The Court had reassembled rather late in the afternoon, so there was little chance of much evidence being taken. Prelice went back to his seat still wondering what thought hovered at the back of his brain about Easter Island. He had visited that lonely and little known spot during his travels in the company of a friend given to occult studies, who insisted that the dismal spot of land was one of the remaining portions of the great Continent of Lemuria, which was said to have stretched from New Zealand to Africa. They had seen the famous statues, and had fraternised with the somewhat dirty natives, who had welcomed them warmly, as might be expected, seeing how few visitors ever came to the desolate land. For one week Prelice and his friend, Dr. Horace by name, had dwelt with the savages, and during that time had seen much of their manners and customs, and even had witnessed religious rites in front of the gigantic statues. Prelice had an idea that there he had seen something, suggested anew by this murder case, but vainly attempted to recall what it was. His memory would not help him in the least.
Meanwhile Shepworth, looking much more cheerful now that he had unbosomed himself to his chum, was again beside Cudworth, K.C., and young Arker. Belmain called his first witness as soon as the judge took his seat, in the person of the medical man who had examined the body of the murdered baronet.
The medical evidence was very scanty. Dr. Quick stated that, to the best of his belief, the dead man had been stabbed somewhere about ten o'clock. The blow had been delivered straight and strong, and the blade of the weapon used had penetrated right to the heart. Death must have taken place instantaneously, and while Sir Oliver, suspecting no treachery, had been reading. Belmain in cross-examination deduced from this that the prisoner was guilty, since Sir Oliver would scarcely have turned to his reading again had a stranger been in the room. Also, had the person who committed the crime been one whom the dead man suspected of any such design, he would assuredly not have presented a defenceless back to such an assassin. No! It was evident that the prisoner, after quarrelling with her uncle, had waited until he again was buried in his books, and then had stabbed him with the paper-knife. The doctor stated that the wound had been caused by a broad, thin blade, which exactly described the jade-handled paper-knife which was missing.
Several of the Grange servants were called to prove that Sir Oliver had been heard quarrelling violently with his niece. He was, as the evidence proved, a very hot-tempered and imperious man, and used language of the worst. In fact, the coachman, called to prove an outburst of temper when driving his master, said the late baronet could outswear any navvy. It was also clearly proved that Sir Oliver and his niece were on the worst possible terms when the crime was committed. Several times Sir Oliver declared that he would disinherit her, unless she surrendered her will and married Captain Jadby. But prisoner, as her maid said, had as imperious a temper as her uncle, and was well able to hold her own. "I don't mean," said the witness, "that Miss Chent was ever unkind to me, for she always behaved with consideration. I only mean that Sir Oliver could not brow-beat her, as he did the rest of them."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Belmain. "Who did he brow-beat?"
"Captain Jadby for one, sir. He was fond of Captain Jadby, and used to walk arm in arm with him in the garden, using him as a crutch for his lameness, as it were, sir. But he stormed a good deal, and Captain Jadby didn't fight like Miss Chent."
"You imply then that Captain Jadby was frightened of Sir Oliver?"
Witness (evasively): "I don't know, sir. I'm sure that my master was a terrible man, and only liked those who gave way to him."
In cross-examination, Cudworth for the defence asked: "Do you believe that prisoner is capable of committing the alleged crime?"
"No, sir, no," declared the lady's maid fervently. "Miss Chent is as good and kind a young lady as ever breathed. I don't think for one moment that she killed the master, and no more does anyone else."
The other servants gave similar evidence, all pointing to Sir Oliver's ungovernable temper, and to Miss Chent's dexterous way of managing him by meeting like with like. With Sir Oliver she fought on every occasion, otherwise she would have been reduced to slavery; but with other people Miss Chent was always kind and even-tempered. Although the witnesses called were for the prosecution, not one of them would confess to a belief in the prisoner's guilt. Belmain was rather disconcerted by his unanimous approval of Miss Chent, and tried his best to bully the witnesses into blaming her. But he failed on every occasion, and even when Mrs. Blexey was hoisted into the box he could not induce her to run down the girl. This loyalty created a deep impression, and prisoner for the first time showed emotion.
Mrs. Blexey was very stout, and very red-faced, and very tall, and extremely frightened. She looked like an elephant, and certainly possessed the timid nature of a rabbit. The contrast between her gigantic appearance and her timid speech amused those present so greatly that a continuous tittering was heard until the judge threatened to clear the Court.
Belmain: "You are Emma Blexey, the late Sir Oliver's housekeeper?"
Mrs. Blexey: "Yes, my lord!" (with a curtsey).
Belmain (facetiously): "You need not give me a title before I have earned it, my good woman." (Laughter.)
Mrs. Blexey: "Oh no, my lord—I mean my dear sir." (Laughter.)
When the laughter over this second form of address had subsided, Mrs. Blexey stated that the prisoner was as attached to her uncle as he was to her. They had tiffs on occasions, as Sir Oliver's temper was none of the best, but Miss Chent was never in the wrong, and usually contrived to pacify the irascible baronet. He was as fractious as a child, said the housekeeper, and required similar management. But, on the whole, he and Miss Chent—Mrs. Blexey refused to call her young mistress "the prisoner"—got on extremely well. As to the phrase about disinheriting, that was a favourite threat of Sir Oliver's, which meant practically nothing. He used it on every occasion, sometimes in earnest, and often in fun. It meant nothing, she said again.
Belmain: "He meant it when the prisoner refused to marry Captain Jadby, no doubt."
Mrs. Blexey (wiping her red face): "The Lord knows what he meant, sir. He was a queer gentleman."
Then Belmain proceeded to question the housekeeper regarding the admission which Steve Agstone was said to have made to her. It would have been preferable to obtain the evidence of the old sailor first hand, but since he could not be discovered the Counsel got what he could out of Mrs. Blexey. And what she knew he had to drag out of her by persistent questioning, for her sympathies were entirely with the prisoner. She stated that Agstone drank a great deal, and was always in trouble with Sir Oliver on that account. But that he had been the baronet's factotum for many years he would have been dismissed dozens of times. A drunken, grumpy, sullen savage, was the description given by the housekeeper. "But he was good-natured enough when sober," she confessed, "and quite devoted to Sir Oliver."
Belmain: "A kind of loyal henchman, in fact. Well, and what statement did he make to you, and when did he make it?"
Mrs. Blexey: "On the morning after the murder, Agstone—or Steve as everyone called him—was drinking rum to drown his grief at the death of Sir Oliver. He sat for a long time in my room weeping, and said that he knew Miss Mona would do for her uncle. Those were his very words, and I told him that he was speaking rubbish."
Belmain: "What happened then?"
Mrs. Blexey: "He fired up, and declared that while waiting up on the previous night for Captain Jadby, he had gone down the avenue to see if he was coming. Not finding him, and seeing the light still in the library, he wondered if Captain Jadby had arrived and had gone in to say good-night to Sir Oliver. He therefore went to one of the windows, and saw Miss Chent stooping over the fire to burn something. Sir Oliver was leaning forward on the desk with his head on his outstretched arms. Miss Chent also had a knife in her hands. Steve said that he thought there had been a row, and that Sir Oliver was weeping, as he sometimes did, being old and feeble from much hardship. He said that, had he guessed that Miss Chent had just murdered his master, he would have given the alarm. As it was, afraid lest Sir Oliver should be angry at his spying, he stole back into the house by the front door, and went to his own room at the back of the house. There he waited for Captain Jadby, and rushed into the library when he heard the bell."
Belmain: "I understood that Agstone told you that he had actually seen the prisoner kill Sir Oliver."
Prelice, in the body of the Court, thought so too, as he remembered what Ned had said during the luncheon. But Mrs. Blexey emphatically denied such a story. "I mentioned the matter to Mr. Shepworth but I am sure that he said nothing. But Steve might have talked in his drunken way to others, and might have told a different story. I know that there is a prevailing impression that he saw the murder, but he did not say so to me."
So spoke Mrs. Blexey, and Belmain looked worried. "You are telling the truth?" he demanded, in vexed tones.
"I am here to tell the truth," retorted Mrs. Blexey, "and I am, so there." After this somewhat incoherent speech she was cross-examined by Cudworth, and expressed her belief that Agstone had scarcely measured his words. Being devoted to Sir Oliver himself, he had always been very jealous of the favour shown to Miss Chent, and fairly hated her. Undoubtedly his wild maunderings were intended to hurt Miss Chent, and to get her into trouble. But Agstone had disappeared before the inquest, where he would have had to give evidence on oath. Mrs. Blexey firmly believed that had he been put on his oath he could not have substantiated what he had said to her. "I never could bear that Steve," she cried; "he was a sneaking dog, saving your presence, and had no love for anyone except Sir Oliver."
"Do you know where he is now?" asked Belmain, returning to the attack.
"No, I don't, sir, and I don't want to."
"I quite believe that," rejoined Counsel dryly, "seeing that you are prejudiced in prisoner's favour."
As Mrs. Blexey had surmised that Steve might have told a story of actually seeing prisoner kill her uncle to the other servants, Belmain recalled several witnesses. But not one of them could state that the current report was true. Steve had certainly hinted to several that he could bring home the crime to Miss Chent; but he had supplied no details, and as his hints were given when he was drunk, no one paid much attention to them. On the afternoon of the day following the night of the murder Steve had gone out for his usual stroll in the direction of Sandgate, and had not returned. The evidence of a detective proved that he had taken the train to London, and had been traced as far as Charing-Cross Station. There he had disappeared, and in spite of all search, his whereabouts could not be discovered.
By this time it was growing late, and judge, jury, lawyers, and listeners all exhibited symptoms of weariness. Therefore the Court rose, with the intention of sitting at eleven o'clock on the following morning. It was the general opinion that, unless Steve Agstone could be placed in the witness-box, the prisoner would not be convicted. Also Miss Chent's calm demeanour, and the loyalty of the Grange servants, which had placed her character in so attractive a light, went far to enlist public sympathy in her favour. Those who left the Court had more belief in her innocence than when they had entered. Many insisted that she could not possibly be guilty; but others pointing to the fact—which had been forthcoming at the inquest—that she had burned a new will disinheriting her, declared that, without doubt, she had murdered her uncle so as not to lose the money. All the same, the majority favoured the prisoner, and many well-wishers hoped for her acquittal.
Shepworth was pleased and hopeful. "The tide is quite in Mona's favour, Dorry," he said to Prelice when the Court rose, "and unless Steve Agstone turns up, she must be set free for want of evidence."
"There is the question of the burnt will, you know, Ned."
"We can prove that it was the will made in Mona's favour which was burnt," said Shepworth decisively. "Sir Oliver made no new will, as he had not left the house for quite a month, and could not have altered his will before then. His lawyer never came down to the Grange to draw up a will, and if Sir Oliver had drawn up a new one himself, he would have asked some of the servants to be his witnesses. We know that no one was asked to witness any document."
"Captain Jadby and Steve Agstone might have witnessed."
"No. There is a chance certainly that Agstone might have done so, but one signature would have been of no use. And had Jadby witnessed a new will, he would not have benefited under it. Besides, since he had the will made in the South Seas, and Sir Oliver assuredly wished him to have the money, along with Mona, all that had to be done was to destroy the will made in Mona's favour, and then Jadby, having the cash, could leave her penniless unless she married him. Which is just what has happened," ended Shepworth.
"Of course," said Prelice thoughtfully, "Miss Chent might have been trying, when seen by Steve, to rescue the will from the fire into which it had been thrown by Sir Oliver."
Shepworth wheeled round. "Do you believe that she is guilty?"
"Oh, no. But we must look on all sides. And Agstone——"
"Is a liar," interrupted the barrister quickly. "I don't believe that he saw Mona bending over the fire. She was insensible, by her own showing, from the moment she entered the room until Jadby woke her. And remember that I found her insensible."
"It would help her if you said so."
"I don't agree with you. Were I examined about my presence in the library, I might let slip that the knife——"
"Yes, yes," said Prelice hastily. "I see. It will be better for you to hold your tongue. I hope that Agstone will not appear."
"If he does not, Mona is safe," rejoined Ned, with a sigh of relief. "Oh, poor Mona. Think of her in prison, Dorry."
"She will soon be out of it," answered Prelice soothingly. "I am quite sure that she will be acquitted. Where are you going now?"
"Home to my flat. I am quite worn out. Come and look me up this evening about ten or eleven, when I have had a sleep. I live at Alexander Mansions, Kensington Gore. Number Forty."
"Alexander Mansions," repeated Prelice, surprised; "why, here is the long arm of coincidence, Ned. Mrs. Dolly Rover has asked me to a masked ball, which she is giving in her flat—a most unsuitable place for abal masqueI think."
"Oh, no," said Shepworth, with a flush of colour, though why he should show this emotion Prelice could not say; "the flat occupied by Mrs. Rover is above mine. She has, in fact, two flats furnished on a most palatial scale. Her husband is a rich little beast, you know."
"Why a little beast?" asked Prelice, rather perplexed.
Shepworth's colour grew deeper. "He is not worthy of his wife. She was Miss Newton, you know, very clever and very beautiful. Dolly—fancy a man being called Dolly——"
"Short for Adolphus. It is not an uncommon abbreviation."
"It is contemptible for a man—and he's a rat. Dolly Rover," added Shepworth contemptuously, "fooh! the effeminate monkey. Well, good-bye. I'll see you between ten and eleven."
When Ned jumped into a cab, Prelice walked home wondering why he should run down the dapper little stockbroker whom Miss Newton had married. Then he remembered that Shepworth had admired Miss Newton before she changed her name to Rover.
"It is a long lane that has no turning!" Lord Prelice began to believe that there might be some truth in the proverb, for the lengthy lane of idleness, down which he had sauntered for many years, seemed to be rounding the corner to open out into the road of industry. The chance observation of Lady Sophia, which had sent him to the New Bailey, had become a sign-post, as it were, showing him which way he was to go. In other words, he was now involved in Shepworth's troubles, out of sheer friendship. Ned had confessed that he required assistance, and had turned to his old school-chum for the same. Prelice was naturally willing to do what he could towards aiding Ned in extricating Miss Chent from her perilous position, and so found work for his idle brain to do. Of course, as he tried to believe, he could resume his former life when the service was duly rendered. The wedding-bells which rang for Mr. and Mrs. Shepworth would dismiss their best man once more to his sauntering.
But this, as Prelice began to think, was easier said than done, mainly owing to the looks of Miss Chent. He had not spoken to the girl, and knew her character solely through the evidence of the Grange servants, who had been placed in the witness-box. Also Ned, as he remembered, had said very little about his affianced wife, and Prelice knew none whom he could question as to the prisoner's qualities. Yet, for all his scanty knowledge, he felt strangely drawn towards the unhappy woman, and confessed inwardly that he would feel a pang on seeing her become Mrs. Shepworth. Without doubt Prelice was in love, although not head over ears, and he swore at himself for being so disloyal to his friend. Mona—the name slipped quite naturally into his mind—Mona would assuredly be acquitted, unless the missing Agstone appeared, which was extremely unlikely, and then she would as assuredly marry Ned, who had so manfully stood by her in this grave trouble. Therefore it behooved Prelice, as an honourable gentleman—and he was all that—to put her out of his mind, if he wished to continue meeting Shepworth's gaze squarely. And, after all, a peer worth twenty thousand a year could pick and choose almost any woman for his wife; it was hard on Ned that such a peer should play the part of David in the parable, and select the less fortunate commoner's one ewe-lamb.
The struggle between more than a liking for Mona, and a feeling of genuine friendship for Ned, made Prelice waver in determining his future behaviour. His first inclination, when aware of his feeling, was to cross the Channel for a prolonged stay abroad, and leave Shepworth to his own devices. Then it occurred to him that this course would be cowardly, and he resolved to remain and help. Nothing that the world could cavil at could ever take place, since Prelice, with his high sense of honour, never dreamed of paying marked attentions to Miss Chent. All the same, if he came often into Mona's company—and that seemed inevitable should he remain—his life's happiness would certainly be at stake. He would have his feelings to smother, and therefore—as he plainly saw—would be most unhappy. Prelice at this early stage of infatuation termed his feeling towards the girl "affection," but he knew very well that, given time and opportunity, affection of this sudden kind might easily increase to love. In that case, seeing how Miss Chent was engaged to be married, he would be vainly crying for the honeymoon.
His lordship, then, felt less happy in the evening than he had done in the morning. Then he had been heart-whole; now the sight of a beautiful woman in peril had aroused the deepest and most chivalrous feelings of which his nature was capable. Placed thus between the devil and the deep sea, Prelice compromised dangerously with his conscience. He resolved to crush down his newly born desire for Mona, and to help Ned as best he could. In this way did the young man mix fire and snow, in the vain hope that such hostile elements would blend. Common-sense should have told him otherwise.
Having so decided—although not over-pleased with his decision, and with good reason—Prelice dressed for dinner. He remembered that he had promised to partake of this agreeable meal at his aunt's. A solitary chop at his club would have been preferable, as he was disinclined for company. But, aware from experience that Lady Sophia would strongly object to an excusing telegram, Prelice smothered his unwillingness, and reached the abode of his relative shortly before eight o'clock.
Lady Sophia lived magnificently in Brummel Square. The fourth daughter of a pauper Duke, she had married a wealthy city man—that is, she had entered into a social partnership, as there was little genuine marital feeling about the union. Simon Haken was a dried-up, active atom of humanity with a bald head, a pair of piercing dark eyes, and an exasperating chuckle, which he used when getting the better of anyone. As he usually scored over less clever financiers, he chuckled very often, and this sardonic merriment imparted a somewhat cynical expression to his withered face.
His wife, large, and expansive, and fresh-coloured, looked like an elephant beside a grasshopper, when the two went into Society, and they were generally known as the Mountain and the Mouse. But Haken cared as little for the jest as did Lady Sophia. As husband and wife in its strictest sense they were failures, being two and not one; as partners they were admirably matched. Having no children, and plenty of money and excellent health, and no strong emotions, the two enjoyed life immensely. Possessed of a complacent husband, of a good position, ample cash, and absolute freedom, Lady Sophia even forgot to sigh for the delights of the Stone Age when she reflected upon the position in life to which it had pleased Providence to call her.
On this occasion Mr. Haken, as usual, had wired detention in the city on business, so Lady Sophia received her nephew in a solitary drawing-room, as handsomely furnished as she was dressed. "You are just in time for dinner," said she with emphasis, implying thereby that Prelice was usually late.
"I always am in time," answered the guest, smiling but preoccupied. "Dinner is a sacred feast which cannot be trifled with. I would as soon insult the King as the Cook." Then he sat and stared at the points of his patent-leather boots with the air of a misanthrope.
"You are out of spirits," declared Lady Sophia, rapping his knuckles with her lorgnette. "I prescribe a round of pleasure. To-night you shall escort me to two dances and four musical parties."
"But I haven't done anything to deserve such punishment."
"How absurdly you talk. These festivals——"
"I agree with the man who said that life would be endurable were it not for its festivals."
"Nonsense. He could not have been in Society."
"He just was, and so made a profoundly true observation. I renounce Society and all its play. Besides," added Prelice inconsequently, "I am going to a masked ball to-night at Mrs. Dolly Rover's."
"That woman!" cried Lady Sophia, with disdain.
Prelice looked up, surprised. "I thought you liked her?"
"As Constance Newton, not as Mrs. Rover," she informed him swiftly.
"They are one and the same," he urged.
"Not at all. Marriage changes a woman into something entirely different. Constance was a charming girl; Mrs. Rover is a flirting, fast-living, heartless, spendthrift, Society doll."
"Society Doll—y Rover," murmured Prelice, noting his aunt's usual waste of adjectives. "Will you come to this ball?"
"What!" Lady Sophia almost screamed, "a masked ball, and at my age? Oh, how can you be so ridiculous, Prelice? And at Mrs. Rover's too; a woman who neglects her husband, and squanders his money, and whips him like a poodle, I believe."
"He is something of a poodle, isn't he?"
"That is no reason why he should be whipped," she snapped heatedly; "and if you knew how she had treated your friend Mr. Shepworth, you would not go near her disreputable ball."
Prelice pricked up his ears, remembering the unnecessary blush of the barrister at midday. "How did she treat Shepworth?" he asked.
"How? Can you ask?"
"Of course, seeing that, as a newly returned traveller, I know nothing."
"Well then, she was almost engaged to him, and he was very much in love with her. She threw him over in a cold-blooded way, because Dolly Rover came along with a better-filled purse. He's a horrid little cad," added Lady Sophia candidly, "and his father was a chemist, or a draper—I forget which. All the same, he is too good for a jilt, who played blind hooky—don't raise your eyebrows, Prelice; it's vulgar, but expressive, and I shall use it—who played blind hooky with poor Mr. Shepworth."
"But are you sure, aunt? Ned is engaged to Miss Chent."
"Out of pique—out of pique," she assured him. "Mona is a nice girl, poor darling, even though she did murder her uncle, not that I believe she did. But Constance is the one love of Mr. Shepworth's life, and fifty Monas won't make up for the loss. Mona, if ever she does become Mrs. Shepworth, which I very much doubt, will only be a make-shift."
"Oh!" Prelice was almost too indignant to speak. That so peerless a girl should be talked of as a "make-shift" seemed positively wicked. "You must be mistaken. Ned would not behave so badly."
"Ask him then."
"I shall do this very night."
"Then you will go to that woman's?"
"Yes. I accepted, as I always liked Constance. Besides, I have to see Ned, who lives in these same mansions——"
"I know he does," burst out Lady Sophia; "quite indecent I call it."
"Oh, hang it, aunt, a man must live somewhere."
"Not next door to a woman who has jilted him."
"He doesn't live next door, but on the floor below."
"It would be more creditable if he lived in Timbuctoo. I believe that he loves her still, and she's quite capable of loving him back in spite of the marriage service, which I don't believe she listened to. As for her husband——" Lady Sophia was about to give her opinion of Mr. Dolly Rover, when the butler threw open the door, and announced dinner. At once she took her nephew's arm, and changed the conversation. "Tell me about the case," she chattered as they passed to the dining-room. "Have they hanged that poor girl?"
"Who? Miss Chent? No, and I don't believe they will."
"Ah!" Lady Sophia pulled off her gloves. "I always said that she was innocent."
"Of course, if Agstone turns up, she may be convicted."
"Agstone—oh yes; the man who declares that he saw her kill Sir Oliver."
Prelice corrected her, while taking his soup. "He only saw her bending over the fire with a knife in her hand."
"Burning the will after killing her uncle. What a horrid girl!"
"Aunt Sophia, will you tell me plainly if you believe Miss Chent to be innocent or guilty?"
"How can I judge when I haven't heard the evidence? You talk as though I were on the jury. I like Mona, and I'm sure she didn't kill him; but if she did, he deserved it, as he was a nasty old bully."
Prelice desisted in despair, and helped himself to fish. Lady Sophia seemed to change her mind every half minute, and never considered facts when she wanted to deliver an opinion. Besides, she preferred fiction, as it was less trouble to invent than to remember. All the same, her sympathies appeared to be with Mona, and Prelice felt pleased that it should be so. Should the girl be acquitted, her position would be extremely difficult, and she would require a staunch friend of her own sex. Why should not that friend be Lady Sophia, whose support could do much to efface the stain of a Criminal Court? But until the case was decided, Prelice did not dare to hint that such an idea had crossed his mind. As the servants were hovering round the table he could not talk confidentially to his aunt, so drifted into general conversation about mutual friends. He thus became posted up in the latest Mayfair gossip, and so was brought up to date in necessary knowledge. And Lady Sophia knew as much about London as Asmodeus did about Madrid, and like that delightful demon, she could unroof houses to some purpose. Luckily for the men and women about whom she talked, the presence of the butler and two footmen prevented entire candour.
As the food was excellent and the conversation interesting, not to say necessary—for Prelice as a newly returned traveller required much posting-up in recent scandals—nephew and aunt lingered for a considerable time at table. When the meal was ended Prelice preferred to accompany Lady Sophia to the drawing-room, instead of remaining solitary over Haken's famous port. They had half-an-hour left for coffee, and then Lady Sophia would have to start out on her round of festivals.
"You ought to come with me, Prelice," she said later, as he helped her on with her cloak; "everyone thinks that you are dead."
"Well, aunt, you would not have much pleasure in taking a corpse about with you. Besides, I promised to look up Ned this evening."
"No doubt, and he'll be at that woman's ball. Most indecent, seeing that poor Mona is in gaol."
"Ned isn't such a blighter," cried Prelice crossly.
"I never called him a blighter, whatever that may mean," retorted Lady Sophia with great dignity. "Mr. Shepworth is an estimable young man, whom you would do well to imitate."
"I intend to. He and I are going to save Miss Chent."
"How horrid; you'll be a kind of detective."
Prelice nodded. "It's something to do."
"As if you required anything to do with your rank and money."
"But I say, aunt, you advised me this morning——"
"Oh, I never remember anything I say in the morning," said Lady Sophia airily. "You are so stupid, Prelice, you always take one at the foot of the letter. You won't come with me. Oh, very well. Help me into the brougham, you horrid boy. I believe you'll fall in love with Mona, and give me a criminal for a niece."
This was Lady Sophia's parting shot, and when her motor-brougham spun towards the first turning out of the square, Prelice laughed long and loudly. His aunt was nearer the truth than she had been the whole evening, although she was far from suspecting it. It never entered her elderly head that a man of the world, such as her nephew certainly was, would fall in love on the spur of the moment. "And I should not have suspected myself of such lunacy either," thought his lordship as he turned in the direction of Half-Moon Street to procure domino and mask for the ball.
The street before Alexander Mansions was filled with carriages and motors and four-wheelers and hansoms, together with a crowd of onlookers, who passed remarks, complimentary and otherwise, on the many guests of Mrs. Rover. The mansions themselves were palatial and splendid, with a royal flight of broad marble steps to the main entrance. Prelice, shuffling on his domino and assuming his mask, climbed these, to find himself with other revellers in a vast hall, with two staircases ascending on either side at the farther end, and between them two lifts, the cages of which soared and sank with parties of pleasure-seekers. Prelice delivered his rainbow-hued ticket of invitation to a gorgeously uniformed commissionaire, and took his time in climbing the long stairs. Many other people did the same, instead of waiting for the lifts, but, as all were masked and cloaked, the young man could recognise no one.
As Shepworth had stated, Mr. and Mrs. Dolly Rover occupied the whole of the third floor—that is, they tenanted two flats which faced each other, and the outer doors of these, opening on to a spacious landing, had been removed from their hinges. Thus the guests could pass easily from one flat to the other, and the landing between was a nest of greenery and roses, like the hanging gardens of Babylon. The flats themselves had wide corridors, spacious rooms, and lofty ceilings, so they were capable of receiving a large number of guests. On this occasion they were crowded, and it would seem as though Mrs. Rover had invited everyone on her visiting-list. And there may have been others, not set down on that list, since the masks and dominos prevented recognition.
Prelice looked about for his hostess, but found himself received by a tiny, pale-faced man with large, plaintive blue eyes set in a white expanse of absolutely colourless skin. He wore a domino over his smart evening-dress, but no mask, and was so clipped and curled, and brushed and washed, that Prelice easily guessed him to be the poodle mentioned by Lady Sophia. Pushing out a small tightly gloved hand, he murmured a nervous greeting to each new arrival; but after this ceremony was ended no one seemed to take any notice of him.
As all who came were masked, Prelice wondered how Mr. Rover could possibly know whom he was greeting. Of course, there was the rainbow-hued ticket given to the commissionaire below, which would guarantee the respectability of the presenter. But tickets of this sort could be stolen and forged, and as no further supervision was exercised to ensure the identity of the guests, Prelice considered that such a procedure was somewhat rash. His thoughts were confirmed by a dried-up little man who appeared without a mask, and who was rebuked by Mr. Rover for his originality.
"You shouldn't, you know," expostulated the host in a penny whistle kind of voice; "no one is to know anyone until the clock strikes twelve, when we all unmask for supper. Why, even my wife insisted that I should receive in her place. She would be spotted, you know, if she stopped here to shake hands, and she doesn't want to be found out until midnight. The whole fun of a masquerade lies in secrecy, so obey the rules, Haken, and put on your mask."
Prelice started when he heard the name, and twisted his neck to see if the new-comer really was his uncle-by-marriage. It was Simon Haken sure enough, for no one could mistake his looks let alone his celebrated chuckle. The young man laughed, and wondered what Haken—by no means a Society butterfly—was doing at the ball of a lady whom his wife openly disliked. And then he remembered that lying telegram from the city. Mr. Haken had his little secrets it would seem, and was more human, under the rose, than when posing as a money-making machine. His dutiful nephew determined, before the evening was out, to let his sly uncle know that his misdoings were discovered.
Meanwhile the little millionaire was chuckling and masking. "It is a risk, you know, Rover," he observed dryly. "You don't know who is here. Half the swell mobsmen of London may have come after diamonds."
"Oh, dear me, how can you talk so, Haken?" said the host fretfully; "the man below examines the tickets."
"As if anyone could not forge or steal one," retorted Haken, voicing his nephew's thoughts. "Well, in to-morrow's papers I shall look for a criminal scandal." And with his odious chuckle Haken brushed past Prelice towards the ballroom of the left-hand flat.
His lordship, tired of watching new arrivals, thought that he also would go and view the revellers. But he had hardly moved half-a-dozen paces when he unexpectedly began to think of Easter Island. A sweet, heavy perfume, as of tuberoses, was wafted in his nostrils. But why should such a familiar fragrance recall that desolate land, environed by leagues of ocean?
Odour is one of the strongest aids which memory can have, and a chance whiff of a particular scent will recall to the most lethargic brain, circumstances both trivial and important of long-forgotten years. But the well-known fragrance of the tuberose usually brings funerals to mind, since that flower is so extensively woven into burial wreaths and mortuary crosses. It was strange indeed that it should conjure into an idle-thinking mind the vision of a heathen festival.
There were many people crowding the corridor, so that it was impossible for the young man to tell who wore the flowers which gave forth the magical scent—for magical it was in its effect. They might adorn a man's button-hole or a woman's bodice. He could not tell, since the evening-dress of both sexes was veiled by voluminous dominos. But as he leaned against the wall, the vision became clearer and more insistent. His body was in London—in Alexander Mansions, at a masked ball, as he well knew—but the scent of the tuberose had drawn his spirit across leagues of trackless sea to the uttermost parts of the earth. The present vanished, and he beheld the past.
Before him, as the interior vision opened, he saw colossal images of a vanished and forgotten race, rudely hewn into the semblance of human beings, each bearing a cylinder—according to Captain Cook's description—on its gigantic head. These reared themselves from vast platforms of Cyclopean architecture, overgrown with tropical vegetation, and strewn with bleaching bones. And in the soft radiance of the southern moon Prelice beheld a kneeling crowd of bronze-hued worshippers, tattooed and painted, adoring the weird stone gods. An old priest, his face and body streaked with white pigment, murmured strange names over a rude stone altar, whereon blazed a clear fire. He invoked terrible deities incarnate in the giant idols—Kanaro! Gotomoara! Marapate! Areekee!—and cast upon the flames the yellow leaves of a sacred herb. A thick white cloud of smoke spread like a milky mist before the statues, veiling their grotesque looks and vast outlines, and the sickly scent of the tuberose grew powerful. Then did the priest become rigid as the dead, and his spirit blended with the spirits of those grim gods he worshipped. Finally, the fragrance which loaded the heavy air—whether of Easter Island or London Prelice could not tell—passed away, and with that odour passed the vision.
It could only have lasted a minute or so, but was so terribly vivid that Prelice could scarcely believe that his surroundings were real when the material asserted its sway. He had closed his eyes to behold the vision, which the scent had invoked, and opened them again, with a bewildered expression, to see the pushing, laughing, chattering throng of guests. Although a commonplace young man, and contemptuous, as a rule, of the unseen, he felt that the recollection had not been brought back for nothing. The dead man at Lanwin Grange had been reading about Easter Island when foully stabbed, and the accused girl had described to her lover the white smoke and sickly perfume, which also had to do with that isolated land. And Mona also—Prelice remembered faithfully what Shepworth had told him—had been in a state of catalepsy, like the priest of the vision. And, after all, although he chose to call what he had seen mentally a vision, it was simply a vivid recollection of what he and Dr. Horace had beheld a year or two before. But what had a fetish worship in Easter Island to do with a murder in Kent? That was a question which Prelice could not answer.
There was no time to invent possible explanations or to reason out answers. Being in Rome, the momentary dreamer had to do as the Romans did; and as Prelice was at a ball, he was compelled, out of courtesy to his hostess and host, to enjoy himself. He did not have far to go for an adventure, as a lady in a blue domino, and with a fringed mask to disguise her voice, stole to his side, and engaged him in airy conversation. Who she was the young man did not know, and probably she was equally ignorant of his identity. But on this especial night, Mrs. Rover's flat was Liberty Hall with a vengeance, for men and women, trusting in masks and dominos for concealment, flirted and danced and drank and laughed with one another in a most outrageous manner. There was no need of introductions, or of reticence, or of timidity; in that Eden's Bower of flowers and ferns faces were hidden, but souls were revealed.
The blue domino proved to be a most charming companion, full of fun and flirtation, and a delightful dancer. Prelice found her extremely entertaining, and she appeared to reciprocate the feeling. After a particularly perfect waltz, and an inspiriting glass of champagne, his lordship did his best to lure the unknown into a corner where she might unmask. But the lady shook her head laughingly, and ran off to the ballroom with another man, whose stature of a life-guardsman had caught her roving eyes. Prelice solaced himself with another glass of wine, and looked about him for another female of man. It was then that a chuckle at his elbow made him turn.
"Now then, now then," said the gentleman who had chuckled, "let me come to refresh myself." He spoke irritably, and pushed past Prelice in a hurry. "Waiter! Waiter, a glass of champagne."
"I thought you were a teetotaler, uncle!" whispered Prelice.
Mr. Haken, betrayed by his chuckle, and wheeled suddenly, and spilt the wine he was about to sip. To his nephew's surprise he was trembling, and his stammering voice betrayed his agitation. "Who—who are you?"
Prelice whispered his name. "You needn't be alarmed," he added; "I won't tell Aunt Sophia that you are accepting her enemy's hospitality."
Haken drank off his wine in one deep gulp, and set down the glass, with his hands still shaking. "I would rather you did not tell her," he said in a low tone. "Sophia dislikes Mrs. Rover, and would be annoyed if she knew that I was here. I have come on business."
"What! Business at a ball? Invent a more credible story, uncle."
"It is true," insisted Haken, becoming more composed. "I have to see a political man from the Continent about a loan. He doesn't want it to be known that I am meeting him, so we thought that this would be the best place to ensure secrecy. Not a word of this, Prelice."
"Of course not," replied the young man, puzzled to know why Haken should take the trouble to explain; "but don't mention my name. I also wish to be unknown."
"What are you doing here?" asked Haken abruptly.
"I came to the ball, and also I have to see Ned Shepworth, who——"
"Shepworth," gasped Haken, backing nervously. "Oh yes! friend of our charming hostess; friend of mine also. Is he here?"
"No. He would not come to a ball when his promised wife is in prison."
"Of course not; very creditable of him, to be sure," muttered Haken, and took another glass of wine with a whispered apology. "I am teetotal as a rule, you know; but Society always tries my nerves, and I need sustenance. I wish the man I have to meet here had chosen my office in the city. But it wouldn't have done—it wouldn't have done. There would be trouble were it known that he was in London. What is the time, Prelice?"
"Don't mention my name or I'll mention yours," said Prelice impatiently, and drew out his watch. "It is eleven o'clock."
Haken nodded. "I must meet my man. Eleven-fifteen is the time. As to mentioning my name, what does that matter? I came here without my mask. Never thought of putting it on."
Prelice nodded in his turn. "I saw you when Rover received you."
"Then hold your tongue—hold your tongue. Not a word to Sophia, mind."
"Not a word," Prelice promised gravely; and Mr. Haken, drawing a long breath—it would seem to be of relief—at having extracted the promise, vanished into the many-hued crowd with his usual chuckle. While the millionaire gave vent to that chuckle there did not seem to be much chance of his concealing his identity.
Lord Prelice looked after him somewhat puzzled. He could quite understand why Haken did not want his wife to know of his presence in Alexander Mansions; but it was difficult to account for the old man's agitation and quite unnecessary explanations. As a rule, Haken was extremely reticent, and on such an important matter as a secret meeting with a Continental diplomatist, would be much more so. Yet he had gone out of his way to set himself right with his nephew, and by telling his private business, when a gay excuse of needing a night off, would have been sufficient to account for his presence. However, Prelice simply shrugged his shoulders, and did not deem the incident worth remembering. Why should not Simon Haken enjoy himself in this way if he liked, and turn Mrs. Rover's ballroom into an office, wherein to meet his foreign clients? All the same—and Prelice gave this a passing thought—it was strange that the chance meeting with one who knew him should so upset him. And it was still stranger that, if Mr. Haken wished to preserve his incognito, he should have arrived unmasked.
Having lost both his uncle and his charming blue domino, Prelice took a tour through the rooms in search of further adventures. He could only afford a few minutes, since he had to call upon Shepworth at eleven o'clock, and it was already that hour, as he had told Haken. Still, a few minutes more or less would not matter, and Prelice wished to see if he could espy Mrs. Dolly Rover, in order to renew his acquaintance with her and to compliment her on the success of her ball. And it undoubtedly was a success, for everyone seemed highly amused, and the laughter and small talk went on incessantly. Many people were dancing to the music of a gaily uniformed Hungarian Band, and many more were ensconced in flirtation corners, making the best of the hour which would elapse before everyone unmasked for supper.
Prelice therefore wandered leisurely throughout the two flats, exchanging a few chaffing words with the different women who addressed him, and looking for the tall form of his hostess. Alas! there were many tall women, who looked as imperial and graceful as Mrs. Rover, and Prelice felt like Ali Baba's robber when he examined Morgiana's chalk-marks on the various doors. He therefore began, by way of some diversion, to admire the costumes of the women, which showed themselves more or less plainly from under the flowing dominos of silk. In fact, the heat of the night and of the rooms was so great that many ladies loosened the strings and buttons of their dominos, and permitted their frocks to be plainly seen. They would have removed their masks also in some cases, so stifling was the perfumed air; but the rule of the ball stopped them from doing so. Still, as many revealed the gowns they were wearing, it was probable that some would pay for their flirtatious sins when the supper hour and recognition came.
The young man had an eye for colour, but knew very little about millinery, so if anyone later had asked him to describe the various dresses, he would have been puzzled. But one woman wore a dress which attracted him from its oddity. It was a flowing gown of white silk, and from hem to waist the skirt was adorned with triple lines, at intervals, of narrow red velvet. The spaces between the triple lines were equal, and the lines of red velvet themselves ran apparently entirely round the skirt. The effect was bizarre, and rather fascinating; but what made Prelice note the dress so exactly was the wonderful ubiquity of the lady who wore it. He went into the ballroom of the right-hand flat, and there she was dancing; he strolled into the left-hand ballroom, and found her flirting in a corner with another partner. Then he stumbled across her in the corridor, and later discovered her at the buffet sipping champagne. Her domino was green, as was her mask, and she seemed to be in several places at once. Prelice was amused at her activity, and at the way in which she seemed to permeate the entire place. She was certainly getting all the enjoyment she could out of the ball. He spoke to her once, but she made no reply, and disappeared before he could address her again. Rather annoyed that she would not respond, Prelice yawned, and discovering that it was half-past-eleven, decided to descend and look up Shepworth.
The stairs were crowded, not only with people leaving and arriving, but with flirting couples, who were cooling themselves in the purer air, which ascended from the main entrance of the mansions. These expostulated loudly, and sometimes silently—if irritated gestures went for anything—with those who pushed past them to go up or down. Prelice came in for his share of blame, as he cautiously steered his way to the second floor. Here there were but few people, as the guests kept to the third-floor stairs and to those leading to the fourth. A look at the left-hand door as he came down showed Prelice that it was Number Forty, so he pressed the button of the electric bell, and waited for the door to be opened. As he did so, and while he was leaning against the wall, still wearing his mask and domino, the ubiquitous lady in the green domino with the oddly trimmed frock descended the stairs alone. She cast a swift look at him as he passed, and it was not until she vanished below that Prelice became aware that the scent of the tuberose was again in his nostrils. He had half a mind to run after her, and—assuming the privilege of a masked ball—ask her if she was wearing such a flower. But, in his idle way, he did not think it was worth while, and remained where he was.
No one came to answer the bell, so Prelice judged that Shepworth's servants were out, perhaps fraternising with Mrs. Rover's domestics at the ball overhead. He rang again, however, believing that Shepworth must be within and awake by this time. As again the door did not open, Prelice raised his hand to the knocker. To his surprise, the door yielded a trifle, and then he discovered that it was slightly ajar, but so little so that he had believed it to be closed. For the moment there was no one on the landing, so he stepped into Shepworth's flat, without closing the door after him.
"I say, Ned. Ned, are you in?" cried the young man, pausing in the corridor, which was similar to that overhead in Mrs. Rover's flat. "I say, Ned! It is me. It is Prelice." And he slipped off his mask.
There was still no reply, and then Prelice smelt stronger than ever that strange odour, which had evoked the Easter Island vision. His thoughts again flew back to the heathen festival, and he walked along the corridor wondering why the scent should follow him here. On the left-hand side he peeped into a drawing-room, but it was empty. The door opposite was surely that of the dining-room. It was closed, but Prelice opened it and walked in to look for his friend. Shepworth was in the room sure enough, but Prelice uttered an irrepressible cry when his amazed eyes fell on the barrister.
In a deep saddle-back chair, placed between the fireplace and the near window, sat Shepworth, bolt upright, with his hands resting upon his knees, in the hieratic attitude of an Egyptian statue. His intensely calm face was pearly-white, his brown eyes were fixed in a glassy, unnatural stare, and he appeared as rigid and stiff and unbending as though hewn out of granite. There was no disorder about his clothing, the evening-dress he wore was as accurate and neat as though he had got ready to go to the ball overhead. Prelice stared at him, tongue-tied and motionless with astonishment. Then his eyes mechanically wandered round the room. They fell immediately upon another figure seated on the far side of the dining-table, with outstretched arms sprawling nervelessly across the cloth. On them rested a huge head covered with shaggy red hair.
Drawn, as by a loadstone, Prelice stole forward with staring eyes, and saw, with a sudden shudder, that the man at the table was stone-dead. He had been stabbed ruthlessly in the back, under the left shoulder-blade. Everything in the room was in absolute order. Only one man, dead, sat at the table, sprawling half across it, and the other man, insensible, was stiffly seated in the armchair. And the whole apartment was permeated with the scent which suggested Easter Island; suggested also that other murder at Lanwin Grange.