When I regained the bridge I crossed to the further parapet and looked down at the river. I could see nothing of the boat; doubtless it had passed out of sight behind a string of barges that lay in the tideway. As I watched, the moon was veiled again by the clouds that rolled up from the west, heralding a second storm; and in another minute or so a fresh deluge had commenced.
But I scarcely heeded it. I leaned against the parapet staring at the dark, mysterious river and the lights that fringed and spanned it like strings of blurred jewels, seen mistily through the driving rain.
I was bareheaded, for the fierce gust of wind that came as harbinger of the squall had swept off my hat and whirled it into the water, where doubtless it would be carried down-stream, on the swiftly ebbing tide, in the wake of that boat which was hastening—whither? I don’t think I knew at the time that my hat was gone. I have lived through some strange and terrible experiences; but I have seldom suffered more mental agony than I did during those few minutes that I stood in the rain on Westminster Bridge.
I was trembling from head to foot, my soul was sick, my mind distracted by the effort to find any plausible explanation of the scene I had just witnessed.
What was this mystery that encompassed the girl I loved; that had closed around her now? A mystery that I had never even suspected till a few hours ago, though I had seen Anne every day for this month past,—ever since I first met her.
But, after all, what did I know of her antecedents? Next to nothing; and that I had learned mainly from my cousin Mary.
Now I came to think of it, Anne had told me very little about herself. I knew that her father, Anthony Pendennis, came of an old family, and possessed a house and estate in the west of England, which he had let on a long lease. Anne had never seen her ancestral home, for her father lived a nomadic existence on the Continent; one which she had shared, since she left the school at Neuilly, where she and Mary first became friends.
I gathered that she and her father were devoted to each other; and that he had spared her unwillingly for this long-promised visit to her old school-fellow. Mary, I knew, would have welcomed Mr. Pendennis also; but by all accounts he was an eccentric person, who preferred to live anywhere rather than in England, the land of his birth. He and Anne were birds of passage, who wintered in Italy or Spain or Egypt as the whim seized him; and spent the summer in Switzerland or Tyrol, or elsewhere. In brief they wandered over Europe, north and south, according to the season; avoiding only the Russian Empire and the British Isles.
I had never worried my mind with conjectures as to the reason of this unconventional mode of living. It had seemed to me natural enough, as I, too, was anomad; a stranger and sojourner in many lands, since I left the old homestead in Iowa twelve years ago, to seek my fortune in the great world. During these wonderful weeks I had been spellbound, as it were, by Anne’s beauty, her charm. When I was with her I could think only of her; and in the intervals,—well, I still thought of her, and was dejected or elated as she had been cruel or kind. To me her many caprices had seemed but the outcome of her youthful light-heartedness; of a certain naïve coquetry, that rendered her all the more dear and desirable; “a rosebud set about with little wilful thorns;” a girl who would not be easily wooed and won, and, therefore, a girl well worth winning.
But now—now—I saw her from a different standpoint; saw her enshrouded in a dark mystery, the clue to which eluded me. Only one belief I clung to with passionate conviction, as a drowning man clings to a straw. She loved me. I could not doubt that, remembering the expression of her wistful face as we parted under the portico so short a time ago, though it seemed like a lifetime. Had she planned her flight even then,—if flight it was,—and what else could it be?
My cogitations terminated abruptly for the moment as a heavy hand was laid on my shoulder, and a gruff voice said in my ear: “Come, none o’ that, now! What are you up to?”
I turned and faced a burly policeman, whom I knew well. He recognized me, also, and saluted.
“Beg pardon; didn’t know it was you, sir. Thought it was one of these here sooicides, or some one that had had—well, a drop too much.”
He eyed me curiously. I dare say I looked, in my hatless and drenched condition, as if I might come under the latter category.
“It’s all right,” I answered, forcing a laugh. “I wasn’t meditating a plunge in the river. My hat blew off, and when I looked after it I saw something that interested me, and stayed to watch.”
It was a lame explanation and not precisely true. He glanced over the parapet in his turn. The rain was abating once more, and the light was growing as the clouds sped onwards. The moon was at full, and would only set at dawn.
“I don’t see anything,” he remarked. “What was it, sir? Anything suspicious?”
His tone inferred that it must have been something very much out of the common to have kept me there in the rain. Having told him so much I was bound to tell him more.
“A rowboat, with two or three people in it; going down-stream. That’s unusual at this time of night—or morning—isn’t it?”
He grinned widely.
“Was that all? It wasn’t worth the wetting you’ve got, sir!”
“I don’t see where the joke comes in,” I said.
“Well, sir, you newspaper gents are always on the lookout for mysteries,” he asserted, half apologetically. “There’s nothing out of the way in a boat going up or down-stream at any hour of the day or night; or if there was the river police would be on its track in a jiffy. They patrol the river same as we walk our beat. It might have been one of their boats you saw, or some bargees as had been making a night of it ashore. If Iwas you, I’d turn in as soon as possible. ’Tain’t good for any one to stand about in wet clothes.”
We walked the length of the bridge together, and he continued to hold forth loquaciously. We parted, on the best of terms, at the end of his beat; and following his advice, I walked rapidly homewards. I was chilled to the bone, and unutterably miserable, but if I stayed out all night that would not alter the situation.
The street door swung back under my touch, as I was in the act of inserting my latch-key in the lock. Some one had left it open, in defiance of the regulations, well known to every tenant of the block. I slammed it with somewhat unnecessary vigor, and the sound went booming and echoing up the well of the stone staircase, making a horrible din, fit to wake the seven sleepers of Ephesus.
It did waken the housekeeper’s big watch-dog, chained up in the basement, and he bayed furiously. I leaned over the balustrade and called out. He knew my voice, and quieted down at once, but not before his master had come out in his pyjamas, yawning and blinking. Poor old Jenkins, his rest was pretty frequently disturbed, for if any one of the bachelor tenants of the upper flats—the lower ones were let out as offices—forgot his street-door key, or returned in the small hours in a condition that precluded him from manipulating it, Jenkins would be rung up to let him in; and, being one of the best of good sorts, would certainly guide him up the staircase and put him comfortably to bed.
“I’m right down sorry, Jenkins,” I called. “I found the street door open, and slammed it without thinking.”
“Open! Well there, who could have left it open,going out or in?” he exclaimed, seeming more perturbed than the occasion warranted. “Must have been quite a short time back, for it isn’t an hour since Caesar began barking like he did just now; and he never barks for nothing. I went right up the stairs and there was no one there and not a sound. The door was shut fast enough then, for I tried it. It couldn’t have been Mr. Gray or Mr. Sellars, for they’re away week ending, and Mr. Cassavetti came in before twelve. I met him on the stairs as I was turning the lights down.”
“Perhaps he went out again to post,” I suggested. “Good night, Jenkins.”
“Good night, sir. You got caught in the storm, then?” He had just seen how wet I was, and eyed me curiously, as the policeman had done.
“Yes, couldn’t see a cab and had to come through it. Lost my hat, too; it blew off,” I answered over my shoulder, as I ran up the stairs. Lightly clad though he was, Jenkins seemed inclined to stay gossiping there till further orders.
When I got into my flat and switched on the lights, I found I still held, crumpled up in my hand, the bit of geranium I had picked up on the river steps. But for that evidence I might have persuaded myself that I had imagined the whole thing. I dropped the crushed petals into the waste-paper basket, and, as I hastily changed from my wet clothes into pyjamas, I mentally rehearsed the scene over and over again. Could I have been misled by a chance resemblance? Impossible. Anne was not merely a beautiful girl, but a strikingly distinctive personality. I had recognized her figure, her gait, as I would have recognized them among athousand; that fleeting glimpse of her face had merely confirmed the recognition. As for her presence in Westminster at a time when she should have been at Mrs. Dennis Sutherland’s house in Kensington, or at home with the Cayleys in Chelsea, that could be easily accounted for on the presumption that she had not stayed long at Mrs. Sutherland’s. Had the Cayleys already discovered her flight? Probably not. Was Cassavetti cognizant of it,—concerned with it in any way; and was the incident of the open door that had so perplexed Jenkins another link in the mysterious chain? At any rate, Cassavetti was not the man dressed as a sailor; though he might have been the man in the boat.
The more I brooded over it the more bewildered—distracted—my brain became. I tried to dismiss the problem from my mind, “to give it up,” in fact; and, since sleep was out of the question, to occupy myself with preparations for the packing that must be done to-morrow—no, to-day, for the dawn had come—if I were to start for Russia on Monday morning.
But it was no use. I could not concentrate my mind on anything; also, though I’m an abstemious man as a rule, I guess I put away a considerable amount of whiskey. Anyhow, I’ve no recollection of going to bed; but I woke with a splitting headache, and a thirst I wouldn’t take five dollars for, and the first things I saw were a whiskey bottle and soda syphon—both empty—on the dressing-table.
As I lay blinking at those silent witnesses—the bottle had been nearly full overnight—and trying to remember what had happened, there came a knock at my bedroom door, and Mrs. Jenkins came in with my breakfast tray.
She was an austere dame, and the glance she cast at that empty whiskey bottle was more significant and accusatory than any words could have been; though all she said was: “I knocked before, sir, with your shaving water, but you didn’t hear. It’s cold now, but I’ll put some fresh outside directly.”
I mumbled meek thanks, and, when she retreated, poured out some tea. I guessed there were eggs and bacon, the alpha and omega of British ideas of breakfast, under the dish cover; but I did not lift it. My soul—and my stomach—revolted at the very thought of such fare.
I had scarcely sipped my tea when I heard the telephone bell ring in the adjoining room. I scrambled up and was at the door when Mrs. Jenkins announced severely: “The telephone, Mr. Wynn,” and retreated to the landing.
“Hello?”
“Is that Mr. Wynn?” responded a soft, rich, feminine voice that set my pulses tingling. “Oh, it is you, Maurice; I’m so glad. We rang you up from Chelsea, but could get no answer. You won’t know who it is speaking; it is I, Anne Pendennis!”
“
I’m speaking from Charing Cross station; can you hear me?” the voice continued. “I’ve had a letter from my father; he’s ill, and I must go to him at once. I’m starting now, nine o’clock.”
I glanced at the clock, which showed a quarter to nine.
“I’ll be with you in five minutes—darling!” I responded, throwing in the last word with immense audacity. “Au revoir; I’ve got to hustle!”
I put up the receiver and dashed back into my bedroom, where my cold bath, fortunately, stood ready. Within five minutes I was running down the stairs, as if a sheriff and posse were after me, while Mrs. Jenkins leaned over the hand-rail and watched me, evidently under the impression that I was the victim of sudden dementia.
There was not a cab to be seen, of course; there never is one in Westminster on a Sunday morning, and I raced the whole way to Charing Cross on foot; tore into the station, and made for the platform whence the continental mail started. An agitated official tried to stop me at the barrier.
“Too late, sir, train’s off; here—stand away—stand away there!”
He yelled after me as I pushed past him and scooted along the platform. I had no breath to spare for explanations,but I dodged the porters who started forward to intercept me, and got alongside the car, where I saw Anne leaning out of the window.
“Where are you going?” I gasped, running alongside.
“Berlin. Mary has the address!” Anne called. “Oh, Maurice, let go; you’ll be killed!”
A dozen hands grasped me and held me back by main force.
“See you—Tuesday!” I cried, and she waved her hand as if she understood.
“It’s—all right—you fellows—I wasn’t trying—to board—the car—” I said in jerks, as I got my breath again, and I guess they grasped the situation, for they grinned and cleared off, as Mary walked up to me.
“Well, I must say you ran it pretty fine, Maurice,” she remarked accusatively. “And, my! what a fright you look! Why, you haven’t shaved this morning; and your tie’s all crooked!”
I put my hand up to my chin.
“I was only just awake when Anne rang me up,” I explained apologetically. “It’s exactly fifteen and a half minutes since I got out of bed; and I ran the whole way!”
“You look like it, you disreputable young man,” she retorted laughing. “Well, you’d better come right back to breakfast. You can use Jim’s shaving tackle to make yourself presentable.”
She marched me off to the waiting brougham, and gave me the facts of Anne’s hasty departure as we drove rapidly along the quiet, clean-washed, sunny streets.
“The letter came last night, but of course Annedidn’t get it till she came in this morning, about three.”
“Did you sit up for her?”
“Goodness, no! Didn’t you see Jim lend her his latch-key? We knew it would be a late affair,—that’s why we didn’t go,—and that some one would see her safe home, even if you weren’t there. The Amory’s motored her home in their car; they had to wait for the storm to clear. I had been sleeping the sleep of the just for hours, and never even heard her come in. She’ll be dead tired, poor dear, having next to no sleep, and then rushing off like this—”
“What’s wrong with Mr. Pendennis?” I interpolated. “Was the letter from him?”
“Why, certainly; who should it be from? We didn’t guess it was important, or we’d have sent it round to her at Mrs. Sutherland’s last night. He’s been sick for some days, and Anne believes he’s worse than he makes out. She only sent word to my room a little before eight; and then she was all packed and ready to go. Wild horses wouldn’t keep Anne from her father if he wanted her! We’re to send her trunks on to-morrow.”
While my cousin prattled on, I was recalling the events of a few hours back. I must have been mistaken, after all! What a fool I had been! Why hadn’t I gone straight to Kensington after I left Lord Southbourne? I should have spared myself a good deal of misery. And yet—I thought of Anne’s face as I saw it just now, looking out of the window, pale and agitated, just as it had looked in the moonlight last night. No! I might mentally call myself every kind of idiot, but my conviction remained fixed; it was Anne whom Ihad seen. Suppose she had left Mrs. Sutherland’s early, as I had decided she must have done, when I racked my brains in the night. It was close on one o’clock when I saw her on the river; she might have landed lower down. I did not know—I do not know even now—if there were any steps like those by Westminster Bridge, where a landing could be effected; but suppose there were, she would be able to get back to Cayleys by the time she had said. But why go on such an expedition at all? Why? That was the maddening question to which I could not even suggest an answer.
“What was it you called to Anne about seeing her on Tuesday?” demanded Mary, who fortunately did not notice my preoccupation.
“I shall break my journey there.”
“Of course. I forgot you were off to-morrow. Where to?”
“St. Petersburg.”
“My! You’ll have a lively time there by all accounts. Here we are; I hadn’t time for breakfast, and I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”
As we crossed the hall I saw a woman’s dark cloak, flung across an oak settee. It struck me as being rather like that which Anne—if it were Anne—had worn. Mary picked it up.
“That oughtn’t to be lying there. It’s Mrs. Sutherland’s. Anne borrowed it last night as her own was flimsy for a car. I must send it back to-day. Go right up to Jim’s dressing-room, Maurice; you’ll find all you want there.”
She ran up the stairs before me, the cloak over her arm, little thinking how significant that cloak was to me.
I cut myself rather badly while shaving, and I evinced a poor appetite for breakfast. Jim and Mary, especially Jim, saw fit to rally me on that, and on my solemn visage, which was not exactly beautified by the cut. I took myself off as soon after the meal as I decently could, on the plea of getting through with my packing; though I promised to return in the evening to say good-bye.
I had remembered my appointment with the old Russian, and was desperately anxious not to be out if he should come.
On one point I was determined. I would give no one, not even Mary, so much as a hint of the mysteries that were half-maddening me; at least until I had been able to seek an explanation of them from Anne herself.
My man never turned up, nor had he been there while I was absent, as I elicited by a casual inquiry of Jenkins as to whether any one had called.
I told him when I returned from the Cayleys that I was going away in the morning, and he came to lend a hand with the packing and clearing up.
“No, sir, not a soul’s been; the street door was shut all morning. I’d rather be rung up a dozen times than have bad characters prowling about on the staircase. There’s a lot of wrong ’uns round about Westminster! Seems quieter than usual up here to-day, don’t it, sir? With all the residentials away, except you.”
“Why, is Cassavetti away, too?” I asked, looking up.
“I think he must be, sir, for I haven’t seen or heard anything of him. But I don’t do for him as I do for you and the other gents. He does for himself, and won’t let me have a key, or the run of his rooms. Histenancy’s up in a week or two, and a pretty state we shall find ’em in, I expect! We shan’t miss him like we miss you, sir. Shall you be long away this time?”
“Can’t say, Jenkins. It may be one month or six—or forever,” I added, remembering Carson’s fate.
“Oh, don’t say that, sir,” remonstrated Jenkins.
“I wonder if Mr. Cassavetti is out. I’d like to say good-bye to him,” I resumed presently. “Go up and ring, there’s a good chap, Jenkins. And if he’s there, you might ask him to come down.”
It struck me that I might at least ascertain from Cassavetti what he knew of Anne. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?
Jenkins departed on his errand, and half a minute later I heard a yell that brought me to my feet with a bound.
“Hello, what’s up?” I called, and rushed up the stairs, to meet Jenkins at the top, white and shaking.
“Look there, sir,” he stammered. “What is it? ’Twasn’t there this morning, when I turned the lights out, I’ll swear!”
He pointed to the door-sill, through which was oozing a sluggish, sinister-looking stream of dark red fluid.
“It’s—it’s blood!” he whispered.
I had seen that at the first glance.
“Shall I go for the police?”
“No,” I said sharply. “He may be only wounded.”
I went and hammered at the door, avoiding contact with that horrible little pool.
“Cassavetti! Cassavetti! Are you within, man?” I shouted; but there was no answer.
“Stand aside. I’m going to break the lock,” I cried.
I flung myself, shoulder first, against the lock, andcaught at the lintel to save myself from falling, as the lock gave and the door swung inwards,—to rebound from something that it struck against.
I pushed it open again, entered sideways through the aperture, and beckoned Jenkins to follow.
Huddled up in a heap, almost behind the door, was the body of a man; the face with its staring eyes was upturned to the light.
It was Cassavetti himself, dead; stabbed to the heart.
Ibent over the corpse and touched the forehead tentatively with my finger-tips. It was stone cold. The man must have been dead many hours.
“Come on; we must send for the police; pull yourself together, man!” I said to Jenkins, who seemed half-paralyzed with fear and horror.
We squeezed back through the small opening, and I gently closed the door, and gripping Jenkins by the arm, marched him down the stairs to my rooms. He was trembling like a leaf, and scarcely able to stand alone.
“We’ve never had such a thing happen before,” he kept mumbling helplessly, over and over again.
I bade him have some whiskey, if he could find any, and remain there to keep an eye on the staircase, while I went across to Scotland Yard; for, through some inexplicable pig-headedness on the part of the police authorities, not even the headquarters was on the telephone.
The Abbey bells were ringing for afternoon service, and there were many people about, churchgoers and holiday makers in their Sunday clothes. The contrast between the sunny streets, with their cheerful crowds, and the silent sinister tragedy of the scene I had just left struck me forcibly.
If I had sent Jenkins on the errand, I guess he would have created quite a sensation. That is why I went myself; and I doubt if any one saw anything unusual about me, as I threaded my way quietly through the throng at Whitehall corner, where the ’buses stop to take up passengers.
A minute or two later I was in an inspector’s room at “the Yard,” giving my information to a little man who heard me out almost in silence, watching me keenly the while.
I imagine that I appeared quite calm. I could hear my own voice stating the bald facts succinctly, but, to my ears, it sounded like the voice of some one else, for it was with a great effort that I retained my composure. I knew that this strange and terrible event which I had been the one to discover was only another link in the chain of circumstances, which, so far as my knowledge went, began less than twenty-four hours ago; a chain that threatened to fetter me, or the girl I loved. For my own safety I cared nothing. My one thought was to protect Anne, who must be, either fortuitously, or of her own will, involved in this tangled web of intrigue.
I should, of course, be subjected to cross-examination, and, on my way to Scotland Yard, I had decided just what I meant to reveal. I would have to relate how I encountered the old Russian, when he mistook my flat for Cassavetti’s; but of the portrait in his possession, of our subsequent interview, and of the incident of the river steps, I would say nothing.
For the present I merely stated how Jenkins and I had discovered the fact that a murder had been committed.
“I dined in company with Mr. Cassavetti last night,” I continued. “But before that—”
I was going to mention the mysterious Russian; but my auditor checked me.
“Half a minute, Mr. Wynn,” he said, as he filled in some words on a form, and handed it to a police officer waiting inside the door. The man took the paper, saluted, and went out.
“I gather that you did not search the rooms? That when you found the man lying dead there, you simply came out and left everything as it was?”
“Yes. I saw at once we could do nothing; the poor fellow was cold and rigid.”
I felt that I spoke dully, mechanically; but the horror of the thing was so strongly upon me, that, if I had relaxed the self-restraint I was exerting, I think I should have collapsed altogether. This business-like little official, who had received the news that a murder had been committed as calmly as if I had merely told him some one had tried to pick my pocket, could not imagine and must not suspect the significance this ghastly discovery held for me, or the maddening conjectures that were flashing across my mind.
“I wish every one would act as sensibly; it would save us a lot of trouble;” he remarked, closing his note-book, and stowing it, and his fountain pen, in his breast-pocket. “I will return with you now; my men will be there before we are, and the divisional surgeon won’t be long after us.”
The rooms were in great disorder, and had been subjected to an exhaustive search. Page 51The rooms were in great disorder, and had been subjected to an exhaustive search.Page51
We walked the short distance in silence; and when we turned the corner of the street where the block was situated, I saw that the news had spread, as such news always does, in some unaccountable fashion, for alittle crowd had assembled, gazing at the closed street-door, and exchanging comments and ejaculations.
I pulled out my keys, but, for all the self-control I thought I was maintaining, my hand trembled so I could not fit the latch-key into the lock.
“Allow me,” said my companion, and took the bunch out of my shaking hand, just as the door was opened from within by a constable who had stationed himself in the lobby.
On the top landing we overtook another constable, and two plain-clothes officers, to whom Jenkins was volubly asserting his belief that it was none other than the assassin who had left the door open in the night.
The minute investigation that followed revealed several significant facts. One was that the assassin must have been in the rooms for some considerable time before Cassavetti returned,—to be struck down the instant he entered. The position of the body, just behind the door, proved that. Also he was still wearing his thin Inverness, and his hat had rolled to a corner of the little hall. He had not even had time to replace his keys in his trousers pocket; they dangled loosely from their chain, and jingled as the body was lifted and moved to the inner room.
The rooms were in great disorder, and had been subjected to an exhaustive search; even the books had been tumbled out of their shelves and thrown on the floor. But ordinary robbery was evidently not the motive, for there were several articles of value scattered about the room; nor had the body been rifled. Cassavetti wore a valuable diamond ring, which was still on his finger, as his gold watch was still in his breast-pocket; it had stopped at ten minutes to twelve.
“Run down, so that shows nothing,” the detective remarked, as he opened it and looked at the works. “Do you know if your friend carried a pocket-book, Mr. Wynn? He did? Then that’s the only thing missing. It was papers they were after, and I presume they got ’em!”
That was obvious enough, for not a scrap of written matter was discovered, nor the weapon with which the crime was committed.
“It’s a fairly straightforward case,” Inspector Freeman said complacently, later, when the gruesome business was over, and the body removed to the mortuary. “A political affair, of course; the man was a Russian revolutionary—we used to call ’em Nihilists a few years ago—and his name was no more Cassavetti than mine is! Now, Mr. Wynn, you told me you knew him, and dined with him last night. Do you care to give me any particulars, or would you prefer to keep them till you give evidence at the inquest?”
“I’ll give them you now, of course,” I answered promptly. “I can’t attend the inquest, for I’m leaving England to-morrow morning.”
“Then you’ll have to postpone your journey,” he said dryly. “For you’re bound to attend the inquest; you’ll be the most important witness. May I ask where you were going?”
I told him, and he nodded.
“So you’re one of Lord Southbourne’s young men? Thought I knew your face, but couldn’t quite place you,” he responded. “Hope you won’t meet with the same fate as your predecessor. A sad affair, that; we got the news on Friday. Sounds like much the same sort of thing as this”—he jerked his head towardsthe ceiling—“except that Mr. Carson was an Englishman, who never ought to have mixed himself up with a lot like that.”
Again came that expressive jerk of the head, and his small bright eyes regarded me more shrewdly and observantly than ever.
“Let me give you a word of warning, Mr. Wynn; don’t you follow his example. Remember Russia’s not England—”
“I know. I’ve been there before. Besides, my chief warned me last night.”
“Lord Southbourne? Just so; he knows a thing or two. Well, now about Cassavetti—”
I was glad enough to get back to the point; it was he and not I who had strayed from it, for I was anxious to get rid of him.
I gave him just the information I had decided upon, and flattered myself that I did it with a candor that precluded even him from suspecting that I was keeping anything back. To my immense relief he refrained from any questioning, and at the end of my recital put up his pocket-book, and rose, holding out his hand.
“Well, you’ve given me very valuable assistance, Mr. Wynn. Queer old card, that Russian. We shouldn’t have much difficulty in tracing him, though you never can tell with these aliens. They’ve as many bolt holes as a rat. You say he’s the only suspicious looking visitor you’ve ever seen here?”
“The only one of any kind I’ve encountered who wanted Cassavetti. After all, I knew very little of him, and though we were such near neighbors, I saw him far more often about town than here.”
“You never by any chance saw a lady going up to hisrooms, or on the staircase as if she might be going up there? A red-haired woman,—or fair-haired, anyhow—well-dressed?”
“Never!” I said emphatically, and with truth. “Why do you ask?”
“Because there was a red-haired woman in his flat last night. That’s all. Good day, Mr. Wynn.”
It was rather late that evening when I returned to the Cayleys; for I had to go to the office, and write my report of the murder. It would be a scoop for the “Courier;” for, though the other papers might get hold of the bare facts, the details of the thrilling story I constructed were naturally exclusive. I made it pretty lurid, and put in all I had told Freeman, and that I intended to repeat at the inquest.
The news editor was exultant. He regarded a Sunday murder as nothing short of a godsend to enliven the almost inevitable dulness of the Monday morning’s issue at this time of year.
“Lucky you weren’t out of town, Wynn, or we should have missed this, and had to run in with the rest,” he remarked with a chuckle.
Lucky!
“Wish I had been out of town,” I said gloomily. “It’s a ghastly affair.”
“Get out! Ghastly!” he ejaculated with scorn. “Nothing’s ghastly to a journalist, so long as it’s good copy! You ought to have forgotten you ever possessed any nerves, long ago. Must say you look a bit off color, though. Have a drink?”
I declined with thanks. His idea of a drink in office hours, was, as I knew, some vile whiskey fetched fromthe nearest “pub,” diluted with warm, flat soda, and innocent of ice. I’d wait till I got to Chelsea, where I was bound to happen on something drinkable. As a good American, Mary scored off the ordinary British housewife, who preserves a fixed idea that ice is a sinful luxury, even during a spell of sultry summer weather in London.
I drove from the office to Chelsea, and found Mary and Jim, with two or three others, sitting in the garden. The house was one of the few old-fashioned ones left in that suburb, redolent of many memories and associations of witty and famous folk, from Nell Gwynn to Thomas Carlyle; and Mary was quite proud of her garden, though it consisted merely of a small lawn and some fine old trees that shut off the neighboring houses.
“At last! You very bad boy. We expected you to tea,” said Mary, as I came down the steps of the little piazza outside the drawing-room windows. “You don’t mean to tell me you’ve been packing all this time? Why, goodness, Maurice; you look worse than you did this morning! You haven’t been committing a murder, have you?”
“No, but I’ve been discovering one,” I said lamely, as I dropped into a wicker chair.
“A murder! How thrilling. Do tell us all about it,” cried a pretty, kittenish little woman whose name I did not know. Strange how some women have an absolutely ghoulish taste for horrors!
“Give him a chance, Mrs. Vereker,” interposed Jim hastily, with his accustomed good nature. “He hasn’t had a drink yet. Moselle cup, Maurice, or a long peg?”
He brought me a tall tumbler of whiskey and soda, with ice clinking deliciously in it; and I drank it and felt better.
“That’s good,” I remarked. “I haven’t had anything since I breakfasted with you,—forgot all about it till now. You see I happened to find the poor chap—Cassavetti—when I ran up to say good-bye to him.”
“Cassavetti!” cried Jim and Mary simultaneously, and Mary added: “Why, that was the man who sat next us—next Anne—at dinner last night, wasn’t it? The man the old Russian you told us about came to see?”
I nodded.
“The police are after him now; though the old chap seemed harmless enough, and didn’t look as if he’d the physical strength to murder any one,” I said, and related my story to a running accompaniment of exclamations from the feminine portion of my audience, especially Mrs. Vereker, who evinced an unholy desire to hear all the most gruesome details.
Jim sat smoking and listening almost in silence, his jolly face unusually grave.
“This stops your journey, of course, Maurice?” he said at length; and I thought he looked at me curiously. Certainly as I met his eyes he avoided my gaze as if in embarrassment; and I felt hot and cold by turns, wondering if he had divined the suspicion that was torturing me—suspicion that was all but certainty—that Anne Pendennis was intimately involved in the grim affair. He had always distrusted her.
“For a day or two only. Even if the inquest is adjourned, I don’t suppose I’ll have to stop for the furtherhearing,” I answered, affecting an indifference I was very far from feeling.
“Then you won’t be seeing Anne as soon as you anticipated,” Mary remarked. “I must write to her to-morrow. She’ll be so shocked.”
“Did Miss Pendennis know this Mr. Cassavetti?” inquired Mrs. Vereker.
“We met him at the dinner last night for the first time. Jim and Maurice knew him before, of course. He seemed a very fascinating sort of man.”
“Where is Miss Pendennis, by the way?” pursued the insatiable little questioner. “I was just going to ask for her when Mr. Wynn turned up with his news.”
“Didn’t I tell you? She left for Berlin this morning; her father’s ill. She had to rush to get away.”
“To rush! I should think so,” exclaimed Mrs. Vereker. “Why, she was at Mrs. Dennis Sutherland’s last night; though I only caught a glimpse of her. She left so early; I suppose that was why—”
I stumbled to my feet, feeling sick and dizzy, and upset the little table with my glass that Jim had placed at my elbow.
“Sorry, Mary, I’m always a clumsy beggar,” I said, forcing a laugh. “I’ll ask you to excuse me. I must get back to the office. I’ve to see Lord Southbourne when he returns. He’s been out motoring all day.”
“Oh, but you’ll come back here and sleep,” Mary protested. “You can’t go back to that horrible flat—”
“Nonsense!” I said almost roughly. “There’s nothing wrong with the flat. Do you suppose I’m a child or a woman?”
She ignored my rudeness.
“You look very bad, Maurice,” she responded, almostin a whisper, as we moved towards the house. I was acutely conscious that the others were watching my retreat; especially that inquisitive little Vereker woman, whom I was beginning to hate. When we entered the dusk of the drawing-room, out of range of those curious eyes, I turned on my cousin.
“Mary—for God’s sake—don’t let that woman—or any one else, speak of—Anne—in connection with Cassavetti,” I said, in a hoarse undertone.
“Anne! Why, what on earth do you mean?” she faltered.
“He doesn’t mean anything, except that he’s considerably upset,” said Jim’s hearty voice, close at hand. He had followed us in from the garden. “You go back to your guests, little woman, and make ’em talk about anything in the world except this murder affair. Try frocks and frills; when Amy Vereker starts on them there’s no stopping her; and if they won’t serve, try palmistry and spooks and all that rubbish. Leave Maurice to me. He’s faint with hunger, and inclined to make an ass of himself even more than usual! Off with you!”
Mary made a queer little sound, that was half a sob, half a laugh.
“All right; I’ll obey orders for once, you dear, wise old Jim. Make him come back to-night, though.”
She moved away, a slender ghostlike little figure in her white gown; and Jim laid a heavy, kindly hand on my shoulder.
“Buck up, Maurice; come along to the dining-room and feed, and then tell me all about it.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I persisted. “But I guess you’re right, and hunger’s what’s wrong with me.”
I managed to make a good meal—I was desperately hungry now I came to think of it—and Jim waited on me solicitously. He seemed somehow relieved that I manifested a keen appetite.
“That’s better,” he said, as I declined cheese, and lighted a cigarette. “‘When in difficulties have a square meal before you tackle ’em; that’s my maxim,—original, and worth its weight in gold. I give it you for nothing. Now about this affair; it’s more like a melodrama than a tragedy. You know, or suspect, that Anne Pendennis is mixed up in it?”
“I neither know nor suspect any such thing,” I said deliberately. I had recovered my self-possession, and the lie, I knew, sounded like truth, or would have done so to any one but Jim Cayley.
“Then your manner just now was inexplicable,” he retorted quietly. “Now, just hear me out, Maurice; it’s no use trying to bluff me. You think I am prejudiced against this girl. Well, I’m not. I’ve always acknowledged that she’s handsome and fascinating to a degree, though, as I told you once before, she’s a coquette to her finger-tips. That’s one of her characteristics, that she can’t be held responsible for, any more than she can help the color of her hair, which is natural and not touched up, like Amy Vereker’s, for instance! Besides, Mary loves her; and that’s a sufficient proof, to me, that she is ‘O. K.’ in one way. You love her, too; but men are proverbially fools where a handsome woman is concerned.”
“What are you driving at, Jim?” I asked. At any other time I would have resented his homily, as I had done before, but now I wanted to find out how much he knew.
“A timely warning, my boy. I suspect, and you know, or I’m very much mistaken, that Anne Pendennis had some connection with this man who is murdered. She pretended last night that she had never met him before; but she had,—there was a secret understanding between them. I saw that, and so did you; and I saw, too, that her treatment of you was a mere ruse, though Heaven knows why she employed it! I can’t attempt to fathom her motive. I believe she loves you, as you love her; but that she’s not a free agent. She’s not like an ordinary English girl whose antecedents are known to every one about her. She, and her father, too, are involved in some mystery, some international political intrigues, I’m pretty sure, as this unfortunate Cassavetti was. I don’t say that she was responsible for the murder. I don’t believe she was, or that she had any personal hand in it—”
I had listened as if spellbound, but now I breathed more freely. Whatever his suspicions were, they did not include that she was actually present when Cassavetti was done to death.
“But she was most certainly cognizant of it, and her departure this morning was nothing more or less than flight,” he continued. “And—I tell you this for her sake, as well as for your own, Maurice—your manner just now gave the whole game away to any one who has any knowledge or suspicion of the facts. Man alive, you profess to love Anne Pendennis; you do love her; I’ll concede that much. Well, do you want to see her hanged, or condemned to penal servitude for life?”
“
Hanged, or condemned to penal servitude for life.”
There fell a dead silence after Jim Cayley uttered those ominous words. He waited for me to speak, but for a minute or more I was dumb. He had voiced the fear that had been on me more or less vaguely ever since I broke open the door and saw Cassavetti’s corpse; and that had taken definite shape when I heard Freeman’s assertion concerning “a red-haired woman.”
And yet my whole soul revolted from the horrible, the appalling suspicion. I kept assuring myself passionately that she was, she must be, innocent; I would stake my life on it!
Now, after that tense pause, I turned on Jim furiously.
“What do you mean? Are you mad?” I demanded.
“No, but I think you are,” Jim answered soberly. “I’m not going to quarrel with you, Maurice, or allow you to quarrel with me. As I told you before, I am only warning you, for your own sake, and for Anne’s. You know, or suspect at least—”
“I don’t!” I broke in hotly. “I neither know nor suspect that—that she—Jim Cayley, would you believe Mary to be a murderess, even if all the world declared her to be one? Wouldn’t you—”
“Stop!” he said sternly. “You don’t know what you’re saying, you young fool! My wife and Anne Pendennis are very different persons. Shut up, now! I say you’ve got to hear me! I have not accused Anne Pendennis of being a murderess. I don’t believe she is one. But I do believe that, if once suspicion is directed towards her, she would find it very difficult, if not impossible, to prove her innocence. You ought to know that, too, and yet you are doing your best, by your ridiculous behavior, to bring suspicion to bear on her.”
“I!”
“Yes, you! If you want to save her, pull yourself together, man; play your part for all it’s worth. It’s an easy part enough, if you’d only dismiss Anne Pendennis from your mind; forget that such a person exists. You’ve got to give evidence at this inquest. Well, give it straightforwardly, without worrying yourself about any side issues; and, for Heaven’s sake, get and keep your nerves under control, or—”
He broke off, and we both turned, as the door opened and a smart parlor-maid tripped into the room.
“Beg pardon, sir. I didn’t know you were here,” she said with the demure grace characteristic of the well-trained English servant. “It’s nearly supper-time, and I came to see if there was anything else wanted. I laid the table early.”
“All right, Marshall. I’ve been giving Mr. Wynn some supper, as he has to be off. You needn’t sound the gong for a few minutes.”
“Very well, sir. If you’d ring when you’re ready, I’ll put the things straight.”
She retreated as quietly as she had come, and I thinkwe both felt that her entrance and exit relieved the tension of our interview.
I rose and held out my hand.
“Thanks, Jim. I can’t think how you know as much as you evidently do; but, anyhow, I’ll take your advice. I’ll be off, now, and I won’t come back to-night, as Mary asked me to. I’d rather be alone. See you both to-morrow. Good night.”
I walked back to Westminster, lingering for a considerable time by the river, where the air was cool and pleasant. The many pairs of lovers promenading the tree-shaded Embankment took no notice of me, or I of them.
As I leaned against the parapet, watching the swift flowing murky tide, I argued the matter out.
Jim was right. I had behaved like an idiot in the garden just now. Well, I would take his advice and buck up; be on guard. I would do more than that. I would not even vex myself with conjectures as to how much he knew, or how he had come by that knowledge. It was impossible to adopt one part of his counsel—impossible to “forget that such a person as Anne Pendennis ever existed;” but I would only think of her as the girl I loved, the girl whom I would see in Berlin within a few days.
I wrote to her that night, saying nothing of the murder, but only that I was unexpectedly detained, and would send her a wire when I started, so that she would know when to expect me. Once face to face with her, I would tell her everything; and she would give me the key to the mystery that had tortured me so terribly. But I must never let her know that I had doubted her, even for an instant!
The morning mail brought me an unexpected treasure. Only a post-card, pencilled by Anne herself in the train, and posted at Dover.
It was written in French, and was brief enough; but, for the time being, it changed and brightened the whole situation.