Anthony looked apprehensively at Clarice, as she read the anonymous letter, for he quite expected that she would be greatly agitated, and had been rather afraid of showing it to her, lest the shock of such an accusation brought against Ferdy should be too great. But the girl was perfectly cool, and read the letter twice. After the second reading, she looked at her lover.
"It's a conspiracy," she said, calmly.
Anthony was puzzled. "What do you mean by that?"
"Someone wants to prevent our marriage," she explained; "and so this accusation has been brought against Ferdy."
"I can see that. Of course"--Anthony looked anxiously at her again--"of course, the accusation is ridiculous."
"Perfectly ridiculous!" replied Clarice, quietly.
"And yet," hesitated the soldier, "would anyone bring forward such a direct accusation, unless she had evidence to go upon?"
Clarice, who had been musing, looked up, "Why do you say 'she?'"
Ackworth pointed to the caligraphy of the letter, which lay on the table before them. "The handwriting is like that of a woman."
"Men and women write exactly alike nowadays, my dear. Besides, if a woman had written it, she certainly would have assumed even a more masculine style of writing."
"Then you think that the letter was written by a man?"
"Of course. Can't you think of a man who desires to prevent our marriage?"
Ackworth considered for one moment, and drew inspiration from her steadfast eyes. "Dr. Jerce," he said, suddenly.
"Sir Daniel Jerce! Give him his proper title!"
"What makes you think that?"
"Several things. One is that Sir Daniel quoted the slip betwixt cup and lip proverb. In fact, he hinted, more in manner than words, that I should never become your wife."
"Confounded cheek!" said Anthony, seating himself--he had been standing hitherto. "What right has he to interfere?"
"The right of a man who is in love with a woman," said Clarice.
"With an engaged woman," corrected Anthony. "Humph!" He took up the letter again. "Do you really think----"
"I am certain of it."
"But a man in such a position--a great doctor--a famous medical man--surely would not----"
Clarice again did not allow him to finish. "Yes, he would, if he wanted his own way, as Sir Daniel Jerce wants his. You see, Anthony dear, that Sir Daniel had always gained his ends by force of will. He tried to dominate me, but I was too strong for him. Naturally, he is irritated, and thus is ready to condescend to this"---she pointed to the letter--"in order to gain his ends."
"Well, I'm hanged. But you can't be certain."
"I'll soon find out if I can be certain."
"In what way--by what means?"
"I'll ask Sir Daniel himself if he wrote the letter!"
"He will deny that he did," rejoined Ackworth, quickly.
"You trust a woman to get at the truth, denial or no denial," said Miss Baird, coolly. "And there's another thing, Anthony. Ferdy is perfectly innocent."
"Of course," hesitated the Captain; "still, can you prove it?"
"Very easily. Ferdy came home drunk on the night the crime was committed. I locked him in his own room, and took the key to mine. He could not have got out, and did not, until I released him next morning--hours after the murder was perpetrated."
Anthony nodded his satisfaction. "That settles the business. This letter is all bluff. Anything more?"
Clarice nodded in her turn. "Ferdy was engaged to marry Prudence Clarke," she said.
"Wasengaged! Is the engagement at an end?"
"Yes. Had you not come over, I should have sent for you. I saw Prudence to-day, and she declines to marry Ferdy."
"Why, I thought she was in love with him."
"She was--she is. But Zara, the dancer----"
"Butterfly. Yes, I know. Go on."
"Well, she called on Prudence on the day my guardian was buried, and told her that if she married Ferdy, Mr. Clarke would be accused of the murder."
"What rubbish. Everyone knows that Osip is guilty."
"Quite so," said Clarice, slowly; "but I am beginning to doubt that, Anthony. I thought that there was no mystery about this crime, but from this letter and from the attitude of Zara, I begin to think that there is."
"H'm!" from Ackworth. "You believe that there is a conspiracy?"
"Yes, I do, and Sir Daniel has to do with it. Also Zara. The man wants to marry me, and the woman to marry Ferdy. But I had better tell you everything I have learned, so that you may be in a position to see things from your point of view."
Anthony listened carefully, while Clarice detailed her interview with Prudence, and also related what Clarke had said. "I am perfectly sure," she ended, firmly, "that there is some connection between Zara and Sir Daniel."
"I don't see that, Clarice--upon my word, I can't see it. Zara evidently went on her own, so as to get Ferdy to herself. Sir Daniel fried his own fish--if, indeed, that letter is written by him."
"I'll soon learn that," rejoined Miss Baird, putting the letter into the pocket of her dinner gown. "Then, I have to tell you something about Ferdy," and she related how the boy had attempted to bluff her, and how she had got the better of him.
"It seems to me," said Ackworth, when she finished, "that Ferdy is being made use of in some way."
"I am quite certain of that, and the crime is being used as a threat to make him do what he is told."
"By Jerce?"
"Or by Zara. I grant that the whole thing is a mystery, although you and I can see the reasons for the actions of Jerce and this dancer."
"Marriage in both cases," said Anthony, musingly. "But why not question Ferdy?"
Clarice's lip curled. "Ferdy would only tell lies," she said, disdainfully. "No, I must learn what Ferdy has to do with these matters in some way which will not arouse his suspicions. Anthony"--she placed her hands on his shoulders--"you trust me?"
He placed his hands on hers--"Dearest, what a question."
"Well, then, I am going to do something very daring."
"What is it?" asked Ackworth, anxiously.
"I can't tell you. I only ask you to trust me."
Ackworth looked at her closely. "Of course, I'll trust you."
"That is true love," said Clarice, and kissed him. "Now, in the first place, I shall write this night to Sir Daniel, and ask him to come and see me. Then I can learn if indeed he wrote the letter which I have in my pocket. Next--and this is your share of the plot I have in my head--you must ask Ferdy down for a couple of days and nights to Gattlinsands. He is always glad to stop with you."
"I'll do so willingly," said Anthony; "but why do you want him out of the way?"
"You have answered your own question. I want him out of the way, because I want him out of the way."
"What do you mean?"
"I am mysterious, am I not? But in this case everything is now becoming extremely mysterious, and we must beat these people with their own weapons. I want to marry you; I want Ferdy to marry Prudence. To bring these things about I have to learn the meaning of these threats. When I know, then I can act."
"But what do you intend to do?" asked Anthony, dubiously.
"You promised to trust me."
"Yes, but--but don't be rash."
"Dearest, am I ever rash?"
"No, you are a very level-headed girl, as I know. I'll trust you, only I hope you won't get into any difficulty."
"If I do, I'll send for you at once. Now, when you get back to your quarters, write and ask Ferdy down for to-morrow night and for the next night."
"I can ask him now. He's in the house."
"No, I want you to ask him by letter. Write to him at Sir Daniel's."
Anthony nodded. "Very good. Anything else?"
"Yes. When Ferdy leaves you--in a couple of days--go up to London, and to Tea Street, Whitechapel."
"What for, Clarice?"
"To find out all you can concerning the young man who died of consumption there--the man who was one of the Purple Fern murderers. I want to know his name, and all about him."
"What good will that do?"
"It may lead us to discover the whereabouts of Osip. When we catch him, then we can be certain of his guilt, and both Sir Daniel and Zara will be unable to accuse Ferdy or Mr. Clarke. Do you see?"
"In a way. And yet----"
"No, don't raise objections, or ask questions. I know exactly how to act. When you learn what I want you to learn, come here and tell it to me. In the meantime, I'll be searching on my own account."
"Not in Whitechapel I hope," said Anthony, quickly.
"No, I am sending you to Whitechapel," she laughed. "Do you know, my dear boy, I am quite enjoying this excitement. It gives me something to do, and I love a life of action."
She looked so brilliant, and her eyes were so bright, that Anthony did what any lover would have done under the like circumstances. He took her in his arms and kissed her. Then, as it was growing late, Clarice insisted that he should go, and escorted him to the door.
Ferdy was conversing with Anthony's brother officer, who had brought over the car; and, of course, the amateur chauffeur was introduced to Miss Baird. She chatted so gaily for a few minutes that Anthony could not believe she had anything on her mind. Yet he knew very well that she was extremely anxious, and was nerving herself to face her enemies. Finally, he insisted that she should go indoors, as the night was chilly, and the car surged off down the lane, with the buzz of an angry bee. Clarice stood on the steps and watched it vanish. Then she went inside and spoke to Ferdy.
"I want you to take a letter to Sir Daniel to-morrow for me," she said, going to her desk. "When do you start in the morning?"
"By the eight fifty-five. I'll be in town by ten, or a trifle later. Why are you writing?"
"I want Sir Daniel to come down, as I wish to speak with him about business connected with the estate."
"What business?" asked Ferdy, persistently.
"Oh, nothing particular," said Clarice, airily; "it has to do with a ring which poor Uncle Henry wished me to give the doctor. Aha-a-a!" she shivered--"I believe that I have caught cold."
She had indeed, for the next morning Ferdy had to go to her bedroom to receive the letter for Jerce, as Clarice did not get up. Her eyes were brilliant, her cheeks vividly red, and her voice was somewhat hoarse. Ferdy guessed that she had caught cold from standing in the porch on the previous night, and declined to kiss her when he went, in case he should suffer also. That was Ferdy all over--he never ran the chance of getting into trouble, if it was not likely to benefit himself. Clarice sighed when he departed, and then laughed. Sad as she was at Ferdy's selfishness, the thought of her plot cheered her up. The boy--as she was resolved--should be saved from Zara Dumps in spite of himself.
Sir Daniel was extremely astonished to receive Clarice's note asking him to come down, and his elderly heart beat rapidly, as he reflected that she had called him back. He had told her that he would not see her again, unless she asked him to come, and here the very message, for which he had longed, was in his hand. He went down to Crumel by the midday train, and shortly arrived at The Laurels. Here he found Clarice up and dressed, and seated in the drawing-room, looking very unwell. She occupied a large chair near the fire, and was enveloped in a multiplicity of wraps to keep her from shivering. When Sir Daniel entered, she did not rise or offer him her hand.
"I might give you my cold," said Clarice, hoarsely.
"Dear, dear! you are very sick," remarked Jerce, quite at his ease in the presence of ill-health. "How did you get this cold?"
"I was standing in the porch last night, talking to Anthony."
Jerce bit his lip as she mentioned the name, and stretched out his hand. "Let me feel your pulse."
Clarice kept her hands under the shawl. "No; I have asked you to come for another reason than to prescribe for me. Also, I have taken some simple remedies, and will be well in a few days."
"Still----"
"No, I can't ask the famous Sir Daniel Jerce to attend to a trifling case like mine."
"Since the famous Sir Daniel is here," observed the doctor, good-humouredly, "he may as well exercise his profession. And you know," he added, earnestly, "I would do anything for you, even though you have treated me so cruelly."
"You will persist in saying that," cried Clarice, petulantly, "when you know that I never loved you; that I never gave you any encouragement, and that you have no reason to blame me in any way. If you have come here to make yourself disagreeable----"
"I have come because you sent for me," said Jerce, calmly; "and, if you remember, I said that I would never see you again unless you did send for me."
"Oh! And I suppose you thought that my invitation meant that I had changed my mind about marrying Anthony?"
"I did hope that," said Sir Daniel, plainly, "as I can conceive no other reason why you should ask me down; unless," he added, with some bitterness, "you wish to torture me."
"Your own conscience should do that, Sir Daniel."
"My own conscience? I don't understand you, Miss Baird."
"Think again. You hinted that I should never marry Anthony."
"I did," rejoined Jerce, steadily, "and I hope you won't."
"Why not?"
"Because I wish to marry you myself."
"I see." Clarice drew the anonymous letter from her pocket, and placed it in his hand; "and to gain your ends you are willing to go to these lengths?"
The doctor read the few lines gravely, and then handed back the letter. "Still I don't understand."
"Yes, you do, Sir Daniel. You wrote that letter."
Jerce sprang to his feet with an agility astonishing in so stout a man. "You insult me," he said, with cold, suppressed fury.
"Have I not reason to," she flashed out, "when you seek to prevent my marriage by accusing Ferdy, of murder?"
"I did not accuse him; I never wrote that letter; it is not in my handwriting; it is not written on my own stationery."
"Of course not. You would have signed your name if it had been."
"Did you ask me down to accuse me of this?" asked Sir Daniel, contemptuously. "Yes, I did, and I tell you that your plot will fail, as Ferdy is perfectly innocent."
"I never said that he was guilty."
"That letter--"
"I did not write that letter." Clarice looked at him steadily. His face was calm, his nerves were unshaken. Either she had failed to take him unawares with her abrupt accusation, or the man was innocent. "If I have made a mistake I ask your pardon," she said, quietly, "but you have read the letter?"
"Just this moment. I never set eyes on it before."
"What do you think of the accusation?"
"I don't know what to think," said Jerce, coolly.
"Oh! Then you believe that the writer--if not yourself--has certain grounds upon which to accuse my brother of murder?"
"I don't know the writer and I don't know the grounds. Any other man would have lost his temper at the insult you have offered. But being in love with you, I forgive your unfair suspicions. Still, in justice to myself, I shall take my leave, as I cannot inflict upon you the company of a man of whom you think so meanly."
"One moment," said Clarice, who could not tell if he was really innocent, or if he was acting a part. "What would you do about the letter if you were me?"
"I should obey the writer," said Jerce, promptly.
"Ah! Then youhavean interest in stopping my marriage?"
"I have. I would do anything in my power to break off your engagement with Ackworth."
"So that I could marry you?"
"Precisely."
"I believe you wrote the letter, after all," said Clarice, between her clenched teeth. "I defy you to look me in the face and deny it."
"I do look you in the face, and I do deny it," said Jerce, coldly; "but the writer of that letter has done me a good turn, and I thank him."
"How do you know it is a man?"
Sir Daniel shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know; I only surmise."
"Surmise what?"
"That a man wrote it."
"Why not a woman?" sneered Clarice.
"Why not, indeed. You know as much about the matter as I do."
Beaten by his imperturbability, the girl adopted another mode of attack. "Why should Ferdy be accused?"
"I don't know, unless it is that Ferdy lives a wild life, as I told you, and would do much for money."
"For money? What do you mean?"
"I mean that the forty thousand pounds is yet unaccounted for."
"Oh, and Ferdy murdered Uncle Henry for that money?"
"The writer accuses him of the crime," said Jerce, quietly. "I am not prepared to endorse the accusation, as I know nothing."
"But I know," cried Clarice, vehemently. "Ferdy was locked in his room by me on the night of the crime, because he had been taking too much to drink."
"You had better answer this letter and say so," retorted Jerce.
"To whom should I write--to what address?"
"I can't say," he answered, steadily, "but you will be wise if you break off your engagement with Captain Ackworth. Ferdinand may be innocent in one way, and yet guilty in another."
"Explain."
"He may be an accomplice after the fact."
"Doctor," cried Clarice, rising quickly, "you know something."
"I know nothing, save that Ferdy lives a wild and fast life, and is of an undisciplined nature." He walked to the door. "I take my leave with a last warning. Obey that anonymous note, and give up Ackworth, or else--"
"Or else?" questioned Clarice, eagerly.
"Or else Ferdinand may be hanged."
Clarice sank back in her chair, as Jerce left the room, wondering if she had heard aright. Sir Daniel had certainly said in plain English that, failing the breaking of the engagement, Ferdy would be hanged. That meant the guilt of Ferdy, and yet she could prove that the boy had been locked in his room. What was meant by being an accessory after the fact? She would have to ask Mr. Barras the meaning of that legal phrase. In some way, however--she guessed that much,--it implicated Ferdy in the crime. Ferdy was, wild, assuredly, and to get money would do much. But he would never dare to commit a vile murder. In the first place, his nature was too mild, and in the second, he was too timid. Ferdy must be innocent. And yet--it was strange that he should always be so mysterious, and so ready to take alarm. Clarice recalled several occasions when Ferdy had appeared startled by apparently innocent remarks. Then, again, Ferdy was in the toils of Zara Dumps; and Zara--from her accusation of Mr. Clarke--knew something about the crime. What if she was throwing the blame on the parson to shield Ferdy, whom she loved?
At this point of her agonised reflections, the door opened, and Sir Daniel Jerce again appeared. "I think," he said, coldly, yet very pointedly, "that if you take a walk, and put away those medicine bottles, you will find that your illness will vanish. Good-day." And he was gone in a moment.
Clarice flung off the shawl and ran to the door. Jerce, then, saw through her feigned disorder. What a fool she was to try and deceive so clever a physician. By the time she gained the hall, Jerce had already passed out of the front door, and when she opened that, he was passing out of the gate. For the moment she felt inclined to call him back, and insist upon her illness, but knowing that she could not deceive so capable a judge, she closed the door again, and returned to the drawing-room.
There she wrapped herself up again. It was necessary to deceive those in the house, since no one was so acute as Jerce, to tell a false illness from a real one. She could not carry out her plot unless she pretended to be ill, and so had taken advantage of being in the porch on the previous night to secure her ends. Intending to go secretly to London on that same evening, Clarice wished to keep to her room, so that no one save Mrs. Rebson--in whom she would have to confide--should know that she was out of the house. And especially had she wished to deceive Jerce. Yet he had seen through her scheme of pretended sickness, and would be on the look-out to see why she had acted in such a manner. Clarice was certain that in some way Jerce was plotting against her and Anthony, notwithstanding his denial of the anonymous letter. It would take her all her ingenuity, clever as she thought herself, to circumvent the doctor. He was uncommonly sharp and uncommonly suspicious, and if he found out what she intended to do, he would nullify the success of her plot in some way. What a fool she had been to see him, especially when she had gained nothing by the interview.
In the face of this first failure to impose upon a clever man who wanted his own way, many a woman would have thrown up the sponge. But Clarice only stiffened her back in the face of the increasing difficulties. Come what may, she would masquerade as she intended, and learn the truth of Ferdy's hidden life. Her plan was at once daring and simple. In looks she exactly resembled Ferdy, and, dressed in a suit of his clothes, no one would be able to recognise her as his sister. Also she could mimic Ferdy's tricks of speech and ordinary gestures exactly, and thus would be able to pass as her brother, even with those who knew him well. Once arrayed as Ferdy, Clarice intended to go to London and pass the evening at the Mascot Music Hall, in order to witness the performance of Sarah Dumps. Then--as Ferdy--she would go round and see the dancer, and perhaps Zara might let slip something which would put her on the track of the boy's delinquencies. If she could arrive at the truth of Ferdy's fast life, at which Jerce had hinted, she might learn how he came to be implicated in the crime. And he was implicated rather than Clarke, since Clarice believed that Zara had only accused Clarke to save her lover, as well as to prevent the marriage with Prudence. Also the direct accusation in the anonymous letter hinted that someone--if not Jerce--knew that Ferdy had some connection with the death of Henry Horran. Jerce himself hinted that Ferdy was mixed up in the matter, and was ready to use his information--whatever it might be--to place Ferdy in the dock, if the match with Ackworth was not broken off.
It can thus be seen why Clarice had asked Anthony to invite her brother to Gattlinsands on that evening, and to detain him, if possible, for the next night. She did not want to run the risk of meeting Ferdy at the Mascot Music Hall, or to have--as it were--two Richmonds in the field. On this one night she hoped to learn sufficient to force Ferdy into open confession, and when she knew all, she might be able to save him. But failing success on this night, she trusted to be more successful on the ensuing evening. But in any case, she felt that she must be successful if Ferdy was to be saved from the tricksters who were around him and from his own weak self. Of course, her experiment was a daring one, and Anthony certainly would not approve of it. But too much was at stake to hesitate, so Clarice went up to her room about five o'clock to get ready for her masquerade. On the stroke of the hour, Mrs. Rebson appeared with a telegram, which proved to be from Anthony. He wired that Ferdy had accepted his invitation, and was on his way to Gattlinsands.
"That's all right," said Clarice, putting the wire carefully away.
"What's all right, deary?" asked Mrs. Rebson, who was smoothing her nursling's bed.
"Nanny, come here," said the girl, and led Mrs. Rebson to a chair. "I dare say you remember what you said about disgrace?"
"The Domestic Prophet," replied Mrs. Rebson, smoothing her apron; "yes, and disgrace will come, say what you like."
"It will come, I fear."
Mrs. Rebson clapped her gnarled old hands. "I've brought you to your senses," she cried, in her cracked voice, and with great triumph; "you will never doubt the Domestic Prophet again."
"Oh, no," answered Clarice, artfully. "Disgrace is coming, I fear, Nanny, and to Ferdy."
Mrs. Rebson's hands fell by her side, and she began to shake. "Disgrace, and to my darling boy," she whimpered. "Oh, Miss Clarice, what is it? What have you been doing?"
"It's not what I have been doing, but what I am about to do," said Miss Baird, resolutely. "Now, Nanny, if you want to save Ferdy from disgrace, from imprisonment, and perhaps from worse, you must hold your tongue about what I am going to tell you."
"I swear it on the Bible," whimpered Mrs. Rebson again. "Oh, my pretty boy--my sweet darling!" She began to cry in a senile manner.
Clarice knew that she could trust the old woman to be silent, as her affection for the unworthy Ferdy would have sealed her lips, even had she been threatened with the gallows to open them. If Clarice wanted to leave The Laurels secretly for her masquerade, and to return without her absence being known, it was absolutely necessary that she should trust the old woman. Therefore, she risked telling Mrs. Rebson all that she knew, and again impressed upon her, at the end of the confession, the absolute necessity--for Ferdy's sake--of silence.
Mrs. Rebson wept all the time and cried out at intervals, and exclaimed indignantly at Ferdy's enemies, and altogether conducted herself as a partisan of that shifty youth. "But I knew that the Domestic Prophet could not lie," cried Mrs. Rebson, "though I never thought he meant my precious lamb. Oh, Miss Clarice, what is to be done? They will hang and quarter my darling baby."
"No, no, Nanny. I can save him," said Clarice, soothingly.
"And you will--you will?"
"If you will consent to help me."
"I would go to the scaffold for my Ferdy, sweetheart," said Mrs. Rebson, fervently, whereupon Clarice explained how she meant to masquerade as her twin brother. Mrs. Rebson was startled, and expostulated in alarm. "Oh, my deary, it's a dreadful thing you would do. What would the world say?"
"The world will never know, Nanny. That is why I want you to help me. I am supposed to be ill with this cold, so I can be thought to be in this room nursing it. While I am away don't let anyone enter, but attend to me as if I were really ill in bed. Everyone will think that, I am indisposed."
"When will you be back?" asked Mrs. Rebson, shaking and nervous.
"To-morrow some time. I can stop at some hotel in town."
"Oh, Miss Clarice, a young lady without a chaperon."
"I won't be a young lady, but a young man," said Clarice, impatiently, and crossing the room to look into a Gladstone bag which she had packed with masculine belongings.
"A young gentleman, seeing that you are to be Master Ferdy," said Mrs. Rebson, with dignity. Then she began to beat her hands on her old knees. "Oh, dear, it is all very dreadful, and I don't know what your poor pa and ma would say. I don't think I should allow it."
Clarice forbore to tell Mrs. Rebson that she had no power to forbid, since she was not now a nursery autocrat. But she wanted to set the old woman entirely on her side so as to carry out her plans. "If you think it would be better to let Ferdy get into trouble----"
"No! no! oh, dear me, no, Miss Clarice! Anything but that. I'll say that you are ill in bed, and I shan't allow anyone into the room. But how will you get out of the house and away from the station without being recognised?"
"I can dress as Ferdy, and slip out of the drawing-room window," explained Clarice, quietly, and getting a pair of scissors; "as to the station, there will probably be a crowd there, and I can get unnoticed into a carriage. Besides, everyone will take me to be Ferdy."
"Not those who know you."
"Oh, yes, I think so. I can imitate Ferdy exactly. I shall have to, if I want to deceive Zara Dumps."
"The hussy" said Mrs. Rebson, vigorously; then, with a cracked scream, "Miss Clarice, what are you doing to your hair?"
"Cutting it off," said Clarice, snipping vigorously. "I can't expect to masquerade successfully with a woman's hair."
"Oh, Miss Clarry, Miss Clarry, your lovely hair," wept Mrs. Rebson, and but that Ferdy's life--as she thought--depended upon the assumption of Ferdy's personality, she would then and there have refused to join in, what seemed to her, to be a mad, fantastic scheme.
"What's the use of going on in this way?" asked Clarice, angrily. "Perhaps I am acting foolishly, but it's the only chance that I can see of saving Ferdy from his enemies. Come, Nanny, cut my hair, and trim it--not too short."
Mrs. Rebson, with the tears streaming down her wrinkled face, manipulated the scissors. "What will the captain say?"
"Nothing," retorted Clarice, "when I tell him my reason. Anthony has every confidence in me. I dare say he'll be shocked, but I can't help that. There "--she surveyed her cropped head in the glass, and was surprised to see how remarkably she resembled Ferdy--"no one will ever guess that I am not my brother."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Rebson, pointedly, "you may deceive a man, but you'll never get a woman to believe in you."
"I'll try, at all events," said Clarice, thinking of Zara. "Come, Nanny, help me to dress."
Mrs. Rebson was not of much use, and she wept most of the time, so Clarice set her to work to re-pack the Gladstone bag. In it was stowed a tweed suit, since Clarice was rapidly assuming a spare evening dress of Ferdy's. Also he had left behind him, luckily, a fur-lined coat, and Clarice had purchased in the High Street a silk hat, ostensibly for her brother, but really for her masquerade. Ferdy was very extravagant in the matter of clothes, and no doubt much of the squandered two thousand pounds had gone on his wardrobe, so that the girl was easily able to array herself in the evening purple and fine linen of a young man about town.
When she was dressed--when the fur coat was on, when the silk hat was worn, and when Clarice placed a cigarette in her mouth--even Mrs. Rebson was startled, and stared, open-mouthed, at the change. "Oh, deary, mercy me," cried Mrs. Rebson, raising her hands, "I really should take you for Master Ferdy, my dear."
"Rippin' old Nanny," said Clarice, with so exact an imitation of her brother's voice that Mrs. Rebson jumped.
"It's not right--it really ain't right," she blubbered. "You might be my darling boy from the looks of you and the voice of you."
"That's as it should be. Now, Nanny, kiss me, and wish me God speed."
"Never," said Mrs. Rebson, energetically, "when you're doing exactly what Moses said you shouldn't do, and wearing man's clothes."
"To save Ferdy, Nanny," murmured Clarice, and, gained the kiss and the blessing. Then, the servants being at their tea, she slipped down with the Gladstone bag in her hand, and went out by the French window of the drawing-room. Mrs. Rebson, at the bedroom window, saw her disappear up the lane.
"It might be Master Ferdy himself," said Mrs. Rebson, with a heavy heart, and prepared to carry out her part of the deception.
There was, as Clarice had anticipated, a crowd at the station, as it was market day in Crumel, and many sellers and buyers were leaving by the 6.30 train. Slipping unnoticed through the crowd, she obtained her ticket from a clerk too busy to glance up, and got into an empty first-class smoking carriage. She did not like the atmosphere, as her sense of smell was delicate, but it was necessary to keep up the deception of manliness, and, moreover, in a smoker she was not likely to meet with any local women friends, who might penetrate her disguise. Also Clarice smoked herself a little, having first done so out of bravado, because Anthony had laughed at her early attempt. She, therefore, lighted a cigarette, and tried to feel herself a man. What she did feel was undoubtedly a delightful sense of freedom, and regretted again, as she had often regretted before, that she had not been born with a beard. Nature had undoubtedly made a mistake in creating Clarice a woman. Perhaps owing to the similarity of the twin's looks, she had confused the souls, and had given to Clarice the body which was truly Ferdy's.
In due time the young gentleman--Clarice felt herself to be truly a young gentleman--arrived at Liverpool Street Station, and hailed a cab. She told the man to drive to a quiet West End hotel, where Ferdy sometimes stopped, when it was too late to return home to his quarters in Dr. Jerce's Harley Street house. Here Clarice was quite delighted with the result of her masquerade. Everyone, including the landlord, the barmaid, and the waiters, took her for Ferdy, and she was given the dinner table at which Ferdy usually sat. And from the smirk of the barmaid, who inquired if Mr. Baird would take a glass of sherry before dinner, Clarice gathered some information as to Ferdy's urban habits.
After Clarice had placed her bag in the bedroom--and only then did it occur to her that she could have assumed her evening dress in Town--she ordered a hansom, and drove to the Mascot Music Hall. It was a magnificent, palatial structure, decorated and painted and gilded like the Golden House of Nero. For the first time in her quiet life Clarice found herself in such a place, and was astonished at the blaze of light, the number of well-dressed people, the quantity of flowers, and the numerous aids to pleasure which she beheld on every hand. Also, she was surprised to see what a lot of liquor was drunk, and wondered if it was necessary to keep up her assumed character by ordering a whisky and soda. Although some acrobats were performing on the splendid stage, it was yet early, and the house was not yet quite full. Clarice was thus enabled to secure a very comfortable stall. As the evening grew later, the seats on all sides of her were gradually filled, but she found that the one next to her remained empty.
The performance was of the usual class, and showed little originality, although it was entirely new to the girl, who had lived most of her life in Crumel. Acrobats tumbled, thought-readers performed their wonders, musical Americans played various instruments, and interspersed their jangling with United States slang, delivered in nasal voices, and various crack comedians sang the comic songs of the day, which were--Clarice thought--but dreary productions. She enjoyed the performance, however, as it was all new to her, but wondered what Ferdy could find in the "turns" to come there night after night. Perhaps "The Birth of the Butterfly" would be more artistic and amusing, and it came on at nine o'clock. This was the especial moment for which Clarice had waited all the evening.
Immediately before the curtain rose on the sketch, a little overdressed woman came pushing along to the vacant seat beside Miss Baird. She turned to see who it was, and to her dismay recognised Mrs. Dumps. The little woman also recognised--as she thought--Clarice's brother, and exchanged greetings very affably.
"Though I'm not astonished to see you here, Mr. Ferdinand," said Mrs. Dumps, in her voluble way, "Zara says that you come nearly every night to see her sketch."
"Don't you come yourself, Mrs. Dumps?" said Clarice, carefully imitating her brother's voice, and rejoiced to see that even keen-eyed Mrs. Dumps did not know her.
"I don't," said Mrs. Dumps, screwing up her mouth. "I've been weeks in London, but this is the first time I've been to see Zara play, although she has begged me on her bended knees. But I was brought up a Churchwoman, and I don't hold with theatres, much less with ungodly music-halls. Zara would go on the stage, being always bent on having her own way, although I said I'd curse her if she did."
"And did you?" asked Clarice, quietly, perfectly certain that her disguise could not be penetrated.
"What would have been the good?" said Mrs. Dumps, crossly, "seeing that Zara is my own daughter, and my only one, and not Dumps' child either, though she took his name. My first husband was her father, Mr. Ferdinand, so when you marry her, you will have to take her as Sarah Twine, that being the poor man's name. Hush! here's the piece beginning. I do hope it's respectable. Zara said it was, else I should not have come. Oh, dear me," wailed Mrs. Dumps, in an under tone, "how dreadful it is to have my child and Twine's appearing on the wicked, wicked, bad, evil, shameless stage."
Clarice would have liked to question Mrs. Dumps further about the marriage, but that the curtain rose, and she had to pay attention to the sketch. The scene represented, very picturesquely, a garden of roses, and at the back was a Brobdignagian flower, upon which lay stretched out a gigantic green worm. This was probably the Chrysalis, which it had been Ferdy's ambition to act. While the music thrilled through the air, and the lights rapidly changed, the worm began to writhe and to execute acrobatic feats. It twisted and turned on the small space--comparatively speaking--of the flower, and finally crawled across the stage, wriggling grotesquely. Mrs. Dumps was annoyed.
"To think that a child of mine and Twine should make such an exhibition of herself," she said, indignantly.
"That is not Zara," whispered Clarice, smiling; "she appears as the Butterfly, you know."
"Then all I can say is that she ain't like the butterflies I've met with," said Mrs. Dumps, angrily, "me having chased them as a girl."
"Wait till Zara appears," was the reply of the charming, handsome young gentleman, whom the landlady of the Savoy Hotel took to be Mr. Ferdinand Baird, of The Laurels.
Mrs. Dumps sniffed aggressively, and sat very rigid, with the fullest intention of giving her daughter a good talking to for daring to lower the dignity of the Twine name. Meanwhile, the eyes of all were watching the pretty picture on the stage. A wind swept through the garden of flowers, and the blossoms withered under its blighting breath. In one moment the radiant Paradise of Roses took on a wintry aspect. Snow fell thickly, the trees shed their leaves, the sky turned dark, and the ungainly green chrysalis shivered and wriggled in a wonderful manner to the shrill blowing of flutes and trumpets in the orchestra. It was so realistic that the audience could almost--as one enthusiast declared--feel the cold.
Then came the mellow sound of flutes, and the delicate trilling of stringed instruments. The roses began to bloom again, the sky regained its brilliant blue, and the trees budded afresh, under the touch of sudden spring. The green worm writhed its way to the gigantic rose, and lay there exhausted and still, until the rising petals of the flower concealed it from sight. Then came a pause, and afterwards, with a triumphal burst of music, out of the closed rose sprang a light and airy figure, with glittering, glorious butterfly wings, scintillating and vast. Zara shot up to the flies like a rocket, and then swooped gracefully down to the front of the stage. Supported in her airy flights by invisible wires, she fluttered amongst the blossoms like an immense jewelled insect, coquetting and caressing and hovering marvellously on iridescent pinions. Over all played the ever-changing limelights, so that the girl floated lightly as thistle-down in the midst of a King-Opal of prismatic hues. Then she dropped lightly on to the stage, and began a dreamy, sensuous dance, which would have driven St. Anthony out of his senses. When the dance was at its height, and Zara whirled fast and furious in the radiant lights and colours, a dismal note sounded in the orchestra. The butterfly paused, and shivered, as a cold wind bent the flowers, and chilled them. Again the dance commenced, but this time it was slower. The music grew sadder, the many flowers began to fade once more, and finally the snow began to fall in feathery white flakes. Shortly the garden was again strewn in ruins, and the poor Butterfly, frozen and dying, sank weakly to the ground, while the snow piled a white mound over its short-lived beauty. When the dancer was completely buried, the curtain fell.
It rose again in answer to thunderous applause, and Zara appeared, leading by the hand her fellow-artiste, who had so wonderfully performed the Chrysalis. He had put aside his mask, and came to the front of the stage, where he could be plainly seen. Clarice looked at him indifferently, but when she glanced aside at Mrs. Dumps, she saw that the little woman's face was bloodless and pinched.
"Oh, Mr. Ferdinand," gasped Mrs. Dumps, clutching her companion's arm, "that's Osip--that's the murderer!"