Clarice quite intended to ask Ferdy what was the meaning of Zara's strange remark, but other things took up her attention, and for the time being she forgot the saying. As regards the murder, of course, neither Clarice nor any one else thought that there was any mystery about the death of Mr. Horran. Undoubtedly Osip had killed him, in due accordance with the traditions of the Purple Fern. Only in this instance it was difficult to guess why the crime had been committed on an inoffensive man. The other seven victims, men and women, had been selected for their wealth, and in every case either the body had been robbed of jewellery, or the house of the dead--when the especial murder took place in a house--had been looted. In the case of Horran, nothing had been stolen, therefore robbery--as in the other cases--could not be the motive for the crime.
However, Clarice did not trouble her head much about the matter, although the facts of Mr. Horran (according to Ackworth) having been in the company of Osip at the Shah's Rooms, and the curious observation of Zara to Ferdy, might have urged her to make enquiries. Still, there was no mystery about the death, save the want of a motive, and, therefore, there was nothing to unravel. Horran was dead, the hue and cry was out against his assassin, and two days after the inquest the funeral took place. Owing to the publicity of the death, and the respect in which Horran was held by his fellow-townsmen, there was a great crowd at the cemetery. Ferdy acted as chief mourner along with Dr. Jerce, the life-long friend of the deceased, and Mr. Clarke read the burial service. Clarice, according to custom, stopped at home while her unfortunate guardian was being laid in his untimely grave. It was then that she remembered Zara's observation, and wondered anew what it meant.
Did the girl mean that now Osip was accused there could be no danger to Ferdy? Clarice asked herself this question, but without receiving any answer from her consciousness. The facts of the murder were sufficiently plain, save as to the motive, so in any case it had nothing to do with Ferdy. Moreover, if Zara meant that Ferdy was implicated in the matter--and on the face of it that seemed absurd--such an accusation, if made, could be rebutted by Clarice herself, since she had locked Ferdy in his room on the night when the purposeless crime was committed. Miss Baird used the word purposeless because she could not conjecture why Horran should have been killed in so tragic a manner. Unless, of course, the motive for the committal of the crime was connected with Horran's acquaintanceship with Osip. Why the dead man had been at the Shah's Rooms, and in Osip's company, was yet to be explained, but only the assassin could give the reason for that secret visit to London, and he was not likely to come forward, considering that there was a price on his head. Clarice, at the suggestion of Dr. Jerce, had offered a reward of two hundred pounds for the apprehension of the man in grey, and the London detective, Sims, had gone back to Town with the firm determination to win that sum of money. But he admitted to Miss Baird herself, with a rueful smile, that it was like looking for a needle in a haystack to capture the remaining member of the Purple Fern Triumvirate.
As yet Barras had not put in an appearance, although he had been expected to be present at the funeral. A telegram from him stated that he would be down immediately afterwards, and would come to The Laurels to read the will of the deceased. There had been some difficulty in finding Mr. Barras in Paris, and only at the eleventh hour had he returned to England.
Meanwhile Clarice, in deep mourning, sat in the drawing-room waiting for the arrival of the solicitor, and for the return of the funeral party. Ackworth had not come over to attend, as stern duty compelled him to go to Southampton with a draft of men for India. But he promised to return as soon as he was able. Clarice anxiously expected him, as she had much to say about the property and about their marriage. Especially about the latter, as, since the death of Horran, Dr. Jerce had too openly displayed his interest in the girl. It was, therefore, necessary to put an end to the doctor's hopes by announcing her engagement to Captain Ackworth.
While Clarice thought of these things, Mrs. Rebson, at her elbow, kept up a cheerful conversation about the truths enshrined in the pages of The Domestic Prophet. "One thing's come true, Miss," she said, briskly; "I only hope the other won't."
"What other?" asked Miss Baird, listlessly.
"Why, the disgrace, Miss. We had the death to an elderly man, who should have been beware of the midnight hour--death by a knife, too."
"Only it was an assegai," retorted Clarice, scornfully; "your prophet made a mistake in the weapon."
"The Domestic Prophet doesn't condescend to tell everything," said Mrs. Rebson, much offended, "but you can't say but what the murder hasn't taken place."
"No," sighed the girl, "poor Uncle Henry."
"We've had death and sorrow," went on the housekeeper, relentlessly, "and disgrace has still to come."
"Disgrace! What nonsense."
"So you said before, Miss. Don't scoff, when you know what's happened. Disgrace must come, as The Domestic Prophet plainly says." She turned over a few pages, and cleared her throat to read:--"If a crime of any nature has been committed by any person during the months of December, January, or February, that person, if hanged, will assuredly bring disgrace on those nearest and dearest to them. Let degenerates beware, says the seer."
"Oh, what rubbish."
Mrs. Rebson put the book in her pocket, took her spectacles off her nose, and rose in a stately manner. "Death has come," she said, in her most scathing voice. "Sorrow has come. You scoffed at both, being hard of heart. Now disgrace will befall this house, and----"
"How can it?" asked Clarice, impatiently. "Osip doesn't belong to this house or to us. The disgrace falls on him since he is guilty."
Mrs. Rebson had no answer for this, so retreated with dignity, her faith in the Domestic Prophet still unshaken "Mark my words, Miss Clarice, disgrace is coming," and with that she left the room, much to the relief of Miss Baird, who was very weary of the gimcrack sayings and pinchbeck philosophy which Mrs. Rebson set such store by.
Scarcely had Mrs. Rebson departed, when Ferdy entered by the window. He looked tall and slim in his deep mourning, and very well content with himself. His grief for the guardian, who had been so kind to him, was apparently swallowed up by the reflection that he could soon be enjoying two thousand a year. His first glance round the drawing-room was in search of Barras.
"Where's that lawyer chap?" asked Ferdy, producing a cigarette.
"He has not arrived yet," replied Clarice, rather disgusted at this want of feeling. "How can you talk so, Ferdy, when poor Uncle Henry is just buried? Tell me about the funeral."
"There's nothing to tell," said Ferdy, flinging himself into the most comfortable armchair; "it was much the same as other funerals."
"You have no heart, Ferdy."
"And no money," retorted the youth, coolly; "but that will soon be remedied, thank heaven."
Clarice could not help smiling to herself, in spite of her grief, when she thought of how Ferdy would be disappointed. It then occurred to her that he had some especial desire in wanting the money so badly, and, pending the arrival of the lawyer, she asked questions. "I suppose you want your two thousand a year in order to marry Prudence."
"Perhaps," said Ferdy, cautiously.
"Perhaps," echoed his sister, raising herself angrily. "Why, you have proposed to Prudence."
"I know that, and I love Prudence. All the same, a proposal doesn't invariably mean marriage."
"Oh," said Clarice, in disgust. "Then you still hanker after Zara?"
Ferdy lighted his cigarette calmly. "I don't know what you're talking about," he observed, obstinately.
"Mrs. Rebson says that you are always at the Savoy Hotel."
"She had better mind her own business, the interfering old cat," was Ferdy's retort; "besides, Zara doesn't always live there."
"She lives in town, and so do you, I know, Ferdy; I dare say you see a lot of her there."
"Oh! Has Jerce told you so?"
"No. But I am certain that you are familiar with her."
"Are you, indeed?" said Ferdy, in an aggravating tone, "and on what grounds, since you are so clever?"
Clarice leaned forward. "I heard Zara say to you immediately after the inquest that, as Osip was accused, there could be no danger."
This time Ferdy was startled. He dropped his cigarette and bent down to pick it up, and to hide the sudden rush of colour which came to his cheeks. "Did you hear anything else?" he asked, hesitating.
"No. But I want to know the meaning of the sentence I did hear."
Ferdy rose and paced the drawing-room, shrugging his shoulders. "What an inquisitive girl you are," he said, carelessly. "Zara only meant that as Osip was accused, there would be no danger of any other murder being committed."
This sounded a plausible enough explanation, yet Clarice doubted its truth. "That is not the meaning," she said, impetuously.
"What is the meaning, then?" asked Ferdy, sharply.
"I don't know, unless she meant that you were free from danger."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Ferdy, angrily, and dropped his cigarette again. "Do you think that I have anything to do with the death of Uncle Henry?"
"Certainly not, seeing that I locked you up in your room on that night. All the same, I shouldn't be at all surprised if you knew this man Osip, and that he had influenced you in some way."
"I don't know Osip from Moses," said Ferdy, doggedly. "All I saw of him was a glimpse on the night he searched Jerce, and then it was only a casual glance when passing him in the High Street. How could I possibly know such a blighter?"
"Uncle Henry might have introduced you."
Ferdy wheeled round in genuine amazement. "Uncle Henry! Are you out of your senses, Clarry? You know Uncle Henry never went out of his room for years and years, and certainly this man in grey never came to The Laurels until the time he searched Jerce."
"Do you know the Shah's Rooms, Ferdy?"
"Yes; I sometimes go there," snapped Ferdy, unhesitatingly.
"You go there very often, I expect," said his sister, bitterly, "well then Anthony went there, and--"
"What!" scoffed Ferdy, "the immaculate Anthony!"
"He's no more immaculate than any other man. Besides, when he was there a couple or three months ago, he was not then engaged to me. But Anthony saw Uncle Henry with this man Osip."
Ferdy went quite white. "You--Anthony must be mistaken."
"No! Anthony didn't know Osip at the time--"
"And he doesn't know him now."
"He knows the looks of the man. The person with Uncle Henry at the Shah's Rooms was a tall, slim man with a criss-cross scar on his left cheek."
"That's Osip, true enough," muttered Ferdy, "judging from the glimpse I caught of him in the High Street and in a bad light. But it is quite absurd to say that Uncle Henry was at the Shah's Rooms. You know that his disease prevented him from leaving his room."
"We did not know what the disease was at the time," said Clarice, coolly. "There may be some mistake, as you say, but Anthony is too keen-eyed to make one. Did you ever see Uncle Henry in Town?"
"No, I never did."
"Did you ever see this Osip?"
"Not in Town," said Ferdy, truthfully, "but I saw him in the High Street on that night when Jerce was searched. Look here, Clarry, let us have an understanding, if you please. Do you accuse me of--"
"I accuse you of nothing," interrupted Clarice, rising, a trifle wearily. "Only the observation of Zara--"
"I have explained that."
"In a lame way. I am certain that you know nothing about the murder, Ferdy, as you were locked in and--"
"How dare you? how dare you?" burst out the young man, furiously red and angry. "Even to hint at such things is an insult to me. I am not a saint; all the same, I am not a devil."
"Don't excite yourself, Ferdy. We know that Osip is guilty, and that no blame attaches to you. But I fail to see why Zara should have made that observation to you."
"Go and ask her," snapped Ferdy, rudely.
"I don't speak to persons of that sort," said Clarice, icily.
"She's a good, decent, pretty, hard-working girl."
"What an array of adjectives. I never said that she was not. All I wish to know--and my desire to know is suggested by the chance observation I overheard--is, are you acquainted with Osip, or are you in any way influenced by Osip?"
"I am not. How dare you suggest such a silly thing? As to Uncle Henry having been at the Shah's Rooms; that's sheer rubbish."
Clarice walked thoughtfully to the window. "I dare say I am worrying myself unnecessarily," she observed. "There is no mystery about Uncle Henry's death, and Anthony may have made a mistake. But you do make me anxious, Ferdy, dear, with your wild ways. You are so unsophisticated, that I fear lest you should be led astray."
"I'm quite able to look after myself," fumed the young man, again producing his cigarette case, that unfailing resource in embarrassment.
His sister sighed. Somehow, in everything that Ferdy said, or did, there lurked a doubtful note. But on reflection, she could not but confess that it seemed ridiculous to think that Ferdy knew an assassin. Only for the overheard whisper, Clarice would never have started so futile a conversation, and now wished to end it by confessing her fault. "I beg your pardon, Ferdy," she said, quietly, "but my anxiety for you must be my excuse."
Before Ferdy could accept her apology, and kiss her, as he seemed inclined to do, there was a furious barking outside, and the angry voice of a man. Clarice stepped out on to the terrace. "There's Jane at Dr. Jerce again," she said, hastily, and went to the rescue.
Jerce, with a very white and angry face, was repelling with his umbrella the assault of a tawny dog of the mongrel collie species, with savage white teeth and blazing topaz eyes. Jane--as the animal was called--cherished a deep hatred for Jerce, notwithstanding that he had been her former master, and had presented her to Miss Baird. On all occasions she attacked him, and was usually shut up when the doctor was expected. That Jane was lame in the left hind-leg did not prevent her from making furious darts at Jerce, until Clarice caught her deftly by the collar.
"That damned dog will be the death of me," said Jerce, when Jane, handed over to Ferdy, was dragged away, growling and snapping. "I beg your pardon for swearing, Miss Baird, but--"
"I am very sorry, doctor," said Clarice, leading the way back to the drawing-room. "Jane was shut up as usual, but must have got loose while the groom was at the funeral. I wonder why she hates you so?"
"I don't know," said Jerce, seating himself, and recovering his calmness. "I get on first-rate with dogs, but Jane never did like me. I gave her to you, Miss Baird, because she never would be friends with me. The she-devil--I beg your pardon again--but I am quite sure that Jane will kill me some day."
"Nonsense. Her bark is worse than her bite."
"Then I hope she won't bark again, that's all. Ungrateful beast, I picked her up in Whitechapel on a wet day, streaming with water and starving with hunger. She had a good home with me, until her temper made me get rid of her."
"Perhaps her lameness makes her fractious," said Clarice. "Jane is really a good-tempered dog as a rule."
"Her lameness," echoed Jerce, after a pause, and then smiled in an odd way. "Why, yes, Miss Baird. That might have something to do with her temper. However, now that she's tied up--"
"Shut up, you mean," said Ferdy, who had now returned.
"Let us say disposed of," observed the doctor, genially, "and end the subject. Well, my dear Miss Baird," he added, gently, "now that our dear friend has been buried, we must learn how things are to be arranged."
"Mr. Barras will tell us that," said Clarice, glancing at the French clock on the mantelpiece. "He has not yet come!"
"He'll be here in a few moments," said Jerce, cheerily. "I saw him walking up the High Street. Ah!"--as there came a sharp ring at the front door--"there he is. Do you want me to remain?"
"Yes, do," urged Clarice; "both Ferdy and I would like you to be present at the reading of the will. You are our best friend."
"I should like to be something nearer and dearer," breathed Jerce, as the door opened, and Clarice rose to welcome the lawyer.
She pretended that she had not heard him, but he guessed that she had, from the flush which coloured her fair face. But by this time Barras was shaking hands with the two young people, and bowed politely to the famous doctor. "I am glad you're here, sir," he observed, sitting down and laying aside a black bag. "I want to ask you a question."
"What is it?" demanded Jerce, looking surprised. "You knew my late client, Mr. Horran, intimately?"
"Yes, for years and years. We were at school and college together."
"Then you would know."
"Know what?" asked Jerce, still more astonished.
"If my late client, Mr. Horran, was an honest man or a scoundrel."
An astonished silence ensued. The lawyer's observation was so very unexpected, that no one knew exactly how to reply. Mr. Barras did not look like a man inclined to jest, being lean-faced, dour, and clean-shaven, with a thin-lipped mouth, and scanty iron-grey hair. His severe black eyes peered sternly at the world from under shaggy grey eyebrows, and he constantly appeared to hold the attitude of a hanging judge, sentencing a criminal to the gallows. Barras was not popular with his fellows, but he had the name of an extremely honest man, and was supposed to be aggressively just. Also he was deliberately cautious in expressing an opinion; therefore it was scarcely to be wondered at, that his late remark considerably startled the three people who had assembled to hear the will read. Being a woman, Clarice was the first of the trio to recover the use of her tongue, and spoke indignantly.
"What do you mean by that, Mr. Barras?" she demanded, breathlessly.
"Exactly what I say, Miss Baird; and I would have you remark that I addressed myself to Dr. Jerce here, who has not yet replied."
"You take me by surprise, Barras," said Jerce, with a shrug. "All I can reply is that Horran was the most strictly honest man of my acquaintance. Had he not been so, the late Mrs. Baird would hardly have chosen him as her executor, or as the guardian of her children."
"Exactly," said the lawyer again, and opened his portentous black bag. "But the question is, may not the late Mrs. Baird have been mistaken as to the true character of the man?"
"Your own client?" said Clarice, indignantly.
"I am a man, as well as a lawyer," retorted Barras, coldly.
"Still, Uncle Henry, whom every one liked--"
"Popularity implies weakness, to my mind, Miss Baird. Strength has its enemies, I have always found."
"What do you think, Ferdy?" asked Clarice, staggered by the lawyer's air of conviction.
"About Uncle Henry? Oh, it's all rot. He was one of the best, even though we didn't get on over well."
"There, Mr. Barras," said Clarice, with an air of triumph.
He took no notice of her, but produced from his bag a sheaf of important-looking documents. "I had better read the will," said Barras, coldly.
"One moment," broke in Jerce, as Barras unfolded a sheet of parchment with a judicial air. "We must tell you about the death, and--"
"I have heard everything," interrupted the lawyer, mounting his golden pince-nez. "I have read all that was to be read in the papers."
"And you think?--"
"I think that my late client was the eighth victim of the Purple Fern series, murdered by the surviving villain."
"And the motive?" questioned Miss Baird, suddenly.
"The same motive that brought about the death of the other victims," was the solicitor's cold reply--"wealth, or, if you like, robbery."
"I don't agree with you. Nothing was taken from the room."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know everything that is in the room, and nothing is missing. That is plain enough."
"On the face of it," admitted Barras, "but I think that I can show you your error."
"Do you mean to say that the motive for Uncle Henry's murder was robbery?" asked Ferdy, sitting up from his lounging attitude.
"I do, and I have good reason to say so."
"Then explain," said Clarice, curtly, but secretly bewildered.
"I am about to do so, if you will permit me," said Barras, with his most acid smile.
"I beg your pardon. Go on."
Mr. Barras made a short explanation before reading the will, as they thought he was about to do. "Your parents," he began, looking at the twins, "Mr. and Mrs. Baird, lived at Tremby Hall, a short distance out of this town. Mr. Baird died, and left the property, which came to about four thousand a year, more or less, solely to his wife, your mother. When she died, the property was handed over to my late client, Mr. Henry Horran, who acted as your guardian. For this he received, under the late Mrs. Baird's will, five hundred a year. It was much needed by Mr. Horran, as he was then desperately poor."
"How do you know that?" questioned Clarice, listening intently.
"I was Mrs. Baird's lawyer, and afterwards became Mr. Horran's," said the iron-grey man, severely, "so I speak of what I know. Mr. Horran, as I have just explained, received five hundred a year, as your guardian. He had also, seeing that you both were infants, so to speak, complete control of the property--that is, you each were left two thousand a year, and it was arranged that you should come into possession at the age of twenty-five. Meanwhile, Mr. Horran was to look after you, educate you, and guide you."
"He did all that," said Clarice, with emotion, although Ferdy did not openly second her speech, and wriggled uneasily.
"At five hundred a year," remarked Barras, pointedly.
"Go on--go on," said Jerce, impatiently.
"You, Mr. Baird, and you, Miss Baird, being twins, were each three years of age when your mother died. You are now each three and twenty, and in another two years will come into unfettered possession of four thousand a year, divided equally. You, Mr. Baird, receive, at the age of twenty-five, two thousand a year; and you, Miss Baird, also at the age of twenty-five, receive the same sum, annually."
"Yes, yes," said Jerce, who appeared to be irritated by the minute way in which the lawyer was detailing everything; "and, of course, there is the accumulation on the income of four thousand a year, for--let me see--twenty years, up to the present."
"That is the whole point," remarked Barras, solemnly, "but I shall come to that point shortly. You, Mr. Baird, were allowed two hundred a year from the age of twenty--that is for the last three years."
"Yes," snapped Ferdy, "and little enough it is."
"I quite understand that, seeing you are young and gay," said the lawyer, drily. "Well, then, for three years you have been receiving this allowance, which comes--I may tell you--from the letting of Tremby Hall to those Americans. So you see, all of you, that the income of Mr. Ferdinand Baird, coming from this outside source, so to speak, leaves the four thousand a year intact."
Clarice heaved a weary sigh. "Why explain all this?" she asked. "We know the most part of it."
"Quite so," said Barras, deliberately, "but you do not know all."
"All what?"
"All that I am about to tell you, if you will permit me to speak."
The girl looked at him hard. There seemed to be a great deal lurking behind the solicitor's manner. "Go on, please," she said, apprehensively.
"When Dr. Jerce refers to the accumulation on the income of four thousand a year for twenty years," continued Mr. Barras, "he must not forget, that besides the five hundred per annum to Mr. Horran, there was also the sum required for education, for the keep of this house, and for the clothing of the children--I allude to you two," added Barras, looking over his pince-nez.
Ferdy nodded. "I understand and so does Clarry."
"Now, then," said Mr. Barras, having reached this point, "I shall read the will, as you no doubt understand exactly how the monies stand--that is, how they were left by your late mother."
"But we don't understand about the accumulations," protested Clarice. "I am coming to that," said the lawyer, significantly. "Allow me to conduct this conversation in my own way, so as to make everything plain. The will--listen--the will of Mr. Henry Horran--"
"But he had nothing to leave," burst out Ferdy; "you said so."
"I did not exactly say so," said Barras, deliberately, "but it is a fact. Since the five hundred a year ceased at Mr. Horran's death, seeing that he could not longer continue his duties as guardian, he certainly had nothing to leave. But the will of the late Mrs. Baird gave him the power to appoint a new guardian."
"What a shame!" cried Ferdy, flushing; "we--Clarry and I--are old enough to handle our own money."
"Possibly, but the will must stand," said Barras, drily, "and, after all, as you will see, the new guardian is the best that could be appointed. From what I have seen of this young lady"--he bowed to Clarice--"and from the frequency with which I have come into contact with her since Mr. Horran's illness, I am quite sure that a better appointment could not have been made."
Ferdy started. "What has Clarry to do with it?" he demanded, angrily.
Barras took no notice, but read the will of Horran. It was short, and to the point, containing a few legacies to servants, a disposal of his jewellery to friends, and the appointment of Clarice Baird to the post of guardian, which Horran's death would leave vacant. Ferdy could scarcely contain his wrath, when Barras ceased. "Do you mean to say that Clarry has been appointed over my head?" he asked, white with rage; "over my head, when I am the man."
"I do say so," said Barras, quietly, "and in my opinion, Seeing what I know of Miss Baird, it is an excellent suggestion."
"It's a shame. I should have been made guardian."
"Ferdy"--Clarice pulled the fuming youth down into his chair with a strong hand--"you and I can talk of that later. Meanwhile, as the appointment has been made, you can do nothing."
"I'll see a lawyer--I'll go into court--I'll--"
"You can do nothing," said Jerce, calmly and soothingly. "Horran had the full right to appoint whom he chose, and if he thought that Miss Baird was the most suitable person, you must accept the decision."
Ferdy sat down, silenced for once, but in a royal rage. Clarice laid her hand on his arm, but he jerked himself angrily away, whereupon a look of pain passed over her face. "You will not find me a hard guardian," she said, softly; then, as he still remained sullen, she turned to Barras. "Are there any arrangements made as to where we shall live?" she asked.
"No," answered the solicitor, replacing the will in his bag. "You can live here, or wherever you like. The will gives you complete control of four thousand a year, until you reach the age of twenty-five in two years, when you will, of course, give your brother half that income, and then--as you know--your guardianship ceases."
"I won't have Clarice as my guardian," cried Ferdy, wrathfully. "You must," said the girl, in a firm tone. "What is the use of going on like this, Ferdy? The will is a good one in law."
"A very excellent will," said Barras, primly.
"A great responsibility for you, Miss Baird," said Jerce, quietly.
"I am perfectly well able to bear it, doctor," she replied, sharply.
"See here," said young Baird, suddenly, and rousing himself from a brown study; "this will gives Clarice control of the four thousand a year."
"Yes," answered Barras, "and, of course, your allowance of two hundred can continue, still arising from the letting of the Hall."
"Well, then," went on Ferdy, rapidly, "the will--so far as I can see and so far as you tell me--does not say anything about the accumulations on the four thousand during the last twenty years."
"On two thousand, if you please, Mr. Baird," said Barras, leisurely. "Do not forget that the late Mr. Horran received five hundred for his services--that is annually--and that the rest of two thousand was required for the various items I have mentioned."
"I remember," said Ferdy, hastily. "Well, then, the accumulation on two thousand a year for twenty years must be in the bank, or invested, and free from Clarice's control."
"No. By the will, Miss Baird would deal with the accumulations, as well as with the income. For the next two years she receives the four thousand a year, and what she does not spend--having full power under both wills--she can let out at interest."
"Oh!" said Clarice, quickly. "Then two thousand of our united income was let out at interest by Mr. Horran?"
"That I can't tell you, Miss Baird."
"But it must have been," insisted Clarice, "for Mr. Clarke--"
"My late client certainly allowed him a loan of one thousand pounds some years ago, at ten per cent.," said Barras, politely, "but that is all the loan I know of."
"But the rest of the money?"
"What money?" asked Jerce, suddenly.
"The two thousand a year which Uncle Henry did not spend. Even if nothing was done with it, the amount in twenty years would increase to forty thousand pounds."
"And that should be given to me," put in Ferdy, quickly, "seeing that Clarry has the full income."
"Half of which is in trust for you, Mr. Baird," said Barras, in his dry way; "but the accumulations, Miss Baird," he added, addressing Clarice, "certainly amount to the sum you mention; and if these monies were let out at the same rate of interest which my late client extorted from Mr. Clarke, the amount in the banks ought to be much greater. Unfortunately"--Mr. Barras stopped and hesitated.
"Well?" asked Clarice, impatiently. "Well, the money isn't in the bank. I have all the books of the late Mr. Horran, and all his business papers, but in no instance can I find what he has done with forty thousand pounds, or with possible accumulations."
Jerce started up in dismay. "Is this the reason why you asked me if Horran was a scoundrel?" he demanded.
"That is the reason," replied Barras, serenely. "I want to know what has become of that money. I think I can guess, however."
"You can guess?" repeated Clarice, puzzled.
"Yes. You wondered why Mr. Horran was murdered. I answer, for the sum of forty thousand pounds."
Barras said this so quietly, that he took away the breath of his hearers, and they looked at one another, unable to speak. Seeing this, Barras explained himself still further. "I collected the rents of the Baird property," he said. "Two thousand a year I paid into the London Bank, according to the directions of Mr. Horran, and that I can account for, by the books and the papers, since it went in Mr. Horran's income as guardian, in keeping up this house, and in educational and clothing expenses. But the remaining two thousand a year I paid personally to Mr. Horran, as it came in, and he never accounted to me for its use. There was no reason that he should do so," added the lawyer, coolly, "seeing that Mr. Horran had full power under Mrs. Baird's will to deal with the estate as he chose. Certainly, judging from Mr. Clarke's loan, which came under my notice, I fancied that Mr. Horran might be investing the money, or letting it out at large interest, but I can find nothing in the papers left by the deceased likely to throw any light on its disposal."
"It is most extraordinary," said Clarice, thoughtfully. "Do you mean to say, Mr. Barras, that Uncle Henry had forty thousand pounds in his room when he died?"
Barras placed his finger-tips together and leaned back. "I leave it to you, Miss Baird. Mr. Horran always insisted that I should bring to him two thousand a year of the rents, in gold. I always, according to his wish, paid him in gold. You sent me up the papers from his desk, and, of course, I have all his business letters, deeds, and the rest of such things in my office. But in no case can I find what has become of this forty thousand pounds. When I saw in the papers that no cause could be assigned for the murder of my late client, and recollected that the Purple Fern villains always struck down the rich, it dawned upon me that, instead of investing the two thousand a year, which he regularly received--and in gold," emphasised the lawyer, "Mr. Horran kept the money in his room, and was murdered for its possession."
"But why should he have kept the money in his room?"
"Instead of at the bank, you would say." Mr. Barras shrugged his shoulders again. "Well, my late client must have been a miser--that is all the explanation I can give. But I am certain that he was murdered for the sake of that forty thousand pounds, and that it has been stolen. And now, Dr. Jerce, you will understand why I asked you if your friend was an honest man or a scoundrel."
"An honest man?" said Jerce, energetically. "You have supplied the reason for the money being missed yourself. Horran may have been a miser, although I never noticed that he was; he may have kept this money in his room, and he may have been murdered for it."
"I would have you observe, doctor," said Barras, dryly, "that all your sentences commence with 'may.' This is all theory."
"But if the money has been stolen," suggested Clarice, "it may be traced in some way."
"You can't trace gold, Miss Baird, and Horran always insisted upon having the money in gold. That is what makes me think that he was a miser. I called him a scoundrel--if he spent the money on his own pleasures he certainly was a scoundrel. If, on the other hand, he merely kept the gold to enjoy looking at, and it was stolen from him at the time of his death, he was simply a miser, and has paid, by his painful end, for being a miser. However"--Barras stood up--"there is no more to be said. I think that I have made myself plain, Miss Baird, and whenever you like to come to my office, I shall talk over future money arrangements. Meanwhile, I must prove the will, pay the death duties and legacies, and put things straight. I shall now take my leave."
"Will you not stop to tea or dinner, Mr. Barras?"
"No, I thank you," said the lawyer, stiffly, and, taking up his bag, he walked in a stately manner out of the house. Ferdy rose, and after hesitating for a moment, ran after him quickly. Jerce and Clarice were left alone. "What will you do?" asked Jerce, slowly.
"I must ask Anthony," said Clarice, mechanically.
"Captain Ackworth?"
"Anthony," she repeated quietly, "the man I intend to marry."
Dr. Jerce looked at Clarice with a lowering face, and his expressive eyes flashed with anger. He was a strong-willed man, accustomed to having his own way in the face of all obstacles, and the merest hint of opposition annoyed him. Having set his heart on marrying Miss Baird, he was determined to bring about the match, and, notwithstanding the hint of refusal which she had given him, while Horran was alive, his determination remained unchanged. To be sure, he had then been ignorant of her engagement with Ackworth, and had calculated upon an easier conquest of her objections. But now that he knew her affections were engaged, he saw clearly that it would be extremely difficult for him to achieve his purpose. Clarice, as he knew, was no weak girl, to be talked into surrender; but for all that, Jerce attempted to bend her to his will.
The doctor was too clever a man to give way to bad temper, knowing that such a weakness might lose him the prize he aimed at. Inwardly angry, he was outwardly calm, and after that first swift look of annoyance, he regained his suavity. "Does Captain Ackworth know that you intend to marry him?" asked Jerce, politely.
Clarice threw back her head haughtily. "Certainly. He has proposed to me, and we are engaged."
"Since when, may I ask?"
"You may ask, but I am not bound to answer."
"I am your oldest friend, Miss Baird, now that poor Horran is dead."
Clarice lifted her eyebrows. "Still I fail to see that being an old friend gives you the right to cross-examine me about things which do not concern you."
"It concerns me a great deal that you should be happy," said Jerce, disconcerted by her calmness.
"Then you can set your mind at rest, doctor. I am happy."
Jerce looked down at his neat boots. "I should have thought that a girl of your strong character would have chosen otherwise."
"Really," said Clarice, indifferently.
"In fact," stammered Jerce, flushing, "I thought of offering myself as your husband."
"Oh, I saw that long ago, doctor."
"And you had no pity upon me?"
"Why should I have pity?" asked Clarice, with a perceptible smile. "I have not played the coquette with you."
"No," said Jerce, bitterly; "I am bound to say that at the first hint I gave you of my feelings, you recoiled, and have since held me at arm's length."
"Seeing that I am engaged, that is as it should be."
Jerce bit his lips. It angered him that she should be so calm, and so completely mistress of herself. "There is no hope for me, I suppose?" he inquired, with great humility.
"None. Anthony is the man I love, and Anthony will be my husband."
"Perhaps," said Jerce, under his breath, but she heard him.
"Why do you say that?" she asked, abruptly.
"There's many a slip 'twixt cup and lip."
"That's a very well-known proverb, doctor, but it does not explain what you mean."
"Then will you permit me to speak plainer?"
"If you are wise you will not," said Clarice, quietly. "We are good friends, doctor; why should we become strangers?"
"I could never be a stranger to you," he said, fervently.
"Oh, I think so, if I chose."
"And would you choose?"
"Certainly, if you would not accept the situation."
"I cannot," cried Jerce, his emotions getting the better of his judgment. "I am a man, and I feel like a man. For years I have loved you, and for a long time I have wished to make you my wife. I spoke to Horran, and he was agreeable that I should marry you."
"Indeed," cried Clarice, with a flush of anger. "Then permit me to remind you, doctor, that Mr. Horran, much as I loved him, had not the right to dispose of my hand. That goes with my heart."
"Which is possessed by Captain Ackworth," said Jerce, bitterly.
"Exactly. You leave nothing to be desired in the way of explanation."
"But Ackworth is not worthy of you," urged the doctor.
"Really, and in what way?"
Jerce was puzzled how to reply. He knew next to nothing about Captain Ackworth. "He doesn't look as if he had brains."
"Ah! Looks are deceptive sometimes. Now you, doctor, look as though you had common sense, yet your conversation at present doesn't reveal that quality."
"You are hard, Clarice."
"I thought that you were not going to call me Clarice until you had the right?"
"I wish to acquire the right."
"It is too late. Come, doctor," said Clarice, tired of this quibbling, "it is useless to prolong this conversation. There are more important things to talk about than my marriage, which, after all--as I have reminded you--is entirely my own affair. Let us agree to be friends," and she held out her hand, smiling.
Jerce did not take it. "I can be nothing less than your husband," he said, drawing down his long upper lip obstinately.
"In that case, doctor, we may as well part for ever."
"For ever?" Jerce started to his feet, much agitated. "Oh, Clarice, you don't mean that. I love you--I adore you--I worship you. No doubt it may seem ridiculous to you that a man of my age should speak like a schoolboy, and should show his deepest feelings so plainly. But I have had a lonely life, and you are all the world to me. Don't send me away without hope. Only say that some day--in some sweet hour--I can come and take your hand in mine."
Clarice rose also, and her eyes sparkled with anger. "You are mad to talk in this way," she cried, passionately. "How can I say what you want me to say, when I am engaged, and when I love?"
"I am rich," pleaded Jerce, eagerly. "I have a great name. I have heard that my name will be included in the list of New Year's honours. I shall be Sir Daniel Jerce, and you--"
"I shall be Mrs. Ackworth," interrupted Clarice, imperiously. "Not a word more, doctor; my mind is made up."
"And so is mine," said Jerce, with a snarl, his face livid, and his eyes hard. "You shall not marry this man."
"Who will prevent me?" asked Clarice, with superb disdain. "Who will prevent me from becoming Anthony's wife?"
"I will. You shall become my wife."
"If there was not another man in the world, I would decline that honour. And let me remind you that I am no school-girl to be frightened by stage thunder. How dare you?--how dare you?" Clarice stamped her foot, and clenched her hands. "Go away, and never come near me again."
Jerce remained silent for one moment. Then, without a word, he took up his hat and walked slowly to the door. Only when he had opened it, and stood with the handle in his hand, did he speak. "I shall go away," he said, with a steady look at the girl, "and I shall not return until you summon me."
When the door closed, Clarice sank back in her seat, overwhelmed with emotion. She had small sympathy for the doctor, since he had merely cried like a child for the moon, which he knew was entirely beyond his reach. But his last words impressed her with a sense of danger, and she wondered what he meant by this sudden obedience. Had he defied her, and remained to argue, she would have felt safer. Dr. Jerce--as she knew--was too strong a man to give in without a struggle, and that he should do so in this instance was ominous. In the words of the French proverb, he had but recoiled to spring the higher; yet Clarice could not see how he could harm her, or Anthony in any way. She was now her own mistress, free from supervision of any kind; Horran's death was no mystery, and although the murderer was still at large, he would certainly be caught sooner or later; Ferdy--here Clarice rose again, and her face grew white. What if Jerce could harm her by harming Ferdy? Jerce knew all about the boy and his fast life, and Jerce, if put to it, would not hesitate to sacrifice Ferdy, or anyone else, to achieve his ends. But the question was--what did Jerce know about Ferdy? While Clarice asked herself this, Ferdy himself entered, looking very sulky.
"I do call it a shame, Clarry," he said, flinging himself into a chair, and thrusting his hands into his pockets. "Why should Uncle Henry have treated me in this beastly way?"
"I think Uncle Henry has acted very wisely," said Clarice, harshly. The tone of her voice made Ferdy look up from his gloomy contemplation of the carpet, and he was struck by the whiteness of her face.
"What's the matter with you?" he inquired, crossly. "I should think that you ought to be satisfied, seeing that everything has come your way, Clarry."
"Do you think that it is a pleasure for me to take your burdens upon my shoulders?" asked Clarice, fiercely. "I would much rather that Uncle Henry had named Dr. Jerce as your guardian, seeing that Dr. Jerce knows so much about you."
Ferdy started to his feet, changing colour like a chameleon. "What has Jerce been saying about me?" he demanded, with a sick look.
"Nothing. He did not even mention your name."
"Then what are you jawing about?" snapped Ferdy, sitting down again.
Clarice placed herself before him, and tried to make him meet her eyes. But he would not, and kept them on the carpet, shuffling his feet uneasily meanwhile. "Dr. Jerce asked me to marry him," she said, in a clear voice. "I refused him. He has accepted my refusal so calmly that I am certain he intends mischief."
"What rot," said Ferdy, uneasily; "as though a great man like Jerce would bother his head over you."
"Oh," said Clarice, with a chill smile. "Perhaps it is King Cophetua and the Beggar-maid."
"Bosh!"
"You are not polite, Ferdy," said his sister, restraining a strong impulse to box his ears. "Now, you listen to me. But that you are my brother and my twin, I should let you go your own way to ruin and destruction."
"That's rather strong."
"But not too strong for your weakness," she persisted. "I know you thoroughly, Ferdy. You are a charming, weak, impulsive boy, with many attractions of person and manner, likely to lead you into undesirable company. People like you, and, as liking with the majority means selfishness, they will make use of you--perhaps in bad ways."
"What do you mean by bad ways?" asked Ferdy, crossly.
"Ways of pleasure--ways of folly--ways which do not lead to hard work and an honoured name. You are the kind of person, neither good nor bad, who goes dancing along the primrose path, out of sheer weakness, because others dance beside you. If you were a wicked man, Ferdy, you would be clever, as wickedness needs cleverness to aid its full accomplishment. But you are merely weak, and that is dangerous to you and to me."
"I don't know what you are talking about," said Ferdy, restlessly.
"But I do," cried Clarice, passionately. "I know you better than you do yourself. I know that with your weakness you will bring disgrace on yourself and on me. Were I selfish, as you are, I would decline this guardianship, and let you have your money, to go your own silly, weak way, which will lead to ruin. But I love you, and--"
"And so you bully me."
"I am not bullying you; I am talking sense, if you only have the brain power to enter into my feelings. Because you are my brother and my twin, I accept the responsibility laid upon me. If you were not I should marry Anthony next week, and forget much of the past."
"What past are you referring to?"
"That which has just closed with the death of Uncle Henry. For years you and I have gone with him down a long and pleasant lane. Now with his death has come the turning, and another lane opens before us. Whether it will be as pleasant remains with you."
"With me?"
"Yes. I could marry Anthony, as I say, and let you go alone. But I love you too well to see you ruin yourself. I shall take a house in London, and we will live there together. Then I shall be able to look after you."
Ferdy rose, pale with anger. "And I am to be tied to your apron-strings all my life."
"God forbid, as I have my own life to look after. Even for love, one should not sacrifice one's whole life--that is, the kind of love, the sisterly affection which I have for you. My love for Anthony is different. I have no right to sacrifice him to you. But when you are married to Prudence, my task will be ended. She will look after you--she will take care of you, and I can then marry and be happy, knowing that you are safe."
"And suppose I object to this scheme you have, of taking a London house?" asked Ferdy, savagely. "In that case I'll stop your allowance."
"You can't--you daren't."
"I can and I dare. I have complete power. There is only one other way. If you will marry Prudence in a month or so, I'll allow you one thousand a year. I can do that as guardian, although you will not come in for your full income for two years."
"I'm sure I'd like to marry Prudence," said Ferdy, uneasily.
"You are engaged to her."
"Yes, but Mr. Clarke has been objecting."
"I don't see why he should. I'll see Mr. Clarke and sweep away his objections. I can do that, seeing he is in my debt to the tune of one thousand odd pounds. Well, then, will you come and live with me in London, or marry Prudence, and get the money?"
Ferdy shuffled. "If I do neither?"
"I have already said what I would do. You can't live without money."
"Dr. Jerce will look after me," blurted out Ferdy, significantly. Clarice shrugged her shoulders. "Perhaps. He has the name of being a philanthropist. But I should like to know if there is any chance of Jerce threatening me through you?"
"What rubbish. Of course not."
"I am not so certain," said Clarice, dryly, and striving to read the weak, handsome face before her. "Jerce is deeply in love with me, and would give much to stop my marriage. He hinted as much. Now, I know that he cannot hurt Anthony, or me, as both our lives are above reproach. The sole trouble in my life is the death of Uncle Henry, and the inquest has explained that. The motive for the crime undoubtedly is robbery."
"You believe that?"
"After what Mr. Barras explained, I do, although," added Clarice, in a thoughtful manner, "I never would have taken Uncle Henry to be a miser. Chalks might know something about that money, if Uncle Henry really had it concealed in his room. I'll speak to him. However, you can see that there is no reason why I should be afraid of Dr. Jerce. Now, is there any reason why you should fear him?"
"No," said Ferdy, earnestly, and, turning a frank face to his sister, "I have been reckless and fast. Jerce has helped me with money, and I have run up bills for motor-cars, and suppers, and tailors, and flowers, and such-like things. But if you will pay these bills, Jerce can say nothing against me."
"How much do the bills amount to?"
"Two thousand pounds."
Clarice sat down gasping. "Two thousand pounds and in one year," she said, utterly bewildered, "Ferdy, you--you fool."
"There," said the young man, bitterly. "I make a clean breast of it because you want me to, and then you bullyrag me. But here," he pulled a sheaf of papers out of his breast pocket, "I had intended to give these to Barras when the will was read, thinking that I would get my own money, and that Barras would be able to arrange for the payment. But when I spoke to him just now, he referred me to you as my guardian. Here is a list of my debts with the bills attached. If you will pay these off, Clarry, I swear to turn over a new leaf. You needn't look so angrily at me. I am no worse than other chaps."
"My poor boy," said Clarice, mournfully; "I am not angry, but only sorry for your weakness. But I am forced to be strong, since I have to deal with a reed. I shall take these"--she reached for the bills--"and they will be paid, as soon as I can arrange--on conditions."
"Conditions." Ferdy began to gloom again. "What conditions?"
"Firstly, that you have nothing more to do with Zara Dumps. I am quite sure that she has led you into spending money."
"There's nothing wrong about her," grumbled Ferdy, wincing; "Zara is perfectly respectable."
"I dare say, seeing that I have heard how she wishes to make a good marriage. All the same, she is not averse to making use of you to amuse her, and her amusements are expensive. You must give her up."
"Oh, I'm quite agreeable," said Ferdy, readily; then added, in a most candid manner, "the fact is, Clarry, I must give her up, as she has chucked me."
"I see," said Clarice, rather disgusted, "you make a virtue of necessity. Still, so long as you give her up, I don't ask for your reason."
"Well, then, you have it without asking," retorted Ferdy, airily; "and the other condition?"
"You must marry Prudence Clarke in two months--that will be a sufficiently long time after Uncle Henry's death, and I want you to be settled as soon as possible."
Ferdy looked at her very straightly, and then dropped his eyes on the carpet. "I'll marry Prudence, if she'll marry me."
"She's engaged to you; she loves you."
"As I said before, her father--"
"I'll interview Mr. Clarke," interrupted Miss Baird, quickly. "He was delighted when your engagement was announced, and I do not see why he should change his mind. If he refuses to permit the marriage--"
"Yes!" said Ferdy, hastily, "if he refuses."
"You must agree to live with me in London for two years--that is until you get your money."
"I don't know what Jerce will say."
"Say? What should he say? You are not bound to him in any way."
"No. But he is famous, and can help me a lot when I become a doctor."
"Rely on your own brains, Ferdy," said Clarice, quickly, "and not on the patronage of any influential person. Besides, you can attend your classes, and to your studies all the same, while we live together."
"Very well," assented the boy, sullenly, "if you don't pull the strings too tightly."
"Of the money bags, do you mean?" asked Clarice, smiling. "You need have no fear, Ferdy; I am not stingy."
"You're a good sort, Clarry," said her brother with sudden emotion. "I-I--I'll do whatever you like, and--and I'll always come to you in trouble, dear."
Hastily kissing her, he fairly ran out of the room, leaving Clarice much puzzled. She had rarely seen Ferdy so moved, and wondered why he had left so suddenly. Clarice may have been unduly suspicious, but she did not think that the new epoch was opening auspiciously. And yet, so far, she had got everything her own way.