In the noise of the applause which greeted Osip and Zara, the terrified whisper of Mrs. Dumps passed unnoticed. The girl naturally searched for her mother, and she smiled, on catching sight of her, next to the pretended Ferdy Baird. The eyes of Osip followed those of Zara, and alighted on the pallid face of the country landlady. At once he bowed abruptly to the audience, and walked hurriedly from the stage, leaving Butterfly, rather discourteously, to follow at her leisure. Clarice, who had immediately grasped the significance of Mrs. Dumps' whisper, half rose, and tried to shake off the detaining grasp of the little woman.
"He's trying to escape," said Clarice, excitedly, and, as the applause had now ceased, several people overheard and looked round, inquiringly.
"No!" murmured Mrs. Dumps, dragging the girl down, with unexpected strength, "hold your tongue, Mr. Ferdinand--for Zara's sake."
"Justice must be done," retorted Clarice, anxious to have the miscreant captured forthwith.
"For your own sake, then," muttered the woman, with white lips.
Clarice, truly surprised, dropped back into her seat. "What do you mean by that?" she demanded, indignantly.
"You know--you know," murmured the other, still holding on convulsively. "Zara said that she had power to make you marry her. If you make trouble over Osip, she may use that power in another way."
"What nonsense," returned Clarice, shrugging. All the same, she remained quiet, for the time being. From Mrs. Dumps' hurried speech, it was apparent that Zara really had some hold over Ferdy, and would not hesitate to use it to his harm, if anything came of his supposed interference with her shady doings. But Clarice wondered that Zara, bold and daring as she was, cared to connect herself with so dangerous a man as the assassin of so many people. Osip's association with her, and her accusation of the vicar, and her admitted presence near the house about the hour of the crime, looked as though she knew much more than she chose to tell. Also, her power over Ferdy might implicate him in some way in the infernal doings of the Purple Fern. Clarice, therefore, to save Ferdy from a possible accusation, resolved to take no measures to have Osip captured until such time as she knew more exactly how matters stood.
Shortly, Mrs. Dumps released her hold, and turned paler than ever. "Take me out; get me brandy--Three Star," whispered the little woman, who had undoubtedly received a great shock.
Clarice saw that she was on the verge of fainting, so at once piloted her along the row of seats to the nearest bar, and procured her a glass of liqueur brandy. The flighty barmaid--no doubt a friend of Ferdy's--saluted Clarice with an engaging smile and a slangy greeting, finally remarking that the old girl--meaning Mrs. Dumps--looked chippy. The insult to her years, as well as the strong liquor, brought back the colour to Mrs. Dumps' cheeks, and the stiffness to her back. Replacing the glass on the counter with a bang, she frowned on the saucy girl.
"You are a bold, painted hussy," snapped Mrs. Dumps, aggressively.
"The brandy's gone to your aunt's head, Ferdy," giggled the barmaid, in no wise disturbed; "take her home, dear boy, else she's bound to be run in, for looking so pretty."
"You brazen bag-a-rags," sniffed Mrs. Dumps, "you Jezebel of the slums, how dare you insult a lady, you horrid--" here Clarice, fearing that there would be trouble, since the barmaid was losing her temper, dragged Mrs. Dumps hurriedly away. "If you keep company with such bold sluts, Mr. Ferdinand," she said, indignantly, "you shan't marry my daughter."
"I'm not so sure that I do want to marry her," said Clarice, artfully.
Mrs. Dumps tossed her head. "Oh, I know, Mr. Ferdinand, none better. You changed your mind about Zara once before, and wanted to marry that ugly girl of Parson Clarke's. I'd have let you go myself, but Zara, who is fairly crazy about you,--I don't know why, as you ain't my idea of what a husband should be--found means to bring you back again, and keep them vows, you wanted so lightheartedly to break."
"Did Zara tell you the means she employed?" asked Clarice, quickly.
"No, she didn't, though I begged her to make a clean breast of it, so you needn't think that she has betrayed you, whatever you have done--though I'm sure I don't know if you are bad, smiling there, as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth."
This speech assured Clarice that, whatever power Zara possessed over Ferdy, certainly Mrs. Dumps did not know its source, and therefore she merely laughed. Then, to gain further information, Clarice carried the war into the enemy's camp. "It is very easy blaming me, Mrs. Dumps," she said, spiritedly, "but how can you expect me to marry a girl who associates with a man like Osip."
"There!" wailed Mrs. Dumps, as they went down the grand staircase of the Music Hall, "I thought you'd say that. As if I knew. Zara never said that Osip was with her. If she had I'd have made her come home again. You don't think that I want Twine's child and mine, murdered and stamped with Purple Ferns like a letter. But I'll have it out with her to-night. She'll tell me what she means, by keeping gory assassins from the gallows."
"You should tell the police."
"I shan't, and you shan't either, Mr. Ferdinand. Though why the police--a silly lot, I say--don't spot the man coming forward in that brazen way is more than I know. I saw who he was, the very moment I clapped eyes on him, and though I do owe him seven and sixpence, that's no reason I should disgrace Zara by hanging him. But I'll speak to Zara, when I take her home in that steam engine of hers, as is so expensive and useless. You needn't come, Mr. Ferdinand."
But Clarice did not intend to give up her chase for information yet, especially as she was now on the way to learn much. "Oh, but I must come, Mrs. Dumps," she said, coolly; "you know that I escort Zara home every night." This was a chance shot, but it told.
"I know you do, and why shouldn't you, seeing you are to be my son-in-law," whimpered Mrs. Dumps. "Much as I hate the music-hall, I'd have come myself during the past three weeks to take the child home, rather than let her go alone. But I always trusted that you would look after her, Mr. Ferdinand, though you do know grinning Jezebels behind bars. Here's the stage door--what a hole! Why, my backyard is cleaner, and ain't got such dirt about it. Oh, that a child of Twine should come to this, and him a godly man with a gift of speech surprising, though he did wag his elbow more than he need have done, and was brought to an early grave with a handsome tombstone in consequence."
While Mrs. Dumps ran on in this disconnected fashion, Clarice saw at the far end of the alley, which led to the stage door of the Mascot Music Hall, a smart motor-car in charge of a smart chauffeur. She was about to ask Mrs. Dumps if this was the steam-engine she referred to as belonging to Zara, when the stage door opened, and the girl herself came out, looking wonderfully pretty, and wonderfully angry. She mistook Clarice for her brother, as everyone else had done, and came up to him at once.
"Oh, there you are, Ferdy," she said, speaking as fast as her mother was in the habit of doing. "I am glad you have come. I'm in such a rage. I can't do my second turn to-night at the Muses Hall, as Brown has gone off."
"Brown! Who is Brown?"
"You know--you know," said Zara, pettishly. "He does the Chrysalis, and very badly, too. I've only had him for a few weeks, as a kind of makeshift. He's gone mad, I think, for he bolted immediately after the call, and in his stage kit too. I'll have to pay a forfeit to the Muses Hall manager, and I don't like doing that. It's bad for my pocket and for my reputation. But we can't stop talking here all night. Come on, mother"--she took Mrs. Dumps' arm--"were you very much shocked with my sketch?"
"I've had a shock," said Mrs. Dumps, as she was hurried down the alley, "that will last me till my dying day."
"Oh, bother," said Zara, apparently thinking that the Puritanic little woman referred to the sketch. "I wish you hadn't come now. I might have guessed that you would find fault. Now, how are we going, Ferdy?" They were standing beside the motor-brougham by this time.
"I get inside and Mr. Ferdinand can go with the driver," said Mrs. Dumps, determinedly. "I shan't chance the night air, after the turn I had, when you had to get the sal volatile for me, Zara. And I want to speak to you, miss. How dare you----"
"Here! Here! Don't talk, but get in," and Zara, dexterously pushing her parent into the brougham, slipped inside herself. "Get on the box with Hastings, Ferdy, and tell him to drive home."
Clarice found it rather a new and quaint experience to be in the company of a smart chauffeur, driving through the brilliantly lighted streets of the metropolis. To keep up her assumed character she lighted a cigarette, and really enjoyed the situation. Hastings seemed to be of a reticent turn of mind, as he only made a few short remarks about the running of the car, and carefully attended to his business. Clarice was glad, as she would not have known what to say, had the man been talkative. And she knew that Ferdy must have been in the habit of chattering to the chauffeur, from the remark Hastings made when the brougham stopped before a door in Saracen Square, where Zara dwelt.
"You're very quiet to-night, Mr. Baird," said the man, smiling. "I expect you'd rather have been inside the machine."
Clarice stared haughtily at the familiarity of this speech, and Hastings looked rather puzzled. Ferdy apparently was very free and easy with Zara's servants. But there was no time to consider the matter, for Zara stepped out of the brougham, and bustled her mother up the stairs in a hurry. Mrs. Dumps was in tears, and took no notice of the supposed Ferdy. A waiting maid-servant took Clarice's coat, and ushered her into a tiny drawing-room, where the irritated girl found several portraits of Ferdy, smiling and debonair.
"She must love him," thought the outraged sister, and glanced in the mirror over the fireplace to see how her disguise looked. In this dimly-lighted room, where the red-shaded lamps gave out rosy hues, Clarice thought that Zara would never find her out. She looked exactly like Ferdy, and had imposed successfully on the barmaid, on Mrs. Dumps, and on the chauffeur, so she had little fear of carrying her adventure to a successful conclusion.
Shortly Zara entered in a maize-coloured tea-gown, but no longer in a bad temper. Indeed, from the pallor of her face, she seemed to have received a shock. Clarice immediately guessed that Mrs. Dumps had been conversing about Osip in the brougham. It seemed to her that Zara, after all, might not have known the truth about the man.
"Open a bottle of fizz, Ferdy," said Zara, throwing herself on a sofa, "and give me some. I shan't eat any supper. You can if you like. I ought to open these, I suppose," she glanced at some letters lying on a small bamboo table near at hand, "but I can't be bothered. Give me the fizz quick, Ferdy, or I'll faint."
Clarice had, rather awkwardly, opened a pint bottle of champagne, and handed Zara a glass. "Are you tired?" she asked, with pretended sympathy, and anxious to make the girl talk.
Zara drank off the wine before replying, and nodded. "I'm tired and worried," she said, handing back the glass; "come and sit down beside me, Ferdy. We must have a talk."
"Your mother--"
"Oh, bother my mother. She has gone to bed, and intends to return to Crumel to-morrow. I suppose she thinks I'm a bad lot. I wish I had not asked her to come up now. And I'm especially sorry that I asked her to come to the Hall to-night. No, Eliza," this to the servant, who entered with a hot dish, "we don't want any supper to-night. Go away and close the door. Oh, dear me," she sprang up when the maid departed and ruffled her red hair, while looking into the mirror, "I wish you'd marry me to-morrow, Ferdy, and take me to Paris. I could get an engagement there, and we could be happy."
"But my sister?" Clarice ventured to say, boldly.
"Oh, the deuce take your sister. I can't stand her. She looks upon me as though I were dirt. You're always quoting your sister to me. I detest her myself, and if you marry me I'll expect you to do the same. Why should she look down on me? I'm not born a lady, I know, and I am not such a fool as to make up a history, especially when you know all about me. But I'm an honest woman and a clever one. Would your sister have worked as I have done? Would she have made a name for herself, as I have made? Would she be able to earn money--and in a perfectly respectable way, mind you--to keep on this flat, and a motor-brougham? Pshaw! Talk to me of something else than about that mincing, useless sister of yours."
Clarice felt annoyed at her character being thus traduced, as she knew that she was not useless, and neither did she mince. But she certainly admitted that she did not approve of Zara Dumps, notwithstanding the catalogue of qualifications for admiration that the dancer had set forth. Zara, slim and dainty, with her graceful figure and pretty face, looked so wonderfully fascinating, as she spoke, that had Clarice really been Ferdy, it is probable she would have taken this beauty into her arms. But Clarice happened to be herself, therefore she looked disdainfully at Zara's airs and graces, and brought round the conversation to more important matters.
"You are cross to-night, Zara."
"And you are a bear, holding me at arms' length. I never saw you so cold before; one would think I'd lost my good looks"--she glanced into the mirror and laughed--"no, those are all right. Cross? I am cross. Mother has been bothering me in the brougham."
"About Osip?" Zara made a dart at Clarice, and clutched her arm. "You know?"
"I know that the man who played the part of the Chrysalis--if it may be called a part--is Alfred Osip, for whom the police are looking. Your mother recognised him, when he took his mask off."
"I know," muttered Zara, moodily, "and he recognised her. That is why he bolted in such a hurry. I expect he thought the police would arrest him on mother's information before he could get away. I won't see him again, I suppose."
"Do you want to?"
"No, hang it, I don't," she snapped, and flung herself petulantly into a chair near the bamboo table, whereon the letters were lying. "It gives me the shivers to think that I have been acting with such a wicked devil."
"Then you did not know--"
"Know?" echoed Zara, savagely and glaring, "know--of course I didn't know. The man came to me a few weeks ago--after the murder now, I remember--and called himself Brown. I was in a hole, as the man who did the Chrysalis business had left in a hurry--drink, you know. I told you all about that."
"Yes," admitted Clarice, with an air of recollection, "but you didn't say that Osip had taken on the part."
"How the dickens could I when I didn't know the man? He called himself Brown, and seemed quiet and right enough, though he wasn't much of an acrobat. But he filled in the gap for the time being. I never intended to keep him long. I'll have to get another man to-morrow."
"Didn't you recognise him from the police description?"
"No. Plenty of men are tall and thin, and Brown didn't wear grey clothes when he came to me."
"But the criss-cross scar on the left cheek--"
"He hadn't got one. His face was disfigured on both cheeks--in fact, it was scarred all over, and he told me that a jealous woman had thrown vitrol at him. I guess he did it himself to obliterate that scar. Clever of him to come to me," added Zara, musingly, "and to dare to appear before dozens of people--I mean hundreds. Of course, he knew that his safety lay in such boldness. The police would hunt the slums and the shipping ports and country, towns, and what not. But who would expect to find a man described in the papers and wanted for eight murders in a music-hall acrobat? I call Brown, or rather Osip, confoundedly clever," and the dancer took another glass of wine; "here's to his health."
"Oh, Zara--"
"And oh, Zara," she mimicked. "You're a soft one, Ferdy. I admire cleverness wherever I find it, even in a murderer. All the same, I don't want to have anything to do with such a criminal. Ugh!" she shuddered, "I might have had the Purple Fern on my forehead also. Brown has been visiting me here on business, and I've been alone with him several times."
"Alone with him?" said Clarice, pretending to jealousy. "Nice for me." Zara stared, and then laughed, as she began to lazily open the letters. "Don't pretend to be angry, Ferdy. You're not fond enough of me for that."
"Not fond, when I am engaged to marry you?"
"Pooh! That's compulsory. You'd be off after that Prudence creature if I'd let you. But I won't; you can make yourself easy on that score." She ran her eyes over the letter she was reading. "I like you well enough, and you are easy to manage. In my business, to be entirely respectable, I must have a husband, so you'll do as well as any one else. Also there is always the two thousand a year. I dare say I could get someone richer, but you'll do--you'll do."
"I'll do," said Clarice, calmly, "thank you," as Zara opened another letter. "What's the matter?" for the dancer suddenly started.
Zara sent so swift and keen a glance in her direction that Clarice fancied that her disguise had been penetrated. But the fear was groundless, for Zara again laughed. "I'm amused at the side you are putting on," she said, calmly, and replacing the letter in its envelope. "You asked me to let you go, and when I refused you cut up rough. Now you are trying to make me think that you love me."
"You are certainly very pretty," said Clarice, wondering what to say to this bold, frank creature, who concealed her feelings so little.
"You thought so once," said Zara, rising and coming to the sofa. "I am pretty still, only you have no eyes to see. Look"--she twitched the large red silk shade from the lamp, and the blaze of white light shone brilliantly upon her beauty--"am I not prettier than that black-browed minx, Prudence Clarke?"
"Don't say a word against Prudence."
"I'll say twenty if I choose," said Zara, throwing herself on the sofa beside Clarice, and taking her hand. "Don't get me into a rage, dear boy. You loved me once, and so deeply that you said my name was written on your heart. It certainly was tattooed on your right arm, just above the wrist"--she rapidly drew up Clarice's shirt-cuff before the girl could stop her. "I see the name isn't there now," said Zara, jeeringly. "You have obliterated it from your arm, as you have driven it from your heart, my dear."
Clarice was startled by this development. "You don't understand," she stammered.
"Oh, yes, I do--Miss Clarice Baird," cried Zara, rising. "I understand that Ferdy is at Gattlinsands, and that you--are--here!"
In that little room, with its vivid colouring and heavy scented atmosphere, the two women faced each other, bent upon battle. At the outset, the advantage lay with Zara, seeing how she had penetrated the disguise of the devoted sister. For one moment the dancer eyed the pale and startled face of her visitor, and then crossed to a bronze tripod of classic shape and beauty, wherein smouldered a pastille. While lighting another one, she threw a careless glance over her shoulder.
"Well," she said, quietly, "have you nothing to say?"
Clarice, now on her feet, looked at the gaudy comfort of the tiny room, at the Oriental draperies and ornaments, at the Persian praying mats, at herself in the glass, tall, slim, and boyish, in her masculine attire, and then her gaze came back to the graceful woman in the maize-hued tea-gown. Zara met her gaze with insolence, and a smile curved the red beauty of her full lips. "Have you nothing to say?" she repeated, and the question sounded like a challenge.
"A great deal," retorted Clarice, nerving herself for the battle; "in spite of this dress I am a woman, and therefore can use my tongue."
"You will have to use your brains also," said Zara, with a shrug, "if you wish to conquer me."
"How do you know that I wish to conquer you?"
"You would not be here else. I can guess why you have come; to save Ferdy from becoming what you no doubt call--my prey, Bah! As if Ferdy was worth it."
"He must be worth something," said Clarice, dryly, "or you would not wish to marry him."
"Oh, I explained that," retorted Zara, lightly, and dusting one hand with the other. "I explained, if you remember, when I still took you to be Ferdy himself. I am always frank with the boy, and he knows, as you do now, Miss Baird, that I only wish to marry him for--shall we say professional purposes? I like him--oh, yes. He is handsome and very charming, when he chooses. Also he is sure of a certain income, even though it is a small one, and not available for two years. I can manage Ferdy, and that is necessary when a woman wants her own way on all occasions, as I do. I might do worse than marry your brother, don't you think so?"
"Certainly I do," answered Clarice, now quite composed, and resuming her seat; "only you shall not marry Ferdy, and use him as a cat's-paw for your respectability."
"Be polite, if you please," said the dancer, frowning; "I am polite to you, and desire the return compliment. My respectability is like that of Cæsar's wife--above suspicion. You see," with a gay laugh, "that in spite of my trifling education, I have some classical knowledge. Come, let us talk. You have much to say, and so have I. Will you have a cigarette? No. And in spite of smoking when you came into this room? Oh, I see. There is no need to keep up your manly pose. You look very well. Even handsomer than Ferdy, though I really was taken in, as my mother was. Dear me." Zara lighted a cigarette, and lay back in a deep armchair, puffing smoke, with her hands clasped behind her head. "What will she say when she hears that Miss Clarice Baird has been masquerading here, as her brother."
"She will say nothing," answered Clarice, coolly, "for the very simple reason that she will never know."
"Oh, yes. She will know from me, and all the inhabitants of Crumel will know from her. My mother is an excellent town crier."
"You carry it off very well," said Clarice, dryly; "but I am not quite so weak as Ferdy, remember."
"I grant that. I respect you more than I do him. He would never have ventured upon such a bold step as you have taken. I should like to know exactly why you ventured."
"You explained yourself a few minutes ago. I want to save Ferdy."
"My dear, he isn't worth it--he isn't worth more than that"--and Zara flicked the grey ash off her cigarette. "Will you have some fizz? No! A cigarette, then? No! Really," with a shrug, "you are not much of a man, my dear. I beg pardon for the familiarity; in that dress you look so like Ferdy that I make mistakes."
"On purpose. You are a clever woman, Miss Dumps."
"I am, but not that name, please. Twine is my name, and Ferdy will marry me as Sarah Twine. I prefer to be called Zara, or Butterfly, myself. The other name is so plebeian; but then, I am a very common person."
"And a very clever one," said Clarice again, glancing at the gimcrack French clock on the draped mantelpiece; "but we are losing time, and I have to get back to my hotel. How did you recognise me?"
"Ah!" Zara clapped her hands. "Was not that smart of me? You will say yes. But you are wrong. It was chance--the chance upon which you did not reckon. It was ingenious of you to send Ferdy to Gattlinsands to get him out of the way, but it did not occur to you that Ferdy might write." She picked up an envelope from the table and threw it across to Clarice. "Here. It has just arrived."
Clarice threw the letter back. "There is no need. I recognise Ferdy's writing on the envelope. I don't wish to know how he writes to you."
"In a perfectly proper way, I assure you," said Zara, coolly; "I don't allow that child to be too familiar--it breeds contempt, you know. I have had too much of that sort of thing before I became famous, so I don't want another dose."
"So you knew that I was not Ferdy," said Clarice, slowly.
"Not at first; not until, by chance, I opened that envelope. I started, as you saw, and then came across to look at your arm. As the name--my name, Zara--was not tattooed there, I guessed at once that you were not Ferdy, and that you could be none other than Miss Baird, the double of my dear sweet boy."
"Spare me the adjectives," said Clarice, coldly.
"I'm sparing you a great deal, I think," said Zara, viciously; "by what right do you thrust yourself into my affairs?"
"By the right of a sister's love."
"Bah! I don't believe that there is such a thing. Certainly, so far as Ferdy is concerned, there isn't brotherly love on his part. He would sell you for a five-pound note."
Clarice felt a pang, for she knew how truly the dancer spoke. "I agree with you there," she replied, sadly.
"My dear, he isn't worth it," said Zara, in a softer tone. "Well?"
"Well?" Clarice looked up.
"Speak away," said Zara, impatiently; "I'm all attention. What do you want to ask me?"
"Ah, now we are coming to business."
"About time," interpolated the other woman.
"Oh, I shall dispose of my business very shortly," said Clarice, sharply; "You want to marry Ferdy. To gain your ends, you told Prudence Clarke a lie about her father."
Zara was quite unmoved, and blew smoke through her delicate nostrils. "Prudence has told you, then?"
"Yes. You forced her to send away Ferdy, to save her father."
"I did. I want Ferdy to myself, and I have no particular reason to desire the hanging of Mr. Clarke."
"You couldn't hang him if you tried," retorted Clarice, angrily.
"Oh, yes, I could. Suppose--for the sake of argument--that I went to Inspector Tick, of Crumel, with my story of what I saw."
"You saw nothing."
Zara cast a surprised look at Clarice. "Well, I suppose it is to your interest to decline to believe. Nevertheless, what I told Prudence is true for all that."
"Did you really see Mr. Clarke leave The Laurels at two in the morning?"
Zara threw away her cigarette, and rose quietly.
"I really did," she said, in her most decisive tone. "My mother was ill, and I went out for sal volatile. It was a mere chance, of course, that I should be out on that night of all nights. On any other night--at any other time, even--I should have seen nothing. But the Cosmic Powers, for their own ends, and for my benefit, I presume, brought me abreast of The Laurels, when Mr. Clarke was skipping out of the window."
Clarice was greatly startled. "Do you really believe that Mr. Clarke killed my guardian?"
Zara looked at her swiftly. "Oh, I am not prepared to say that; and I beg to remind you that I am not in the witness-box."
"Which means that you cannot swear to the truth of your story."
"Yes, I can; but I can't swear that Mr. Clarke is the murderer. It certainly looks as though he were guilty, but----" Zara paused.
"But you credit Osip with the crime?"
"The jury did--the police do--the papers do--public opinion does. I can't lay claim to be more clever than others."
Clarice looked at her keenly. "Yes, you can, and you do. I believe your story of Mr. Clarke coming out of the room. But as to his guilt----"
"Pardon me. I say nothing about that," interrupted Zara; "but if Prudence sent Ferdy away at my bidding, it shows that she believes her father to be guilty."
Clarice was too clever to relate the other evidence upon which Prudence believed her father to be guilty. "You certainly coerced that poor girl into thinking that there was danger to her father, should the story of his midnight visit become known."
"It never will," replied Zara, carelessly. "Prudence has given up Ferdy, and I am going to marry Ferdy. There's no more to be said."
"There is this--that Ferdy shall not marry you." Zara rose and put her hands behind her back. "He shall."
Clarice rose and faced her. "He shall not"; and for at least one minute the two women faced one another defiantly. "What can you do?" inquired Zara, at length, and annoyed because she could not sustain the gaze of her visitor.
"I can go to the police, and say that you employed Osip."
"Not knowing that he was Osip," retorted the dancer, her breath coming quick and sharp. "If I had known, I should have handed him over to the authorities."
"Indeed, and what would become of your accusation of Mr. Clarke?"
"I don't accuse Mr. Clarke. He's a bore--at least, he was when I attended his rotten old Sunday School--but I don't say that he is a murderer. However, you can tell the police about Osip, and I'll tell them about Clarke. Then we shall see."
"Very good." Clarice moved towards the door. "There's no more to be said. Good-night."
Zara stood for one moment with clenched hands and a frown on her pretty, babyish face, which could look so strong at times, and which deceived men into thinking her a mere toy-woman. She had not expected Clarice to take her at her word, and thus had lost a move in the game. In spite of her bravado, she had no desire that the Crumel police, or the London detectives, should know about Osip. It would be a good advertisement in one way, and yet, in another, it might do her harm with the managers. She had really been ignorant that the survivor of the famous Purple Fern Triumvirate was acting with her. But who would believe in her innocence, did the fact become public property? With a swift movement she placed herself between Clarice and the door.
"No. I take back what I said. You must not tell the police about Osip--it would do me harm."
"Very good. I'll hold my tongue, if you will be silent about my masquerade in this dress."
"Ah, you are afraid," sneered Zara.
"In a way, yes--for my promised husband, since he would not like any one to know of my adventure. For myself, I am not afraid, as I have done nothing wrong."
"You are stronger than Ferdy," said the dancer, suddenly.
"I should hope so," replied Clarice, contemptuously; "Ferdy is a reed--a piece of putty. I wonder that a clever woman, such as you are, wants to marry so weak a man."
"It is because he is weak that I wish him to become my husband," said Zara, quickly. "I wish to marry, so as to have a protector in my public life, as I am sick of all these fops who come round me. But I do not wish to wed a fireside tyrant, and so--" she stretched out her arms in a French fashion and with a careless shrug. "I will hold my tongue," she went on, "not even my mother will ever know that you are really Clarice Baird. As to Osip--what will you do?"
"I shall say nothing at present," replied Clarice, after a moment's thought, "but you must be aware that it will not do to allow such a man to live. He will only commit more murders."
"I suppose so. What a devil the man is. Yet, you know, as Brown he really was rather nice. Ugh!" Zara shivered again. "I am not a silly fainting woman, but it turns me cold to think how often I have been in his company. He might have killed me."
Clarice took a cigarette out of the silver box and lighted up. "I must be going now," she said, quietly, "and so I have to keep up my pretence of being a man. But one last word. We understand one another."
"Yes," said Zara, promptly. "I keep silent about Clarke, and you about Osip. Of course, also, I marry Ferdy."
"No," said Clarice, determinedly. "I won't leave this house until I have your promise to give up Ferdy."
"To Prudence Clarke?" sneered the dancer. "She won't have him."
"Yes, she will. She loves Ferdy and Ferdy loves her."
"If the weak affection of Ferdy can be called love," said Zara, derisively. "But Prudence won't marry him, so long as she believes that her father is guilty."
"But he is not."
"I don't say that."
"Then he is," said Clarice, daring her. "I don't say that, either."
"Then what do you say?"
"I say that we had better leave things as they are, and that you will please me by coming to my wedding with Ferdy."
"You must give my brother up."
"You've said that so often, Miss Baird. But saying it won't make me change my mind. Besides, as I said before, Ferdy isn't worth it. He's an ass--and worse."
"Worse? What do you mean?"
Zara looked into the other woman's eyes. "Come to the door," she said, taking Clarice by the arm. When in the hall, she helped the girl on with her fur coat, gave her the silk hat, and placed the silver-knobbed cane in her hand. Then she led her to the door of the flat. All this Clarice suffered in silence, wondering what was coming. "Good-night," said Zara, when Clarice was on the mat.
"But what do you say about Ferdy?" asked Clarice, quickly.
"I see I must tell you all," sighed the dancer. "No, I'll let you find out for yourself." She bent her head and whispered. "Search Ferdy's bedroom at The Laurels."
"But," began Clarice, impatiently, only to find herself talking to the panels of the door. Zara had shut it abruptly, and left the disguised girl standing irresolutely on the mat. Clarice hesitated, and wondered if it would not be better to insist upon the door being opened again. But on second thoughts she went down the stairs, and drove back to her hotel. The long evening and the battle with Zara had worn out her strong nerves. Clarice passed a wakeful night. She wondered what Zara meant when she had told her to search Ferdy's bedroom. It could not be possible that Ferdy had anything to do with the crime, as he had been locked in on that night. Also, if Zara knew that Ferdy was guilty, she certainly would not marry him. There seemed to be no answer to the questions suggested by Zara's last remark. Clarice, therefore, tried to sleep, resolving to return to Crumel the next day and search the bedroom, as Zara had told her. She trembled to think what she might discover.
Next morning the false Mr. Ferdinand Baird ate his breakfast, paid his bill, and drove to Liverpool Street Station to catch the ten o'clock train. In the tweed suit Clarice looked wonderfully handsome and distinguished, and as she adopted a manly air, no one had any suspicion that the good-looking young man was really a beautiful woman. She managed to get a first-class to herself, and thus escaped any chance of recognition. But on the Crumel platform she was greeted as Mr. Baird, and acknowledged the greetings calmly. On reaching the house, she found the French window open, and no servants about. In a few minutes she was safe in her own bedroom, and was dressing herself again in her woman's garb. Mrs. Rebson appeared.
"It's all right, deary. No one thinks but what you're ill. How did you get along?"
"Very well, Nanny. I'll tell you all later. Don't let any of the servants come upstairs for at least an hour."
"What do you wish to do?"
"I'll tell you later. Leave me alone for the present."
"Just one word, Miss Clarice," implored the nurse; "Master Ferdy. Is he quite safe now?"
"Yes," said Clarice, lying to save pain to that faithful old heart; "I think Ferdy is safe, Nanny. Now go."
Mrs. Rebson, quite satisfied, departed, and kept the servants downstairs, according to her instructions. Clarice went at once to Ferdy's room, and began to search. For twenty minutes she was unsuccessful, as she came across nothing suspicious. It was a difficult search, as she did not know what to look for. But she judged that it might be a letter or a blood-stained shirt, or something likely to implicate her brother in the crime. Several times she stopped turning out drawers and examining the wardrobe to laugh at the folly which possessed her to believe in Zara's lies. But some feeling that there might be truth in the dancer's hint made her search on. And yet Clarice could not believe that Ferdy, whom she had locked in this very room, had anything to do with so awful a crime. Let alone the fact that Ferdy, although foolish, was not wicked.
But the end came at last, and she found what she sought--and what she sought was evidence implicating Ferdy. In a small drawer, wrapped up carefully in an old silk tie, the girl found a small india-rubber stamp. With a wildly beating heart, she dipped this in water to moisten it, and pressed hard on a scrap of shaving paper. She removed the stamp, and found on the paper a faint impression of the Purple Fern.
Mrs. Rebson, being a woman, and fond of gossip, had her fair share of curiosity. Also she was anxious to hear what Clarice had been doing in London, and to know exactly how she had saved Ferdy, although Mrs. Rebson had a very vague idea of what Ferdy was to be saved from. That her darling had anything to do with the crime never entered her foolish old head. However, her impatience would not permit her to stay downstairs longer than an hour, so she went back to the room of her young mistress as soon as she could.
Clarice was not within, and Mrs. Rebson was puzzled. She hunted through the other rooms on the same floor, and at length came to Ferdy's apartment. Here she found the room in disorder, and Clarice lying on the carpet in a dead faint. Considerably alarmed, Mrs. Rebson got water and vinegar and sal volatile, and all such-like aids to insensible people. Shortly Clarice revived and sat up with a dazed look. But as soon as a memory of what she had found came back to her with a rush, she struggled to her feet, and crushed up the scrap of shaving-paper upon which she had impressed the fern. The stamp itself she had held closely in her left hand all the time she was insensible, so she did not think that her dim-eyed old nurse had seen anything. More than that, Mrs. Rebson ascribed to the London trip this unexampled behaviour on the part of the girl. Never before had strong-minded Clarice Baird lost her senses.
"Come and lie down, deary," coaxed Mrs. Rebson, leading the girl back to her own room; "you're fairly worn out with gadding about that nasty London. I'll bring you up some tea."
"Do, Nanny," said Clarice, faintly, and when the nurse left the room, she lay passively upon her bed.
What she felt at the moment no one knew, and no one could ever know. The stamp of the Purple Fern was inseparably connected with the many murders, and that it should be in Ferdy's bedroom, hidden away so carefully, seemed terrible and inexplicable. Ferdy could not have murdered his guardian, since he had been locked up in his room, and yet the stamp which had been used to impress the fatal mark on the forehead of the dead was in Ferdy's possession. Of course, Osip, who was really the murderer, might have had another stamp. Certainly he must have had another stamp, and no doubt each member of the triumvirate possessed a similar article. Ferdy was guiltless, and Osip had done the deed. And yet, how came it that Ferdy had this particular stamp in his possession? Clarice could have shrieked with fear and horror, and had to roll over on her pillow to prevent herself from crying out. And then another agonised thought came into her tormented mind.
Zara had told her to search Ferdy's room, therefore Zara must have known that the stamp was hidden away there. And if Zara knew, it was in her power to hang the poor boy. Poor boy--could even his own sister speak of him in that way, when he was connected with a callous, cruel crime? He had not stabbed Horran with the assegai, since he had been locked in his room, but he must have impressed the Purple Fern on the dead man's forehead. Unless Osip--oh, yes, Osip must have done it, not Ferdy--not Ferdy--not Ferdy. And so the girl's distracted brain buzzed and droned with the hideous repetition of one word, "Guilt! Guilt! Guilt!"
"I shall go mad," moaned Clarice. "What am I to do? I dare not tell Anthony. I dare not marry him. What is to be done--oh, great heavens, what is to be done?" Then it came into her mind that Zara had stated how Clarke had paid his midnight visit to the death-chamber, and at two o'clock. That was the time--according to the medical evidence--when the deed had been committed. Between one and two o'clock in the morning, Dr. Jerce had said at the inquest. And Clarke was there. If he was innocent himself, he might know who was guilty. He could not have seen Ferdy, who was bolted and barred in his bedroom; but he might have seen Osip kill Horran and impress that infernal seal of evil on the dead. Yes! She would see Clarke--she must see Clarke. There was no need for her to say what she had discovered. She would merely let Clarke speak. She would tax him with his visit, and to exonerate himself--if he was guiltless--he would certainly detail all that happened. If he mentioned Ferdy's name--but then he would not do that--he could not--he dare not. Ferdy could prove an alibi. His sister could prove an alibi for him. Whomsoever killed Horran, her brother was, at least, innocent. And yet the stamp--the stamp of the Purple Fern. How could she explain that away?
"My! Miss Clarice, you do look bad," said Mrs. Rebson, entering with a dainty meal of tea and toast. "That nasty London. Here, drink the tea. You'll feel better soon, deary. And after all, you have saved Master Ferdy, haven't you, my deary little maid?"
Clarice winced and lied bravely. "Yes," she said, faintly; "I have saved Ferdy. You need have no fear, Nanny. Leave me for ten minutes."
Rather reluctantly the old woman departed, and Clarice forced herself to drink a cup of tea and to eat a morsel of toast. She would have to be strong, if Ferdy was to be saved. Zara knew the truth about the boy, and might tell the police. There was no one to save Ferdy, poor, weak, foolish creature, but his sister, and his sister would save him in the face of all obstacles. Clarice, therefore, fought with herself; she struggled desperately with her woman's weakness; she braced herself with prayer, and finally triumphed over the flesh by the strength of her spirit. When Mrs. Rebson stole back to the bedroom, she was amazed to see how rapidly her young mistress had recovered her presence of mind. She had left a pale-faced, tearful girl; she found a calm, self-contained woman.
"It's wonderful what tea and toast will do," Mrs. Rebson, with great complacency.
"Nanny," observed Clarice, who had now determined what to do; "send to Mr. Clarke, and tell him to see me this afternoon."
"You are not well enough, deary."
"I am. I must see him."
"But your hair, deary."
"What's the matter with--oh, yes." Clarice mechanically put her hand to her head. "It is rather awkward. But it is not too closely cropped, Nanny. Get out the hair I cut off, and we'll weave it into what I have left on my scalp."
Mrs. Rebson laughed at what she conceived was a joke, and between them they contrived, very skilfully, to fasten on the shorn tresses. As Ferdy usually wore his hair in a musician-like way, Clarice had imitated the cut, so it was not difficult to replace the severed locks in the style in which she generally wore them. Also, since she wished to still play the part of invalid, she made Mrs. Rebson draw down the blinds and light the fire. Then, swathed in blankets and shawls, Clarice sat ready for the visit of the parson. She had failed to deceive Sir Daniel Jerce, but Mr. Clarke, being less clever and observant, and not a doctor, she felt certain that she would manage to trick him. Having thus arranged her stage, the anxious girl waited for the vicar.
Mr. Clarke appeared almost on the heels of the messenger, and looked more wild and wan than ever. With a weary air he shook hands with Miss Baird, and expressed his regret that she was suffering from influenza. Then he sat down opposite to her and stared into the fire with lack-lustre eyes. Clarice had to break the ice. "Mr. Clarke," she said, hesitating, for it was not easy to begin; "I wish to speak to you about a very important matter----"
"I am quite at your service, Clarice."
"And one which touches your reputation," said the girl.
Mr. Clarke started and became paler than ever, as he cast a keen, wild look at the speaker. "I--I--I--don't understand," he stuttered.
"Carry your thoughts back to the night when Uncle Henry was murdered," said Clarice, significantly, "and you will understand."
The vicar considered for a few moments, and then shook his head. "No, I don't know what you mean. I thought--I thought," he moistened his dry lips, "I thought that you were going to speak of Frank. And I won't have his name mentioned," he ended, violently.
"I did not intend to speak of Frank," said Clarice, wondering why the memory of his dead son should so agitate him; "but of your visit to Uncle Henry's room on that night."
"My visit," stammered the old man. "Your midnight visit."
"Who said that I----"
"Oh, there is no need for me to give names," interrupted Clarice, in sharp tones, "but someone saw you leaving the bedroom at two in the morning. What were you doing there at that time?"
"Oh, yes, I remember." Mr. Clarke spoke in a dreamy way. "I should have spoken to the police about that. But Frank's wickedness put it quite out of my head. And then, of course, it looked awkward for me."
Clarice was almost too astonished to speak. That he should take the revelation so calmly perplexed her greatly. "How do you mean, that it looked awkward for you?" she asked, after an embarrassing pause.
"Going to see poor Horran at that hour," said Mr. Clarke, innocently; "and then seeing his dead body."
Clarice rose unsteadily. Was the man mad to admit what he had seen? She could not make any remark, but stared at him, tongue-tied. The vicar still continued dreamy and absent-minded. "And then I owed poor Horran one thousand pounds with interest," he went on, slowly; "some people might have said that I had murdered him."
"Then you--you--you are--innocent," gasped Miss Baird.
Clarke looked up sharply, struck by the speech and the significance of her tones. "Innocent," he said, in a clear and vigorous voice, "I am innocent, of course. You never thought that I was guilty?"
"Well, the person who saw you----"
"Who was it?" asked Clarke, quickly.
"I decline to mention names."
"No matter! no matter! But I am surprised that you should believe me guilty of a wicked deed, Clarice. You have known me for years, yet it now seems that you do not know me at all."
"If you will explain----"
"Yes. I'll explain at once. I should have explained before--and to the police. But Frank's wickedness--Frank's death--oh!" he clasped his hands together in an agony of sorrow; "was ever a man tried so hardly as I have been? Hush! Say nothing. Sit down. Let me collect my thoughts, and I'll tell you everything--that is, about my visit to poor Horran on that night. Nothing else need be talked about; my own affairs are--my own affairs."
Unable to remain seated, he rose, and walked up and down the room trying to compose himself. Clarice, wondering what he was about to say, resumed her seat and watched him in silence. After a time, Mr. Clarke recovered his self-control, and, still walking, he told her all that she wanted to know.
"I saw Horran one afternoon," he explained. "You remember what I said at the inquest. I noticed that the bedroom window was open, so I slipped in, anxious to gain time from Horran to pay the interest. I did not wish to be sold up, you know, so I told him everything, and he was very angry."
"With you?" questioned Clarice.
"Not with me; certainly not with me. Barras was in fault. He had told Barras to lend me the thousand pounds for as long as I required them. There was no question of interest, and when I mentioned the ten per cent., Horran declared that he knew nothing about that, and should have been told before, that such an interest had been charged. He had never intended that I should be hampered in that way. The loan was to be from a friend to a friend. It is strange," mused Clarke, "that in three years and more, Barras should never have mentioned to Horran that he had charged interest."
"He evidently charged the interest secretly," said Clarice, after a thoughtful pause, "and, naturally, would say nothing about it. And then you saw Uncle Henry frequently during those three years. Why did you not mention it yourself?"
"Horran never, during our earlier interviews, touched on the subject of the loan, and the matter was never discussed. It was only of late, when I found that I could not pay the interest, that I wished to speak of my difficulties, and then Jerce would not allow me to see my old friend."
"He was quite right," said Clarice, reproachfully, "seeing how ill Uncle Henry was, and you did upset him, you know."
"Barras upset him," expostulated the vicar. "He was angry with Barras, not with me, and declared that I should have spoken before. He also said that Jerce had no right to prevent my seeing him, and that there was no need for me to go to the front door. When I wished to see him, he said, I could enter by the French window, which was generally open."
"Yes, it was," said Miss Baird, thinking of the difference of opinion which existed between the two doctors; "but why did you choose so late an hour to enter by that way?"
Clarke hesitated and looked down. "I was much disturbed on the night of the crime. I had received bad news. Unable to sleep, I walked in my garden."
"On that bitterly cold night?"
"Oh, the thaw had come by that time, you know. I left my garden and walked about the town. I had no idea of going to see Horran, for at that time I knew that he would be asleep. However, I walked back to the vicarage up the lane, and saw a light in the bedroom and the window open."
"You are certain that it was open?" asked Clarice.
"I entered by it, as I thought I would see if Horran was asleep or awake, and then--"
"Well. Was he asleep or awake?"
"He was dead," said the vicar, with great emotion. "He was lying in bed with the clothes in disorder, and his breast streaming with blood."
"With the clothes in disorder," echoed Clarice, raising herself. "Why, when I saw poor Uncle Henry's corpse, the clothes were carefully arranged and smoothed."
"I did that," said Mr. Clarke, in a broken voice. "I saw that he was dead, so I arranged the clothes and hastily went away, without touching anything in the room."
"Why did you not give the alarm?"
"Why!" cried Clarke, astonished; "when I might have been accused of committing the crime? Am I a fool, Clarice? My mere presence at such an hour would have accused me. No! I returned home, and said nothing about what I had seen. It was a few minutes past two o'clock when I regained my bed."
"And," Clarice asked the question in a low, anxious voice, "did you see anyone within or without the house?"
"No. I saw no one and heard nothing. Who was it saw me?"
"Zara Dumps, who had gone out late at night to procure medicine for her mother."
"And why did she not accuse me?"
"She did, to Prudence, and so made Prudence give up Ferdy, whom Zara wishes to marry."
"Then Zara made a false accusation, and I wonder that my daughter believed her."
"She did not at first," explained Clarice, "but Prudence found blood on the cuffs of a shirt you had worn."
"Very likely. When I was arranging the bedclothes of my murdered friend, the blood could easily have got on to the cuffs. So this was why Prudence gave up your brother; and I thought she did so because I wished it."
"Why did you wish it, Mr. Clarke? You were pleased, once."
"Yes," said the vicar, sadly, "for then I did not know what I know now."
"About Frank?"
"Never mention his name--never speak of him. I am not master of myself when I think--I think--" Mr. Clarke clutched his scanty locks with both hands and rushed suddenly from the room. Clarice did not wish to call him back, since she knew all that she wished to know. Clarke was innocent, and he had not set eyes upon her brother. So far Ferdy was safe. But who could have written that anonymous letter? Until the author of that was discovered, Clarice knew that she would have no peace of mind, as always she would be apprehensive lest Ferdy should be arrested.
All that afternoon Clarice puzzled over what was best to be done, and remained in her room with an aching head. Her feigned illness was rapidly turning to a real one, so sick did she feel with worry and anxiety. Then she received a surprise. Anthony's card was brought up, and Mrs. Rebson said that he was waiting for her in the drawing-room.
"Why is he here?" Clarice asked herself; then, hastily arranging her attire, she went down, filled with nervous fears.
"Clarice," said Anthony, abruptly, and coming forward with outstretched hands. "I have made a discovery--I must tell you at once what I have found out in Whitechapel."
"Have you been there? What about Ferdy?"
"I left him in charge of another fellow. He's still at Gattlinsands. Wait, I'll explain later. But my news. The consumptive chap attended by Jerce--one of the Purple Fern murderers, was--who do you think?--none other than Frank Clarke, the vicar's son."