"Oh!" mocked Bernard, "and you thought the white stuff would do the sick gentleman good—you young scoundrel! No. He isn't dead, Lord Conniston says, but small thanks to you."
"Oh!" Jerry seemed at once relieved and disappointed. "I won't get the two thousand pounds now."
"And you won't be hanged either, though you richly deserve it."
"I don't. I've done nothing," said Jerry, sulkily.
"You have attempted to poison Michael Gilroy——"
"Do you know his name, Mr. Grant?"
"Yes! And you know mine, Master Jerry. Come now, you must reply to the questions which Lord Conniston wishes to put."
"Sha'n't," said Jerry, and set his pretty, tearful face firmly.
"Judas," said Conniston, taking his riding-whip froma near table, "there's only one course to be pursued with boys like you. If you don't speak out, I'll give you one of the finest thrashings you ever had in your life."
"I'll have an action against you then," snapped Jerry, very pale.
"Certainly. But you'll have to get out of prison to bring it."
"Prison?" Jerry quavered and shook all over.
"Yes, prison," mimicked Conniston. "Do you think you can behave like a young criminal and get off scot free?"
"I was deceived by Mr. Beryl. He's older than I am. I am only a boy."
"You are old enough to be hanged, at all events."
"You said I wouldn't be, my lord."
"That depends upon my good word," said Conniston, bluffing; "and you won't have that unless you confess."
"Confess what, my lord?"
"All about this business connected with Beryl," put in Gore. "It was you who led me to the house in Crimea Square."
"I didn't—I didn't!" And then Jerry uttered a howl as Conniston's whip came across his back.
"Hold your tongue and answer."
"How can I hold my tongue and answer at the same time, my lord?"
Conniston took out his watch. "I'll give you two minutes to make up your mind to talk sense. You are clever enough when it suits you. If you won't speak, I'll thrash you thoroughly, and then take you up to be handed to the police."
"And if I do, my lord?"
"I'll spare you the thrashing. But you must go to the police. You are being enquired for, young Judas. Only by confessing the whole can you avoid danger to your neck."
"Only Mr. Beryl can get me into trouble, and you won't find him," said Jerry, tauntingly. "I sent Victoria to him with a letter last night, and she must have caught the eleven train to London. I daresay she saw Mr. Beryl last night, and he's got away."
"Why did you act so promptly?" asked Gore.
"Because I saw you, Sir Bernard. I knew the game was up, and that you were playing the fool with Mr. Beryl in getting that will signed."
"Ah! so we all were," said Conniston, calmly. "The game is up, so you had better explain your share in it. Begin from the time you were kicked out of Taberley's for stealing."
"I sha'n't," said Jerry. "I don't believe you can hurt me."
Dick's patience was exhausted. He caught the young wretch by the scruff of the neck and thrashed him thoroughly. Jerry, who had never been beaten before in his life, wept and howled and begged for mercy. At last Conniston threw him again on the rug thoroughly cowed, and between sobs Jerry expressed his willingness to reply to whatever questions were put to him. The examination was conducted as though Conniston was a barrister and Jerry a witness. Bernard, in the character of a reporter, went to the writing-table and took notes. Jerry stood wiping his eyes and replying tearfully.
"When did you meet Beryl?" asked Dick.
"At Taberley's. He knew I was Mrs. Moon's grandson,as he saw me here at one time. When I was kicked out, he promised to help me. I was told to watch Sir Bernard, and I did. I saw you, my lord, with Sir Bernard in the Park. I was always watching Sir Bernard."
"I see. That was why you sold matches. Well, and it was you who told Beryl that Sir Bernard was at Mr. Durham's house on that night?"
"Yes," snuffled Jerry. "I saw him go in. I then went to the theatre, and Mr. Beryl came out to see me. I told him, and he said I was to bring Sir Bernard to the Square."
"In any case, Beryl intended Sir Bernard should be brought there on that night?"
"Yes. About eleven o'clock or a little earlier. And I waited outside on that night and——"
"You needn't explain that," said Gore, turning his head. "I remember how you drew me to the place. Did Beryl tell you to speak of the Red Light?"
"Yes. He said you would come if I talked of a lady and the Red Window. And Sir Simon had arranged the red light with a lamp and a handkerchief, Mr. Beryl told me afterwards. I didn't know it on the night. All I had to do was to bring you to the Square."
"And what about the whistle you gave?"
"That was to let Mr. Beryl know you were outside?"
"Was Beryl in the house at that time?"
"No," said Jerry, after a few moments of thought. "He should have been there, but he afterwards told me that he had come earlier and had gone away."
"Did he intend to murder Sir Simon?"
"I can't say," replied the boy, doubtfully. "He made that chap, Gilroy, dress up as you, and court thehousemaid. His idea was to get Sir Simon to think you were making love to Jane. I think he wished to bring you to the house, so that on seeing the red light you might go in, and then Sir Simon would have quarrelled with you for loving Jane. I don't think he intended murder. But Michael Gilroy came and saw Sir Simon, and then bolted when he saw the Italian, thinking he was a detective. He told Mr. Beryl that the next day!"
"Who came to the house on that night, Jerry? State the time they came also."
Jerry thought again. "The Italian came first, and while he was in the room, about ten I think, Michael came. Then Michael bolted, and the Italian followed. Then shortly after ten Mr. Beryl came from the theatre——"
"Did you see him?"
"No," rejoined Jerry, tartly. "How could I? I was leading you then."
"Didn't you see Beryl at all that night—I mean again after you saw him to tell him where Sir Bernard was?"
"Yes, I did," said Jerry, rubbing his legs which were sore. "I may as well tell the truth. Just as we turned into Crimea Square, Sir Bernard, I brushed past Mr. Beryl."
"How could you recognize him in the fog?"
"I did. I saw him under a lamp. He was going back to the theatre and was very pale. Then I cut to look after Sir Bernard. I gave the whistle and then I cleared. Next day Mr. Beryl told me all that had taken place."
"Did you think he had committed the crime?"
"No, I thought that Michael had. He had forged a check, and I thought that he would quarrel with Sir Simon and kill him."
The boy spoke in all earnestness, so apparently Julius had been clever enough to keep the fact of his own guilt secret. But for the handkerchief it would have been difficult to have accused him. Conniston asked a final question. "How much do you get for all this?"
"Two thousand pounds if Michael died."
"If you poisoned him?" asked Bernard.
"Yes," said Jerry, sulkily. "I did intend to poison him, as I wanted the two thousand pounds. I came on here, and was then going to hide in London. After that, I should have sent for Victoria, and when Mr. Beryl paid, we would have gone to America."
"And why didn't you carry out this clever plan?" asked Gore.
Jerry turned still more sulky. "Because I saw you, and then I knew the game was up. Even if Michael had died, you would have been able to claim the property."
"Then Beryl really believed I was dead?"
"Yes, he did—so did I. When Victoria wrote me that you were here, I thought you were Michael. And when Michael came over to the Bower, I thought he had come from here. If I had known the truth——"
"Well?" said Bernard, dryly.
Jerry smiled amiably. "I'd have chucked Mr. Beryl and offered to prove your innocence if you gave me the two thousand. No," added Jerry, with a charming smile, "I'd have asked three thousand from you."
The young men looked at one another in wonder at this precocious criminality. "Can you prove my innocence?" asked Bernard.
"Yes," said Jerry.
"You know who killed Sir Simon?"
"Yes, I do. But I won't tell till I have seen Beryl," and this was all they could get out of him, in spite of threats of further whippings and cajolings. So Jerry was taken back to his room, and Bernard arranged with Conniston that the boy should be taken to London that very day.
"And then, when Durham lets me know, I'll surrender myself. But I wonder who killed my grandfather after all."
"Julius Beryl," said Conniston.
"Hum! I don't know. This boy seems to have some idea. I tell you what, Dick, I shouldn't be surprised if the boy did it himself."
The arrest of Sir Bernard Gore made a great sensation. It was generally supposed that he was dead, and his unexpected appearance surprised every one. Also, as he was believed to be guilty, the public was amazed that he should thus thrust himself into jeopardy. But more thoughtful people saw in Gore's surrender a proof of his innocence, and argued very rightly that were he guilty of the murder of Sir Simon, he would not come forward as he had done to stand his trial.
An additional surprise came in the arrest of Michael, who was said to be the half-brother of Gore, and to resemble him very closely. A rumor got about—no one knew how—that this resemblance between the two would be made the basis of the defence. Also, the boy, Jerry Moon, who was implicated in the matter, was in charge of the police, and it was expected that he would make startling revelations. On the whole, there was every chance that the forthcoming trial would be extremely interesting. Every one looked forward with great expectation to the time when Sir Bernard would be placed in the dock. Inspector Groom, formerly in charge of the case, was now attending to the matter again. He said very little, although the reporters tried to make him give his opinion. But, from the few wordshe let drop, it would seem that he believed firmly in the innocence of the accused man.
"I don't see anything about Beryl in the papers," said Conniston, when at Durham's office.
"There is nothing to say about him at present," replied the lawyer. "We have not caught him yet, and perhaps never may."
"Victoria warned him, then?"
"Yes. That imp of a boy wrote a letter stating that Bernard was at Cove Castle, and advising flight. Victoria caught a train shortly before eleven and came straight to Beryl's rooms, the address of which she received from Jerry. Beryl—as Jerry had done—saw that the game was up, and realized that we, knowing Gore to be alive, had been simply playing with the imposture of Michael. He bolted that same night and managed to cross to the Continent. At least, we suppose so, as no trace of him can be found."
"What will you do about him, then?"
Durham shrugged his shoulders. "There is nothing can be done," he answered. "With the evidence of Michael, Jerry and Miss Randolph and Tolomeo, we shall be able to prove Bernard's innocence and his cousin's guilt. Bernard will be set free without a stain on his character. But as to how Beryl will be arrested, or whether he will ever be punished, I am unable to give an opinion."
"What about Mrs. Gilroy?"
"Ah, we want her. But we cannot find out where she is. Even her son doesn't know. He would speak out if he did know, as I fancy he is sincerely repentant for the trouble this new edition of the Corsican Brothers has caused."
"But had you not some plan to lure Mrs. Gilroy out of her hiding?"
Durham searched amongst his papers and produced a journal. "Read that," said he, pointing to a column.
It was an article dealing with the case, in which the writer hinted that Michael was guilty and Bernard innocent. It was also stated that Michael would certainly be put in the dock, and that sufficient evidence was in the power of the prosecution to procure his condemnation. The whole article was written strongly, and after reading it, Conniston, had he not known the true facts of the case, would have fancied Michael guilty. He said as much. Durham smiled.
"That is exactly the feeling I wish to convey to Mrs. Gilroy," he declared, taking back the paper. "She, if any one, can prove the guilt of Beryl, but for some reason—perhaps for money—she is hiding. If she reads that paragraph she will at once come forward to save her son, and then we'll be able to prove Beryl's guilt beyond a doubt."
"But she may not take in the particular journal," said Conniston.
"Oh, this is only one paper. Within the next few days that article will be copied in every newspaper in London. Mrs. Gilroy is bound, wherever she is, to hear of the arrest of her son, and of Bernard giving himself up. To learn what is taking place she will read whatever papers she can get hold of. Then she will see that article, and if it doesn't bring her forward to save Michael and condemn Beryl, I am very much mistaken."
"It sounds rather like contempt of court," said Dick, gravely.
Durham laughed. "It is, in a way. Every man has a right to be considered innocent in English law until his guilt is proved. But I arranged with Scotland Yard that this article should appear in the hope that Mrs. Gilroy—an important witness, mind you—should be brought forward. I can't exactly tell you all the details, but you may be sure that the thing has been done legally. Besides," argued Durham, calmly, "seeing we have such a strong proof of Beryl's guilt, there is no doubt that Michael will have a fair trial."
"I say," said Conniston, rising to take his leave, "do you know it's Bernard's idea that Jerry might have committed the crime. It seems to me that Beryl is too great a coward to do it himself."
"Stuff!" said Durham, quite in the style of Miss Berengaria. "The boy could not have possibly strangled the old man. He was leading Bernard to the Square to within a few minutes of the time when Mrs. Gilroy came out shouting murder. No, Conniston, Beryl is the man, as is proved by his handkerchief. He came to the house immediately Tolomeo left, since he passed that man in the Square. The boy saw him departing, after Bernard was lured to be on the spot. Beryl was hurrying back to the theatre to arrange for hisalibi. Everything was beautifully arranged. But for the discovery of Michael, we might have learned nothing. Also Tolomeo's evidence is valuable. Mrs. Gilroy, having been in the house at the time, is the woman who knows all. Doubtless Beryl threatened to denounce her son, and that was why she accused Bernard, counting on the resemblance to carry the matter through."
"What an infernally wicked woman!" said Dick, angrily.
"Oh! not at all. Mrs. Gilroy is a mother, and she naturally would sacrifice the whole world to save her son. Besides, she may have acted on the spur of the moment, and then had to go on with the matter."
"Well," said Conniston, putting on his hat, "I sincerely hope your net will capture her."
"It is sure to. A woman who would try and save her son by accusing an innocent man would not remain quiet to see him hanged. By the way, Miss Berengaria is in town, I believe?"
"Yes, with Miss Randolph and Alice. They are stopping at the Waterloo Hotel, Guelph Street. I believe they expect you along to dinner this evening."
Durham nodded. "I received a note from the old lady, and intend to come. By the way, Dick, I hope you are fascinating her. Remember, she can leave you five thousand a year, and can't last much longer."
"I believe Miss Berengaria will see her century," said Dick. "Besides, now you have my affairs in order, I have enough to live on."
"But not enough to marry on," said Durham, significantly.
Conniston flushed. "If you speak of Lucy," he said, "she has a little money of her own, and our two incomes will keep us alive."
"It won't keep up the dignity of the title."
"Oh, the deuce take the dignity of that," said Conniston, carelessly. "In this democratic age who cares for titles?"
"The Americans, Dick. You ought to marry one."
"I'll marry Lucy, who is the sweetest girl in the world," said Dick, firmly. "We understand one another, and as soon as this business is over, Mark——"
"You will marry."
"No. Bernard and I will go out to the Front."
"What! Does Bernard say that?"
"Yes. He intends to go back to his Imperial Yeomanry uniform, and I honor him for it," said Dick, with some heat. "Bernard is not the man to sneak out of doing his duty. And Miss Malleson approves. I go out to the Front also, and daresay I shall manage to get a place of sorts, from which to take pot-shots at the enemy."
"But, my dear fellow," said Durham, much disturbed, "you may be killed."
"'Naught was never in danger,'" said Conniston, opening the door. "You get Bernard out of this scrape, Mark, and then come and see us start. We'll return covered with glory."
"And without legs or arms," said Durham, crossly. "Just as if Bernard hadn't enough danger, he must needs run his head into more. Go away, Dick. It's your feather brain that has made him stick to his guns."
"Not a bit," retorted Conniston, slipping out, "it's Bernard's own idea. Good-bye, Mark. I hope you will recover your temper by the time we meet at Aunt Berengaria's hospitable table."
Things fell out as Durham prophesied. The article was published in all the London and country journals, and provoked both praise and blame. Many said that it was wrong to hint that a man was guilty before he had been tried. Others pointed to the sufferings that the innocent Bernard Gore had undergone, and insisted that even before the trial his name should be cleared. Those in authority took no notice of the storm thus raised, which seemed to confirm Durham's statementthat the article had been inspired from high legal quarters. But the result of the publication and discussion of the matter was that one day a woman came to see Durham at his office.
The moment she entered he guessed who she was, even although she was veiled. Clothed from head to foot in black, and looking tragic enough for a Muse, poor soul, for certainly she had cause, Mrs. Gilroy raised her veil and examined the keen face of the lawyer.
"You did not expect to see me?" she asked, taking the seat he pointed to silently.
Durham was not going to tell her that the article had been published to draw her forth, as she might have taken flight and suspected a trap.
"It is a surprise," he said artfully. "And I am at a loss to understand why you have come."
"To save my son," said Mrs. Gilroy, looking at him with haggard eyes.
"Michael Gilroy?"
"Michael Gore. He has a right to his father's name."
"Pardon me, I think not. Bernard Gore is the heir."
"Ah!" said the woman, bitterly, and clasping her hands with a swift, nervous gesture. "He has all the luck—the title—the money—the——"
"You must admit," said Durham, politely, "that he had had very bad luck for the most part."
"His own foolishness is the cause of it."
"Did you come to tell me this?"
Mrs. Gilroy sat quite still for a moment, and Durham noticed that even what good looks she had were gone. Her cheeks were fallen in, her eyes were sunken,her drab hair was streaked with white, and her face wore a terrible expression of despair and sorrow. "I have come to tell you all I know," she said. "I would not do so, save for two things. One is, that I wish to save my son, who is absolutely innocent; the other, that I am dying."
"Dying? I hope not."
"I am dying," said Mrs. Gilroy, firmly. "I have suffered for many years from an incurable disease—it doesn't matter what. But I cannot live long, and, but for my son, I should have ended my miserable life long ago, owing to the pain I suffer. Oh the pain—the pain—the pain!" she moaned, rocking to and fro as Michael had done.
Durham was sincerely sorry for her, although he knew she was not a good woman. "Let me get you some brandy," he said.
"No," replied Mrs. Gilroy, waving her hand. "Call in some clerk who can take down what I have to say. I will probably speak quickly, as my strength will not last long. I have come from an hospital to see you. Get a clerk who writes rapidly, and be quick."
Durham called in a clerk and gave the order, then turned to his client. "Was it on account of going to the hospital that you left Gore Hall?" he asked.
Mrs. Gilroy, still rocking, bowed her head. "Did you want me?" she asked.
"I wanted to tell you that Michael came to Miss Berengaria's to——"
"Michael. He came there. Why?"
"To pass himself off as Bernard."
"Ah, that was part of Beryl's scheme to get the money."
"Was it part of his scheme to poison Michael?" said Durham.
Mrs. Gilroy started to her feet, flushed with anger.
"Did he do that, Mr. Durham?" she asked. "Did he dare to——"
"Yes. He got Michael to sign a will as Bernard, leaving all the money to him, and then employed Jerry to poison him. Jerry should not have done so for two or three days, but he was eager to get away, as he was afraid of being found out, so he poisoned your son within a few hours of the signing of the false will."
"The villain!" said Mrs. Gilroy, thinking of Beryl. "But he shall not escape. I have come to tell you all. I wish I could see him hanged. He is the cause of all the trouble. I saw in the papers that Sir Bernard was alive," she added; "how did he escape?"
"He swam across the river and went down to Cove Castle. We knew all the time he was there in hiding."
"Who knew?"
"Myself, Lord Conniston, Miss Berengaria and Miss Malleson."
"So you played with Michael?" said Mrs. Gilroy, drawing a breath.
"Yes. Miss Malleson and Miss Plantagenet both knew he was not the true Bernard. Your hint about your son being like his father showed me who Michael was, and I told the others. Yes, Mrs. Gilroy, I allowed Michael to sign the false will, so as to trap Beryl. But, believe me, had I known Beryl intended to poison your son, I should not have allowed the matter to go so far."
"You could do nothing else," said Mrs. Gilroy, sadly. "Both Michael and myself have suffered. I was deceivedby a false marriage, and the sins of the father have been visited on the child."
"That is true enough," said Durham. "But for the sin of Walter Gore, Michael, with his wonderful resemblance to Bernard, would not have been born, and Beryl would not have been able to plot as he did."
"Well! well! He is an exile and has been punished."
"When you can prove his guilt, as I suppose you intend to do," said the lawyer, grimly, "I'll do my best to have him brought back and hanged. You will be pleased at that."
Mrs. Gilroy laughed in a hollow manner, and cast a strange look at the lawyer. "I should be pleased indeed," she said, "but there's no such luck. Hanging is not Beryl's dukkeripen."
"That's a gypsy word."
"I was found and brought up by gypsies," said Mrs. Gilroy, indifferently, "although I am not of Romany blood. But I learned a few secrets from the Romany," added Mrs. Gilroy, her eyes flashing, "and one of them relating to drabbing—if you know what that means—may come in useful this day."
"What does drabbing mean?"
"It has to do with drows," said Mrs. Gilroy, laughing and rocking. "I daresay you'll know the meaning of both words before the end of this day." And she began to sing softly:—
"'The Romany cha,And the Romany chal,Shall jaw tasulor,To drab the bawlor,And dook the gry.'"
"'The Romany cha,And the Romany chal,Shall jaw tasulor,To drab the bawlor,And dook the gry.'"
Durham thought that her illness had affected her head. He did not say anything, but resolved to get her examination over as quickly as possible. A clerk entered at the moment, carrying a typewriting machine, which he set down on a small table near at hand.
"I think it will be best that your words should be taken down by the machine," said Durham, turning to Mrs. Gilroy, "as the writer can keep up with your speech."
"As you please," said Mrs. Gilroy, coolly. "I have to sign my statement in the presence of witnesses, you and this young man."
"But why do you——"
"There, there," said the woman, impatiently, "don't I tell you I have very little strength left. Are you ready?"
"Yes, madam," said the clerk, who was addressed.
"Then don't interrupt. I am about to tell you strange things," and she began forthwith, the clerk taking down all she said as quickly as she spoke. Durham, pencil in hand, made a note occasionally.
"I am a foundling," said Mrs. Gilroy, smoothly and swiftly. "I was picked up by some gypsies called Lovel, in the New Forest. I was with them till I came of age. I was then a pretty girl. In our wanderings we came to Hurseton. There I saw Walter Gore at a fair. I did not know he was married, as we stopped at Hurseton only a short time. We went away. Walter followed and said he loved me. He married me at last. We went abroad—then came back to London. When my child, Michael, was born, I learned the truth, for Walter had deserted me. I went down to Hurseton to see Sir Simon. He sent me to the States with Michael, my son. Walter sent me money."
"This is slightly different to what Michael said," remarked Durham. "I understood that you never saw Sir Simon till you returned from the States."
"Michael doesn't know everything," said Mrs. Gilroy, impatiently. "I tell my own story in my own way. Do not interrupt. I remained in the States for a long time. Then Walter died, and his true wife also. I came to see Sir Simon again. He was sorry for me, and offered to make me the housekeeper at Gore Hall, which should have been my home, but he insisted that Michael should return to the States. My boy did so, in charge of some friends. Sir Simon promised to give me five hundred a year when he died, so that I could help my boy. He only left me one hundred, the mean villain! I supported my son out of my wages. He grew weary of the States and came to England. Sir Simon was angry, but he got him a situation in London, on condition that the boy never came to Hurseton. That was why no one knew there was any one resembling Sir Bernard so closely. Well, in London Michael fell in with Julius Beryl——"
"I know all that," said Durham, quickly. "Michael told me. I know he was employed by Beryl to impersonate Bernard so that Sir Simon's anger should be aroused."
"Well, then, you know a good deal," said Mrs. Gilroy, "but not all. No, indeed," she added, smiling strangely, "not all."
"Tell me the events of that night, and how Beryl killed Sir Simon."
Mrs. Gilroy laughed again. "I am coming to that. You will be much surprised when I tell you all. Bernard was in town as a soldier; Beryl got Michael tomasquerade. I never knew it was my own son who courted Jane Riordan. Had I known, I should have put a stop to the business. I really thought from the description given, that Jane's lover was Bernard. I wanted Sir Simon, whom I told, to throw over Bernard and let my son have the property. He would have done so, but that Michael had forged a check——"
"I know about that also."
"Very good. We will pass that," said the woman. "Well, Sir Simon was angry. I saw there was no chance for my boy, and cast about how else to get the money for him. Beryl informed me that he intended by means of the Red Window and Jerry to lure Bernard to the Square, in the hope that when he saw the red light he would come up and have a quarrel with his grandfather."
"What about?" asked Durham.
"About Bernard's supposed courting of the housemaid. That was why Beryl employed my son to masquerade. He knew that Sir Simon was a proud man, and would not readily forgive such a thing. He knew Sir Simon was regretting his quarrel with Bernard, and wished to give it renewed life. Well, then, Beryl arranged to go to the theatre. He said he would come round after ten or near eleven to see if the old man had quarrelled with Bernard. He hoped that he would be able to get the order to turn Bernard out. He did not know, though, at what time Bernard would arrive. But when he did, I was to open the door to him."
"Jerry's whistle was to be the signal," said the lawyer.
"Yes. Then I was to show Bernard up, and the quarrel would then take place."
"Beryl did not really intend murder, then?"
"Mr. Durham, you will harp on that," said Mrs. Gilroy, impatiently. "Wait till I speak out. You see how matters were arranged for that night. Miss Randolph and Beryl went to the theatre so that they should not be mixed up in the quarrel."
"But Miss Randolph knew nothing?"
"Of course not. Beryl knew she was friendly to Bernard, and wished her out of the way. For that reason, he took her to the theatre. I then suggested to Sir Simon that probably Bernard knew of the house from you, and might come back. Sir Simon had sent for him to the kitchen, but my son, being afraid, ran away. Sir Simon laughed at the idea of the red lamp, but he did not forbid my arranging it. I got a lamp and placed it before the window. Then I placed across the window a red bandana of Sir Simon's. From the outside the signal could be plainly seen."
"What happened next?" asked Durham, while the typewriter clicked in a most cheerful manner.
"Various things," retorted Mrs. Gilroy, "and not those you expect to hear. I sat downstairs, waiting and working. Sir Simon was in the room with the red light showing through the window. The trap was laid. It only remained for Jerry to bring Bernard to fall into it. Shortly before ten an Italian called."
"Bernard's uncle, Signor Tolomeo?"
"Yes. I knew him, and took him up to Sir Simon, thinking his presence might make the quarrel worse. All Beryl and I wished to do was to prevent Bernard and Sir Simon from becoming reconciled. Well, Tolomeo saw Sir Simon, and while he was with him, my son arrived. I asked him what he was doing there. Hetold me then that he had been masquerading as Bernard, and informed me about the check. He was afraid of trouble in connection with it, as by means of it, Beryl held him in his power. He came to make a clean breast of it to Sir Simon. I tried to stop him going up——"
"But why?" interrupted the lawyer, quickly.
"I had my own plans, with which Michael's presence interfered," said Mrs. Gilroy, coolly. "However, he would not be overruled, and went up to see Sir Simon. The old man concealed Tolomeo behind a curtain, and then quarrelled with Michael about the check. There was a great row, as Sir Simon threatened to have Michael arrested. In the middle of the quarrel Tolomeo came out. Michael took him for a detective, and fled. He ran out before I could stop him. Then Tolomeo departed also. I went up the stairs and implored Sir Simon not to arrest my son. Then Beryl arrived nearly at the half hour."
"How did he enter?"
"Tolomeo, running after Michael, left the door open. Beryl tried to pacify the old man. I remained in the room all the time——"
"Then you saw the murder."
"Wait a moment," said Mrs. Gilroy, rising in the excitement of her tale. "Beryl and the old man quarrelled. Then Sir Simon told him to go back to the theatre. Beryl, thinking he had offended Sir Simon past recall, wept. Yes," said Mrs. Gilroy, with a sneer, "he cried like a child. Sir Simon was disgusted. He snatched his handkerchief from him, and threw it on the floor. Beryl was ordered out of the house again. He left and went back to the theatre. The interview took only a few minutes."
"But the murder?"
"I committed it," said Mrs. Gilroy, simply.
Durham and the clerk both jumped and stared.
"You?" said the lawyer.
"Yes," said Mrs. Gilroy, coolly. "You have been on the wrong tack all along. You thought that Bernard killed Sir Simon—that my son did so—that Tolomeo did so—that Beryl was guilty. But you were all wrong. I, and none other, killed Sir Simon."
"You say this to save your son?"
"No. Tolomeo can prove that Sir Simon was alive when Michael fled from the house. Beryl can prove that I was alone with Sir Simon. I was late—the servants were in bed. I determined to kill the old man."
"Why, in Heaven's name?"
"Because I saw that when Bernard came he would be arrested, and there would be a chance for my son getting the money. Then Sir Simon intended to have Michael arrested—I wished to stop that. Then, again, for years Sir Simon had insulted and humiliated me. I hated him fervently. Oh, I had plenty of reasons to kill the old brute. I went downstairs and got the chloroform."
"Had you that ready?" asked Durham, horrified at this recital.
"Yes and no. I didn't buy it then. I always thought that Sir Simon kept his will at the Hall, and I bought the chloroform months before, hoping one night to make him insensible, so that I could look at the will. But the chloroform was not wasted," said Mrs. Gilroy, with a pale smile. "I brought it with me to town—always ready to watch for my chance of rendering my master insensible and of reading the will. I wanted to see if he left Michael anything, and if hehad really left me the five hundred he promised. Besides, in his death, I saw a chance of getting rid of Bernard by hanging, and of having my son acknowledged as the heir."
"But Beryl? You reckoned without Beryl?"
"No," said Mrs. Gilroy, calmly. "You forget the handkerchief. I took that down with me, and soaked it with chloroform. I guessed that the handkerchief would condemn Beryl, should it be necessary to accuse any one. I did not foresee what would happen," added the woman, impatiently. "I only acted as I saw things then. I came upstairs, and while pretending to arrange Sir Simon's cushions, I clapped the handkerchief over his mouth. He struggled for a long time. It is not easy to chloroform people," said the woman, pensively. "I thought they went off at once, but Sir Simon was some time struggling."
"Go on—go on," said Durham in disgust. "Get this over."
Mrs. Gilroy laughed and drew her shawl tightly about her spare figure.
"After he was insensible," she continued, "I strangled him with his own handkerchief, after tying Beryl's handkerchief across his mouth. I then went down and took my work up again while waiting for Bernard."
Durham made a gesture of abhorrence. "You could work?"
"Why not?" said Mrs. Gilroy. "There was nothing else to do—the old man was dead—the trap was set. All I had to do was to wait till Bernard walked into it."
"Had you no regrets for that?"
"None. Bernard Gore robbed my boy of his birthright."
"Bernard was the eldest son, even though Michael had been born in——"
"I know all about that," said Mrs. Gilroy, waving her hand, "spare me your preaching. Is there anything more you wish to know?"
"About this plot to get the false will signed?"
"I knew little of that. I accused Bernard, and he escaped. Beryl guessed I murdered the old man, but for his own sake he held his tongue. I heard Bernard's whistle, or rather Jerry's, and went out crying murder. The rest you know. Then I played my part. I left the diary at the Hall for Miss Randolph to find, as I thought Tolomeo might be accused. I fancied, as things turned out, it would be better to have Bernard back, and get him to do something for Michael. That was why I prepared the diary."
"It was a false entry?" said Durham, looking at her.
Mrs. Gilroy yawned. "Yes, it was. I prepared it, as I say. I am getting very tired," she added. "Let me sign the paper and go."
"You must sign the paper, and you must be arrested," said Durham.
"As you please," said Mrs. Gilroy, perfectly calmly. Then Durham sent for Inspector Groom, and, pending his arrival, Mrs. Gilroy signed the paper, with Durham and the clerk as witnesses. She then fell asleep, and Durham went out to receive Groom. They talked together for some time, then entered the room. Mrs. Gilroy was lying on the floor in convulsions, and laughed when she saw them.
"Good Heavens!" cried Groom. "She has poisoned herself!"
"I have taken drows," gasped Mrs. Gilroy. "That's my dukkerin!" and died hard.
It was midsummer, and Miss Berengaria's garden was a sight. Such splendid colors, such magnificent blossoms, such triumphs of the floricultural art, had never been seen outside the walls of a flower show. The weather was exceedingly warm, and on this particular day there was not a cloud in the sky. Miss Plantagenet pottered about her garden, clipping and arranging as usual, and seemed to be in the very best of spirits. And well she might be, for this was a red-letter day with her.
Under the shade of a large elm-tree sat Durham, in the most unprofessional tweed suit, and beside him, Alice, radiant in a white dress. She looked particularly pretty, and her face was a most becoming color. Every now and then she would glance at the watch on her wrist, and Durham laughed as he saw how frequently she referred to it.
"The train won't be here for another hour," he said, smiling. "You will see Bernard soon enough, Miss Malleson."
"Oh, dear me," sighed Alice, "can I ever see him soon enough? It seems like eleven years instead of eleven months since he went away. I wish he hadn't gone."
"Well," said Durham, following with his eyes the spare little figure of Miss Berengaria flitting aboutamongst the flowers, "I didn't approve of it at the time, and I told Conniston so. But now I think it was just as well Bernard did keep to his original intention and go to the Front. It is advisable there should be an interval between the new life and the old."
"The new life?" asked Alice, flushing.
"He is coming home to be married to you," said Durham.
"And with a bullet in his arm," sighed Alice. "I shall have to nurse him back to health before we can marry."
"Miss Randolph will be occupied in the same pleasing task with Conniston," replied Durham, lazily, "and I envy both my friends."
"You needn't," laughed Miss Malleson, opening her sunshade which cast a delicate pink hue on her cheeks. "Poor Bernard has been wounded and Lord Conniston has been down with enteric fever."
"I am glad they have got off so easily. Bernard might have been shot, you know."
Alice shuddered and grew pale. "Don't, Mr. Durham!"
"That was why I feared about his going out," said he. "I thought it would be a pity, after all he passed through, that he should be killed by a Boer bullet. But he has only temporarily lost the use of his arm; he has been mentioned for gallantry in the despatches; and he is coming home to marry the most charming girl in the world—I quote from his own letter," finished Durham, smiling.
"And Lord Conniston?"
"He is coming also to marry Miss Randolph. Both weddings will take place on the same day, and Connistonhas escaped the dangers of the war with a slight touch of fever. But why tell you all this—you know it as well as I do."
"What's that?" asked Miss Berengaria, coming up to the pair.
"I was only discussing Miss Malleson's future life," said Durham.
"Ah," sighed the old lady, sitting down. "What I shall do without her I don't know."
"Dear aunt," said Alice, kissing the faded cheek, "I shall not be far away. The Hall is within visiting distance."
"That's all very well," said Miss Berengaria. "But Bernard will want you all to himself, and small blame to him. What is the time?"
Alice glanced at her watch. "It's nearly three, and the train arrives at half-past," she said. "Oh, I wish we could meet them."
"Not at all," rejoined Miss Berengaria, brusquely, "better wait here with Lucy. She will be over soon. I don't want a scene of kissing and weeping on the platform. But, I must say, I am glad both those boys are back."
"You will have them as near neighbors, Miss Berengaria," said the lawyer. "Bernard at Gore Hall and Conniston at the castle."
"I hope he and Lucy won't live there," said the old lady, rubbing her nose. "A dreadfully damp place. I went over there the other day to tell Mrs. Moon about Jerry."
"Have you had good reports of him?"
"So, so. The reformatory he was put into seems to be a good one, and the boys are well looked after. ButJerry is a tree which will grow crooked. He seems to have been giving a lot of trouble."
"Yet he was lucky to get off as he did," said Durham. "The judge might have sent him to jail instead of into a reformatory."
"And he'll land in jail some day," said Alice, shaking her head. "At least, Bernard seems to think so."
"I fancy Bernard is about right," replied Durham. "The lad is a born criminal. I wonder how he inherited such a tainted nature."
Miss Berengaria sat up briskly. "I can tell you," she said. "Mrs. Moon informed me that her son—Jerry's father—was a desperate scamp, and also that several of her husband's people had come to bad ends."
"To rope ends, I suppose, as Jerry will come," said Durham. "However, he is safe for the next three years in his reformatory. When he comes out, we will see what will happen. What about your otherprotégé, Miss Berengaria."
"Michael Gilroy?"
"Yes. Has he taken that name for good?"
"He has. It's the only name he is entitled to. How glad I am that the poor creature was acquitted after that dreadful trial. I am sure there is good in him."
"So Bernard thought, and that was why he assisted him," said Alice.
"I think you put in a good word for him, Miss Malleson."
Alice assented. "I was sorry for the poor fellow. While I nursed him I saw much good in him. And, remember, that he had intended to tell me who he was when he arrived, only he was so ill."
"And when he saw that you fancied he was Bernard,he accepted the situation," said Durham, ironically. "I wonder he could have thought you so easily taken in, knowing that you knew Bernard so intimately."
"Well, I don't think he was quite himself during that illness," said Alice, pensively. "Had he been better, he would certainly have doubted the fact of aunty's and my beliefs. A few questions from me, and he would have been exposed, even had I truly believed he was Bernard."
"And he must have wondered how you never put the questions."
"Perhaps. But he thought I was considering his health. However, he spoke up well at the trial, and quite explained Bernard's innocence."
Durham shrugged his shoulders. "The serpent in the bamboo. He was forced to be honest at the trial for his own sake."
"Don't be hard on him," said Miss Berengaria, suddenly. "I received a letter from him yesterday. He is doing very well in America, and with the money Bernard gave him he has bought a farm. Also, he hopes to marry."
"I wonder will he tell his future wife anything of his past life."
"Not if he is wise," said Durham, looking at Alice, who had spoken. "By the way, Miss Berengaria, does he mention his mother?"
"No," replied the old lady, promptly. "Drat you, Durham! why should the boy mention his mother at this point? She has been dead all these months. Poor soul! her end was a sad one. I never heard, though, of what poison she died."
"A Romany poison they call drows," explained Durham, quickly. "The gipsies use it to poison pigs."
"Why do they wish to poison pigs?"
"Because, if they kill a pig in that way, the farmer to whom it belongs, thinking the animal has died a natural death, gives it to the gipsies and they eat it."
"Ugh!" Miss Berengaria shuddered. "I'll look well after my own pigs. So the poor creature killed herself with that drug?"
"I don't know that it is a drug," said Durham. "I can't explain what it is. She hinted that I would know what drows meant before the end of the day, and I did. While I was telling Inspector Groom about her confession, she poisoned herself in my office. I thought she was asleep, but she evidently was watching for her opportunity to make away with herself."
"Ugh!" said Miss Berengaria, again. "I wonder you can bear to sit in that office after such an occurrence."
"How lucky it was that she signed that confession before she died," was the remark made by Alice.
"My dear young lady, she came especially to confess, so as to save her son. She would not have died until she did confess."
"And if she had not suffered from that incurable disease, I doubt if she would have committed suicide," said Miss Plantagenet.
"Oh, I think so," said Durham, reflectively. "After all, her confession meant hanging to her. She wished to escape the gallows."
"I am glad Bernard did," said Miss Berengaria, emphatically; "even at the risk of all that scandal."
"It couldn't be kept out of the papers," said Durham,with a shrug. "After all, Bernard's character had to be fully cleansed. It was therefore necessary to tell the whole of Beryl's plot, to produce Michael as an example of what Nature can do in the way of resemblances, and to supplement the whole with Mrs. Gilroy's confession."
"And a nice trouble there was over it," said the old lady, annoyed. "I believe Bernard had a man calling on him who wished to write a play about the affair—a new kind of 'Corsican Brothers.'"
"Or a new 'Comedy of Errors,'" said Alice, smiling. "Well, the public learned everything and were sorry for Bernard. They cheered him when he left the court."
"And would have been quite as ready to hiss him had things turned out otherwise," snapped Miss Berengaria. "The man who should have suffered was that wretch Beryl."
"We couldn't catch him," said Durham. "Victoria reached him on that very night, and he cleared without loss of time. Of course, he was afraid of being accused of the crime, although he knew he was innocent, but, besides that, there was the conspiracy to get the estate by means of the false will. By the way, did Mrs. Moon say what had become of Victoria?"
Miss Berengaria nodded. "Victoria is down in Devonshire with an aunt, and is being kept hard at work to take the bad out of her. I understand she still believes in Jerry and will marry him when he comes out of the reformatory. He will then be of a marriageable age, the brat! But, regarding Beryl, what became of him?"
"I never could find out," confessed Durham.
"Then I can tell you, Durham. Michael saw him in New York."
"Where?"
"In some low slum, very ragged and poor. He didn't see Michael, or he might have troubled him. He has taken to drink, I believe—Beryl I mean—so some day he will die, and a nice fate awaits him where he will go," said Miss Berengaria, grimly.
Durham rose and removed his straw hat. "Well," said he, looking down on the two ladies, "the whole case is over and ended. I don't see why we should revive such very unpleasant memories. The past is past, so let it rest. Bernard has the title and the money and——"
"Here's Lucy," said Alice, rising. "Dear girl, how sweet she looks!"
It was indeed Lucy tripping across the lawn in the lightest of summer frocks. She looked charming, and greeted Alice with a kiss. "I am so anxious," she whispered. "The train will be in soon."
"You are anxious to see Conniston?" said Miss Berengaria.
"Yes. And I am also anxious to hand the Hall over to Bernard. I have had a lot of trouble looking after it. Haven't I, Mr. Durham?"
Durham bowed. "You have been an admirable Lady of the Manor," he said. "But soon you will be Lady Conniston."
"And Alice will be Lady of the Manor," laughed Lucy. "Oh, by the way, Mr. Durham, I forgot to tell you that Signor Tolomeo called at the Hall yesterday. He thought Bernard was back, and came to thank him for his allowing him an income."
"I thought he had gone back to Italy," said Durham.
"He is going next week, and talks of marriage."
"I don't envy his wife," said Miss Berengaria, rising. "Girls, come into the house to see that everything is prepared for our heroes."
The girls laughed and tripped away. Durham left the garden and drove to the station to fetch back Conniston and Bernard. They did not come by that train, however, much to the disappointment of those at the Bower. It was seven before they arrived, and then the three ladies came out to meet them on the lawn.
"Dear Alice," said Bernard, who had his arm in a sling, but otherwise looked what Conniston called "fit!", "how glad I am to see you!"
"And you, Lucy," said Conniston, taking his sweetheart in his arms.
"Really," cried Miss Berengaria, while Durham stood by laughing, "it is most perplexing to assist at the meeting of a quartette of lovers. Gore, how are you? Conniston, your fever has pulled you down. I hope you have both sown your wild oats and have come back to settle for good."
"With the most charming of wives," said Dick, bowing. "We have."
Miss Berengaria took Durham's arm. "I must look out a wife for you, sir," she said, leading him to the house. "Come away and let the turtle-doves coo alone. I expect dinner will be late."
And dinner was late. Conniston, with Lucy on his arm, strolled away in the twilight, but Bernard and Alice remained under the elm. When it grew quitedusk a red light was seen shining from the window of the drawing-room. Gore pointed it out.
"That is the signal Lucy used to set in the window at the Hall to show that all was well," he said, putting his unwounded arm round the girl, "and now it gleams as a sign that there is a happy future for you and I, dearest."
"A red light is a danger signal," said Alice, laughing.
"This is the exception that proves the rule," said Gore. "It once led me into trouble, but now it shines upon me with my arms around you. Thank Heaven that, after all our trouble, we are at last in smooth waters. There's the gong for dinner."
Alice laughed. "A prosaic ending to a pretty speech," she said.