"Jerry?"
"Judas. The grandson of Mrs. Moon who robbedTaberley. He and Victoria were as thick as thieves, and are about equal in wickedness. If the girl suspected anything she might ask Judas to help her to learn more of the truth than we want known. Both would sell their nearest and dearest for a pound. But don't bother, Bernard," said the easy-going Dick, again crossing to the sofa, "everything is right."
"I hope so, I hope so," muttered Gore. "If I am arrested I cannot make any defence."
"We'll talk of that later. Here comes Mrs. Moon with the wine, and so speedily that I suspect she must have out a bottle for her private drinking. I say, Mrs. Moon," said Conniston, as the giantess entered with a silver tray and the wine, "don't let Victoria leave the castle on any account."
"I should think not," said Mrs. Moon, setting down the tray. "She works little enough as it is without trapesing about on holidays. I'd keep her under lock and key on bread and water if I had my way, and if she wasn't too strong for me, the besom that she is!—begging your dear lordship's pardon. Anything else, my lord?"
"No. You can go."
"And glad I am to go," said Mrs. Moon, withdrawing with a ponderous step, "being engaged in playing kings."
"Kings," said Conniston, when she vanished.
Bernard, in spite of his sadness, laughed and explained. "It's a game of patience," he said. "I asked Mrs. Moon for a pack of cards to pass the time, and was playing the game myself. She was curious; so, to keep her in a good temper, I taught it to her. Ever since she has been playing it unsuccessfully."
"Oh!" Conniston was not interested in his housekeeper's games. He opened the bottle of port and carefully poured out a full glass, which he passed to Bernard. "Drink that up, you sinner."
Gore sipped a little wine but finally drank the whole glass. Conniston made him take another in spite of his protestations, and then the color came back to his sunken cheeks. The poor fellow was thin with anxiety and want of sleep. When Conniston saw he was better he made him light a pipe and then sat down to hear an account of his escape. Bernard was grateful for these attentions and began to look less cowed.
"You're a good friend, Dick," he said, smoking luxuriously. "This is the first moment of peace I have known since that awful moment."
"How did you escape?" asked Conniston, lighting a cigarette.
"I threw myself into the river and swam across."
"In the fog?"
"Yes. I was guided by the piers of the Chelsea Bridge. On the opposite side I took off my coat and hat and left them lying on the bank, so that it might be thought I was drowned."
"Which is exactly what people do think," said Dick, complacently.
"Thank Heaven for that. Well, then I went into a public-house I found open—it was not yet midnight—and made up a story about having been robbed and thrown into the river."
"That was dangerous. The public-house people might have advised you to see the police."
"I don't think the landlord had any love for the police," said Gore, dryly. "He looked like an old convicthimself and displayed a fellow-sympathy. I don't know if he believed my story. However, for a sovereign he gave me a coat and hat, and asked no questions. I walked across Waterloo Bridge in the fog and escaped observation. But for the fog I expect my military breeches and leggings would have betrayed me and provoked questions. But I managed to escape."
"I didn't sleep at all. I walked the whole night, and by dawn I was out of London. I lost myself several times in the fog and twice had a row with a tramp or two. Then I took a train at a wayside station to Gravesend, and crossed the river to Tilbury."
"Didn't anyone ask questions?"
Bernard shook his head. "The new Yeomanry uniform wasn't known in those parts. I expect the gaiters made people think I was a farmer. I took the train to Pitsea, and then came on here under cover of night. It was ten o'clock by the time I got here."
"What did you do in the meantime?"
"I loafed about the taproom of a pub, and made out I was a horse-dealer buying horses for the war. No one suspected me, and I managed to sustain my part perfectly."
"Did Mrs. Moon admit you at once?"
"No. She was in bed. But when she came to the door she seemed disinclined to admit me. I produced your letter, and after she read it, which took about a quarter of an hour, she let me in. Then next morning I wrote to you."
"What made you think of this place, Bernard?"
"I could think of nowhere to hide," said Gore, leaning back with a weary sigh. "And after all," he added, with a glance round, "this is a very goodcaché."
Conniston nodded. "You are quite safe here. I will show you the way to the vaults, and should there be any chance of your being discovered you can hide there."
"Does Victoria know about the vaults?"
"I can't say. Probably that Judas brat has told her. He was brought up here, and knows every nook and cranny of the castle. And now, Bernard, we must have a good dinner, and then you can tell me whom you suspect of committing the crime."
Bernard,aliasMr. Grant, had made free with Conniston's clothes, as Mrs. Moon had stated. But, being much taller than his friend, he looked rather uncomfortable, and indeed had hidden the shortcomings of the garments under a gorgeous dressing-gown, a relic of Dick's 'Varsity days. But Conniston had procured through Durham several suits of Gore's clothes which had been left behind at the Hall when he was turned away by his grandfather. These he had brought with him, and Bernard was glad enough to get into comfortably-fitting garments. These, and the society of Conniston, a good dinner and the super-excellent port made him feel a new man.
After dinner the two friends piled the fire with great logs as it was freezing hard without. Mrs. Moon brought up coffee hot and strong, and when she left the room the young men produced their pipes. Then Conniston sat on one side of the fire and Bernard on the other, and both of them prepared to go into the case and to see exactly how matters stood.
"In the first place," said Dick, filling his pipe carefully, "let us consider what actually happened. Sir Simon was alone that evening."
"He was when I found him dead, unless you call Mrs. Gilroy anyone."
"I call her a very important person," said Dick,dryly. "I tell you what, Gore, you evidently don't know everything. Just tell me what you do know."
"I have told you," said Bernard, impatiently. "I left Durham's house at ten o'clock; you mentioned the time yourself."
"I did," responded Conniston, gravely, "and I mentioned also the day of the month. It was the——"
"The twenty-third of October. Shall I ever forget a date so ominous to me? I left the house, and a small boy stopped me. He said that a lady—he did not mention her name—had told him to inform me to follow him to the Red Window."
"Your cousin Lucy knew of that?"
"Yes. And I thought the lady in question was Lucy, but the boy did not mention any name. He simply said that he had been spoken to by the lady down Kensington way. Now I knew from Durham that Lucy was living with Sir Simon, who was in Crimea Square, Kensington, and that knowledge, coupled with the mention of the Red Window, made me follow the boy."
"Can you describe the lad?"
"Not very well. I caught a glimpse of him under a lamp-post, but the fog was so thick that I obtained only a vague impression. He seemed to be a fair, innocent-looking boy with fair hair—the kind of pure angelic creature depicted by painters as a chorister."
"By Jove!" Conniston dashed down his pipe excitedly. "You describe Judas to the life. The plot thickens."
"The plot——"
"The plot which was to involve you in the crime, and, by Jove! those who contrived it must have hired Judas to be your guide."
"Are you sure that this is the lad—Mrs. Moon's grandson?"
"As sure as I can be from your word-painting. Jerry—Judas suits him much better—is just what you say: an innocent, butter-won't-melt-in-my-mouth sort of brat who looks like an angel and acts like a denizen of the infernal regions. And now I remember," went on Dick, "the little brute spoke to me after you left me when we talked in the Park. He was then bare-footed and selling matches."
"This boy must be the same," said Bernard, thoughtfully. "He also had bare feet and carried boxes of matches in his hand."
"It's Judas sure enough!" muttered Conniston, pulling his mustache and staring gloomily into the fire. "I wonder what he was doing in that galley? You followed him?"
"Yes, because he mentioned the Red Window. But for that I should have suspected something wrong. I don't care about following strange urchins. But only Lucy knew about the Red Window."
"She might have told Beryl."
"What do you mean?"
"Never mind. Go on with your tale."
"Well, I followed the boy. He kept a little ahead of me, and several times when I got lost in the fog he reappeared."
"Judas is as clever as his father, the Accuser of the Brethren. How long were you getting to Crimea Square?"
"Allowing for stoppages, three-quarters of an hour. All the trouble took place about a quarter to eleven."
"Did you see the Red Window?"
"I saw a red glare in a window on the first floor. I don't suppose the glass was red, but think some red material must have been placed over a lamp and that placed close to the window."
"Might have been a blind," mused Dick, "and yet when Beryl looked and his friend Mrs. Webber they saw no Red Window. Are you sure?"
"I am certain," responded Gore, emphatically. "When I saw the Red Window I was convinced that Lucy had sent for me, and, thinking that she had persuaded my grandfather to relent, I would have entered the house for a personal interview but that Mrs. Gilroy came out."
"Could you be seen from the house?"
"I don't think so, the fog was very thick remember."
"Was any signal given?"
Bernard looked hard at his friend. "You think it was a trap?"
"I am certain. Was there any signal?"
"A peculiar kind of whistle. Something like this!"
Gore whistled in a kind of ascending scale shrilly and in a particularly high key. The effect on Conniston was strange. He jumped up from his seat and walked hurriedly to and fro.
"Judas," he said. "I remember when I was down here that the little scamp had a kind of whistle like that—something like it. Listen!" Conniston whistled also, and Bernard nodded.
"That's it," he declared; "the whistle was given twice."
"Then the boy was Judas. He used to signal to Victoria in that way when the pair were up to their pranks. Wait!" Conniston opened the door and whistled loudlyin the same way. Twice he did this. Shortly after the second time the pattering of steps was heard and Victoria came running up the stairs with a lighted candle in her hand. She looked white and scared.
"Did you expect to see Jerry?" asked her master, blandly.
The girl stared and turned even whiter than she was. "I thought it was Jerry, sir," she murmured, leaning against the balustrade. "He used to whistle like that when he came home!"
"I learned it from Jerry," said Conniston, mendaciously, "and I tried to see if it would bring you. Go downstairs, girl. There's nothing wrong."
Victoria stared at Conniston with a suspicious look in her hard eyes, and then with a toss of her head ran down the stairs. Dick returned to the room and shut the door. "What do you think now?"
"It was Judas sure enough," said Bernard.
"Of course. And the signal was given to someone in the house to intimate that you were outside. Who came out?"
"Mrs. Gilroy?"
"Ah! Then she must have been waiting for the signal. By the way, you always seemed mixed over Mrs. Gilroy. When we first met you said that she didn't like you. Then you said she was your friend. Now which do you think she is?"
"I can hardly say. She always pretended to be my friend. I was never sure of her."
"Then you can be sure of her now. She is your bitter enemy."
"I am afraid so," sighed Gore, remembering the accusation.
"Well," said Dick, resuming his seat, "what next?"
"Mrs. Gilroy came out screeching 'Murder!' She dragged me upstairs and into the sitting-room——"
"Did you notice if there was a red lamp in the window?"
"No. I was too horrified by the sight of my dead grandfather. I loosened the handkerchief round the throat——"
"That was a bandana, Sir Simon's own, and was produced at the inquest. What about the one over the mouth?"
"The one steeped in chloroform? I don't know. I had it in my hand when Mrs. Gilroy accused me. Then I lost my head. I must have dropped it."
Conniston looked disappointed. "That's a pity," said he. "I fancied you might have unconsciously taken it with you. You see, it was a white handkerchief and Sir Simon never used one of that color. If there happened to be a name on the corner——"
"It would be that of the assassin. Is that what you mean?"
"Yes, that is what I mean. The assassin must have used his own handkerchief."
"Why do you think that?"
Dick made an impatient gesture. "Why, it's the most natural thing he would do," was his reply. "He enters the room, and talks with Sir Simon. In his pocket he has the handkerchief steeped in chloroform and uses it unexpectedly. It's as clear as day."
"Why do you think the assassin is a man?"
"I'll tell you that later. Go on."
"There's nothing more to say. Mrs. Gilroy said that I was the assassin and tried to hold me. Thepoliceman came and arrested me. Seeing what a fix I was in I bolted."
"You should have stood your ground," insisted Dick.
Bernard rose and in his turn paced the room. "Man alive, how could I do that?" he said irritably. "The position was dangerous enough to appal the bravest man. Mrs. Gilroy accused me, saying that I had been in the kitchen and had left there about six; that I had returned after ten and killed my grandfather. Also the housemaid Jane recognized me as the soldier who had been courting her. Not only that, but she addressed me as Bernard. Can't you see how strong the circumstantial evidence was and is? I did not get to Durham's before seven, and I was by myself before that. I can't prove analibithen, and I left at ten, after which hour Mrs. Gilroy said I had come into the house. In three-quarters of an hour there was ample time for me to kill my grandfather. It is barely a quarter of an hour's walk from Durham's house on Camden Hill to Crimea Square. I could not prove analibi, nor could you or Durham have helped me. I was at Durham's in the evening, but where was I before six and after ten? Dick, had I stayed I should have been hanged. These thoughts flashed through my mind and I made a dash for liberty, so that I might have time to think out my position. How I gained this refuge you know. And here I have been thinking ever since how to extricate myself from the dilemma and prove my innocence. I can't see how to do it, Dick. I can't see how to act."
"Steady, old boy. Come and sit down and we'll thresh out the matter."
He led Bernard back to the chair, into which the poorfellow threw himself with a weary sigh. Conniston could not but acknowledge that the case against his friend was very strong. As he could not prove analibi, the evidence of Mrs. Gilroy, of the cook, and page, and housemaid, would probably hang him. And also a sufficient motive for the crime might be found—by the jury—in the fact that Bernard had quarrelled with his grandfather and had been disinherited. Then, to perplex affairs still more, Judas had disappeared, and the Red Window, on the evidence of Beryl and Mrs. Webber, was non-existent. Certainly the lady declared she saw it, but afterwards she thought she had been mistaken. In the interval someone must have removed the red light. But that was a detail which could be argued later. In the meantime it was necessary to fix, if possible, the identity of the soldier who had haunted the kitchen and who apparently so strongly resembled Bernard as to be mistaken for him by Jane.
"It's a plot," said Conniston, at length, while Bernard gazed despairingly into the burning logs. "This fellow who resembled you and who took your name is the assassin."
"How do you make that out?"
"Why! He was in the kitchen before six and was sent for by your grandfather. He at once left. Then he came back after ten and was admitted by Mrs. Gilroy, who might have made a mistake."
"She could not mistake another man for me."
"I don't know. This fellow evidently was your double, or at least was made up to resemble you. But that would not be easy," added Conniston, staring at his friend, "for you have no beard or mustache, and it is difficult to make up like another chap without suchaids. At least I should think so. And remember the lamp in the hall did not give a very good light—so Durham told me. The housemaid saw you only in that light, and therefore might have mistaken you for the fellow who courted her. Mrs. Gilroy——"
"She saw me in the full glare of the light in the sitting-room. She recognized me."
"Yes. But according to her evidence she only admitted your double just after ten and introduced him into the sitting-room. She did not see him save under the hall lamp."
"That is true. But my grandfather would soon detect the imposition."
"Quite right," rejoined Dick, smoothly, "he did, and then the assassin murdered him after stifling him with the chloroform."
"But you forget my grandfather was a passionate man. He might and probably would have made a scene. Mrs. Gilroy below would have heard the row and would have come up."
"She may be lying when she declares she heard nothing," admitted Dick. "On the other hand, the assassin may have crossed directly over to your grandfather and have stifled his cries by placing the handkerchief at once over his mouth. Then he could strangle him at his leisure and clear out, as he did."
"And then Mrs. Gilroy runs up, finds the dead, and rushes out to accuse me. I must have been brought in the nick of time," said Bernard, ironically. "No, Dick, there's more in it than that. Mrs. Gilroy is in the plot whomsoever contrived it."
"Why, Beryl contrived it. He wanted the money."
"Was he in the house at the time?"
"No. He didn't commit the crime himself, if that is what you mean. He with Miss Randolph was at the Curtain Theatre, which is near Crimea Square. He drove up in his friend's Mrs. Webber's carriage just when the row was on."
"Yes." Bernard passed his hand across his forehead. "I should have remembered that. I was in the hall at the time with the hand of the policeman on my shoulder. But I have grown so confused, Dick, that it's all like a dream."
"A nightmare rather. But why do you think Mrs. Gilroy is——"
"Is in the plot. Because, before she accused me, she said to herself, but loud enough for me to hear, 'It's the only way!'"
"Ha, ho!" said Conniston, excited, "you can swear to that."
"Of course I can. But I can't swear in the dock, and that is the only place I'm likely to occupy should I be caught."
"Is Mrs. Gilroy a friend of Beryl's?"
"I can't say that she was ever anyone's friend. She even seemed to hate my grandfather, although he was so good to her. She and Lucy were always quarrelling, and though she behaved civilly to me, I was—as I said before—never sure of her."
"You can certainly be sure of her now. But I can't help thinking Beryl had something to do with this plot. He had a lot at stake. I have heard tales about his gambling that would open your eyes. Durham made it his business to find out when he heard that Sir Simon intended to disinherit you in favor of Beryl."
"Durham has always been my friend," said Bernard,wearily. "But as Beryl was out of the house he can't have anything to do with the crime."
"I'm not so certain of that. He might have set things in train, and then have arranged the theatre business so as to provide himself with analibi."
"You think he hired someone to represent me?"
"I do, though, as I say, it would be hard for anyone to disguise himself like you. You haven't a double, have you?"
"Not that I ever heard of," said Gore, unable to restrain a smile; "but they say everyone has a double."
"Well, we must hunt out yours. If we find the soldier who resembled you, and who called himself by your name, we will be able to prove that he committed the crime."
"But how can you go to work?"
"I hardly know, Bernard. I must ask Durham. Meantime you can stay here. And there's Judas. I'll make it my business to hunt him out. I daresay he was employed by Beryl also."
"How you harp on Beryl."
"Because I am sure he has everything to do with the matter. It was a carefully-arranged trap, and you have fallen into it. What Mrs. Gilroy expects to gain I can't think. However, Beryl has found himself mistaken over the money. The new will—so Durham told me to tell you—was burnt by the old man, and so the old one, giving you all, stands. Both Mrs. Gilroy and Mr. Beryl are left out in the cold. And that is all the better for your safety."
"Why?" asked Bernard, looking puzzled.
"Because the person they hired to do the business—your double—will expect to be paid a large sum. If not, he will round on them."
"You forget. If he confesses he puts a rope round his own throat according to your theory."
"True enough. But there's Judas. He'll have his pound of flesh, or make an unholy row."
"Dick," said Bernard, seriously, "it's impossible that a lad of thirteen can be such a villain as you make him out to be."
"I tell you that lad is a born criminal, and if he goes on as he is doing he'll come to the gallows, where, according to his grandmother, his forefathers suffered before him. Judas is as cunning as a fox, and very strong as to his will. Also, he is greedy of money——"
"You describe a man of experience."
"I don't know where Judas got his experience," said Conniston, coolly, "but as Mrs. Gamp said of Bailly, junior, 'All the wickedness of the world is print to him.'"
"I can't believe it of such a lad."
"You'll have an opportunity of testing it some day," retorted the young lord. "I only hope Victoria doesn't correspond with Judas. If she does, she'll tell him about a stranger at Cove Castle, and Judas, having seen you with me in the Park, will be quite sharp enough to put two and two together. Then there will be trouble."
"But why should he connect me with the crime unless——"
"Unless he knows all. He does. You are a marked man, Bernard. However, it's getting late. We'll talk of this to-morrow. I must go and see Durham, and bring him down ostensibly for shooting."
"I wish you would bring Alice over," said Bernard. "My heart aches for a sight of her sweet face."
"And dearly her face has cost you," said Conniston."However, I'll ask my dear aunt to come over, and bring Alice. As Miss Berengaria is a relative, it will be thought nothing out of the way. We'll save you yet, Bernard; only I wish we had that one piece of evidence—the handkerchief you lost. When that is found we shall know who is guilty."
After making Lucy the mistress of the Hall until the return of its legal master, Mark Durham returned to town. Having regard to the fact that Beryl had taken up his quarters at the Conniston Arms—for what purpose the lawyer could not determine—he thought it wiser not to arouse the crafty young man's suspicions by a visit to Cove Castle. Certainly this was a somewhat over-strained sense of caution, since, being Conniston's lawyer, he could easily have gone there without it being thought odd. But Durham knew that Julius, driven to desperation by the loss of the fortune, would stop at nothing to accomplish his wish to obtain it. Did he learn that Bernard was still alive he would undoubtedly blackmail him. And in the present position of the case, when the truth could not be arrived at, Bernard, for his own safety, would be obliged to make terms. And such terms as Beryl would demand could not be granted.
Durham therefore returned to his business, and at once set to work. So far he had done all that he could to settle the government of the property during Gore's absence, and it now remained to take such steps as would unravel the intricacy of what appeared to be a plot to oust him from his rights. That Julius was at the bottom of the whole affair Durham was certain, and that Julius had his eye on him he conjectured. Thereforeit behooved him to move cautiously lest Beryl should counterplot him. And as in this game, which dealt with the issues of life and death, Durham's cards were all on the table and Beryl's were concealed, the chances of victory lay with the latter. And if Julius won, he would certainly have no mercy. Conniston had written a letter directed to the London office stating in full the conversation which had taken place between him and Sir Bernard. Durham was therefore in full possession of all facts not known to Julius, and after turning over these in his mind he concluded that it would be best to start with an examination of Jane Riordan, the delinquent housemaid. She could not possibly be in the plot, as he had seen how simple a woman she was when at the inquest. Therefore she certainly, for some strange reason, believed Bernard to be the young soldier who had courted her. She had sworn to his photograph, and had addressed him in the hall of the Crimea Square house by his name. Apparently—here Durham thought with Conniston—some person had been impersonating Bernard, so the lawyer sent a message to Miss Riordan asking her to call. Then he intended to question her as to the personality and speech of the double.
The housemaid arrived dressed in her best and looking rather downcast. She was evidently nervous, and could not think what the lawyer wanted with her. Like all her class she had a wholesome horror of legal procedure, and always kept out of the clutches of the law. But it appeared that for her share in receiving a follower she had been dismissed by her master, Mr. Jefferies. Being without a situation she grasped at the chance afforded of seeing Durham, and hoped by workingon his sympathies to secure a new one. But for this want she would probably have refused the invitation. As it was she duly appeared, and was accommodated with a seat beside Durham's desk. He then proceeded to question her, thinking a plain, straightforward examination would best get at the truth.
"Now then," said Durham, wheeling round his chair so that he could look her in the face. "You know I am the solicitor of Sir Bernard Gore, who is accused of the murder of his grandfather. In spite of the evidence given, I do not believe he is guilty."
"I don't think so either, sir," sobbed Jane, who had got out her handkerchief at the mention of the name.
"You never knew him."
"Yes, I did. He courted me for nearly a month. And a sweet young man he was, the very best I ever walked out with."
Durham eyed her keenly. Apparently she was speaking as she believed, and he considered that the double must resemble Bernard in a marvellous degree to make the housemaid thus sure of his identity with the accused young baronet. "You misunderstand me," he said mildly. "However, I'll come to the point presently. You must answer me as though you were in a witness-box."
"Yes, sir," said Miss Riordan, timidly. "But, please, before I speak, could you help me to a new situation? Mr. Jefferies dismissed me because I walked out with Bernard and received him in the kitchen."
"Hum," said Durham, reflectively. He did not know very well what to say at the outset as he was by no means prepared to promise to assist her off-hand. But on consideration he saw the necessity of keeping sovaluable a witness under his own eye and away from Beryl, always supposing Beryl to be mixed up in the matter. He therefore made up his mind swiftly, and in his answer gained Jane's goodwill. "Yes, I can help you," he said; "my housekeeper wants a housemaid. I will give you my address and a letter to her. Go to Camden Hill and if your character is satisfactory she will engage you."
"Oh, thank you, sir," said Jane, effusively. "I'm sure my character is all that can be desired, save in this last trouble. But Bernard was such an agreeable——"
"There! there!" interrupted Durham, cutting her short, "we won't talk of that just now. This last episode of your career will not stand in the way of my housekeeper engaging you. I'll make that clear to her in my letter. Come now, will you answer my questions?"
"Yes, sir. Any you like to ask," said Jane, delighted at the granting of her petition, and privately thinking Durham a sweet gentleman.
"Good!" said the lawyer in an official manner. "What is your name?"
"Jane Riordan."
Durham noted this and her other answers down.
"You were how long at Mr. Jefferies?"
"Six months, sir."
"When did you first see this soldier?"
"Bernard, sir. In the Park, about a month before Sir Simon came."
"How did he become acquainted with you?"
Jane giggled and looked down. "Well, sir," she said, blushing, "I am not bad-looking and Bernard—"
"He called himself Bernard?"
"Yes, sir. He said he was a corporal in the Imperial Yeomanry. He had seen me in Crimea Square."
"In this house?"
"No, sir. Leaving the house. He said he had come several times, being taken with my looks, and that he always wanted to know me. As he was so handsome, sir, and spoke so civil, we walked out. He treated me to tea in the Park, and then I asked him to meet cook. He accepted at once, sir, and most willingly."
"I daresay," muttered Durham, seeing in this meeting how the scamp had forced his company on the girl so as to enter the house likely to be occupied by Sir Simon. "And he came?"
"Many times, sir—oh! many times, and made himself so agreeable that cook was quite jealous."
"Who did he say he was?"
"Well, sir, he did nothing but hint, saying he was a gentleman of high rank, as could be seen from his manners, and that he had enlisted because of a quarrel he had with his grandfather. But I never knew he was Sir Simon's grandson until I lost him," sobbed Jane. "Oh, dear me, and to think I would have been Lady Gore, with diamonds and fine clothes, had he lived."
"Hum!" said Durham, digging the point of his pencil into the blotting paper, "so he practically told you the story of Sir Bernard."
"Yes, sir, as I afterwards learned it. And wasn't that natural, sir, seeing he was Sir Bernard?"
"Are you sure he was?"
Jane stared. "Why, sir, he was always frightened when Mrs. Gilroy came down to the kitchen and said she was his enemy, and that if she saw him he could never marry me. I didn't know what he meant at thattime, but I see now. She would have said who he was. I used to hide him in cupboards, and once in the coal cellar. Cook and William never told, being sympathetic like!"
"Did he speak in educated manner?"
"Like the gentleman he was, sir, having been educated at Eton."
"When you saw him in the grasp of the policeman did you recognize him? Was he the same man who courted you?"
Jane stared again and looked puzzled. "There isn't two, sir, that I know of," she said; "and now," with a fresh burst of tears, "there isn't one, seeing he is drowned. Oh dear, dear me. Yes, sir, I knew him at once, although the light was bad. And when I would have seen him plainer, Mrs. Gilroy would not let him be brought under the lamp."
"Oh, indeed," said Durham, making a note of this. "Look here," and he held out a large portrait of Bernard, different to that shown at the inquest. "You recognize this, I suppose?"
"That's my Bernard, sir."
"Is it a good likeness?"
Jane examined the photograph closely. "Not what I'd call a very good one, sir, neither was the other. There's a look wanting."
"What sort of a look?"
"Well, sir, you might call it a roguish look, of a gentleman who had seen life and had been gay. This portrait is sad and horrid looking. I should have been afraid to be courted by Bernard if he had looked like this. But he was always bright and full of larks. Then he has not got a spot on his chin as he has here. I suppose he cut himself shaving when he had this done."
Durham started. Here was a means of identification. Bernard had a rather large mole on the left of his chin. "Didn't the man who walked out with you have this spot?" he said, purposely adopting the word she had used.
"No, sir. He had a chin like a new-born infant, smooth and white."
"Did he ever write you a letter?"
Jane blushed again. "Just a short note making an appointment, sir," she said, feeling in her breast, "it being early for love letters, and me being a most respectable young lady. I carry it next my heart."
Durham took the note she handed him without hesitation, and glanced through it. The writing was not unlike that of Bernard's, yet he saw very plainly that it lacked several characteristics which distinguished that of Gore. The note simply asked Jane to meet the writer on Sunday at the Marble Arch, and was signed "Bernard."
"I'll give you a sovereign for this," said Durham, quietly.
"Thank you, sir," said Jane, accepting without a moment's hesitation. "Of course, Bernard's dead now, so there's no use keeping his letters, but if he'd been alive I'd have kept them on the chance of his not making me Lady Gore!"
"Did he wear any rings?" asked Durham, paying the money and putting the letter away.
"Three, sir. Two gold and one silver."
This was another point of difference. Bernard hated rings and never by any chance wore any, not even a signet ring. But by this time Jane's information was exhausted, and Durham concluded her examination forthe moment. He would be able to resume it later when necessary, and congratulated himself on the fact that he had secured Jane as his housemaid. When brought face to face with the real Bernard she would be able to see the difference between him and his double. And then she might also be able to recognize the double should he be found. Just as he was dismissing Jane with a letter to his housekeeper a clerk brought in a name written on a piece of paper. "Mrs. Gilroy," said Durham to himself, wondering greatly. "Tell her to come in," he said aloud, and ushered Jane out quickly by another door. It would never have done to have let Mrs. Gilroy meet her, seeing that the Hall housekeeper was hostile to Bernard. So Jane departed rejoicing, and Durham went back to his desk well satisfied.
"Bernard never wrote this note, as it is different in many ways to his writing," he murmured. "Bernard never wears rings, and he has a mole on his chin which this double apparently lacks. Without doubt the impersonation has been very clever. But I wonder how I am to find the double."
Before he could reply to this perplexing question, the clerk showed in Mrs. Gilroy, as demure and sly-looking as ever. She was richly dressed in black silk, much better dressed in fact than she had ever been during the life of her master. Also Durham noted that there was an aggressive air about her which he had not noticed before. Perhaps this was due to her receipt of an annuity. She was not a lady, and yet she could not be called common. Durham had never examined her carefully before, but now that she was dangerous to Gore's interest he looked at her carefully. A strange womanand a dangerous was his verdict. He proceeded to feel his way cautiously, wondering what she had come about.
"It's to see me about your annuity?" he said, tentatively.
"Yes," replied Mrs. Gilroy, coldly, and took the seat which had been vacated by Jane. "My beggarly annuity?"
The lawyer, who had taken up his position before the fire with his hands under the tails of his frock coat, turned to look at her. The bitterness of the tone startled him. "What do you mean?"
"Mean!" echoed Mrs. Gilroy, with a vindictive glitter in her pale eyes. "That Sir Simon promised me five hundred a year for life."
"Oh, you must be mistaken," said Durham, quickly. "He never said you were to have more than one hundred."
"He might not to you, but he did to me," said the housekeeper, doggedly. "I have a right to five hundred."
"I think not," said the lawyer, calmly. "And let me tell you, Mrs. Gilroy, that Sir Simon did not place your name at all in the second will. Had it been executed, you would not have had even the one hundred you despise. Therefore, you may congratulate yourself"—he watched her face while speaking—"that Sir Simon changed his mind about disinheriting his grandson."
The woman's eyes glittered still more maliciously and a color rose in her bloodless cheeks. "Oh!" she said, with icy disdain, "so Sir Simon would have deprived me of my rights, would he? It's lucky he's dead, or he'd find himself on the wrong side of the hedge with me."
"Ah!" Durham resumed his seat and waited to hear what would come forth. And something would come out not easily attainable at other times, for Mrs. Gilroy was apparently losing her temper. This was most extraordinary for her, as she was usually cautious. But since the death of her master, who had kept her in check, she seemed to be a much more reckless woman. The lawyer had always wondered what bond held Sir Simon and the housekeeper together, and now there seemed some likelihood that he would learn, if he held his tongue and allowed full play to that of Mrs. Gilroy.
"I knew how it would be," she muttered. "I guessed he would play me false. He never was worth a kekaubi."
"You are a gipsy," said Durham, looking up.
"What makes you say that?"
"Kekaubi is Romany for kettle. You wouldn't use it unless—"
"Who I am is nothing to you," interrupted Mrs. Gilroy, sharply.
"Yet you don't resemble the Romany!" said Durham, looking at her drab appearance. "Your eyes are pale and your hair—"
"Let my appearance be, Mr. Durham. I am here for justice, not to hear my looks discussed. Sir Simon left me one hundred a year. I want you as the executor of the estate to make it the five hundred he promised me."
"I don't know that he promised you that sum," said the solicitor, "and even if he did I cannot give it to you. The money now belongs to Sir Bernard Gore."
"He is supposed to be dead."
"You put it rightly," replied the man. "He is supposed to be dead, but until his dead body is found I willadminister the estate on his behalf. But I have no power to help you."
Mrs. Gilroy seemed struck by this view of the case. "Suppose Sir Bernard isn't dead?" she asked.
Durham felt a qualm and suppressed a start with difficulty. Had this dangerous woman discovered the fugitive at Cove Castle. "Do you know if he is alive?" asked Durham, quietly looking at her.
"Perhaps," said Mrs. Gilroy, who seemed to be thinking. Then she rose. "I don't know that I need bother you further," she said.
"Will you tell me why you demand this money?"
"Because Sir Simon promised it to me."
"On what grounds."
"On very good grounds."
"Will you tell me what they are?"
"Will you give me the five hundred a year if I do?" she countered.
"That is out of my power. When Sir Bernard appears I will speak to him on the subject if your claim is a good one."
"My claim is an excellent one," she burst out, raising herself to her full height. "It is the claim of a wronged woman!" She paused. "I want to ask you about the will," she said. "Is it worded that the money is left 'to my grandson.'"
"To my grandson Bernard Gore."
"The name is mentioned."
"It is. The money is clearly left to Sir Bernard."
"Sir Bernard," she sneered. "Why give him a title to which he has no claim? The money may be his, else I would not tell you what I now do tell you. My son is the baronet—my son Michael."
Durham stared at her, quite taken aback. "What on earth are you talking about, Mrs. Gilroy?" he demanded.
"Mrs. Gilroy," she echoed with scorn. "I shall no longer use a false name. I am Mrs. Walter Gore."
"Impossible. Walter Gore was married to Bianca Tolomeo!"
"He was married to me first," said Mrs. Gilroy, rapidly. "Yes, you may stare, but I am the lawful wife of Walter Gore and my son Michael is the heir. He is the image of his father. There's no trickery about the matter."
"The image of his father," cried Durham, a sudden light breaking in upon him. "And Walter Gore was tall, slim, the image of his son Bernard. Mrs. Gore, or Mrs. Gilroy, or whatever you call yourself, was it your son who murdered his grandfather?"
The woman became livid. "No, I swear he didn't. He is in America."
"He is in England, and he masqueraded as Bernard when courting Jane the housemaid," said Durham, excitedly. "You say yourself he resembled Walter Gore. Bernard is exactly like his father, so Michael must resemble him sufficiently to pass as him."
"It is absolutely false!" cried Mrs. Gilroy, seeing she had fallen into the trap of her own words. "My son is in America. You shall not prove him guilty. I opened the door to Bernard."
"To Michael. You perhaps mistook him for Bernard."
"A mother can't mistake her own son. But Michael is the heir. I shall write to America and bring him home. I can prove my marriage with Walter Gore."
"Do so by all means," said Durham, recovering his wits. "I am acting for Sir Bernard, and he shall not lose the title if I can help it. I see you are playing a deep game, Mrs. Gilroy, but you have let out too much. I shall now search for Michael, your son, and see if he was not in London on the night of the twenty-third of October."
Mrs. Gilroy, pale and looking like a tigress at bay, drew back to the door without a word. Before Durham knew of her intention she opened it and slipped away. He did not seek to detain her.
Things went very smoothly at Gore Hall after Durham had established Lucy as its mistress during the absence of Bernard. The girl herself firmly believed that her cousin was dead and assumed deep mourning. She had been fond of Bernard in a sisterly way, and felt his loss deeply. It was her outspoken affection that provoked a quarrel between her and Julius, and which led to the breaking of their engagement. Lucy had a high temper, which had been kept in subjection during the life of Sir Simon. But now that she tasted the sweets of power she was not disposed to allow Julius to treat her as he chose.
Mrs. Gilroy came back from her visit to the lawyer in rather a dejected frame of mind. She saw that she had gone too far and had given Durham an inkling as to the possibility of Michael having masqueraded as Bernard. The housekeeper had thought her position unassailable, knowing that she had married Walter Gore; and although there was a flaw in the circumstances upon which she built her claim, yet she trusted to her own cleverness to conceal this from the too-clever lawyer. But, apart from this, the fact that he suspected someone of passing himself off as Bernard startled her, and opened an abyss at her feet. On leaving the office she judged it best to lower her crest for the moment and to wait patiently to see what wouldtranspire. Mrs. Gilroy was a well-educated woman and very astute, therefore she hoped to gain her ends by craft if not by force. So far she had failed, but she did not intend to abandon her claim for one failure.
As it was, she came back to the Hall and behaved herself much better than she had ever done before. She was respectful to Lucy, and did not display her impatience of commands that she had hitherto done. No one could have been meeker, and although Miss Randolph did not like or trust the woman, she had no fault to find with her in any way.
Lucy suffered severely from the shock of Sir Simon's tragic death, and from the supposed death of Sir Bernard. In fact, the matter so preyed on her nerves that she became prostrate, and Dr. Payne had to be called in. He was a handsome and popular young doctor who had practiced in Hurseton. As this was the first time he had been called to the Hall, he was naturally very pleased, and was very attentive.
"A complete rest is what you need," he said to Miss Randolph. "I think you should keep to your bed as much as possible, and I will give you a tonic. Naturally you suffer from the terrible circumstances of Sir Simon's death." He thought a moment and then continued, "A cheerful companion would do you good. Shall I ask Miss Malleson to come over."
"Is she cheerful?" asked Lucy languidly. "I fear not, doctor. She was engaged to my cousin, and his death has made her sad."
"Probably, but she bears up wonderfully. But that she is in mourning one would hardly guess she had sustained such a loss. Was she very much attached to Mr. Gore?"
"Yes. I never saw a more attached couple. Did you ever meet him?"
"Once at Miss Plantagenet's. You know I am great friends with the old lady. I often visit her, not professionally, for she is as healthy as a trout in a pond."
"Is Alice—Miss Malleson also well?"
"In very good health, and appears resigned to her loss."
"I should have thought she would have felt it more," said Lucy, perplexed. "Alice has such a tender heart."
Dr. Payne was doubtful. So far as he saw, Miss Malleson was remarkably cheerful under her sorrow. "She is philosophic, Miss Randolph, and that is wise. I think, however, if you would have her over to see you, it would do both her and yourself good."
"I shall write a note to her to-day," said Lucy. "I am very fond of her, and we get on very well together. Poor Alice. I wish Bernard had lived, so that he could have married her."
"From what I read in the papers it is just as well Mr. Gore did not live," said Payne, rising to take his leave. "If he was guilty—"
"Ah!" said Lucy, raising herself with animation from the sofa upon which she was lying. "If he was guilty. There it is, doctor. I do not believe he was. Bernard had a high temper, but he could not always control it, and was a kind-hearted boy. He is innocent I am sure."
"How are you sure, my dear Lucy?" asked a third voice, and she looked up to see Julius standing in the doorway. He came forward. "Forgive me if I heard a few words of your conversation. But I have just come in. Dr. Payne, I hope I see you well."
"Quite well," said the doctor, who did not like Beryl, thinking him, in schoolboy phrase, "a sneak." "I am just going, Mr. Beryl."
"Are you ill, Lucy?" asked Beryl, with affection.
"I have an attack of nerves," she replied pettishly. "Poor Bernard's death has shaken me."
"It is just as well he did die, though."
"I have been saying that," said Payne; "but I must take my leave. I will come and see you again, Miss Randolph, and remember what I told you. Rest and cheerful company—Miss Malleson's for choice."
He departed smiling, and they heard him gallop off. When the sound of the horse's hoofs died away, Julius, who was looking out of the window, turned abruptly to Lucy. "Why do you think Bernard is innocent?" he asked.
"Because, if he is guilty, his action gives the lie to his whole life, Julius," she replied, raising herself on her elbow. "I can't believe he killed my uncle."
"Sir Simon is not your uncle," said Beryl, jealously. "You are only a distant relative."
"Perhaps my marriage with you may make me a nearer one."
"If we ever do marry," said Julius, gloomily.
"So far as I am concerned I should like to break the engagement, Julius. We were never suited to one another."
Beryl's vanity was hurt. "Why did you accept me then?"
"What else could I do? It was Sir Simon's wish that we should marry, and, owing to my circumstances, I had no choice in the matter. During his life I was merely a puppet. But you do not care for me."
"I do. I swear I do."
"Although you swore for an hour, I should never believe you. There is only one thing in this world you love, Julius, and that is money. You told Sir Simon about Bernard being in love with Alice, that the poor boy might be disinherited."
Beryl did not deny the charge. "I believe you are in love with Bernard yourself," he said.
"No. Bernard and I are like brother and sister. But he is dead, so you need not cast stones at his memory."
"Are you sure he is dead?" asked Beryl, warming his hands.
Lucy sat up on the sofa and pushed the loose hair back from her forehead. "Why do you say that?" she asked sharply.
Julius stared at the fire. "I can't understand Durham's attitude," he said evasively. "He must know that Bernard is dead, seeing that the coat and hat were found on the banks of the river. No man could have lived in the cold and the fog. Yet if Durham was sure he would not hold the estate against Bernard's coming."
"Mr. Durham requires proof of the death," rejoined Lucy, sharply; "and until then, he is bound to administer the estate according to the will. As Bernard's body has not been found, there is always a chance that he may have escaped."
"I sincerely trust not."
"Ah! You always hated Bernard."
"On the contrary, I speak for his good. What's the use of his coming to life when he must suffer for his crime?"
"I don't believe he committed it," said Lucy, doggedly.
"You have no grounds for saying that," said Julius, pale with rage.
"I don't need grounds," retorted the genuine woman. "Bernard always was as kind-hearted as you were—and are, the reverse."
"I am not hard-hearted," snapped Beryl. "I always do good—"
"When it is to your own benefit."
"Not always. For instance, I am down here to get a small boy a post with Miss Plantagenet as a page."
"That is very good of you," said Lucy, scornfully.
"Ah, you see I can do a kind action. This boy is a grandson of Lord Conniston's housekeeper, Mrs. Moon."
"At Cove Castle," said Lucy, with some color in her face. "I know."
"Do you know Lord Conniston?" asked Julius suspiciously.
"I have met him once. He seems to be a most delightful fellow."
"What a delightful speech for a lady," said Beryl. "Conniston is a scamp. I heard he enlisted in the Lancers."
"It shows how brave he is. Every man worth calling a man should go to the front."
"Perhaps you would like me to go," sneered Julius.
"You would never have the pluck," said Lucy, quickly. "All your ends in life are gained by cunning, not by bravery."
"Lucy, if you talk to me like that—" began Beryl, and then restrained himself with an effort. "It is no use our quarrelling. Let me show you that I am notso careless of others or so hard-hearted as I seem to be. Miss Plantagenet wants a page. I found this lad in London selling matches. He was a messenger boy at a tobacconist called Taberley, and Lord Conniston got him turned out of the situation."
"I don't believe that."
"It is true. The boy told me himself. He will tell you if you like to see him."
"I don't want to see him. Lord Conniston is too kind a man to behave in that way. He was fond of Bernard."
"And that makes him perfect in your eyes," said Beryl, looking savage. "See here, Lucy, Conniston has left the army—so you see he is not so brave as you think."
"He left so as to seek after Bernard," said Lucy, quickly. "Mr. Durham told me so."
"To seek after Bernard," said Julius, slowly, "and I believe Bernard may be alive after all."
"In which case you would give him up to the police."
"No," said Julius with an emotion which did him credit, "I should never betray him. Lucy, if you can find out from Lord Conniston or Durham that Bernard is alive, let me know and I'll see what I can do to help him."
"How can you help him when you believe him guilty?"
"I might help him to escape. I don't want to see him hanged."
"He won't be hanged if Lord Conniston and Mr. Durham can save him."
"Ah!" Julius started to his feet. "Then he is alive."
"I can't say. I have no reason to think he is. But I am hoping against hope," said Lucy, rising. "I merely state what was said. Mr. Durham and Lord Conniston both told Alice that Bernard was innocent."
"They will find it difficult to prove that," sneered Beryl, with a white face. "I believe the fellow is alive after all. If he is I'll make it my business to find out where he is."
"And then?" asked Lucy, starting up and facing Beryl.
"Then it depends upon Bernard himself."
"Ah! You would make him pay money to save himself."
"I have a right to a portion of the estate."
"You have not," said Miss Randolph, clenching her fists and all her languor gone. "Bernard is the owner of Gore Hall and of all the property, and of the title also. If he is alive, as I sincerely hope, his name will be cleared."
"And then you will throw me over and try to become Lady Gore."
"I throw you over now," said Lucy, losing her temper and coloring hotly. "How dare you speak to me like this, Julius! I will no longer be bound to you. I never loved you, but I have always tried to see the best side of you. But you have no good side. You are a mean, cowardly serpent, and if Bernard is alive I shall do my best to defend him from your snares."
"But Lucy—"
"Don't speak to me, and don't dare to call me again by that name. I give you back your ring—here it is!" She wrenched it from her finger. "Now leave the house, Mr. Beryl. I am mistress here."
Julius looked at the ring which she had thrown at his feet, and laughed. "You take a high tone," he said sneeringly. "But remember that if Bernard is dead the money goes to charities—"
"So much the better. You do not get it."
"Nor you either. You will have to turn out of this luxurious home and live on the pittance Sir Simon left you."
"Would I be better off if I married you?"
"I think you would. I have not much money now, but I will have some—a great deal some day."
"By blackmailing Bernard," said Lucy, indignantly.
Julius picked up the ring and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket calmly. "We don't know that Bernard is alive. But the fact of Conniston leaving the army and from Durham's attitude I shrewdly suspect he is, and in hiding. I shall find out where he is, and then it depends upon him whether he is hanged or prefers to live abroad on a portion of his money."
"The lesser portion. I know the price of your silence," said Lucy, vehemently. "You will want the Hall and a large income."
"All I can get," rejoined Beryl, quietly. "And you have refused to share my fortune with me."
"Yes. I will have nothing to do with you. And remember that if I catch you plotting I will tell Mr. Durham."
"You can tell him the whole of this conversation," snarled Beryl. "I am not afraid of Durham. If Bernard is alive, he'll have to pay up or be hanged."
"He is innocent."
Julius shrugged his shoulders and walked to the door. There he paused to utter a final insulting speech."I don't know whether you intend to marry Bernard or Lord Conniston," he said, "but I wish, which ever it is, joy of a spitfire."
"And an honest woman," said Miss Randolph, wrathfully, for the reference to Conniston touched her nearly; "but you go too fast. You can't yet prove that Bernard lives."
"I go to do so," sneered Julius, and bowed himself ironically out of the room, leaving Lucy furious both with him and with herself.
She was angry with herself because she felt that in speaking of Conniston she had colored. And as a matter of fact she greatly admired the young lord, even though they had only met once, for Conniston was one of those irresistible men who appeal to women. Lucy thought—but it matters little what she thought. All she knew was that her engagement to Julius, which had always weighed on her conscience, was at an end. "I am free now—free," she said, stretching her hands. "Oh, what an escape I have had from that wicked man. He has shown his hand too plainly. I will put Mr. Durham on his guard, and"—here she blushed—"and Lord Conniston."
Julius, walking towards the Bower, was also angry with himself. As Lucy thought, he had shown his hand too clearly. "It would have been better," he considered, "to have held my tongue. I should have done so had she not goaded me into speech. She will tell Durham and that interfering Conniston and put them on their guard. Well"—he laughed and looked at the small boy trotting beside him—"I am equal to both."
The boy was a handsome, innocent-looking little fellow, rather undersized. With his clear skin, his fairhair and wide blue eyes he looked like the conventional picture of a cherub. No one would have suspected that such a childish creature was a born criminal. But his mind had not yet had time to work on his face, and the mask of his childhood—for he was only thirteen—concealed his evil nature successfully. In a few years, when his passions worked their way through the mask, his face, now so smooth and innocent, would be wrinkled and sinful. His mind would have marked plainly its signet on the smooth surface. But at present he looked charmingly innocent, although he already knew much more about life than was good for him. Julius, in order that the lad might make an impression on Miss Plantagenet, had dressed him in a new suit, and pleased with himself—for much of the boy remained in this precocious criminal—young Jerry trotted along smiling.