Denham took his leave with profuse thanks to Jarman for a pleasant visit. He departed without the least suspicion that Frank was other than he was represented to be. Eustace drew a breath of relief when he dismissed him at the railway station.
"That's all right," he thought, as he took his way homeward. "Denham will represent me as a kind friend, and will do away with any suspicion in the Berry mind as to my having a card up my sleeve. Now I can make another move."
The next move was to see Miss Dorothy Drake and learn all particulars about the sealed envelope. Also Frank wished to know what had become of his effects, which had been left behind in his London rooms. As his nearest relative, it was probable that Miss Drake would lay claim to them until such time as he should reappear. Eustace therefore decided to go a few days after Denham's visit, and called on Mildred to explain his absence. For obvious reasons he did not explain himself too fully. Not until Frank was proved innocent did Jarman wish her to know that he was identical with Mr. O'Neil.
"I shall only be away a week, Mildred," said Eustace, taking her hand; "you won't forget me in that time?"
"I am not likely to forget you at all," replied the girl, wearily.
"Mildred, you are not looking well."
"The weather is so trying," she said hesitatingly, "and Walter's death has damped my spirits."
"I wish you would not dwell on that, my dear. He was not worth it."
"Still, he was my brother when all is said and done. If he had only died a natural death, I would not mind so much. But it is terrible to think of his tragic end. Are you making any attempt to discover the truth?"
"Yes. My journey is connected with the attempt."
"Where are you going?"
"No," said Jarman, smiling, "don't ask me that. Not until I am successful shall I reveal my methods. And at present I am groping in the dark."
"Have you no clue?"
Eustace hesitated. "I can hardly say that I have. There are certain suspicions in my mind, which may or may not prove correct. But when I return I may be able to tell you something."
"Do your suspicions still point to the innocence of Mr. Lancaster?"
"Yes," said Jarman, firmly. "I am more convinced every day that he is the victim of a conspiracy. But his innocence will be hard to prove. Mildred"--he again took her hand--"when I'm away I want you to be kind to O'Neil. He has no relatives, poor fellow, and is in sad trouble. Don't let him feel lonely."
Mildred nodded, but could not trust herself to speak. Had she consulted her own inclinations she would have seen nothing of the secretary during the absence of his employer. Daily she grew more and more interested in the so-called O'Neil. She learnt to watch for his coming, to hang on his words. He had said nothing to her likely to be construed into admiration, and was always cold and guarded in his utterance. But this very coldness increased her liking for him. She assured herself that it was merely "liking," but in her heart she knew that love had awakened. The thought of this, coupled with the remembrance of her half-engagement to Eustace, made her nervous and confused. She could not meet her lover's eye, and he returned to his home wondering at the inexplicable change. However, he finally put it down to grief for the loss of her unworthy brother, and to prevent her from brooding he asked Frank to see her as frequently as he could during his absence.
"Certainly," said Frank, with an effort to be cheerful; "if you do not think she will find me out."
"How can she She has never set eyes on you at close quarters, as you were."
"No," muttered Lancaster, guiltily, recalling the night in the theatre and the genesis of his futile passion. "I suppose not." Then, to change the subject, he asked Eustace to be sure to let him know all that transpired between himself and Miss Drake. "And give her my love."
"And tell her you are innocent?"
"Oh, she won't need to be told that," said Frank. "Aunt Dorothy will never believe that I did such a wicked thing. Heaven bless her! By the way, you don't think there is any chance of Berry coming down?"
"Not the slightest. Any suspicions he may have entertained about my knowing your whereabouts will be dissipated by the babble of Natty. I took the greatest care to load him up with a story likely to satisfy even the suspicions of Captain Banjo. I shouldn't be surprised," added Jarman, reflectively, "if Berry approached me with an offer to join forces."
"What good would that do him?"
"Well, I know about the murder of Anchor, and, moreover, as I was your friend I might--in his opinion--know something likely to help him in acquiring this fortune."
"Then you really think there is a fortune?"
"After the talk of Natty about his birthday, I am perfectly sure that there is a great deal of money knocking about. It ought to come to you; but Berry's machinations, unless thwarted, will put it into the pocket of Denham."
"If so, he won't benefit."
"Oh, yes, he will," rejoined Eustace, grimly. "When Denham is in possession of the fortune, he will die as Starth did. He will follow poor Anchor to the other world in the same way. Then Fan and Berry will retire to live happy ever afterwards."
"It's all theory," grumbled Frank.
"Quite so. But that's my reading of the mystery. However, your aunt may throw some light on the subject. She will probably tell me more of your father's life than she told you."
But Lancaster was not to be convinced. "I don't think she knows anything," he said. "Better see those lawyers, White & Saon."
"I'll look them up when I return to town."
Jarman, having settled his plans, went off, and Frank found himself in sole possession of the house. Miss Cork waited on him assiduously, and he noticed that she was not so eccentric as usual. As yet he had not tried the experiment of letting her see the photograph of Balkis, which was his true reason for obtaining it from Mildred. Frank did not believe Miss Cork's story of the lost child, and was certain that her emotion at the mention of the name was due to some other and less respectable cause. It might be that she knew Balkis herself, and as Balkis knew Berry--according to Natty's slip of the tongue--Miss Cork might be able to throw some light on the mystery of the black woman's connection with Starth. Frank determined to place the photograph where Miss Cork could see it, and then when she was moved to terror or surprise by the sight of the face, to insist on an explanation. What she said might not lead to the detection of the true assassin, but it might reveal something about Berry likely to show why he was conspiring against the life and liberty of an innocent man. But this again was all theory, as was Jarman's belief that the tattoo mark of the Scarlet Bat was at the bottom of Berry's rascalities. Still, if Frank wished to win clear of his difficulties, it behoved him to try in all directions, on the chance of finding a clue to the mystery.
Frank therefore displayed the photograph of the big negress in a prominent position, for the startling of Miss Cork, and then took his way to Rose Cottage. He knew, that, seeing he loved Mildred, he ought not to go, in spite of the unsuspicious Jarman's direct wish. But Lancaster, loyal as he wished to act towards his friend, could not help drinking in the sweet poison. By this time he was convinced that Mildred liked him more than a little, and he gave himself a kind of delicious pain in watching this fruit which he could never hope to pluck. He thought that when she knew his real name her liking would vanish, to be replaced with loathing for the assassin of her brother, as she must surely think Lancaster to be. Then she could marry Jarman, and be happy. Frank argued in this way. All the same, he knew that he was giving way to weakness in trusting himself in her sweet presence. This feeling was so strong on him, when he approached the cottage, that he was minded to retreat, and make some excuse for not calling again. What made him change his mind was the sight of Darrel in the garden. But that Frank was in love and knew that Darrel was a suitor for Mildred's hand, a timely thought of his danger would have made him retreat. As it was, he went boldly forward, trusting in the perfection of his disguise. It had not been pierced by Denham, so it was unlikely he would be unmasked by so slow-thinking a man as Darrel. And it made the young man furiously jealous to think that Darrel should persecute Mildred with his attentions. He tried to think that in coming between he was actuated by friendship for Jarman, but, in his own passionate heart, he knew well that it was a personal resentment. Mrs. Perth had brought her everlasting knitting into the garden, and was seated in a cane chair under the elm. Near her was Mildred, looking in Frank's helpless eyes more beautiful than ever. And to make him the more jealous, Mildred was winding a ball of red wool for Mrs. Perth from a skein held by Darrel. The Rhodesian was, as usual, big and sullen, and appeared much too gigantic for the little garden. It was a modern picture of Hercules and Omphale; and Frank, realising his own helplessness, raged inwardly, as he was smilingly welcomed by Mrs. Perth. Mildred, after a nod, cast down her eyes with a flush on her face, and attended assiduously to her work. Hercules scowled.
"I'm so glad to see you," said Mrs. Perth in her precise voice. "Do you know Mr. Darrel?"
Naturally Frank said that he had not the pleasure, and was introduced at once. Darrel lifted his heavy eyes with a grunt, and paid no further attention to the secretary. But he was quite as jealous as Frank; and Mildred, the cause of this feeling in both breasts, became aware that the weather was thundery. However, she chatted brightly, and divided her attentions equally, being helped by Mrs. Perth. That good lady never suspected what was going on under her nose.
"Your cold is better," said Mrs. Perth, when Frank was seated.
As a matter of fact it was, as Eustace had left off giving Frank the means to hoarsen his voice after the departure of Denham. "It is better," said Frank, almost in his usual tones. "Jarman has been doctoring me. I'll soon be well."
Darrel pricked up his ears and looked at the dark young man. "Have I ever met you before?" he asked.
Frank kept his countenance, although he felt that he was in an awkward position. "I think not," he said coldly.
While Darrel's lazy eyes strayed over him slowly, Mrs. Perth put in a brisk word. "Mr. O'Neil comes from Ireland," she said. "Have you ever been in Ireland, Mr. Darrel?"
"No," he responded, still eyeing Lancaster, who sustained his scrutiny unmoved. "I should never have taken Mr. O'Neil for an Irishman."
"That means you have no brogue," said Mildred to Frank, smiling. "But he had one when he came, Mr. Darrel."
"You have been here a long time to get rid of it, then?" said Darrel.
"Just a few weeks," replied Frank, calmly.
Mrs. Perth, with the best intentions, brought Lancaster under the guns of the enemy. "You came just when we were in deep grief over that horrid murder," she said, clicking her needles.
"Yes. I remember you saying something about that," said Frank.
"I have been in Scotland," said Darrel, suddenly, and taking side-looks at Lancaster's unmoved face, "so I don't know what has happened. Have they caught the man who did it?"
"Mr. Lancaster?" said the old lady. "No, they have not."
"And I hope they never will," said Mildred, flushing. "From what Mr. Jarman says, I believe Mr. Lancaster is innocent."
"Oh!" said Darrel, turning away his eyes from Frank, "so Jarman takes up the cudgels on behalf of this murderer. I remember he was a friend of Lancaster's."
"And is," said Frank, incautiously.
"You should know," said Darrel, quietly, and with a keen glance, "being his secretary."
"I have heard Jarman speak of this matter," replied Frank. He knew that Darrel's suspicions were aroused, and tried to keep the colour from his cheeks. He looked directly at Darrel, and the eyes of the two men met. It was Darrel who first withdrew his gaze.
"No," he said at length, "you're not a bit like Lancaster, although you have the same tone of voice."
"Has he indeed?" said Mildred, with interest.
"Lancaster was fair-haired and white-skinned," went on Darrel.
"Whereas I am a dark Celt," said Frank, drawing a long breath, as he deemed the danger was at an end.
"Well, don't talk any more about the matter," put in Mrs. Perth, sharply. "You'll upset Mildred, and the affair is too horrible to discuss."
Upon this hint Darrel turned the conversation into other channels, and devoted himself to Mrs. Perth. Frank thus had an opportunity of chatting with Mildred. They talked on the most indifferent subjects, but all the time each one knew what the other wanted to say. Such sudden love seems incredible to those who have never loved; but anyone who has fallen a victim to the great passion knows how suddenly the devouring flame blazes into a conflagration. The two had seen little of one another, all things considering, and they had never become confidential. Yet they loved one another, and it needed only an unguarded moment of emotion for the truth to be openly acknowledged between them.
Darrel, with his side-glances, saw their embarrassment, their flushed cheeks, their efforts to appear easy, and took note of all. But with great self-control he continued his conversation with Mrs. Perth. For quite an hour he talked, and then rose to take his leave, at the same moment as Frank announced his intention of departing.
"I am stopping at the Rectory," said Darrel, when they passed through the gate. "You come my way, I think?"
"For some little distance," replied Frank, always on his guard, but suspecting no evil on the part of his companion.
For a time they strolled on in silence, down the lane, and out on to the dusty white road. Then Darrel commenced to converse on indifferent matters, and told stories about Africa. Also he stated his experiences in America. "I was at Los Angeles," he said.
Frank remembered how at the theatre he had said that he met Berry at Los Angeles, but made no comment on the remark. Darrel still continued to talk, till they halted in a quiet side road, whence Frank branched off to the Shanty. There Darrel stopped. "Miss Starth is in love with you," he said abruptly, his jealous eyes on the young man's face.
"What do you mean?" demanded the secretary, indignantly.
"And you are in love with her," went on the Rhodesian.
"I don't know what right you have to say these things."
"This much right," said Darrel, calmly. "I love Miss Starth, and I intend to make her my wife. If you clear out and leave her alone, I'll say nothing; if you don't, I'll have you arrested. You understand me, Lancaster."
Frank's heart almost stood still. "I am not--"
"Bah!" said Darrel, cutting him short, and pointing to his left hand. "When you disguise yourself, you should remove your ring. I fancied it was your voice when you spoke, and I saw that habit you have of slipping that ring up and down your finger. Also the ring itself, I remember it quite well."
Frank cursed his folly. The ring was a noticeable one, set with two black pearls. More of a lady's ring than a man's it was, but he wore it because it had belonged to his mother. There was no chance of keeping up his assumed character in the face of such evidence. "But I assure you, Darrel, I am innocent," he protested.
"I don't care two cents if you are innocent or guilty," said Darrel, coolly. "Starth was never a friend of mine, and objected to my marrying his sister. I've set my heart on making her my wife, because I love her with all my soul. She loves you."
"No, she doesn't!"
"She loves you," persisted Darrel. "Do you think I can't tell. I'm too deeply in love with her myself to make any mistake. I'm not going to have you queering my pitch. If you leave her alone and clear out, I'll hold my tongue."
"And if I don't?"
"I'll write to the London police. Inspector Herny will be glad to get you into his clutches. Now you know," and without further words Darrel turned on his heel and lumbered down the road like a heavy, clumsy steer.
For a few moments Frank stood alone in the shadow, feeling as though the brightness had died out of his life. He felt that he did not much care if he were arrested, so wearing was the _rôle_ he was playing, but the thought that Mildred would be told, that she would look upon him with loathing, made him shudder. He tried to stifle his thoughts, and hurried into the house to think what was best to be done. At that moment he sorely missed the wise head and staunch friendship of Jarman.
The door of the Shanty was wide open. Wondering at this, for Miss Cork was of that suspicious nature which always kept windows barred and doors closed, Frank stepped into the drawing-room. He glanced towards the mantelpiece where he had placed the photograph of Balkis. It was gone. A sudden suspicion seized him. He went to the kitchen. It was empty. Miss Cork had, vanished, and had taken the portrait with her!
Kingsbridge is the quaintest of towns, and was of great importance before the era of steam. Then fruit schooners ran as far as the Azores, and smuggling was a fine art; but now the glory and excitement has departed, and Kingsbridge is a quiet, clean, country town set in the heart of the Devonshire hills. At the top of the steep High Street dwelt Miss Dorothy Drake, and from her window she could behold the silver waters of the estuary and a panorama of undulating lands. The window was Miss Drake's favourite seat, and there she sat knitting for many a long hour, watching the landscape changing under the wonderful colours of the sky.
She was a quiet, homely little person, usually clothed in a grey stuff gown, and wearing the white, close-fitting cap of the sect she belonged to. Her serious face was the hue of old ivory, and she had mild blue eyes, the pensive expression of which, added to the calm look, soothed all to whom she spoke. When anyone was in trouble, he or she--it was usually a she--came for advice and comfort to Miss Drake, and both were freely given. She kept only one servant, a stout wench called Kezia, who adored her mistress, and who made it the study of her life that Miss Drake should be comfortable. The old lady had a little money of her own, and with this and the twenty pounds a month which came from America she lived in what she regarded as a luxurious way. But Miss Drake's luxury would have been the penury of other and more modern people.
The room in which she sat was as quaint as herself, and almost as small. The furniture was old, and polished brightly by Kezia. The curtains and hangings were faded, but the room was brightened by numerous antimacassars worked by its owner. There was a china cupboard containing hoarded cups and saucers, strange seashells on the mantelpiece, and portraits in oil of Miss Drake's ancestors on the walls. She did not claim descent from the famous Sir Francis, but admitted that she derived her blood from a distant branch of the family. At all events, the love of travel and seafaring was in the Drake blood, for two of Miss Drake's brothers had been merchant captains, and her only sister had travelled in quest of a situation to America. They were all dead now, and Miss Drake remained awaiting her summons in the small room in the small house at the top of Kingsbridge High Street. Miss Drake missed her nephew. She was much attached to him, and had done her best to bring him up since the time when he was entrusted to her charge at the tender age of two years. But Frank's ambitions had led him to London, and Miss Drake, knowing that it behoved him to fight the battle of life, had let him depart with a sigh. Sometimes he came to see her, and these occasions were always festivals. When the news of Frank's trouble came, Miss Drake sturdily refused to believe it, and prayed earnestly that Frank's innocence would be made evident in God's good time. She firmly believed that it would.
All the same, in spite of her undoubted faith, Miss Drake was much agitated over the matter. As the weeks went by and nothing was heard of Frank, she fretted over his disappearance until the good Kezia grew quite alarmed. But after a time, so long as no mention was made of the matter, she became calmer, and waited patiently for the result of her prayers. When Eustace called she was at once alarmed, divining that the arrival of this stranger had something to do with the trouble of her poor lost boy. She saw her visitor at once, and gave him tea out of wonderful egg-shell china. Eustace liked the old lady at sight, and strove to set her at her ease. In this he succeeded, for by the time they arrived at the most serious portion of their conversation Miss Drake was quite alert. She had been greatly cheered by Jarman's insistence on Frank's innocence.
"Though I never believed he was guilty," she said, in her quiet voice. "Friend Jarman, thou hast been a brother to him. Thy reward will come."
"I don't ask for any reward, Miss Drake. I am not the man to see a fellow like Frank--such a good fellow, too--go under without doing my best to help him. Well, I have told you that he is with me in disguise, and you know all the circumstances of the crime."
"So much, Friend Jarman, as the police could tell me."
"The police? Oh! has Inspector Herny been here?"
Miss Drake nodded, and looked at her knitting with her head on one side like a bright-eyed robin. "This Mr. Herny took possession of Frank's goods in the name of law and order. He found a letter addressed to me, and learnt that I was aunt to my poor boy. He came to learn if Frank had fled to me."
"I thought he would," said Jarman, drawing a long breath.
"I was not able to tell him anything," resumed Miss Drake, "but I insisted that Frank was innocent. Beyond a few papers, all Frank's goods have been sent here. I have paid up the rent of his rooms, and they are now let to another tenant. So when Frank comes to me, Friend Jarman, he will find that his worldly affairs are as settled as I, in my poor weak way, could arrange them."
"You have done splendidly, Miss Drake. And now that we know how we stand, I will come to the object of my visit. I want you to help me to prove Frank's innocence."
Miss Drake's hands trembled, and she stopped knitting. "Gladly would I do so, but thou art mistaken. I can do nothing."
"That depends upon what you know of Frank's father."
"I know very little, Friend Jarman. My sister Ruth met him in San Francisco, and married him. I never saw him myself. Why do you ask?"
"Well, it's this way, Miss Drake. I believe that Frank is the victim of a conspiracy, which involves a lot of money. You know that he had a Scarlet Bat tattooed on his right arm?"
"Truly I know that. Many a time have I seen it when he was a child. But I do not know what it means?"
"Did you never inquire?"
"From whom could I inquire, Friend Jarman? Frank knew nothing, and his father would not tell me. I never asked, as I did not think it was worth while. But had I inquired, Friend Lancaster would not have replied. According to Ruth, he was a silent and secretive man."
"Is Mrs. Lancaster alive now?"
"Alas! no. She died when giving birth to the boy. Friend Lancaster kept the baby with him for two years. Then, as he was going on some expedition, he sent the child to me, with a stipend of twenty pounds a month. I brought up the lad as I best knew how. He had a good education at the school here, and then departed to college. Afterwards, he dwelt in London as you know. That is his story. All I know."
"But the twenty pounds is paid regularly?"
Miss Drake nodded. "Through White & Saon, of Kirk Lane, London. I wished Frank to take it to himself, but he always refused. I use a part of it, but much I put aside. So," said the old lady, looking over her spectacles, "if he should be tried, or if he is in need of money now, Friend Jarman, I have a hundred or so waiting for him."
"It will come in handy," said Jarman, idly. He was disappointed at the scanty information afforded by the old lady. "Have you any letters from Mr. Lancaster?" he asked.
Miss Drake rose, and produced from a cabinet a bundle of envelopes with the American postmark. These she placed in Jarman's hands, and, having obtained permission, he examined them carefully. While he did so the old lady examined him stealthily and anxiously. Twice she frowned, as if trying to solve some problem.
"There's nothing here likely to throw any light on the subject," said Eustace, tying up the bundle again in the faded blue ribbon.
"What didst thou expect to find, Friend Jarman?"
Eustace pinched his nether lip in perplexity. "I thought to find some mention of Banjo Berry," he said, frowning, "for it seems to me that he is at the bottom of all this business. For some reason he wants Frank hanged."
"An evil man--an evil man!" said Miss Drake, shaking her head.
"Oh, he's one of the worst," continued Eustace; "but in these letters"--he laid his hand on the bundle--"there is no mention of him. These only ask after the boy and announce the remittance of money. But I notice," said Eustace, looking at his hostess sharply, "that there are no late letters."
Miss Drake nodded. "Quite so, Friend Jarman. For many years there have been none. Friend Lancaster stopped writing to me when his son was aged ten. That is nearly fifteen years ago."
"So I understand," said Eustace, pondering. "Frank is twenty-five in September. His birthday is in a few weeks."
The old lady took off her spectacles and rubbed them with a vexed air. She appeared about to say something, but closing her mouth firmly she went on knitting. Jarman was annoyed as he saw that she was not quite open with him. However, he made no direct comment, but resumed the conversation as though he had noticed nothing. "Do you think old Mr. Lancaster is dead?" he asked.
"I cannot say, I think he is," said Miss Drake, with a worried look, "but Frank thinks otherwise, Friend Jarman. He would have gone to San Francisco to learn, but that I asked him to wait till his twenty-fifth birthday."
Jarman recalled Natty's remark that he was entitled to money after his birthday in September. Frank was the same age, and was born on the same day, so it would seem from Miss Drake's remark that to his birthday also there was something attached. "Is Frank entitled to any money?" he asked. "Is there a will, or--"
"There is no money as far as I know, Friend Jarman," said Miss Drake, rising; she paused, then went on. "But my heart misgives me."
"Why should it?"
"There is some mystery about the boy," continued Miss Drake, still agitated. "That mark on his arm is strange--and then the sealed letter."
It was for the mention of the sealed letter that Jarman had been waiting. Now that Miss Drake had mentioned it of her own free will, he no longer disguised the object of his visit. "It was to get that letter that I came down."
"Why?" asked Miss Drake, suspiciously.
"Because I think it may solve the mystery of Berry's enmity. Miss Drake," he went on, earnestly, "this man Berry has in his clutches a fellow called Denham, who seems to be an ass as far as I can judge. Denham is of the same age as your nephew, and was born on the same day. He also has a Scarlet Bat tattooed; but he is marked on the left arm. I believe that there is a sum of money--a fortune--perhaps the one to which Denham alludes. Berry is trying to get Frank out of the way, so that Denham may obtain the money, in which case he will have the handling of it. Of course this is all supposition, but I can account for the extraordinary circumstances in no other way."
Miss Drake heard him quietly, her bright eyes fixed on his earnest face. "I believe thou art a good man, Friend Eustace," she said, "and, for the sake of my poor boy, I will trust thee. Sixteen years ago, just before Friend Lancaster stopped writing, he sent me an envelope which he asked me to give Frank on his twenty-fifth birthday. I intended to do so with my own hands, but as this trouble prevents me from doing so, I will give the letter to thee--" She stopped and folded her hands as though in prayer. "I trust I am doing right," she murmured to herself, "but the man seems good and kindly."
"I swear you can trust me, Miss Drake. I have Frank's interests at heart. I shall take the letter back, and ask Frank to open it."
"But it was not to be opened until his twenty-fifth birthday."
"Under the circumstances I think it should be opened at once," pleaded Jarman, earnestly; "there is no good to be gained by waiting. And, remember, Frank is in great danger. Should Berry succeed in tracing him, he will denounce him at once to the police. If Frank is tried, I don't see what defence he can put forward."
"But he is innocent, poor lamb."
"I am sure of that. But the circumstantial evidence is too strong."
Miss Drake thought for a few moments. "Friend Jarman," she said at length, "by his unhappy position Frank is tied hand and foot, and thou must act for him. If thou dost think that the letter is vital to the proving of his innocence, why not open it now?"
Eustace shook his head. "I can't say if the letter will prove his innocence," he said doubtfully, "but it may be a clue to the mystery. I prefer that Frank should open the letter."
"I will get it for thee," said Miss Drake, rising. "One moment," said Jarman as she walked to the door. "Have you ever heard the name of Tamaroo?"
"No. A strange name. But I know it not."
"It's not mentioned in the letters either," said Eustace to himself as the old lady left the room, "yet it has something to do with the Scarlet Bat, and _that_ I am certain has to do with the mystery. A queer affair." He thrust his hands into his pockets and looked out of the window. "I can't see what it all means."
Miss Drake returned and placed in his hands a common-looking envelope which, from the fold, had evidently come inside another letter. It was addressed to "My son Francis!" and was sealed with red wax. Jarman drew near the window and looked at the seal. Then he muttered an ejaculation--"The Scarlet Bat again!"
"Yes," said Miss Drake, divining his astonishment, "the seal is the same as the mark on the poor lad's arm."
"I am more convinced than ever that this has to do with the solution of the mystery," said Jarman, placing the letter in his pocket-book. "Wherever we look we meet with the Scarlet Bat. I shall take this to Frank, and on my way to Wargrove I will call on White & Saon. They may know something. By the way, have you a photograph of Mr. Lancaster?"
"Yes. Ruth sent me a photograph taken with her husband when they were married," and Miss Drake, taking a picture in a silver frame from a distant corner of the room, showed it to Jarman.
Mrs. Lancaster was a sweet-looking, mild woman, not unlike Miss Drake, her sister. But Lancaster was a picturesque, resolute man, with a firm mouth and a pair of rather fierce eyes. Frank resembled both his parents, but favoured his mother most. Jarman examined the photograph carefully, then rose to go. "I shall tell you what this contains when Frank opens it," he said, "and if possible I shall get Frank to come down and see you."
Jarman did not let the grass grow under his feet. With the sealed letter in his pocket-book he returned that same evening to London. He put up at a small hotel for a few hours, and, leaving his bag there, went to see White & Saon towards midday. Had he consulted his own inclinations he would have gone immediately to Wargrove, as he had a great curiosity to see Frank open the sealed envelope. But he thought it best to follow on the warpath as long as possible, on the chance of something new turning up. It didn't do to waste time with so active an enemy as Berry.
Near the Mansion House he met Dickey Baird, who was always prowling about the City in connection with mysterious stocks and shares. His friends declared that Dickey lost more money than he made--but Dickey always talked with the air of a Rothschild. He knew Jarman very well, and saluted him gaily. Eustace was not averse to talking with Baird, thinking Dickey the ubiquitous might have something to say of the Captain and his niece. After the exchange of a few words, Jarman introduced the subject of the murder as speedily as he dared without attracting attention.
"I say, Dickey, have you heard anything of Lancaster?"
"No, poor chap. He's cleared out. I daresay he's in America. In fact, I know a fellow who thought he saw him in Liverpool."
"No doubt," replied Eustace, thinking it was best to encourage this idea and put Berry on a wrong trail. "The most sensible thing he could do was to cut."
"But I say, Jarman, you don't believe that he's guilty?"
"Don't you?" asked Eustace, alertly.
"No. Or if I do," added Dickey, rather inconsequently, "it was an accident. I'll never believe that a good chap like Lancaster killed another in so brutal a way."
"What do you mean by an accident?"
"Well, you see, Frank rather admired Starth's sister--"
"Ha!" said Eustace with a start. "I remember, she was in a box."
"Rather looking the beauty of the world. Ripping girl, just the sort of Diana of the Chase I'd like to marry."
"Go on--go on!"
"Well, Frank thought she was a ripper, and wished to know her. Of course, Starth's rowdy manners prevented a proper introduction. Frank never intended to quarrel with Starth on that night. He was all for making it up and getting to know the beauty. But Starth was so insulting that Frank had to stand up for himself. He lost his temper did Frank, and made a lot of silly speeches which were used afterwards in evidence against him. Hang it!" added Dickey, in an injured tone, "that beastly Berry hauled me into the thing, and I had to tell the rot that Frank had been talking. I said he was a silly ass at the time. But he never meant any of it. It was all sheer rage at that pig Starth, and you know he was a pig, Jarman. I wonder you made a friend of him."
"He wasn't much of a friend."
"You introduced Frank to him, anyhow."
"Only in a casual way. Go on. Let's hear your theory."
"Well, the last thing Lancaster said to me on that night was that he was sorry he had such a row, and that he wished he could make it up. I guess he went to see Starth next day for that purpose. There was another row, and Frank shot him. He would carry that revolver of his, though I was always telling him what a fool he was. So if he did shoot Jarman he shot in a rage, same as when he called the names. I hope he'll save his neck."
"Do you think there's any chance he won't?"
"Not so far as the police are concerned. But the skipper swears he'll hunt him down. You know he offered a reward of two hundred?"
"Yes. Has anyone got it?"
Dickey shook his head. "No. And Berry's offering five hundred now. I can't think why he's so keen on catching Frank. He pretended to be a friend of his, and wasn't fond of Starth from all I saw, although they were as thick as thieves."
"Do you think Berry really means business?" asked Eustace after a time. "All this offering a reward might be an advertisement for Fan."
"It might. But if jaw goes for anything he's bent on collaring Frank. He swears he'll hunt him down, if it costs him a thousand. I say," he added, looking wise, "I believe Berry and Starth were in business as partners over something and the business has gone bang. That's what made Berry mad."
"What sort of business?"
"I can't say. But when Starth was drunk he used to jaw about a million pounds he hoped to make some day. Berry shut him up once pretty sharp when he burbled like that, so I think Berry was in it."
"If it's anything shady, you may be sure Berry has something to do with it," said Eustace. "Goodbye, Dickey, I must be off."
When on his way to Kirk Lane Jarman mused over the information. He was sure now that the invitation of Starth had been a trap into which the man himself had somehow fallen. The amount at stake was a million, which was large enough a sum in Berry's eyes to justify even the murder of one man and the hanging of another. No wonder Berry offered a reward for the apprehension of Frank, if in the capture lay his chance of securing so large a fortune. But what puzzled Eustace, and what had puzzled him all along, was why it should be necessary to hang Frank. Had Lancaster been entitled to the money it would have been sufficient to have killed him, and while lying drugged on the sofa he could easily have been despatched. Indeed, the drug itself might have been administered in a sufficient quantity to polish him off. "It's an infernal mystery," said Jarman, flogging his brains to arrive at some conclusion. "I can't see the pivot on which the thing turns. Perhaps these lawyers may supply a clue."
Messrs. White & Saon were most respectable solicitors. They occupied a dingy, dark office at the top of Kirk Lane at the end furthest from Cheapside. The senior partner was engaged, but Jarman was told that he could see Saon. He had with him a letter of introduction from Miss Dorothy Drake, and sent this in with the clerk. After some delay he was conducted into a kind of dust-hole with a grimy skylight, packed with books and boxes and law papers. In the centre of this sat a spick-and-span gentleman of over fifty, with a heavy face and a smiling, easy-going mouth. He held the open letter of Miss Drake, and welcomed Jarman politely. "We are very glad to see any friend of our esteemed client," said Mr. Saon. "And what can I do for you Mr.--Mr.--"--he consulted the letter--"Mr. Jarman?"
"I want to know something about Mr. Lancaster?" said Eustace.
The smiling face grew serious. "I don't quite understand," said Mr. Saon, stiffly. "We have no knowledge of the whereabouts of that unfortunate young gentleman. Had he placed himself in our hands we should have done our best at his trial, As it is, we are in darkness."
"I see you are unwilling to speak openly," said Jarman.
Mr. Saon placed the tips of his fat fingers together. "Why," said he, "it's a delicate position--a very delicate position. You come to us armed with a letter from an esteemed client who asks us to tell you all you may ask. But the client in question, Mr. Jarman, happens to be a lady, and ladies--if you will pardon me--rarely have any idea of business."
"I have, however," replied Jarman, drily--although he could not blame the lawyer for his caution--"and when I tell you that I am the most intimate friend Mr. Lancaster has, perhaps you will not object to tell me something about his father."
Mr. Saon sprang from his seat in sheer surprise. "His father!" he repeated. "Dear me? Mr. Jarman, I understood you to inquire about the son--our unfortunate client."
"Oh!"--Eustace passed over the point of the remark--"then you admit that Frank Lancaster is your client?"
"You allude to the son, I presume?"
"Of course. I said Frank."
"The father's name is also Frank," replied Saon. "If you don't mind, we will talk of father and son, as more explicit. May I ask why you make these inquiries?"
"I wish to prove the innocence of the son."
"Oh! then you believe him to be innocent?"
"Certainly I do. What do you say?"
Mr. Saon coughed delicately. "I say nothing. The facts are not before me. I sincerely hope that the son is innocent. But if he had been well advised he would have placed his case in our hands."
"And then would have been hanged for his pains!" said Eustace, roughly, for he saw that this dignified gentleman was bent solely on making money; and whether Frank had been proved innocent or guilty, would have been equally pleased, provided the bill of costs was discharged. "As a matter of fact, I advised the son to lie low!"
"Ah! then I understand that you have seen him since his misfortune?"
"I have. I was the first person he came to."
Saon's face showed great interest. "Are you aware that there is a reward offered for his apprehension by a friend of the deceased?"
Eustace nodded grimly. "I know the amount of the reward and the friend also. Do you wish me to earn it?"
"No, no; certainly not! You shock me--you inexpressibly shock me, Mr. Jarman. But if you really know the whereabouts of our unfortunate client, tell him to come to us, and--"
"I'll do nothing of the sort," interrupted Jarman, "the evidence is too strong against him."
"But if he is innocent?"
"Innocent men have been hanged before now, Mr. Saon. No, sir, you let me manage the matter in my own way. When I have in my hands sufficient evidence to save Lancaster--the son, of course--from being hanged out of hand, you will step in."
"Well"--Saon scratched his chin--"I am not prepared to say but what that may not be the wiser course. And you wish to get some information from us to bring about this state of things?"
"I do. You receive a sum of money monthly from 'Frisco."
"From San Francisco," corrected the heavy man. "We do."
"Does Mr. Lancaster the father send it?"
"That I can't tell you. Our agents there are very respectable, as you may guess, and for many years they have sent us this sum monthly. We pay it to Miss Drake--our esteemed client--at the request of that unfortunate young gentleman. But it is understood that the money really goes to him."
"Is Mr. Lancaster the father alive?"
"We cannot say."
"Have you ever asked your respectable San Francisco firm?"
"No, certainly not. There is no need to. We receive the money and we pay it over. That is all that concerns us."
"Do you know anything about the father?"
"Nothing, absolutely nothing. Twenty-three years ago he sent home the son to Miss Drake--our esteemed client--and arranged with our San Francisco agents to pay a monthly sum of twenty pounds for the child's keep. The child is now the unfortunate young man in question, but the money is still paid. I know nothing more."
"Would you mind making inquiries of your agents?"
Saon shook his stupid head. "I don't think it would do, Mr. Jarman; no, I really don't think it would do. So long as the money arrives, we have no right to pry into private business."
"But to save Frank Lancaster?"
"Not even for that. We have our own high position to think of." Jarman could have thrown a book at the head of this dignified ass, who would have let a man die to preserve what he called his position. But it was no use getting angry, lest the man should refuse to say more, therefore Jarman swallowed his temper and continued his questions.
"Do you think the father is still alive?"
Saon did not reply for a moment. Then he looked up. "I said just now that I did not know," he said in a more reasonable tone; "but the fact is I do. Do you think that such information would really be of service to the son?"
"I am sure of it."
"Then I can tell you that Mr. Lancaster, senior, is dead."
"Dead! And when did he die?"
"That I can't say. It was a negro who told us."
"A negro!" Jarman looked astonished, and wondered what was coming.
"You may well look surprised, Mr. Jarman. But a negro came to see us--a grey-haired negro, possessed of great muscular strength although he was but small. He inquired about Mr. Lancaster the son, as he had information to impart to him about the death of Mr. Lancaster the father. He refused to tell us anything beyond what I have said."
"Why didn't you send him to the son?" asked Jarman, testily.
"Because we did not know where the son was to be found."
"Oh! the negro came after the murder of Starth?"
"Yes; a week later. We told him that our unfortunate client had been accused of the crime and had escaped justice. The negro then departed, although we offered to do all we could towards proving the will."
Jarman pricked up his ears. "Is there a will?"
"I suspect there is, Mr. Jarman, and I suspect that the negro is the bearer of it. Had Mr. Lancaster the father made his will in San Francisco he would have executed it in the office of our esteemed agents. As it is, we have not heard from them. But, strange to say," added Saon, "the twenty pounds has been paid this month as usual. I really don't know what to make of it."
"Nor I. I suppose there must be a will?"
"I think so, since the late Mr. Lancaster is dead and was a man of means. If you can find this negro--"
"What is his name?" interrupted Eustace.
"We cannot tell you that. He refused to inform us. In fact," added Mr. Saon, drawing himself up, "for an African he was impertinent."
"Why didn't you kick him?" said Eustace, rising. "H'm! Is this all you can tell me?"
"All. And if you will let us know where Mr. Lancaster the son is to be found, we shall have much pleasure in proving the will."
"The will has to be found first, and the negro," said Eustace, coolly; "and also Frank Lancaster has to get his neck out of the noose before he can let himself be arrested."
"Quite so. I admire your caution, Mr. Jarman. Still, if Mr. Lancaster the son will only place himself in our hands--"
Jarman's patience with this old ass was exhausted. "He would be hanged within the month. Good-day." And he hurried away, leaving Saon a frozen statue of indignation.
But he was not so indignant as Eustace returning to his hotel. "Silly fools!" he said, wrathfully, to himself. "They'd juggle with a man's life just to get their costs. Frank sha'n't show up, to be slaughtered by them, if I can help it. That negro! H'm! And Balkis is a negress. I wonder if the man was a spy of Berry's trying to find out the whereabouts of Frank? I must think this over. Upon my word!" lamented Eustace, hailing a hansom, "the more I go into this case the more mysterious it seems. Well, there's one comfort, the sealed letter may give us a clue to the mystery. I'll go down by the six train, and may know all about it before retiring to rest."
At his hotel he alighted and went in. Then he suddenly recollected that he had not sent a wire to Frank. To be on the safe side, although he was sending it to O'Neil, he went to the telegraph-office himself. On his way hither he, knowing the neighbourhood well, took a short cut through some by-streets. As he was turning a corner he heard a fresh young voice singing some song, the burden of which was "Tamaroo! Tamaroo!" Hardly believing his ears, Eustace dashed round the corner to hear who was repeating the last word which poor murdered Anchor had uttered. He came nearly on top of a ragged urchin, a true guttersnipe, who was dancing gaily in the gutter to the music of his own minstrelsy: