The statement made by Catinka was so incredible and improbable that Paul could only stare and repeat it. "You came to Barnstead to watch Mr. Herne!" he said, slowly. "I do not quite understand. Mr. Herne was in London on that night.
"Ah! pardon, but no," replied Catinka, vivaciously. "Mr. Herne--this good man--he was at your Barnstead; but he does not require one to speak of it. So he requests me."
"You have seen Herne?" cried Mexton, recalling the fact that the Squire was in town at that moment.
"Eh--why not? I see him yesterday; I see him this morning; and he ask me to say nothing of his veesit to Barnstead on that night. But I no promise; I have good reason to no promise."
"What reason?" asked the journalist, bewildered by her manner.
Before replying, Catinka sprang lightly from her seat, and caught up the fan of rainbow feathers from off the mantelpiece. "My reason, dear Mr. Critic? Behold it!"
"Ah! then your reason has to do with your society?"
"Oh, yes; it has all to do with that," said Catinka, shutting the fan composedly. "I will to you explain all, if you wish."
"Of course I wish, mademoiselle. I wish to find out who killed that poor girl."
Catinka shook her head gravely, and resumed her seat. "That thing I cannot say."
"But you were on the very spot where the murder took place."
"Yes," she admitted; "there I was. How you know?"
"By the rainbow feather you dropped."
"Pardon--it is wrong. I did not let fall the feather. I place him there for my reason."
"Place him where?" asked Mexton, adopting her grammatical error in his bewilderment.
"On the breast--oh, no--on the back of that dead lady."
"You saw the corpse?"
"Yes; I saw him."
"Then you know who killed the girl?"
"No; that I know not."
"Did Mr. Herne shoot Miss Lester?" asked Paul, determined to get a direct answer.
"I cannot say truly. I did not see."
"Did you fire the shot yourself."
"I?" Catinka flashed a fiery glance at her questioner. "But what is this you would say? I did nothing to that lady. I killed her not. No! I swear it is so by all the saints!"
"But you know so much that----"
"What I know you will be told," interrupted Catinka, "that is, my good sir, if you this moment will be silent and wait."
"I am quite at your disposal, mademoiselle," said Paul, and composed himself to listen to what could not fail to be an interesting and strange story.
"Good! that is so right," said Catinka, and resumed her seat. The light of the sun poured in through the high window, and enveloped the violinist in a haze of golden glory, so that she had to spread out the particoloured fan in order to shade her eyes from the glare. But she did not move out of that pool of heat and light, for it seemed to please her greatly, and she basked in the ardent rays like a cat. Paul never forgot that scene; the cheerful room, the bright sunshine, and the pretty woman who glowed and sparkled with southern vivacity in the radiance. She told a strange story, truly, and told it in the calmest of voices, so that long before she finished Paul concluded that Baldini was right when he declared Catinka had no heart. Here it will be best to set forth the tale in other words than her own, since her phraseology was foreign, and not always correct. The substance of what she related was as follows:--
"For you to understand what I tell you," she began slowly, "you must learn who I am and what are my aims. I have no reason to keep my desire secret in this free England of yours; but in Poland, in Russia--ah! there it would be a different matter. My name is Catinka Poluski, and I was born at Warsaw some twenty-five years ago. I am of a noble family, and my parents were much hated by the Russians for their patriotic desire to see a free Poland. They conspired against the tyrant Czar when I was but a child, and being discovered they were arrested and sent to Siberia--sent there without a trial, to their doom! Ah! God! why dost Thou permit such evils to befall noble hearts."
"Are your parents still alive?" asked Paul when she ceased for a moment, to conquer her emotion.
"Dead, Mr. Mexton," replied Catinka, in a low voice, "dead these many years. I was left alone in the world, to the care of an old servant. Our estates were confiscated by the tyrant, and there remained nothing to me but poverty and shame, and a heritage of hatred against those who sent the noble Poluski and his wife to their graves in cruel Siberia, but that Luzk saved me."
"Luzk!" repeated Mexton, struck by the peculiar name, "and who was Luzk?"
"The servant I spoke of," said Catinka, with emotion, "the faithful man who looked after me when I was a helpless orphan. He came from the town of Luzk, and took the name, for some reason connected with the troubles of our unhappy land. It was Luzk who worked for me, who clothed and fed me, and had me educated. By him I was taught the violin, for which I had always a great love, and I soon was able to play very well."
"You play like an angel!" said Paul, with enthusiasm.
"I did not know angels played on fiddles!" replied the girl, smiling. "However, I thank you for the compliment. It is fortunate that I play well, for when Luzk died, seven years ago, I had no one to look after me. I thought I should starve, as my name was proscribed, and no one dared to help the child of Poluski, the rebel. Then a French musician heard me playing in the streets of Warsaw--yes, you may look, Mr. Mexton, but I, Catinka Poluski, of the best blood in Poland, have played in the streets. This man--his name was Dubourg--heard me, and took me into his care. He was old, and a very fine player on the violin. I received lessons from him for many months, and then we went to Paris, where I appeared. I made a name, and so I was able to earn an income. I stayed in Paris for a long time. Then good Papa Dubourg died, and I no longer cared to remain. I came to London; I played; I was liked; and now, as you know, I can earn as much money as I want by my talent. It is not an ignoble profession," said Catinka, "and I do not think the dead Poluski race need be ashamed of their descendant."
"I should think not, indeed, mademoiselle?" cried Paul. "You have overcome your difficulties in a noble manner. But this," he added, "does not touch on your society."
"I am coming to that," said Catinka, with a nod; "but, as I told you, it was necessary for your understanding that I should begin from the beginning. Well, Mr. Mexton, when I found myself at ease in London, I determined to do what I could to aid my unhappy country to be free. As a child of the Poluski I was bound to revenge my parents and free Poland. Then in my brain there arose the idea of the Society of the Rainbow Feather."
"Is the name symbolical?" asked Paul, glancing at the fan, which she still held.
"Yes." Catinka spread out the fan before him. "This is made of feathers--a sign that we shall rise, since birds that fly wear plumage. The feathers are dyed red, blue, green and yellow, which are symbolic colours. Red for the war we must wage to free our land; blue is a sign of the peace which will follow the war; green, the colour of hope which we need to inspire us; and yellow for the wealth we require to further our plans."
"I see," said Paul, coolly; "yellow stands for Darcy Herne, whose wealth you need."
"Precisely," replied Catinka calmly. "You are very clever, my dear Mr. Mexton, to guess so well as that. Do you think I am in love with Mr. Herne?--by no means, sir! It is his money-bags I want. I have but one heart and that is for no man; the love which fills it is the love of Poland--of my crushed and fallen country. The saints grant that it may be my hand to raise it from the dust!"
"Not an easy task," said Mexton, with a discouraging glance.
"Great tasks are never easy," declared Catinka, with the fire of heroism in her eyes; "but do you not think I had better go on with my story?"
"I should be obliged, mademoiselle. Remember, we have not got yet to the part which will interest me most."
"It is coming," said the violinist. "Well, Mr. Mexton, I formed my society, as I say, with the Rainbow Feather as a symbol of its meaning. My first recruits were exiled Poles and Russians, who had all the will, but none of the power, to harm the tyrant."
"The Czar?"
"I call him the tyrant. But these recruits had no money, and without money I could not hope to forward the cause. Then God, who is against oppression, sent in my way Mr. Herne. I met him--well, never mind how; but he became acquainted with me, and he came to the meetings of my society, in this very room. I found out that he had all sympathy with the oppressed, and so he was willing to aid me to lift the foreign yoke from the necks of my countrymen. I looked on him as my own, as a man vowed to my service, until I learnt from Mr. Lovel that he was engaged to be married."
"Do you know Mr. Lovel?"
"Very well," replied Catinka quietly. "I have known him for two years, and he feigned to be in love with me. But it was only a passing fancy, and he left London, to fall in love with your Milly Lester. But Herne was engaged to that lady, and out of jealousy Lovel told me of the engagement. I was angry, for I thought that she would lead Mr. Herne away from me, and that his money and his enthusiasm would be lost to the cause. Later on Mr. Herne received letters from your Barnstead, which assured him that Miss Lester was flirting and making play, as you may say, with Mr. Lovel. He grew jealous, and the day before the murder, when he received a letter stating that Miss Lester was to meet Mr. Lovel, he determined to go down for himself and see if she was faithless."
"Who wrote those letters?" asked Paul, eagerly.
"I cannot tell you that," replied the Pole, shaking her head. "They were scribbled on very dirty paper, and in an illegible hand--at least, almost illegible. I saw only two."
"Did Mr. Herne know who wrote them?"
"He told me he had no idea," said Catinka, cautiously; "but this I know not. They were sent to his town address in Berkeley Square."
"Yes; I know he has a house there," said Paul, in thoughtful tones. "How came you to see those letters, Catinka?"
"Mr. Herne showed the last two to me when I reproached him with leaving London instead of attending to a meeting of our society. He said that he must go down on that Sunday night and assure himself that the reports were false."
"Did he believe them?"
"I think he did," said Catinka, promptly. "He said that Miss Lester was young and thoughtless, and might be led astray by the evil mind of Mr. Lovel. He wanted to save her from destruction, and talked in quite a religious way about her."
"I know," said Paul, quietly. "Herne is a fanatic. So he went down on that Sunday night?"
"By the train at four o'clock in the afternoon. I followed."
"Why did you follow?"
"Because I desired to see this girl," replied Catinka, coolly. "You see, Mr. Mexton, I did not wish to lose Mr. Herne, because I wanted his money for my society; so I thought I would see what this girl was like--if she was as lovely as he declared her to be. And again, I wished to see Mr. Lovel, and get him to marry the girl, so that I could have this dear Herne to myself."
"But you were not in love with Herne!"
"No; but to secure him and his money to my cause, I would have married him. I quite intended to do so, and went to Barnstead that I might behold my rival; to see, you understand, if I had much to fear from her."
"Did you go down by the same train?"
"Oh, yes; at four o'clock. I was in a third-class carriage, Mr. Herne in a first. He did not see me. We got to Marborough a little after five. Then I lost him; but as I knew he was going to Barnstead that was no matter. I hired a carriage and drove over to Barnstead, where I had dinner in that hotel called after Mr. Herne."
"The Herne Arms."
"Yes. They gave me a bad dinner," said Catinka, making a face. "After that I went to church, where I thought I might see the girl. I did see her."
"How did you know her?"
"She was pointed out to me when I asked a lady who sat near me. I saw Mr. Lovel look at her also. She was beautiful, but foolish, I saw her leave the church, but I waited till the end of the service, and then I went out after Mr. Lovel, as I desired to speak with him."
"Did you?"
"No. I could not find him when I went out, and as I did not know your village I was not aware where to go. I wandered about, and quite lost myself for a long time. When I was on a wide plain I heard a shot, and I ran forward into a wood to see what was the matter. It took me some time to find the place where the shot had been fired; but when I did find it, no living person was there."
"But a dead body was?"
"Yes," assented Catinka--"the body of Miss Lester, whom I had seen in church. I was alarmed, and thought that I might get into trouble if I were found with the dead body. I do not know your laws, so I ran away. But before I went," said the Pole, with emphasis, "I placed on the body--it was lying face downward--the symbol of my society, a rainbow feather."
Paul received this confession in silence, then said: "May I ask why you placed a rainbow feather on the body?"
"For reason particular, Mr. Critic," replied Catinka, calmly. "I wished this good Herne to join my society, and give of his money. If not joining freely, I willed that he should be forced to, for his safety. See you, I gave him a rainbow feather, and such a one was found by the dead. Then, you conceive, I could swear I never put it on the body, and Mr. Herne alone could have done it, since no one but he could have a feather like that in Barnstead. So you see"--Catinka shrugged her shoulders--"he would be called the murderer if I spoke. When he came to me I tell him all this, and vow to speak if he gives me not the money."
"A kind of blackmailing," said Paul, wondering at the shameless way in which she spoke. "And what did Mr. Herne say to this?"
"Oh, he will give me a reply when the trial of the caught man is done."
"Dr. Lester?"
"Yes; the father of the dead lady."
"But you know Lester is innocent?"
"Eh! that may be so," replied Catinka, with another shrug; "but how is it that I should know?"
"Because you must be aware who fired the shot."
"But no, Mr. Mexton; I tell you no! I hear the shot; I run forward; I see no one; not Mr. Lovel, not the good Herne. No one person do I see. I put the feather on the body, and run away, in case they say I kill the lady. I get into my carriage at the inn, and go back to Marborough; then to London in the railway."
"Did you see Mr. Herne at Barnstead at all?"
"No. I saw him at Marborough at the railway; then never again."
"Do you think he killed the girl?"
"I know not. He says not."
"He'd say anything to save his own neck," rejoined Paul, scornfully. "Was he in disguise when he went to Barnstead?"
"Not that I know; but he had a long coat for the rain, and there was no rain. Also a white scarf on his neck; not like the dress of a gentleman."
"I see. A disguise. He did not want to be known in Barnstead."
Catinka made a gesture of indifference. "I know nothing of that," she said. "I have told you all."
"You have," said Paul slowly, "and very fully. What is to prevent my telling your pretty plot about the rainbow feather?"
"I care not. If this good Herne is free, he will give me the money, since the lady is dead; if you speak, and he is killed by the law--well, he makes a will, and I get his money. It is all so; if I had been afraid, Mr. Mexton, I should have said not one word. But you see it is all right. I will get money to help my country."
Paul rose and took up his hat and cane. He was so disgusted with the way in which she spoke that he wished to leave her as speedily as possible. "I bid you good-day, mademoiselle," he said, marching towards the door. "And allow me to tell you that I consider you a wicked woman."
"Ah," Catinka shrugged her shoulders--"now you know all, you call me bad names. You are ungrateful--you. But what care I?--not that!" and she snapped her fingers.
"You are shameless."
"Bah! bah! bah! Go away, you pig of an Englishman!" and Paul felt that there was nothing for him but to accept this advice. Without further words he walked out of the room, pursued by the scornful laughter of Catinka. Whatever love he might have felt for her beauty was killed by her confession and cruel mirth. When Mexton left Bloomsbury Square he was quite cured of his passion.
On his way back to Marborough Paul had a carriage all to himself, and he had both time and solitude to consider what use he should make of Catinka's statement. It would seem from what she had told him that Herne was implicated in the murder--perhaps had committed the deed himself. Paul was well aware of Herne's temperament; it was that of a fanatic who regarded bodies less than souls; who would slay the one to save the other, He was of the same nature as Torquemada of Spain. If Herne fancied that Milly was likely to go astray with the too fascinating Lovel, the journalist was quite sure that he would have had no hesitation in killing the girl and would glorify himself for the deed. Catinka had said that the anonymous letters had made Herne jealous; but with this view Paul did not agree. If Herne had shot Milly Lester he had done the deed with the pitiless zeal of a fanatic.
"I only wonder that he did not proclaim his doings to all Barnstead," mused Paul. "If he fancied in his fanaticism that he was justified in killing the girl he would certainly not hesitate to acknowledge his guilt; he would not let an innocent man suffer for his crime--though, to be sure, if he killed Milly, he did not regard the deed as a crime. His silence is the sole argument in favour of his innocence."
And, indeed, if Herne were not guilty how could he explain his stealthy visit to Barnstead, his going thither in disguise, and his silence regarding his presence in the village on the night of the murder? No doubt he had come by stealth, lest Milly, hearing that he was back, should have refused to meet Lovel, and so have hidden her flirtation from the eyes of her future husband. There was no doubt, again, that Herne had been in the village on the night of the murder, since after receipt of the anonymous letters, he would hardly have remained ignorant at Marborough; but, on the other hand, there was no proof that he had been in the Winding Lane. Brent had seen Miss Clyde, but not Herne. Iris, on going to the spot after the crime, had beheld Lovel, but not Herne; and in no way had the fact of Herne's presence at Barnstead come out in the evidence collected by Drek. But for the evidence of Catinka--which seemed genuine enough--it would be impossible in any way to implicate Darcy Herne in the crime.
After considerable thought Paul determined to seek out and question Lovel. That young man, on the evidence of Miss Clyde and Brent, had been with Milly almost at the hour of the murder. This was the more probable as, terrified lest he should be accused, Lovel had induced Gran Jimboy to tell a lie on his behalf. Mexton considered himself absolved from the promise he had made to Herne, since Catinka's statement had implicated the squire in the crime. He therefore arranged in his own mind to force a confession from Lovel, and threaten him with arrest should he prove obdurate. Paul knew very well that if he told all he knew to Drek there would not be much difficulty in having Lovel arrested on suspicion. The very fact of the lying alibi--which could be exposed by Brent and Miss Clyde--would be sufficient to get him into trouble since, if he were innocent, there would have been no need for him to resort to such extreme measures for his safety.
On considering all that he had been told by various people, Paul concluded that either Lovel or Herne was the guilty person, but which one of the two had shot the hapless girl it was hard to say. Only the discovery of new evidence could confirm the guilt of the one and the innocence of the other. And it was with the discovery of such evidence that Paul charged himself.
From thoughts of the crime Mexton drifted into considering his disillusion with regard to the Polish violinist. At one time he had loved her for her brilliant beauty, and had thought her kind-hearted and sympathetic. But the conversation he had taken part in; the shameless way in which she confessed to blackmailing Herne; and her absolute disregard of all honour, and even common honesty, showed him what sort of woman she was. If Herne were a religious fanatic, Catinka was frenzied on the point of patriotism; and for her mission she was willing to sacrifice all who stood in the way of its fulfilment. Paul quite believed that she had not killed Milly; but, short of murder, he fancied that she was capable of all other crimes in order to accomplish her dreams of a free Poland.
"How could I have loved such a woman?" groaned Paul. "But then it was an ideal I loved, not the kind of viperish clay Catinka has proved herself to be. I dreamt of a goddess, and find a hard woman of the world. Whatever love I may have felt for her has vanished; and I am now much more attracted by the plain good sense and kindly heart of Iris than by the beauty of that impossible Pole. And, after all," added Mexton, trying to comfort himself, "even if Catinka had proved the reality of my dream, she would never have surrendered her great schemes to marry me. But Iris!--ah, if I could only induce her to love me, then, indeed, in a union with her might I hope for happiness?"
It was six o'clock when Mexton arrived at Marborough, and after dining at home he returned to his work in the office. But all the time he was compiling political articles, and chronicling the small beer of the provincial town, his thoughts were with Iris Link; and with the enthusiasm of youth he was rapidly raising an altar to his goddess. Catinka had been his Rosalind, he told himself, but Iris was his Juliet; and this modern Romeo was falling in love as quickly as his prototype of Verona. He longed for the company of Iris as a thirsty traveller for a cooling spring; and after a restless night, haunted by dreams of Iris and memories of poor dead Milly, he rode the next morning to Barnstead. Here he put up his horse at The Herne Arms, and promised himself a long day with the new goddess of his affections.
On her side, Iris had been thinking a great deal about Paul. The glance he had given her at parting had turned her thoughts in his direction, and she began to look on him in a more amiable light than she had hitherto done. Her love for Herne had completely died away since the death of Milly, and she now began to compare Mexton to the disadvantage of the squire. The conduct of the latter in regard to the discovery of the assassin of Milly had not prepossessed her in his favour; and she contrasted his lukewarm pursuit with the fiery zeal of Paul. The friend of her youth seemed noble in comparison to Herne, and Iris reproached herself for having overlooked for so long his many good qualities. In fact, she thought of Paul as much as he dreamt of her, and when she saw him at the front door of Poverty Villa she went out to meet him with a becoming blush. Paul, on his part, blushed also; and they met like lovers after a long separation. Thus out of evil had come good; and a happy marriage between two young people eminently suited to one another was likely to be the outcome of poor Milly Lester's untimely decease. So strange and unexpected are the decrees of Fate.
"I am glad to see you again, Iris," said Paul, taking her hand and looking into her eyes. "How is your step-father?"
"Very well; he is cheerful and hopeful," replied Iris. "Miss Clyde has told her story to everyone, and now all Barnstead knows that he is innocent. There is quite a revulsion in his favour; and all yesterday he was being congratulated. I should not be surprised if this false accusation brought him more patients."
"Out of evil comes good," quoth Mexton, following her into the house. "Where is Dr. Lester now?"
"He has gone out to see his patients.
"Sober, I hope?"
"Paul!" Iris turned round indignantly. "You may be sure he is sober! He has not touched alcohol since he came back. Miss Clyde's lesson was cruel, but efficacious; I don't think he will ever indulge in strong drink again. But we can talk of his reform later," added Iris, as they sat down in the drawing-room. "I am anxious to know how you got on with Catinka."
"Well, I found out a great deal."
"You did?" said Iris; and then added, with a blush: "And did you find her as charming as you expected?"
"Indeed I did not! I found that my idol had feet of clay, and she has tumbled off her pedestal forever. A hard, cruel woman, Iris; not at all the woman of my dreams."
"I am glad you found out your mistake before it was too late," said Iris in a contented tone. "I am sure she would never have made you happy."
"I am sure also," rejoined Mexton, laughing. "I must look for my happiness nearer home." He said this with such a significant look that the colour again flushed the face of Iris; but, not deeming the moment a propitious one for love-making--since she was not yet sure of her own heart--she hurriedly turned the conversation.
"What did Catinka tell you, Paul?"
"Many things," replied Mexton; then, after a pause, he added: "Iris, I remember you asked me not to search for the assassin. Was that because you wished to save your father?"
"No; that was not my reason," said Iris in a hesitating tone. "I told you so before."
"Then you did not want Lovel to be arrested?"
"I did not care if he was arrested or not. I am not sure if he is guilty, although I did see him in the Winding Lane when I went out after poor Milly's body was brought home."
"Did you see anyone else near the spot?"
"No," said Iris frankly; "I did not. Why do you ask?"
"Because I am sure you suspect someone of having been there."
"I do; but--but I cannot tell you whom I suspect."
"You need not; I know. Catinka told me that Darcy Herne was in Barnstead on the night of the murder."
"He was there, then?" cried Iris, rising with an expression of horror.
"Where?"
"In the Winding Lane."
"I don't know. Why do you say so?"
"Wait." Iris left the room, and while Paul was still wondering at her emotion she returned with a handkerchief spotted with blood. This she handed to Paul. "Mr. Herne's handkerchief," she said. "I found it on the spot where Milly's body was discovered."
"Then Herne must be guilty!" cried Paul, looking at the name on the handkerchief.
"I am not sure," replied Iris. "If he were guilty, he would not accuse Mr. Lovel."
"He was forced into that position," rejoined the journalist quickly. "He accused Lovel until the discovery of the rainbow feather led him to believe that Catinka had been on the spot, and might have seen him commit the crime. Then he changed his tune, and asked me to seek no further evidence against Lovel until he returned from seeing Catinka. I know now that the violinist saw nothing, and, reassured on that point, I am certain that Herne will return here tomorrow, and go on accusing Lovel."
"But, Paul," urged Iris, "he might have seen Lovel kill Milly?"
"No; if he had done so, he would have had Lovel arrested. Iris, this handkerchief shows that Herne was in the Winding Lane on the night and at the time of the murder. He came to Barnstead in disguise; and, see, this handkerchief is spotted with blood--with Milly's blood. I feel sure that Herne is the guilty man."
Iris covered her face with her hands and shuddered. "Oh!" she moaned, "I have tried to put this frightful suspicion out of my mind, because I loved the man. I fancied that he might have killed Milly in a fit of rage, and it was because I was sorry for him that I asked you not to search for the assassin."
"You thought I should find Herne?"
"Yes; but I could not believe him guilty. When I heard of Mr. Lovel's false alibi at the inquest I truly believed that he had killed Milly."
"But, Iris," expostulated Paul, "the handkerchief is spotted with blood!"
"I know. Perhaps Mr. Herne let it fall when he found the body."
"If so, and he found the body, why did he not call in the police? Why did he sneak away to London in disguise, and let Mr. Chaskin bring home the corpse? No, Iris; I believe that Herne killed Milly. Only one man can tell us the truth, and the truth he must tell to save his own neck. I shall see Lovel."
"Do you think he will accuse Mr. Herne?" faltered Iris.
"My dear, I don't know," replied Paul, rising; "his own conduct is quite as mysterious as that of Herne. All I do know is that both of them were lurking about the spot at the time the shot was fired, and that one of the two must have fired it. I suspect Herne, but I shall do nothing against him at present."
"Don't say anything to Drek until you see Mr. Herne."
"No, I shall not," promised Paul; "but Herne does not return till to-morrow, and in the meantime I shall interview Lovel. His evidence may either clear or inculpate Herne."
"I can't believe Mr. Herne is guilty!" cried Iris in despair.
"Ah," said Paul, looking at her with a frown, "that is because you love him."
"No, no! I did love him, but now I do not care for him save as a friend; and for such friendship's sake I should be sorry to see him convicted of a crime which he may not have committed."
"Well. I'll say nothing against him until I see Lovel. This very moment I'll go to The Herne Arms and question him."
"Do, do; and come back to tell me if he can prove the innocence of Mr. Herne."
"I suspect he'll have enough to do to prove his own," said Paul grimly; and forthwith left the house on his errand. With him he carried the incriminating handkerchief, which Iris had forgotten to ask for back again.
On his way to the inn Paul wondered why he had not adopted before the very obvious course of questioning Lovel. He should have gone to him after Brent's confession of the false alibi and have forced the young man to explain why he and the old gipsy had perjured themselves at the inquest; but on further reflection Paul recollected that circumstances had intervened which had made it impossible to seek the interview with Lovell. But now all obstacles had been removed; he had accumulated from Brent, Miss Clyde, Catinka and others a mass of circumstantial evidence; and at the coming conversation he was fully prepared to encounter any further deceptions which Lovel might employ to evade discovery. Paul did not believe that Lovel was guilty, as even the passion of jealousy would hardly have incited him to slay the girl who loved and trusted him; but he was certain that Lovel knew the name of the assassin; and he was equally certain that such name would be Darcy Herne.
At the inn Mexton learnt that Lovel was in his sitting-room, and at once he sent up his card with a request for an interview. He had a fancy that Lovel, for obvious reasons, would refuse to see him; but, rather to his surprise, he was requested to walk upstairs. When the servant closed the door behind him Paul found himself in a comfortable apartment, alone with the man who, as he believed, held in his hands the sole clue to the mysterious death of Milly. Lucas looked worn and ill; there were dark circles under his eyes, and he appeared listless and indifferent, as though his vitality was exhausted. Without offering his hand to Mexton, he bowed and pushed forward a chair.
"Hast thou found me out, O my enemy?" he said softly.
Mexton stared, as well he might, for the Biblical quotation was a strange one for Lovel to use. Paul thought it rather theatrical. "I am not your enemy, Mr. Lovel," he said, taking his seat. "I think you know that very well."
"How should I know, when Brent tells me that you go to him to worm out my secrets?"
"As to that," replied Paul coldly, "I have a right to discover any secrets which are likely to lead to the detection of Milly's assassin."
"And you think I am the man?" questioned Lovel, looking fixedly at his visitor.
"No; I do not think you killed the poor girl. I will give you the credit that you loved her too well to take her young life. But I think also," said Paul with energy, "that you know who fired the shot."
"No; I am as doubtful of that as you are."
"I decline to believe that. Herne killed the girl, and you know it."
"So far as I do know, Herne did not kill the girl," replied Lovel emphatically.
"Then, if he is innocent, and you also, who is the murderer?"
"I don't know, I cannot say," said Lucas wearily. "I have asked myself that question fifty times a day, but to it I can find no answer."
"The police might find an answer."
Lovel laughed. "The police might arrest me, and find their answer by getting me hanged," he said coolly.
"Well, Drek may arrest you yet," said Paul, raising his eyebrows. "You must be aware, Mr. Lovel, that your actions are very suspicious."
"Because I told a lie to screen myself from possible danger?"
"Yes; and because you induced Gran Jimboy to lie also. Though how you induced her to perjure herself I can't guess."
"I'll explain if you like," said Lovel coldly. "I see that I must tell the truth sooner or later, and I would rather make you my father confessor than Drek. I run less risk of arrest, you see."
"I don't know, Lovel. If I think you guilty I shall certainly have you arrested."
"My good, sir," cried Lovel with irony, "if I were guilty of murder I should have left this neighbourhood long ago! My staying here proves my innocence."
"I'll wait to hear your story before agreeing to that."
"Very good, Mexton. You shall hear my story, and in addition I will tell you all that took place in the Winding Lane on the night poor, dear Milly was killed. Then," added Lovel with emphasis, "you will be as puzzled as I am."
"Puzzled by what?"
"By the mystery of the case. Who killed Milly I can't tell you; and if I cannot no one else can."
"I don't understand--" began Paul, when Lovel cut him short.
"Do not let us waste any more time," he said impatiently. "Hear my confession, as you may call it, and judge for yourself." He paused, passed his hand across his forehead, and in a moment or so continued, "My name is Lucas Lovel, as you know, and I came down here some eight or ten months ago to sketch and paint. Who I am I knew no more than yourself until three weeks ago."
"About the time of the murder?" interjected Mexton.
"Yes," assented Lovel, bending his head. "There was a mystery about my birth. I did not know where I was born, or who were my father and mother. I was brought up by an old maiden aunt in London, and she resolutely refused to tell me about my parentage. I was educated at an excellent school, and as I wished to be an artist I was sent to the studio of a celebrated painter to study. Afterwards I went abroad, to Paris and Rome, whence I was recalled two years ago by the death of my guardian. By her will I inherited her house in Clapham, and some two hundred pounds a year--enough to keep me from starving, but not enough to give me the luxuries of life. About a year ago I became acquainted with Catinka and her mad schemes for freeing Poland. At her house I met Herne."
"You met Herne?" echoed Paul, much interested.
"I did; and I thought he was as mad in his own way as Catinka was in hers. However, we became friends, and he asked me down to Barnstead. As you are aware, I stayed with him for some time; but we quarrelled because I admired Miss Lester too much, and I left his house to take up my abode in these rooms, where I have been since. It was my love for Milly which kept me here, in this dull neighbourhood."
"I know; but it would have been more honourable had you gone," said Mexton, reprovingly.
"Why--because the girl I loved was engaged to a religious lunatic?" cried Lovel, his pale face growing red with anger. "It was for that very reason I stayed. I was determined that beautiful Milly should not be sacrificed to that cold-blooded fanatic. Besides, she loved me, and but for the attraction of Herne's money she would have become my wife. I met her often, as you know; and some wretch sent tales of these meetings to Herne."
"Do you know who wrote Herne those letters?" asked Paul eagerly.
"No; if I did, I'd kick the person who sent them," said Lovel viciously. "I have no idea who was so cruel. Well, Mexton, while paying court to Milly, and urging her to break off the engagement with Herne, I met with old Mother Jimboy, the gipsy. She positively haunted my steps, and never saw me without speaking to me. I found her a great nuisance."
"Perhaps she wrote the anonymous letters," suggested Mexton, thinking of the dirty paper and the illegible handwriting as described by Catinka.
Lovel shook his head very decidedly. "No, my friend," he said, gravely. "Mother Jimboy did not write those letters, for a reason which you shall hear. She would do nothing to injure me; but, on the contrary, she would protect me as the apple of her eye. For my sake she told a lie at the inquest, so that I should not be suspected of a crime which I did not commit."
"She must have strong reason for this guardianship," said Mexton, surprised.
"A strong one," assented Lovel, nodding. "The reason of kinship, Mr. Mexton." He paused to give effect to his words. "That old gipsy is my grandmother."
"Your grandmother!" echoed Paul, curiously. "Are you, then, a gipsy?"
"On my father's side I am--half a Romany, half a Gorgio; but my looks are of the gipsy race. Can you not see for yourself?" he said, turning his face to the light.
It was as he stated, for on looking at him keenly Paul beheld unmistakable traces of Romany blood--the oval face, swart and Oriental, the thin nose, the full red lips, and above all the peaked eyes, with the glazed look which reveals the true gipsy. Lovel looked like an Arab astray in the West; and would have suited the rich robes of the Oriental rather than the plain garb of an English gentleman. Paul instinctively felt that the young man spoke the truth. He was no Englishman; he was not even kin to the dark Spaniard or the swart Italian; he was of the gentle Romany, undeniably a gipsy.
"When did you discover that you were of gipsy blood?" asked Paul.
"I have told you," said Lovel quietly. "About three weeks ago. On the day before that fatal Sunday night I met Milly on the common, and she promised to meet me in the Winding Lane the next night, after service. Shortly before, Gran Jimboy had read Milly's hand, and prophesied that she would come by a violent death. I was angry with the old woman, and when Milly left me I went in search of Mother Jimboy to reprove her."
"How did she take your reproof?"
"By telling me that she was my grandmother. It appeared that her son, my father, who was a pureblooded gipsy, had been a fine singer, and left the Romany tents for the stage. He sang also at private houses in London, and in one of them he met with my mother, who was an heiress in a small way. She fell in love with the gipsy tenor, and ran off with him. They were married, and when I was born my mother died, and asked her husband to take me back to her sister; my father died also, and it was by my aunt--the old maid I spoke of--that I was brought up. Before I was six years of age my father was drowned while going to America; and as he had squandered all the money his wife brought him, I was left penniless. My aunt, who was angered by her sister's marriage, decided to tell me nothing, but gave me my father's name--Lovel is a gipsy name, you know--and left me her little money. So you see, Mr. Mexton, I am a gipsy."
"I see," said Paul, rather bored. "But what has all this family history to do with the murder?"