while Clarice, wondering who had come to visit her, and anticipating fresh trouble with a sinking heart, went into the hall, closing the drawing-room door after her. Here she found Mr. Clarke, looking more wild and wan than ever, and very much agitated. On seeing her, he came up at once, while Mrs. Rebson discreetly withdrew to her own room.
"Is it true that Sir Daniel Jerce is here?" asked Clarke, abruptly.
"Yes, I sent for him to clear up things. Why did you not come in?"
"I don't wish to see Sir Daniel," said Clarke, nervously; "he has behaved very badly to me. He threatened to tell about something connected with a--a--a--a relative," ended Clarke, evasively.
Clarice knew as well as if he had spoken openly that the vicar referred to his scapegoat son. However, it was not her aim to frighten Clarke away by pretending to know too much, so she merely picked up some newly arrived letters from the hall table, as she replied, "You must come in and face Sir Daniel Jerce," she said quietly; "We are bringing him to book."
"Bringing him to book. What do you mean?"
"Go in and you'll hear," said Clarice, and was about to usher the vicar into the room, when she caught sight of the writing on one of the letters. "Go in--go in," she said, hurriedly. "I'll follow shortly."
Rather perplexed, and not at all anxious to face Jerce, the vicar approached the drawing-room door with hesitating steps. There he glanced back, and saw Clarice hurriedly reading a letter, with a white face and an agitated manner. For the moment, he was inclined to return, but gathering his courage together, he boldly opened the door, and saw Sir Daniel Jerce, facing Ferdy, defiantly.
"You can say what you like," were the words which struck the parson's ear, "but you know that I am as innocent of Horran's death as you are guilty. You stabbed him, you----"
"No!" cried Clarke, coming forward rapidly. "What do you mean, Sir Daniel, by accusing this young man of such a crime?"
Jerce wheeled, and his eyes flashed when he beheld Clarke. The vicar had quite thrown aside his nervous, hesitating manner, and with an unflinching face he looked at the great doctor. Anthony, anticipating some fresh revelation, rose from his seat, while Ferdy stared open-mouthed at Prudence's father. He had never seen the vicar look so bold.
"I accuse him," said Jerce, with a snarl, and keeping his hard eyes firmly on the weak face of the parson, "because he is guilty."
"Not of murder. I swear not of murder."
"There, you see," cried Ferdy, triumphantly. "I never killed Uncle Henry."
"You did!" said Jerce, fiercely. "I defy Clarke to contradict me."
"I do contradict you."
"Remember, Clarke, what I know, said Jerce, menacingly.
"Know," said the vicar, despairingly, "yes, you know, and you have made use of what you know to make me act unjustly towards Ferdinand. I should have had him for a son-in-law but for you, and my poor girl would have been happy. I held my peace, because you threatened to expose my unhappy son's guilt. But I shall do so no longer. I refuse to stand by and see Ferdinand accused of murder."
"Your own son is a murderer," said Jerce, savagely.
"Ah," said Anthony, significantly, "So you knew that."
"He knew it, and he threatened me with it. He wanted to let all the world know that Felix Exton was Frank Clarke," cried the vicar, "and I--for my daughter's sake--held my peace."
"About what?" asked Anthony, quickly.
"Take care, Clarke--take care," said Jerce, despairingly.
"I take care no longer," said the parson, fiercely; "I have told my son's shame here, and if necessary I shall tell it to all the world, rather than let Ferdinand suffer unjustly. He did not murder Horran."
"Then who did?" asked Clarice, entering swiftly, and standing with her back to the door.
Clarke pointed to the doctor. "Sir Daniel Jerce."
"You liar!" foamed the accused man.
"I saw you in your motor coming along by the common during my midnight walk," said Clarke, rapidly. "I saw you hide the motor in the woods. I followed you secretly to the house. You entered by the window, and I stole up to see you kill Horran with the assegai, which you tore from the wall. You fled, and I ran after you. I caught you in the lane, near the wood, and accused you. Then you told me that Frank was a murderer--one of the Purple Fern gang--and swore to denounce him, dead though he was, unless I held my peace. I did so--yes, God help me--I did so, and concealed your wickedness to save the good name of my dead son. While Osip was accused, I still held my peace, for another murder set down to him mattered little. But now that you accuse Ferdinand, I say boldly, and I will say it to the police, that you and none other murdered Henry Horran."
"It's false," gasped Jerce, quailing and shrinking, and looking towards the window, as though anxious to escape.
"It is true. After I left you, I went back to the room----"
"That was when I was under the bed," said Ferdy, quickly.
"Were you? I did not know; but you are innocent, my poor boy. I arranged the bedclothes, and then returned home. Zara Dumps accused me and I said nothing, although I knew the truth. But there stands the murderer," he pointed to Jerce, who trembled; "go for the police."
"No! No!" cried Sir Daniel, ghastly white. "Let me go. I promise to destroy myself. Anything rather than public shame."
"I'll have you in gaol to-night," said Ferdy, triumphantly.
"Take care!" snarled Jerce. "If I killed Horran, you stamped the fern on the forehead of the dead. I'll swear that you were my accomplice."
"Clarice," cried Ferdy, gasping with fear, "you hear."
"I hear, and I know how to act," said Clarice, calm and white. "Anthony, have you pen and ink and paper? There they are," she indicated a rosewood desk in the corner of the drawing-room. "Sit down and write what Sir Daniel says."
"What would you do?" asked Ackworth, obeying her.
"I would save Ferdy."
"And hang Jerce," cried Ferdy, viciously.
"Hold your tongue," cried his sister, harshly; "Sir Daniel," she added, turning towards the miserable doctor, "if you will confess your crime, and sign the confession, you shall leave this house free."
"No! No! No!" cried Anthony, from the desk, "you are wrong."
"I am right," insisted the girl; "with such a confession, we are safe. Ferdy will say nothing, neither will Mr. Clarke."
"I shall hold my tongue, so long as Ferdinand is not arrested for a crime he never committed," said the parson, "and so long as Frank's good name is saved. Frank was an evil man, but he was also my son."
"Confess, then," said Clarice to Jerce.
He wiped his brow and accepted the situation without argument. It was impossible for him to face the direct evidence of Clarke. "I thank you for the chance of escape," he said to the girl, quietly, "and I promise you that to-night I shall die. I will not live to run the risk of being hanged. Write, Captain Ackworth, and I shall sign."
Anthony dipped the pen into the ink, and waited. Ferdy sat down. Mr. Clarke leaned against the wall, listening intently, and Clarice, determined not to let Jerce go until the confession was signed, stood with her back to the door. Sir Daniel cast a glance around, and, composing himself with a mighty effort, which showed the strong nature of the man, he began to speak quietly:
"I did murder Horran," he said, slowly, "and for two reasons. One was that I wished to learn the nature of the disease which he suffered from, and that could only be made plain by a post-mortem examination. The other, and more ignoble motive, was that I was in league with Barras to get money out of him."
"Then you had the forty thousand pounds?" inquired Clarice, quickly.
"And more," answered the doctor, coolly. "I have a double nature--a Jekyl and Hyde nature, as in Stevenson's wonderful story. As Sir Daniel Jerce, I have won my position by brain power and hard work, and am a philanthropist and a reasonable man. But as Daniel Jerce, the creature, I am devoured by passions, and am capable of lowering myself to the level of the beasts. My life in Harley Street was, and is, above reproach--but my other life----"
"Oh!" cried Clarice, with sudden horror. "Ferdy has told us something of that. Say no more--it's too terrible."
Jerce bowed. "You have been so kind, Miss Baird, that your wish is my law," he said, politely. "Well, then, for my secret life. I required money. I made much, and spent it, and I wanted more. Horran, being only your guardian and not having money of his own, was too honest to help me. Barras came to me, years and years ago, to be cured of a disease. I did cure him, and he was grateful. He lent me his own money for a time, but I still wanted more. Then he lent me some that belonged to the estate, when I was in difficulties, and he lent it out of sheer gratitude to me. Don't blame Barras, Miss Baird. He was as good a man as was Henry Horran. But to make a long story short, from the moment Barras tampered with the trust money, he was in my power, and I threatened to tell Horran unless I received more."
"Blackmail," muttered Anthony, with disgust, and swiftly writing.
"Yes, I told you that the Jekyl side of my character was unpleasant, Captain Ackworth. Well, then, Barras cooked the accounts----"
"I thought so--I said so," muttered Clarice.
"Then you are very clever," said Jerce, calmly, "for Barras managed to conceal things in a wonderful way. Of course, when Horran became ill, and gave Barras a power of attorney, it was easier to deceive him. And Barras also deceived you, Miss Baird, clever as you thought you were. Your ignorance of business helped him."
"I quite understand," said Clarice, coldly; "a girl such as I am, was unequal to such clever scoundrels. You got the money."
"And I spent it," said Jerce, coolly; "forty thousand pounds. Barras gave me the money as it came in, and used some himself. He made up the story about giving it to Horran in gold----"
"So that we might be deceived," interposed Miss Baird. "Well, we were."
"Oh, don't blame yourself," said Jerce, in a jeering manner; "Barras would have cheated a much more clever person than you are, Miss Baird, with the facilities at his command--Horran's illness, the power of attorney--no one to interfere, and all the rest of it."
"Spare me more details, Sir Daniel. You got the forty thousand pounds and spent it. Then you determined to kill Uncle Henry."
"I did, because he was getting dangerous. Barras, according to Horran's wish, had given Clarke here one thousand pounds--but on his own account he charged ten per cent. Clarke tried to see Horran, but to keep back that fact I used my medical power as Horran's physician to prevent an interview."
"But I did see him at length," said the vicar, triumphantly.
"Yes," snapped Jerce, "and so sealed Horran's death warrant. Do you remember on the day preceding the murder that I had an interview with Horran?" he asked, turning to Clarice.
"Yes, and you said that Uncle Henry was angry with Ferdy."
"He was angry with Barras, and declared that he would get the accounts looked into by a clever City man. I knew that was fatal. Barras and I could deceive Horran and you, but we couldn't hope to deceive this accountant who was mentioned. I then determined to prevent the exposure by murdering Horran."
"You villain!" cried Clarice, shuddering. "Your old friend."
"He would have been my new enemy had he learned the truth about the accounts," said Jerce, cynically. "However, we must get on," he looked at his watch, "it is getting late. Well, then I went up to town, having arranged with Ferdinand here, that he should kill Horran and stamp his forehead with the Purple Fern. I need not tell you how I got that, Miss Baird."
"I know," she replied, with horror. "But were you arranging a deliberate murder with my brother, when Anthony and I saw you walking to the station?"
"Yes. You were driving, I believe. Ferdinand agreed to kill----"
"I did," interrupted Ferdy, quickly, "but I intended to tell Uncle Henry everything. I never intended murder."
"So I thought," said Jerce, with a shrug; "you are such a weak fool that I fancied you would flinch at the last moment. That was why I came down during the night. I pretended to go to Whitechapel, and did not take my chauffeur, which was often the case. No suspicion was thus aroused in Harley Street as to my destination. I motored down to Crumel in a little over two hours, and acted in the way Clarke here has told you."
"But the murder?"
"I expected to find Horran dead," said Jerce, "and yet, knowing what a weak fool this boy is, I feared lest he should fail. I entered by the window, which that ass of a Wentworth had ordered to be opened, as I knew he would, and Horran raised himself in bed. He recognised me, and, unable to explain my intrusion, I caught an assegai from the wall and stabbed him to the heart. He cried out, but only feebly. Then I ran away and Clarke caught me. I kept him quiet by saying that I would tell about Frank. Afterwards, I motored back to town in another two hours and a trifle more, and regained my house in safety."
"Oh, you villain!" said Clarice again, striking her hands together.
"Next day, as you know, I came down and played my part in the comedy, Miss Baird. I saw the mark of the Purple Fern, and Ferdinand here told me how he had stamped the dead body. I gave him back my cheque, and so acted honourably. So that is all, unless," added Jerce, with hesitation, "my love for you--my true and genuine love----"
"Oh, no, no," cried Clarice, with horror, and ran across to Anthony; "have you got it written down? Then let that wretch sign it, and send him out of the house."
"But the police ought to be told," said Ackworth, in a low voice.
"I say no," cried Clarice, stamping her foot. "I will tell you why at a later period. Sign, Sir Daniel, sign, and rid this house of your wicked presence."
Jerce looked at her gravely, then deliberately signed the paper on the spot pointed out by Ackworth. Anthony and Clarke signed as witnesses, and then the soldier handed the paper to Clarice, who thrust it into her bosom. This having been done, she went to the window and opened it. "Go!" she said to Sir Daniel.
"Surely, you will let me get my coat and hat," he said, quietly, and, with a last look at her, he went into the hall. Shortly he appeared at the door again. "Good-bye for ever," he said, in an unemotional voice. "I'll go this way--by the front door. And to-morrow you shall hear of my death."
"Unhappy man!" cried Clarke. "Do not add sin to sin----" But Jerce was gone. He went out of the house, and into the gathering darkness of the night--but not to the merciful death he designed for himself. As he passed through the gate, Jane limped after him quietly, not barking as was her custom. She seemed to know that her time had come. And so Jerce, all unknowingly, went to his doom.
Hardly had Sir Daniel Jerce disappeared, when Clarice dropped like a log to the ground. The strain had been too much for her, and for the second time in her life she fainted. Anthony hastily summoned Mrs. Rebson, and the poor girl was taken up to her room. Then Captain Ackworth left the house. Business must go on, in spite of all untoward events, and he was forced to return to Gattlinsands and to his duties. But before leaving he told Mrs. Rebson that he would come over the next day, and then addressed himself to Ferdy. "You had better remain in the house," he said, coldly, "as it will be necessary for Clarice and myself to arrange to-morrow about your future. You have escaped a great danger, and everything must be made safe, for your sister's sake."
"I can arrange my own future, thank you," said Ferdy, haughtily.
"You will do exactly what you are told," said Ackworth, stern and unbending, "or else I shall inform the police."
"You would not dare--for Clarice's sake."
"For her sake I would dare. You have made her life miserable for years, and I won't permit you to spoil it any longer. Also I wish to avoid a public scandal. If Osip holds his tongue this may be done. But my forbearance depends entirely upon your obeying orders."
"But Clarry will rage at me all the evening," whimpered Ferdy, now very afraid for his skin. "Let me go to the Vicarage."
"Yes," interposed the vicar, "let him come with me and see Prudence. Now there is no bar to the marriage."
"What?" cried Ackworth, recoiling. "Would you have a scamp like this for your son-in-law?"
"I'm not a scamp," cried Ferdy, furiously.
Clarke raised his hand mildly. "My own son is worse than this boy--that is, he was worse, seeing that he is dead. Frank was a murderer, so who am I to blame Ferdinand for his wickedness? He is all right if he is kept in the strait way, and Prudence shall do this."
"Oh!" Anthony was too disgusted for words. "Would you force the girl to marry him?"
"No. But he shall tell Prudence everything. The acceptance, or refusal, shall rest with her."
"You hear?" cried Ferdy, in triumph. "Other people are not so hard on me as you and Clarry are. Can I go to the Vicarage?"
"Yes," said Ackworth, seeing the hopelessness of bringing Ferdy to a sense of his sins. "Go, and, for heaven's sake, never let me see you again. You are worse than a villain, Ferdy--you are a fool," and he walked out, wondering how a girl like Clarice ever came to have such a blackguard for a brother. The next morning Clarice rose, feeling as though a black cloud had been lifted from her life. Things were bad, certainly, but they were not so bad as they had been. She dressed herself with great care and ate a good breakfast in her room. Ferdy had sent up to ask her to come down to the meal, but she felt that she could not sit opposite to him again. Like Anthony, she wished to see the last of Ferdy, even though he was her twin brother. When she was getting ready to go downstairs and meet Ackworth, who was expected at eleven o'clock, Mrs. Rebson rushed in.
"Oh, deary me--oh, deary me," she cried, wringing her hands, "what bad news, Miss Clarice--what dreadful news!"
"What is it now?" asked the girl, quietly. She had received so many shocks that one more or less mattered little. "Has Ferdy----?"
"He's all right, miss--the darling boy. You have saved him, though what you had to save him from I don't know, and he won't tell his own dear Nanny."
"Better not ask, Mrs. Rebson," said Clarice, with a weary sigh. "But your news--what is it?"
"That doctor and Jane."
"Dr. Jerce?"
"Yes, lovey--Sir Daniel as was."
"Oh! he is dead. I quite expected to hear that." Mrs. Rebson stared. "You expected to hear that Sir Daniel was torn in pieces by Jane?" she asked, incredulously. "What!" Clarice could scarcely believe her ears. "It's true, miss. You know that Jane always hated Sir Daniel, though why she did so----"
"I know why," said Clarice, thinking of the vivisection. "Go on."
"Well, then, miss, Jane followed Sir Daniel when he went away last night. The groom--Thomas--saw her. This morning he found her with her jaws all over blood, footsore and weary, as though she had come a long way. And she's been stabbed in the side with a penknife, miss, as the wounds--three of them--are so small."
"Well? Well?" asked Clarice, impatiently, while Mrs. Rebson stopped for sheer want of breath. "What has this to do with Sir Daniel?"
"What's it got to do with him?" screeched the housekeeper, sitting down. "Why, miss, news has just come by a couple of labourers that the body of Sir Daniel has been found on Barnes Common, fifteen miles away, with his throat tore out, and the poor man as dead as a herring. It is thought that the dog did it, since she hated him, and the police are coming in an hour to make enquiries."
"It's impossible," said Clarice, hardly able to believe that Jane had thus revenged herself on her enemy. "Sir Daniel went up to London by the train."
"No, miss, he didn't, begging your pardon. Mrs. Dumps saw him at the gate hesitating, and he really did walk towards the High Street, on his way to the station, may be. But then he changed his mind and went down the lane. She saw him pass, and Jane following him as good as gold. No doubt he walked on to Barnes Common, and there Jane killed him. Oh, ain't it dreadful?" cried Mrs. Rebson, again wringing her wrinkled hands. "The Domestic Prophet never said anything like that."
Clarice did not reply. She wondered why Jerce had walked. He must have seen the dog, who hated him, follow. But, perhaps, because Jane limped--the doctor's own work--he did not think that she was dangerous. And it might be that Jerce intended to kill himself in the open instead of in his Harley Street house. But, be this as it may, Jerce was dead, and Jane had killed him. No doubt she had followed persistently all that long way, and, having been left behind, Jerce had sat down to rest. Clarice could picture the grim yellow-eyed dog stealing up in the dark night to the unsuspecting man, seated on some dripping bench on the Common. She could picture the silent spring, the closing of those long, white teeth on Jerce's fat throat. And then the end, with the dead body lying on the soaking ground, and the dog trailing home, weary but satisfied, with blood-stained jaws. Truly, Jerce had not escaped punishment after all, and the gods had brought home his crime to him in a terrible way.
"Master Ferdy wants to see you, deary," said Mrs. Rebson, after she had expressed her conviction that Jane would be shot, and had mentioned twice her wonder that a limping dog should have caught up with a smart walker. "I am coming down now," said the girl, quietly, and leaving Mrs. Rebson to shake her head over the wickedness of Jane, she went into the breakfast-room, where Ferdy was impatiently waiting for her. "Clarry, have you heard the news?" he asked, shaking a newspaper. "Don't call me that," said Clarice, coldly. "I have done with you, Ferdinand. You are not worthy to be my brother."
"Don't go on like that, Clarice," said the young man, struck to the heart by the stiff way in which she addressed him. "I'm in such trouble. That Osip will tell the police about my having the stamp, and then I'll be arrested."
"You deserve the worst that can befall you, Ferdinand. But Osip----"
"He's arrested, and Barras is dead."
Clarice sat down. How many more tragedies was she to hear of? Ferdy pointed out a sensational heading in the "Daily Planet." "See Jerce--have you heard, Clarry?--has been killed by Jane, and now Osip has killed Barras. Their crimes have come home to them."
"And your crimes ought to come home to you," cried Clarice, feeling sick with Ferdy's egotism. "You are--you are--but I can't say what you are. Your wickedness and weakness are beyond the power of language to express. How did Osip kill Mr. Barras?"
Ferdy grew sulky, and apparently regarded himself as a very ill-used person. "Osip went to Barras' office yesterday to get money out of him, and Barras kicked at the idea. Osip then murdered him, and rifled the safe with keys taken from Barras' pocket. He stamped the Purple Fern on Barras' forehead, and was cutting with the money, when someone came into the room. The alarm was given, and Osip fled down the street with everyone after him. A policeman caught him, and now he is in gaol. And I dare say he'll give me away," lamented Ferdy, selfishly. "So hard on me, just when everything is settled nicely. Prudence has promised to marry me and--"
"Prudence?" cried Clarice, starting to her feet, and throwing down the "Daily Planet" which she was reading. "Does she know what you are?"
"Yes," said Ferdy, sulkily, "and she knows that I am not a bad sort either. Her brother was a murderer, so she says that I'm not so bad as he was; and Mr. Clarke thinks the same. But we don't want to stop in Crumel after we are married. Mr. Clarke says he will come with us to Australia. I think I shall like that," ended Ferdy, musingly. "I hear it's a ripping climate."
Clarice looked at him helplessly. It seemed impossible to do anything with this blind fool. However, she made an attempt to frighten him.
"I suppose you forget that you may be arrested if Osip speaks?"
"Oh, Clarry, you must stop that," said Ferdy, imploringly. "I know I'm not so good as I might be; but there are worse than I am--Jerce, for instance. Look what a bad----"
"Oh, be silent," said Clarice, in sheer despair, "and listen. You are in no danger of arrest. Do you know why I allowed Sir Daniel Jerce to leave yesterday after he had signed the confession?"
"No, but I'm glad you did, as if he had been arrested he might have turned nasty."
"Quite so. Well, then, I received a letter when I went to meet Mr. Clarke in the hall. It was from Osip. He said that because I had been so brave in trying to save you by meeting him at the Shah's Rooms, and because I had not told the police about him, that he would acknowledge that he was guilty of Uncle Henry's death."
"No," said Ferdy, delighted. "What a good chap. But why----"
"Ugh!" said his sister, her teeth on edge with Ferdy's joy. "Osip can easily take a fifth murder on his conscience, since he will certainly be hanged for the other four. You can make yourself easy, Ferdinand; Osip will plead guilty to Jerce's crime, and as the police and the public already believe in his guilt, no enquiries will be made. Sir Daniel Jerce's wickedness will never be discovered, nor--as I will not move in the matter--will the defalcations of Mr. Barras come to light. The world will say that two good men are gone, and Osip will be hanged, while poor Jane will be shot for having killed a villain who thoroughly deserved his doom."
So Clarice spoke, and after-events proved that she was a true prophetess. Jane was shot, Osip was hanged, keeping silence to the end, out of some odd admiration for her bravery in facing him, and the notices about Jerce and Barras were all that could be desired in the way of praising their good deeds and wonderful lives and amiable dispositions. There was something ironical about the whole business, and not the least ironical part was that Ferdy should be happy, when he deserved punishment.
There was only one danger, namely, that Zara Dumps, sooner than lose Ferdy, might reveal what she knew, and thus re-open the business. But when Anthony came an hour later to see Clarice, he found her alone, and was enabled to set her mind at rest on this point.
"I am late," explained Anthony, when the two were seated on the old familiar sofa, "because I have been seeing Mrs. Dumps and her daughter."
"Is Zara in Crumel?"
"Yes. She came yesterday, as she is not acting just now. A new man to play the part of the Chrysalis has to be obtained, and Zara finds some difficulty in getting the person she wants. I have explained to her that she and her mother must hold their tongues unless Zara wants to get into trouble."
"In what way?" asked Clarice, quickly.
"Can you see? Zara could get into trouble for not having given the alarm when she saw Ferdy--as she thought--kill Horran. Then, again, the mere fact that Osip was in Zara's company is suspicious. I have made it clear that Ferdy is innocent, and that Jerce was guilty, and that now the doctor and Barras are dead, and Osip is arrested, the best thing will be for Zara to give up Ferdy and hold her tongue for her own sake and for her mother's."
"And what does she say?"
"She has agreed, and so has Mrs. Dumps. They will neither of them say a single word."
"But Mrs. Dumps has such a long tongue."
"About other people's affairs, but about her own she can be silent enough. You need have no fear, Clarice. The Purple Fern murders are at an end with the death of Barras."
"But it is strange, dearest, that Osip should act in this way towards me," said Clarice, who had explained the letter. Anthony agreed. "I can't understand the man's nature," he said, "except that we are told that everything evil has some good in it. I suppose he was touched by your devotion to Ferdy."
"I suppose he was," said Clarice, wearily. "But now, Anthony, you must see the new lawyer"--she gave him the name--"and arrange everything for me. Send Ferdy to Australia with Prudence. I never wish to see him again. I am so sick and tired, and ill--oh"--she put her arms round his neck, and placed her cheek against his--"I am ill--I am very, very ill."
And she was. Anthony had to carry her to her room, and there she lay for three weeks between life and death. Wentworth said that she had narrowly escaped an attack of brain fever. But the devotion of Mrs. Rebson brought her successfully back to health. Yet for weeks she was still weak, although out of danger, and Anthony would not allow her to talk of the past. She never asked for Ferdy, although the brother she had been devoted to never put in an appearance. Ackworth saw the new lawyer and arranged the affairs of the estate, and made all provisions for his marriage.
Six months later they were married very quietly in the parish church of Anthony's native town, and went for the honeymoon to Switzerland. There, one day, while sitting on the mountains above Les Avants, watching the grey peak of Jaman soaring into the cloudless summer sky, Clarice heard all that her husband knew about the conclusion of the troubles which had begun with the death of Horran.
"Ferdy is in Australia, as you know, darling," Said the lover-husband, "and is married to Prudence. Mr. Clarke writes me that Ferdy is behaving very well, and is studying for a doctor. Mr. Clarke himself has got a church up the country in Victoria. I think everything is right there."
"He is getting the five hundred a year, as you arranged, my dear. When he is twenty-five, of course, he will get the two thousand, and let us hope he will be more sensible."
"I hope so," sighed Mrs. Ackworth, "but Ferdy is a most extraordinary character. He never seems to think that he is in the wrong."
"Well, a wife like Prudence will keep him straight. Then Osip, as you know, is dead--"
"No! no!"--Clarice clung to her husband--"don't talk of such things in this place, Anthony. I never wish to hear the man's name again."
"I won't mention it," said Anthony, gravely. "But for your peace of mind, dear, I may tell you that he held his tongue to the last. Everyone thinks that Osip killed Horran, as he killed Barras, and Jerce is looked upon as a martyr. Would you like me to read his obituary notices? I kept them."
"No! I don't wish to hear. But there are two things I should like to know," added Clarice, thoughtfully. "Firstly, how you fancied that you saw Uncle Henry at the Shah's Rooms?"
"Oh! Ferdy informed me that Barras masqueraded as his client, so as to deceive people into thinking that Mr. Horran was spending the money, and that his illness was a blind for profligacy."
"What a wretch Mr. Barras was!"
"Well, he is dead, so we'll forgive him."
"Now," said Clarice, "secondly? How did Zara know that the stamp was hidden in Ferdy's bedroom?"
"She made him tell her where he had put it," replied Anthony; "you know how weak Ferdy was."
Clarice sighed: "It is weak people who usually get into trouble," she said, "and know no escape. Has Zara held her tongue?"
"Yes, and they say--the Press says, I mean--that she is going to marry a wealthy American. For her own sake she will be silent. I don't think we need worry any more about that past."
"I am glad of that, Anthony. It is more pleasant to look forward to a bright and quiet future. But I still worry about Ferdy. After all, he is my twin brother, you know."
"Don't trouble about him, sweetest. He is not worth it, and you may be sure that he never gives you a thought."
"Well," said Mrs. Ackworth, gravely, "I don't know that I mind. I have you, and you are my world. But there's only one thing, Anthony--I'll never wear purple, however fashionable it may become."
Ackworth laughed at this truly feminine speech. "And you will never look at this again?" he said, teasingly, picking a fern.
"Ugh!" said Clarice, and, catching it from his hand, she flung it down on the sunny grass. "There--the past is gone with that."
"The Purple Fern has gone with the green fern," said Anthony. "Well, let it go, darling heart. You and I are together----"
"For ever and ever and ever," said Clarice, nestling in his arms.
"Amen," breathed the husband, piously, and truly meant it.