"That was me," said Alice, hastily.
"Nothing of the sort. I said that George—his other name doesn't matter at present, although it can be mentioned if necessary—I said that George was your grandfather. The daughter grew up and married your father, who was a colonel in the Indian army. But both your parents died when you were young. I received you from your dying mother's arms and I sent you to a convent. I couldn't bear the sight of you for months," said the old lady, energetically. "You have a look of handsome George, and handsome he was. Well then, when you grew up and behaved yourself, I took you from the convent, and you have been with me ever since."
"You are my second mother," said Alice, embracing her.
"The first—the only mother," said Miss Berengaria, sharply. "You never knew any mother but me, and as your grandfather defrauded me of my rights to marry, I look upon you as my child."
"But why did you not tell this perfectly plain story to Sir Simon?"
"Why didn't I, Durham?" asked Miss Berengaria tearfully. "You may well ask that. Pride, my dear—pride. Sir Simon and I were in society together. He wanted to marry me, and I refused. So I never became your grandmother, Bernard, and I certainly should never have had a son like your father, who is——"
"Don't. He is my father after all."
"Was, you mean, seeing he is dead. Well, my dear boy, I'll say nothing about him. But Sir Simon lovedme and I preferred George, who was a villain. I couldn't bear to think that Sir Simon should know I had forgotten my anger against George to the extent of helping his grand-daughter. An unworthy feeling you all think it—of course—of course. But I am a woman, when all is said and done, my dears. And another thing—Simon Gore was too dictatorial for me, and I wasn't going to give any explanation. Besides which, had he known Alice, that you were George's grand-daughter—and he hated George—he would have been more set against the marriage than ever. And now you know what a wicked woman I have been."
"Not wicked, aunt," said Alice, kissing the withered cheek.
"Yes, wicked," said Miss Berengaria, sobbing, "I should have told the truth and shamed the—I mean shamed Sir Simon. Perhaps I could have arranged the marriage had I subdued my pride into obeying Sir Simon. But I couldn't, and he was angry, and all these troubles have arisen out of my silly silence."
"Oh, no," said Bernard, sorry for her distress.
"Oh, yes," cried the old lady, rising and drying her tears. "Don't you contradict me, Bernard. If I had told the truth and let Sir Simon know that Alice was well born, he might have consented."
"Not if he knew that Alice was George's grand-daughter."
Miss Berengaria tossed her head. "I don't know," she said, moving towards the door. "I might have managed him, obstinate as he was. But if Sir Simon had not been angry, he would not have sent you away, Bernard, and then all this rubbish about the Red Window would not have drawn you to that dreadfulhouse, to be accused of a wicked crime. But, oh dear me! what's the use of talking? Here are the horses standing all this time at the door, and it's getting on to five. Alice, come home," and Miss Berengaria sailed out wrathfully.
The others looked at one another and smiled. Then Durham left the lovers alone and went to assist Miss Berengaria into the carriage.
She was already in and caught his hand. "Spare no expense to help that dear boy," she whispered. "He must be set free. And, for goodness sake, tell Alice to come at once. Why is she drivelling there?"
"Love! Miss Berengaria, love!"
"Stuff!" said the old lady, "and a man of your age talking so. Good-bye. Alice, are you comfortable? James, drive on, and don't upset us."
Miss Berengaria's servants had been with her for a long time and were all eminently respectable. She was—needless to say—very good to them, and they adored and obeyed her in quite a feudal manner. When at supper in the servants' hall—all old and all sedate—they might have been a company of Quakers from the sobriety of their demeanor. The head of the table was taken by the cook, and the foot by James the coachman. Those two were married and were both fat, both devoted to Miss Berengaria, and both rulers of the other servants. The coachman swayed the little kingdom of domestics with his stout wife as queen.
On the very evening Miss Plantagenet came back from Cove Castle, the servants were enjoying a good supper, and James was detailing the events of the day. After this his wife narrated what had taken place during his absence. And at the side of the table sat Jerry, looking the picture of innocence, occupied with his bread and cheese, but taking everything in. The information conveyed to James by the cook related to several tramps that had called, and to the killing of two fowls by a fox terrier that belonged to a neighbor.
"And a nice rage the missus will be in over them," said cook.
"You should have set Sloppy Jane on the terrier," said James. "Our poultry is prize birds and worth adozen of them snappy dogs as bite the heels of respectable folk."
"Sloppy Jane was with me," said a sedate housemaid. "A tramp came to the gate asking for Miss Alice, and I couldn't get him away."
"What did he want with Miss Alice?" demanded James, aggressively.
"Ah, what indeed!" said the housemaid. "I told him Miss Alice wouldn't speak to the like of him. But he looked a gentleman, though he had a two days' beard and was dressed in such rags as you never saw."
"Did he go, Sarah?"
"Oh, yes, he went in a lingering sort of way, and I had to tie Jane up in case she'd fly on him. I didn't want that."
"Why not?" said the coachman, dictatorially. "Tramps is tramps."
Sarah pondered. "Well, cook and James, it's this way," she said, with some hesitation. "This murder of old Sir Simon—" Jerry pricked up his ears at this and looked more innocent than ever.
"Go on," said the cook, wondering why Sarah stopped.
"They said his grandson done it."
"And that I'll never believe," cried James, pounding the table. "A noble young gentleman Mr. Bernard, and many a half-crown he's given me. He never did it, and even if he did, he's dead and gone."
Sarah drew back from the table. "I really forgot that," she whimpered. "It must have been his ghost," and she threw her apron over her head.
"What's that, Sarah? A ghost! There's no such thing. Whose ghost?"
"Mr. Bernard's," said Sarah, looking scared, as she removed her apron. "Oh, to think I should have lived to see a ghost. Yes, you may all look, but that tramp, ragged and torn, was Mr. Gore. Don't I know him as well as I know myself?"
"Sarah," said James, while the cook turned pale and Jerry listened more eagerly than ever, "you rave in a crazy way."
"Oh, well, there's no knowing," cried Sarah, hysterically, "but the tramp was Mr. Gore, and I forgot he was dead. His ghost—it must have been his ghost. No wonder Jane wanted to fly at him."
"Mr. Bernard's ghost wanting to see Miss Alice!" said cook. "Get along with you, Sarah! He must be alive. I don't believe all the papers say. Perhaps he wasn't drowned after all."
"We must inquire into this," said James, magisterially and feeling for his glasses. "Oh, by the way"—he drew a dirty envelope out of his pocket—"here's something for you, young shaver." He threw it across to Jerry. "I was sitting in the kitchen in his lordship's castle and being waited on by a dark-eyed wench. I told her of us here and mentioned you. She said she knew you and asked me to give you that. And, to be sure, she would know you," added James, half to himself, "seeing Mrs. Moon is your grandmother, and a fine figure of a woman. But touching this here ghost——"
Jerry rose from the table and retreated to a corner of the warm room to read his note. But he kept his ears open all the time to the coachman's investigation of Sarah's doings with the tramp. The note was from Victoria asking Jerry to come over and see her, and stating that there was a gentleman stopping at thecastle. "There's something queer about him, Jerry, as he keeps himself very much to himself. Also he knows your whistle as you whistles to me, which is funny. Can't you come over and see me?" This, with all allowance for mis-spelling, was what Jerry deciphered. Then he thrust the note into his pocket and returned to the table.
"He had an awful cough, this tramp," said Sarah.
"Ghosts don't cough," remarked cook.
"This one did awful, and he looked that pale and thin as never was."
"He went away in broad daylight?" asked James.
"It was getting dark—about five maybe. I was sorry for him, and I would have let him in to see Miss Alice, he seemed so disappointed."
"Ah, Sarah, it's a pity you didn't let him in."
"But, Mr. James, you can a-bear tramps."
"Or ghosts," added the cook, fearfully.
"It were no tramp and no spectre," said the coachman. "I see it all." He looked solemnly round the company. "This was Mr. Bernard come to see if Miss Alice will help him. He's alive, God be praised!"
"Amen," said the cook, bowing her head as though in church.
"And if he comes again, we will let him in and say nothing to the police."
"I should not," said Sarah; "he looked so sad and pale. Oh dear me! and such a fine, handsome young gentleman he was, to be sure."
"We will swear to be silent," said James, solemnly, "seeing as we are all sure Mr. Bernard never killed old Sir Simon."
"I'd never believe it if a jury told me," said the cook.
"Young Jerry, swear to be silent."
"Oh! I'm fly, Mr. James," said Jerry, easily; "but who is Mr. Bernard? and why did he kill Sir Simon?"
"He didn't, and he's the present baronet at the Hall, young Jerry. You don't chatter or I'll thrash you within an inch of your life."
"Oh, he won't talk," said the good-natured cook. "He's an angel."
Sarah snorted. She was not so impressed with Jerry's angelic qualities as the rest of the company. However, Jerry, who had his own reasons to retire, slipped away unostentatiously and read Victoria's letter for the second time. Then he talked to himself in a whisper.
"He's alive after all," he said, "and he's stopping at that castle. I daresay the old girl"—he thus profanely described his mistress—"went over to there to see him with Miss Alice. And they brought him back, dropping him on the way so that he could get into the house quietly. He knows my whistle. No one but him could know it, as he heard me on that night. What's to be done? I'll go out and have a look round. He may come back again."
Jerry was too young to be so exact as he should be. There were several flaws in his argument. But he was too excited to think over these. It never struck him that Miss Plantagenet could have smuggled Gore easier into the house by bringing him in her carriage after swearing James to secrecy, than by letting him approach the house in the character of a tramp. But it was creditable to the lad's observation that he so quickly conjectured the mysterious stranger at the castle should be Bernard. Jerry knew that Conniston was a close friend of Gore's, and saw at once that Bernard hadsought the refuge of the castle where he would remain undiscovered. But for Victoria's hint Jerry would never have guessed this. It was his duty to communicate this knowledge to Beryl, but for reasons of his own connected with the chance of a reward or a bribe to hold his tongue, from someone who could pay better than Beryl—say Lord Conniston—Jerry determined to wait quietly to see how things would turn out. Meanwhile he strolled round to the fowls, where he thought it likely the tramp—if he was a tramp—might come. If not a tramp he might come this way also as the easiest to enter the grounds.
The poultry yard was carved out of a large meadow by the side of the gardens. It ran back a considerable distance from the high road, and at the far end was fenced with a thin plantation of elms. Wire netting and stout fences surrounded the yard, and there was a gate opening on to the meadow aforesaid. Jerry hovered round these precincts watching, but he did not expect any luck. However, the boy, being a born bloodhound, waited for the sheer excitement of the thing.
Now it happened that Miss Berengaria had left the house of a pair of Cochin fowls unlocked. She would have gone out to lock it herself but that she was so weary. All the same, she would not delegate the duty to her servants, as she considered they might not execute the commission properly. Finally Alice offered to go, and, after putting on a thick waterproof and a large pair of rubber boots which belonged to Miss Plantagenet, she ventured out. Thus it was that she paddled round to the yard with a lantern and came into the neighborhood of Jerry. That suspicious young man immediately thought she had heard of Bernard's comingand had come out to meet him. He snuggled into a corner near the gate and watched as best he could in the darkness.
It was pouring rain, and the sky was black with swiftly-moving clouds. These streamed across the face of a haggard-looking moon, and in the flaws of the wind down came the rain in a perfect drench.
Alice, with her dress drawn up, a lantern in one hand and an umbrella of the Gamp species extended above her head, ventured into the yard, and locked up the precious fowls. Then she came back round by the gate to see if it was barred. To her surprise it was open. Rather annoyed she closed it again, and put up the bar. Then she took her way round by the side of the house to enter by the front door.
Jerry followed with the step of a red Indian. He was rewarded.
Just as Alice turned the corner of the house, she heard a groan, and almost stumbled over a body lying on the flower-bed under the wall of the house. At first she gave a slight shriek, but before she could step back the man clutched her feet—"Alice! Alice!" moaned the man. "Save me!—it's Bernard."
"Bernard here," said Alice, with a shudder, and wondered how he had come from the castle. She turned the light on to his face, and then started back. This was not Bernard.
In the circle of light she saw—and Jerry slinking along the side of the fence saw also—a pale, thin face with a wild look on it. The hair was long and matted, there was a scrubby growth on the chin, and the eyes were sunken for want of food. Still it was Bernard's face, and but that she had seen him on that very afternoon,she would have been deceived, until she had made a closer acquaintance with the tramp. But Alice, having heard the story of Mrs. Gilroy's son, knew at once that this miserable creature was Michael. He was representing himself to her as Bernard, and, mindful of Durham's advice, after the first start of alarm she determined to treat him as though she believed he was her lover.
"Can you get to your feet?" she said, touching him, although her soul shuddered within her when she thought what the man had done.
"Yes," said Michael, hoarsely, and tried to rise.
She assisted him to his feet but his weight almost made her sink. "I must get the servants," said she, trying to disengage herself.
"No! no!" said the man in a voice of hoarse terror. "They will give me up. Remember what I have done."
Alice did remember indeed, and shuddered again. But it was needful for the clearing of Bernard that she should carry on the comedy so as to detain the man. A word from her, that she knew who he really was, and he would fly at once—when all chance of saving Gore would be at an end. Therefore she half led, half dragged him round the corner of the house in the driving rain. Jerry waited till the two disappeared and the last gleam of the lantern vanished. Then he went back to the kitchen unconcernedly.
"Where have you been?" asked James, sternly.
"Looking to see if the poultry gate was all right," said Jerry. "You see, Mr. James, a tramp might come in there."
"It was your duty to shut it."
"I have shut it," said Jerry, with assumed sulkiness.
"Now don't you give me your lip, young sir, or I'll knock your head off—do you hear? Any tramps about?"
"No," said Jerry, mendaciously, "all's safe." And, with a wonderful sense in a lad of his age, he said no more. Then he sat down to cards with the cook, and never made a solitary mention of what was going on in the front of the house. As he quite expected, Miss Plantagenet never sent for any of the servants. "They'll manage the job themselves," thought Jerry, playing cheerfully. When he retired to bed he had a wonderful lot to think about, and more than ever he determined to watch which way the wind blew so as to make as much money out of his knowledge as possible. Jerry was a marvellously precocious criminal and knew much more than was good for him. Miss Berengaria would have fainted—unaccustomed as she was to indulge in such weakness—had she known the kind of youth she sheltered under her roof.
But poor Miss Berengaria had her hands full. She left the front door open for the return of Alice, and heard it close with a bang. At once she started from her seat before the fire in the drawing-room to rebuke the girl for such carelessness, but her anger changed to astonishment when Alice appeared at the door streaming with wet and supporting a man. "Aunt!" cried Alice, dropping the man in a heap and eagerly closing the door. "Here's Bernard!"
"Bernard!" exclaimed Miss Plantagenet, staring.
"Yes, yes!" said Alice, passing over and pinching her aunt's arm. "See how pale he is and hungry. He escaped, and has come for us to save him. If the police——"
The man on the floor, who was in a half stupor, half rose. "The police—the police!" he said thickly, and his wild eyes glared. "No. I will confess everything. Alice, I am—I am—" He dropped again.
By this time Miss Plantagenet, accepting the hint of Alice's pinch, was beginning to grasp the situation. She scarcely relished having a murderer under her roof, but for the sake of Bernard she felt that she also must aid in the deception. But she could not conceive how Michael could have the audacity to pass himself off as Bernard to one who knew him so intimately as Alice. At the same time, she saw the wonderful likeness to Gore. He and Michael might have been twins, but Michael had not the mole which was his brother's distinguishing mark. Still, unless Michael knew all about Bernard's life, unless he was educated like him, unless he knew his ways and tricks and manners, it was impossible that he should hope to deceive Alice or even Miss Berengaria herself.
Also there was another thing to be considered. How came the man in this plight? He had received one thousand pounds from Sir Simon in the beginning of October, and therefore must have plenty of money. Yet here he was—thin, haggard, in squalid rags, and evidently a hunted fugitive. It was not a comedy got up to deceive them, for both women saw that the man really was suffering. He was now lying in a stupor, but, for all that, he might have sense enough to know what they said, so both were cautious after a glance exchanged between them.
"We must take Bernard up to the turret-room," said Miss Berengaria, promptly. "He'll be all right to-night and then we can send for Payne to-morrow. Help me with him, Alice."
"But, aunt, the servants—"
"They will hold their tongues. I'll see to that."
"Bless you," murmured the half stupefied man. "I can't thank you for—Oh! if you only knew all! I want to tell you something."
"Never mind just now," said the old lady, sharply. "Try and get up the stairs supported by Alice and myself. Then we'll put you to bed and give you something to eat."
"Will I be safe?" asked the man, looking round anxiously.
"Quite safe. Do you think I would let you be taken, Bernard?" said Alice, although her soul sickened in her at the deception.
"I—trust—you," said Michael, with a strange look at her. "I am ill and dirty, and—and—but you know I am Bernard," he burst out in a pitiful kind of way.
"Yes, of course you are. Anyone can see that," said Miss Berengaria, as Alice didn't answer. "Help him up, Alice."
The two dragged the man up the stairs painfully, he striving his best to make his weight light. Miss Berengaria approved of this. "He's got good stuff in him," she said, when they led him into the small room, which took up the whole of the second floor of the turret.
"He always had," said Alice, warmly, and for the sake of the comedy.
But Miss Berengaria frowned. She applied what she said to Michael.
Then Miss Berengaria sent Alice downstairs to heat some wine, and made Michael go to bed. He was as weak as a child, and simply let her do what she liked. With some difficulty she managed to put him betweenthe sheets, and then washed his face and hands. Finally, on Alice returning with the wine and some bread, she fed him with sops of the latter dipped into the former. After this, as Michael displayed symptoms of drowsiness, she prepared to leave him to a sound sleep. "And Payne shall see you to-morrow."
"But I'll be safe—safe," said the sick man, half starting up.
"Of course. Lie down and sleep."
Michael strove to say something, then sank back on his pillows. The two hurried out of the room and down the stairs feeling like conspirators. Not until they were safe in the drawing-room with the door closed did they venture to speak, and then only did so in whispers. Alice was the first to make a remark.
"If I hadn't seen Bernard this very day, I should have been deceived, aunt. Did you ever see so wonderful a likeness?"
"Never," admitted Miss Berengaria. "But how the deuce"—she was always a lady given to strong expressions—"does the man expect to pass himself off to you as Bernard? There's lots of things Bernard has said about which he must know nothing."
"I can't understand it myself. Perhaps he came to tell the truth."
"Humph!" Miss Berengaria rubbed her nose. "I don't think a man who would commit a murder would tell the truth. My flesh creeped when I touched him. All the same, there's pluck in the fellow. A pity he is such a scamp. Something might be made of him."
"Do you think he has got himself up like this to—"
"No, no!" snapped Miss Plantagenet, "the man's illness is genuine. I can see for myself, he's only skinand bone. I wonder how he came to be in such a plight?"
"Perhaps he will tell us."
"He'll tell lies," said the old lady, grimly. "And for the sake of Bernard we'll pretend to believe him. Wait till I get Durham on to him. He won't lie then. But the main point is to keep him. He is the only person who can get Bernard out of the trouble."
"What shall we do, aunt?"
"Nurse him up in that room, telling the servants that we have a guest. They need not see him. And Payne can cure him. When he is cured we will see what Durham says. That young man's clever. He will know how to deal with the matter. It's beyond me. Now we must go to bed. My head is in a whirl with the excitement of this day."
Before Miss Berengaria could communicate with Durham, he had left the castle for town. On hearing this from Bernard, the old lady at once sent up to him a full report of the arrival of Michael at the Bower under the name of Gore.
"He is now a trifle better," wrote Miss Berengaria, "but having suffered from great privations he is still ill, and, so far as I can see, is likely to keep to his bed for some time. Payne is attending to him and says he needs careful nursing and tonics. He is so weak as to be scarcely able to talk, which is perhaps all the better, as Alice and I might arouse his suspicions. We have accepted him as Bernard, and when you come down you can question him either in that character or as Michael. To tell you the truth, I am sorry for the boy—he is only twenty-one or thereabouts, and I think he has been misguided. After all, even he may not have committed the crime, although he was certainly with Sir Simon on that fatal night. The servants—with the exception of my own especial maid, Maria Tait—know nothing of the man's presence in the turret chamber. And you may be sure that I am taking care Jerry Moon learns nothing. But I shall be glad when you can come down to take the matter out of my hands. I am much worried over it. Conniston comes over daily to see Lucy Randolphat the Hall, but he is so feather-brained a creature that I don't care about entrusting such a secret to him. Nor do I wish Bernard to know. With his impetuosity, he would probably come over at once, and run the chance of arrest. The whole matter is in your hands, Durham, so write and tell me what I am to do. At all events I have a fast hold of Bernard's double, and you may be sure I shall not allow him to go until this mystery is cleared up."
"He is now a trifle better," wrote Miss Berengaria, "but having suffered from great privations he is still ill, and, so far as I can see, is likely to keep to his bed for some time. Payne is attending to him and says he needs careful nursing and tonics. He is so weak as to be scarcely able to talk, which is perhaps all the better, as Alice and I might arouse his suspicions. We have accepted him as Bernard, and when you come down you can question him either in that character or as Michael. To tell you the truth, I am sorry for the boy—he is only twenty-one or thereabouts, and I think he has been misguided. After all, even he may not have committed the crime, although he was certainly with Sir Simon on that fatal night. The servants—with the exception of my own especial maid, Maria Tait—know nothing of the man's presence in the turret chamber. And you may be sure that I am taking care Jerry Moon learns nothing. But I shall be glad when you can come down to take the matter out of my hands. I am much worried over it. Conniston comes over daily to see Lucy Randolphat the Hall, but he is so feather-brained a creature that I don't care about entrusting such a secret to him. Nor do I wish Bernard to know. With his impetuosity, he would probably come over at once, and run the chance of arrest. The whole matter is in your hands, Durham, so write and tell me what I am to do. At all events I have a fast hold of Bernard's double, and you may be sure I shall not allow him to go until this mystery is cleared up."
In reply to this pressing epistle, Durham wrote, telling Miss Berengaria to wait for three or four days. He was advertising for Tolomeo, and hoped to see him at his office. If, as Durham thought, the Italian had been with Sir Simon on that night, something might be learned from him likely to prove the presence of Michael in the room. The examination of Michael—which Durham proposed to make, would then be rendered much easier. The lawyer, in conclusion, quite agreed with Miss Plantagenet that Conniston and Bernard should not be told. "I hope to be with you by the end of the week," he finished.
"Deuce take the man," said Miss Berengaria, rubbing her nose. "Does he think I can wait all that time?"
"I don't see what else you can do, aunt," said Alice, when the letter was read. "And this poor creature is so weak, that I do not think he will be able to speak much for a few days. All we have to do is to nurse him and ask no questions."
"And to let him think we believe him to be Bernard."
"Oh, he is quite convinced of that," said Alice,quickly. "I suppose he hoped I would think his altered looks might induce me to overlook any lack of resemblance to Bernard."
"Yes, but he must guess when you talk you will find him out, seeing you know much of Bernard that he cannot know."
"Perhaps that is why he holds his tongue," said Alice, rising. "But we must wait, aunt."
"I suppose we must," said Miss Berengaria, dolefully. "Drat the whole business! Was there ever such a coil?"
"Well then, aunt, will you leave it alone?"
"Certainly not. I intend to see the thing through. Owing to my reticence to Sir Simon about your parents, Alice, I am really responsible for the whole business, so I will keep working at it until Bernard is out of danger and married to you."
"Ah!" sighed Miss Malleson. "And when will that be?"
"Sooner than you think, perhaps. Every day brings a surprise."
One day certainly brought a surprise to Lucy Randolph. She learned that Conniston loved her, though, to be sure, his frequent visits might have shown her how he was losing his heart. She was glad of this as she admired Conniston exceedingly, and, moreover, wished to escape from her awkward position at the Hall. When Bernard came back and married Alice, she would have to leave the Hall and live on the small income allotted to her by the generosity of the dead man. It would be much better, as she truly thought, to marry Conniston, even though he was the poorest of peers. One can do a lot with a title even without money, andLucy was wise in her generation. Moreover, she was truly in love with the young man, and thought, very rightly, that he would make her a good husband.
As usual, Conniston, having taken into his head that Lucy would be an ideal wife, pursued his suit with characteristic impetuosity. He came over daily—or almost daily—to Gore Hall, and, finally, when Lucy broke off her engagement to Beryl, he told her of the whereabouts of Bernard. Lucy was overwhelmed and delighted.
"To think that he should be alive after all," she said. "I am so pleased, so glad. Dear Bernard, now he will be able to enjoy the fortune and the title, and marry Alice."
"You forget," said Conniston, a trifle dryly, "Bernard has yet to prove his innocence. We are all trying to help him. Will you also give a hand, Miss Randolph?"
Lucy stared at him with widely-open eyes. "Of course I will, Lord Conniston," she said heartily. "What do you wish me to do?"
"In the first place, tell me if you sent a boy to bring Bernard to Crimea Square?"
"No. I know the boy you mean. He is a lad called Jerry Moon. Julius found him selling matches in town, ragged and poor. He helped him, and the other day he procured him a situation with Miss Berengaria."
"He is there now. But he—we have reason to believe—is the boy who lured Bernard to Crimea Square."
"I know nothing about that," said Lucy, frankly. "Why not ask the boy himself? It would be easy."
"We will ask the boy shortly," replied Conniston,evasively, not wishing at this juncture to tell her that the great object of everyone was to prevent Jerry thinking he was suspected. "Should you meet the boy say nothing to him."
"I will not, and I am not likely to meet the boy. He is usually in Miss Plantagenet's poultry yard, and I rarely go round there." Lucy paused. "It is strange that the boy should act like that. I wonder if Sir Simon sent him to fetch Bernard, and arranged the Red Window as a sign which house it was?"
"The Red Window. Ah yes! Mrs. Webber saw the light, and——"
"And Julius afterwards didn't. I know that. It was my fault. When we drove up in the carriage on that terrible night I saw the Red Light, and wondered if Sir Simon had arranged it as a sign to Bernard. When I saw Bernard in the hall I was not astonished, for I thought he had come in answer to the light. I went upstairs, and after attending to Sir Simon, I went to the window. The lamp was before it, and stretched across the pane was a red bandanna handkerchief of Sir Simon's. I took that away, so you see how it was Julius did not see the light."
"Why did you remove the handkerchief?" asked the puzzled Conniston.
"Well, I wanted to save Bernard if possible, and I thought if the Red Light which had drawn him were removed, he could make some excuse. Julius knew about the Red Light, and, as he hated Bernard, I fancied he would use it against him. But really," added Miss Randolph, wrinkling her pretty brows, "I hardly knew what I was doing, save that in some vague way I fancied the removal of the handkerchief might help Bernard. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly clear," said Conniston, "and I am glad I know this. May I tell Bernard and Durham?"
"Certainly. I want to do all I can to help Bernard."
"Ah, you are a good woman," said Conniston, eagerly. "I wonder if you could make a chap good?"
"It depends upon the chap," said Lucy, shyly.
"I know a chap who——"
"Please stop, Lord Conniston," cried Lucy, starting up in confusion. "I have heaps and heaps to do. You prevent my working."
Her hurried flight prevented Conniston from putting the question on that occasion. But he was not daunted. He resolved to propose as soon as possible. But Lucy thought he was making love too ardently, and by those arts known to women alone, she managed to keep him at arm's length. She was anxious that Bernard should be cleared, that he should take up his rightful position, and should receive back the Hall from her, before Lord Conniston proposed. Of course, Lucy was ready to accept him, but, sure of her fish, she played with him until such time as she felt disposed to accept his hand and heart and title and what remained of the West fortune. Conniston, more determined than ever to win this adorable woman, came over regularly. But Lucy skilfully kept him off the dangerous ground, whereby he fell deeper in love than ever. Then one day, she appeared with a blue-covered book, the contents of which so startled them that love-making was postponed to a more convenient season.
"Fancy," said Lucy, running to meet Conniston one afternoon as soon as he appeared at the drawing-room door, "I have found the diary of Mrs. Gilroy."
"That's a good thing," said Conniston, eagerly. "She knows more of the truth than anyone else. We must read her diary."
"Will that be honorable?" said Lucy, retaining her hold of the book.
"Perfectly. One does not stand on ceremony when a man's neck is at stake. Mrs. Gilroy's diary may save Bernard's life. She knew too much about the murder, and fled because she thought Durham would come and question her."
"Oh! Was that why she ran away?"
"Yes! A woman like Mrs. Gilroy does not take such a course for nothing. She's a clever woman."
"And a very disagreeable woman," said Lucy, emphatically. "But what did she know?"
Conniston wriggled uneasily. He was not quite certain whether he ought to tell Lucy all that had been discovered, and, had he not been in love with her, he would probably have held his tongue. But, after some reflection, he decided to speak out. "You are, of course, on Bernard's side," he said.
"Yes. And against Julius, who hates Bernard. I will do anything I can to help Bernard. I am sure you can see that," she added in a most reproachful manner.
"I know—I know. You are the truest and best woman in the world," said Conniston, eagerly, "but what I have to tell you is not my own secret. It concerns Bernard."
"Then don't tell me," said Lucy, coloring angrily.
"Yes, I will. You have the diary and I want to read it. To know why I do, it is necessary that you should learn all that we have discovered."
"What have you discovered? Who killed Sir Simon?"
"No. We are trying to hunt down the assassin. And Mrs. Gilroy's diary may tell us."
"I don't see that."
"You will, when you learn what I have to say." And Conniston related everything concerning the false marriage and the half-brother of young Gore. "And now, you see," he finished triumphantly, "Mrs. Gilroy is fighting for her son. It is probable that she has set down the events of that night in her diary."
"She would not be such a fool, if her son is guilty."
"Oh, people do all manner of queer things. Criminals who are very secretive in speech sometimes give themselves away in writing. You were at the theatre on that night?"
"Yes, with Julius; so neither of us had anything to do with the matter, if that is what you mean."
"I mean nothing of the sort," said Conniston, quickly. "How can you think I should suspect you?"
"You might suspect Julius," said Lucy, suspiciously, "and although we have quarrelled I don't want to harm him."
"Would you rather have Bernard hanged?"
"Oh!" Lucy burst into tears and impulsively threw the book into Conniston's lap. "Read it at once; I would rather save Bernard than Julius."
Conniston availed himself of this permission at once. He took away the diary with Lucy's permission, and carried it in triumph to the castle. Here he and Bernard sat down to master its contents. These astonished them considerably. Conniston made out a short and concise account of the events of that fatal night, for the benefit of Durham. They were as follows:
Mrs. Gilroy, it appears, thought that her son,Michael, was really and truly in America. She had no suspicion that the lover of Jane Riordan was her son, but truly believed from the description that he was young Gore whom she hated—as she plainly stated in several pages. When the presumed Bernard went away before six, he did not call again at ten o'clock. The man that called, Mrs. Gilroy asserted, was Bernard, and not her son. He saw Sir Simon and after a stormy interview he departed.
"Why then doesn't she accuse me of the crime?" said Gore.
"Wait a bit," said Conniston, who was reading his precis. "This diary is meant for her eye alone. Still, she may have thought it might fall into the hands of another person, and therefore made her son safe. Michael called before ten—for then, Bernard, you were with Durham and myself. Michael saw Sir Simon, and then Mrs. Gilroy, pretending the man was you, says he departed, leaving your grandfather alive. See! here's the bit," and he read, "Sir Simon was alive after Mr. Gore left the house."
"Go on," said Bernard. "If I am innocent, why did she accuse me?"
"Because I believe her son is guilty. He left Sir Simon dead. Mrs. Gilroy found the body, knew what had occurred, and then ran out on hearing Jerry's whistle knowing she would meet you. It's all plain."
"Very plain," said Gore, emphatically. "A regular trap. Go on."
"Afterwards, and shortly before a quarter past ten, there came a ring at the door. Mrs. Gilroy went, and there she found Signor Tolomeo, who asked to see Sir Simon. She took him up the stairs, and left him to speak with Sir Simon. What took place she did notknow, but she was sitting below working, and heard the door close. It was just before a quarter to eleven that she heard this."
"About the time I came," muttered Bernard.
Mrs. Gilroy—as appeared from the diary—ran up to see if the master was all right. She found him strangled, and with the handkerchiefs tied over his mouth and round his neck. Then she ran out and found Gore at the door. He had come back again, and Mrs. Gilroy said she accused him. She then stated in her diary that she looked upon Bernard as an accessory after the fact. He had hired Guiseppe Tolomeo to kill his grandfather, and then came to see if the deed had been executed thoroughly. Mrs. Gilroy ended her diary by stating that she would do her best to get both the Italian and his nephew hanged.
"Very much obliged to her," said Bernard, when Conniston concluded reading, and beginning to walk to and fro. "Well, it seems my uncle is the guilty person, Conniston."
"I don't believe it," said Dick, firmly. "Mrs. Gilroy is trying to shield her son. I believe he killed him."
"If we could only find Michael," said Bernard, dolefully.
"Ah! Things would soon be put right then," replied Conniston, and neither was aware that the man they wished to see was at that very moment lying in the turret chamber at the Bower, "or even Mrs. Gilroy. Could we see her, and show her the diary, she might put things straight."
"I believe she left the diary behind on purpose," said Gore, with some ill-humor. "I can't believe that Tolomeo killed Sir Simon."
"What kind of man is he?"
"A very decent chap in his own way. His blood is hot, and he has a temper something like the one I have inherited from my mother, who was Guiseppe's sister. But Tolomeo is not half bad. He has the credit for being a scamp, but I don't think he deserves it."
"Can't you see him and show him the diary?"
"No. I don't know his whereabouts. However, Durham, at my request, has put an advertisement in the papers which may bring him to the office, then we can see how much of this story is true. Certainly, Mrs. Gilroy may have seen him at the house on that night."
"What would he go for?"
"To ask my grandfather for money. He was always hard up. Sir Simon hated him, but if Guiseppe was hard up he wouldn't mind that. I daresay Tolomeo did see Sir Simon, and did have a row, as both he and grandfather were hot-blooded. But I don't believe my uncle killed Sir Simon," said Bernard, striking the table.
"Well," drawled Conniston, slipping his precis and the diary itself into an envelope, "I don't see what he had to gain. Tolomeo, from your account of him, would not commit a murder without getting some money from doing it. But the best thing to do, is to take this up to Durham and see what he thinks."
"I'll come too," said Gore, excitedly. "I tell you, Dick, I'm dead tired of doing nothing. It will be better to do what Miss Berengaria suggests and give myself up."
"Wait a bit," persuaded Dick. "Let me take this up to Durham, and if he agrees you can be arrested."
Bernard was unwilling to wait, but finally he yielded sullenly to Conniston's arguments. Dick with the precious parcel went up to town alone, and Bernard did what he could to be patient.
Durham was much excited when he read the account which Conniston had extracted from Mrs. Gilroy's diary. However, he declined to give an opinion until he read the diary itself. He then told Dick that the discovery had been made in the nick of time.
"The Italian is coming to see me to-morrow," he said, showing a letter. "I advertised that he would hear of something to his advantage if he called, as Bernard wants to help him. When he comes, you may be sure that I shall get the truth out of him."
"Do you think he's guilty, Mark?"
"It is hard to say," replied Durham, shaking his head. "The whole case is so mixed that one doesn't know who is guilty or innocent."
"Save Bernard," put in Conniston, lighting a cigarette.
"Certainly. However, we may learn something of the truth from——"
"Not Mrs. Gilroy," said Conniston quickly, "unless you have succeeded in finding her."
"No, I have not been so lucky. She has vanished altogether. But Beryl may be able to tell something."
"But he won't."
"I am not so sure of that. We have Jerry in our hands, and that young scamp is in the employment of Beryl. He will have to explain how the boy came tolure Bernard to Crimea Square in time to be accused."
"Why not ask Jerry?"
"Because Jerry would immediately run away. No, I'll wait. Perhaps Michael may speak out. He's ill enough."
"Michael?" echoed Conniston in amazement. "What of him?"
"Oh, the dickens!" said Durham in quite an unprofessional way, and stood up to warm himself at the fire in his favorite attitude. "I didn't intend to tell you that."
"Tell me what?"
"That we had caught Michael Gilroy, or Gore, or whatever he chooses to call himself."
"Have you caught him? Well, I'm hanged!"
"I hope he won't be," said Durham, grimly. "I did not catch him myself. He came one night last week to the Bower to see Miss Malleson."
Conniston jumped up with an exclamation. "That is playing a daring game," he said. "Why, the fellow must know that she would spot him."
Durham pinched his chin and eyed Conniston. "I can't understand what his game is myself," he said slowly. "Of course, so far as looks go, the fellow is the double of Bernard without the distinguishing mark of the mole."
"You have seen him then?"
"Yes. A day or two ago. I asked Miss Plantagenet to pretend that she and Miss Malleson believed him to be Bernard. They have done so with such success that the boy—he is no more, being younger than Bernard—is lying in bed in the turret-room quite under the impression that he has bamboozled the lot of us. Ofcourse," added Durham, looking down, "he may be trusting to his illness to still further increase the likeness to Bernard, which, I may say, is sufficiently startling, and to supply any little differences."
"That's all jolly fine," said Dick, getting astride of a chair in his excitement, "but Bernard and Alice, being lovers, must have many things in common about which this man can't know anything."
"Quite so. And Miss Malleson knew he wasn't Bernard, seeing that the real man is at your castle. But even without that knowledge I don't think she would long have been deceived. Michael, putting aside his marvellous resemblance, is a common sort of man and not at all well educated. If you can image Bernard as one of the common people, without education and polish, you have Michael."
"What a nerve that Michael must have. How does he carry it off?"
Durham shrugged his shoulders. "The poor chap is not in a condition to carry off anything," he said; "he's lying pretty well worn out in bed, and Payne says it will be a long time before he is himself. I think he is simply pleased to know he has been accepted as Bernard, and is glad to postpone an explanation in case he'll be turned out."
"There's no danger of that," said Dick. "My aunt wouldn't turn out a cat in that state, much less a human being."
"Oh, Miss Berengaria seems to have taken quite a fancy to the man. She declares there's pluck in him, and——"
"But seeing he is a criminal—a murderer——"
"We don't know that he is, Conniston, and this"—Durhamlaid his hand on the diary—"goes to prove his innocence."
"Bosh!" said Dick, jumping up. "I believe Mrs. Gilroy prepared that diary and left it out so that Miss Randolph would drop across it. If anyone killed Sir Simon it was Michael."
"Or Beryl."
"He was at the theatre."
"I know, but he managed to get the deed done by someone else. I really can't give an opinion yet, Conniston," said Durham resuming his seat, with a shrug; "to-morrow, when I see this Italian, I may learn something likely to throw light on the case. Meantime go back and tell Bernard I am working hard."
"That goes without the speaking," said his lordship, lightly; "we know what a worker you are, Mark. But Bernard wishes to take a hand in the game."
"Then he shall not do so," said Durham, sharply. "If he appears at this juncture all will be lost. I have a plan," he added, hesitating.
"What is it?" demanded the curious Conniston.
"Never you mind just now. It has to do with Mrs. Gilroy being drawn from her hiding-place. I'll tell you what it is after I have seen Tolomeo. But the success of my plan depends upon Bernard keeping in the background. If you tell him about Michael——"
"He'll be over like a shot. And after all, Mark, it's not pleasant to think a fellow is masquerading as you with the girl you love."
"Bernard must put up with that," snapped Durham, who was getting cross. "His neck depends upon my management of this affair. Should he go to Hurseton he will be recognized by everyone, let alone Jerry, whowould at once tell Beryl. You know what that means."
"I know that Beryl is playing for a big stake he won't land," said Conniston, grimly, and walked towards the door. "All right, Mark, I'll sit on Bernard and keep him quiet. But, I say, I want to tell you I am in love with——"
"Conniston, I will certainly throw something at your head if you don't clear. I have enough to do without listening to your love——"
"Not mine. She is—well there, I daresay your nerves are thin. I do wish all this business was ended. You used to be no end of a chap, and now you are as cross as a battery mule and twice as obstinate."
Lord Conniston talked himself out of the office, and went down to Cove Castle by a later train. Here he managed to pacify the impatient Bernard, no easy task. But the lessons of that week taught Dick patience, a quality he had always sadly lacked.
True to the appointment made by letter, Signor Tolomeo appeared at Durham's office and was at once shown in. He was a tall man with a keen, clever, dark face. His hair and mustache were gray and he had a military appearance. In his bearing there was great dignity, and it could be seen at a glance that he had good blood in his veins. It was true what Sir Simon had said. The Tolomeo family had been nobles of the Sienese Republic for many a century, and although their present-day representative was poor in pocket and played the violin for a living, yet he looked a great lord. But his dark eyes had a somewhat reckless expression in them, which showed that Tolomeo lacked what is called moral principle.
Durham received him politely and indicated a seatnear his desk with a smile. Tolomeo, with great courtesy, bowed and sat down. Then he fixed his large eyes on the lawyer with an inquiring air, but was too astute to say anything. He had been brought here on an errand, the purport of which he knew nothing; therefore he waited to hear what Durham had to say before he committed himself.
"Signor Tolomeo," said the lawyer, "you were surprised to see my advertisement?"
"I was indeed," replied the Italian, who spoke excellent English. "Our last interview was not particularly pleasant."
"This may be still less so," rejoined Durham, dryly; "but as it concerns your nephew Bernard, perhaps you will be frank with me."
"Ah, poor Bernard!" said the uncle. "He is dead."
"No. He is alive."
"Gran Dio!" Tolomeo started from his seat in a somewhat theatrical manner. "What is this you say, signor?"
"I say that he is alive, but in hiding. I tell you this because I know you like Bernard and appreciate his kindness to you."
"Yes! The boy is a good boy. He has been very kind to me. Although," added Tolomeo, with a somewhat cynical air, "I do not deserve it. Ah, signor, the want of money makes us all sad rascals."
"That depends upon ourselves," said Durham, somewhat stiffly. "No man need be a rascal unless he likes."
"Money can make a good man or a bad one," insisted the Italian.
"I don't agree with you. But this is not what I wish to talk about, Signor Tolomeo. You are pleased that Bernard is alive."
"Very pleased. But I trust he will escape."
"Ah! Then you believe he is guilty of the crime."
"He—or the other one."
"What other one?" asked Durham, sharply.
Tolomeo looked directly at the lawyer. "Before I speak out," he said, "it will set my mind at rest to know what you mean."
"Does that hint you want money?"
"Money is always a good thing, and I need it badly," said Guiseppe shrugging, "but, as this regards my own nephew, I am willing to aid him without money. I loved my sister, his mother, and she was badly treated by that old man!" Tolomeo's eyes flashed. "He insulted her, and we—the Tolomeo nobles—were great lords in Siena when your England was wild forest and savage peoples."
"Did you tell Sir Simon this when you saw him on that night?"
The Italian started up in some alarm. "What? You say I was with this English miser when he died?"
"No, I don't say that. But I say you were at the house on that very night, and about the time the murder was committed. For all I know, signor, you may be able to say who killed him."
Guiseppe, twisting his hat in his hands, looked keenly at Durham with his dark eyes. "Signor, be explicit," he said.
"I'll explain myself thoroughly," said Durham. "You can sit down again, signor. Bernard," he continued, when the Italian obeyed this request, "inherits his grandfather's property, and, of course the title. He wants to help you, and proposes to give you five hundred a year as soon as possible."
"Ah! That is good of him," said Tolomeo, gratefully.
"But," went on Durham, with emphasis, "Bernard cannot give you this income until he is formally put in possession of the estate; and he cannot take possession of the estate until he is cleared from this charge of murder. Now you can help me to clear him."
"Signor," said the Italian at once, "I thought Bernard was dead; that, as the papers said, he had been drowned crossing the river. But now that I know he is alive, you can command my services without money. All the same," added Tolomeo, smiling and showing his white teeth, "a little five hundred a year will make me a great lord in Siena, to which town I shall return."
"After helping Bernard?" warned Durham.
"Of course. I will not leave the country till Bernard is seated in his proper place, and married—I understand he is to be married."
"I believe so. But he must first be able to face his fellow-men in safety," said the lawyer, quickly. "Now, signor, you admit that you were at the house in Crimea Square on that night."
"Yes, why not? I went to see Sir Simon. I walked to the Hall in Essex to see him. He had gone to town; I found out where, and I came back to see him. On that night I went some time before ten o'clock."
"I know that," said Durham. "Mrs. Gilroy admitted you. She says she took you up to Sir Simon, and that you quarrelled with him."
"It is true, we had words."
"And then you left the house without seeing her. Behind you, according to Mrs. Gilroy, you left the dead body of Sir Simon."
Tolomeo started up as though about to run away, but immediately afterwards sat down. "I don't suppose you have called me here to make an arrest, signor," he said. "I am innocent, but I admit that I thought there might be trouble should it be known I was in that house on the night. I therefore kept silent. But now I know that my nephew is alive and accused of the crime, I will speak out. It was Mrs. Gilroy who admitted me, but it was not Mrs. Gilroy who let me out. I left Sir Simon perfectly well when we parted, and he promised to help me the next day."
"Oh! And the next day you heard of his death?"
"No, I heard of his death on that night. I was hanging about the house when Bernard escaped. I picked up—but I will tell you that later, signor, listen to my tale—it is strange but true. Set down what I say, for this I am prepared to swear to in a court of law. I should have seen you before and spoken had I known that Bernard was alive, but thinking he was dead I did not talk as I fancied there might be danger to me."
"There is danger if what Mrs. Gilroy declares is true."
"Confront her with me. What does she say?"
"I do not know where she is," confessed Durham, and related how the diary had been found, and explained the contents so far as they bore on the accusation of Tolomeo. He listened attentively.
"Oh, what a wicked woman!" he said vehemently when Durham ended. "I do assure you, signor, that I am innocent. Listen! I called to see Sir Simon before ten on that night. I sent up my name. The woman you speak of brought back a message that her master would see me."
"One moment," put in Durham. "Did you see a red light in the window?"
"Yes. There was a lamp near the window although the room was lighted with electric lamps. A red handkerchief was stretched across the window. But I know of the Red Window at the Hall," said the Italian, with a shrug. "My sister used to signal to me. I guessed that Sir Simon was making a signal to Bernard."
"Are you sure of that?"
"He told me so himself," said Tolomeo, quietly, "and it was because he thought I might know where Bernard was that he saw me. He said he would forgive Bernard and help me. We had some words, as he called me—a Tolomeo—names which I could not hear quietly. But afterwards he said he would help me, and then he wanted to see Bernard. Miss Randolph told him of the use she had made of the Red Window, so in this London house he did the same thing, hoping that Bernard might see the light and enter. If Bernard had," said the Italian, with great earnestness, "all would have been well."
"Do you know if Sir Simon sent a boy to bring Bernard?"
"No. I do not know. Sir Simon said nothing of that. He only put the lamp behind the handkerchief in the hope that Bernard might come to the house. For all he knew Bernard might have learned where he was staying. I think the old man was sorry he quarrelled with my poor nephew," said Tolomeo, with earnestness.
"Well, after arranging this you left Sir Simon?"
"Not immediately. Mrs. Gilroy came in and said that someone wanted to see Sir Simon. He heard her whisper to him, and said I could go away, telling Mrs.Gilroy to send up the stranger. She went away. I followed, and opened the door myself."
"The front door?"
"Yes. But when I was going out I heard Sir Simon call over the stairs. He asked me to return. I closed the door and did so."
"Ah!" said Durham, making a note. "Mrs. Gilroy thought you had left the house. She said so in her diary. Then she came upstairs?"
"No," said Tolomeo, "she did not. I went back to the room. Sir Simon said he wanted me to be present, as he had a disagreeable interview. He made me hide behind a curtain. I did so. Then the door opened and Bernard entered."
"What!" Durham started from his seat. "That's impossible."
"Of course it is," rejoined the Italian, smiling; "but I assure you, signor, the man who entered I took to be Bernard. He was——"
"Michael, the son of Mrs. Gilroy. I know that."
"Ah! And how?" asked Tolomeo, surprised and rather vexed. "I hoped to astonish you by this."
"Well, it's a long story. I'll tell it after you tell me yours. Michael entered dressed as a soldier."
"Yes," said Tolomeo, more and more surprised by the extent of the lawyer's knowledge. "I thought he was my nephew until I heard his conversation. Then I knew that this was Mrs. Gilroy's son and that she had been deceived by Walter Gore in a false marriage. Sir Simon told Michael that he was tired of assisting him, and accused him of making love to the housemaid. The boy—he is but a boy, signor—acknowledged this. Then Sir Simon said that Michael had forged his name for one thousand pounds."
Durham started up again. "What! Ah!" he said. "So that was a forgery, and I thought Sir Simon gave him the check. It was honored."
"Yes. Sir Simon said he knew it was a forgery, for the bank sent the check to him. But he said nothing about it so as to spare this Michael. But he said also that if Michael did not leave the country he would prosecute him. Michael retorted and there was a quarrel. I thought he would have struck the old man, so I came out. When Michael saw me he grew pale and, opening the door, ran downstairs and out into the fog. I followed to bring him back, as Sir Simon said, 'Follow him.'"
"Why did Michael run away?"
"I do not know. But he did. I went into the fog and followed him to the High Street. Then I lost him. As I turned out of the square I brushed past a man. It was under a lamp-post and I saw his face. He was in evening dress and was walking quickly. He entered the house by the door I had left open."
"And who was that?" asked Durham, curiously.
"Julius Beryl."
"Impossible! He was at the theatre."
"He was; but he came back," said Tolomeo, putting his hand in his pocket. "Listen. I ran up to the High Street, but could see nothing of Michael. I walked about for long. Then I came back before eleven. I found the door open, I saw Bernard in the hall, and heard that he was accused. I thought he was Michael returned. He escaped. I was by the railings on the opposite side of the street. As he ran he dropped a handkerchief. See!" Tolomeo produced it. "It is marked 'J. B.'"
Durham snatched the handkerchief. A faint smell of chloroform lingered about it still. Beryl's initials were in the corner. Durham looked up very pale.
"Yes," said Tolomeo, "that man killed Sir Simon."