"Dead!"—Miss Berengaria shivered. "You don't mean to say that."
"Read! Read! Everything is against him—everything. Oh, how can I bear my life? How can I live?"
"Alice," said the old dame again, although she was very white, "if this lying paper means to say that Bernard murdered Sir Simon, I tell you again that I don't believe a word of it. You, who love him, ought to believe in his innocence."
"But the evidence."
"A fig for evidence. Circumstantial evidence has hanged an innocent man before now. Bernard Gore kill that old tyrant——?"
"Hush! He is dead!"
"And so we are to speak well of him," snapped Miss Berengaria. "Oh, well"—she rubbed her nose—"we'll tell lies about him like the majority of tombstones do of those who lie below, but I tell you, foolish girl that you are, Bernard did not kill the old man, nor did he kill himself."
"But the paper says——"
"I don't care what the paper says," said Miss Berengaria, resolutely. "No, indeed. I am a better judge of character than any paper. That poor boy was vilely treated by that—there! there! I won't say a wordagainst Sir Simon. He's dead, and we must be lenient. But Bernard Gore is innocent. Before I read I tell you that."
"I hope it may be so," cried Alice, clasping her hands.
"It is so," said the other, sharply and in a truly feminine way. "All I know is that Sloppy Jane adored him, and she's not the dog to adore anyone who would shed blood."
Alice could not but see that this reasoning was not based on facts. But, all the same, ridiculous though it was, she derived a certain comfort from it. Miss Berengaria, who had been thus optimistic to quieten the poor girl, nodded, when Alice took a seat in the opposite chair more composed, and addressed herself to mastering the facts of the case. Alice, with clasped hands, stared at the old lady as she read silently but with frequent raising of her eyebrows and sometimes a sniff. The paper stated that Sir Simon and his grandson, Bernard, were enemies, that the young man, having been hanging round the house for a fortnight courting the housemaid, had secured an interview with the elder when Miss Randolph was at the theatre. He had evidently quarrelled with Sir Simon, and, having chloroformed him, had quietly strangled him with his own handkerchief, after which he left the house. Then followed an account of the pursuit and failure to capture Gore. "He escaped the officers by plunging into the river," said the journal. "Next morning his khaki coat and hat were found on the opposite bank, so doubtless he got rid of them when attempting to swim. But what, with the cold and the fog, undoubtedly he must have succumbed to the force of the current." Finallythe paper stated that an inquest would be held within two days on the dead body. At the conclusion of this somewhat bald article, Miss Berengaria gave a short laugh and threw down the paper. "I don't believe a word of it," she said, folding her arms, "and I'm going up to London."
"What for, aunt?"
"To see into the matter myself. I believe that Beryl creature is responsible for the whole thing."
"But see," said Alice, picking up the paper, "he was at the theatre with Lucy and a Mrs. Webber."
"I don't care. Failing Bernard, Julius comes in for the money."
"He comes in for it even without that," said Alice, bitterly. "Don't you remember that Sir Simon disinherited Bernard because he would not give me up? I implored Bernard, for his own sake, to break our engagement, but he refused. He gave up all for me, and now he is dead—dea—dead. Oh," sobbed Alice, "how unhappy I am!"
"How foolish you are," said Miss Berengaria, her eyes hard and bright. "Do you think a man, who could act towards you in so noble a way, would commit a cowardly murder, and then shirk the consequences? Not at all. I'm ashamed of you. I once loved," said the old lady, rising and marching energetically about the room, "and my lover was a fool and a villain. Bernard is neither. He is a fine fellow, God bless him and bring him safely out of this trouble! He shall have my help—yes, my best help," added Miss Berengaria nodding.
"But he is dead."
"He is not dead, you weak-minded, silly, hystericalgirl. That sort of man has as many lives as a cat. He's alive, to vindicate his reputation and to bring home the crime to the real assassin."
"But who can that be?" asked Alice, comforted by this assurance.
"I don't know," said Miss Berengaria, taking a seat at the table. "Come and pour out my coffee, and eat."
Alice dragged herself to the table and took up the silver pot. "I can't eat," she said faintly.
"Yes, you can; and, what's more, you're going to. No nonsense with me, miss. You and I have a hard task before us."
"What is that?"
Miss Berengaria laid down her knife and fork with which she was about to carve a piece of bacon. "Well, I am astonished," she said, glaring. "In my young days a girl in love would have been ashamed to make such a speech. Why, bless me! haven't we got to prove Bernard's innocence?"
"Will that bring him to life?" said Alice, bitterly.
"It would, if it were necessary; but it isn't. Bernard's in hiding."
"Can you be sure?"
"Alice Malleson," said the resolute old dame, "if you were younger I would shake you and send you to bed on bread and water. You don't deserve to be loved by such a man. He gave up all for you, and you believe the worst of him."
"Bernard has a temper, and he might have—"
"But he didn't. I know he has a temper. I admire his temper. I saw him thrash a tramp for throwing away a loaf of bread, and that warmed my hearttowards him. Had I married the villain I didn't marry, and he hadn't been such a villain as he was, I would have had a son just like Bernard—perhaps two or three. Dear! dear, what a loss to the British Empire that I never married."
In spite of her grief Alice could not help smiling at this way of putting things. But certainly Miss Plantagenet was right. Had she been a mother, her dauntless nature was of the sort that would have bred brave sons for the motherland. The old lady was one of those strong people always to be relied upon in time of calamity. The worse the trouble the quicker Miss Berengaria rose to the occasion. She prided herself on facing facts, alleging that only in this way could things be settled. At the present moment she acknowledged silently to herself that things looked black against Bernard Gore and that he really might be dead for all she knew. But to Alice she refused to admit these thoughts.
"This must be looked into," she said energetically, "and I am going up to town to see about the matter. When I have heard the evidence at the inquest I'll know how to shape my course."
"What will you do?" asked Alice, brightening under this optimism.
"When acquainted with the facts," said Miss Berengaria, rolling up her napkin, "and when I have formed my theory—"
"Your theory, aunt?"
"Yes! My theory as to who murdered the old—Well, it's Sir Simon I mean—we must be lenient to his memory. But when I have formed my theory I'll see a detective and place the matter in his hands. I shallthen advertise for Bernard and we must see if we can't get him to come here."
"He would be arrested if he did."
"Not at all. I know where to hide him. There's the haunted room in the turret. If he were hidden there no one could find him. And if anyone of my servants—my good servants," said the old dame, emphatically, "denounces him I'll eat my hat, and that's a vulgar expression," added she, as she placed the napkin on the table with a smart tap. "Child, come and help me to dress. I shall leave by the mid-day train. You can send all letters to the Waterloo Hotel, Guelph Street."
"But I am coming also," said Alice, rising resolutely.
"No, you are not," rejoined Miss Berengaria, patting the hand laid on her shoulder, and turning back from the door. "Though I am glad to see that you are ready to help."
"Who has the right to help my darling but I?"
"Ah!" Miss Berengaria rubbed her nose with satisfaction. "It does my heart good to hear you talk sense. Is Bernard innocent?"
"Yes," said Alice, emphatically.
"Is he alive?"
The girl faltered, but Miss Berengaria's eyes were on her, and she faltered out a faint "Yes."
"Not so strong as you ought to be," said the aunt, sadly. "My dear, you must believe that he is alive, because he is. I have no reason to give, so don't ask me for one. He is alive, and all you have to do is to remain here and watch for his coming. Yes. It is more than probable that Bernard will come here."
"But the danger," said Alice, faintly.
"Bernard knows neither you nor I will give him up, and this is the place he will come to. The poor soul is being hunted down, I daresay. But he knows where to come to, bless him! Watch, my dear child. It is probable he will come at night. Then take him to the turret room, and tell the servants to hold their tongues. What's that?"
It was a demure old woman—all Miss Berengaria's servants were aged—who advanced with a telegram for Alice. With shaking fingers, the girl opened it. "From Mr. Durham," she said. "He is Bernard's lawyer and wants me to come to see him at once."
"No," said Miss Berengaria, taking the telegram from her. "I'll go myself. You stay here and wait for the coming of that poor boy."
The report of the murder caused great excitement in London. It seemed terrible that so old a man, and a titled man at that, should be murdered in his own house and by his profligate grandson. The general opinion was that Bernard should not only be hanged, but drawn and quartered, as his crime amounted to parricide. But this vengeful demand was made only by the extreme people, and the newspapers were on the whole very fair in their statements. Although it seemed quite certain that young Gore was guilty, yet the journals gave him the benefit of the doubt. Not till after the inquest did any newspaper venture to state that the man had really committed the crime. But this was as it should be, if the fair play instinct of the English race is to be lived up to.
Durham attended the inquest as Sir Simon's lawyer and executor, and Miss Plantagenet attended it with him. She saw the solicitor only for a few minutes and they had little time to exchange opinions. But Durham assured Miss Berengaria that he was certain Bernard was innocent, upon which the old gentlewoman clapped him on the back. Her good opinion was strengthened at the inquest by the sturdy way in which the lawyer maintained this point.
Beryl was also present with Inspector Groom. He looked pale and somewhat worried, and when his eyesfell on the withered, resolute face of Miss Berengaria, he winced, knowing she was a firm friend to his cousin. As yet the body of the young man had not been found, and both Durham and Miss Plantagenet were certain that Bernard was still alive. But the general opinion was that he had been drowned while escaping. Mrs. Gilroy was also present with Lucy, and these sat in the body of the court near Miss Berengaria. That old dame knew well that the housekeeper was no friend to the accused man, but she was not certain as regards Lucy. As Miss Randolph was engaged to Beryl, whom Miss Berengaria disliked heartily, she was prepared to think badly of the girl, going by the proverb that like draws to like. She therefore waited to hear Lucy's evidence before speaking to her, and although she was quite near her never turned her head to look or make any sign of recognition.
Inspector Groom, who was called first, detailed how he had been summoned in to see the dead body of the baronet, and related what evidence he had gathered, and gave also the names of the witnesses he proposed to call. Amongst these were Jane and the cook, also the page, for these three domestics had frequently seen the soldier who had courted Jane, and who was believed to be Bernard Gore. Durham, on the authority of Bernard, did not believe this, but he waited his time before contradicting the evidence.
After Groom came a doctor, who deposed to having examined the body, and gave it as his opinion that the deceased had been strangled some time after ten o'clock. Before being strangled he had been rendered unconscious by chloroform, thus had fallen an easy victim to the assassin. Mention was made of the bandanahandkerchief with which the strangulation had been effected, and it was produced in court; but the handkerchief steeped in chloroform which had been bound round the mouth was missing. It was a white one according to the evidence of the housekeeper, and had been loosened from the mouth by Bernard himself when she brought him up to look on his victim. Groom expressed annoyance at this, as the handkerchief was an important piece of evidence. Being white it could not have belonged to the deceased, who used only colored bandana handkerchiefs. Therefore it was probable that the assassin had used his own, and the name on the corner would have settled the question beyond doubt. But the handkerchief was lost, and there was no more to be said. Groom hoped to prove Gore's guilt by the evidence of his other witnesses.
Julius Beryl deposed that Bernard and Sir Simon were at variance, and Mrs. Gilroy gave evidence about the quarrel which had taken place at the Hall when the young man had been turned away. She swore that Bernard then made use of threatening language and had hinted he would throw his grandfather out of the window. She also explained the cause of the quarrel and the name of Alice was mentioned, much to the wrath of Miss Plantagenet. Afterwards the housekeeper went on to state that Bernard had visited in Crimea Square. She had never seen him, as he was always smuggled out of sight by Jane when she was heard approaching the kitchen. But on the night of the murder Gore had presented himself at the door after ten o'clock and had intimated that Sir Simon desired to see him, having sent down a message to the kitchen to that effect.
Coroner: "Who carried the message?"
Mrs. Gilroy: "The page, William. Mr. Gore was alarmed and left the house at once, refusing to come up. Afterwards he had apparently changed his mind, for he came to the door. I took him up to Sir Simon and left them alone."
Coroner: "Did you see the meeting?"
Mrs. Gilroy: "No. I pushed Mr. Gore into the room then went down to wait. But I think Sir Simon was disposed to be friendly. Mr. Gore remained upstairs for about fifteen minutes, then left the house hurriedly. I saw him go out of the door. I called after him. He did not answer. I then ran upstairs, and found Sir Simon dead. I came down again and ran out in pursuit of Mr. Gore, crying out, 'Murder!' He was almost on the doorstep and came into the house with me. He denied that he had killed his grandfather and loosened the two handkerchiefs. Then the police came and he escaped."
She persisted in her statements, and said calmly that young Gore had certainly killed the old man. At the interview at the Hall, she had heard him use the word "strangle," and Sir Simon had been murdered in that way.
Lucy Randolph also gave evidence as to the quarrel. "Bernard had a fiery temper," she said, weeping, "and when Sir Simon spoke badly of Miss Malleson, he threatened to throw Sir Simon out of the window. I did not hear him use the word strangle. I never saw him when he came to the kitchen at Crimea Square, and it was only two days before the murder that Mrs. Gilroy recognized him by the description given by the housemaid. I am quite friendly with Bernard."
This evidence led to that of Jane, the housemaid. She was shown a photograph of Gore and swore positively that it was the face of the young soldier who had courted her. Before Sir Simon came to Crimea Square she had met him in the Park. He was in the uniform of the newly-formed Imperial Yeomanry. He made love to her, and asked if he might come to the house. He also seemed to be very inquisitive about Sir Simon. He came many times, and was introduced to the cook. Also William, the page, saw him. He called himself Bernard, nothing more, and did not make use of his name of Gore. Whenever Mrs. Gilroy was heard coming he always hid himself. He seemed afraid to meet her. Both witness and cook connived at the concealment as they feared the rebuke of the housekeeper. On the night of the crime a message came from Sir Simon by the page, William, asking Bernard to step upstairs. He displayed great alarm, and went away at once, saying he might return to see Sir Simon after ten. Witness gave other evidence, but the important point was, that she identified the photograph as that of Bernard Gore. Also the name was the same.
The cook and the page also identified the photograph as that of Mr. Gore. Evidence was then given by an officer of the Imperial Yeomanry as to Gore calling himself Bernard alone. He was known as Corporal Bernard. On the night of the murder he had obtained leave of absence to dine with a friend and had left the barracks before five. It was between five and six, according to the cook, that Bernard was in the kitchen. Bernard, added the officer, was not expected back till close on midnight. Since then nothing had been heard of him.
Durham then stepped into the box and stated that Gore had dined with him at his house on Camden Hill. There was another mutual friend present. Bernard had arrived at seven at the house and had left it at ten o'clock. Witness produced Sir Simon's letter stating that Gore was courting the housemaid Jane. But Durham swore that Bernard had denied this, and said that he had not been near the house. "Indeed," added the witness, "he did not know the whereabouts of the house till I told him."
Coroner: "Then he must have gone from your house direct to Crimea Square."
Durham: "I can't understand why he should do so. He had no intention of going, and certainly he had no idea of killing Sir Simon. I am quite convinced that he is innocent."
This expression produced incredulous smiles, as by this time everyone present was certain that Gore was the culprit. Thanks to Durham's representations Dick West (aliasLord Conniston) was not called. It is needless to say that the real name of this witness was not known. Had it been public the Coroner would have doubtless insisted on his production, if only to swell the scandal of the case by the addition of a title.
In summing up the Coroner was quite on the side of the prosecution and public opinion was with him. He pointed out that the evidence of the cook, the housemaid, the page and the officer all showed that Bernard Gore and Corporal Bernard were one and the same. Also there was the evidence of Mrs. Gilroy, who opened the door at ten o'clock to the man himself. Without doubt Gore was the person who had called to see his grandfather. As to the motive for the commissionof the crime, the jury could see for themselves that there was a strong one. Mr. Beryl's evidence showed that a bitter quarrel existed, and this was confirmed both by Miss Randolph and Mrs. Gilroy. Even the word "strangled" had been used, and in that way Sir Simon had met with his death. Without doubt Gore, furious at being disinherited, had called to see Sir Simon, to see if he could be reinstated. Doubtless, as both had fiery tempers, a quarrel had taken place, and then the younger man, having rendered the older one unconscious by means of chloroform, had murdered him. It was certainly inexplicable that he should have returned to the house, but then the jury must take into consideration that perhaps Gore thought such a bold course might prove his innocence. Finally, his escape showed that he was guilty, as had he been an innocent man, he would have faced the matter out. It would seem that the criminal was dead. He had fallen into the hands of God, and thus had not escaped punishment. But on the facts before them the jury would have to give their verdict.
Biased both by the evidence and by the Coroner's speech, the jury brought in a verdict of guilty against Bernard Gore. Durham expected the verdict and so did Miss Plantagenet, but both of them, being Bernard's firm friends, felt a pang when they heard him thus condemned of wilful murder.
"Fools," said Miss Berengaria, as she drove back in her brougham with Durham to the office of the lawyer.
"I don't think that," expostulated Durham. "Under the circumstances the jury could hardly bring in a different verdict."
"You know that Bernard is innocent," snapped the lady.
"Certainly! But on the evidence before them—"
"A fig for the evidence!" interrupted Miss Berengaria. "I go by my own knowledge of the boy. He wouldn't kill a fly."
"Ah! But you see, the men on the jury never met Bernard."
Finding the lawyer too strong for her, Miss Berengaria changed the subject, being determined not to acknowledge defeat. "Have you heard from young Gore?" she asked.
"No. He may be drowned for all I know."
"For all you know, and you know nothing."
"More's the pity, Miss Plantagenet. Did I know anything I might be able to satisfy myself that Gore is alive."
"Of course he is alive."
"On what ground do you say that?" asked Durham, surprised.
"On the grounds of common sense. Bernard is not the man to die when his living is needed to prove his innocence."
This was so truly a feminine argument that Durham, with a shrug, held his tongue. "There's no more to be said," he remarked.
"I know that," snapped Miss Berengaria in a bad humor. "I am quite upset by all the rubbish those fools have been talking. What's to be done next?"
"I shall go down to Gore Hall and read the will."
"Ha!" said the old lady, brightly. "Can you do that until you are sure of the death of Bernard?"
"Yes. He may be dead after all—"
"He isn't, I tell you."
"Then it is all the better he should be thought tobe so," said Durham, giving up the point in the face of this firm opposition.
"Why?" asked Miss Berengaria promptly.
"Because no search will be made for Gore should he be alive and in hiding. Yet I fear Beryl will search."
"I don't see why he should. Oh, I see what you mean. Sir Simon, the horrid old—Well, we'll say nothing about that. But he has left the money to Beryl, after disinheriting Bernard for keeping faith with my poor Alice."
"Not exactly that," said Durham, hesitating. "I can't tell you the contents of the will, Miss Plantagenet, as—"
"I know," she snapped. "You needn't tell me that. I'll come to the Hall and hear it read. But, of course, I know it already."
"In that case there's no more to be said," replied the solicitor, suppressing a smile. Miss Berengaria saw it.
"Ha!" said she, sharply and pondering. "So Bernard's not disinherited after all."
"I never said so."
"You smiled. That's quite enough for me. 'A nod's as good as a wink to a blind horse.' Not that I'm a horse or blind. Thank God I have my eyesight and can read print with glasses. Well, keep your professional secrets, but tell me this: Will Beryl—the deuce take him—hunt for Bernard?"
"Not if he thinks he is drowned, as is probable," said Durham, rather surprised at hearing strong language from the lips of the lady.
"And if he thinks otherwise?"
"He will certainly hunt," replied the lawyer determinedly.
"Ha!" said Miss Berengaria, rubbing her nose. "So that's it, is it?"
"What do you mean, Miss Plantagenet?"
"That Bernard has not been disinherited. That old scamp—no, we must talk better of him—that the good old man who is dead repented and left the money to his rightful heir. What a joke!" Miss Berengaria chuckled. "There! there!" she went on, catching Durham's eyes. "It's all right. You have told me nothing. I can guess. Well, well, we must wait till the will is read. Then we shall see what is to be done to prove Bernard's innocence."
"That will be a hard task," said Durham, with a sigh; then added, with some little hesitation, "Miss Plantagenet, should Beryl make advances to you in the way of friendship receive them."
"Hum," said the lady. "I detest the fellow."
"But for Bernard's sake—"
"What plan have you in your head?" she asked sharply and peering into his troubled face.
"None. But I think that after the reading of the will—"
Miss Plantagenet chuckled. "After the reading—well?"
"Beryl may make advances to you."
"I will receive them. But if he thinks I will tell him where Bernard is to be found he is mistaken."
"You don't know where he is, or if he is alive," said Durham, astonished to find how quickly she fathomed his thoughts.
"True enough. But I will know before many daysare over my head. I quite expect that Bernard will communicate with Alice, and of course she will tell me. As Beryl will find that the money is left to—"
"I did not say that," interrupted Durham, quickly, as the brougham stopped at the office door.
"To Bernard," went on Miss Berengaria, coolly, "he will try and learn if he is dead or alive. If dead he will—no, I can't say what he will do as I don't know if the money, failing Bernard, is left to him. But if he thinks Bernard is alive he will hunt him down so as to get the money."
Durham stepped out of the brougham rather afraid of the old dame. She was so clever that she seemed to read his most secret thoughts. He was glad the drive was at an end, and held out his hand to say good-bye. To his surprise and vexation Miss Berengaria stepped out at his heels. "I'm coming in to talk," she said, and marched up the steps. "I go down to-night to Hurseton, and I want to arrange what is to be done. Not a word, young man. I am Bernard's friend and so are you. If we don't combine it's all up with the poor fool." Durham followed the energetic lady with a feeling of helplessness, not knowing very well how to get rid of her. And he had particular reasons for not having her in the office. Conniston was coming to see him, and a meeting between him and his aunt might be productive of trouble. Not that Miss Plantagenet was his aunt, as she was only a distant relative. But she always styled herself so, and would answer to no other term. Durham regretted that he had accepted the lady's offer to be driven to his office. But it was too late by this time, for Miss Berengaria was in the room. And in the room also sat Lord Conniston, now out of uniform, and looking much excited.
"Ha!" said Miss Plantagenet, not recognizing the young man, "and who is this?" She turned to Durham, who shot past her, making a sign of silence to his friend.
"A client of mine. Will you leave us for a moment, Conniston?"
The name slipped out before he was aware, and he could have stamped with vexation to see how quickly Miss Berengaria grasped the situation. With a grim smile she looked at the astonished young man. "So you are Dick," she said looking at him through a double eyeglass. "I haven't seen you since you made yourself sick in my garden. Bernard told Alice by letter that he met you. Where are you staying?"
"I don't understand," stammered Conniston, while Durham, giving up Miss Plantagenet as impossible, sat shuffling his papers.
"You ought not to be dense. Don't you remember me boxing your ears?"
Conniston burst out laughing. "Oh! by Jove! It's Cousin Berengaria."
"Aunt Berengaria," reproved Miss Plantagenet, giving him her hand. "I don't like league-long names. Come and sit down and tell me all about yourself."
"Miss Plantagenet," said Durham, hastily. "Lord Conniston and I have met to talk of Bernard."
"Then I'll form a third," said the old lady, sitting. "Dick—I shall call you Dick," she interpolated—"you are Bernard's friend, as his letter to Alice was all about you. Are you going to desert him?"
"No," said Conniston, taking her entirely into his confidence. "I have chucked the service to see him through his trouble."
"Chucked what service?"
"The army. I was going to the front. But I'll stop till I prove the innocence of Bernard, Aunt Berengaria."
"You don't know that he is alive, Conniston," said the lawyer.
"Ah, but I do," replied Dick. "Here's a letter from Bernard. He is safe and sound hiding at Cove Castle."
The deceased baronet was buried in the family vault under St. Peter's Church, with all the pomp of wealth. Sir Simon had never been popular, and had been known widely as a hard, gripping man. Yet his tragic fate, and a certain pity therefore, had drawn together a large concourse of people. Distant relatives who hoped to be mentioned in the will were present clothed in deepest black, although they cared very little for the dead. Julius, who already regarded himself as in possession of Gore Hall, was there with a long face and a satisfied heart. He was glad that he had inherited the wealth after which he had long hungered, and gladder still that his rival, Bernard, was dead with a stain on his name. In fancied security he moved along, not knowing what retribution was in store for him. Even the pitying angels must have laughed at his complacency.
Durham, as the solicitor and executor of the dead man, was present and directed operations. Conniston had gone to Cove Castle to see Bernard and hear his story; and Durham smiled as his eyes rested on the smug face of the presumed heir. There was no love lost between the two men, and Julius privately determined that, when in possession of the property, he would place the legal business in the hands of another solicitor. The young lawyer guessed somewhat of this, and smiled ironically as he thought how this spite would be frustrated.
From far and near people were gathered, for the murder had made a great stir. Everyone united in condemning Bernard, and not one person in the throng thought him innocent. Lucy was weeping alone at the Hall, with Mrs. Gilroy offering her such cold comfort as she could think of. For the girl was truly sorry for her cousin, although she believed him to be guilty. But her theory was that Bernard had been goaded into committing the rash act by the bitter tongue of his grandfather. It was a matter of disagreement between her and Julius that she should so mourn the downfall and death of Bernard. He reprovingly advised her to keep her tears for Sir Simon, from whose death both were likely to derive benefit. But Lucy, in spite of Beryl's evil influence, which had rather warped her better nature, persisted in weeping for the miserable cousin who had so suddenly been cut off in the midst of his wickedness. At least that—in the face of circumstances—was the view she took of the matter.
And Alice remained at The Bower, talking over the death with Miss Plantagenet. Her joy, when the old lady returned with the good news that Bernard was yet alive, had been painful to witness. She wished to go at once to Cove Castle, but this Miss Berengaria, by Durham's advice, would not permit. Suspicion might be excited, so it was decided that Conniston himself should visit his own castle, as that would seem a natural thing for him to do. The merest suspicion that Bernard was alive and in hiding would set the bloodhounds of the law on the trail, and Beryl would be the first to loosen them. Therefore, Alice waited at home with Miss Berengaria until the funeral was over. Then they intended to go to the Hall to hear the will read.Miss Berengaria had some idea of the punishment that awaited Julius, and would not have been absent for half of her income. She detested the young man with all the virulence of her honest nature. And she insisted on Alice coming also, although the girl was unwilling. This again was by Durham's advice. He wanted both ladies to understand exactly how matters stood. It would save him the trouble of an explanation. And then, since he and the two ladies and Conniston were bent upon proving Bernard's innocence, Durham wanted all who could be spared—which did not include Conniston to be present, so as to daunt Bernard's enemies. Should Julius lose his temper over the will, it was probable that he might say something likely to afford a clue to the true assassin. And then Mrs. Gilroy was an enemy also, and she might be unguarded in her speech. Durham had a vague idea that both knew more than they admitted. As to Lucy, it was impossible to say whether she was friendly or hostile.
Sir Simon's body was duly interred, and he left all his wealth behind him to take up his abode in the dark vault. After the service several people lingered in the graveyard, but the majority, thinking the spectacle was at an end, made haste to go. Julius with Durham returned in the carriage, and the rest of the relatives followed, flocking like vultures to the feast. While in the carriage Durham thought he would see if Julius suspected that Bernard had escaped.
"You have not heard if Gore's body has been found?" he asked.
"No," said Beryl, raising his pale eyes and looking as sad as any owl. "I fear he is dead in his sin."
"You can't be sure if he did sin, Mr. Beryl."
"The jury thought so."
"A jury is not always infallible!"
"I think the case had a fair hearing, Mr. Durham. So far as I am concerned I should have been pleased had the verdict been otherwise. It is not pleasant for me to have a relative accused of such a crime. But since he is dead let his evil rest with him. You will not hear me say a word against his memory," added the virtuous Julius.
"Perhaps it will be as well," replied Durham, dryly. "You never were a friend of Bernard's."
"All the more praise to me that I should not run him down."
"Tell me, Beryl, do you really believe he committed the crime?"
"I answered that indirectly before. Yes, I believe he was guilty."
"Then it is just as well he is dead."
"Just as well," asserted Beryl, quickly.
"You don't think he can have escaped?"
Julius started. "What makes you think so?" he demanded uneasily.
"Well, you see, Bernard was a good swimmer, and—"
"The best swimmer in the world could do nothing against the current of the Thames on a foggy night. On a fine day I dare say he might have gained the opposite bank, but in the fog he must have circled round and round until he was exhausted."
"Yet, his clothes were discovered on the bank," persisted Durham. "I wonder if I offered a reward, would anything be discovered?"
"His corpse might," said Beryl, unpleasantly, "but no reward shall be offered. Better let sleeping dogs lie."
"But surely, Mr. Beryl, if you inherit the property, you will seek for the poor fellow's dead body?"
"No," replied Julius decisively. "I think it is best to leave things alone. Bernard committed a vile act, and if his body has been swept out to sea all the better for his memory and the position of the family. I shall offer no reward."
Durham, seeing the young man was absolutely certain of his inheritance, and that he was prepared to act in a most niggardly spirit, looked out of the window to hide a smile. "Poor Sir Bernard," he said.
"Sir Bernard?" questioned the supposed heir, raising his eyebrows.
"Certainly. On the death of Sir Simon, Bernard took the title!"
"He hasn't enjoyed it long," said Beryl, with so villainous a sneer that the lawyer longed to pitch him out of the carriage, "and seeing he is dead I suppose the title becomes extinct."
"It does," assented Durham gravely. "Bernard was the only heir in the direct line."
Julius shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I'll be quite content with the money," said he.
"Here we are," said Durham, as the carriage stopped. "By the way, Miss Plantagenet and Miss Malleson have come to hear the will read. I hope you don't object."
"Yes, I do," retorted Beryl, angrily, as he alighted. "They would have shown better taste had they remained away."
"But remember Miss Malleson has lost Bernard."
"All the better for her. She would have had a miserable life with that fellow."
Durham suppressed a violent inclination to punch the man's head, but, knowing what punishment awaited him, he walked up the steps with a contemptuous smile. Here was a change indeed from the meek Julius of the old days. This presumed heir was obnoxious and insolent, thinking he was absolutely certain of entering into his kingdom. The lawyer was by no means a vindictive person, but it afforded him a certain amount of satisfaction when he thought of the irony of the situation.
However, when Julius reached the drawing room, in which those invited to hear the will read were assembled, he adopted a more conciliatory manner. Several relatives were present, and Mrs. Gilroy headed the servants at the end of the room. Miss Berengaria sat beside Alice in a recess somewhat screened by the window curtain. But Lucy was nowhere to be seen. However, when Durham took his seat at a small table and opened his bag, she entered in deep mourning. Julius went to meet her.
"Dear Lucy," he said, "we have buried our best friend."
Lucy made no reply, and, drawing her hand away, walked to where Alice was seated. She kissed the girl, whom Bernard had loved, in silence; and in silence was the kiss returned. Even Miss Berengaria, voluble as she was on all occasions, held her peace. She saw that Lucy was sincerely sorry for the loss of her cousin, and from that moment she entertained a better opinion of her. Alice drew Lucy into a seat beside her, and the two girls sat side by side, while Julius, already assuming the airs of a master, bade the company welcome.
"I am glad to see you all," he said in an important voice, "and I am sure that our deceased relative in his will has done all that his kind heart inspired him to do. Mr. Durham will now read the will."
When he sat down some of the relatives smiled at the phrase about a kind heart, for which the late baronet had been in no wise remarkable. Durham took no notice of Beryl's little speech, but opened the will and began to read. Julius listened with a complacent smile, which changed as the reading went on.
Legacies were left to nearly all the servants who had been with the testator a long time. Lucy became entitled to three hundred a year, and Mrs. Gilroy received one hundred. The sum allotted to her did not satisfy her, as she frowned when it was mentioned. Beryl's name was not mentioned, but he did not mind as he was waiting for the disposal of the residue of the estate. But when Durham read out that the estate had been left entirely to Bernard Gore, with the exceptions of the above-named legacies, he started to his feet.
"That is not the will!" he exclaimed loudly, and with a ghastly white face. "I am the heir."
"By a former will," interposed Durham, "or, rather, I should say, by a will which Sir Simon afterwards destroyed."
"He disinherited Bernard!" cried Julius savagely.
"No! the will—this will—which gives Mr. Gore the money was never cancelled."
"A new will was prepared leaving all to me. You read it to me yourself in your office and in the presence of Sir Simon."
"Quite so," rejoined the lawyer, smoothly foldingup the parchment; "but after you left, Sir Simon, refusing to execute that will, put it into the fire."
"It is a lie!"
"It is the truth," said Durham, his color rising. "I can bring forward my clerks who were to witness the new will, and they will state that it was never executed. Sir Simon changed his mind. The estate goes to Sir Bernard Gore, the new baronet, and as the executor of the will, I will take charge of all monies and of the property until he comes forward to claim them."
"But you know he is dead," said Julius, clenching his hand.
"I know nothing of the sort. He is supposed to be dead, but we must have proof of the death. A production of his body will be sufficient, Mr. Beryl," added Durham, cynically. "I think on your own account you had better offer that reward I spoke of."
"You have been playing the fool with me," said Julius, hardly able to speak for passion.
"No, I advised you what to do!"
"One moment," said a precise man who had not been mentioned in the will. "If young Gore really is dead—which I for one, hope is not the case—who inherits the money?"
"There is a codicil to that effect," said Durham, "which I had intended to read when interrupted by Mr. Beryl." He re-opened the parchment. "In it Sir Simon leaves the property to charity with the exception of any legacies. This in the event of Bernard Gore making no will. But the property has been left unreservedly to him, and, should he be alive, he has the power to will it to whomsoever he wishes."
"And if he is dead the property goes to a charity."
"Yes! I will read the codicil!" and this Durham did to the dismay of the company. Only Miss Berengaria chuckled. She was delighted to see that Beryl had been punished, and smiled when she thought how correct had been her guess when talking to the lawyer. As for Alice, remembering that Bernard was alive and well, she found it hard to contain her satisfaction that he had been fairly dealt with. Even the thought of the crime, under the ban of which he lay, faded for the moment from her mind. Julius, with a certain malignancy, brought it back to her recollection.
"Even if Bernard is not dead he cannot inherit as a felon," said he.
"Pardon me," interposed the lawyer. "You have yet to prove his guilt."
"It was proved at the inquest."
"A jury at an inquest has not the right to condemn a man," said Durham, sharply. "If Sir Bernard"—Julius winced at the title—"is alive and comes forward, I shall do my best to prove his innocence."
"And in any case," said Miss Berengaria in clear tones, "Mr. Beryl does not benefit."
Julius turned on her with fury, and seemed on the point of breaking out into wrathful speech. But his habitual dissimulation came to his aid, and he suppressed himself. More than that, he attempted to smile.
"I don't say that I do not feel hurt," he said, with a desperate attempt at cheerfulness. "Sir Simon distinctly named me as his heir, and, moreover, asked Mr. Durham to read the new will in which I was named as such."
"Perfectly true," said Durham, coldly. "But SirSimon changed his mind and burnt the new will. It was never executed, as I say."
"Sir Simon had every right to do what he liked with his own," said the diplomatic Beryl, while Miss Berengaria, wondering what was in his mind, watched him with her keen eyes. "But, as I say, I am hurt. I quite understood that Sir Simon had disinherited my cousin, but I was prepared to allow him an income had I received the property."
"Two hundred a year," said the lawyer. "A munificent offer."
"It was approved by Sir Simon," said Julius, calmly. "However, it appears that Sir Simon rescinded the new will—"
"It was never executed."
"Then we will say he never executed it. The money goes to Bernard Gore. So far as I believe he is dead, but I hope Mr. Durham, as the executor of the estate, will offer a reward to prove if he is dead or alive.
"With regard to the commission of the crime, the jury at the inquest found Bernard guilty without one dissenting voice. However, I am willing to give my cousin the benefit of the doubt, and should he reappear (and I hope he may) I shall do my best to aid him to prove his innocence. I hope any words that may have escaped me in the heat caused by a disappointment will be overlooked."
Whether any of those present believed this statement it is impossible to say. Everyone looked down and no response was made, save by Miss Plantagenet. She rose, and walking across the room, offered her hand to the disappointed heir. "You are a good young man," she said heartily. "And I hope you will come and see me."
Julius, rather taken aback by this invitation from one whom he had cause to think loved him but little, grasped her hand and thanked her with great fervency. Her speech was a relief to him, and he sat down with a calmer face, when the old lady returned to her seat.
"Why did you do that, aunt?" asked Alice, dismayed.
"My dear," whispered Miss Berengaria, with a grim smile, "that young man means mischief. I am taking Mr. Durham's advice and making friends with him, that I may thwart his plans."
This was whispered so softly that Lucy did not overhear. Nor, had it been spoken aloud, would she have attended. Durham had come forward and was speaking earnestly to her.
"I trust you will stop at the Hall for the present," he said, "until Bernard comes home."
"Will Bernard ever come home?" asked Lucy, sighing.
"Let us hope so. I doubt if he is dead, and I will not believe he is until his body is laid before me. As to the crime, I do not believe he committed it. However, I want you to stay here as the chatelaine of the Hall. All things will go on as before."
"Am I to stay, sir?" asked Mrs. Gilroy, coming forward.
"Yes! nor will the servants be changed. Of course, any of them who wish to leave can do so. But you—"
"I will stop on in my old position, if Miss Randolph wishes."
Lucy nodded. "Yes! let all things remain as they were," she said.
Mrs. Gilroy made a stiff curtsey and returned to theother servants, who then filed in an orderly manner out of the room. The relatives also took their leave, amongst them Julius, now smiling. At the door Lucy said something to him about Bernard. He smiled darkly.
"We have yet to prove that Bernard is alive," he said.
"Danger!" thought Miss Berengaria. "I'll watch you, young man."
Five miles from Hurseton the marshes began and did not end until they touched the coast. There were acres of mud and reeds and succulent grasses, interspersed with narrow waterways. In rainy weather this low-lying land—if it could be called so—almost disappeared under water, and in summer the poisonous morass exhaled white mists which caused fever and ague. The people who dwelt on the border of the slough of despond were rarely healthy, but they were attached to the dismal neighborhood and refused to move to higher ground where they would have enjoyed better health. What was good enough for their fathers was good enough for them, was the argument upon which they based their refusal.
The road from Hurseton changed where the marshes began to a causeway and ran solid and high across the treacherous bog towards the coast. Here it took a sudden turn, and passed through several fishing villages on its way to Market-on-Sea. And thence between hedges it passed onward to London, a road once more. Some distance from the curve an arm of the causeway ran for a quarter of a mile to Cove Castle, which was built on a firm and elevated spot of ground, near a kind of estuary which communicated with the sea. The sea itself was only distant half a mile, and a fine view of it could be obtained from the castle. Why thebuilding should be called by so high-sounding a name, it is hard to say. It was simply a large stone house of two story, with a kind of tower at one end. Formerly, in the reign of Elizabeth, it had been a fort, and afterwards, falling into decay, had been used by smugglers for the storing of contraband goods. In the reign of George III., the then Lord Conniston being disgusted with life, and anxious to isolate himself from the gay world, in which he had glittered to the detriment of his purse and health, had bought the property and there had lived and died. At that time the family possessed several seats and a town house. But the Georgian Conniston preferred this unhealthy neighborhood, as least likely to attract his former friends. So no one visited him, and he lived and died a recluse. Afterwards the castle was deserted again, the successors of this lordly hermit preferring to live in more healthy parts. But gradually the property had been sold bit by bit, until, when Dick, the present lord, inherited, nothing remained to him but Cove Castle and the few acres around. Also he possessed the family vault, which was underneath the Church of St. Agnes at the village of Benstow, three miles away. It was strange that the members of the family should have decided to be buried in this lonely place, when they could have rested in some green churchyard in the Midlands. But, seeing that Cove Castle alone remained to their descendants, it was just as well that the former holders of the title had entertained this odd idea. The present Lord Conniston at least retained, out of the wreck of the property, the vault wherein the remains of his forebears were laid.
When Conniston arrived at the castle he was met atthe door by a gigantic female of uncommon ugliness, who answered to the name of Selina Moon. She was large enough to have earned an income by exhibiting herself in a caravan, being considerably over six feet, and sufficiently ugly to shame even the witches in Macbeth. Had Mrs. Moon lived in the Middle Ages, she would assuredly have been put to death for sorcery, as her looks seemed hardly human. She had the frame of a grenadier and the voice of a drill sergeant. Her face was large and round and pallid, from a long life in the midst of the marshes. A few grey hairs on her upper lip gave her a still more masculine look, and, indeed, the least observant would have taken her for a man in disguise. She wore a frilled cap, which surrounded her face like the rays of a sunflower, and wore a vivid red gown bound at the waist by a yellow scarf. Mrs. Moon loved bright colors, and apparently, if one could judge from her black eyes and beaked nose, had something of the gipsy in her. Not so far as wandering was concerned, though, for she rarely left the castle. This was because her great size, coupled with her love of finery, provoked comment from adults and insults from children whenever she ventured abroad.
This Amazonian female, from her height of six feet five, looked down on Conniston with a submissive air. She was as timid as a rabbit, the most harmless of her sex, and report went, that the late Mr. Moon, who had been almost a dwarf, had frequently beaten her in spite of her superior inches. However, the old man was dead, and for many a long day Mrs. Moon had lorded it over the one servant in the castle. But she still wore her submissive air, and when her master imperiously demanded a sight of the gentleman who was expecting him, led the way at once to an upper room.
"But I wouldn't take everyone," said Mrs. Moon in a thin, high voice like the midnight wind in a chimney. "He being wishful to keep hisself quiet. What have he done, my lord?"
"Nothing," said Conniston, promptly. "He only came down here for a rest. Do you think he has robbed the bank?"
"There's worse things than robbing banks," remarked Mrs. Moon, shaking her frilled cap portentously, "and the worse things is what he's done. And why shouldn't he tell me his name if he was a babe for innocence?"
"Didn't he do so when he arrived?" asked Conniston, halting on the landing with an anxious look.
"No, my lord, bless your heart! he didn't," said the giantess; "and but that he had your letter, which was as plain as print——"
"Andwasprint," interpolated Dick, remembering his caligraphy adapted to the brains of Mrs. Moon.
"I shouldn't have let him in. But your lordship said he was to have the best room, and the best room he has, to say nothing of your lordship's clothes, he having arrived in tatters like a tramp, which he isn't from the princely looks of him. No one knows as he is here, he having asked me to say nothing. But Victoria——"
"What about her?" asked Conniston, rather sharply, for Victoria was a small servant, preternaturally sharp and mighty curious.
"She's allays asking questions as to what he's doing here."
"Then, don't answer her questions."
"I don't," said Mrs. Moon, plaintively, "and butthat she's so strong I'd smack her hard. But only Jerry could manage her, and, bless me! your dear lordship, he's earning his bread in London, though I haven't heard of him for months."
"He's not in the place I obtained for him," said Conniston, stopping at the door of the room indicated by the housekeeper. "He's robbed the till and bolted."
Mrs. Moon was not all disturbed. "Just like his poor father, my second son," said she, shaking the frilled cap again. "He was a wonderful boy for money and never minded how he got it. Have they jailed Jerry?" she asked, with great simplicity.
Conniston could hardly help smiling at the calm way in which she took the report of her grandson's wickedness. "No, his master turned him out and gave him another chance."
"Bless and preserve your dear lordship, Jerry won't take no chance, as I always said, being advised by the cards. It's the gallers that boy will come to, and may I not be here to see him dangling at the end of a rope, much as he may deserve it. Jerry's a bad 'un, for sure, and takes after my old man's side of the family, several having been choked by the lawr for thieving and murdering and otherwise taking their enjoyment. Where is he now?"
"I don't know, Mrs. Moon. But if he comes here, don't you let him into the castle and don't you let him know that Mr.—Mr. Grant"—Dick gave Bernard a new name for the sake of concealment—"is here."
"Grant!" echoed Mrs. Moon. "But he don't look Scotch."
"Never you mind what he is. You hold your tongue and make Victoria hold hers."
"Only Jerry can manage her," said Mrs. Moon, firmly, "me not being strong enough for such a tearing cat. If your lordship would speak yourself——"
"I'll see to it," interrupted Conniston, quickly. "I'm stopping here for the night, Mrs. Moon. Can you give me and Mr.—er—Grant a good dinner?"
"I'll cook it myself, Victoria being fond of burning things and her pastery being lead for heaviness. The wine your lordship knows——"
"Is there any of that port left?"
"Plenty, save what Jerry drank, he being fond of his glass."
"What! a boy of thirteen, Mrs. Moon!" said Conniston, seriously. "If you had stifled Jerry in the mud years ago it would have been better for him and for you."
Mrs. Moon blew a gigantic sigh. "True enough, your lordship, seeing as he'll occupy a place in the Chamber of Horrors in the exhibition me and Moon saw in London. Ah, well, some of his grandfather's people were hanged and——"
Conniston waited to hear no more of this domestic Newgate's Calendar, but abruptly opened the door and entered the room.
It was a large, airy apartment, with two windows looking on to the shining expanse of the sea, and well furnished in an old-fashioned way. In a large grate a fire of logs was briskly burning, so that the atmosphere was less damp than in the other rooms of the castle. The furniture was all of black oak, and included a square table, a comfortable sofa which was drawn up close to the fire, and several arm-chairs. Also there was a sideboard and a bookcase well supplied with volumesof works long since out of print. The hangings were of faded brocade, and the carpet was patched and mended. Here and there was valuable china and a few silver ornaments. The whole room looked comfortable and home-like, and rather quaint in its faded and mellow beauty.
"Where are you, Bernard?" asked Conniston, seeing the room was empty.
For answer a window curtain was drawn aside and Gore came out, holding the heavy steel poker. "It's only you," he said, looking very pale. "I heard voices and concealed myself behind the curtain. I expected you, but didn't know but what someone else might come. That servant suspects me."
"Not Mrs. Moon," said Conniston, pitying the haggard looks of his friend.
"No, Victoria. She is as sharp as a needle and—"
"Don't distress yourself, old boy," said Dick, taking Gore's hand and leading him to the sofa upon which he had been apparently lying until startled by the sound of voices. "Mrs. Moon can be depended upon and I'll speak to Victoria myself. You are safe here."
"Are you sure, Dick?"
"Perfectly sure. And even if you were discovered I could manage to conceal you in the vaults below the castle."
"Are there vaults?" asked the fugitive, who was shivering and pale.
"Yes! The old smugglers used them to store goods and as hiding-places. There is a passage and door communicating with the arm of the sea which runs near the castle, and you could easily escape to foreign parts by means of a boat. Cheer up, old boy," added Dick, clapping his friend on the back, "you're not dead yet."
The poor, hunted young fellow threw his arm schoolboy fashion over Conniston's shoulder. "What a good fellow you are, Dick!" he said. "I fancied you might believe me guilty."
"I'd as soon believe myself guilty, you several kinds of ass."
"And Alice?" asked Bernard, under his breath.
"She believes you innocent, so does Aunt Berengaria and Durham. Yes! and Miss Randolph also. She's a ripping girl that. I wish she wasn't engaged to Beryl, the pig!"
"What does he say?" asked Gore, warming his hand and casting a look over his shoulder.
"He says nothing, because he thinks you are drown-dead, as Mr. Peggotty would say. And, by Jove! Bernard, I thought you really were dead. You have no idea what a relief it was when I got your letter. How did you escape?"
Bernard passed his hand through his hair and sighed wearily. The strain through which he had passed, and from which he still suffered, showed itself in his bloodless cheeks and his wild eyes. At every sound he started and shook. His nerves, and small wonder, were quite unstrung, and even while sitting safely beside his old school chum on the sofa near the fire, he kept a tight hold of him, like a child by its mother's knee. Seeing this, Conniston rose quickly. Bernard was on his feet in a moment, startled by the suddenness of the movement.
"What's the matter?" he demanded, looking anxiously around, and eyeing both door and window suspiciously.
"You are the matter," said Conniston, touching thebell. "I must get you some wine. You look so awfully ill, old chap. This will never do. I tell you, Bernard, you are all right. I'll stick to you through thick and thin."
"But if I was arrested?"
"You won't be arrested. Everyone thinks you are dead. You'll stay here until we sift this matter to the bottom, and then you can take your place again in the world as Sir Bernard Gore."
"Sir Bernard!"
"Of course. You inherit the title and the money also."
"Not the money, Dick?"
"Yes! Durham told me to tell you, as he couldn't come himself. He is now reading the will and Beryl will find himself left out in the cold. You get everything."
Bernard threw up his hands. "And I'm a hunted fugitive."
"Steady, old boy. Bite on the bullet. You're a dead man, and will remain one until we discover who killed your grandfather."
"And how can we——"
"Shut up, Bernard!" Conniston made an imperative sign as a knock came to the door. Gore at once turned his face to the fire and began to arrange the logs, while Lord Conniston spoke to a sharp, dark, wizen child who entered the room. She was no more than fifteen, but had such an old face and such a womanly appearance that she looked much older. Her eyes were as black as sloes and her thin lips tightly closed. A most unpleasant-looking creature with a waspish nature.
"Oh, Victoria," said Conniston, as this goblindropped a curtsey, "I want you to bring up some port wine.—Mrs. Moon will give it to you—and some glasses also."
"Yes, m'lord!"
"Bring a plate of biscuits too."
"Yes, m'lord!"
"And, Victoria," said the young man, as she retreated, "there is no need for you to mention that I have visitors at the castle."
"No, m'lord," said Victoria, and, with a glance full of suspicion at Bernard's back, she withdrew as noiselessly as she entered, and with a final curtsey, such as might have been made by a wooden doll. Indeed, Victoria—a most inappropriate name—might well have been cut out of wood, so stiff and angular and hard did she look. Conniston did not wonder that placid Mrs. Moon could not control this embryo virago. A combat between them would be like that between an elephant and a mosquito, with the betting on the insect.
"That's a mistake, Dick," said Bernard, when the door closed.
"What is?" asked Conniston, staring.
"Telling that girl to hold her tongue. She has no reason to suspect me, and quite as likely as not thought me merely your guest. Now she will fancy all sorts of things."
"I hope not," said Conniston, uneasily, "but she's such a little devil that I thought it best to give her one for herself. And if she chatters she will lose her situation. I am so afraid lest she should be in communication with Jerry."