"Jerry," said Beryl, looking down, "mind you are nice to the old lady."
Jerry tossed his fair curls and looked roguish. "Oh, that's all right, Mr. Beryl. All old ladies take to me. They think I'm a kind of Holy Bill, and I let them think so. It pays."
"Jerry, you are a young scamp of the worst."
The boy chuckled as though he had received a compliment. "I like doing things," he explained frankly; "it's fun. When I was with old grandmother at the castle I hated doing nothing. If it hadn't been for Victoria—the girl I told you about—I should have left long before. I'm going to marry her."
"You know nothing about such things," corrected the respectable Mr. Beryl, severely.
"I know a jolly sight more than you think," said the urchin under his breath and producing a cigarette.
Julius took it from him. "Miss Plantagenet must not think you smoke, Jerry. She is most respectable."
"And dull," said Jerry, putting his hands in his pockets. "Lord! what a bore stopping with her will be. But I can nip over and see Victoria when I like."
"And keep an eye on Lord Conniston as I told you."
"I'm fly," said Master Moon, and began whistling.
Julius looked at him with satisfaction. He intended that the boy should remain in the neighborhood so as to keep watch on Conniston—whom since he left the army so unexpectedly he suspected—on Durham, and on Alice Malleson. For this last reason he was introducing him into the house. If Bernard were alive—as Julius began to suspect—he would come to one of these three people, and then Jerry would at once become aware of the fact. Then it would remain with Bernard whether to be hanged or to surrender a large portion of the property which Beryl thought rightfully belonged to him. How he came to this conclusion it is difficult to say.
Miss Berengaria was as usual in the garden looking after the well-being of some white chrysanthemums. She raised her head when she saw her visitors, and a look of annoyance crossed her face when she saw Mr. Beryl. Notwithstanding Durham's advice, she found it difficult to keep her natural dislike of the young man in abeyance, and but for the sake of Alice she would have refused to let him enter the Bower. As it was, and with great diplomacy—so great that it deceived even the astute Beryl—she asked him to come into the house. Luckily Alice was out of the way, having gone to pay a visit. But she was expected back momentarily, and Miss Berengaria wished to get rid ofJulius before the girl returned. She might be able to conceal her real feelings, but Alice being so young and impulsive might show her dislike too plainly and put Beryl on his guard.
"Who is this you have here?" asked Miss Plantagenet, putting on her spectacles and surveying Jerry with admiration. "What a pretty lad!"
"He is a lad I wish you to help," said Beryl, blandly. "Last time we met, Miss Plantagenet, you mentioned that you wanted a page."
"Not exactly a page," said the old dame, rubbing her nose, a sure sign she was perplexed. "Merely a boy to see after the fowls, and to wait about the house when necessary."
"I love fowls," said Jerry sweetly, and looking as innocent as a babe, "and dogs and things like that."
"You seem a nice lad. Who is he, Mr. Beryl?"
"A poor boy who sold matches in London."
"But I didn't always," piped Jerry, shifting from one leg to the other in feigned embarrassment, and playing his part perfectly. "I lived with grandmother at Cove Castle."
"That's Lord Conniston's place," said Miss Berengaria, more perplexed than ever. "What were you doing there?"
"I lived with grandmother. My name is Jerry Moon."
"Oh! And how did you come to be selling matches?"
"His lordship got me a situation at a tobacconist's," said the child-like Moon, "and then he got me turned off."
"Why? That is not like Lord Conniston."
"You had better not ask the reason," interposed Julius; "it is not to Lord Conniston's credit."
"But I must know the reason," said the old dame, sharply, "if you want me to take the lad into my service."
Jerry in answer to a look of Beryl's began to weep ostentatiously.
"I saw his lordship dressed as a soldier," he snuffled, "and I told Mr. Beryl. His lordship was so angry that he got me turned off, saying I was ungrateful."
"You should always hold your tongue," said Miss Berengaria, angrily. "You had no right to tell what Lord Conniston wished kept secret. It was only a freak on his part. He left the army at my request."
"At your request?" said Julius, looking at her directly.
Forearmed as she was, Miss Berengaria, with the consciousness of Bernard's secret, flushed through her withered skin. However, she did not lower her eyes but turned the conversation defiantly. "Let us keep to the matter in hand. Do you want to enter my service?"
"Yes, sweet lady."
"Don't talk like that, child. Call me ma'am."
"Yes, ma'am," said Jerry, submissively. "Mr. Beryl—such a kind gentleman, ma'am—said you would help me."
"I will so long as you are honest."
Jerry thrust his tongue in his cheek, but Julius answered, "I can vouch for his honesty," he said. "But he talks too much."
"He must hold his tongue here," said the old dame, severely, and shaking her trowel at the boy. "Where are his clothes?"
"I have none but what's on," cried Jerry. "The kind gentleman got them for me, ma'am."
"You are a better Christian than I thought," said Miss Berengaria, looking at Beryl. "Well, you can stay here, boy. Go to the kitchen and tell the servants to give you something to eat."
Jerry grinned, and ducked towards the door. "Good-bye, Jerry," said Beryl, kindly. "Don't forget me."
"If I do may I be—oh no, kind lady—I mean, ma'am—I won't swear. I never did, having been to Sunday school. Yes, ma'am, I'm going," and Jerry in answer to an imperative wave of his new mistress's hand disappeared. Miss Berengaria turned to Beryl.
"He certainly has a long tongue," she said severely. "I must see that he doesn't swear or smoke or indulge in any of those wicked things. I hope he will do your recommendation credit, Mr. Beryl."
"I hope he will," said Julius, and felt a strong inclination to thrust his tongue in his cheek also. Then he took his leave and the old lady watched him go.
"What is this for?" she asked herself, and went inside to write a report to Durham.
A week later Bernard was seated in the sitting room on the first floor of the castle looking out at the landscape. It was picturesque but depressing. The sun had just set behind dark clouds, and the red glare behind them looked like a fire in a grate. The marshes were covered with white mist, and the arm of the sea that reached up to the castle walls resembled a stream of blood. And over all the veil of night was falling darker and darker. Even to a mind at ease the prospect would have been cheerless, but to Bernard in his present low spirits it was positively suicidal. He felt more miserable than he had ever done in his life.
While watching and waiting, he knew not for what, the sound of voices was heard. As he started to his feet with that nervousness which had increased of late, the door opened slowly and Mark Durham entered smiling. Bernard with an ejaculation of surprise hastened towards him with outstretched hands.
"My dear Mark, how unexpected and how jolly. I was just dying to see someone. When did you arrive?"
"This very minute, and Mrs. Moon"—he turned to the door through which could be seen the gigantic form of the ogress—"showed me up at once. I have come for the night"—he raised his voice for the benefit of the housekeeper—"on business connected with Lord Conniston's estate."
"Sir," said Mrs. Moon, peering in, "don't tell me as his lordship is going to fight."
"No! no! Make yourself easy. He has left the army. Should he go to the front it will be in a way more befitting his rank."
"And a relief it is to hear that," said Mrs. Moon, placing a large hand on her ample bosom. "When Jerry, who is my grandson, wrote me his lordship was a common soldier, I could have fainted, but what I thought Victoria would bring me to with hot water like the spiteful imp of darkness she is."
"Did Jerry write?" asked Durham, making a sign to Gore to be silent.
"Of course he did, and said as he had been turned out of his employment for a—recognizing of his lordship—a thing I should never have thought his lordship would have done, seeing he got my own flesh and blood, which Jerry is, the situation."
"It was not for that reason, Mrs. Moon. Jerry told a lie if he wrote that to you."
"Printed or speaking lies, he tells plenty," moaned the giantess. "Oh dear me, so like his poor dear father, though I thumped him rarely when I had the strength. But what's my Jerry, bad as he is and liar though he be, a-doing of now? He may be starving in that nasty London, and a rare child he was for tit-bits."
"I can tell you where he is, Mrs. Moon," broke in Bernard. "I have just heard." He glanced towards the table wherein lay a letter. "He is a page in the house of Miss Plantagenet at Hurseton."
"Deary me," said Mrs. Moon in mild surprise. "I do hope as he'll give satisfaction, and pleased I am. I must tell Victoria, she being taken up greatly with my Jerry, though both of them be but young."
Durham detained her. "No! Don't say a word to Victoria."
"And why not, sir?"
"If you do Jerry will lose his post," explained Durham. "Miss Plantagenet has heard of Victoria, and she doesn't seem to be a good companion for Jerry. Only on condition that Victoria has nothing to do with Jerry will the boy be kept on. It is for this reason he has not been over to see you."
"And him being so near and denying his own flesh and blood," wailed Mrs. Moon, raising her large hands; "but Jerry was always bad. Well, I don't want him to lose his place, so I'll hold my tongue, and right Miss Plantagenet is, Victoria being a bad and wicked critter as I'd take my Bible oath. If only another girl would stop here I'd give Victoria the walking-ticket. But, bless you, the castle's that dismal and the——"
Here Durham interrupted impatiently. "Go and send up some tea, Mrs. Moon, and hold your tongue about Jerry's whereabouts. If Victoria learns, she may go over, and then Jerry would be dismissed."
"To the gallows," said the housekeeper, closing the door, "to which he will assuredly go," she added, opening it again, "he taking after his forebears, who were hanged for many evils. Tea did you say. Ah, well, there's some comfort in tea," and muttering to herself the weak old creature left the two gentlemen to themselves.
By this time Bernard had returned to the fire and was pushing forward a chair for Durham. "I am glad to see you, Mark," said he, cordially. "But why did you stop me speaking?"
"I didn't stop you, worse luck," said Durham, runninghis hand through his curly hair. "I didn't want Mrs. Moon to know where Jerry was. I only hope she will hold her tongue; but if she does tell Victoria, and she is weak enough to babble a lot, Jerry will learn in a way I need not describe that you are here."
Bernard saw that he had been foolish and bit his lip. "I should have been silent," he said. "But the fact is, Mark, I didn't think of Jerry being dangerous. Alice simply wrote saying that he had been engaged by Miss Berengaria as a page, and that she would give me the details when she came to-morrow."
"So like a woman," grumbled Durham, sitting down. "It would have been better had she told you that Beryl had induced Miss Plantagenet to take the boy as a page."
Bernard stared. "But she is on my side," he faltered.
"Of course she is, and for that reason she has taken the boy. I told her to be civil to Beryl, so that I might learn what his game was. It is better that we should keep all these people in sight. I have my eye on Beryl, who haunts my office. Jane Riordan is in my employment. Miss Randolph keeps watch on Mrs. Gilroy, and Miss Plantagenet will see that Jerry—or Judas as Conniston calls him—does no mischief. If I can get all the threads into my hands, Bernard, I'll soon be able to find a clue likely to lead me to the central mystery of this labyrinth. And there's no denying," added Durham, wrinkling his brows, "that the case is a perplexing one."
"I understand about you and Miss Berengaria," said Bernard, nursing his chin, "you are my friends; but Lucy. I have always had my doubts about Lucy, and offended Conniston by saying so. He admires Lucy."
"Miss Randolph is entirely to be trusted," said the lawyer, decisively; "she is your friend, and has broken off her engagement with Beryl. I think he showed too plainly that he wanted to ruin you and——"
"Does he know that I am alive?" interrupted Gore, much perturbed.
"No! But I think he is suspicious. He has some rascally scheme in his head or he would not have placed Judas in Miss Berengaria's establishment; luckily, the old lady will watch the boy. However, as I was saying, the engagement between Miss Randolph and Beryl is ended. She told me that she had given him back the ring. She is quite on our side."
"Conniston will be glad," said Gore, smiling in a haggard sort of way; "he admires Lucy."
"So do I. She's a charming girl, especially now that she has been allowed to exert her individuality, which was crushed by Sir Simon. I often wondered you did not fall in love with her, Bernard."
"Oh, we are like brother and sister," said Bernard, quietly, then he sighed and started to his feet. "See here, Mark, I can't stand this sort of thing any longer."
"What sort of thing?"
"This inaction. Here I am mouldering in this old castle, a prey to apprehension, and letting other people do my work. Why shouldn't I come to life and give myself up?"
"You can do that later, when we know more about the case than we do at present. Don't be rash, Bernard."
Gore walked up and down the room. "The life will drive me mad," he said impatiently. "Thank Heaven Alice comes to see me to-morrow."
"Why didn't she come before?"
"She would have done so had she thought it safe. Alice is as true as steel. But with Beryl about the place—and he has called several times on Miss Berengaria—she thought it best to postpone her visit. But Conniston asked them both over to-morrow, and they are coming openly."
"So they told me," rejoined Durham, coolly, "and I particularly impressed on them that they were not to bring that imp over. If he learns you are here—" The lawyer paused.
"What will he do?"
"Sell you to the highest bidder. I think we can get the better of Beryl there, though. We have the money and Beryl hasn't. Judas is in the employment of Beryl so long as it pays him. But if I promise him a good sum he'll hold his tongue whatever he learns. It's just as well, seeing how rash you were telling his grandmother where he is to be found."
"I was foolish," admitted Gore, gloomily, "but I am so worried that I do foolish things. Do you think there is any chance of getting at the truth, Mark?"
"Here's the tea," said Durham, rising at the sound of a shuffle at the door. "Let me have a cup, and then I'll tell you what I have discovered."
"Anything important?" asked Gore, as the door opened.
"Very important. I have a clue."
It was Victoria, sharp and dark and vixenish as ever, who brought in the tray. But Durham had spoken in low tones, so he did not think she had heard. Besides, he was not so alarmed about her and Judas as he had been. Both were venal, and at any cost their silence would have to be purchased. It would be better forBernard to lose half his estate than remain a fugitive from justice. Victoria darted a suspicious glance at Bernard, as from the air of mystery surrounding his stay at the castle she thought he was, as she put it, "wanted for something." But she was too clever, and, truth to say, too impotent to move without the co-operation of Jerry Moon. Besides, beyond a mere suspicion, she had nothing to go upon. Queerly enough, she had heard nothing of the murder, but then Mrs. Moon kept her so close that Victoria rarely had an opportunity of indulging her gossipping instincts, of which she had her full share.
When she withdrew, Durham poured out two cups of tea and ate some toast. Gore waited patiently enough, but there was a restless air about him which showed that his patience was tried severely. At length Durham satisfied his appetite, took the edge off it as it were, and then returned to his seat.
"Bernard," he asked, poking the fire, "you never told me that Sir Simon gave you a check for one thousand pounds?"
Gore started up with an exclamation. "What do you mean? I never received such a large check as that in all my life."
"But your grandfather gave you one in September, payable to bearer."
"No. He certainly did not. You forget that we had quarrelled. From the moment I left the Hall some months ago I never received a penny from him. I lived, as you know, on what little money I inherited from my father. You gave fifty pounds to me yourself."
"I went to the bank," said Durham, with an air ofsatisfaction, "and asked if such a check had been presented, and by whom?"
"But how did you learn about this check?"
"Oh! I found it amongst Sir Simon's private papers when he died. It had been honored and returned cancelled with the bank-book. I need not have asked if it had been presented, as it had, and had also been paid. But I wanted to examine the whole thing from the beginning. The teller—who knows you—informed me that you presented the check about the beginning of October, and that he paid you the money."
"It is utterly false!" cried Gore, violently.
"Keep your temper, old boy," said Durham, soothingly. "I know that as well as you do. The man who presented the check was dressed as an Imperial Yeoman. He told the teller he had enlisted, and the teller, thinking he was you, wished him good luck."
"But, Mark," said Bernard, much perplexed, "this double of mine must be extraordinarily like me, for the teller knows me well."
"There is a reason for the likeness!" The young man hesitated, wondering if it would be right to tell his friend that Mrs. Gilroy claimed to be the first wife of Walter Gore. On rapid reflection, he decided to say nothing about the matter at present, knowing Bernard's violent temper. He therefore confined himself to bare detail. "Mrs. Gilroy called at my office," he said slowly, "to complain that the one hundred a year left to her by Sir Simon was not enough."
"Oh, confound Mrs. Gilroy," said Gore, impatiently. "I want to know about this check. This double who presented it must be the fellow who masqueraded in the kitchen."
"And perhaps—who knows?—may have murdered Sir Simon."
"It's not unlikely. Mrs. Gilroy said she admitted someone like me—or, as she thought, me—about ten, and——"
"We'll come to that presently. I examined Jane Riordan, who was courted by this fellow apparently to get into the house. She described you exactly, but when I showed her your likeness she noticed that the mole on your chin was absent from the man who met her."
Bernard involuntarily put up his hand to touch the mole, which was rather conspicuous. "The man had not this mark?" he asked.
"No. So the mole you used to curse at school, Bernard, may be the means of saving your life. Also I got a letter from the girl in which this fellow makes an appointment. Here it is."
Gore examined the letter thrown to him by Durham. "It's like my writing, but it isn't," he said, staring. "In Heaven's name, Mark, what does it all mean?"
"Conspiracy on the part of——"
"Julius Beryl," said Gore, breathlessly.
"I am not prepared to say that; but certainly on the part of Mrs. Gilroy. While I was wondering who this double who copied even your handwriting and called himself by your name could be, Mrs. Gilroy called on the errand I told you of."
"Well? Well?"
"Don't be impatient, old chap. Well, she demanded more money, and she gave it as her reason for claiming it that your father—" Durham hesitated, wondering how to explain.
"Go on, please," said Gore. "I am on thorns."
"Do you want the truth?"
"Yes, I do. The whole truth."
"Will you promise to keep your temper?"
"Yes. I know I have a bad one, but——"
"Very good. Don't excuse yourself, Bernard. Well, Mrs. Gilroy claimed to be the wife of your father, and——"
Gore started to his feet in a paroxysm of rage. "The wife of my father," he repeated. "Why, my mother is dead."
"She said your mother was not the wife of——"
"Oh!" Bernard sprang to his feet with blazing eyes. "Mark!"
The lawyer rose. "Keep your temper. I didn't intend to tell you, knowing how you would receive the news."
"Does this woman dare to say that I am a—a——"
"Bernard, sit down," said Durham, and literally forced the impetuous boy back into his chair. "Behave like a civilized being. Mrs. Gilroy claims to be your father's first wife."
"But if she lives, and if what she says is true, my mother—I—oh—I could kill this woman."
"Gore," said the lawyer, seriously, "don't talk like this; remember what trouble you are now in owing to your former rash words."
"Yes! Yes!" Bernard struck his forehead hard. "I know—I am a fool. I didn't mean—Mark!"—he started up despite the other's efforts to keep him down—"do you believe this?"
"No," said Durham, promptly, "I don't. If Mrs. Gilroy was the real wife, she would not have kept silentso long. But I think she was deceived by a pretended marriage, and that Sir Simon, knowing this, helped her. I always wondered what was the bond between them. Now I know. Your father deceived the woman."
"But why do you think she had anything to do with my father at all, Mark? The whole story may be trumped up."
"I am quite sure that her tale is true, save as to the marriage," was Durham's reply. "I don't say that she might not have been deceived with a pretended marriage, and that she thought all was right. But she is not the real wife. Your mother, born Tolomeo is, and you are legitimately Sir Bernard Gore."
"But your reason for thinking she speaks truly?"
"I will give one; a sufficient one. Mrs. Gilroy declared that her son, Michael Gore—so she termed him—was the heir. She explained that there could be no deception, as he is the image of his father."
"Oh!" Bernard started to his feet, seeing light. "And I am the image of my father, as was always said. This man must be——"
"He is. I am sure of that. Michael, your half-brother, is the man resembling you who masqueraded—probably at the instance of his mother. I daresay he saw Sir Simon on that night, and was admitted by his mother. Probably he insisted that he was the heir, and Sir Simon lost his temper. Then he killed the old man, and——"
"And Mrs. Gilroy put the crime on to my shoulders. I see it all."
"I don't," said Durham, dryly. "I wish I did. For instance, I don't see why you were brought to Crimea Square in the nick of time for Mrs. Gilroy to accuseyou. I don't understand about the Red Window either!"
Gore walked up and down the room much agitated. "Mark," he cried at last, "I must come out and face this. I can't sit still here, knowing that all this villainy is about."
"You must," insisted Mark, firmly. "Remember I am your lawyer and I will look after your interests, to say nothing of Conniston, who has remained in England for your sake. Wait, Bernard. In good time I will bring you forward."
"But what will you do?"
"I shall see Mrs. Gilroy and question her again. She declared that her son was in America when I accused him to her of having killed Sir Simon. Now Michael undoubtedly presented this check at the beginning of October. The murder took place at the end of the month, so Michael was in England. When I place this fact before Mrs. Gilroy, she may give in and confess."
"Confess what?"
"That you are innocent. Whether she will acknowledge that Michael, her son, committed the crime I can't say. I'll see her to-morrow, and I left word with Miss Randolph to-day that I would. The solution of the mystery lies with Mrs. Gilroy."
"Where can her son be found?"
"That we must learn. I may be able to force her to speak. When we find Michael you can reappear, and then the matter will be threshed out. Jane will soon be able to distinguish between these Corsican Brothers. Meantime, remain quietly here."
"I must! I must! And yet——"
"And yet you won't think I am doing my best for you."
"I do—you know I do, Mark. But, after all, my position is terrible."
"Don't make it worse by acting impulsively. I shall keep you advised of all that goes on. When does Conniston return?"
"To-morrow, with Alice and Miss Berengaria. He went over to-day."
"I saw him there. I expect he will stop the night. Well, while he is here with Miss Malleson and her aunt, I shall see Mrs. Gilroy."
"But if she refuses to speak," murmured Gore, anxiously.
"I have means to make her speak," said Durham, significantly.
Next day at twelve o'clock Durham went back to Hurseton to see Mrs. Gilroy. She alone could relate the true story of the night. But before he left Bernard he related an incident about which he had forgotten to tell him on the previous night.
"Did you ever see your Uncle Guiseppe Tolomeo?" he asked.
"Several times," replied Bernard, with no very pleased expression. "I assisted him with money."
"He is the kind of person who will always have to be assisted," was the lawyer's reply. "I fear he is a scamp, old fellow."
"So my grandfather said. I don't think he is a good man myself. All the same he was my mother's brother, and I must assist him."
"He'll give you every opportunity to do so," said Durham, dryly. "I had a visit from him the other day?"
"What did he want?"
"His errand was similar to that of Mrs. Gilroy's. He wished to know if Sir Simon had made any provision for him in the will. I don't know on what grounds he based his claim, as your grandfather hated him. But he evidently expected to be remembered. I told him he would get nothing, and then with true Italian excitability he began to lament that you had not lived, saying you would have helped him."
"I shall certainly do that. He is my uncle when all is said and done. What is he doing?"
"Playing the violin in some orchestra. The fellow is a gentleman, Bernard, but a thorough scamp. Since he can earn his own bread I don't think it is wise for you to let him live on your money."
"There's no chance at present of my letting him believe I will allow that," said Gore, rather dolefully. "What else did he say?"
"Rather a strange thing. He said that he told Sir Simon that the Red Lamp would not bring you."
"The Red Window, you mean. My uncle knew about that one at the Hall. When my mother was alive, and staying—as she did for a time— with Sir Simon, she used to put a light in the Red Window so as to tell Tolomeo that she would meet him in the garden on that evening. The window is visible through a long avenue, and can easily be seen from the road which runs past the grounds. My poor mother used it as a signal to her brother, as Lucy used it as a signal to me. And I believe that in days gone by—in Charles the First's days—it was used in a like manner to warn loyal cavaliers."
"Tolomeo did not say the Red Window," replied Durham, wrinkling his brows, "but the Red Lamp, which makes me think he must have been with Sir Simon on that fatal evening."
Bernard looked up alertly, and his brow grew dark. "How do you make that out?"
"Well," said Durham, after a pause, "I questioned Jane Riordan again about the possibility of there having been a red light visible!"
"There was," interrupted Gore, decisively. "I saw it myself."
"And Mrs. Webber saw it, although afterwards it disappeared. Well, Jane told me that there was a lamp on the table in front of the window. She saw it when she went up with the cook and Miss Randolph."
"I remember. I was in the grip of the policeman then," said Gore.
"Well, it is strange, seeing that the apartment was lighted by electricity, that a lamp should have stood in front of the window."
"What do you infer?" asked Bernard, doubtfully and uneasily.
"This much. Your cousin told Sir Simon about the use she made of the Red Window—your cousin Miss Randolph, I mean—and when she was at the Curtain Theatre with Beryl, I believe he put the lamp in the window to attract you."
"Had the lamp a red glass?"
"No. But a red bandana handkerchief such as Sir Simon used might have been stretched across the window. I daresay he did it."
"But he didn't know that I knew the house," objected Gore.
"True enough, unless"—here Durham hesitated—"unless it was your grandfather who sent Jerry Moon to lure you to the square."
"No! Judas—as Conniston calls him—is Beryl's tool. I would rather believe that Beryl placed the red handkerchief across the window."
"There was no handkerchief found," said Durham. "Mrs. Webber saw the red light, yet when Beryl went out to look for it he could see none, neither could she. What do you infer from that, Bernard?"
"That the handkerchief must have been removed inthe meanwhile by Beryl. No," Bernard recollected, "not by Beryl; Mrs. Gilroy prevented him going up the stairs. But Lucy, the cook and Jane Riordan went up;—one of them must have removed the handkerchief. I tell you what, Mark," added Bernard, thoughtfully, "it was Lucy who placed the lamp by the window and stretched the handkerchief across it."
"We don't know that a handkerchief was so stretched," said Durham.
"It must have been to cause the red light," insisted Gore. "Lucy always had the idea of the Red Window. She was then friendly with Beryl, and she might have made use of Jerry Moon to bring me to the square in the hope that, seeing the red light, I might venture into the house and interview my grandfather."
"Well," said Durham, rising, "we will ask Miss Randolph. Also we can question this young Judas, who is now with Miss Plantagenet."
Bernard did not answer. With his head on his hand he was pondering deeply. "One thing I can't understand," he said, after a pause: "Why do you connect my Uncle Guiseppe with the Red Window?"
"I don't, but with the Red Lamp. In this especial instance, for lack of red glass a lamp was used. It was not the ordinary lighting of the room, remember. Now, Tolomeo must have been in the room, and he must have seen the lamp to make use of such an expression."
"So you believe he was with Sir Simon when Lucy and Beryl were at the theatre?"
"Yes," said Durham, looking directly at Gore, "and Tolomeo is Italian."
Bernard jumped up nervously. "Do you mean to hint that Tolomeo may have strangled my grandfather?"
"Yes, I do. Tolomeo may have come to see him—indeed, he must have done so to make use of such an expression as the 'Red Lamp.' The two quarrelled, and perhaps your uncle, losing his temper——"
"No, no! I can't believe that," said Gore, walking anxiously to and fro. "Tolomeo is wild but not wicked."
"That depends on what you call wicked," said Durham, dryly, and preparing to take his leave. "However, we can leave this clue, if clue it is, alone at present. What I have to do is to question Mrs. Gilroy about her son. Also I may see Miss Randolph and Jerry Moon. But of one thing I am certain, Bernard: your grandfather had several visitors during that evening. Your half-brother Michael came, also your uncle. One of the two——"
"No! I would rather believe Mrs. Gilroy strangled the old man herself."
"She is quite capable of doing so," said Durham, coolly, "but I do not think she did. His death was unfortunate for her schemes; he was of more value to her alive than dead. But it might be that Michael killed Sir Simon, and that Mrs. Gilroy is using you as a scapegoat. However, I learn the truth from her to-day."
"If that theory is correct, Tolomeo——"
"Is innocent, quite so. We'll give him the benefit of the doubt. But I want to know what he was doing with Sir Simon on that evening. He may be able to tell us something if he is innocent himself."
Gore shuddered. "It is a most involved case," he said hopelessly.
"I quite agree with you. We have a long dark road to travel before we come to the light. However"—Durhamclapped Bernard on the back—"keep up your spirits. If time, and money, and friendship can put you right, Conniston and I will see the thing through. Meantime, as Miss Malleson is coming here this day, make yourself happy and don't worry."
"You might as well put the kettle on the fire and say don't boil."
Durham shrugged his shoulders and said no more. What with his isolation and anxiety, Bernard was growing morbid, and his only cure lay in the truth being discovered. Therefore Durham set out to discover it from Mrs. Gilroy, and left the young man to his by no means pleasant meditations.
The day was fine and cold, with much sunshine and no mist. Bernard went out for a walk on the small spot of dry ground on which the castle is built. Victoria privately complained to him that she had all the work to do. Since Mrs. Moon had learned "Kings" she would do nothing but play the game. Bernard laughed, and saw the housekeeper, telling her again of the expected arrival of the two ladies.
"You had better get a good luncheon ready," he said.
"I'll try," sighed the giantess; "but that game lies heavy on my conscience. I'm bound to do it at least once, Mr. Grant." She gave Gore his false name in all innocence. "I do wish, sir, you hadn't taught me the game."
"Never mind, you'll do it some day," said Bernard, kindly.
Mrs. Moon moaned and groaned and went to prepare luncheon, her head full of the fatal game, which had seized on her rather sluggish imagination so stronglyas to exclude all other thoughts. Bernard went outside and walked along the causeway which connected the castle with the main road. He wished to welcome Miss Plantagenet and Alice before the two women could see them, as it was necessary to inform them that his name for the time being was Grant. Certainly Conniston might have informed them of this fact; but the young lord was so feather-headed that Bernard did not always trust to his discretion.
Presently an open carriage came in sight driven by Miss Berengaria's fat coachman. Gore heaved a sigh of relief when he saw that they had not brought the dangerous Jerry with them. Evidently Conniston had remembered that part of his instructions.
"Dear Alice," he said, hurrying forward to meet the carriage as it turned down the causeway. And he waved his hat, in return for which token of greeting Alice waved her hand.
But when the lovers met, their hearts were too full to speak. They simply took one another's hands and looked into one another's eyes. Miss Berengaria, alighting at the same time, ordered the carriage to drive to the castle door, and turned to salute the exile. "Well, young man," she said in her bluff way, "a nice mess you have got yourself into."
"Oh no, aunt," protested Alice; "it is not Bernard's fault."
Miss Berengaria rubbed her nose. "Well, I don't know," she observed tartly. "Bernard Gore always had a talent for getting himself into scrapes."
"I hope Mr. Grant is more cautious," said Gore, leading the way to the door with a smile.
"And who is Mr. Grant?" asked Alice, puzzled.
"I am. I have to take a false name because of the servant, Victoria. She is so sharp that she might write and tell Judas I am here."
"Judas!" echoed Miss Berengaria, who, with her dress kilted up, was picking her way amidst the puddles. "Oh, that brat who says he loves fowls and harries mine beyond endurance. I assure you, Bernard, the wretch has spoilt the nerves of the whole poultry yard. I'd give him his walking-ticket if it were not for you. But I'm bound to keep an eye on him, according to Durham. And a nice lawyer he is, with his finiking ways," finished the old lady grimly.
"There is no danger of Jerry getting any letter," said Alice, as they entered the castle. "Aunt looks over all the correspondence. Jerry is behaving himself nicely."
"Except that he's always in places he shouldn't be," said Miss Berengaria. "Deuce take the boy, I don't know what he is after."
"He is on the watch for the arrival of Bernard," said Alice, quietly. "It is for that reason, I am sure, that Julius asked you to take him."
"Bah! Beryl!" Miss Berengaria never was respectful to anyone, much less to Julius, whom she hated. "Beryl doesn't know Gore is alive."
"Yes, he does," began Alice, then checked herself. "I'll tell you later, my dear," she added in a lower tone to Bernard. "I have much to say I don't want my aunt to overhear."
But that lady was too much occupied with Mrs. Moon to listen.
"Well, Moon, how are you?" she said grimly, surveying the giantess. "No younger, I see, and not in good health, I should say."
"What can you expect from damp marshes, my lady?" whimpered Mrs. Moon, who, for some unexplained reason, gave Miss Berengaria this title.
"Rheumatism and ague," said the old dame promptly. "And you look as though you were getting ready for a fever."
"Oh, my lady!"
"Oh, fiddlesticks!" said Miss Berengaria, stalking into the castle. "Have you a good meal ready? If you have, send it up. I'm as hungry as a mosquito after my drive."
"Victoria is laying the table, my lady."
"Who is she? Oh yes. The brat of a girl that urchin of mine talks about. He wants to come over and see her, but I won't let him."
"Why not, my lady? I should like to see my own flesh and blood."
"Well, then, you won't," snapped Miss Berengaria. "And don't you tell Victoria the boy is with me, or I'll discharge him."
"So Mr. Grant said, my lady. He having told me as Jerry was page to your ladyship."
"Hum! It's none of Mr. Grant's business. I can manage my own affairs without his assistance. Come along and show me to a room where I can put my hair tidy; it's blown about by the wind. And see that the coachman feeds the horses. He's a fool."
"I'll see to it, my lady. And Victoria——?"
"Hold your tongue about Victoria."
"I will, my lady. Come this way, my lady," and Mrs. Moon plunged along the corridor with little Miss Berengaria trotting briskly at her heels. She looked like a cock-boat following in the wake of a three-decker. And all the time she scolded the meek giantess.
While Mrs. Moon was thus suffering, the lovers were talking eagerly in the sitting-room, where the table was already laid for luncheon. Victoria had departed, so they had the apartment to themselves, and for the moment, in spite of the depressing surrounding circumstances, they were absolutely happy.
"Dearest," said Bernard, taking the girl's hand, "I have hungered for this moment. Alice, you are more beautiful than ever."
"Darling! But, Bernard, I have a confession to make. I really thought for a moment that you were guilty."
"Alice, how could you?"
Her eyes filled with tears. "I was mad to doubt you, dearest, but I did. I thought you might have lost your temper with——"
"Ah!" groaned Gore, "my terrible temper. But when did you come to think me innocent, Alice?"
"Almost immediately. My aunt laughed at the idea that you had killed Sir Simon. She always stood up for you, and scolded me."
"I think you deserved it," said Gore, playfully. "However, I forgive you. The evidence against me is so strong that I don't wonder you believed I was——"
"No, Bernard, no. You loved me, and in the face of everything I should never have credited you with the commission of this crime. But you forgive me, don't you, dear?" she added, nestling to his heart.
"Of course I do," replied Gore, and sealed his forgiveness with a kiss. "So long as you believe me to be innocent now."
"I do—I do. I wonder that I could have doubted you. Lord Conniston never doubted you, nor did Mr.Durham, nor my aunt. It was only I who—oh dear me! How wicked of me."
"Alice"—he kissed away her tears—"say no more. The circumstances were enough to shake your faith in me, especially when you knew I had such a bad temper. And I have it still," sighed Gore, sadly; "even now in spite of all my trouble I am impatient."
"Wait, wait! All will be well."
"I can't see how I am to win free of the trouble, Alice dear."
"None of us can see, Bernard. But we are in God's hands. He will help us. See, He has given you a refuge here till your innocence is proved."
"And how long will I keep this refuge?" said Gore, gloomily. "If that young imp Judas learns from Victoria that I am here——"
"Then you can escape to another place. But, Bernard, I have something to tell you." Alice looked round and took a letter out of her pocket cautiously. "This is from Julius. He says that he saw you in London."
"Ah!" Bernard read the letter hurriedly. "My double—my half-brother, Michael."
"Your half-brother! I never knew you had one."
"Nor did I, till Durham found it out from Mrs. Gilroy."
The next ten minutes was taken up by Bernard in explaining what the lawyer had learned from Mrs. Gilroy. Alice was extremely astonished and interested, and quite agreed that it was possible the half-brother might be the guilty person. "And it explains Mrs. Gilroy's accusation of you," said Alice, thoughtfully.
"Without doubt. Mrs. Gilroy never liked me. But do you believe Michael is the real heir?"
"No," said Alice, firmly. "Mrs. Gilroy would have claimed the money and the title for her son had there been a true marriage. There is something wrong, Bernard. I don't know what it is, but I feel sure that Mrs. Gilroy is not so secure about her position as she pretends to be."
"Well," said Bernard, putting the letter into his pocket, "Durham will tell us what she says."
Then occurred one of those coincidences which occur in real life quite as often as they do in novels. Durham suddenly entered the room, looking disturbed. He saluted Alice, then turned to his client—"Mrs. Gilroy!" he exclaimed.
"What of her?" asked Gore. "Has she confessed?"
"She has left the Hall, and no one knows where she is!"
The lovers stared at Durham when he made this startling announcement, for startling it was, considering how necessary Mrs. Gilroy's evidence was to procure the freedom of Gore. He sat down wiping his face—for he had ridden over post-haste—and looked excessively chagrined.
"When did she go?" asked Bernard, who was the first to find his voice.
"Goodness knows," replied the lawyer in vexed tones. "She left early this morning without saying she was going. Miss Randolph heard the news at breakfast. One of the grooms stated that he had seen Mrs. Gilroy driving in a farmer's trap to the station at Postleigh, about seven o'clock."
"Perhaps she will come back."
"No! She has taken her box with her. She had only one, I believe. I daresay she has taken fright over what she let out to me the other day about that precious son of hers"—here Durham remembered that, so far as he knew, Alice was ignorant of Michael Gore's existence. She interpreted the look.
"You can speak freely, Mr. Durham," she said. "Bernard has just told me all about the matter."
"Good," said the solicitor, evidently relieved, as it did not necessitate his entering into a long explanation, of which he was rather impatient. "Then you know that Bernard and I suspect Michael Gore——"
"He has no right to that name," said Bernard, peremptorily.
"Well, then, Michael Gilroy, though for all we know his mother may not have a right to that name either. But to come to the point. This disappearance of the woman makes me more certain than ever that she alone can tell the story of that night."
"And she won't tell it if it incriminates her son," said Alice.
"No, that's certain. I made inquiries——"
"You must have been quick about it," observed Gore, glancing at his watch. "It is barely three o'clock."
"I went at once to make inquiries," said Durham. "Mrs. Gilroy ordered the trap overnight and had her box removed, though how she managed it without the servants at the Hall knowing, I am not prepared to say. But she did, and went to the Postleigh station. There she took a ticket to London. She is lost there now"—here Durham made a gesture of despair—"and goodness knows when we will set eyes on her again."
"I can tell you that," put in Alice, briskly, and both men looked inquiringly at her. "She will reappear when she is able to establish the fact that Michael is the heir."
"Which means that she must prove her own marriage, if there was any—begging your pardon, Miss Malleson—to have taken place prior to that of Walter Gore with Signora Tolomeo."
"My uncle will be able to prove that."
"I'll see him about it, as there is some difficulty in knowing where your parents were married, Bernard. Your father kept the marriage a secret from you grandfather. Afterwards, Sir Simon received your motherat the Hall, and was fairly friendly with her. I don't think he ever became quite reconciled to your father."
"Well! well!" said Bernard, hastily, "let us leave that point alone for the present. What are we to do now?"
"We must have a counsel of war. By the way, Conniston is stopping at the Hall till this evening, Bernard. He will be back at dinner."
Alice smiled. "I think Lord Conniston is enjoying himself."
"You mean with Miss Randolph," said Durham. "I devoutly wish he may take a fancy to that lady——"
"I think he has," put in Bernard, smiling also.
"All the better. If he makes her Lady Conniston, it will be a good day's work. Only marriage will tame Conniston. I have had no end of trouble with him. Heisa trial."
"Oh, Lucy is a clever girl, and can guide him if she becomes his wife, Mr. Durham. And now that her engagement is broken with Mr. Beryl, I daresay it will come off—the marriage I mean. She seems to be attracted by Lord Conniston."
"And small wonder," said Miss Berengaria, entering at this moment. "I really think Conniston is a nice fellow—much better than Bernard, here."
"I won't hear that, aunt," said Alice, indignantly.
"My dear, I always speak my mind. How are you, Durham?" added the old lady, turning on the dapper solicitor. "You look worried."
"Mrs. Gilroy has bolted."
Miss Berengaria rubbed her nose. "The deuce take the woman! Why has she done that? I always thought she was a bad lot."
"Do you know anything about her, aunt?"
"Yes, I do, and much more than she likes. She's a gipsy."
"I thought she was," said Durham, remembering the Romany dialect used by the housekeeper, "but she doesn't look like a gipsy."
"Well," said Miss Berengaria, rubbing her nose again and taking a seat, "she's not a real gipsy, but I believe some tribe in the New Forest—the Lovels, I understand—picked her up, and looked after her. All I know of her dates from the time she came to Hurseton, with the gipsies. She was then a comely young woman, and I believe Walter Gore admired her."
"My father," said Bernard, coloring.
"I beg your pardon, my dear," said the old lady. "I can't say good of your father, and I won't say bad, so let me hold my tongue."
"No," said Durham, rather to the surprise of the others. "Now you have said so much, Miss Plantagenet, you must say all."
"All what?" demanded the old lady, aggressively.
"Well, you see, Mrs. Gilroy claims to have married Walter Gore."
"Then she's a liar," said Miss Berengaria, emphatically and vulgarly. "Why, Walter was married to your mother, Bernard, at that time."
"Are you sure?" he asked eagerly.
"Of course I am. I don't make any statements unless I am sure. It was after the marriage; for Sir Simon—I was friends with him then—consulted me about your father having married the Italian woman—begging your pardon again, Bernard. I then learned the date of the marriage and it was quite three years afterwardsthat Walter saw Mrs. Gilroy. I don't know what she called herself then. But she disappeared, and I understand from Sir Simon she married Walter under the impression he was a single man—drat the profligate!" added Miss Berengaria.
"Then the son——"
"Son!" echoed the old lady, turning to Durham, who had spoken. "You don't mean to say there is a son?"
"Yes." And Durham, thinking it best to be explicit, gave a detailed account of Mrs. Gilroy's interview. Miss Berengaria listened with great attention, and gave her verdict promptly.
"It's as plain as the nose on my face," she said. "Mrs. Gilroy was really married as she thought, but when she came to see Sir Simon—and that was after the death of both of your parents, my dear," she interpolated, turning to Gore, "she must have learned the truth. I think the old rascal—no, I won't speak evil of the dead—but the good old man"—her hearers smiled at this—"the good old saint was sorry for her. He made her the housekeeper and promised to provide for her after his death."
"Five hundred a year, she says," put in Durham.
"Ah! I can't conceive Simon Gore parting with money to that extent," said Miss Berengaria, dryly, "especially to one who had no claim upon him whatsoever."
"You don't think she had."
"Deuce take the man! Don't I say so? Of course she hadn't. Walter Gore deceived her—begging your pardon for the third time, Bernard—but Sir Simon acted very well by her. I will say that. As to therebeing a son, I never heard. But if this—what do you call him?"
"Michael Gilroy."
"Well, if Michael Gilroy is the image of Bernard, who is the image of his father in looks, though I hope not in conduct, there is no doubt that he was the man admitted by Mrs. Gilroy, who killed Sir Simon. Of course, she will fight tooth and nail for her son. I daresay—I am convinced that it is fear of what she said to you, Mr. Durham, that has made her go away. And a good riddance of bad rubbish, say I," concluded the old spinster, vigorously, "and for goodness' sake, where's the luncheon? I'm starving."
This speech provoked a laugh, and as everyone's nerves were rather worn by the position of affairs, it was decided to banish all further discussion until the meal was over. Miss Berengaria without being told took the head of the table. "I represent the family in the absence of that silly young donkey," she said.
"Oh, Miss Berengaria," said Bernard, smiling, "if you call Conniston that, what do you call me?"
"A foolish boy, who lost his head when he should have kept it."
"I lost my heart, at all events!"
Alice laughed, and they had a very pleasant meal. Miss Berengaria was really fond of Gore and of Conniston also, but she liked to—as she put it—take them down a peg or two. But whenever there was trouble, Miss Berengaria, in spite of her sharp tongue, was always to be relied upon. Her bark was five times as bad as her bite, therefore those present made all allowance for her somewhat free speech.
"We start back at half-past four," announced the oldlady, when the luncheon was ended, "as I don't like driving in the dark. It is now four, so you have just time to talk over what is to be done."
"What do you advise, Miss Berengaria?" asked Durham.
"I advise Bernard to give himself up, and face the matter out."
"Oh, aunt!" cried Alice, taking her lover's hand.
"My dear, this hole-and-corner business is no good. And the discovery of the likeness between Michael and Bernard brings a new element into play. If Bernard lets himself be arrested, the whole business can be threshed out in daylight. Besides, as we stand now, that Beryl creature—drat him!—will make mischief."
"He has found out that Bernard is alive," said Alice.
"That's impossible!" cried Durham, waking up and sitting apparently on thorns. "He doesn't know Bernard is at this Castle."
"Alice has put the matter wrongly," said Bernard, taking out the letter of Beryl. "She received this from Julius. He says he saw me in the streets of London. That means he saw Michael Gilroy."
"Ah! And made the mistake, as everyone else seems to have done."
"I doubt that, Alice," said Miss Plantagenet, "I doubt that very much. It seems to me that Beryl—drat him!—knows a great deal more than we do. It's my opinion," added the old lady, looking round triumphantly, "that Beryl has used Michael as an instrument."
"I think so also," said Durham, quickly, "and it comes to this, that if I accidentally met Michael, or if he called at my office representing himself as Bernard, I should accept him as such."
"What for?" asked Bernard, angrily.
"There you go with your temper," said Miss Berengaria. "Durham is quite right and shows more sense than I expected from him. The only way to get at the truth—which this Michael with his mother knows—is to give him a long enough rope to let him hang himself. I daresay if Durham won his confidence, the man might presume on his being accepted as Bernard, and might give us a clue. What do you say, Alice? Don't sit twiddling your thumbs, but answer."
Miss Malleson laughed. "I agree with you, aunt."
"Of course you do. Am I ever wrong? Well?" She looked round.
Durham answered her look. "I will go back to London," he said, "and will advertise for Mrs. Gilroy——"
"She won't be such a fool as to obey."
"I beg your pardon, Miss Plantagenet; she may."
"She won't, I tell you."
"Then Michael may come."
"What! with that murder hanging over his head? Rubbish!"
"You forget Bernard is accused. Michael can clear himself."
Miss Berengaria snorted and rubbed her nose. "Can he? then I should very much like to know how he can. Do what you like, young man, but mark my words: your net will catch no fish."
"It may catch Beryl," said Bernard, thoughtfully. "When he sees Mark advertising he will be on the look-out."
"To have Michael arrested as Bernard," said Miss Berengaria. "Well, he might. And if so, all the better for you, Gore. Oh dear me"—she rose to put on her bonnet—"what a lot of trouble all this is."
"And it rose from Bernard being true to me," said Alice, tenderly.
"As if you weren't worth the world," said Bernard, assisting her to put on her cloak.
"Eh, what's that?" said the old lady. "Hum! Bernard, your grandfather was a silly fool—no, I won't say that—but he was an upsetting peacock. The idea of not thinking Alice good enough for you!"
"She is too good for me."
"I quite agree with you," said the lawyer, laughing; "but you see, Miss Berengaria, it was not the personality of Miss Malleson that Sir Simon objected to, but her——"
"I know—I know," said the old lady tartly. "Bless the man, does he take me for an idiot." She sat down. "I'm a fool."
Everyone looked at one another when Miss Berengaria made this startling announcement. As a rule, she called others fools, but she was chary of applying the term to herself. She looked round. "I am a fool," she announced again. "Alice, come and sit down. I have something to say that should have been said long ago."
"What is it?" asked the girl, seating herself beside the old lady. Miss Berengaria, a rare thing for her, began to weep. "The air here is too strong for me," she said in excuse. "All the same, I must speak out even through my tears, silly woman that I am! Oh, if I hadn't been too proud to explain to that dead peacock"—she meant the late baronet—"all this would have been avoided."
"Do you mean my grandfather would have consented to the marriage?"
"I mean nothing of the sort, Bernard, so don't interrupt," said Miss Berengaria, sharply, "but I'm a fool. Bernard, I beg your pardon."
"If you would come to the point, Miss Plantagenet, and——"
"I am coming to it, Durham," she said quickly. "Don't worry me. It is this way: Sir Simon objected to Alice because he knew nothing of her parentage."
"I know nothing myself," said Alice, sadly.
"Well then, I intend to tell you now. You are perfectly well born and you have every right to the name of Malleson, though why Sir Simon thought you hadn't I can't say. Give me your hand, my love, and I'll tell you who you are as concisely as possible."
Alice did as she was told, and Miss Plantagenet began in a hurry, as though anxious to get over a disagreeable task. Durham and Bernard listened with all their ears. Miss Berengaria noticed this.
"You needn't look so eager," she said tartly; "the story is dull. Alice, do you remember that I told you I was engaged once to a wicked fool?"
"Yes—you said——"
"There's no need to repeat what I said. I am quite sure it isn't edifying. I have far too long a tongue, but old age will be garrulous—drat it! Well then, Alice, that man who said he loved me and lied was your grandfather. He married a girl with money, for then I had only my looks, and Iwashandsome," said Miss Berengaria, emphatically; "but George—his name was George and I've hated it ever since—didn't want beauty or brains. He wanted money, and got it, along with a weeping idiot whose heart he broke. I swore never to look on a man again, and when my father died I cameto live at The Bower. But I heard that George's wife had died, leaving him one daughter——"