When the big dailies arrived at the Shanty containing accounts of the inquest, Lancaster was perfectly convinced that Jarman was right. Captain Berry was his enemy sure enough, though for the life of him Frank could not conjecture the cause of such hostility. Also it seemed as though Fairy Fan was likewise against him, since--according to Frank--she lied freely during her five minutes' evidence.
"Starth might have asked her to marry him," he explained to his friend, when they were strictly alone, "but I certainly never did."
"Had you any idea of doing so?"
Lancaster hesitated, not being willing to reveal his deepest and most sacred feelings even unto this staunch friend. "I don't know to what lengths my infatuation might have carried me."
"Oh then you did love her?" said Jarman, alertly.
"That depends on what you call love. I certainly had a fancy for her. I thought her pretty and fascinating, and she was always on her best behaviour with me. I think she liked me more than a little."
Eustace laid one big finger on the _Daily Telegraph_ significantly. "It looks like it," said he.
"Berry's put her against me," replied Frank in disturbed tones. "I'll swear that she would never lie like that, unless she was put up to it in some way. She _did_ like me, although she was always too selfish to love anyone but herself. Jewels and laces, carriage and pair, admiration and cutting a dash--that was what Fairy Fan desired. I could not offer her these things, so she was careful not to compromise herself with me in any way. I never got so far as asking her to marry me, though I don't know but what I mightn't have been such an ass had I not changed my mind."
"And what caused you to change your mind, my son?"
Frank looked oddly at the big man, and then fixed his eyes studiously on his pipe, while making an evasive reply. "I saw someone I liked better," he explained, "and then my admiration for Fairy Fan seemed to vanish like a cloud of smoke. After I saw that other face I thought no more of Fan, and was able to tell Starth with a clear mind that I didn't care about her. I'd have danced at his wedding with pleasure."
"H'm! And who is the--no, I have no right to ask that. But to continue with the lady's evidence. We know the the first. And the second?"
"I never expressed any wish to her that Starth should die. I told her, certainly, that I sometimes carried a revolver when slumming. But I never mentioned that it belonged to my father, nor did I show it to her. Lastly, I never said to Fan that my father's name was the same as my own."
"Was it?"
"Well, yes. Francis, same as mine."
"And did the revolver belong to him?"
"It did. I got it from my aunt. There was a silver plate on it with my father's initials, and my own, of course."
"She might have seen the revolver produced in court," said Jarman, thoughtfully; "but why should she state that it was your father's?"
"Chance shot!" suggested Frank.
"No. She knew the initials on it were your father's and not yours. H'm! She's in this conspiracy along with Berry."
Lancaster rose to pace the room in an exasperated manner. "Why should there be a conspiracy?" he demanded.
"You've asked me that before," said Jarman, calmly, "and I have replied that I think money is at the bottom of it. Evidently Berry forced his acquaintance on you; and Fairy Fan made the running to create jealousy and bring about this catastrophe. Money, my boy!"
Frank sat down in despair. "I don't see it," he said, pushing his hands into his pockets. "Supposing there is money (though for the life of me I can't think where it's to come from), why is it needful for me to be hanged before Berry and Fairy Fan get it?"
"That's what puzzles me," said Eustace, nodding. "If they wanted you out of the way, they could have polished you off at Sand Lane as easily as they did Starth."
"Do you think they killed him?"
"I do, or else they employed someone else to do it. But you were lured there to be inculpated in the crime, and, begad! they've managed finely to put the rope round your throat. The money--well, I can't make it out, considering the means they've taken to get you into trouble, but there's money in the matter some way. And a mighty big sum too, seeing they've gone as far as murder."
"But it's all so vague; and all supposition on your part."
"I admit it. All the same I can theorise in no other way, unless--"
"Well, what is it?"
"I was going to say that perhaps it's blackmail. They may find out where you are and come forward, offering to save your neck from being wrung if you pay them well."
"That inculpates themselves. Besides, if I am entitled to money of which I knew nothing, it was easy enough for Fan to marry me. Then all would have been square for Berry and her without having had to slay Starth and outlaw me."
"Sure enough," groaned Jarman, who was getting more and more puzzled. "What it all means I can't say. You have been outlawed in due form, and the police are after you. All you have to do is to remain quiet and not give yourself away, as you nearly did to Mrs. Perth the other day."
"I hadn't my feelings under control," said Frank. "Her talk of that stab in the breast startled me. I can't understand why I didn't see it at the time."
"Did you feel the man's heart?"
"No. The sight of the bullet wound under the left eye was enough for me. All I wanted to do was to get away and hide."
"Well, then, as you had only a match, and didn't feel the poor man's heart, it's easy to see how you missed the knife wound." Jarman took up the paper again. "The doctor says that Starth was shot first and mutilated afterwards."
"But why should the poor wretch have been mutilated at all?"
"I can't say. It looks like a piece of savagery to me. Though, to be sure, I think mutilation's a wrong word to be used for a clean stab. If his ears had been cut off now, or--"
"Don't!" said Frank, with a shudder. "It's horrible! The man was shot dead, and then stabbed to make sure. That's how I read it."
"Well, the person who sent him into the other world must have been anxious to make certain." This time it was Eustace who paced the room. "I only heard of one corpse being treated like that before."
"Where was that?" asked Lancaster.
"In San Francisco some years ago!"
"Who was it, and why was he slain twice--for that's what it amounts to?"
Jarman did not answer immediately. It was close on eight o'clock, and he stood looking out of his study window into the luminous night. He and the secretary had been haymaking throughout the afternoon, and the shaven expanse of a particularly rough lawn was dotted with haycocks picturesquely disposed. Beyond was the untrimmed hedge which Jarman could never allow to be cut, and under this grew straggling white rose-bushes, the flowers of which showed starlike in the glimmering light. Over the hedge through a vista of leafy elms could be seen the far-extending country, and the lights of Tilbury in a long line like flying illuminated railway carriages. A clear, starry sky and a yellow harvest moon completed the beauty of the scene, and the nightingales were singing wildly in the copse at the bottom of the meadow. Jarman heaved a sigh of delight.
"It's a peaceful scene," said he, with a look of pure pleasure. "Why do I go into gaslight and noisy crowds when I can dwell always in this Arcadia?"
"Well, you don't," said Frank, not seeing where this speech would lead to. "You haven't been in a London theatre or drawing-room for ages."
"True enough. I keep out of those things. But I was saying that San Francisco was noisy."
"Were you? I didn't hear you," said Frank. Then, as Jarman again made no reply, he spoke up rather pettishly. His position didn't soothe his nerves in any way, poor fellow. "You can trust me, Eustace."
"How do you know I was becoming confidential?"
"Because you talked sentiment about the scene before you."
Eustace returned to his seat and laughed rather sadly. "You're an observer, my son," said he. "Yes. You have told me about your past--we must have a repetition of that story some day, for reasons you will easily understand--now I'll tell you my romance."
"About a woman?"
"Yes. Did you ever know a romance that didn't include a woman? And this one of mine included a corpse, too."
"Shot and stabbed?"
"Both--in the streets of 'Frisco six or seven years ago. The man's name was Anchor."
"Are you talking of the corpse?" asked Lancaster, settling himself.
"Of what else. He was a lucky miner, and, having made no end of money, he built a new raw palace near 'Frisco, where he settled with his wife."
"Ah!" said Frank, intelligently, "she's the woman."
"Quite so, and I loved her for all I was worth, till I found her out."
"Eustace," remarked Lancaster, finding these details scrappy, "if you will start in an' sail plainly, I won't interrupt."
Jarman took a pull at his pipe. "I'll give the gist of it in a few words," said he, slowly. "I was doing some journalistic work in 'Frisco, and ran across Anchor. He was a big, burly, rough chap, but a whacking good sort. We chummed up, and he invited me to see him. I was introduced to Mrs. Anchor, and fell in love with her."
"What was she like?"
"You promised not to interrupt. Never mind what she was like. My taste then is not my taste now."
"Mildred!" thought Frank, but said nothing.
"I think she liked me more than a little. But after I visited at her house for a time, I found that Anchor was turning nasty."
"Jealous, I suppose?"
Eustace nodded. "But upon my soul he had no cause to be. I was as straight as a die. It's not my fashion to loot other men's wives. I think Mrs. Anchor did her best to make him jealous. After a time I became sure, and then found out--it matters not how--that she wished to get rid of her husband. I was to be the man to remove him."
"Confound! Did she want you to murder the man?"
"Well, that was her idea. But all this I didn't find out for a long time. Anchor grew nasty, and I rarely went to his house. But Mrs. Anchor used to come and see me in the city sometimes."
"Was that quite straight?"
"No, it wasn't, in one way. But, you see, she came to tell me that she was afraid that her husband would kill her. I wasn't up to her game then. A third man came in. His name was Sakers--a nasty, dry, bad-tempered chap. He and Mrs. Anchor became thick as thieves. Then she gave me the go-by."
"Oh! I suppose she hoped Sakers would kill her husband?"
"Yes. It seemed that Anchor was ruined. His wife spent all his money, and the raw new palace was sold. The pair came to live at 'Frisco, and Sakers loafed on the Front with Mrs. Anchor."
"Were you still in love with her?"
"I was. I tell you, Frank, I really did love that woman. She was the most fascinating woman I ever met, and I've flirted with them in all countries. Well, after a time, she chucked Sakers and came to me. I gathered that she knew of some money which could be got if her husband was out of the way."
"How?"
"Well, I didn't inquire. She proposed so plainly that I should shoot Anchor--seeing that even her pranks couldn't make him jealous enough to get up a duel--that I grew angry. That was an eye-opener. But even then if she'd dropped the business I might have gone on loving her, but she up and slanged me properly. Then I saw what a bad mind she had, and showed her the door. What her scheme was I don't know. After that, a week later, Anchor came to see me."
"To make trouble?"
"No, poor chap. He came to make it up. Said that he had been mistaken in me, and that he didn't believe all the lies that were told about my being in love with Mrs. Anchor. Then he cried, and said that she had bolted with Sakers."
"Why wasn't he man enough to follow, and shoot?"
"He was off that night to Chicago, where the two had gone. But he came to see me to explain. It seemed that there was some money--about a million--that he had something to do with. He promised to see me again before he left for Chicago, and to give me some papers about the matter. It was by the midnight train he was going, and he was to call back at eight. I went to the door of my house with him--it was in a quiet side street, and we stood chatting at the door."
"But why didn't he bring the papers with him?" asked Frank.
"He didn't know if I'd take them, and, moreover, was afraid of being robbed and killed by--well, I can't say who by, but Sakers was mixed up in the business."
"I see. Mrs. Anchor had told Sakers what she told you, and he, less scrupulous, intended to kill Anchor to get these papers."
"That's about the size of it. But the whole thing was so vague that I couldn't get at the pith of it. Anchor would tell me nothing until he came back with the papers at eight. All he said when we shook hands at the door was 'Tamaroo--'"
"Well, go on. Tamaroo what?"
"He didn't get any further," said Jarman, "for at that moment he was shot."
"Shot! In the open street?"
"It was a quiet side street, and, being about meal-time, there was no one about. Also it was almost dark. The man who shot Anchor must have been concealed in a corner close at hand. I turned, and saw him cutting along the street. I followed, calling for the police. But he bunked into a crowded street, and I lost him. I went up to a policeman and made him come back with me. I had been away for fifteen minutes on the chase. Anchor was still lying before my door, but in addition to the shot wound there was a knife in his heart. In this instance Frank, the knife was left in the wound. It was a brand-new bowie, and nothing could be made of it in the way of evidence."
"What happened then?"
"Well, at first I was thought to be guilty, but I soon cleared my character. Anchor was buried, and I never saw nor heard of Mrs. Anchor, nor Sakers again."
"What about the papers?"
"I never heard anything of them either. But it appeared that when Anchor was seeing me a negro came to his lodgings to wait for him. As he didn't turn up the negro skipped. I fancied he might have been an emissary of Mrs. Anchor's to steal those papers. But none were found."
"And who killed Anchor?"
"Well, I fancy Sakers fired the shot. But who knifed him I can't say."
Frank rose, and walking to the window stretched himself. "It's a gruesome story," said he; "and what did Tamaroo mean?"
"I can't tell you. That was the one word the poor fellow said before he was stretched a corpse. Well, Frank, after that I got sick of the West and came home. A strange romance?"
"Very. But I can't make top nor tail of the business. It is strange that Anchor should have been both shot and stabbed as Starth was."
"For that reason I tell the story. Keep it to yourself, Frank. I do not care about wearing my heart on my sleeve."
"I'll say nothing," assented Lancaster, "and you know quite enough to round on me if I do. I say"--he peered through the window into the moonlight--"who is the lady?"
Jarman rose, and looked over Frank's shoulder. There was a white figure crossing the lawn. "It's Mildred--Miss Starth."
Frank made for the door. "I'll go to my bedroom," he said. "I am not able to meet her yet, as I might give myself away. Besides, she may wish to talk to you about the case."
"H'm! Yes, it's just as well. Clear out. I'll let you know all that is needful."
So Frank disappeared, and Jarman opened the front door to his visitor. Mildred looked very weary. She wore a white dress with black bows, and saw him looking sideways at it when she entered the study.
"I haven't had time to get proper mourning," she said, sinking into a chair. "Mrs. Perth is furbishing up an old dress for to-morrow."
"I wasn't thinking of that," said Jarman, mendaciously. "Have some wine, Miss Starth? You look so tired."
"I'm worn out. That awful inquest, and poor Walter's death." She hid her face in her hands. "It's all so sudden, so terrible! I have been in bed ever since I returned."
"So Mrs. Perth told me. I know the verdict."
"Do you think it is a true one?" asked Mildred, suddenly.
Jarman was taken aback. "How should I know?"
"The jury say that Mr. Lancaster killed Walter. But as I was leaving the room someone--I don't know who--slipped a paper into my hand. I have brought it to you, as I can't understand."
She handed Jarman half a sheet of notepaper. On it was written in an unformed, childish hand three words--"Frank. Innocent. Tamaroo!"
"Tamaroo!" Jarman leaped up. "Tamaroo! What does it mean?"
While Jarman was receiving Miss Starth at the door, Miss Cork had brought in the lamp and pulled down the blinds. In the yellow light Mildred could see that his face was pearly white. As Eustace was not usually emotional, she guessed that the paper she had given him must be interesting enough to surprise him out of his ordinary self.
"What is it?" she asked nervously. "Oh! what is it?" Her nerves were slack, poor girl, from the anxieties of the last week.
Jarman did not answer directly. That he should have stumbled on the word "Tamaroo" in this unexpected manner, immediately after telling his story to Frank, surprised him not a little. The coincidence was extraordinary, and, he suspected, providential. He could not see what connection there could be between the murder of Anchor in San Francisco and that of Walter Starth in Sand Lane, but the mysterious word "Tamaroo" seemed to link the two. Perhaps it might prove the clue to the mystery of the last crime. Jarman sat down to hurriedly arrange his thoughts, but he was unable to answer Mildred for a time. After her exclamation she remained quiet, clasping and unclasping her hands, shaken to the core of her soul by the disturbed looks of this ordinarily phlegmatic man.
"I don't know what it means," confessed Jarman finally, and looked again at the paper. "This is written by an uneducated person, and by one who knows Lancaster well enough to address him by his Christian name. Who slipped it into your hand?"
"I don't know," said Mildred again. "I was passing out with the crowd after the verdict had been given, and I felt this being pushed into my hand. My fingers closed on it mechanically. For the moment I never thought to look round for the person. When I examined it outside it was, of course, too late."
"H'm! That's a pity. If we could only find who wrote it there might be some chance of clearing up the mystery."
"Then you think there _is_ a mystery, Mr. Jarman?"
"About your brother's death? Certainly I do. I know Lancaster very well. Indeed, it was I who introduced him to your brother, and I am absolutely certain that he is not the man to commit so brutal a crime."
"But his threats on the previous night?" objected Mildred.
"Mere foolish speaking. And, far from proving his guilt, they, to my mind, hint at his innocence. Had he intended to kill your brother he would have been more circumspect in his language."
"But if Mr. Lancaster is innocent, why did he run away?"
Jarman shrugged his shoulders. "You can't expect a man to have all his wits about him at such a moment. He was"--here Jarman was about to explain the drugging, but on second thoughts he did not think it wise to appear to know too much--"he was in the house alone with your brother, whom he had threatened," he continued, "and when the murder took place saw that there was every chance of his being accused. To avoid being arrested on circumstantial evidence, he fled."
"Have you any idea where he is?" asked Miss Starth, quickly.
"No," replied Jarman, deliberately. "I have not seen Frank Lancaster for some months. He was always in town, and, as you know, I rarely go up. You believe him to be guilty?"
"Everything seems to point to his guilt."
"I admit that. But I am convinced from what I know of him that he is perfectly innocent."
"If so," said Mildred, shrewdly, "he must at least know who killed my brother, seeing that he left the house _after_ the death."
"I don't profess to explain," said Eustace, who was unwilling to lie more than was necessary to shield Lancaster. "Did your brother ask Lancaster to call on him?"
"No!" replied Mildred, decisively. "Walter was rather afraid of Mr. Lancaster. They were bad friends for some reason, and Mr. Lancaster threatened to give Walter a thrashing."
"Did he threaten to kill him?"
Mildred hesitated. "Well, Walter said that Mr. Lancaster would shoot him if he got the chance, as he always carried a revolver."
"Lancaster only carried a revolver when he went slumming."
"He wasn't slumming when he visited at Sand Lane."
"No! I can't explain that. All I can say is that, from what I know of Lancaster, he might have thrashed your brother, but he certainly would not murder him."
"But Mr. Darrel tells me that Mr. Lancaster was very bitter against my brother."
"When did he tell you that?" said Jarman, who knew Darrel, and, regarding him as a possible rival, did not approve of him overmuch.
"To-day, when I got up. Mr. Darrel is staying at the Rectory for a few days. You know, he is a friend of the rector's."
"Yes, I know," replied Eustace, thinking he must put Frank on his guard, since Darrel might recognise him. "Why did Darrel come down?"
"On a visit to the rector. But he also said that he came to see if he could help me in any way."
"I can do all the help that is necessary," said Jarman, jealously.
"I told him so, and, then, Captain Berry is anxious to assist."
"H'm!" said Eustace, pulling his big moustache. "Mrs. Perth told me that he had offered a reward. Very good of him."
"Captain Berry was a great friend of Walter's. He wrote me the sad news almost immediately."
"Almost too immediately," replied Jarman. "What time did you get his letter?"
"By the eleven post."
"Then it must have been posted in London before midnight, and the fact of the murder was not known to the general public till next morning. How came Captain Berry to have such early information?"
"I don't know," said Miss Starth, blankly. "Do you think--"
"I think nothing," interposed the big man, quickly. "I have never met Berry, and I know nothing about him. But Mrs. Perth doesn't seem to entertain a good opinion of him."
Mildred, in spite of her grief and sadness, could not help smiling. "You know that Mrs. Perth never approved of Walter's friends. She was my governess, you remember, and still thinks it's her duty to look after me."
"And after that Denham man."
"Oh! he is only a boy--" said Mildred, with contempt, "and a very silly boy. Walter brought him down twice, but I don't suppose he'll come here again."
"Where did Starth meet him?"
"At Captain Berry's. Mr. Denham came from San Francisco with Captain Berry. They are great friends."
"And thereby hangs a tale," muttered Jarman, who was intensely suspicious of the skipper and his associates. "Well, and what are you going to do now, Miss Starth?"
"I can do nothing," she said, with a helpless gesture. "I have seen our lawyer about Walter's affairs, and Walter's income comes to me. I don't know what to do about his death except wait."
"For the capture of Lancaster?"
Miss Starth moved uneasily. "I am not revengeful," she said, "and my brother was not such a good man as he should have been. But if Mr. Lancaster is guilty he ought to be punished."
"Yes. _If_ he is guilty. But presuming his innocence--"
"He will have an opportunity of proving that when he is tried."
"Ah!" said Jarman, pulling again at his moustache, "then you anticipate that he will be captured?"
"Captain Berry says he will never rest until he is captured. We had a long talk about the matter."
"Has Berry any clue?"
"No. Neither has Inspector Herny. Since that servant saw Mr. Lancaster leave the house, nothing more has been heard of him. I don't want him to be captured. His being hanged wont bring poor Walter to life, and that paper makes me doubt if he is guilty."
"Did you show this to Berry?" asked Jarman, who still held the paper.
"No. I showed it to no one, not even to Mrs. Perth. I wished to consult you about it."
"I am glad you said nothing, Miss Starth," said Jarman. "May I keep this paper? I may be able to find out something, you know."
"Certainly. I shall be glad if you will help me."
"I wish to help you in every way. You know that."
Jarman's voice shook a little, and the woman in Mildred took the alarm. She rose to go, whereupon Jarman insisted on seeing her to Rose Cottage. "But there is no need," protested Mildred, "the moon is shining, and I am quite safe. Don't trouble."
"It's a pleasure," insisted Eustace, putting on his cap, and being thus obstinate Mildred let him have his own way. She was even secretly pleased, as she liked Eustace extremely.
They stepped out into the moonlight, and took their careful way between the haycocks. The night was very still. Occasionally there would float towards them an outburst of song from the copse-hidden nightingales, diversified by the hoot of an owl, or the whirr of a distant train steaming towards London. Mildred had simply thrown a lace shawl over her head to run across to the Shanty, and her face looked wonderfully pure and white in the ivory radiance of the moon. Eustace felt his pulses throb with suppressed excitement, and the blood tingled pleasantly in his veins. He was in love with Mildred, he was jealous of Darrel, and these passions lifted him somewhat out of his usual self. The romance of San Francisco appeared the veriest prose beside this lyrical night. Yet he felt that he could not break in upon the grief of the girl with his tale of love, and so walked sedately by her side, holding himself well in hand.
As they passed into the lane, and under the chequered shadows of the elms, Mildred felt the influence of her companion. She was not in love with Jarman, or with anyone, but she liked and admired him immensely, and, granted that the fairy prince did not come along, was not unprepared to listen should he speak. Still, the feeling of sorrow for the death of her brother lay heavily upon her, and she sighed as the cool night wind ruffled her dark hair. After a time, to break the silence, she asked Jarman about the new secretary.
"Mrs. Perth told me that he was very handsome," she said.
"Oh, he's good-lookin' enough," replied Eustace, "but his spectacles rather spoil him. Weak eyes, you know."
"I was not aware that you intended to engage a secretary."
"I have so much work to do."
"You might have engaged me," said Miss Starth, reproachfully. "I can type quite as quickly as you can dictate, and you know I am always glad to assist you."
"I know that," said Jarman, suppressing a strong inclination to take her in his arms. "We have done some work together."
"_You_ have. I don't know what I should have done without you to correct my verses and help me to get them printed. I was only sixteen when I showed you my first poem."
"Yes. And very shy you were over it. Natural in a schoolgirl."
"I am not a schoolgirl now, Mr. Jarman."
Who knew that better than Eustace? "I wish you were," he muttered.
"Why? You should be glad to see me grow up, Mr.--"
"Why so formal, Miss Starth--Mildred. Call me Eustace."
"I should like to--Eustace," said the girl, frankly--too frankly, alas! for any feeling of love to lurk in the words. "You know how fond I am of you," and she squeezed his arm playfully.
"Mildred!" He could stand it no longer, although he felt that this was not the time to speak of love. But the influence of the hour, of her words, and the feeling of jealousy inculcated by Darrel's arrival made him confess his secret. "Mildred?"
"Yes." She detected the change in his voice, and grew nervous.
"I--I--love you!"
"Mr. Jarman--I mean Eustace!"
"I didn't mean to speak," went on the man, rapidly. "I know you have heavy troubles to face. But I wish to help you. If you would accept me as your husband, if you would lean upon me through life, I would do all that I could to save you from being worried."
Under the shadow of the trees, a stone's-throw from the white gate of Rose Cottage, Mildred stood still, her hands clasped before her. A shaft of light piercing the leafage shed its radiance on her beautiful face, and Eustace put a constraint on himself. Under his breath he quoted the Arabic proverb: "Blessed be Allah who made beautiful woman."
"Eustace, I never thought of this!"
"And you are angry?"
"No--no. I'm not exactly angry. But--"
"You love me, then--you love me!" She could feel his breath on her cheek, and shrank away from the passion expressed in his deep voice.
"I am not angry, but I don't love you. Wait!" She flung up her hand as she heard his sigh. "I like you--oh, yes, I like you more than anyone I ever met."
"More than Darrel?"
"Mr. Darrel; I don't care a bit for him. I wish you wouldn't talk so." She stamped her foot. "You know how troubled I am about poor Walter's death, and we were getting on so nicely."
"You and Walter?"
"No, poor fellow. You and I. We were such companions, and I always told you everything--and now talking like this!" Miss Starth's eyes filled with tears. "It's a shame."
"I can't help loving you."
"Well, I love you--in a way. No, don't come any nearer. I--I--looked on you as a--a--father," sobbed Mildred.
"Oh, Heavens! There's no more to be said after that. Let me remain in that relationship."
"No. That is"--Mildred dried her tears, and became alarmed because she thought she was inflicting pain--"that is--you know, I don't mind--well, if you can't guess."
"Does that mean you will marry me?" asked Jarman, catching his breath.
Mildred rolled her handkerchief up into a ball, and became more of a woman and less of a schoolgirl. "I will marry you on one condition."
"What is that?" he asked, eagerly.
"That you find out and punish the person who killed Walter."
Jarman's heart leaped. "Do you mean Lancaster?" he asked, alarmed.
"No--if what that paper says is true. I mean the real person. You say that Mr. Lancaster is innocent, and I know you too well to doubt your word. Find the real person, and--" she bent forward as though to seal the bargain with a kiss. But before her face could touch his own she drew back, and flittered towards the gate.
"Mildred!" he cried. "Mildred!"
"Good-night!" floated back faintly, and he heard the closing of the door. Alone with the night and with his great happiness, he tried to realise his good fortune. "She doesn't love me yet," he thought, as he walked back to the Shanty on tip-toe excitement, "but she will--she will. Heaven bless her How could I have loved Mrs. Anchor? This is the real thing, and Mildred--oh! what a boy I am yet." He wiped his face. "Of course I'll find out who killed her brother, both to win her and to save Frank. Dear Frank--poor fellow!" Jarman felt immensely sorry for Lancaster being, as it were, out in the cold. "I must tell him."
And tell him he did, blurting out the news almost before he filled his pipe. "I say, Frank, I'm going to start in and find out who killed Starth!" he declared.
"Miss Starth has asked you to do so?" said Frank, trying to suppress his jealousy.
"Yes. And she is going to reward me, if I am successful, with her hand."
Lancaster stared. "I--I--hope you'll be happy," he gulped. "She'll get a good husband."
"And I an angel for a wife."
"An archangel--a Madonna--a saint," said Frank, incoherently. But his heart ached.
The Rectory was like a bee-hive. Mr. Arrow was the happy father of ten healthy children, and his wife was pretty well worn out looking after them. One of the boys was at Sandhurst, a couple were at school, but the majority of the children remained to make the old house lively. Why Darrel, who loved his comforts, should come to such a noisy establishment, Arrow could not conjecture, although he was glad to welcome him. Darrel himself declared that he came to see his old tutor, and Arrow accepted the flattering compliment. But when he found that his guest paid three visits to Rose Cottage in as many days, the rector began to mistrust the excuse. However, he said nothing to Darrel, as the Rhodesian was rich, and might be trusted to do something towards launching the young Arrows into the bleak world.
Darrel was a big man, as huge as Jarman, but black and sulky in his looks. His manners were soft, and he resembled a large tom-cat more than anything else, particularly when speaking, as he positively purred. With the children he was a favourite, as he always presented them with gifts; but it was understood that on condition of this largess, they were to leave him alone. Consequently, he had all his time to himself, and spent it dodging about Rose Cottage, or filling the little parlour with his gigantic person.
Mrs. Perth rather liked him, as he was always deferential to her, and she was not averse to his courtship of Mildred, for that was what his continual, and not always welcome, presence amounted to. But the girl herself thought Darrel possessed a violent temper, and always declared that she would not marry him if he were as rich as Vanderbilt. However, as the Rhodesian came ostentatiously to condole with her on account of her trouble, she could not very well express herself as she wished. Moreover, in a measure, she was now engaged to Jarman, but she told no one of the agreement she had made with him, not even Mrs. Perth. It was now over a fortnight since the death of Starth, and as he was buried, Mildred was recovering her spirits. She had never cared particularly for her brother, who was something of a bully, and had seen so little of him that his death made scarcely any difference in her life. Consequently, beyond that she was in mourning, she showed little sign of the catastrophe. And Walter had only himself to thank for the calmness with which she accepted his decease.
One afternoon Mrs. Perth was out, and Darrel sat with Mildred drinking tea in the parlour. It was a small room filled with chintz-covered furniture, and looked extremely cool. The window was open, and Darrel, who felt the heat, sat near it cup in hand. He was dressed in spotless flannels, and looked better-looking and less black than usual. Mildred, in her sombre dress, was fanning herself vigorously.
"I wish I could feel as cool as you do," she said, enviously.
"It's more looks than anything else," replied Darrel in his heavy way. "I'm warm enough--quite. How I'll stand town I don't know."
"When are you returning?" asked Miss Starth, indifferently.
"To-morrow--if you don't want me to stay."
"I have no control over your movements, Mr. Darrel."
But the coldness of the tone had no effect. "I mean, that there may be something I can do for you. Now that your brother is dead--"
"Mr. Jarman is looking after things for me, thank you," said Mildred, stiffly. "The only thing you can do is to find out who killed Walter."
Darrel raised his bushy eyebrows. "There's no difficulty about that, Miss Starth. The verdict of the jury--"
"Was wrong. I can't believe that this Mr. Lancaster committed so horrible and apparently purposeless a crime."
"Have you any reason to believe him innocent?"
Mildred, for obvious reasons, did not answer this question directly. "I can't see his motive," she said, looking down pensively.
"The evidence of that lady at the inquest--"
"I know nothing about any lady," retorted the girl, flushing. Then, to change the conversation and mark her sense of Darrel's bad manners, she asked a question. "Did you know Mr. Lancaster?"
Darrel nodded. "I thought I told you," he said. "He was sitting next to me on that night I saw you in the theatre."
"The night before the tragedy," said Mildred, shuddering. "What is he like to look at?"
"Fair chap, blue eyes, and--"
"Wait!" Miss Starth recollected the man who had stared at her. "Do you mean to say that he was the gentleman who sat next to you?"
"Yes. I said so. Fair hair, and--"
"I know," she broke in hurriedly. "He was looking at me; our eyes met, and he--oh he didn't look like a man who would commit murder."
"I shouldn't have thought it of him myself," said Darrel; "but if he didn't, who did? That's the point."
"I wish you to find that out if you will."
"Certainly. I'll do my best, on conditions."
"Conditions!" Mildred stared, and looked annoyed.
"Yes," said the Rhodesian, stolidly; "promise to be my wife, and I'll hunt down Lancaster."
Mildred gasped. This was the same bargain as she had made with Eustace, so the situation was duplicated. But she more than liked Jarman, and cared very little for Darrel. Moreover, now that she knew the suspected man was the one who had stared at her, and to whose face she had taken a fancy, she was inclined to agree with Eustace that he was innocent. So refined a man could not possibly have committed so brutal a crime. And, finally, she was displeased that Darrel should again broach a subject about which she had asked him to be silent.
"I told you before, and I tell you again, Mr. Darrel, that I cannot become your wife," she said, with some heat.
"Why not?" asked the man, stolidly.
Mildred grew exasperated. "Because I don't love you."
"Love may come after marriage."
"I prefer it to come before," she declared. "I won't marry you."
"Yes, you will," said Darrel, closing his obstinate mouth; "your brother was in favour of the match."
"At one time, but not lately."
"I know, and I can't understand why he changed."
"Whether he changed or not doesn't matter," said Miss Starth, sharply; "the thing is out of the question."
"No, it isn't. I've made up my mind to marry you, and marry you I shall."
She rose and turned on him indignantly. "Do you threaten me?"
Darrel rose also, but did not reply directly. "I never made up my mind yet to get a thing that I didn't succeed," he said. "I wanted to be rich, and I am rich. I want you to be my wife, and I intend to make you my wife."
"No! No! No!" She stamped her foot three times.
"Oh, yes," said Darrel, calmly. "Think it over. I go to town to-morrow, but will come back in a month. I'll expect my answer then."
"Take it now," she cried, indignant at his impertinence. "No!"
"That's not the answer I require," he said, collecting his cane and hat. "You must say yes."
"I won't!"
Darrel took not the slightest notice, but held out his hand. Mildred declined to take it, and repeated her refusal. The big man turned to the door. "I'll come in a month for my answer," said he, and went out.
Mildred was very angry at his persistence, but she had quite as strong a will as Darrel, and determined that nothing would induce her to become his wife. But she dreaded his return, as she knew he was not easily shaken off. For the moment she was minded to tell Eustace, but a reflection that such a confidence might lead to a quarrel, made her change her mind. "But I'll never marry that Darrel," she declared. "Never--never--never! I wonder, indeed, if I'll marry Eustace. I like him, but I don't love him. And one should love when--" here she blushed and sat down. Her thoughts wandered to the pleasant face of the young man in the theatre, and she recalled his persistent gaze. He had evidently been attracted by her, and she-- "No," said Mildred to herself, "I'll never believe that he murdered Walter!" after which remark she began regretting that she had made a bargain with Eustace. Decidedly her conduct was flighty, but late events had unsettled her mind. She was not usually so vacillating, but at the present moment she was too bewildered and upset to know her own mind, save that she would never marry Darrel. "And perhaps not Eustace," she concluded.
Meantime, Eustace was in the seventh heaven. For the last few days he had gone about singing, and Lancaster was rather exasperated. It seemed unfair that Jarman should have all the happiness, and he should have nothing but trouble. Then he blamed himself for being selfish. Jarman had been, and was, a good friend to him, and Jarman had known Mildred for many years. He, Frank, had not even spoken to her, so it was ridiculous and ungrateful of him to be jealous of his best friend on such slight grounds. He did all he knew to preserve a cheerful face, but at times grew gloomy. Eustace put his fit of the dismals down to a too vivid realisation of his danger. He would not allow Frank to speak more than was necessary about the murder, as he did not wish him to brood over it. But he was not idle, and one morning announced that he was going to to town.
"I'll be away for the day," he said, "so you can make yourself comfortable, Frank. Look out that Darrel doesn't see you."
"Darrel has gone back to town," said Lancaster, "so one of the young Arrows told me. He returns in a month."
"Mildred will be glad he has gone. He was always hanging round her."
"Why didn't you put a stop to that?"
"I have not the right as yet. You see, I am not formally engaged to Mildred, and will not be, until I have discovered the assassin."
"Why not denounce me, and bring about the engagement at once?" said Frank, with some bitterness.
Jarman stared. "Because in the first place you are innocent, and in the second I should not like to build up my life's happiness on your ruin. I thought you knew me better than that, my friend."
"Forgive me. I am a beast," said Lancaster, penitently. "But the fact is, I--I--"--he gulped down the truth--"I am not myself."
"Don't wonder at it, considering the fix you are in. Cheer up. I may learn something to-day likely to give me a clue to the truth."
"From whom?"
"From your friend, Fairy Fan."
Lancaster jumped up from the breakfast-table. "What?"
"You look surprised, but it is so. I am going to see her to-day--by appointment!" and he displayed a perfumed note.
Frank glanced over it, and discovered that Miss Berry would be pleased to see Mr. Leonard Grant at her rooms in Bloomsbury at one o'clock on that day.
"Why did you write to her?" asked Frank, handing this back.
"The use of my _nom de plume_ should tell you that," replied Jarman. "I want to have a quiet chat with that lady, so I wrote as Leonard Grant--under which name I produce my sketches--and asked her if I could do one for her. As I have a certain reputation, she seems inclined to entertain the idea."
"Why didn't you write under your own name?"
"What an ass you are, Frank! Firstly, the _nom de plume_ is required to intimate who will write the sketch, since Eustace Jarman is unknown as a dramatist. Secondly, did I write in my own name I might give myself into the hand of Berry. He must have learnt from Starth that I am your friend, and thus might seek to know too much."
"You could baffle his inquiries."
"Oh, yes. But if he chose to come down and see me, I could not baffle his spotting you. It's best to be on the safe side, and even in that disguise the man is clever enough to recognise you."
"That doesn't say much for my disguise," said Frank, grimly.
"Pooh! The make-up is good enough to baffle a casual observer, but Captain Berry is exceptionally clever. He might not recognise you, certainly; on the other hand, he might. No, Frank, as Leonard Grant I'll see Miss Berry and learn all I can."
"She won't discuss the matter with you."
"Perhaps not, but I'll try and get her on the subject. I may even meet with Berry, and then we'll see if I can't pump him. So you make yourself comfortable here, Frank, while I go to town. I think you might take the newspaper to Mrs. Perth, and meet Mildred."
"I don't know her," said Frank, flushing.
"Mrs. Perth will introduce you," said Jarman, "and I am sure you will get on well with her."
"Too well," thought Frank. But he said nothing, not even if he would go over to Rose Cottage.
Jarman bustled about, and finally set off across the heath, which was the nearest way to the railway station. His plan of action was to seek Berry and his niece as a complete stranger, and to learn, if he could, what they were about to do. He had a clever pair to deal with, but Jarman was smart himself, and not for nothing had rubbed shoulders with the astute citizens of the great republic. Moreover, apart from his wish to please Mildred and to save Frank, there was a certain element of exhilaration about this chase after an unknown criminal that appealed to his love of adventure.
"I've got detective fever," he thought, as he swung into a third-class smoking, "and the disease won't be cured till I run the true assassin to earth."
On arriving at Liverpool Street, shortly after twelve, he walked to the tube railway at the Mansion House Station, and thereby gained Oxford Street. From Tottenham Court Road he strolled to Bloomsbury Crescent, where Miss Berry dwelt with her uncle, and reached the door of the house a few minutes before one o'clock. A neatly-dressed maidservant admitted him into a cool drawing-room. While the maid informed her mistress of Jarman's arrival, or rather that Mr. Leonard Grant was at hand, Eustace looked curiously round the room. From its contents he hoped to learn something of the character of Fairy Fan.
But there was no need to read her character in this way. Almost before he commenced his examination she appeared at the door, and came forward with a smile. Suddenly she stopped, and the colour ebbed from her face. Jarman gasped and stared, as well he might.
"Mrs. Anchor!" he said, under his breath. "Mrs. Anchor I might have guessed."