In the exercise of his profession, a legitimate detective would have waited to question Mrs. Rover. Since she had said so much he would have forced her to say all, in order to get at the truth as speedily as possible; but Lord Prelice was new to the business, and his emotions were not entirely under control. On leaving Alexander Mansions he felt that he was in possession of a most dangerous and perilous secret, the publication of which would cause even a greater sensation than that produced by the crimes themselves. The shock of learning that Mrs. Rover was the woman who had been brought by Agstone into Number Forty was very great, and quite confused Prelice's usually strong brain. He did not dare to call again on Shepworth, lest he should say too much.
It will be seen that Prelice, being an untrained detective, jumped somewhat hastily to a conclusion. Mrs. Rover had admitted that she wore the dress, the mask, and the domino which Shepworth had seen on the unknown lady. But Constance did not know that Ned had so described her appearance, and, if she had, would probably not have admitted that she had assumed such a costume at herbal masque. But the mere fact that, even in ignorance of Shepworth's description, she had, as the saying goes, given herself away, should have proved to Lord Prelice that she could not be guilty. Had Mrs. Rover entered Number Forty in Agstone's company, and had she struck the blow, she assuredly would not have incriminated herself so unthinkingly. Rather would she have denied that the frock mentioned by Prelice belonged to her.
After the first shock, and while Prelice was in the train going to Hythe, he began to revise his earlier opinion on the above-mentioned grounds. His common-sense came to his aid, and told him that, if guilty, Mrs. Rover would not have confessed even to a half-truth. Certainly, had she not done so, her maid, knowing what dress her mistress wore at the ball, might have blurted out the secret; but then, so far as the world knew, no inquiry would have been made about the wearer of that especial frock.
Of course, assuming that in a thoughtless moment Mrs. Rover had foolishly confessed the truth, Prelice could find a motive for her behaviour in committing the crime. It might be that Agstone wished to kill Ned, and that Mrs. Rover, to save the life of the man she loved, had struck down the sailor unawares. Having committed the deed, she could easily slip back to her own flat, and mingle with the masked crowd.
But then again, as Prelice further argued, while the train drew near to the coast, Mrs. Rover must have known that in murdering Agstone she was not only securing the freedom of Mona Chent, whom she hated, but also was placing her lover in a dangerous position. Agstone was a necessary witness for the prosecution, whom Shepworth of all men did not wish to see placed in the box, so the supposition would be, were the man found dead in Number Forty, that Shepworth had killed him to save Mona Chent. As a matter of fact, this is exactly what had taken place, and in saving Ned from the sailor's knife Mrs. Rover, always presuming that she was guilty, had simply condemned her lover to a death on the scaffold. But that Prelice had been clever enough to admit the crowd of guests, so that all might see the barrister's helpless position, it is certain that the man would have been arrested, and probably sentenced to death, since it would have been extraordinarily difficult for him to clear his character in the face of circumstances. Therefore on these assumptions, for that they were and no more, Prelice after much reflection decided that Mrs. Rover was innocent.
Finally, the young man recollected that a woman dressed as described, by Ned, and in the costume which Mrs. Rover confessed to wearing, had passed down the stairs while he was waiting for entrance to Number Forty and immediately before the discovery of the crime. She could scarcely have been Mrs. Rover, for as that lady could have easily proved analibiby returning to her guests and casually unmasking at the right moment, it would have been useless for her to leave the mansions. Of course, the lady—whether Mrs. Rover or a stranger—certainly might have followed Prelice down to the door, knowing that he would be certain to discover the tragedy, and might merely have descended to return to the ballroom overhead when the young man entered Shepworth's flat. But then, again, the person in question could not have known that Prelice, masked and unknown, was going to enter Number Forty, so there would be no reason to track him there. And to conclude, the murderess—if a woman was guilty—must have known that Shepworth, being in a cataleptic state, must have seen and remembered her very peculiar frock.
On the whole, Prelice arrived at certain conclusions, by no means inimical to Mrs. Rover, by the time he alighted at Hythe Station. He believed that Constance was innocent for four reasons. Firstly, if guilty, she would not have confessed to wearing the dress, since such a confession would necessarily lead to her detection. Secondly, by killing Agstone she would not only have placed Shepworth in a dangerous position, but by getting rid of an inconvenient witness would have enabled Mona to escape possible condemnation. Thirdly, she would not have followed an unknown man—as Prelice was by reason of his mask and domino—down the stairs with the intention of seeing what took place. Fourthly, and lastly, she would not have sought safety in an incriminating flight—as the similarly dressed woman on the stairs apparently had—when she would have been much safer in her own ballroom and amongst her own guests. Only by such a course could she have provided analibi.
No! Mrs. Rover, in spite of her startling admission, was innocent, and the sole conclusion that Prelice could arrive at, was the existence of a double—outwardly at all events. He remembered the extraordinary ubiquity of the green domino in the red-streaked white dress, and decided, very naturally, that there was another woman in the field. But what woman possessed a motive sufficiently strong to urge her to murder Agstone? As Prelice felt quite worn out with arguing in Mrs. Rover's defence, he decided to leave the answering of this new question to the portentous moment, when further evidence might reveal the identity of the unknown lady. Meanwhile, on arriving at Hythe, he rested himself at a quiet hotel, and soothed his troubled brain with an hour's necessary sleep. Later on, after an invigorating bath and an excellent dinner, he started to walk towards Lanwin Grange.
It was summer, and romance was in the air—at least Prelice scented its presence by some sixth sense. He was going to see the girl he loved—the girl with whom he had not, as yet, exchanged a single word. Therefore, although past the peacock age, he was particularly attentive to his appearance when assuming his evening clothes. As he strolled inland along the leafy lanes, through the July warmth of the twilight, this somewhat premature wooer looked as comely and well groomed a swain as any damsel, not demanding an Apollo, could desire. And it was a great proof of Prelice's infatuation that, in looking forward to meeting Mona, he almost forgot that he was merely the emissary of the man to whom the girl was engaged. The whole position was extraordinarily queer. He adored this girl, without being personally acquainted with her; she was affianced to his best friend; and yet he could not be certain if that same best friend really loved the girl herself. Even a Palais Royal farce could offer no more fantastic complication than this. Prelice felt that, after running round the wild world in search of the unusual, he had returned to find Romance sitting on his doorstep.
The way to the family seat of the Lanwins twisted inland and uphill through deep lanes and umbrageous woods. On emerging high up from the belt of trees Prelice found himself on a wide, unshaded road, snaking over bare Downs. For some distance he toiled upward; then the road mounted a rise to slip down into a cup-shaped hollow brimmed with cultivated woods. In the midst of these he saw an old grey house, seemingly prevented from falling to pieces by the ivy which covered its mouldering walls. From the lips of the hollow stretched the rolling grassy Downs, dotted with nibbling sheep, grey in the shadows of the coming night. But it was not yet night, for the sky was filled with a luminous light, all-pervading, yet emanating from no certain point. A breathless peace brooded over the vast, treeless uplands, and an even deeper peace seemed to enwrap the ancient mansion. It appeared to be the veritable palace of the Sleeping Beauty, set amidst enchanted woods. And Prelice thrilled with the idea that Beauty herself, awake and unkissed, awaited some prince in the seclusion of her faery castle.
Following the road, which here grew somewhat narrower, Lord Prelice descended into the hollow, passed under the shade of overhanging trees, and came out into a kind of artificial glade, smooth with carefully tended lawns and brilliant with flowers. The Grange itself was somewhat sunken in the ground, entirely level with the lawns, and looked like part of the woods themselves, so clothed was it with darkly green ivy. There appeared a weather-worn escutcheon over the great doorway, and lights gleamed from oriel windows in the east wing. But to the left Prelice saw the three tall French windows opening on to a wide terrace which had been referred to at the trial. These windows appeared quite out of keeping with the Tudor architecture of the mansion, but the visitor eyed them with great interest. It was through one of those windows that Agstone and Jadby had looked, to see the tragedy of Sir Oliver's death. And had that not taken place Prelice might never have been brought into contact with the most charming girl in the world. His heart beat loudly as he rang the bell.
Afterwards Lord Prelice never could explain clearly how he had first come into the presence of his goddess. In a bewildered manner he waited in the antique hall, after delivering his card to a pompous footman, and in a bewildered manner was led into a long, low, wide drawing-room with oriels at the farther end, brilliant with family crests in stained glass. So far as he could recollect, he did not look at the cumbersome Georgian furniture, or at the aggressively modern grand piano, which seemed to be out of place, or at the portraits of cavaliers and their ladies decking the mellow-hued walls, or even at the painted ceiling, or the carpet tinted with rainbow colours, subdued by time to grateful sobriety: he had no eyes save for a tall slim girl arrayed in a white dress, with a somewhat pale, worn face, who welcomed him in the sweetest of voices and with the most grateful of smiles. "I am glad to see Ned's best friend," she said, and her voice sounded like faery music in the new-comer's ravished ears, "and to thank him."
"To thank me!" muttered Prelice, staring at the lovely face in the mellow lamplight.
"I saw you in that terrible Court," she said swiftly, "and the way in which you looked at me gave me comfort. Other people—my friends, they call themselves—stared as though I were a wild animal, but you, Lord Prelice——" She threw out her hands with an eloquent gesture full of grace. "Ned wrote and told me that you were his friend."
"I am here to be yours also," stuttered Prelice, suppressing a wild desire to kneel and worship.
"We are friends already. It does not need words to confirm a friendship offered and accepted mutely and with gratitude."
Prelice felt more bewildered than ever. Here was a girl so entirely unconventional that she defied the usages of Society, which prescribed the etiquette for a primary meeting between bachelor and maid. It was marvellously sweet to be thus greeted; but Prelice must have revealed his delighted surprise too clearly, for Miss Chent laughed. "I am afraid that my proffer of unasked-for friendship surprises you," she said, smilingly; "but, you see, my poor uncle instructed me somewhat in psychology, and I look at the inner, rather than the outer."
"You said yourself, Miss Chent, that the friendship was asked for in Court," said Prelice earnestly; "and it was. As Ned's best friend, I claim to be yours also. I bring a message from Ned."
"You shall deliver it presently," said Mona, turning to a stout, white-haired gentleman with a genial face who was standing near the window silently. "Just now you must allow me to introduce Mr. Martaban, another loyal friend. Also," she waved her hand towards a spindle-legged Versailles table as the two men shook hands, "you must have some coffee."
Prelice accepted gratefully, as he would have taken poison from the hands of this delightful girl, so long as she served it, as she did the coffee, with her own white hands. Martaban took a cup also, and resumed the seat from which he had arisen when Prelice entered. Miss Chent pointed out a chair to her visitor, and herself reclined on a Louis Treize sofa. Then the three began to talk on immediate and earthly matters, and Prelice was forced to descend from transcendental heights. In that room, at that hour, and in the presence of such an angel, it seemed desperately hard to abandon romance for reality. But there was no help for it.
"Ned's message?" questioned Mona anxiously.
"He is all right, and will be down as soon as he can get away," replied the emissary, delivering the exact words of his friend.
"Then you don't think that he is in danger of being accused of this second crime?"
"No, no!" interposed Martaban in a genial but authoritative voice. "I have told you before, and I tell you again, that, under the circumstances, no one can accuse Mr. Shepworth. And that," added the solicitor, bowing towards the young man, "is due, my lord, to your wise action in admitting the crowd to see Mr. Shepworth insensible."
Prelice nodded his thanks. "Ned is perfectly safe," he said quietly.
Mona clasped her hands with a thankful gesture. "I am so glad—I am so thankful," she whispered softly; "he has been a dear, good friend in standing by me, when I so sadly needed help."
"Oh!" Prelice was rather indignant. "Seeing that he is something more than a friend to you, Miss Chent, he could scarcely fail to lay himself and his life at your feet. It is only what an English gentleman would do to any lady he respected, much less loved."
Mona coloured, and turned aside her face, rather embarrassed by the impetuous outbreak of her lover's friend. "Both English gentlemen and English ladies held aloof when I was in danger," she said simply, "so you can understand how much I prize the friendship both of Ned, and of Mr. Martaban here, seeing that they never believed that I was guilty."
"No one could believe that," cried Prelice, still impetuous, and throwing his usual discretion to the winds; "the moment I set eyes on your face I knew that you were innocent."
Miss Chent coloured again, and rather retreated from the confidential attitude she had assumed. Prelice was going ahead too fast, and her womanly nature, in spite of occult training, was taking alarm. "I must say that, seeing you did not know me, the belief was somewhat rash," she rejoined coldly; "however, I thank you."
"And you will allow me to help you?" asked Prelice eagerly, but timidly.
"Help Miss Chent," said the lawyer, looking keenly at the young man's glowing face. "In what way?"
Prelice laid down his cup, crossed his legs, and delivered himself of his opinion. It was just as well that both Mona and Martaban should learn of his determination to enter into their lives. "Everyone is delighted, with few exceptions," he said somewhat incoherently to the girl, "that you have been acquitted. But some insist that you must be guilty. Forgive me for inflicting pain," he added rapidly, "but it is necessary, so that you may entirely understand me. You are safe from the law, Miss Chent, but, with some idiots, your character is not yet clear. Also Ned, in spite of the absurdity of the thing, may be accused of making away with Steve Agstone in your interests. In order to set everything right it is necessary for us to make certain who killed your uncle, and who killed the sailor."
"But Agstone killed Sir Oliver," said Martaban quickly; "the evidence of the paper-cutter, which——"
"Quite so, quite so," interrupted Lord Prelice hurriedly, and skating quickly over this thin ice, "but we can't prove Agstone's guilt, beyond all doubt, without further evidence. For Miss Chent's sake, the truth—whatever it may be—must be made public."
"And what do you think is the truth?" demanded Martaban, puzzled.
Prelice, bearing Mrs. Rover in mind, shuffled again. "I am not prepared to give an opinion off-hand," he replied politely. "But what I wish you and Miss Chent to understand is, that Ned Shepworth has accepted my services towards hunting down the author, or authors, of this double crime. I wish Miss Chent, if she will, to accept them also."
"Willingly and with gratitude," said Mona, extending her slim hand.
Prelice contrived to press it in a friendly way, and not kiss it, as he felt strongly inclined to do, but the effort was great. "Then we can go ahead," he said easily; "and as I am now admitted to the inner circle as it were, I should like to know exactly how matters stand. About you, Miss Chent, for instance. Do you remain here?"
The girl flushed, and glanced, rather embarrassed, at her lawyer. "Yes!" replied the latter. "Captain Jadby, who undoubtedly inherits, now that the second will has been destroyed, has made no move towards assuming possession of his property. Moreover, there are certain legal formalities to be gone through before he can become the legitimate master of the Grange. Until everything is straight, I suggest that Miss Chent remains in her home."
"It is not my home, but Captain Jadby's," answered the girl, colouring painfully. "I would much rather go away. But," she added piteously, yet with a proud effort of self-restraint, "I have nowhere to go to. Uncle Oliver has disinherited me, and my parents died insolvent. If I leave the Grange I go into the world penniless and alone."
Prelice winced at the picture she drew. "There is always Ned," he remarked lamely.
Miss Ghent shot a swift glance at his distressed face, and answered coldly in his own words. "Yes, there is always Ned."
The young man felt more puzzled than ever. Her voice did not sound like that of a girl in love, and as he had gathered from Constance, the man Mona was engaged to, had not given her his heart. But if this was the case—and it was beginning to appear obvious—why had the two agreed to marry? Prelice did not know what to say, so Miss Chent, seeing his embarrassment, explained in a somewhat embarrassed fashion herself.
"Ned is poor," she remarked with deliberate self-control; "he has his way to make in the world. It would never do for me to burden him with a pauper wife."
"Two are stronger than one, Miss Chent. There is strength in unity."
"Not in this case," she retorted; and quietly dismissed the subject.
"Will you come to my house, my dear?" said Martaban, who seemed to be devoted to his luckless client, "my wife will be glad to have you."
"So will Aunt Sophia," interposed Prelice quickly, and struck with a brilliant idea. "You know my aunt, Miss Chent? Lady Sophia Haken. She is a friend of yours."
"Save yourself, Mr. Martaban, and Ned, I have had no friend since I was put on my trial for murder," said Mona in a level voice. "I decline to trouble any person until my innocence is proved."
"It has been proved at the trial," said Prelice; and Mr. Martaban echoed the speech.
"Legally, but not socially," she rejoined, rising. "I accept your services, Lord Prelice. Learn who killed my uncle, and who stabbed poor Agstone, and earn," she faltered—"and earn my—my gratitude."
Prelice looked disappointed. Yet what else could the girl say?
Despite the threatening clouds on the horizon, which hinted at coming trouble, the days passed very quietly at the Grange. As an elderly male chaperon, Mr. Martaban remained to look after his client, and the very respectable Mrs. Blexey was also useful in this necessary capacity. Prelice, unable to tear himself away from the too dangerous society of Mona—and dangerous it was considering his feelings and her engagement to Ned—lingered at the Hythe Hotel. Shepworth, strange to say, did not put in an appearance.
"It's odd," remarked Prelice, when strolling over the lawns on the third day of his arrival, "it's odd that Ned doesn't come down."
He put the observation in the form of a query, and so Mona, who strolled beside him, was forced to reply. But she did so unwillingly, and as briefly as was possible. "Very odd," she said indifferently.
Lord Prelice cast a puzzled side glance at her beautiful face, which looked ethereal and rosy under a red sunshade. Even as yet he could not understand what were her feelings towards his friend. And as he was more in love than ever, the situation was perplexing from its very vagueness. In sheer desperation, he tried to make her talk of Ned (which she did very rarely), by continuing the topic. "Ned," said the young man, eyeing the trees, the lawns, the sky, and the house, with a fine affectation of indifference, "Ned has been acquitted at the inquest, and the jury gave a verdict of wilful murder against some person, or persons, unknown, in the orthodox style. Agstone has been buried, and here am I waiting for an interview with Ned to settle some course of action towards elucidating these criminal problems. Yet he has not come down, and has not even replied to my letter."
Miss Chent shifted her sunshade from one shoulder to the other. "I expect he'll come down when he is ready," said she calmly.
"Oh Jerusalem! Excuse the swear-word, Miss Chent; but if I were Ned I should have come here ages ago."
"You did, Lord Prelice. But if you are so anxious to interview Ned—and I quite admit the necessity—why not go up to London?"
Her companion wriggled uneasily, and searched his brains for an excuse to remain in his uncomfortable paradise. "Well, you see—er—that is, my dear young lady, I am—to put it plainly—er—my aunt, you know Lady Sophia, is coming to Folkstone."
"She arrived there last night, Lord Prelice."
"Eh—what—you don't—er—you don't say so?"
Mona laughed, and the young man was glad to hear her laugh. She gave way rarely to merriment during the undecided present. "Why did you write about me to Lady Sophia?" asked the girl gently.
"I?" Prelice was quite prepared to lie, but decided not to when he saw the expression of her face.
"Well, you see—that is, you understand—that an aunt is an aunt."
"I never thought that she was an uncle."
"Course not. But there, you see, my aunt expected me to write, and I have written."
"You needn't have made me the subject-matter of your letter."
"Who said that I did?" asked Prelice, growing scarlet.
"Lady Sophia herself. I received a note from her this morning, and, considering my position, a very kind note. It seems that you wrote asking her to stand by me, and she has come to Folkstone to do so."
"Loud cheers!" cried Prelice shamelessly. "I always thought that Aunt Sophia was a brick. She never believed you were guilty, you know," he went on confusedly; "said all manner of nice things about you to me whenever we met. Now she'll take you under her wing, and make things hot for any Society fool that dares to say a word against you."
"Why do you do this for me, Lord Prelice?" asked Mona in rather a faltering tone, and averting her too-speaking face.
"I am—that is—well—Ned's friend, you know."
"Oh," Mona's voice became steady, and she turned to look at him squarely, "so you enlist your aunt on my behalf for Ned's sake."
Was there ever such a perplexing girl! A moment ago and she seemed pleased at being championed by Lady Sophia, now her looks and her voice were cold. Prelice, in sheer desperation, blurted out the truth in a blundering manner. "A little bit for my own sake also."
"I am glad of that."
"Are you?" This time it was the young man's voice which became unsteady, for he did not know whether he was on his head or his heels. "That's all right." A sentiment of honour towards the absent Shepworth, who would not look after his own interests, made him end thus lamely.
Mona laughed again, and was as enigmatic as the Sphinx. "It is extremely good of you, Lord Prelice," she went on in a guarded manner. "Lady Sophia can help me greatly to recover my position in Society."
"You have never lost it," blurted out Prelice crossly.
"I did lose it, and I have lost it," she answered sadly, "and I shall never recover it entirely until the murderer of my uncle is discovered. Lady Sophia, who really likes me——"
"Loves you! Loves you!"
"No, no! She likes me; let us say that she has an affection for me. That is a greatly-to-be-appreciated state of mind for one woman to be in towards another. That's rather a German sentence, isn't it?"
"I don't know what you mean," muttered Prelice, beginning to find out that, after all his experiences in the four quarters of the globe, he was but a neophyte where women were concerned.
"I mean that Lady Sophia's liking or affection for me will do a great deal to rehabilitate me, but that the punishment of Uncle Oliver's assassin will do more."
"And your marriage with Ned will do most of all."
Mona mocked him. "Marriage covers a multitude of sins, doesn't it?"
Prelice clutched his head, but his hair was too closely cropped for him to grip. "I'm to be best man," he said feebly, and found a delight in torturing himself.
"Oh! Has Ned selected you for that post?"
"He did; when we were at Eton."
"I see. Then he was engaged when at Eton. How precocious!"
The young man groaned, and glanced at her despairingly, quite unable to understand her moods. Lately she had been sad, now her eyes were dancing with merriment. "I am glad you are happy," he said in a surly tone, for this mystery of her engagement tortured him.
"I am," she assented swiftly, "and for three reasons."
"May I hear them?"
"Certainly. In the first place, you and Ned will find out who killed my uncle and poor old Steve, so as to clear my character. In the second place, Lady Sophia is coming over to-day, and thus begins the necessary whitewashing for me to re-enter the world. And in the third place," she ended seriously, "throughout all this trouble I have had a firm conviction that God would help me. Hehashelped me by saving my life from a legal death, and He will help me to clear my character. Some day—perhaps in the near future—there won't be a single stain on my name. Now don't speak," she held up her hand; "you are about to say that there is not a stain now. But there is. To remove it, I trust in God first, and in you second."
"What about Ned?" asked Prelice restlessly.
"Oh, in Ned also," she rejoined, and looked at him quietly. As he made no observation—and he could not out of sheer perplexity—she turned on her Louis Quinze heel. "I am going in to get ready for the visit of Lady Sophia," she said abruptly.
Prelice watched the red sunshade vanish into the house, then dug his stick into the turf, and swore volubly. He had a considerable command of language in this respect, but rarely exercised his vocabulary. On this occasion he did, since ordinary words failed to soothe him. And even as it was, swearing did little good, so Prelice started to walk violently and aimlessly, only desirous of restoring his temper to its usual state of cynical calm by abnormal exercise.
He could not make Mona—as he called her mentally—out in any way whatsoever. She was certainly engaged to Ned, and yet she spoke of him quite unemotionally, as she would have done of—well, not of an acquaintance perhaps, but of a friend. She could not possibly love him, and if she did not, should certainly not be engaged to him. Ned had no money and no position, so she assuredly could not be seeking to better herself by the marriage. Certainly gratitude might induce her to become his wife, since he had stood by her; but then—and here Prelice swore again—she had been engaged to him some time before the death of Sir Oliver, and when no gratitude could possibly have entered into her acceptance. And if she was merely grateful, Ned would not marry her on that account, especially since, on the authority of Mrs. Rover, he loved another woman. For the third time Prelice swore over the problem, and determined to throw all delicacy to the winds, so far as Shepworth was concerned. The moment Ned arrived at the Grange he would ask him plainly what he meant, and what she meant, and what the whole infernal complication meant. It was quite impossible that a young aristocrat with a large income, and a healthy frame, and a loving heart, should sit on thorns any longer.
"Blankety—blankety—blank," raged Prelice, and looked up on hearing an exclamation of horror at his elbow.
His aimless walk had led him to the kitchen garden, and to a bed of pot-herbs, which Mrs. Blexey was laboriously picking. Being stout, and like Hamlet scant of breath, the housekeeper wheezed like a creaky wheel as she stooped to gather some sage and thyme. But she retained enough breath to cry out with horror, when hearing this handsome young gentleman swearing—as she afterwards described it—like the late Mr. Blexey, who had been a skipper of renown in the way of bad language.
"I beg your pardon," said Prelice, showing his white teeth in a smile which won Mrs. Blexey's heart. "I'm a little put out. Didn't know any lady was within earshot."
"Bless you, my lord, I'm not a lady, and never laid claim to be one, so swearing, though not proper, don't worrit me over-much. It calls back old times, sir."
"Really. Did you swear yourself?"
"Me!" Mrs. Blexey looked indignant. "Why, I belong to the United Inhabitants of the Celestial Regions."
"What?"
"It's my religion," said Mrs. Blexey simply; "what you might call my sect, my lord. There's very few of us, but we all go to heaven."
"There's nothing like being certain of your destination," said Prelice dryly, and was about to move on, when the housekeeper stopped him.
"Your pardin, my lord, but I've been trying to catch your eyes ever since you came here, but never managed it till now. In a kitchen garden too," ended Mrs. Blexey mournfully, "which don't seem to be the place for a lord of high degree to speak in."
"It suited him to swear in it, however," murmured Prelice frivolously; then added in louder tones: "What do you wish to speak to me about?"
"Not about him that is gone," remarked Mrs. Blexey, referring to her lost spouse, "though his language—begging your lordship's pardin—was as like yours as bean-pods. And because of such talk, he'll never come back—never. Them as has him, will keep him."
"Indeed. Are they—whomsoever they may be—fond of him?"
"I don't think so, my lord. You see, he's—well, he's dead, my lord."
Prelice put up his hand to twirl his moustache and hide a smile. "Then you think that——"
"I'm sorry for Blexey," interrupted the housekeeper firmly; "but he didn't belong to the United Inhabitants of the Celestial Regions, so he——" She pointed stealthily downward.
"Let us hope it is not so bad as that," said Prelice, choking with suppressed laughter. "You wish to speak to me," he repeated politely.
"To catch your lordship's eyes as it were."
"That has been accomplished. What next?"
Mrs. Blexey groaned, and made an effort. "It's about Miss Mona."
The young man's merriment died away, and he looked keenly at the red-faced, shapeless old woman. "What's that?" he demanded in the imperious tone which formerly he had used towards recalcitrant soldiers.
Mrs. Blexey, being timid, dropped with a thud on to the sage and thyme, and placed a podgy hand on her ample breast, gasping like a fish out of water. "The heart, my lord—mother's side—it ain't strong. If your lordship would speak less like a gun going off——"
"Certainly," interrupted Prelice in his most silky tones. "What have you to tell me about Miss Mona?"
"It ain't about her exactly, my lord. But there's the will, you know, and that Madame Eppingrave, as she called herself, though I don't believe it is her name for all her airs and graces, and she nearly as old as me, and as stout too, for all her tight lacing."
Prelice, leaning against the mellow brick wall where the nectarines grew, stared at the fat woman, who was still prostrate amidst the herbs. "If you knew of such things, Mrs. Blexey, why didn't you explain in Court?"
"Because I don't believe in Courts or in them as is in Courts," said Mrs. Blexey, fanning herself with a pink sun-bonnet. "They got me to give what they called evidence, and say things against my dear, pretty Miss Mona. I nursed her, sir. I was born in the Grange, and have served the Lanwins all my life. When Mrs. Chent went away with her husband, I followed; and when she and him died, I came back here with Miss Mona, as Sir Oliver wished, to be the housekeeper."
Prelice nodded sympathetically. "I know that you are devoted to Miss Mona," he said, approving of this devotion.
"You are too, my lord, ain't you?" asked the old woman pointedly.
The young man grew as red as the brick wall against which he was leaning; but Mrs. Blexey, seeing this sign of anger, went on hastily. "I don't mean boldness, my lord; indeed, I don't. But Miss Mona does need a friend sadly, my lord, and she tells me that you are one."
"I am," said Prelice firmly, and flushing again, "and I am glad that she spoke thus of me. But about this Madame Marie Eppingrave?"
"I never liked her, my lord. An oily flatterer she was, with a gimblet eye and a buttery tongue. She was always trying to get the better of Sir Oliver, and gave him that nasty thing that made the smoke."
Prelice naturally looked startled. "Why, Sir Oliver brought the herb from Easter Island himself—at least I fancy he did."
"I don't, my lord; and what's more, he didn't. I went into the library to ask master what he'd have for dinner, and Madame Eppingrave—if that is her name, the old bag-o'-rags—was showing master a lot of dry stems and purple leaves, and talking about trances and suchlike rubbish. That was just a week before Sir Oliver's death."
"What do you make of that, Mrs. Blexey?" asked Prelice thoughtfully.
"I don't make anything of it, sir. But it was strange that the nasty smoky weeds she gave master should bring about his death."
"Madame Marie had no reason to wish Sir Oliver dead?"
"Oh no, my lord. Why, she lost a good friend in him, and often must have desired him to be alive and kicking. All the same, sir, she gave him them withered leaves, and through them master came by his end."
Prelice nodded absently. He required time to think over the matter, and turned away to be alone. Then a thought struck him, and he returned to the housekeeper. "What about the will?" he demanded.
"It wasn't burnt."
"You must be mistaken The Court——"
"Much them lawyers knew about it," cried Mrs. Blexey, struggling to her feet. "I never said it to them, because they said as it would help Miss Mona to get out of their nasty clutches if the will was proved to be burnt. So I said what I was told, for Miss Mona's sake. But Sir Oliver was writing out another will——"
"How do you know?" asked Prelice sharply, and much disturbed.
"I saw him writing it," said Mrs. Blexey firmly. "It was never signed, to my knowledge. But you can take my word for it, my lord, that the unsigned will was burnt, and that Miss Mona is entitled by the other to the property."
Mrs. Blexey's communications certainly afforded Lord Prelice ample food for reflection. What she had said about Madame Marie—as the young man mentally termed her—implied that the fortune-teller was somehow implicated in the tragedy of Sir Oliver's death. Yet he had been a good friend to the lady, and by his death she lost a valuable client. It was impossible to think that she had killed the baronet herself, or had been a consenting party to his death. But undoubtedly, according to Mrs. Blexey's firm asseveration, she had given Lanwin the roots and leaves of the Sacred Herb, and from using these in the prescribed way to induce a trance, Sir Oliver had been rendered helpless. Had he not been chained hand and foot by the fumes of the herb he could not have been killed, as, in spite of his lost leg, he was no despicable antagonist. The herb, therefore, was the main factor in the tragedy, and Madame Marie had placed the same in the man's hands.
Of course, it was just possible that someone—name unknown—had found Sir Oliver helpless, and so had taken the opportunity to kill him. Madame Marie may have discovered the guilty person, and, to recompense her for the loss of a wealthy friend, had been bribed by the same person to silence. This pointed to the guilt of Captain Jadby, who might have been anxious to get rid of the baronet so as to enter into his heritage. But the assertion of the housekeeper about the new, unsigned will went far to show that the sailor was innocent. Captain Jadby assuredly would have destroyed the will which gave the property to Mona, and not an unsigned document, which mattered nothing to him.
Much puzzled by the new aspect of the case, Prelice sought out Mr. Martaban, and related what he had heard in the kitchen garden. The solicitor at first scoffed at the idea of the unsigned will being destroyed, but later cautiously ventured the remark that there might be something in it.
"Though, mind you," he remarked thoughtfully, "Mrs. Blexey does not prove her case, as we say in legal circles. She states that Sir Oliver made a new will in his own handwriting, but she cannot prove that this was the particular will which was burnt."
"But Sir Oliver's handwriting would be recognised," urged Prelice.
"It was," replied Martaban tersely; "the will leaving the property to Miss Chent was in my late client's handwriting also. He always preferred to write out his own testaments."
"To draw them up you mean."
"Not in this especial instance, my lord. The will leaving all to Captain Jadby, and made in the South Seas years ago, is a personal document, since I have seen it. The unsigned will also was personal, as so far as I know Sir Oliver did not employ any lawyer to draw it. But I drew out the document by which Miss Chent inherited, and Sir Oliver copied it himself, and had it signed by Mrs. Blexey and Agstone. So you see that we can't actually say which will was burnt, as there is not sufficient remaining of the document. From some of the scraps found, which alluded to Miss Chent as 'my dear niece,' it would seem that the will in her favour must have been destroyed, since Sir Oliver when angered would not have spoken kindly of her in the document alluded to by Mrs. Blexey."
Prelice nodded absently. "I presume that the new will would also have been signed by Mrs. Blexey and Agstone as witnesses?"
"I think so, since Sir Oliver trusted both, but according to the housekeeper the will was not witnessed. For all we know, it may not even have been signed."
"Mrs. Blexey says that it wasn't."
"I think she is right," said Martaban thoughtfully, "since the testator has to sign in the presence of the witnesses, and Mrs. Blexey would probably have been one."
"What about Captain Jadby?"
"He was absent on many occasions, and had he signed as a witness he would not have benefited."
"Madame Marie Eppingrave?"
"Humph!" Martaban considered. "She and Agstone might have signed certainly, but in that case she would have come forward to state to whom the new will left the property. It could not have been Jadby, since the old will held good, if the second was destroyed."
"Madame Marie may have been bribed by Jadby to hold her tongue about the third will, so that the first could stand."
"Which points to the fact that the second must have been destroyed. Yet Mrs. Blexey says that it was not."
"I agree," admitted Prelice; "but, as you say, she does not prove her case."
Martaban nodded. "The sole way in which the case can be proved is by the production of the second will."
"Or of the third," remarked Prelice quietly. "The assassin of Sir Oliver burnt one will—we know not which—and holds the other. He will produce it when he is ready."
"And so lay himself open to arrest," ended Martaban neatly. He paused, and went on deliberately: "I advise a waiting game."
"A waiting game?"
Martaban nodded. "Let the other side move first."
"Do you mean Captain Jadby?" asked Prelice abruptly.
"And this unknown assassin, who holds one of the last two wills. Jadby, we know, retains the first, which gives the property to him. He will probably come down to insist upon his rights. I shall refuse to let him have the Grange or the income until the other wills are proved to be destroyed, or at least until he proves that the burnt will is the one giving the property to Miss Chent."
"That was proved at the trial."
"Quite so; but Mrs. Blexey's story requires that the case should be reopened."
"Not for the trial of Miss Chent!" cried Prelice in alarm.
Martaban laughed heartily. "You can make yourself easy on that score, my lord. No one can be tried twice for the same offence. Well?"
"I agree with you that it is best to wait and see what Jadby does, and then we can checkmate him, as you suggest. Meanwhile I shall go to London, and call on Madame Marie in New Bond Street. She may know of something likely to elucidate the mystery of the Lanwin Grange crime."
"If she does," said Martaban, with a chuckle, "she certainly will not speak out. A clever woman, Madame Marie."
"I can deal with clever women," said Prelice, rather conceitedly.
"Deal with Miss Chent then," finished the lawyer, and the conversation ended for the time being.
It was all very well for Martaban to suggest dealing with Mona, but that young lady was much too feminine for Prelice to tackle. He could make nothing of her. Sometimes she was kindness itself to him, and then she would hold him at arm's length with freezing politeness. Even as yet he could not determine her relations to Ned, otherwise than that an official engagement existed. She gave him no chance of learning the exact truth. When he praised Ned she would assent cordially to the most enthusiastic eulogiums, and yet when he hinted—and being in love, he could not help hinting—that Ned did not behave as a lover should, she entirely agreed. In desperation, he would have spoken to her about Constance Rover, but a feeling of loyalty to his absent friend prevented his doing this. Once or twice Prelice determined to leave for London, and wash his hands of all these mysteries, of which Miss Chent was not the least. But he was so deeply in love that, awkward as the position was, he could not tear himself away. Yet, like a true gentleman, Prelice never revealed by word or deed, or even look, that he was at Mona's feet.
It was with a feeling of relief that Prelice came one day to the Grange, and found Lady Sophia officially established as Mona's friend. All day long the young man had been walking off his feelings on the Downs, trying by violent exercise to calm his agitated nerves. He tore along at top speed for miles, cursing himself for a fool in submitting to be lured by a will-o'-the-wisp, since, seeing how matters stood between Mona and Ned, he could not hope to make the girl Lady Prelice. But however far he went, the loadstone of the Grange, magnetised by Miss Chent's mere presence, always drew him back to her dainty feet, there to sigh hopelessly for the moon. On this occasion he arrived back to afternoon tea, and was greeted effusively in the drawing-room by his aunt.
"Though I can't say that you look well, Prelice," said Lady Sophia, putting up her lorgnette. "What have you been doing with yourself? Late hours and indigestible suppers, no doubt."
"Ask Miss Chent," replied Prelice, somewhat sulkily; "she knows what a rake I am."
Mona, who was presiding over a well-provided tea-table, glanced at the dark circles under the young man's eyes, at his lack of colour, and noted his cross looks. The survey, for some reason, appeared to give her a large amount of satisfaction. "I don't know Lord Prelice's character," she observed demurely.
"He's a dormouse—always asleep," said Lady Sophia, sipping her tea.
"So Ned told me, and his nickname also. But he's a very energetic dormouse, surely, in exploring the world as he has done."
"Humph! It would be much better if he stayed at home and married."
Prelice could not stand this observation in Mona's presence. "That is entirely a personal matter, Aunt Sophia," he snapped.
"Not at all," answered the lady coolly; "as you are the head of the house, its members should have some say in your marriage. Unless you marry a nice girl, I sha'n't call on her."
"Have some more tea, Lord Prelice," said Mona, sorry to see how very annoyed he was, yet secretly pleased, Heaven knows for what reason.
"Thank you." He passed his cup. "I am glad to see you, Aunt Sophia, and surprised," he ended with emphasis.
Lady Sophia put up her lorgnette again. "One is always surprised to find virtue in unexpected places," she remarked coolly. "I plagiarise that from Molière, my dear. Yes, Iamvirtuous coming over into these wilds on a hot day, and I want the reward of my virtue."
"What reward do you want?" asked Prelice gruffly.
"The right to look after this dear girl." Lady Sophia patted Mona's arm. "I propose that she shall come abroad with me for a few months. Then next year we can return, and I can present her again at Court. I never believed the rubbish that people talked, my sweetest Mona, so you can safely trust yourself under my wing."
"I shall be delighted," said Mona, giving the elder lady's arm a little affectionate squeeze. "But don't you think I ought to remain here until the truth is found out?"
"You silly child, the truth has positively been shouted from the housetops. Everyone knows that you are innocent—not," added Lady Sophia in her usual inconsequent fashion, "that I should blame you if you were guilty. I never liked Sir Oliver."
"He was very kind to me," said Mona impetuously; "he meant well."
"That condemns him. People one doesn't like always mean well. However, he's dead, so we'll say no more about him. But you'll come to Germany with me, my dear. I'm going to some Bad—I can't tell you the name exactly—it's too long, and sounds too much like swearing. But it's a new Bad that has to do with the new disease."
"And have you got the new disease, Aunt Sophia?"
"I never was healthier in my life, my dear boy; but there's a cave near this Bad, with bones and skulls of the Stone Age. I want to see what like the poor, dear things were, in those happy times."
"They won't look pretty as merely bones," said Prelice dryly.
"Perhaps not. Only dogs like bones. But I daresay there will be some dear little axes, with which they cut off the heads of animals that lived before the flood. And beads too, perhaps. Fancy, beads. It brings the poor, dear things so near to us to think they wore beads."
While Lady Sophia rattled on thus, talking about everyone and everything to set Mona at her ease, the girl herself was listening. "I hear a fly," she said, starting to her feet expectantly.
"Where?" asked Lady Sophia, looking up at the ceiling. "What sharp ears you must have, child."
"Hark!" Miss Chent walked to the drawing-room door, opened it, and passed through. A moment later, they heard her voice raised in joyful welcome, and Prelice tried hard to suppress his jealousy. He did not need Lady Sophia to tell him that it was that "Shepworth man." All the same, he contrived to be fairly amiable, when Ned entered with greetings.
"How do you do, Lady Sophia? Dorry, I am glad to see you. What a hot day it has been! Thank you, Mona, I shall be glad to have a cup of tea."
Prelice stared, as Ned sat down in a comfortable chair near Miss Chent, for he could not understand Shepworth, who had so lately escaped peril, chatting in this silly fashion. The barrister did not look well either, as his face was pale and his eyes sunken. "I expected you down here before," growled Prelice after a pause.
"I could not get down," rattled on Ned, stirring his tea. "Another lump of sugar, please, Mona. There was much to do. But now that Agstone has been buried, and my character cleared, I have come down to circumvent our friend Captain Jadby."
Mona started nervously. "Oh, Ned, is there anything wrong?"
"Not at present, but Jadby will try and put things wrong. He will be here in a quarter of an hour."
"Here!" Mona rose in dismay. "Are you sure?"
Shepworth nodded, and cast a hasty glance at Prelice. "He came to me yesterday, and said that he was coming down to see you for a certain purpose. As Prelice is here, and I know very well what Jadby wants to say, I thought it best to come down too. By watching at the station I found what train he was going by, and nipped in also. At Hythe I secured the only fly, and so have got ahead of him." Shepworth glanced at his watch. "He'll soon be here; and then——" He paused.
"And then?" queried Lady Sophia, astonished. "Bless me, Mr. Shepworth, what then? How mysterious you are. You surprise me."
"Captain Jadby will surprise you more," rejoined Shepworth dryly. "And so I am glad that you are here, Dorry."
"Why?" demanded that young gentleman, who was as astonished as his aunt.
Shepworth merely nodded mysteriously, and whispered to Mona, who nodded in reply with very bright eyes, and with another glance at the puzzled Prelice. He could not understand, even in the presence of the engaged couple, if they really were in love. Shepworth was certainly attentive, and Mona was extremely amiable. But there was something wanting in their behaviour. They had not kissed, for one thing, as engaged lovers surely would do. But perhaps that sign of future marriage had taken place in the hall. Lady Sophia, also puzzled, would have asked questions which her more diffident nephew was afraid to put, but that the footman brought in a card.
"Captain Jadby," said Mona, reading the same. "Ned, must I see him?"
"It will be as well," rejoined Shepworth significantly, "and in the presence of Martaban."
"He has gone out for a walk, and won't be back for some time," explained the girl nervously, "but I feel safe with you and Lord Prelice."
"Why with me?" Prelice asked, when the footman departed to usher in the South Sea sailor.
"You are always so kind," she observed in a low voice, and cast down her eyes, blushing scarlet, much to Prelice's amazement. He really did not know what to make of all this.
But Mona's sudden colour ebbed from her cheeks when Captain Jadby entered, for she appeared to be rather afraid of the buccaneer. Jadby, halting, and bowing on the threshold, did look rather lawless in spite of his civilised flannel garb. He had arrayed himself in white, and wore a scarlet cummerbund and a scarlet tie. These touches of too vivid colour, added to his smooth, dark face with fiery black eyes and curly black hair, and general hint at foreign blood, bespoke him the buccaneer from the fringes of the Empire. His manners also left something to be desired, for after bowing to Lady Sophia and Miss Chent, and greeting Prelice with a sullen nod, he turned towards Shepworth. Then his eyes flashed, and his mouth grew hard.
"You have stolen a march on me," he declared, coming forward.
"As you see," replied Shepworth very coolly; "after what you told me yesterday it was necessary."
"I wonder that you are not afraid to come," said Jadby, sneering viciously.
"Why should Mr. Shepworth be afraid?" demanded Mona, catching at Lady Sophia's hand to keep up her courage.
"Ask him," snarled the captain, posing picturesquely.
"Why should you be afraid?" Mona reiterated, turning to her lover.
"Captain Jadby can explain," replied Shepworth suavely.
"And may I suggest," said Prelice politely, "that in explaining, Captain Jadby might remember that there are two ladies present."
The buccaneer shrugged his shoulders, and pointedly turned his back on Prelice, a rudeness which that young gentleman noted carefully, intending to rebuke Jadby later for the same. "You are, I understand, Miss Chent, engaged to Mr. Shepworth," he said to Mona insolently.
She glanced at Shepworth, but kept her temper. "Everyone knows that news! It is common property."
"And I love you," he went on steadily.
"Rather a public place to speak like that to me, Captain Jadby."
"I am true to you, and he," pointing to Shepworth, "is false. He loves another woman."
"And I forbid you to mention that woman's name," cried Shepworth meaningly.
"Then you admit it!" cried the sailor triumphantly.
"He does," said Mona unexpectedly, "because I know it."
"What?" Jadby recoiled in dismay. His thunderbolt had fallen and failed.
"My engagement," pursued Miss Chent, "is merely official."