Although Jennings appeared to acquiesce in Mallow's suggestion that the case should be abandoned, he had not the slightest intention of leaving the matter alone. His professional pride was irritated by the difficulties, and he swore that he would in some way learn the truth. Moreover, the matter did not only deal with the death of Miss Loach, but with the discovery of a coining gang. From various obvious facts connected with the Crooked Lane crime, Jennings made sure that such a gang was in existence, and that the factory had been in the unfinished house. Now that the house was burnt down, it would seem that the coiners had lost their city of refuge, and would probably give up their nefarious trade. As the gang—judging from the number of false coins circulated during the past five years—had been in existence for a long time, it was probable that the members had made sufficient money to retire from so dangerous a business.
"I wonder if the house was set on fire by this arrested man, out of revenge," thought Jennings, as he dressed to go out, "or whether the gang, finding things were growing dangerous since the death of Miss Loach, ordered him to destroy the factory? I can hardly think that, as to preserve the secret, Miss Loach was assassinated. It is not likely that after paying so terrible a price, such destruction would be agreed upon. Certainly the factory may be removed to another place. Humph! I wonder if I can trace it. The best thing for me to do will be to go to Rexton and look at the ruins."
So to Rexton the detective went, and found a large crowd round the wall of the park. This had been broken down in several places so as to admit the fire engines, and Jennings found a policeman on duty who had been one of the first to see the fire, and who had indeed summoned the brigade. On telling his name and position, the man was willing to state all he knew.
"I was on duty about eight o'clock," he said officially. "There was a high wind blowing, but the night was fine and dry. While walking down Crooked Lane, intending to take the path to the station, I saw a light behind the wall of the park. Then a tongue of flame shot up, and it didn't need much cleverness to see that the old house was on fire. Almost before I could collect my wits, sir, the place was in a blaze. You see the dry weather, the heat and the high wind, made everything blaze finely. I signalled for the brigade, and it came up as soon as possible. But as there is no gate in the wall, we had to break it down to get the engines in. There was a large crowd by this time, and we had all the help we needed. By this time the whole house was flaming like a bonfire. When we got the wall down the most part of the house was gone, and the fire had caught the surrounding shrubs, so all we could do was to halt on the edge of the mass and squirt water, in the hope of putting out the flames. But, Lord bless you!" said the officer with good-humored contempt, "you might as well have tried with a child's squirt. As you see, sir, everything is gone within the wall. Leastways, all but that big oak near the wall."
It was as the man said. House, trees, shrubs, even the grass had been swept away by the fierce flames. Within the walls which had secluded the place from the world was a blackened space covered with debris. Where the house had stood was a mound of twisted iron girders, charred beams and broken slates. And everywhere the wind was lifting the fine gray ashes and scattering them abroad, as though in sorrow for the destruction of the previous night. Jennings took all this in at a glance. Policemen were on guard at the various gaps in the wall, as no one was allowed to enter. But the detective, by virtue of his office, walked across the bare expanse with the inspector, and trod under foot the black ashes. There was nothing to be gained, however, by this inspection. All that could be seen were the destroyed park and the mound where the house had been. "What of the cellars?" asked Jennings.
"Well," said Inspector Twining genially, "I suppose there are cellars, but there's nothing in them. The house was shut up for years by a queer nobleman."
"By Lord Caranby," replied the detective. "I know. I suppose the cellars are under that heap. I must get Lord Caranby to allow me to clear it away."
"I expect that will be done, whether or no. Lord Caranby came down and told one of our men that he intended to throw down the wall and let the place as a building site. So when the building begins the heap will soon be cleared away and the cellars laid bare. But there's nothing there," said the inspector again.
"I am not so sure of that."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing. I have an idea," answered the detective, who did not wish to tell the man how he now began to fancy that the factory for safety had been placed in the cellars. "By the way, did this man who was arrested give his name?"
"No. He refuses to answer any questions. He was, as you know, Mr. Jennings, arrested for trying to pass a bad shilling, but there is no doubt he fired the place. The bottle of petroleum he had in his possession was empty, and—"
"Yes! I heard all that. Where is he now?"
The inspector named a place near Rexton where the man had been incarcerated, pending being brought before the magistrate. "I am going that way," said the inspector. "If you like to come—"
"I'll come," said Jennings. "I intended to see this man. There has been a lot of talk about false coins being passed lately."
Mr. Twining nodded, and began to tell of various cases which had taken place in the district. The two took the train to the place where the police station to which the inspector belonged was situated. It was now after twelve o'clock, and Jennings thought he would have some luncheon before going to the station. But, unexpectedly, a constable seeing the inspector, came hurriedly towards him, saluting as he spoke.
"Please, sir, you're wanted at the station," he said. "A message was sent to Rexton."
"I have just come from Rexton. What is it?"
"That man who was arrested for coining, sir?"
"What about him?" asked the inspector, while Jennings listened with all his ears. He was far from expecting to hear the reply.
"He is dead, sir," said the policeman.
"Dead! What do you mean? He was well enough this morning."
"Well, sir, he's dead now—poisoned!"
"Poisoned!" echoed Jennings, and thought—"Ha! here's an undesirable witness got out of the way." Then he followed in the wake of the inspector, who on hearing the news, hurriedly walked towards the police station. Here they found that the news was true. The constable left in charge of the office was greatly agitated, as it seemed he had been lax in doing his duty. But he made a faithful report.
"It was this way, sir," he said, trying to speak calmly. "A boy of fifteen, very poorly dressed—in rags almost—came crying and asking for the prisoner. He said the prisoner was his father."
"How did he know that, when the prisoner gave no name and was arrested only last night?"
"The boy—Billy Tyke his name is, so I suppose the father is called Tyke also—says his father went out last night. He was always a drunkard, and left the boy to starve. The boy followed him later, and knowing he would be on the burst, went to the public-house, where the man was arrested for passing the bad shilling. There, he was told that his father was in jail, and came here to ask us to let him see him."
"You should have refused and have detained the boy. Well?"
"I was moved by the little chap's tears," said the constable, abashed, "so I let him go into the cell."
"Were you with him?" asked the inspector sharply.
"No, sir. We left them alone for a few minutes. As the boy was so sad and cut up, I thought there would be no harm in doing that. Well, sir, the boy came out again in ten minutes, still crying, and said he would get a lawyer to defend his father. He did not believe his father had passed the money. Then he went away. Later—about half an hour later, we went into the cell and found the man lying groaning, with an empty bottle of whisky beside him. The doctor came and said he thought the man had been poisoned. The man groaned and said the young shaver had done for him. Then he became unconscious and died."
Jennings listened to this statement calmly. He saw again the hand of the coiners. The person who controlled the members evidently thought that the man would blab, and accordingly took precautionary measures to silence him. Without doubt, the man had been poisoned, and the boy had been sent to do it. "What is the boy like?" he asked.
"Billy Tyke, sir?" said the constable, replying on a nod from his chief, to whom he looked for instructions, "a thin boy, fair and with red rims round his eyes—looks half starved, sir, and has a scarred mouth, as though he had been cut on the upper lip with a knife."
Jennings started, but suppressed his emotion under the keen eyes of the observant Twining. He had an idea that he knew who the boy was, but as yet could not be sure. "I'll cut along to the public-house where this man was arrested," said Jennings, "I suppose you'll hold an inquest."
"Certainly, seeing the man has been poisoned." Then the inspector proceeded to rebuke the constable who had performed his duty so ill, and threatened him with dismissal. Jennings left in the midst of the trouble, after getting the inspector to promise that he would report the result of the inquest.
At the public-house—it was the "White Horse," Keighley, an adjoining suburb—Jennings learned that the man who called himself—or rather who was called by his presumed son—Tyke, was not an habitue of the place. Therefore, the boy could not have known that his supposed father was there. Apparently some information had reached the lad, whereby he was able to trace Tyke to the prison, and had carried to him there the bottle of poisoned whisky. Jennings returned to town quite satisfied that he had another clue to the existence of the coiners. Also, he determined to satisfy himself on a point concerning Maraquito, about which he had long been in doubt.
For the next few days Jennings did nothing. He kept away from Mallow, as he did not wish that young man to know that he was still going on with the case. Sometimes he went to Maraquito's place, and learned incidentally that, as there was a chance of her being cured, she was about to give up the gambling salon. Jennings quite expected this information, and assured Hale, who gave it to him, that it was the best thing Maraquito could do. "Sooner or later the police will pounce down on this place," he said.
"As you are a detective, I wonder you haven't stopped it before," said Hale, with an unpleasant smile.
"I had my reasons," said Jennings calmly, "besides, Maraquito has conducted the place quite respectably. I suppose," he added idly, "you will go abroad also?"
"What do you mean by that?" demanded Hale in silky tones.
"Mrs. Herne has gone to the Continent," said Jennings quietly, "and if Senora Gredos gives up this very dangerous business, she may go also. As you will be deprived of two of your friends, Mr. Hale, doubtless you will go also."
"I might. One never knows," replied Hale coolly.
"By the way?" asked Jennings, looking round, "I was admitted by a parlor-maid this evening. Where is Gibber?"
"I believe Senora Gredos has dismissed him for dishonesty."
"Ah, really," replied the detective, who had his own opinion. "So it seems Senora Gredos is getting rid of her household already."
Hale winced under the eye of Jennings and turned away with a shrug. He was apparently glad to get away. Jennings looked after him with a smile. "I'll catch the whole gang," he murmured, and took his departure, having learned what he wished to know—to wit, that Gibber had disappeared.
"Without doubt he was the boy who poisoned Tyke," said Jennings, as he walked home with a cigar for company. "I believe Maraquito is the head of the gang, and the fatal woman that Caranby talks about. She heard that Tyke had been arrested, and sent the boy to poison him lest he should blab. I wonder if it was by her direction that the house was fired. Well, I'll wait. As yet I cannot get a warrant, having nothing but theory to go on. But the nets are being spread, and unless Maraquito and her friends clear out with Mrs. Herne, they will be caught. When they are all in jail there may be some chance of learning who murdered that unfortunate woman in Rose Cottage."
Later on, Jennings received the report of the inquest, which appeared also that evening in the newspapers. It seemed that Tyke had been poisoned with arsenic, administered in the whisky bottle. From his appearance he was a hard drinker, and doubtless the boy had no difficulty in inducing him to drink. Tyke had drank freely—indeed the doctor said he had taken enough to kill three men,—and therefore he had died almost immediately the boy left, and before he had time to speak. The inspector, who wrote to Jennings, stated that the constable who had admitted the boy had been dismissed the force, but the boy himself could not be traced. "I shouldn't be surprised if he had taken refuge in the cellars of the house," said Jennings, "that is, if the factory is there. I must see Caranby and get his permission to remove the rubbish. Only when I have searched the foundation of that house, will my suspicions be set at rest."
Unexpected aid came to help him in this quarter, as Caranby sent a note, stating that the rubbish and debris of the fire would be removed next week, and inviting Jennings to be present. Caranby added that Mallow had resumed his visits to the "Shrine of the Muses," but that Mrs. Octagon still continued hostile. Basil, however, was more friendly. "I daresay," commented Jennings, on reading this last sentence, "he has his own axe to grind over that money."
It was about this time that the detective received a visit from Susan Grant. She looked as neat and timid as usual, and appeared at his rooms one morning with a request for an interview. "I said I would help Mr. Mallow if I could," she said when seated.
"Oh, and have you anything likely to help him,-"
"Not exactly," said Susan, "but I found some old papers of father's."
"I don't quite understand," said the detective, who did not see what the girl's father had to do in the matter.
"Well, it's this way, sir. Father was poisoned five years ago."
"Who poisoned him?"
"That we never knew," explained Susan. "Father's name was Maxwell, but when mother married Mr. Grant she made me take that name. It was supposed that father committed suicide, and mother felt the disgrace dreadful. That was why she married and changed the name. But I don't believe father, when on the point of making us rich, would swallow so much arsenic as he did."
"What's that—arsenic?" said Jennings, recalling the death of Tyke.
"Yes, sir. It was this way. Father was working at Rexton—"
"At Rexton?" said Jennings impatiently, "yes, yes, go on."
"At a house near the railway station which I can point out, mother having seen it when she went to inquire."
"Inquire about what?"
"About father's secret job. He had one he used to go to for three hours every day by agreement with the foreman. Father was very clever and could do all sorts of things. Mother never knew what the job was, but father said it would make us all rich."
"Yes, go on." Jennings looked at her, nursing his chin.
"The other day I came across some papers," said Susan, taking a roll out of her pocket. "And it proved to be plans of father's secret job. And you might have knocked me down with a feather, Mr. Jennings, when I saw on the plans the name of Rose Cottage."
The detective jumped up, greatly excited. "Rose Cottage!" he cried, holding out his hands. "The plans—the plans!"
"I brought them, as I know Miss Saxon who now has Rose Cottage, is engaged to Mr. Mallow—"
"Haven't you got over that nonsense yet?" said Jennings, who was looking eagerly at the plans.
"Yes, I have," replied Miss Grant, confidentially. "I am engaged to a rising young baker who is just a foreman just now, but we hope to save and start a shop. Still, I promised to help Mr. Mallow, and I thought he would like to see those plans. You see, sir, they have to do with Rose Cottage."
"Yes, I do see," almost shouted Jennings, "and I'll bag the whole lot."
"What are you talking about, sir?"
"Ah, I forgot you don't know," said the detective subsiding, "I'll tell you later. But you have made a discovery, Susan. This plan shows a secret entrance into Rose Cottage."
"I know it does, sir, and I thought Miss Saxon would like to see it. I don't know what Miss Loach wanted with a secret entrance, though."
"I fancy I do," said Jennings, rolling up the plans. "Your father was a very clever man, Susan. Too clever for some people. He made this secret entrance when the new wing of the cottage was built five years ago, and those who employed him gave him arsenic by way of a reward. Tyke died of arsenic also, so they are carrying on the same game."
"Oh dear, oh dear!" wept Susan, not hearing the latter part of the sentence. "So father was poisoned after all. Who did it, sir?"
"I can't tell you that," said Jennings, becoming cautious. "You had better say nothing about this, Susan, till I give you leave. You have done Mr. Mallow a great service. These plans may lead to a discovery of the murderer."
"And then Miss Saxon will marry Mr. Mallow."
"Yes. Will you be sorry?"
"No, Mr. Jennings. I am quite satisfied with my baker."
"Then I tell you what, Susan. Lord Caranby has offered a reward for the detection of the murderer. If these plans lead to his detection, you will receive a sufficient sum to set up in business."
While Jennings was thus working at the case, and hoping to bring it to a successful issue, Cuthbert was resting in the happy belief that no further steps were being taken. The detective had appeared so despondent when Mallow called with Caranby that the former thought with some show of reason that he meant what he said. Had he known that Jennings was still active he would have been much disturbed.
Agreeably to Cuthbert's suggestion, Juliet had offered the money of Miss Loach to her mother. But Mrs. Octagon refused to be bribed—as she put it—into consenting to the match. In the presence of Mallow himself, she expressed the greatest detestation for him and for his uncle, and told Juliet she would never acknowledge her as a daughter if she married the young man. The poor girl was thus between two fires—that of her love for Cuthbert, and that of her mother's hearty hatred for the Earl and his nephew. Under the circumstances Cuthbert thought it best to remain away from the "Shrine of the Muses" for a time until Mrs. Octagon could be brought to see reason. But she was so obstinate a woman that it was doubtful if she would ever behave in an agreeable manner. Cuthbert returned to his rooms in a rather low state of mind. He knew that Juliet, whatever happened, would remain true to him, and had quite hoped to bribe Mrs. Octagon into consenting by means of the inherited money. But now things seemed more hopeless than ever. Juliet, although not very fond of her mother, was a devoted daughter from a sense of duty, and it would be difficult to bring her to consent to a match against which the elder woman so obstinately set her face.
Certainly Juliet had said she would marry with or without her mother's consent, but now that the consent was withheld with violent words, she seemed inclined to wait. However, if she did not marry Mallow, he knew well that she would marry no one else, least of all the objectionable Arkwright, Cuthbert derived some degree of comfort from this small fact. He wondered if there was any chance of forcing Mrs. Octagon into giving her consent, but after surveying the situation could see no opportunity.
After dinner that night, Cuthbert was thinking of going to see his uncle, who still stopped at the Avon Hotel. When Hale was announced. Mallow was surprised. The lawyer was not a friend of his, and he had no liking for his company. However, he felt a certain curiosity as to the reason of this unexpected visit and welcomed the man with civility. But he did not ask him to have any coffee though it was on the table. Cuthbert held to the traditions of the East regarding bread and salt, and he wished to leave himself free to deal with Hale as an enemy, should occasion arise, as it might. Hale was far too intimate with Maraquito to please the young man. And Maraquito's attentions were far too pressing to make Cuthbert feel comfortable in her presence.
"Well, Mr. Hale," said Mallow coldly, "why have you come?"
The lawyer, who was in an evening suit and dressed with taste and care, took a seat, although not invited to do so. He looked cold and calm, but there was an excited gleam in his large eyes which showed that his calmness masked some emotion, the cause of which Cuthbert could not fathom. "I have come to see you about young Saxon," he said.
"Really," answered Mallow coolly, although surprised, "what can you have to say to me about him."
"He is your friend—"
"Pardon me. I can hardly call him so. We are acquaintances only."
"But you are engaged to his sister," persisted Hale.
Mallow threw away the cigarette he was lighting and jumped up. "I see no reason why Miss Saxon's name should be mentioned, Mr. Hale."
"Don't you, Mr. Mallow? I do."
"Then I object to your mentioning it. State your business and go, Mr. Hale. I have no acquaintance with you."
"I can't state my business unless I mention Miss Saxon's name."
"Then you will please to take yourself off," said Mallow.
Hale smiled coldly, though evidently annoyed. "I think it is to your interest to hear me," he said deliberately, "and to the interest of the lady whom you hope to call your wife."
"Does this business concern Miss Saxon?"
"Indirectly it does. But it rather has to do with her brother."
Mallow frowned. The conversation was taking a turn of which he did not approve. However, he knew well the dangerous ground upon which he stood with regard to the case, and thought it best to hear what his unexpected visitor had to say. "State your business," he said curtly.
"Very good," replied Hale, nursing his silk hat on his knee. "I see you don't offer me coffee or a cigarette."
"We are not friends, sir. And let me remind you that you thrust yourself uninvited on me."
"To do you a service," said Hale quickly. "I think, therefore, that I deserve a better reception."
"Will you please come to the point?" said Mallow coldly, "whatever the service may be, I am quite sure it is two for you if one for me. You are not the man to go out of your way, Mr. Hale, to help anyone."
Hale nodded and smiled grimly. "You are quite right. Now, then, Mr. Mallow, do you know that Basil Saxon was to have inherited the money of my late client, Miss Loach?"
"No, I never knew that. I understood that Miss Loach always intended to leave the money to Miss Saxon."
Hale shook his well-oiled head. "On the contrary, Mr. Saxon was her favorite. In spite of his wild ways she liked him. However, she was also fond of Miss Saxon, and you may thank Miss Loach, Mr. Mallow, for having been the means of forwarding your engagement."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Cuthbert angrily.
"Mrs. Octagon," went on the lawyer deliberately, "would never have consented to Miss Saxon becoming engaged to you had not Miss Loach insisted that she should agree."
"Seeing that Mrs. Octagon hated her sister and was not likely, to be influenced by her, I do not see how that can be."
"Perhaps not. Nevertheless, such is the case. You saw how, when Miss Loach died, Mrs. Octagon seized the first opportunity to place obstacles in the way of your marriage."
"I believe she did that on Maraquito's account, Mr. Hale. I know perfectly well that Mrs. Octagon called on Maraquito."
"Quite so—to ask Maraquito not to let Basil Saxon play beyond his means. Certainly, Maraquito having a strange fancy for you, agreed, on condition that Mrs. Octagon refuse to let Miss Saxon marry you. But, in any case, Mrs. Octagon hates your uncle too much to allow her daughter to become your wife. You will never get Mrs. Octagon's consent unless I help you."
"You!" echoed Mallow, astonished and annoyed. "What possible influence can you have with Mrs. Octagon. I have certainly seen you at her house, but I scarcely think you know her well enough—"
"Oh, yes, I do." Hale rose in his earnestness. "See here, sir; I love Maraquito and I wish to marry her."
"You can, so far as I am concerned,"
"So you say," said Hale bitterly, "but you cannot be ignorant that Maraquito loves you."
"I don't see what that has to do with our conversation," replied Mallow, growing red and restless.
"It has everything to do with the matter. I want to marry Maraquito, as I am rich and deeply in love with her. She would have become my wife long ago but that you crossed her path. Lord knows why she should love a commonplace man like you, but she does."
"Isn't that rather personal?" said Mallow dryly.
"I beg your pardon. But what I wish to say is this. If you marry Miss Saxon and place yourself beyond Maraquito's reach, I will be able to induce her to marry me. Our interests are bound up together. Now, to do this you must have Mrs. Octagon's consent. I can get it."
"In what way?"
"She loves Basil, her son, more than she does herself," went on Hale, paying no attention to the remark. "To save him she would do much."
"To save him from what?"
"Basil;" continued the lawyer, still not noticing the interruption, "is a young fool. He thought himself sure of Miss Loach's money—and he was until a week before she died. Then he came to Rose Cottage and insulted her—"
"I have heard that. She ordered him out of the house."
"She did. Miss Loach was a bitter, acrid old woman when the fit took her. However, Basil insulted her so grossly that she made a new will and left all the money to Miss Saxon. Now it happens that Basil, to supply himself with funds, when his aunt refused to aid his extravagance further, forged her name to a bill—What's the matter?"
"Nothing," said Mallow, who had started from his chair, "only your intelligence is sufficiently unpleasant."
"I can understand that," sneered the lawyer, "since you wish to marry his sister. You don't want a forger for a brother-in-law."
"Who does?" said Cuthbert, not telling that he was thinking of Basil in connection with a still darker crime. "Go on, Mr. Hale."
"The bill fell into my hands. When Miss Saxon got the money she transferred the business to her own lawyer. I had to give the bill up."
"Ah!" said Mallow meaningly, "I see now the hold you had over Basil."
"Yes, that was my hold. I did not want to give up the bill. But it had been met, and as Miss Loach is dead, there was a difficulty in proving the signature to be a forgery. I therefore gave the bill to Miss Saxon. She knew of her brother's guilt—"
"I see—I see," murmured Cuthbert, wondering if she had been shielding Basil as well as him. "My poor girl!"
"She is a brave girl," said Hale, in a voice of reluctant admiration. "She met me and fought for her brother. I gave way, as I did not wish to make trouble. Why, it doesn't matter. However, you see how things stand. Basil is a forger. If his mother knew that he was in danger of being arrested she would consent to your marriage, and then I might marry Maraquito. I have come here to tell you this."
"But if Miss Saxon has the bill, and there is a difficulty of proving the signature, owing to Miss Loach's death, I don't see—"
"Ah, not in this case. But Basil Saxon forged my name also. I hold a forged check. I met it and said nothing about it. Basil, thinking because his sister held the bill that he was out of my power, was most insolent. But I said nothing of the check which he thought I never detected. The more fool he. He must have a fine opinion of my business capacity. However, as the check is only for fifty pounds, he probably thought that it would escape my notice. Well, you see how I can force Mrs. Octagon's hand. What do you say?"
Mallow put his hands to his head quite bewildered by the information.
"You must give me time to think," he said, "but if I consent—"
"You marry Miss Saxon. I ask no reward for my services. All I want is to get you out of my way as regards Maraquito. I will give you the forged check on the day you wed Miss Saxon. I can see," added Hale, rising, "that you are somewhat upset with this news, and no wonder. You never thought Basil was such a scoundrel."
"I thought him a fool, never a knave."
"My dear sir, he is a thoroughly bad man," said Hale cynically, "though I daresay other people are just as bad. However, I will give you a week to think over the matter. Good-night."
"Good-night," said Mallow, touching the bell, but without meeting the gaze of Hale, "I will think over what you have said."
"You will find it to your advantage to do so," replied Hale, and went out of the room at the heels of the servant.
Mallow remained where he was in deep thought. It was terrible to think that the brother of Juliet should be such a scamp. A forger and perhaps something else. Here, indeed, was a motive for Miss Loach to meet with her death at her nephew's hand. Probably on the night in question she threatened to let the law take its course, and then Basil—but at this point of his meditations a ring came at the door. In a few moments Cuthbert heard a step he knew and rose with an agitated air. Basil entered the room.
The young man was carefully dressed as usual in his rather affected way, but his face was pale and he seemed uneasy. "I see you have had a visit from Hale," he said, trying to appear at his ease.
"How do you know that?" asked Mallow abruptly, and declining to see the proffered hand.
"I saw Hale enter a cab as I came up the stairs," said Basil, drawing back; "and even had I not seen him I would know that he has been telling you a lot of lies because you refuse to shake hands."
"Are they lies?"
"Ah, then, he has been talking. He is my enemy. He comes here to do me harm," said Basil, his eyes flashing.
"He came here as your friend," replied Mallow abruptly, "Hale wishes me to marry your sister. He offers to hand over to me a certain check if I marry her."
"I don't know what you are talking about," cried Basil petulantly, and threw himself into a chair, very pale.
"I think you know very well. Why have you come here?"
Basil looked sullen. "I want you to marry Juliet also. And I came to say that I thought I could get my mother to take that money and to withdraw her opposition."
"So that you may have the fingering of the money?"
"Oh, I suppose she will give me some," said Basil airily, and began to roll a cigarette with deft fingers.
Mallow was enraged at this coolness. "Basil, you are a scoundrel!"
"Am I, indeed? Nice words to use to your future relative."
"How do you know I will ever be your relative. Suppose I refuse Hale's demand, and let him proceed on this check?"
Basil's cigarette dropped our of his hand. "I don't know what check you mean," he declared with alarm, "there was a bill—I couldn't help myself. My aunt—"
"Gave you a lot of money and you repaid her by forging her name. But you also forged Hale's name."
"Ah, I know what you mean now. It was only for fifty pounds."
"Had it been for fifty pence the crime is the same," said Mallow vehemently, "why did you not let me help you? I offered to. But you preferred to commit a crime."
"Such a fuss to make," muttered the youth discontentedly, "the bill is in the possession of Juliet, and no steps can be taken on that. If mother accepts this six thousand a year, she will buy the check back from Hale. He's a scoundrel and will do anything for money. Then you can marry Juliet, and I can go abroad for a few years on an income of three thousand. Mother will allow me that."
The coolness of this speech almost took Mallow's breath away. The man did not seem to be at all affected by his crime. So long as he was not found out he appeared to think nothing about the matter. "And I know you will marry Juliet," proceeded Basil, "you love her too well to give her up."
"That is true enough," said Cuthbert, who, having already spared him too long, now determined to punish him, "but I may love her so well that I may not wish to buy her."
"What do you mean by buying her?" demanded Basil sulkily.
"What I say. Is it only to save you that I am to marry Juliet? My marriage must be one of love—"
"She does love you. And I don't see," added Basil complainingly, "why you should jump on a chap for wishing for your happiness—"
"And your own safety."
"Oh, bosh! The bill is destroyed. Juliet put it into the fire, and Hale will sell the check at his own price."
"His price is that I am to marry Juliet."
"So that he can marry Maraquito, I suppose. I know that she loves you and that Hale is crazy about her. It's very hard on me," whined the egotistical youth, "for I want to marry her myself, only mother put her spoke in my wheel."
"Dare you offer yourself to Maraquito, bad as she is, knowing what you are?" cried Mallow, fairly disgusted.
"Oh, the forgeries. What of them? It's nothing." Basil snapped his fingers. "Maraquito won't mind. But I suppose I'll have to give her up on account of that infernal check. Such a small one as it was too. I wish I had made it one hundred and fifty. I could have done so."
In the face of this callous behavior it was sheer wrongdoing to spare the man. "I do not allude to the forgery, though that is bad enough," said Cuthbert, glancing round to see that the door was closed, "but to the murder of your aunt. You killed her."
Basil leaped from his chair with great indignation. "I did not. How dare you accuse me?" he panted.
"Because I have proofs."
"Proofs?" Basil dropped back as though he had been shot.
"Yes. I learned from my man that you took the bowie knife which used to hang on the wall yonder. He saw you take it, and thought you had received my permission. You went to the Marlow Theatre with your sister. You left her in the box and went out after eight o'clock. You went to Rexton to Rose Cottage. After Clancy left the house your aunt admitted you and you killed her—"
"I swear I did not!" said Basil, perfectly white and trembling.
"You did, you liar! Juliet followed you to the cottage."
"Juliet? She did not know I had gone."
"Ah! you see, you were there. Yes, she said she went in order to try and make it up between your aunt and you. But I believe now she went to see if you were committing a crime. I am not aware how much Juliet knows of your wickedness, Basil, but—"
"She knows only about the forgery. I was not at the cottage."
Mallow made a weary gesture. "Why do you tell these falsehoods?" he said with scorn. "Juliet entered the cottage by means of her latch-key. She found Miss Loach dead and the knife on the floor. You dropped it there. She came out and saw a man of my height—which you are, and of my appearance (you are not unlike me at a distance) climbing the wall into the park. He had on alight overcoat—my overcoat. Juliet thought I was the man. I did not say no. But the moment she mentioned the coat I knew it was you. You borrowed the coat from me, and returned it the other day. Now then—"
"Stop! stop!" cried Basil, rising with pale lips and shaking hands, "I admit that I went to Rexton on that night, but I swear I am innocent."
"Pah!" cried Mallow, thinking this was another lie, and a weak one too.
Basil seized him by the arm. "Mallow, I swear by all that I hold most sacred that I did not kill Aunt Selina. I own I took the knife. I wished to frighten her into giving me money. I left the theatre in order to go to Rexton. I thought I might be spotted if I came by the lane. I climbed the wall of the park on the other side after nine, some time after nine. I was crossing when a man chased me. I don't know who it was. I could not see in the bushes, and the night was rather dark at the moment, though clear later. I dropped the knife, it fell out of my pocket, and I scrambled over the wall and bolted."
"Then how did Juliet see you shortly before eleven?"
"I came back for the knife. I thought it might be traced to you and that you might get into trouble. Really I did," said Basil, seeing Mallow make a gesture of dissent. "I came back by the railway path, and along by the corn. Where Juliet could have been, I don't know. I climbed the wall and crossed the park. I could not find the knife where I thought I had dropped it, near the house. I then climbed the opposite wall and got away home. Next day I heard of the death and went down to look for the knife again. I never thought she had been killed with that knife, as no weapon was found. Juliet said nothing to me about the matter—"
"No. Because she thought the knife was mine, as it is, and that I was the man who climbed the wall. I was on the spot. I remember telling you that, when we met in the street, and you were afraid. I see now why you asked me if I had been in the park at night."
"I thought you might have spotted me. When were you there?"
"About twenty minutes past ten."
"Well, then, I was there at ten or a few minutes later. I got away from the man who chased me some time before you came. It was, as you say, at a quarter to eleven when I came back, and by that time I suppose you had gone."
"I went over the opposite wall as you did," said Cuthbert, "we must have run each other very close."
"I expect we were in different parts of the park," said Basil, "but I swear that I am telling you the truth. I said nothing about this, as I was afraid of being arrested. But, if you like, I'll tell that detective Jennings what I told you. He will help me."
"My advice to you is to hold your tongue and keep silent."
"But if I am traced?" stammered Basil.
"I shall say nothing," said Mallow, "and Jennings has dropped the case. I shall get the check from Hale, and you must go abroad. I believe you are innocent."
"Oh, thank you—thank you—"
"But you are a scoundrel for all that. When I get you sent abroad and marry your sister, neither she nor I will have anything to do with you. And if you come back to England, look out."
Next day Cuthbert received a letter from Jennings. It intimated that Maraquito wished to see him that evening. "If you will call at nine o'clock," wrote the detective, "she will be alone. The police have decided to close the gambling-house, and she is making preparations to leave England. I understand she has something to tell you in connection with the death of Miss Loach, which it is as well you should hear. A confession on her part may save you a lot of trouble in the future."
Mallow hesitated to obey this summons. He thought it was strange that Maraquito should get the detective to write to him, as he knew she mistrusted the man. And, apart from this, he had no wish to see Senora Gredos again. Things were now smooth between him and Juliet—comparatively so—and it would not do to rouse the girl's jealousy. Maraquito was a dangerous woman, and if he paid her a solitary visit, he might fall into some snare which she was quite capable of laying. Such was her infatuation, that he knew she would stop at nothing to gain her ends.
On the other hand, Maraquito, to all appearances, knew of something in connection with the case which it behooved him to learn if he wished for peace in the future. So far as Mallow knew, the matter was at an end. He believed that Jennings had shelved the affair, and that no further inquiries would be made. This belief calmed his anxiety, as he greatly desired to save Basil Saxon from arrest. Certainly, the young scamp protested his innocence, and told a plausible tale, but he was such a liar that Mallow could not be satisfied. He might be innocent as he said, yet the facts of the visit to the cottage, the possession of the knife and of the overcoat which he wore when seen by Juliet, hinted at his guilt. Also the forged bill and check might implicate him in the matter. Did Jennings learn of these things, he would certainly arrest Saxon on suspicion, and, for Juliet's sake, Cuthbert did not wish such a thing to happen.
It struck Mallow that Hale might have confided in Maraquito, with whom he was in love. Being unscrupulous, she would probably use this information, and might threaten to denounce Basil, to the subsequent disgrace of Juliet, if Cuthbert refused to marry her. Taking these things into consideration, Mallow decided that it would be best to pay the visit and learn what Maraquito had to say.
It was a wild, blustering evening, rainy and damp. When Mallow stepped out of the door he shivered as the keen wind whistled down the street. Few people were abroad, as they preferred, very sensibly, the comfort of a fireside to the windy, gleaming thoroughfares. Wishing his visit to be as secret as possible, Mallow walked to Soho and turned into Golden Square shortly before the appointed hour. He did not expect a pleasant interview, as Maraquito was an uncivilized sort of woman with little control over her very violent emotions. Altogether, he anticipated a disagreeable quarter of an hour.
He was admitted smilingly by a woman, and noticed with some surprise that Gibber the page was not at his accustomed post. But he put this down to the fact that there was no gambling on this particular evening. The windows of the great salon were dark, and Senora Gredos received him in a small apartment which she used as a sitting-room. Her couch was drawn up close to the fire, and she appeared to be in better health than usual. Standing at the door, Mallow thought she made a pretty picture. She had on a white wrapper trimmed with gold lace, and as usual, wore a profusion of jewelry. Across the lower part of the couch was flung a gorgeous purple coverlet of eastern manufacture, and what with the brilliant colors and the glitter of precious stones, she looked remarkably eastern herself. Mallow noticed particularly how Jewish she was in appearance, and wondered how he could have been so blind as not to have remarked it before. The room looked cheerful and warm, and was welcome after the chilly, dreary streets. Mallow, having taken off his overcoat in the hall, came forward and bowed somewhat formally, but Maraquito was not to be put off with so frigid a greeting. Holding out both hands, she shook his warmly and pointed to a chair near her couch. It was now a few minutes after nine.
"How good of you to come and see me," she said in her deep, rich voice. "The evening was so dull."
"You are not having any play this evening?"
Maraquito shrugged her fine shoulders and unfurled a quite unnecessary fan, which, to keep up her fiction of being a Spanish lady, she always carried. "Some idiot told the police what was going on and I received a notice to close."
"But the police knew long ago."
"Not officially. The police can be silent when it suits. And I always kept things very quiet here. I can't understand why any objection should be made. I suspect that man Jennings told."
"I thought you liked him."
"Oh, I fancied he was a friend of yours and so I made the best of him. But, to tell you the truth, Mr. Mallow, I always mistrusted him. He is much too fond of asking questions for my taste. Then Mr. Hale told me that the man was a detective, so I understood his unwarrantable curiosity. I shall have nothing to do with him in future."
"In that case," said Mallow, anxious to arrive at the truth, "I wonder you employ him to write letters for you."
The woman raised herself on one rounded elbow and looked surprised at this speech. "Really, I don't think I am so foolish," said she dryly. "Why do you say that?"
Mallow looked puzzled. "Jennings wrote me a letter, asking me to come here this evening at nine. He said you wished to see me."
Maraquito's eyes flashed. "I always wish to see you," she said, sinking her voice to a tender tone, "and I am much obliged that Mr. Jennings' note should have brought you here. But I gave him no authority to write it."
"Have you seen Jennings lately?" asked Cuthbert, more and more puzzled.
"A few nights ago. But he said nothing about you. He simply played cards for a time and then took himself off."
"Are you leaving England?"
"I am. Being an invalid as you see, I have no amusement but card-playing. Now that the Puritan authorities have stopped that, I cannot stay in this dull country to be bored. But who told you?"
"Jennings said you were making preparations to leave."
"In this letter he wrote you?" asked Maraquito, frowning.
"Yes. I am sorry I did not bring the letter with me. But I can show it to you on another occasion. He also said you had something to tell me."
Maraquito fastened her brilliant eyes on his face. "Mr. Jennings seems to know much about my affairs and to take a deep interest in them. But I assure you, I never gave him any authority to meddle."
"Then why did he write and bring me here?"
Senora Gredos frowned and then her face cleared. "The man is such a secretive creature that I don't trust him," she said; "and yet he declared himself to be my friend. He knows I like you, and hinted that he should be glad to bring us together."
"Jennings is a gentleman in spite of his profession," said Mallow in cutting tones. "I scarcely think he would take so great a liberty."
"Is it a liberty?" asked Maraquito softly.
"I consider it to be one. Jennings knows that I am engaged."
"Stop!" she cried, gripping her fan so tightly that her knuckles grew white. "Do you dare to tell me this?"
"Senora—Maraquito—don't let us have a scene. I told you before that I could not give you the love you asked."
"And I told you that I would have that love in spite of your unwillingness," said the woman doggedly. "You have scorned me, and I ought to have sufficient pride to let you go your own way. But I am such an infatuated fool that I am content to let you tread on me."
"I have no wish to do that, but—"
"You do—you do—you do!" she said, vehemently. "Why can you not love me? I would be a better wife than that doll you—"
"Drop that, Maraquito. Leave Miss Saxon's name out of the question."
"I shall talk of Miss Saxon as long as I like," cried Maraquito, snapping the fan and growing flushed. "You scorn me because I am an invalid—"
"I do not. If you were perfectly restored to health I would give you the same answer." Mallow was on his feet by this time. "I think it would be wise of me to go."
But Senora Gredos, stretching out her hand, caught him by the coat convulsively. "No! no! no!" she muttered fiercely. "I did not ask you to come here. I did not send for you. But now that you are here, you will stop. We must understand one another."
"We do understand one another," said Cuthbert, who was growing angry at this unreasonable attitude. "You must know that I am engaged to Miss Saxon!"
"You will never marry her—never!" cried Maraquito passionately; "oh, cruel man, can you not see that I am dying of love for you."
"Maraquito—"
"If I were not chained to this couch," she said between her teeth, "I should go after her and throw vitriol in her face. I would give her cause to repent having lured you from me with her miserable doll's face. Pah! the minx!"
Cuthbert grew really angry. "How dare you speak like this?" he said. "If you were able to attack Miss Saxon in the vile way you say, I should show you no mercy."
"What would you do—what would you do?" she panted.
"Put you in jail. That sort of thing may do abroad but we don't allow it here. I thought you were merely a foolish woman. Now I know you are bad and wicked."
"Cuthbert—Cuthbert."
"My name is Mallow to you, Senora Gredos. I'll go now and never see you again. I was foolish to come here."
"Wait—wait," she cried savagely, "it is just as well that you are here—just as well that we should come to an understanding."
"There can be no understanding. I marry Miss Saxon and—"
"Never, never, never! Listen, I can ruin her—"
"What do you mean?"
"Her brother—"
"Oh, Basil, I know all about that."
Maraquito threw herself back on her couch, evidently baffled. "What do you know?" she demanded sullenly.
"That you are about to accuse him of the death of Miss Loach."
"Yes, I do. He killed her. There is a forged bill in—"
"I know all about that also," said Cuthbert, making a gesture for her to be silent. "If you hope to stop my marriage with Miss Saxon by such means, you have wasted your time," he moved again towards the door. "It is time this interview ended," he said.
"Why did you seek it then?" she flashed out.
"I did not. Jennings wrote, asking me to call and see you. I understood that you had something to say to me."
"I have much—though how that detestable man knew I can't think. But I can disgrace that doll of a girl through her brother."
"No, you cannot. Basil is perfectly innocent of murder."
"You have to prove that," she sneered, her features quivering and one white hand clutching the purple drapery, "and you know—so you say, that Basil is a forger."
"He is a fool. I don't condone his folly, but his sister shall not suffer on his account. The bill to which Miss Loach's name was forged is in the possession of Miss Saxon—in fact I may tell you that Basil himself assured me it had been destroyed."
"Of course he would say that," scoffed Maraquito, her eyes flashing, "but the check to which Hale's name is affixed is not destroyed, and Hale shall proceed on that."
"Hale shall not do so," said Cuthbert resolutely. He did not wish to betray Hale's confidence, as a confession would entail the man's loss of the woman he loved. But it was necessary to stop Maraquito somehow; and Cuthbert attempted to do so in his next words, which conveyed a distinct threat. "And you will not move in the matter."
Maraquito laughed in an evil manner. "Won't I?" she taunted. "I just will. Hale will do what I want, and he will have Basil arrested unless you promise to give up this girl and marry me."
"Hale will do nothing, neither will you," retorted Cuthbert. "I don't care about threatening a woman, but you must not think that you are able to play fast and loose with me."
"How can you hurt me?" asked Maraquito with a scornful smile, although her lips quivered at his tone.
"I can tell Jennings that you are Bathsheba Saul!"
She turned quite pale. "I? My name is Maraquito Gredos."
"It is nothing of the sort. My uncle Lord Caranby came here and recognized you from your likeness to the woman Emilia he was once engaged to. He can state that in court."
"Where is his proof?"
"Proof will be forthcoming when necessary."
"Not to prove that I am Bathsheba Saul. I know nothing of the name."
Cuthbert shrugged his shoulders. He had said what was necessary and, unwilling to speak further, prepared to go. Maraquito saw him slipping from her grasp. Once gone, she knew he would never come back. With a cry of despair she stretched out her hands. "Cuthbert, do not leave me!" she cried in anguish.
"I must leave you. I was foolish to come. But you know now, that if you move in this matter I can move too. I doubt very much, madam, if your past life will bear looking into."
"You coward!" she moaned.
"I know I am a coward," said Mallow uncomfortably; "it is not my way to threaten a woman—I said that before. But I love Juliet so much that at any cost I must protect her."
"And my love counts for nothing."
"I am sorry, Maraquito, but I cannot respond. A man's heart is not his own to give."
"Nor a woman's," she moaned bitterly; "oh, heaven, how I suffer. Help!"
Cuthbert heard footsteps ascending the stairs—the light footsteps of a hasty man. But Maraquito's head had fallen back, her face was as white as snow and her mouth was twisted in an expression of anguish. She seemed to be on the point of death, and moved by her pain—for she really appeared to be suffering, he sprang forward to catch her in his arms. Had he not done so she would have fallen from the sofa. But hardly had he seized her form when she flung her arms round his neck and pressed her mouth to his. Then she threw back her head, not now white, but flushed with color and triumph. "I have you now," she said breathlessly. "I love you—I love you—I will not let you go!"
What Cuthbert would have done it is hard to say. Apparently Maraquito was determined to hold him there. But at this moment Jennings appeared at the door. On seeing him arrive so unexpectedly, Maraquito uttered a cry of rage and dismay, and released Mallow. "Send him away—send him away!" she cried, pointing to Jennings, who looked cold and stern. "How dare he come here."
"I come on an unpleasant errand," said Jennings, stepping forward. "I want you, Mallow!"
Cuthbert, who had moved forward, stopped. "Why do you want me?"
Jennings placed his hand on the young man's shoulder. "I arrest you on the charge of murdering Selina Loach!"
Maraquito uttered a shriek, and Cuthbert's face grew red. The latter spoke first. "Is this a jest?" he asked harshly.
"You will not find it so."
"Let me pass. I refuse to allow you to arrest me."
Jennings still continued to keep his hand on Cuthbert's shoulder, whereupon the young man flung it aside. At the same moment Jennings closed with him, and a hand-to-hand struggle ensued. Maraquito, with straining eyes, watched the fight. With stiffened muscles the two reeled across the room. Cuthbert was almost too amazed to fight. That Jennings should accuse him and attack him in this way was incredible. But his blood was up and he wrestled with the detective vigorously. He was an excellent athlete, but Jennings was a west-country-man and knew all that was to be known about wrestling. With a quick twist of his foot he tripped up his opponent, and in a minute Cuthbert was lying on his back with Jennings over him. The two men breathed hard. Cuthbert struggled to rise, but Jennings held him down until he was suddenly dragged away by Maraquito, who was watching the fight eagerly. There she stood in the centre of the room which she had reached with a bound.
"I thought so," said Jennings, releasing Mallow and rising quickly.
Maraquito threw a small knife at Cuthbert's feet. "Kill him—kill him!" she said with hysterical force.
"There is no need to," said the detective, feeling his arms, which were rather sore. "Mallow, I beg your pardon for having fought you, but I knew you would not lend yourself to a deception, and the only way in which I could force this lady to show that she was able to walk was by a feigned fight."
"Then you don't intend to arrest me?" said Mallow, rising and staring.
"Never had any idea of doing so," rejoined Jennings coolly. "I wished to learn the truth about Mrs. Herne."
"Mrs. Herne!"
"Or Maraquito Gredos or Bathsheba Saul. She has a variety of names, my dear fellow. Which one do you prefer?" he asked, turning to the discovered woman.
Maraquito looked like the goddess of war. Her eyes flashed and her face was red with anger. Standing in a striking attitude, with one foot thrust forward, her active brain was searching for some means of escape. "I don't know what you mean by calling me these names!"
"I mean that you are to be arrested. You are Mrs. Herne. Your accident was merely a sham to avert suspicion."
"Mrs. Herne is my aunt."
"Pardon me, no. The only aunt you ever had was Emilia Saul, who died in Caranby's house. In our interview at Hampstead you betrayed yourself when we talked of Mallow. I had you watched. You were seen to enter this house, and out of it Mrs. Herne never came. Your servants do not know Mrs. Herne—only their invalid mistress."
Maraquito, seeing her danger, panted with rage, and looked like a trapped animal. "Even if this is true, which I deny," she said in a voice tremulous with rage, "how dare you arrest me, and for what?"
"For setting that boy Gibber to poison the man who called himself Tyke. The lad has left your service—which means he is in hiding."
"I know nothing about this," said Maraquito, suddenly becoming cool. "Do you mean to arrest me now?"
"I have the warrant and a couple of plain-dress detectives below. You can't escape."
"I have no wish to escape," she retorted, moving towards a door which led into an inner room. "I can meet and dispose of this ridiculous charge. The doctor told me that a sudden shock might bring back my strength. And that it has done. I am not Mrs. Herne—I am not Bathsheba Saul. I am Maraquito Gredos, a Spanish lady—"
"Who doesn't know her own language," said Jennings.
"I pass over your insults," said the woman with dignity. "But as you intend to take me away, will you please let me enter my bedroom to change my dress?"
Jennings drew aside and permitted her to pass. "I am not afraid you will escape," he said politely. "If you attempt to leave you will fall into the hands of my men. They watch every door."
Maraquito winced, and with a last look at the astounded Mallow, passed into the room. When she shut the door Mallow looked at Jennings. "I don't know what all this means," he said.
"I have told you," replied Jennings, rather impatiently, "the letter I sent you was to bring you here. The struggle was a feigned one on my side to make Maraquito defend you. I knew she would never let you be worsted if she could help; exactly as I knew you would never consent to play such a trick on her."
"Certainly not. With all her faults, she loves me."
"So well that she will kill Juliet Saxon rather than see her in your arms. Don't frown, Mallow, Maraquito is a dangerous woman, and it is time she was laid by the heels. You don't know what I have found out."
"Have you learned who killed Miss Loach?"
"No. But I am on the way to learn it. I'll tell you everything another time. Meanwhile, I must get this woman safely locked up. Confound her, she is a long time."
"She may have escaped," said Mallow, as Jennings knocked at the door.
"I don't see how she can. There are men at the front door and at a secret entrance she used to enter as Mrs. Herne." He knocked again, but there was no reply. Finally Jennings grew exasperated and tried to open the door. It was locked. "I believe she is escaping," he said, "help me, Mallow."
The two men put their shoulders to the door and burst it in. When they entered the bedroom it was empty. There was no sign of Maraquito anywhere, and no sign, either, of how she had managed to evade the law.