Although Torry doubted the truth of Donna Maria's answer he was too clever to let his face and tongue betray him. To contradict so high-spirited a woman would be to reduce her to haughty silence; perhaps to send her out of the room, with no chance of resuming the conversation. The detective desired to learn all she knew, while she was in the humour to speak; therefore he held his peace in the face of her doubtful statement. He then recollected that Meek had declared that the lady who had visited the Duke street chambers on that fatal Saturday had worn a peculiar ring--a silver hoop set with three turquoise stones. Incidentally he looked at Maria's hands, and noted with some chagrin that she wore no rings at all. This discovery made him doubt his own perspicuity, and he half-believed that she might have spoken the truth after all.
"The last time I saw Mr. Grent," said Maria, seeing that the man did not speak, "was on Friday evening. He dined here, and afterwards said good-bye to his wife and myself, as he intended to leave for Italy on Sunday. A few days afterwards we heard that he was dead."
"Who informed you?"
"Mr. Leighbourne and Mr. Vass; they came down to break the news as gently as possible to my aunt."
"I suppose these two young gentlemen were often here?" said Darrel, with an afterthought that one or both might love the beautiful Creole.
"Naturally," she replied coldly. "Especially Mr. Vass, who was secretary to my uncle. His duties brought him often to Wray House."
"Miss," said Torry, looking sharply at the lady, "have you any idea who murdered Mr. Grent?"
"No!" she exclaimed passionately. "I swear by all the saints I do not know."
"Had he any enemies?"
"None that I know of."
"Did Julia Brawn ever speak ill of him?"
"Certainly not; she would not have dared to do so to me, under pain of instant dismissal. But you surely don't suspect her."
"No," confessed Torry dismally, "I do not. It was a man's arm which dealt the fatal blow. But what was your maid doing in Mortality-lane?"
"Are you sure it was Julia?"
"Certain! We found her dead near the Needle on the Embankment, and the lace of her mantle was torn. A portion of it was in the death-grip of her former master. Oh, it is the same woman without a doubt."
"How was she dressed?" said Maria with feminine curiosity.
"In that hat, a fawn-coloured mantle trimmed with black lace--why--why! what is the matter?"
"A fawn-coloured mantle," stammered Maria, who had half risen from her chair, and was staring at Torry with horrified eyes--"with lace, and--and black braid?"
"Yes, yes; do you know it?"
"I do--I do! Mother of Sorrows have pity on me!" She crossed herself rapidly, and walking to the window, looked out, quivering with emotion. The two men stared at one another; then Torry walked forward and touched the girl's arm. She shrank away with a cry.
"What do you know of that mantle?" he asked softly.
Maria hesitated and shook her head; then, evidently making up her mind, she turned to face Torry. "I have to ask your pardon," said she in low tones. "I doubted if the woman who met my uncle was Julia. Now I know that it was her. I gave her that mantle. Ah, God! to think she should be so evil!"
"We do not know that," replied Torry, accepting the explanation as sufficient. "She may have been more sinned against than sinning. In any case, she has paid for all her follies with her life."
"Poor wretch! And who killed her?"
"I don't know; but I am sure her lover--the man she went away to marry--killed Mr. Grent. If I could only learn that fellow's personal appearance! He must have done his courting here, as Julia was in your service for so long. You never saw him, Miss?"
"No; but the servants might have done so."
"An excellent idea!" cried Torry, rubbing his hands. "Mr. Darrel, will you be so kind as to remain here? Miss Sandoval, please take me to see your butler; he, if anyone, will know the truth. Failing him, I'll try the housekeeper."
"Very well, sir," said Donna Maria, rising and walking towards the door. "I hope you'll be able to discover the truth."
"You wish to punish the assassin of your uncle?" said Darrel, more for the sake of asking a last question than because he needed a reply.
"Punish him!" cried the girl, drawing herself up to her stately height. "I would give ten years of my life to see a rope round his cowardly neck!"
After which passionate speech she passed out of the room.
"Spice of temper there," chuckled Torry, and went after her, leaving Darrel alone in the room.
The young man walked up and down to calm his spirit and quiet his brain. Always of a passionate and sensuous nature, he had hitherto curbed his instincts by a strong will, and subdued his love of pleasure in order to serve his art the more faithfully. He had never been in love, and in a somewhat cold-blooded fashion had regarded the other sex more or less as object-studies, to be analysed mercilessly for the creation of types in fiction. But the god of love, who will not be denied, and who sooner or later, asserts his empire over all born of the flesh, had come to Frank Darrel, in all his might, and the heart-free man of an hour since was now in danger of becoming the slave of a woman. It was incredible, Darrel argued, that he could have fallen in love with one whom he had known scarcely an hour, who had entered into his life only on that day. Yet, how otherwise was he able to account for the strange excitement which possessed him? He was hot one moment, cold the next; burning as with fever, chilled as with ague; and ever before his eyes appeared that lovely face with the glorious eyes and rich colouring. Donna Maria was a tropical flower, burning and gorgeous; and the splendour of her beauty, the passion of the spirit which flamed in her eyes, and governed the inflexions of her voice, moved the heart of Darrel strangely. The miracle of the man's life had occurred; and--although he scarcely knew it--he was in love. And why should not love be born of a glance? The improbable is always the possible.
Taken up with his own thoughts, Darrel did not observe that the man and woman who had been walking in the garden were entering the room through one of the French windows. An exclamation of astonishment from the lady roused him from his brown study, and he turned to explain his presence. As he did so, the man, a light-haired, fresh-coloured young fellow of thirty, ran forward with a smile and outstretched hand.
"Darrel, my dear boy, is this you?" he cried heartily.
"Roderick Mortimer!" said Darrel, clasping the stranger's hand.
"Not now. I am Roderick Blake. An Irish uncle left me property on the condition that I took his name. The property has gone, but the name remains. No wonder you didn't recognise your old schoolfellow by it."
"I should know you anywhere; you are not altered at all."
"Faith! that's a compliment," said Blake angrily; "but it's my manners I'm forgetting. Lydia, my dear, let me present to you an old friend and schoolfellow, Mr. Frank Darrel, barrister and novelist, which means that he has left the law and taken to the profits. Darrel, my boy, Miss Lydia Hargone, who will very shortly be changed into Mrs. Roderick Blake, of Rainbow Castle, Cloud-cuckoo Land."
"Roderick, how you do rattle on!" said Lydia, smilingly. "I am very glad to see you, Mr. Darrel."
The governess was a fair-haired, bland woman, with grey eyes and a rather hard mouth. She was not beautiful, but possessed an attractive manner, and was dressed with a quiet perfection that shewed excellent taste. In spite of her lack of good looks, there was that about her--what the Italians callsimpatica--which would attract at least eight men out of ten. As she pressed Frank's hand and smiled at him with her grey eyes, he felt that here was a woman who could have made him love her. But Miss Hargone, as Frank judged, needed to employ the arts of Vivien to capture hearts; whereas, as in his own case, these same hearts were thrown at the feet of Donna Maria merely because of her splendid beauty. Each woman was attractive in her own way.
"And what are you doing down here?" said Blake, throwing himself into a chair. "I did not know you knew Mrs. Grent."
"Nor do I," replied Darrel flushing a little. "I came down here with a detective."
Lydia started, and with a little shudder raised her hands in dismay. "Not about that dreadful murder?"
"Yes, Miss Hargone about that dreadful murder. I am assisting the detective in charge of the case to investigate it."
"Are you, now?" cried Blake, whose brogue became marked when he grew excited. "Sure, it's not thief-catching you've taken up?"
"Oh, no; I am merely investigating the case in an amateur way."
"Have you discovered anything, Mr. Darrel," asked Lydia softly.
Frank shrugged his shoulders. "A few things," he said, "but nothing likely to lead to the detection of the assassin."
"But there are two of them, they say," remarked Blake. "It's in the papers. One man killed poor old Grent; the other murdered that wretched woman."
"Well," said Darrel deliberately, "for my part I believe that both crimes were committed by the same man."
"Really!" cried Lydia, much astonished, "How do you know?"
"It is too long to explain the theory upon which my belief is founded," said Frank; "but I am sure that the man who killed Grent also assassinated Julia Brawn."
"Julia Brawn!" said Blake, starting up; "why, that is the name of Donna Maria's maid!"
"So it is; the maid who left to get married a fortnight ago," said Lydia.
"And the maid who was murdered a week since," remarked Frank, much amused at the astonishment of the pair.
"Well!" cried Blake, slapping his thigh, "If that doesn't beat Bannagher; and Bannagher beats the devil! Two people from the one house! Begad, Darrel, I'd like to help you myself! It's fine work, man-hunting."
"You'll have to ask Mr. Torry's permission first Blake."
"Torry--who is he?"
"The detective in charge of the case," said Frank. "At present he is with Donna Maria, examining the servants. Ah! here he comes."
At this remark quite in the style of the old transpontine drama, the door opened and Donna Maria, followed by Torry, entered the room. Darrel explained to the lady that he had discovered an old schoolfellow in Mr. Roderick Blake, and presented the detective to his friend and to Miss Hargone. This accomplished, he asked Torry if he had been successful.
"No," said the detective dismally. "I've found out nothing. Not one of the servants have seen the fellow."
As he spoke Torry mechanically looked at Miss Hargone's face. She was staring at him hard; therefore, with some embarrassment, his eyes dropped to her hands. Then he made a discovery, for on the third finger of her right hand was a silver ring set with three blue stones.
Having garnered all obtainable evidence, for the time being at Wray House; the detective and his coadjutor returned to town. Before their departure, however, Blake noted the address of his old schoolfellow, and promised to pay him a visit at an early date. Darrel, knowing that Roderick wished to assist in finding out the mystery, resolved to ask Torry if he would permit him to do so. This request he made when they were in the train on their way back to Waterloo.
"What do you think of my friend Blake?" he asked, abruptly.
"A nice fellow, but flippant," replied Torry. "Not much earnestness of purpose there."
"I am sorry you think so, as Blake is anxious to assist us in this matter. It seems that he was a great friend of Mr. Grent's, and is naturally angered by his cowardly assassination; also, he has nothing to do, and wishes to employ his time. What do you say?"
"Humph! Mr. Blake is the lover of Miss Hargone?"
"Yes he is engaged to marry her. Is that any bar to your utilising his services?"
"It may be, sir. You see, this Lydia Hargone is the woman who called at Grent's chambers on that Saturday."
"Are you sure?" said Frank, somewhat startled.
"As sure as one can be, in this world of mistakes," replied Torry drily. "At all events, she wears on the third finger of her right hand a silver ring set with three turquoise stones, Meek noticed that ring as worn by the veiled lady who visited Grent. At first, owing to the confused manner of Donna Maria, I fancied she might be the individual. However I was wrong. The evidence of the ring assures me that Lydia Hargone paid that visit. Why?"
"There is nothing peculiar in her paying a visit to her employer."
"Grent was not her employer then. She had left his service some time. Now, Donna Maria is----"
"I won't hear a word against that lady," interrupted Darrel hotly.
"Because she is beautiful; your romance again. Well as you please; but you must admit that it was strange she should faint at the sight of the Blue Mummy."
"Vass fainted in the same way."
"I know he did, and Miss Sandoval gives the same explanation for her fainting as he did. Both of them saw the Blue Mummy on Grent's desk, and its connection with his murder came so forcibly to their memories that they fainted. Now, I said before, and I say again that the explanation is feeble and untrue."
"But surely you don't think Donna Maria guilty of the crime?"
"No; don't jump to conclusions. I think both she and Vass are innocent enough, but I fancy they know something likely to clear up the mystery of the death, if they would but speak."
"Torry," cried Darrel earnestly, "I am sure Donna Maria wishes to discover the assassin of her uncle. You heard her say so?"
"Oh, yes I heard her say so. Words! words! words Why does she not own up?"
"Own up what?" inquired Frank obstinately.
"The truth."
"She doesn't know it."
"She may not know all of it, but she knows half, and Vass knows the other half. If those two would only put their halves together we might arrest this mysterious assassin."
"But why should they not speak out?" argued Darrel.
"Because they are shielding someone."
"Whom?"
Torry looked straight at the young man. "Let us say Donna Inez."
"You are mad!"
"Bah! I am only theoretical," retorted Torry coolly. "Listen. So far as I can see by the imperfect and scattered evidence we have collected, there is a choice of two motives to account for this crime One is that Grent was murdered for the sake of that ten thousand pounds."
"But you can't prove that he had the money. Vass says----"
"I know what Vass says--that the money was in the safe after Grent went. Well, that seems to dispose of the robbery motive. All the same, I would have you remember that when you met Grent he had on him some valuable which he fancied you might take from him. I suggested at our first conversation that it might be a jewel."
"Now, I know that if he carried anything to the rendezvous with Julia Brawn it was that stolen money."
"Rubbish! I say again that you can't prove how it came into Grent's possession."
"Vass might have taken it out of the safe and given it to his master next day."
"Torry," said Darrel gravely, "when Vass left the bank on Friday night the money was in the safe."
"Are you certain of that?"
"I am. Leighbourne told me that he saw it there before he left the office. Vass left the bank along with Leighbourne. The next day he was ill."
"Who was--Vass or Leighbourne?"
"The former. Don't you remember Leighbourne told us so?"
"Ah, yes," cried Torry, with a recollection of the conversation with the banker. "And I thought it was an unnecessary piece of information. Leighbourne said that Vass had been absent from the bank from Saturday till the day we called--that was Tuesday."
"Then," said Frank gravely, "you see how unjust your suspicions are. Vass could not have given Grent the money, since he--Grent--was murdered on Sunday morning."
"H'm! that disposes of the robbery theory. Still," cried Torry, striking his knee with open hand, "I am content to believe that Grent had the money on that night. However, let that pass, and let us come to the second motive--jealousy."
"Jealousy!" repeated Frank contemptuously; "surely you don't believe that Donna Inez was jealous of Julia Brawn?"
"No; but she might have been jealous of Lydia Hargone."
"Why, so far as I can see, Grent had nothing to do with the governess."
"So far as you can see," said Torry significantly. "Nevertheless, on the evidence of the ring, Miss Hargone paid a visit to Grent's chambers on the day, so to speak, of his murder."
"That doesn't prove that there was love between them."
"It proves that there was communication and understanding," retorted Torry tartly.
"Well," said Frank, wearied of the discussion, "we are only spinning ropes of sand in talking theory. What about Blake? Can I tell him the case, and say you'll let him assist?"
"Yes," replied Torry promptly. "He may help us by revealing the secret doings of Lydia Hargone."
"He'll never do that," rejoined Darrel coldly. "Blake is a gentleman, and is engaged to Miss Hargone."
"I dare say. I don't say that he'll assist us purposely in that way; but, my dear sir, your friend is a chatterbox and can't keep a secret. He'll say things he shouldn't say, and will regret revealing them afterwards. Tell him all, enlist his services, and," added Torry significantly, "let him talk."
"It seems rather a shabby thing to do," said Darrel reluctantly.
"All is fair in love and war and detective work, sir. Your conscience is too fine-spun."
"I am afraid it is," replied Darrel gloomily. "However, I promised to help you and I shall keep my promise."
That evening, as Torry was off on a man-hunt of his own, and did not require Darrel's assistance, the young man sat down, as usual, to his work. But, in spite of his resolution to write, he was unable to do so, for the beautiful face of Maria was constantly before his eyes, and her deep rich voice sounded always in his ears. Her image was indelibly impressed on his mind, and, notwithstanding all endeavours, he could not rid himself of that charming phantom. In place of scribbling realistic prose, he felt more inclined to compose amorous poetry, for he had entered into the kingdom of love, lured thither by a woman's loveliness, and was enduring, in no very patient spirit, the torments which are there inflicted on new-comers. A woman's face, a woman's voice, a woman's absence: of such parts were his torments composed.
Darrel recognised that it was impossible to write while in this vein, so he threw down his pen in despair, and wandered forth on his nightly quest for adventures. But the spirit to seek them did not move him, and in place of observing the life around him, he turned his eyes inward to contemplate the loved image of Maria Sandoval. Disappointed, worried, and racked with a thousand doubts, this lover of a day turned homeward, where he retired to bed and did his best to sleep. For the most part of the night he courted slumber in vain, but towards morning exhausted nature claimed her rights, and Darrel slept heavily until ten o'clock. While he was idling over his breakfast, with a tired face and no appetite, Roderick Blake was announced, and entered fresh as a rose to greet his friend.
"How are you my boy?" said the Irishman, who was in exuberant spirits. "You see, I haven't lost much time in looking you up. Breakfast, is it? Ham, eggs, and fish; a mighty good notion of a meal it is. Faith, I don't mind assisting you to clear the table."
"Sit down and welcome. I haven't got any appetite myself," said Darrel.
Blake required no second invitation, but, taking off his gloves, drew a chair up to the table and did wonders as a trencherman. The food melted like snow before his healthy appetite, and all the time he was chatting and laughing and making himself generally agreeable. His sunny clean-shaven face twinkled all over with humour, and his incessant flow of conversation, more or less trivial, did much to raise Darrel's spirits. He even acknowledged the service Blake had done him in banishing care.
"And I'm glad to see," he added, "that you have not lost the appetite for which you were renowned at school."
"Faith, no! but it's little chance I've had of satisfying that appetite," replied Blake airily.
"What! have you been hard up?"
"No; but I'm hard up now."
"Yet you talk of marrying," said Frank reprovingly.
"Not at present. Lydia will wait till I am rich," replied the other. "We are both young and can wait."
"How do you intend to become rich?"
"Not by working, my dear boy," rejoined Blake lighting his pipe, "but by inheritance."
"Another Irish uncle!"
"Faith, no; a grand aunt, who is mighty ill at present. I'll come in for her money when she takes the last vacancy for an angel."
Darrel could not help laughing at the oddity of the remark, the more especially as it was accompanied by a sly wink. Then he became grave.
"I'm afraid you are an awful scamp, Blake."
"Just so," said Roderick complacently. "I'm a rolling stone; and, faith, I've been rolling all over the world these ten years."
"Oh!" remarked Frank, with a recollection of the case; "have you been in South America?"
"You bet, sir; in every part of it."
"In Peru?"
"Yes."
"In Lima?"
"Rather; for two years."
"You know a good deal about the place, I suppose?"
Blake shrugged his shoulders. "I knew more than was good for me," he said with a gloomy look.
"Have you ever come across this sort of thing?" asked Darrel, and produced the Blue Mummy.
"Heaven and earth!" cried Blake, his florid face growing white. "Where did you get that accursed image?"
Frank was amazed by the look on Blake's face. He was quite livid, and an expression of horror was in his eyes. His brow was wet with perspiration, his strong frame trembled, and he seemed to be overcome with terror at the sight of the tomb image. Recollecting the behavior of Vass and Maria, the novelist began to think that the Blue Mummy was of the nature of a basilisk and rendered insane all who looked at it. From being gay and composed, Blake was now terror-stricken and nervous; that fatal image had transformed the bold, confident Irishman into a trembling and abject coward. So astonished was Darrel that he could not speak; and it was Roderick who broke the silence.
"You--you," he said in a hesitating manner--"you are not a member of that infernal society?"
"What society?" asked Darrel, pretending ignorance to learn the more.
"The Society of the Blue Mummy."
"Set your mind at rest, Blake. I know nothing about the society."
The strain on Roderick's nerves relaxed, and he fell back on his chair with an exhausted look. "Have you any brandy?" he murmured faintly; "the sight of that devilish idol has given me a turn."
Still greatly amazed by Roderick's speech and manner, Darrel hastened to the side-board and brought thence a small glass of cognac. On drinking this the courage of Blake revived; the blood came back to his cheeks, the strength to his limbs; and he sat up briskly, with an apology for his momentary weakness.
"But you put the fear of God into me, my dear fellow," said he with a shudder; "indeed you did. I thought I was done for."
"How do you mean--done for?"
"Well I fancied that you produced that Blue Mummy as a sign of my death."
"Oh, is it usually a sign of death."
"Invariably. How it came into your possession, and you still alive, is more than I can make out."
"The explanation is very simple," replied Darrel.
"This image was found beside the body of Grent."
Blake opened his eyes and whistled. "So that explains the mystery of his death," he said under his breath. "The society killed him."
"But why--why?"
"Oh, I don't know the reason," replied Blake. "How can you expect me to? But if he hadn't been killed by that society the Blue Mummy would not have been left by his corpse as a symbol of its vengeance."
"But what is this society which kills people in this barbarous way?"
"I'll tell you all I know," said Roderick gravely, "and you can judge for yourself. One moment."
He looked into Frank's bedroom, glanced out of the sitting-room windows, and opened the outside door to assure himself that no one was on the stairs. Then he returned to his seat, and found Frank's eyes fixed on him with an expression of amused contempt.
"Why are you making all this theatrical display?" said he sarcastically. "You are quite safe here, I assure you. I suspect this society of yours is only a bogey to scare weak-minded people."
"It did more than scare Grent," retorted Blake significantly.
Darrel shrugged his shoulders. "I shall reserve my opinion until I hear your story," he said good-humouredly. "But first, where does this society you talk of exist?"
"In Peru--in Lima."
"Then how is it Grent has fallen a victim in London?"
"I don't know. Hear my story, and judge for yourself. But I must tell you, Darrel, that this is no fairy tale I relate, but a stubborn fact. People--yourself, for instance--might not believe it, because it is not in the newspapers; but it is true for all that--terribly true, as I have reason to know."
He glanced round the room again, and passed his handkerchief over his dry lips. Then he began his tale, in a hurried, nervous fashion, as though he half repented of his resolution to tell it.
"I was in Peru some two years ago," he said, "very hard up, and quite alone, without friend or foe in the whole country. I managed to get a billet as clerk in the office of a Scotch merchant; and although the pay was not large, still it was sufficient to keep me alive. In my own way, I managed to enjoy myself, and to gain a fair knowledge of the Spanish tongue. As you may guess, I was by no means satisfied with my position, and I wished to improve it. Hearing much about gold and silver mines, and the unexpectedness with which they were discovered, I used to lurk about the low quarters of Lima in the hope of gathering information regarding these discoveries from stray Indians. I knew that these peons frequently knew about mines of great riches, but from detestation of the Spaniards would never reveal their whereabouts."
"And you fancied you might learn the locality of some rich mine?"
"Precisely. For that purpose I haunted the native portion of the town, and, as you may guess, met with many adventures, more or less perilous. One of these bore on the mystery of the Blue Mummy."
"Let us hear your mystery," said Frank; "it may explain mine."
"Possibly it may, Darrel. Well, one night when I was returning at a late hour to my poor lodgings, I had to take my way through some rather lonely streets. The night was dark, few people were about, and the streets were badly lighted; so, recollecting these things, I walked carefully and vigilantly, lest I should be attacked by footpads. Suddenly, as I was nearing my lodgings, I heard a terrible cry for help, and dashed round the corner of a street, to find a man lying in the middle of it. Two other men ran away at the sound of my footsteps; and I found that their victim was seriously wounded. Still, he was sufficiently conscious to speak, and asked me in a faint whisper to look for the Blue Mummy."
"Ah! the two men had left it as a token?"
"Yes; I found the image on the ground, and shewed it to the wounded man. He gazed at it with terror, and swooned from dread and loss of blood. I was bent on saving him, if only to learn about the Blue Mummy, for I own that so strange an object piqued my curiosity. As the man was small and light, and I was, as I am still, very strong, I picked him up in my arms, and carried him to my lodgings, which were no great distance away. Then I sent for a doctor, who, after an examination, told me that the poor devil was dying. And die he did, on that very night, four hours after I rescued him; but out of gratitude for my interference he told me the secret of the Blue Mummy."
"Good," said Frank, much excited. "Let us hear it."
"The man's name," resumed Blake, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, "was Pablo Mendoza, and he had been a person of some position and wealth. As he was, therefore, a desirable personage, likely to be useful, he had been induced to join the secret society of the P.P.'s."
"Who are the P.P.'s?"
"The Society of the Patriotic Peruvians," explained Blake. "So far as I can understand, it is formed mostly of Indians, who desire to restore the empire of the Incas, and of Spanish adventurers disaffected towards the Republic of Peru. The symbol of this society is a tomb image, Now these images--"
"I know all about them," interrupted Frank. "They are substitutes for living people, placed in ancient Peruvian tombs."
"Exactly. Well, this society was shewn one of these Inca sepulchres by an old Indian, and found therein over a thousand blue images placed on shelves round the embalmed body, one for each member of the dead man's household. On this discovery the society took the Blue Mummy as its symbol. Whenever a man hostile to the society was to die an image was sent to him; when a man was killed an image was placed beside his body."
"In that case I should think the supply would soon be exhausted."
"Oh no; for after the image had done its mission, which was to intimate who had slain the victim, it was recovered in some way, and restored to the society. For instance, when Mendoza died--by the way, he had been killed for betraying some secrets of the society--well, sir," pursued Blake, "when he died I kept the Blue Mummy, and it nearly cost me my life."
"How so?"
"After the death of Mendoza the society became aware--I don't know how--that I, who had rescued him, was possessed of the symbol of death. Henceforth I was nearly always in danger of death, and several times I ran the risk of stabbing, drowning, poisoning, and many other ways of being got rid of. A friend of mine, who knew about the society, advised me to get rid of the Blue Mummy, so one night I placed it in a niche outside my door. It disappeared within an hour, so after that I had no further trouble."
"But what is the object of this society?"
"To restore native Indian rule; and, like the Anarchists, it works by secret assassination, in order to startle and intimidate those in power."
"Has the society any money?"
"Oh, yes; I believe it is well supplied with funds. You see, the Indians know of many buried and hidden treasures, concealed at the time of the Spanish conquest of Peru; so I suppose they devote those riches to the plots for reconstructing the Empire of the Incas."
"All this is very clear and plausible so far as Peru is concerned," said Frank after a pause, "but I don't see how this system of political plotting and wholesale murder comes to exist in England."
"I can tell you, Darrel. About a year ago the Peruvian Government resolved to put an end to the society, and many people were arrested. They tried to get hold of the money owned by the society, but those who had charge of it fled with it to England and took up their abode in London."
"Is Captain Manuel one of these people?"
"I can't say for certain, but I am pretty sure he is."
"Has he the funds of the society in his possession?"
"A portion of them, maybe," replied Blake. "The society is too clever to put all its eggs into one basket or in one country. In France, Italy, Germany, and Spain there are representatives, who look after and have in their possession a portion of the funds; so if one man proves a traitor and embezzles the money, the others will, probably, remain staunch. I don't know much about Captain Manuel, save that I have met him once or twice at Wray House, but it is my opinion that he is the treasurer of the society in London."
"I quite believe that, Blake; and the amount of his funds is ten thousand pounds."
"Really!" cried Roderick, much astonished. "But how do you know?"
"Because Captain Manuel had that amount, and before Grent's death placed it in his hands."
167
"But Grent is dead; so where is the money now?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?" echoed Blake, jumping up. "What do you mean?"
"What I say," rejoined Darrel drily, "The money has been stolen."
"Stolen! Good Lord! and by whom?"
Frank shrugged his shoulders. "I am as ignorant of that as I am of the man's name who killed Grent. Listen. I have Torry's permission to tell you the case."
"I am all attention," said Blake, resuming his seat.
At once Frank began his story, and narrated all details of the affair from the time he met Mr. Grent disguised in Drury-lane down to Vass's announcement of the robbery. For obvious reasons he did not speak of Torry's discovery of the turquoise ring on Lydia Hargone's finger. Blake listened with profound attention, and, when the narrative was ended, sprang to his feet.
"After what you have told me I see it all," he cried. "Surely, putting my story and yours together, you can guess who killed Grent and Julia Brawn?"
"No, I cannot. Who do you think is the murderer?"
"Who? Why, Captain Manuel, to be sure. He murdered them both."
It cannot be said that Torry had been particularly lucky hitherto in elucidating the mystery of the double tragedy. Certainly he had collected a quantity of evidence, but none likely to indicate directly the names of the assassins. He suspected that Vass and Donna Maria, for reasons of their own, were shielding Mrs. Grent; but this belief had no real foundation in fact. It was incredible that Donna Inez could have had anything to do with the murder of a husband to whom she was fondly attached; yet Torry could not explain the conduct of Maria and Vass on any other grounds than that they knew of something which implicated the elder woman in the affair. Putting Vass out of the question, there was no one, save her aunt, whom Maria had an interest in screening; and Torry was confident that the Spanish girl was screening someone. She knew the truth, he believed, but kept silent for the sake of a certain person. Was that person Donna Inez? He could not, so far as the known evidence went, answer that question.
Darrel had been careful to inform the detective of his interview with Blake and all that the Irishman had told him. He related the story of the Blue Mummy Society, and ended with an account of Roderick's denunciation of Captain Manuel. Torry believed the first, but disputed the second, although Blake, with red-hot enthusiasm, made out a very ingenious case against the Spaniard. He declared that Grent must have taken the ten thousand pounds to deliver to Julia Brawn in Mortality-lane; that when he had given her the money he had been attacked and killed by Manuel as having stolen the funds of the society; that Manuel, not finding the money on his dead body, had surmised that it was in the possession of Julia Brawn, and, having followed her to the Embankment, had killed her near Cleopatra's Needle. Then he had taken the money off her, and had sent it to Paris. Afterwards, to conceal his crime and gain for himself or the society an additional ten thousand pounds, he had applied to Grent's bank for the missing money. "It is as clear as day," said Roderick, "that Captain Manuel is the assassin."
"Rubbish!" said Torry when the details of this accusation were submitted to him by Darrel. "Clear as day, indeed! Clear as mud, he means. In the first place, we have absolutely no proof that Grent was in possession of the money on the night of his death; in the second, as the theft was not discovered until three or four days after the murder, Manuel could not have known beforehand that the funds of his society were missing; therefore he had no motive to commit the crime. Again, it has been clearly proved by the evidence of the third cabman that Julia Brawn, with an unknown man, drove to the Embankment in the most leisurely manner, and as there were no fourth cab near Mortality-lane at that time, Manuel, even presuming him to have been present, could not have followed sufficiently rapidly to have caught her. Finally," concluded Torry, "the man who was with Julia might have let Manuel kill Grent, but he would not have permitted him to assassinate Julia."
"But the man might have been Manuel himself," urged Frank.
"He might have been, if you go by the evidence of the two blue images which Manuel, as a representative of the society, might have placed by the bodies. But, ignorant of the loss of the money, Manuel had no motive to kill Grent. No, Mr. Darrel, whosoever killed these unlucky people, it was not this Spanish gentleman."
"Yet if you go by the story of Blake, the two victims undoubtedly were killed by order of the society."
"I grant you that," admitted Torry quickly, "and as Manuel represents this cut-throat association, I'll have him watched."
"Why not have him arrested?"
"Because I have not sufficient evidence to obtain a warrant for his arrest," said Torry. "Also," he added with emphasis, "I prefer to play a waiting game."
From this position Torry was not to be moved. Nothing could convince him of Captain Manuel's guilt; and certainly the Spaniard acted in every way like an innocent man. He came daily to see the detective and ask after the case. He offered to submit himself to the authorities for examination, and this offer having been accepted, gave an account of the Patriotic Peruvian Society. His story was similar to that of Blake, but he denied that the members of the society were in the habit of assassinating people. They were actuated, he declared, by the purest of motives, and sought to gain their ends by upright methods. Manuel also confessed that several of the tomb images had been stolen, and might have been placed by the assassin near the body to implicate the society in the crimes. The Spaniard also explained that he had passed the evening of the murder, first at the theatre, and afterwards at the house of an acquaintance, where he was playing cards until a late hour. This account was corroborated by several witnesses, and it was conclusively proved that Manuel could not have killed Grent or Julia Brawn. Torry was triumphant at this confirmation of his opinion.
"You see, Mr. Darrel, I was right," he said, rubbing his hands.
"So far as Manuel is concerned, you are, Torry; but I believe that the society had the murders committed. Manuel may not have done the deeds himself, but he instructed the murderers."
"Nonsense! I believe jealousy was the motive of the double crime."
"And I believe the motive was robbery! Grent stole the ten thousand, and was murdered for the sake of it."
"In that case, the society, as represented by Manuel, could not have killed him, as he did not know that the money was lost."
Darrel groaned. "You are beginning the argument all over again, my good fellow," he said, stopping his ears. "For my part, I do not believe that the truth will ever be discovered."
And, indeed, it seemed as though Frank spoke with the spirit of prophecy; for three or four days passed without anything of importance being discovered. Torry tried in vain to ascertain the whereabouts of the stolen notes, the numbers of which he obtained from Manuel. Not a single one could be traced; so it seemed as though the assassin, fearful of the outcry which had followed the committal of the double crime, had hesitated to put them into circulation. At the time of the inquest the robbery had not been mentioned, as the loss had not been discovered until afterwards. Torry therefore carefully kept the fact of the theft from the reporters.
"It is foolish to put everything in the newspapers," said he shrewdly, "as details of our doings only reveal our plans, and when in print may put the assassin on his guard. He would learn our hand, but we should not know his. For my part, in these sorts of cases I would not allow a single detail to be published until the criminal had been secured. The Press oftentimes does more harm than good."
While Torry was thus fuming and fretting, and wondering what step it would be best to take a lady called to see him at his private office. She was tall and majestic, dressed in black and deeply veiled, and refused to give her name save to the detective himself. When alone with him in his room, the unknown raised her veil and revealed the countenance of an elderly woman; she was long past her youth, but looked still beautiful, and there was a fire in her large dark eyes which shewed that she possessed a haughty and fiery spirit.
"I am Mrs. Grent," she said in a low voice, with a strong foreign accent.
"Donna Inez?" said Torry, thrown off his guard by the announcement.
The lady bowed. "I look for you at the police-yard," she said quickly, "but you not there; they tell me you here, so I come. Have you in your hands that assassin?"
"No, ma'am, not yet. I regret to say that we cannot find him."
"Why you sayhim?" demanded Donna Inez abruptly.
"Why!" echoed Mr. Torry in astonishment, "because I believe the assassin to be a man."
"It is wrong, sir. A woman killed my husband."
"A woman?"
"Yes, one known. Miss Lydia Hargone! Ah! the base wretch!"
"You are not serious, Mrs. Grent?" cried the detective, much amazed.
"By our Saints, I talk true!" retorted the Spanish woman, her eyes flashing brilliantly.
"Sir, I will speak! They are against me; Maria and this Lydia."
"Ah!" muttered Torry quickly, "I wonder if it is Miss Hargone who is being screened by Donna Maria and Vass." He raised his voice and addressed Mrs. Grent: "Why should they be against you, madam?"
"Lydia for her wickedness; Maria being governed by that evil one. I did not speak at Wray House; I saw you not as they would have told me--'Ah how foolish! Ah! how wrong!' So, sir here I come to tell you that my husband was killed by Lydia Hargone. Smiling traitress!"
"How do you know?" asked Torry sharply.
"I am sure, I swear!" Donna Inez crossed herself rapidly. "By the Holy Mother, I swear!"
"Have you any proof?"
"No; but listen. I will tell. I love my husband, he loves me. We were happy as angels in Paradise till came that evil Lydia. Then she make the eyes, the smiles at my husband. Oh, yes; for why--because she poor, she wish money, much money. My husband, poor fool, he smile on her, he angry with me, yet good wife I was this long time--ah, sir, ten year. This old man, he love her, and I--ah, it so suffocates me to speak it--I am thought not of, I am neglected. Yes, yes, it is true. I--I--I--Inez Sandoval, was left for her--perfiding one," and in her rage Mrs. Grent shook her two fists in the air.
"Why did you not turn her out of the house?" asked Torry.
"I? Who am I?" replied Donna Inez with a bitter laugh. "No one--a wife not loved. I rage, I speak, I implore for her to go; but no, no, no. My husband he say: 'Stay! stay!' and the accursed one stops. Then I say: You go, or I depart for Peru. Ah!'"
"So Miss Hargone left Wray House?" said Torry, seeing that Donna Inez was too overcome by passion to speak further.
"Yes, she leave," continued Mrs. Grent, when she recovered her speech. "I say: 'you go, or I go,' so she go. But I know she met my fool husband in this city."
"Ha!" exclaimed Torry, recollecting the visit of Lydia to the Duke-street rooms on the fatal Saturday.
"Yes, yes; and I swear she fly with him. He say: 'I go to Italy.' Oh, yes, I know that, but not alone; she go also. My husband meet her to fly. Then she see he too old and kill him by her lover."
"What--Mr. Blake?"
"No, no; she say she love him, but that one big lie. She love young Leighbourne."
"Impossible!" cried Torry, utterly taken aback.
"I tell you, yes. Blake think she love him; but no, she love Mister Leighbourne. Oh, yes, I swear it. You see that wretch and speak."
"Yes, I'll see her, madam; but whether she loved your husband, or loves Leighbourne or Blake, I'm sure she did not commit the murder."
"Ki! Ki Ki!" cried Donna Inez derisively, and took her leave.