The one servant of Mrs. Bensusan was a girl of seventeen, who had a local fame in the neighbourhood on account of her sharp tongue and many precocious qualities. No one knew who her parents were, or where the fat landlady had picked her up; but she had been in the Jersey Street house some ten years, and had been educated and—in a manner—adopted by its mistress, although Mrs. Bensusan always gave her cronies to understand that Rhoda was simply and solely the domestic of the establishment.
Nevertheless, for one of her humble position, she had a wonderful power over her stout employer, the power of a strong mind over a weak one, and in spite of her youth it was well known that Rhoda managed the domestic economy of the house. Mrs. Bensusan was the sovereign, Rhoda the prime minister.
This position she had earned by dint of her own sharpness in dealing with the world. And the local tradesmen were afraid of Rhoda. "Mrs. Bensusan's devil," they called her, and never dared togive short weight, or charge extra prices, or pass off damaged goods as new, when Rhoda was the purchaser. On the contrary, No. 9 Jersey Street was supplied with everything of the best, promptly and civilly, at ordinary market rates; for neither butcher, nor baker, nor candlestick maker, was daring enough to risk Rhoda's tongue raging like a prairie fire over their shortcomings. Several landladies, knowing Rhoda's value, had tried to entice her from Mrs. Bensusan by offers of higher wages and better quarters, but the girl refused to leave her stout mistress, and so continued quite a fixture of the lodgings. Even in the city, Rhoda had been spoken of by clerks who had lived in Jersey Street, and so had more than a local reputation for originality.
This celebrated handmaid was as lean as her mistress was stout. Her hair was magnificent in quality and quantity, but, alas! was of the unpopular tint called red; not auburn, or copper hued, or the famous Titian color, but a blazing, fiery red, which made it look like a comic wig. Her face was pale and freckled, her eyes black—in strange contrast to her hair, and her mouth large, but garnished with an excellent set of white teeth.
Rhoda was not neat in her attire, perhaps not having arrived at the age of coquetry, for she wore a dingy grey dress much too short for her, a pair of carpet slippers which had been left by a departed lodger, and usually went about with her sleeves tucked up, and a resolute look on her sharp face.Such was the appearance of Mrs. Bensusan's devil, who entered to forbid her mistress confiding in Lucian.
"Oh, Rhoda!" groaned Mrs. Bensusan. "You bad gal! I believe as you've 'ad your ear to the keyhole."
"I 'ave!" retorted Rhoda defiantly. "It's been there for five minutes, and good it is for you, mum, as I ain't above listening. What do you mean, sir," she cried, turning on Lucian like a fierce sparrow, "by coming 'ere to frighten two lone females, and her as innocent as a spring chicken?"
"Oh!" said Lucian, looking at her composedly, "so you are the celebrated Rhoda? I've heard of you."
"Not much good, then, sir, if Miss Greeb was talking," rejoined the red-haired girl, with a sniff. "Oh, I know her."
"Rhoda! Rhoda!" bleated her mistress, "do 'old your tongue! I tell you this gentleman's a police."
"He ain't!" said the undaunted Rhoda. "He's in the law. Oh, I knows him!'
"Ain't the law the police, you foolish gal?"
"Of course it—" began Rhoda, when Lucian, who thought that she had displayed quite sufficient eccentricity, cut her short with a quick gesture.
"See here, my girl," he said sharply, "you must not behave in this fashion. I have reason to believe that the assassin of Mr. Vrain entered the house through the premises of your mistress."
"Lawks, what a 'orrible idear!" shrieked Mrs.Bensusan. "Good 'eavens, Rhoda, did you see the murdering villain?"
"Me? No! I never sawr nothing, mum," replied Rhoda doggedly.
Lucian, watching the girl's face, and the uneasy expression in her eyes, felt convinced she was not telling the truth. It was no use forcing her to speak, as he saw very plainly that Rhoda was one of those obstinate people whom severity only hardened. Much more could be done with her by kindness, and Denzil adopted this—to him—more congenial course.
"If Rhoda is bound by any promise, Mrs. Bensusan, I do not wish her to speak," he said indifferently, "but in the interests of justice I am sure you will not refuse to answer my questions."
"Lord, sir! I know nothing!" whimpered the terrified landlady.
"Will you answer a few questions?" asked Denzil persuasively.
Mrs. Bensusan glanced in a scared manner at Rhoda, who, meanwhile, had been standing in a sullen and hesitating attitude. When she thought herself unobserved, she stole swift glances at the visitor, trying evidently to read his character by observation of his face and manner. It would seem that her scrutiny was favourable, for before Mrs. Bensusan could answer Lucian's question she asked him one herself.
"What do you want to know, sir?"
"I want to know all about Mr. Wrent."
"Why?"
"Because I fancy he has something to do with this crime."
"Lord!" groaned Mrs. Bensusan. "'Ave I waited on a murderer?"
"I don't say he is a murderer, Mrs. Bensusan, but he knows something likely to put us on the track of the criminal."
"What makes ye take up the case?" demanded Rhoda sharply.
"Because I know that Mr. Wrent came to board in this house shortly after Mr. Vrain occupied No. 13," replied Denzil.
"Who says he did?"
"Miss Greeb, my landlady, and she also told me that he left here two days after the murder."
"That's as true as true!" cried Mrs. Bensusan, "ain't it, Rhoda? We lost him 'cause he said he couldn't abide living near a house where a crime had been committed."
"Well, then," continued Lucian, seeing that Rhoda, without speaking, continued to watch him, "the coincidence of Mr. Wrent's stay with that of Mr. Vrain's strikes me as peculiar."
"You are a sharp one, you are!" said Rhoda, with an approving nod. "Look here, Mr. Denzil, would you break a promise?"
"That depends upon what the promise was."
"It was one I made to hold my tongue."
"About what?"
"Several things," said the girl shortly.
"Have they to do with this crime?" asked Lucian eagerly.
"I don't know. I can't say," said Rhoda; then suddenly her face grew black. "I tell you what, sir, I hate Mr. Wrent!" she declared.
"Oh, Rhoda!" cried Mrs. Bensusan. "After the lovely cloak he gave you!"
The red-haired girl looked contemptuously at her mistress; then, without a word, darted out of the room. Before Lucian could conjecture the reason of her strange conduct, or Mrs. Bensusan could get her breath again—a very difficult operation for her—Rhoda was back with a blue cloth cloak, lined with rabbit skins, hanging over her arm. This she threw down at the feet of Lucian, and stamped on it savagely with the carpet slippers.
"There's his present!" she cried angrily, "but I wish I could dance on him the same way! I wish—I wish I could hang him!"
"Can you?" demanded Lucian swiftly, taking her in the moment of wrath, when she seemed disposed to speak.
"No!" said Rhoda shortly. "I can't!"
"Do you think he killed Mr. Vrain?"
"No, I don't!"
"Do you know who did?"
"Blest if I do!"
"Does Mr. Wrent?" asked Denzil meaningly.
The girl wet her finger and went through a childish game. "That's wet," she said; then wiping the finger on her dingy skirt, "that's dry. Cut mythroat if I tell a lie. Ask me something easier, Mr. Denzil."
"I don't understand you," said Lucian, quite puzzled.
"Rhoda! Rhoda! 'Ave you gone crazy?" wailed Mrs. Bensusan.
"Look here," said the girl, taking no notice of her mistress, "do you want to know about Mr. Wrent?"
"Yes, I do."
"And about that side passage as you talked of to the missis?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll answer yer questions, sir. You'll know all I know."
"Very good," said Lucian, with an approving smile, "now you are talking like a sensible girl."
"Rhoda! You ain't going to talk bad of Mr. Wrent?"
"It ain't bad, and it ain't good," replied Rhoda. "It's betwixt and between."
"Well, I must 'ear all. I don't want the character of the 'ouse took away," said Mrs. Bensusan, with an attempt at firmness.
"That's all right," rejoined Rhoda reassuringly, "you can jine in yerself when y' like. Fire away, Mr. Denzil."
"Who is Mr. Wrent?" asked Lucian, going straight to the point.
"I don't know," replied Rhoda; and henceforth the examination proceeded as though the girl werein the witness-box and Lucian counsel for the prosecution.
Q. When did he come to Jersey Street?
A. At the end of July, last year.
Q. When did he go away?
A. The morning after Boxing Day.
Q. Can you describe his appearance?
A. He was of the middle height, with a fresh complexion, white hair, and a white beard growing all over his face. He was untidy about his clothes, and kept a good deal to his own room among a lot of books. I don't think he was quite right in his head.
Q. Did he pay his rent regularly?
A. Yes, except when he was away. He would go away for a week at a time.
Q. Was he in this house on Christmas Eve?
A. Yes, sir. He came back two days before Christmas.
Q. Where had he been?
A. I don't know; he did not say.
Q. Did he have any visitors?
A. He did. A tall, dark man and a lady.
Q. What was the lady like?
A. A little woman; I never saw her face, as she always kept her veil down.
Q. What kind of a veil did she wear?
A. A black gauze veil with velvet spots.
Q. Did she come often to see Mr. Wrent?
A. Yes. Four or five times.
Q. When did she call last?
A. On Christmas Eve.
Q. At what hour?
A. She came at seven, and went away at eight. I know that because she had supper with Mr. Wrent.
Q. Did she leave the house?
A. Yes. I let her out myself.
Q. Did you ever hear any conversation between them?
A. No. Mr. Wrent took care of that. I never got any chance of listening at keyholes with him. He was a sharp one, for all his craziness.
Q. What was the male visitor like?
A. He was tall and dark, with a black moustache.
Q. Do you think he was a foreigner?
A. I don't know. I never heard him speak. Mr. Wrent let him out, as usual.
Q. When did he visit Mr. Wrent last?
A. On Christmas Eve. He came with the lady.
Q. Did he stay to supper also?
A. No. He went away at half-past seven. Mr. Wrent let him out, as usual.
Q. Did he go away altogether?
A. I—I—I am not sure! (here the witness hesitated).
Q. Why did Mr. Wrent give you the cloak?
A. To make me hold my tongue about the dark man.
Q. Why?
A. Because I saw him in the back yard.
Q. On what night?
A. On the night of Christmas Eve, about half-past eight.
"You saw the dark man in the back yard on Christmas Eve?" repeated Lucian, much surprised by this discovery.
"Yes, I did," replied Rhoda decisively, "at half-past eight o'clock. I went out into the yard to put some empty bottles into the shed, and I saw the man standing near the fence, looking at the back of No. 13. When he heard me coming out he rushed past me and out by the side passage. The moon was shining, and I saw him as plain as plain."
"Did he seem afraid?"
"Yes, he did; and didn't want to be seen, neither. I told Mr. Wrent, and he promised me a cloak if I held my tongue. He said the dark man was waiting in the yard until the lady had gone, when he was coming in again."
"But the lady, you say, went at eight, and you saw the man half an hour later?"
"That's it, sir. He told me a lie, for he never came in again to see Mr. Wrent."
"But already the dark man had seen the lady?"
"Yes. He came in with her at seven, and went away at half-past."
Lucian mechanically stooped down and picked up the fur cloak. He was puzzled by the information given by Rhoda, and did not exactly see what use to make of it. Going by the complexion of the man who had lurked in the back yard, it would appear that he was Count Ferruci; while the small stature of the woman, and the fact that she wore a velvet-spotted veil, indicated that she was Lydia Vrain; also the pair had been in the vicinity of the haunted house on the night of the murder; and, although it was true both were out of the place by half-past eight, yet they might not have gone far, but had probably returned later—when Rhoda and Mrs. Bensusan were asleep—to murder Vrain, between the hours of eleven and twelve on the same night.
This was all plain enough, but Lucian was puzzled by the account of Mr. Wrent. Who, he asked himself repeatedly, who was this grey-haired, white-bearded man who had so often received Lydia, who had on Christmas Eve silenced Rhoda regarding Ferruci's presence in the yard, by means of the cloak, and who—it would seem—possessed the key to the whole mystery?
Rhoda could tell no more but that he had stayed six months with Mrs. Bensusan, and had departed two days after the murder; whereby it would seem that his task having been completed, he had no reason to remain longer in so dangerous a neighbourhood. Yet four months had elapsed since his departure, and Denzil, after some reflection, askedMrs. Bensusan a question or two regarding this interval.
"Has Mr. Wrent returned here since his departure?" he demanded.
"Lawks! no, sir!" wheezed Mrs. Bensusan, shaking her head. "I've never set eyes on him since he went. 'Ave you, Rhoda?" Whereat the girl shook her head also, and watched Lucian with an intensity of gaze which somewhat discomposed him.
"Did he owe you any money when he went, Mrs. Bensusan?"
"No, sir. He paid up like a gentleman. I always thought well of Mr. Wrent."
"Rhoda doesn't seem to share your sentiments," said Denzil drily.
"No, I don't!" cried the servant, frowning. "I hated Mr. Wrent!"
"Why did you hate him?"
"Never you mind, sir," retorted Rhoda grimly. "I hated him."
"Yet he bought you this cloak."
"No, he didn't!" contradicted the girl. "He got it from the lady!"
"What!" cried Lucian sharply. "Are you sure of that?"
"I can't exactly swear to it," replied Rhoda, hesitating, "but it was this way: The lady wore a cloak like that, and I admired it awful. She had it on when she came, Christmas Eve, and she didn't wear it when I let her out, and the next day Mr.Wrent gave it to me. So I suppose it is the same cloak."
"And did the lady go out into the cold winter weather without the cloak?"
"Yes; but she had a long cloth jacket on, sir, so I don't s'pose she missed it."
"Was the lady agitated when she went out?"
"I don't know. She held her tongue and kept her veil down."
"Can you tell me anything more?" asked Lucian, anxious to make the examination as exhaustive as possible.
"No, Mr. Denzil," answered Rhoda, after some thought, "I can't, except that Mr. Wrent, long before Christmas, promised me a present, and gave me the cloak then."
"Will you let me take this cloak away with me?"
"If you like," replied Rhoda carelessly. "I don't want it.'
"Oh, Rhoda!" wailed Mrs. Bensusan. "Your lovely, lovely rabbit skin!"
"I'll bring it back again," said Lucian hastily. "I only want to use it as evidence."
"Ye want to know who the lady is?" said Rhoda sharply.
"Yes, I do. Can you tell me?"
"No; but you'll find out from that cloak. I guess why you're taking it."
"You are very sharp, Rhoda," said Lucian, rising, with a good-humoured smile, "and well deserve your local reputation. If I find Mr. Wrent, I mayrequire you to identify him; and Mrs. Bensusan also."
"I'll be able to do that, but missus hasn't her eyes much."
"Hasn't her eyes?" repeated Denzil, with a glance at Mrs. Bensusan's staring orbs.
"Lawks, sir, I'm shortsighted, though I never lets on. Rhoda, 'ow can you 'ave let on to the gentleman as I'm deficient? As to knowing Mr. Wrent, I'd do so well enough," said Mrs. Bensusan, tossing her head, "with his long white beard and white 'ead, let alone his black velvet skull-cap."
"Oh, he wore a skull-cap?"
"Only indoors," said Rhoda sharply, "but here I'm 'olding the door wide, sir, so if you've done, we're done."
"I'm done, as you call it, for the present," replied Denzil, putting on his hat, "but I may come again. In the meantime, hold your tongues. Silence on this occasion will be gold; speech won't even be silver."
Mrs. Bensusan laughed at this speech in a fat and comfortable sort of way, while Rhoda grinned, and escorted Lucian to the front door. She looked so uncanny, with her red hair and black eyes, that the barrister could not forbear a question.
"Are you English, my girl?"
"No, I ain't!" retorted Rhoda emphatically. "I'm of the gentle Romany."
"A gipsy!"
"So you Gorgios call us!" replied the girl, andshut the door with what seemed to be unnecessary violence. Lucian went off with the cloak over his arm, somewhat discomposed by this last piece of information.
"A gipsy!" he repeated. "Humph! Can good come out of Nazareth? I don't trust that girl much. If I knew why she hates Wrent, I'd be much more satisfied with her information. And who the deuce is Wrent?"
Lucian had occasion to ask himself this question many times before he found its answer, and that was not until afterwards. At the present moment he dismissed it from his mind as unprofitable. He was too busy reflecting on the evidence obtained in Jersey Street to waste time in conjecturing further events. On returning to his lodgings he sat down to consider what was best to be done.
After much reflection and internal argument, he decided to call upon Mrs. Vrain, and by producing the cloak, force her into confessing her share of the crime. Whether she had been the principal in the deed, or an accessory before the fact, Lucian could not determine; but he was confident that in one way or another she was cognizant of the truth; although this she would probably conceal, as its revelation would likely be detrimental to her own safety.
At first Denzil intended to see Diana before visiting Mrs. Vrain, in order to relate all he had learned, and find out from her if the cloak reallybelonged to the widow. But on second thoughts he decided not to do so.
"I can tell her nothing absolutely certain about the matter," he said to himself, "as I cannot be sure of anything until I force Mrs. Vrain to confess. Diana," so he called her in his discourse to himself, "Diana will probably know nothing about the ownership of the cloak, as it seems new, and was probably purchased by Lydia during the absence of Diana in Australia. No, I have the address of Mrs. Vrain, which Diana gave me. It will be best to call on her, and by displaying the cloak make her acknowledge her guilt.
"With such evidence she cannot deny that she visited Wrent; and was in the vicinity of the house wherein her husband was murdered on the very night the crime was committed. Also she must state Ferruci's reason for hiding in the back yard, and tell me plainly who Wrent is, and why he helped the pair of them in their devilish plans. I am doubtful if she will speak; but altogether the evidence I have collected inculpates her so strongly that it will be quite sufficient grounds upon which to obtain a warrant for her arrest. And sooner than risk that, I expect she will tell as much as she can to exculpate herself—that is, if she is really innocent. If she is guilty," Lucian shrugged his shoulders, "then I cannot guess what course she will take."
Mrs. Vrain, with her father to protect her, had established herself in a small but luxurious housein Mayfair, and was preparing to enjoy herself during the coming season. Although her husband had met with a terrible death scarcely six months before, she had already cast off her heavy mourning, and wore only such millinery indications of sorrow as suited with her widowed existence.
Ferruci was a constant visitor at the house; but although Lydia was now free, and wealthy, she by no means seemed ready to marry the Italian. Perhaps she thought, with her looks and riches, she might gain an English title, as more valuable than a Continental one; and in this view she was supported by her father. Clyne had no other desire than to see his beloved Lydia happy, and would willingly have sacrificed everything in his power to gain such an end; but as he did not like Ferruci himself, and saw that Lydia's affections towards him had cooled greatly, he did not encourage the idea of a match between them.
However, these matters were yet in abeyance, as Lydia was too diplomatic to break off with so subtle a man as the Count, who might prove a dangerous enemy were his love turned to hate, and Mr. Clyne was quite willing to remain on friendly terms with the man so long as Lydia chose that such friendship should exist. In short, Lydia ruled her simple father with a rod of iron, and coaxed Ferruci—a more difficult man to deal with—into good humour; so she managed both of them skilfully in every way, and contrived to keep things smooth, pending her plunge into London society.For all her childish looks, Lydia was uncommonly clever.
When Lucian's card was brought in, Mrs. Vrain proved to be at home, and as his good looks had made a deep impression on her, she received him at once. He was shown into a luxuriously furnished drawing-room without delay, and welcomed by pretty Mrs. Vrain herself, who came forward with a bright smile and outstretched hands, looking more charming than ever.
"Well, I do call this real sweet of you," said she gaily. "I guess it is about time you showed up. But you don't look well, that's a fact. What's wrong?"
"I'm worried a little," replied Lucian, confounded by her coolness.
"That's no use, Mr. Denzil. You should never be worried. I guess I don't let anything put me out."
"Not even your husband's death?"
"That's rude!" said Lydia sharply, the colour leaving her cheek. "What do you mean? Have you come to be nasty?"
"I came to return you this," said Denzil, throwing the cloak which he had carried on his arm before the widow.
"This?" echoed Mrs. Vrain, looking at it. "Well, what's this old thing got to do with me?"
"It's yours; you left it in Jersey Street!"
"Did I? And where's Jersey Street?"
"You know well enough," said Lucian sternly."It is near the place where your husband was murdered."
Mrs. Vrain turned white. "Do you dare to say——" she began, when Denzil cut her short with a hint at her former discomposure.
"The stiletto, Mrs. Vrain! Don't forget the stiletto!"
"Oh, God!" cried Lydia, trembling violently. "What do you know of the stiletto?"
"What do you know of the stiletto?" repeated Mrs. Vrain anxiously.
She had risen to her feet, and, with an effort to be calm, was holding on to the near chair. Her bright colour had faded to a dull white hue, and her eyes had a look of horror in their depths which transformed her from her childish beauty into a much older and more haggard woman than she really was. It seemed as though Lucian, by some necromantic spell, had robbed her of youth, vitality, and careless happiness. To him this extraordinary agitation was a proof of her guilt; and hardening his heart so as not to spare her one iota of her penalty—a mercy she did not deserve—he addressed her sternly:
"I know that a stiletto purchased in Florence by your late husband hung on the library wall of Berwin Manor. I know that it is gone!"
"Yes! yes!" said Lydia, moistening her white, dry lips, "it is gone; but I do not know who took it."
"The person who killed your husband."
"I feared as much," she muttered, sitting down again. "Do you know the name of the person?"
"As well as you do yourself. The name is Lydia Vrain!"
"I!" She threw herself back on the chair with a look of profound astonishment on her colourless face. "Mr. Denzil," she stammered, "is—is this—is this a jest?"
"You will not find it so, Mrs. Vrain."
The little woman clutched the arms of her chair and leaned forward with her face no longer pale, but red with rage and indignation. "If you are a gentleman, Mr. Denzil, I guess you won't keep me hanging on like this. Let us get level. Do you say I killed Mark?"
"Yes, I do!" said Lucian defiantly. "I am sure of it."
"On what grounds?" asked Mrs. Vrain, holding her temper back with a visible effort, that made her eyes glitter and her breath short.
"On the grounds that he was killed with that stiletto and——"
"Go slow! How do you know he was killed with that stiletto?"
"Because the ribbon which attached it to the wall was found in the Geneva Square house, where your husband was killed. Miss Vrain recognised it."
"Miss Vrain—Diana! Is she in England?"
"Not only in England, but in London."
"Then why hasn't she been to see me?"
Denzil did not like to answer this question, themore so as Lydia's sudden divergence from the point of discourse rather disconcerted him. It is impossible to maintain dignity in making a serious accusation when the person against whom it is made thinks so little of it as to turn aside to discuss a point of etiquette in connection with another woman.
Seeing that her accuser was silent and confused, Lydia recovered her tongue and colour, and the equability of her temper. It was, therefore, with some raillery that she continued her speech:
"I see how it is," she said contemptuously, "Diana has called you into her councils in order to fix this absurd charge on to me. Afraid to come herself, she sends you as the braver person of the partnership. I congratulate you on your errand, Mr. Denzil."
"You can laugh as much as you like, Mrs. Vrain, but the matter is more serious than you suppose."
"Oh, I am sure that my loving stepdaughter will make it as serious as possible. She always hated me."
"Pardon me, Mrs. Vrain," said Lucian, colouring with annoyance, "but I did not come here to hear you speak ill of Miss Vrain."
"I know that! She sent you here to speak illofme and do illtome. Well, so you and she accuse me of killing Mark? I shall be glad to hear the evidence you can bring forward. If you can make your charge good I should smile. Oh, I guess so!"
Denzil noticed that when Mrs. Vrain became excited she usually spoke plain English, without the U. S. A. accent, but on growing calmer, and, as it were, recollecting herself, she adopted the Yankee twang and their curious style of expression and ejaculation. This led him to suspect that the fair Lydia was not a born daughter of the Great Republic, perhaps not even a naturalised citizeness, but had assumed such nationality as one attractive to society in Europe and Great Britain.
He wondered what her past really was, and if she and her father were the doubtful adventurers Diana believed them to be. If so, it might happen that Lydia would extricate herself out of her present unpleasant position by the use of past experience. To give her no chance of such dodging, Lucian rapidly detailed the evidence against her so that she would be hard put to baffle it. But in this estimate he quite underrated Lydia's nerve and capability of fence, let alone the dexterity with which she produced a satisfactory reply to each of his questions.
"We will begin at the beginning, Mrs. Vrain," he said soberly, "say from the time you drove your unfortunate husband out of his own house."
"Now, I guess that wasn't my fault," explained Lydia. "I wasn't in love with old man Mark, but I liked him well enough, for he was a real gentleman; and when that make-mischief Diana, who cocked her nose at me, set out for Australia, we got on surprisingly well. Count Ferruci came overto stay, as much at Mark's invitation as mine, and I didn't pay too much attention to him anyhow."
"Miss Tyler says you did!"
"Sakes!" cried Mrs. Vrain, raising her eyebrows, "have you been talking to that old stump? Well, just you look here, Mr. Denzil! It was Bella Tyler who made all the mischief. She thought Ercole was sweet on her, and when she found out he wasn't, she got real mad, and went to tell Mark that I was making things hum the wrong way with the Count. Of course Mark had a row with him, and, of course, I got riz—not having done anything to lie low for. We had a row royal, I guess, and the end of it was that Mark cleared out. I thought he would turn up again, or apply for a divorce, though he hadn't any reason to. But he did neither, and remained away for a whole year. While he was away I got quit of Ercole pretty smart, I can tell you, as I wanted to shut up that old maid's mouth. I never knew where Mark was, or guessed what became of him, until I saw that advertisement, and putting two and two together to make four, I called to see Mr. Link, where I found you running the circus."
"Why did you faint on the mention of the stiletto?"
"I told you the reason, and Link also."
"Yes, but your reason was too weak to——"
"Oh, well, you're right enough there," interrupted Lydia, smiling. "All that talk of nerves and grief wasn't true. I didn't give my real reason,but I will now. When I heard that the old man had been stabbed by a stiletto I remembered that the one on the library wall had vanished some time before the Christmas Eve on which Mark was killed. So you may guess I was afraid."
"For yourself?"
"I guess not; it wasn't any of my funeral. I didn't take the stiletto, nor did I know who had; but I was afraid you might think Ferruci took it. The stiletto was Italian, and the Count is Italian, so it struck me you might put two and two together and suspect Ercole. I never thought you'd fix on me," concluded Lydia, with a scornful toss of her head.
"As a matter of fact, I fixed on you both," said Lucian composedly.
"And for what reason? Why should I and the Count murder poor Mark, if you please? He was a fool and a bore, but I wished him no harm. I was sorry as any one when I heard of his death, and I offered a good reward for the catching of the mean skunk that killed him. If I had done so myself I wouldn't have been such a fool as to sharpen the scent of the hounds on my own trail."
"You were in town on Christmas Eve?" said Denzil, not choosing to explain the motives he believed the pair had for committing the crime.
"I was. What of that?"
"You were in Jersey Street, Pimlico, on that night."
"I was never in Pimlico in my life!" declaredLydia wrathfully, "and, as I said before, I don't know where Jersey Street is."
"Do you know a man called Wrent?"
"I never heard of him!"
"Yet you visited him in Jersey Street on Christmas Eve, between seven and eight o'clock."
"Did I, really?" cried Mrs. Vrain, ironically, "and how can you prove I did?"
"By that cloak," said Lucian, pointing to where it lay on a chair. "You wore that cloak and a velvet-spotted veil."
"I haven't worn a veil of that kind for over a year," said Lydia decisively, "though I admit I used to wear veils of that sort. You can ask my maid if I have any velvet-spotted veils in my wardrobe just now. As to the cloak—I never wear rabbit skins."
"You might as a disguise."
"Sakes alive, man, what should I want with a disguise? I tell you the cloak isn't mine. You can soon prove that. Find out who made it, and go and ask in the shop if I bought it."
"How can I find out who made it?" asked Denzil, who was beginning to feel that Lydia was one too many for him.
"Here! I'll show you!" said Lydia, and picking up the cloak she turned over the tab at the neck, by which it was hung up. At the back of this there was a small piece of tape with printed black letters. "Baxter & Co., General Drapers, Bayswater," she read out, throwing down the cloak contemptuously."I don't go to a London suburb for my frocks; I get them in Paris."
"Then you are sure this cloak isn't yours?" asked Lucian, much perplexed.
"No! I tell you it isn't! Go and ask Baxter & Co. if I bought it. I'll go with you, if you like; or better still," cried Mrs. Vrain, jumping up briskly, "I can take you to see some friends with whom I stayed on Christmas Eve. The whole lot will tell you that I was with them at Camden Hill all the night."
"What! Can you prove an alibi?"
"I don't know what you call it," retorted Lydia coolly, "but I can prove pretty slick that I wasn't in Pimlico."
"But—Mrs. Vrain—your friend—Ferruci was there!"
"Was he? Well, I don't know. I never saw him that time he was in town. But if you think he killed Mark you are wrong. I do not believe Ercole would kill a fly, for all he's an Italian."
"Do you think he took that stiletto?"
"No, I don't!"
"Then who did?"
"I don't know. I don't even know when it was taken. I missed it after Christmas, because that old schoolma'am told me it was gone."
"Old schoolma'am!"
"Well, Bella Tyler, if you like that better," retorted Mrs. Vrain. "Come, now, Mr. Denzil, I'm not going to let you go away without proving my—what do you call it?—alibi. Come with me right along to Camden Hill."
"I'll come just to satisfy myself," said Lucian, picking up the cloak, "but I am beginning to feel that it is unnecessary."
"You think I am innocent? Well," drawled Lydia, as Lucian nodded, "I think that's real sweet of you. I mayn't be a saint, but I'm not quite the sinner that Diana of yours makes me out."
"Diana of mine, Mrs. Vrain?" said Lucian, colouring.
The little woman laughed at his blush.
"Oh, I'm not a fool, young man. I see how the wind blows!" And with a nod she vanished.
Mrs. Vrain sacrificed the vanity of a lengthy toilette to a natural anxiety to set herself right with Lucian, and appeared shortly in a ravishing costume fresh from Paris. Perhaps by arraying herself so smartly she wished to assure Denzil more particularly that she was a lady of too much taste to buy rabbit-skin cloaks in Bayswater: or perhaps—which was more probable—she was not averse to ensnaring so handsome a young man into an innocent flirtation.
The suspicion she entertained of Lucian's love for Diana only made Lydia the more eager to fascinate him on her own account. A conceit of herself, a hatred of her stepdaughter, and a desire to wring admiration out of a man who did not wish to bestow it. These were the reasons which led Mrs. Vrain to be particularly agreeable to the barrister. When the pair were ensconced in a swift hansom, and rolling rapidly towards Camden Hill, she began at once to prosecute her amiable designs.
"I guess you'll not mind being my best boy for the day," she said, with a coquettish glance. "Youcan escort me, first of all, to the Pegalls, and afterwards we can drive to Baxter & Co.'s in Bayswater, so that you can assure yourself I didn't buy that cloak."
"I am much obliged for the trouble you are taking, Mrs. Vrain," replied the young man, avoiding with some reserve the insinuating glances of his pretty companion. "We shall do as you suggest. Who are the Pegalls, may I ask?"
"My friends, with whom I stopped on Christmas Eve," rejoined Mrs. Vrain. "A real good, old, dull English family, as heavy as their own plum puddings. Mrs. Pegall's a widow like myself, and I daresay she buys her frocks in the Bayswater stores. She has two daughters who look like barmaids, and ought to be, only they ain't smart enough. We had a real Sunday at home on Christmas Eve, Mr. Denzil. Whist and weak tea at eight, negus and prayers and bed at ten. Poppa wanted to teach them poker, and they kicked like mad at the very idea; but that was when he visited them before, I guess."
"Not the kind of family likely to suit you, I should think," said Lucian, regarding the little free-lance with a puzzled air.
"I guess not. Lead's a feather to them for weight. But it's a good thing to have respectable friends, especially in this slow coach of an old country, where you size everybody up by the company they keep."
"Ah!" said Lucian pointedly and—it must beconfessed—rather rudely, "so you have found the necessity of having respectable friends, however dull?"
"That's a fact," acknowledged Mrs. Vrain candidly. "I've had a queer sort of life with poppa—ups and downs, and flyings over the moon, I guess."
"You are not American?" said Denzil suddenly.
"Sakes! How do you figure that out?"
"Because you are too pronouncedly Amurrican to be American."
"That's an epigram with some truth in it," replied Lydia coolly. "Oh, I'm as much a U. S. A. article as anything else. We hung out our shingle in Wyoming, Wis., for a considerable time, and a girl who tickets herself Yankee this side flies high. But I guess I'm not going to give you my history," concluded Mrs. Vrain drily. "I'm not a Popey nor you a confessor."
"H'm! You've been in the South Seas, I see."
"There's no telling. How do you know?"
"The natives there use the word Popey to designate a Roman Catholic."
"You are as smart as they make 'em, Mr. Denzil. There's no flies about you; but I'm not going to give myself away. Ask poppa, if you want information. He's that simple he'll tell you all."
"Well, Mrs. Vrain, keep your own secret; it is not the one I wish to discover. By the way, you say your father was at Camden Hill on Christmas Eve?"
"I didn't say so, but he was," answered Lydiaquietly. "He was not very well—pop can't stand these English winters—and wrote me to come up. But he was so sick that he left the Pegalls' about six o'clock."
"That was the letter which upset you."
"It was. I see old Bella Tyler kept her eyes peeled. I got the letter and came up at once. I've only got one parent left, and he's too good to be shoved away in a box underground while fools live. But here we are at the Pegalls'. I hope you'll like the kind of circus they run. Campmeetings are nothing to it."
The dwelling of the respectable family alluded to was a tolerably sized house of red brick, placed in a painfully neat garden, and shut in from the high road by a tall and jealous fence of green-painted wood. The stout widow and two stout spinster daughters, who made up the inmates, quite deserved Mrs. Vrain's epithet of "heavy." They were aggressively healthy, with red cheeks, black hair, and staring black eyes devoid of expression; a trio of Dutch dolls would have looked more intellectual. They were plainly and comfortably dressed; the drawing-room was plainly and comfortably furnished; and both house and inmates looked thoroughly respectable and eminently dull. What such a hawk as Mrs. Vrain was doing in this Philistine dove-cote, Lucian could not conjecture; but he admired her tact in making friends with a family whose heavy gentility assisted to ballast her somewhat light reputation; while the three of theirbrains in unison could not comprehend her tricks, or the reasons for which they were played.
"At all events, these three women are too honest to speak anything but the truth," thought Lucian while undergoing the ordeal of being presented. "So I'll learn for certain if Mrs. Vrain was really here on Christmas Eve."
The Misses Pegall and their lace-capped mamma welcomed Lucian with heavy good nature and much simpering, for they also had an eye to a comely young man; but the cunning Lydia they kissed and embraced, and called "dear" with much zeal. Mrs. Vrain, on her part, darted from one to the other like a bird, pecking the red apples of their cheeks, and cast an arch glance at Lucian to see if he admired her talent for manœuvering. Then cake and wine, port and sherry, were produced in the style of early Victorian hospitality, from which epoch Mrs. Pegall dated, and all went merry as a marriage bell, while Lydia laid her plans to have herself exculpated in Lucian's eyes without being inculpated in those of the family.
"We have just come up from our place in Somerset," explained Mrs. Pegall, in a comfortable voice. "The girls wanted to see the sights, so I just said, 'we'll go, dears, and perhaps we'll get a glimpse of the dear Queen.' I'm sure she has no more loyal subjects than we three."
"Are you going out much this year, dear Mrs. Vrain?" asked Beatrice Pegall, the elder and plainer of the sisters.
"No, dear," replied Lydia, with a sigh, putting a dainty handkerchief to her eyes. "You know what I have lost."
The two groaned, and Miss Cecilia Pegall, who was by way of being very religious in a Low Church way, remarked that "all flesh was grass," to which observation her excellent mamma rejoined: "Very true, dear, very true." And then the trio sighed again, and shook their black heads like so many mandarins.
"I should never support my grief," continued Lydia, still tearful, "if it was not that I have at least three dear friends. Ah! I shall never forget that happy Christmas Eve!"
"Last Christmas Eve, dear Mrs. Vrain?" said Cecilia.
"When you were all so kind and good," sobbed Lydia, with a glance at Lucian, to see that he noticed the confirmation. "We played whist, didn't we?"
"Four rubbers," groaned Mrs. Pegall, "and retired to bed at ten o'clock, after prayers and a short hymn. Quite a carol that hymn was, eh, dears?"
"And your poor pa was so bad with his cough," said Beatrice, "I hope it is better. He went away before dinner, too! Do say your pa is better!"
"Yes, dear, much better," said Lydia, and considering it was four months since Christmas Eve, Lucian thought it was time Mr. Clyne recovered.
"He enjoyed his tea, though," said Cecilia. "Mr. Clyne always says there is no tea like ours."
"And no evenings," cried Lydia, who was very glad there were not. "Poppa and I are coming soon to have a long evening—to play whist again."
"But, dear Mrs. Vrain, you are not going?"
"I must, dears," with a kiss all round. "I have such a lot to do, and Mr. Denzil is coming with me, as poppa wants to consult him about some law business. He's a barrister, you know."
"I hope Mr. Denzil will come and see us again," said Mrs. Pegall, shaking hands with Lucian. A fat, puffy hand she had, and damp.
"Oh, delighted! delighted!" said Denzil hurriedly.
"Cards and tea, and sensible conversation," said Beatrice seriously, "no more."
"You forget prayers at ten, dear," rejoined Cecilia in low tones.
"We are a plain family, Mr. Denzil. You must take us as we are."
"Thank you, Mrs. Pegall, I will."
"Good-bye, dears," cried Lydia again, and with a final peck all round she skipped out and into the hansom, followed by her escort.
"Damn!" said Mrs. Vrain, when the cab drove away in the direction of Bayswater. "Oh, don't look so shocked, Mr. Denzil. I assure you I am not in the habit of swearing, but the extreme respectability of the Pegalls always makes me wish to relieve my feelings by going to the other extreme. What do you think of them?"
"They seem very good people, and genuine."
"And very genteel and dull," retorted Lydia. "Like Washington, they can't tell a lie for a red cent; so you can believe I was there with poppa on Christmas Eve, only he went away, and I stayed all night."
"Yes, I believe it, Mrs. Vrain."
"Then I couldn't have been in Jersey Street or Geneva Square, sticking Mark with the stiletto?"
"No! I believe you to be innocent," said Lucian gravely. "In fact, I really don't think it is necessary to find out about this cloak at Baxter & Co.'s. I am assured you did not buy it."
"I guess I didn't, Mr. Denzil; but you want to know who did, and so do I. Well, you need not open your eyes. I'd like to know who killed Mark, also; and you say that cloak will show it?"
"I didn't say that; but the cloak may identify the woman I wrongfully took for you. She may have to do with the matter."
Lydia shook her pretty head. "Not she. Mark was as respectable as the Pegall gang; there's no woman mixed up in this matter."
"But I saw the shadow of a woman on the blind of No. 13!"
"You don't say! In Mark's sitting-room? Well, I should smile to know he was human, after all. He was always so precious stiff!"
Something in Mrs. Vrain's light talk of her dead husband jarred on the feelings of Lucian, and in some displeasure he held his peace. In no wise abashed, Lydia feigned to take no notice of thistacit reproof, but chatted on about all and everything in the most frivolous manner. Not until they had entered the shop of Baxter & Co. did she resume attention to business.
"Here," she said to the smiling shopwalker, "I want to know by whom this cloak was sold, and to what person."
The man examined the cloak, and noted a private mark on it, which evidently afforded him some information not obtainable by the general public, for he guided Lucian and his companion to a counter behind which stood a brisk woman with sharp eyes. In her turn she also examined the cloak, and departed to refresh her memory by looking at some account book. When she returned it was to intimate that the cloak had been bought by a man.
"A man!" repeated Lucian, much astonished. "What was he like?"
"A dark man," replied the brisk shopwoman, "dark hair, dark eyes, and a dark moustache. I remember him well, because he was a foreigner."
"A foreigner?" repeated Lydia in her turn. "A Frenchman?"
"No, madam—an Italian. He told me as much."
"Sakes alive!" cried Mrs. Vrain. "You are right, Mr. Denzil. It's Ferruci sure enough!"
"It is quite impossible!" cried Mrs. Vrain distractedly. "I can't believe it nohow!"
The little woman was back again in her own drawing-room, talking to Lucian about the discovery which had lately been made regarding Ferruci's purchase of the cloak. Mrs. Vrain having proved her own innocence by the evidence of the Pegall family, was now trying to persuade both herself and Denzil that the Count could not be possibly implicated in the matter. He had no motive to kill Vrain, she said, a statement with which Lucian at once disagreed.
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Vrain, he had two motives," said the barrister quickly. "In the first place, he was in love, and wished to marry you; in the second, he was poor, and wanted money. By the death of your husband he hoped to gain both."
"He has gained neither, as yet," replied Lydia sharply. "I like Ercole well enough, and at one time I was almost engaged to him. But he has a nasty temper of his own, Mr. Denzil, so I shunted him pretty smart to marry Mark Vrain. I wouldn'tmarry him now if he dumped down a million dollars at my feet to-morrow. Besides, poppa don't like him at all. I've got my money, and I've got my freedom, and I don't fool away either the one or the other on that Italian dude!"
"Is the Count acquainted with these sentiments?" asked Lucian drily.
"I guess so, Mr. Denzil. He asked me to marry him two months after Mark's death, and I just up and told him pretty plain how the cat jumped."
"In plain English, you refused him?"
"You bet I did!" cried Lydia vigorously. "So you see, Mr. Denzil, he could not have killed Mark."
"Why not? He did not know your true mind until two months after the murder."
"That's a fact, anyhow," commented Mrs. Vrain. "But what the mischief made him buy that rabbit-skin cloak?"
"I expect he bought it for the woman I mistook for you."
"And who may she be?"
"That is just what I wish to find out. This woman who came to Jersey Street so often wore this cloak; therefore, she must have obtained it from the Count. I'll make him tell me who she is, and what she has to do with this crime."
"Do you think she has anything to do with it?" said Mrs. Vrain doubtfully.
"I am certain. It must have been her shadow I saw on the blind."
"And the man's shadow was the Count's?" questioned Lydia.
"I think so. He bought the cloak for the woman, visited the man Wrent at Jersey Street, and was seen by the servant in the back yard. He did not act thus without some object, Mrs. Vrain, you may be sure of that."
"Sakes!" said Lydia, with a weary sigh. "I ain't sure of anything save that my head is buzzing like a sawmill. Who is Wrent, anyhow?"
"I don't know. An old man with white beard and a skull-cap of black velvet."
"Ugh!" said Mrs. Vrain, with a shiver. "Mark used to wear a black skull-cap, and the thought of it makes me freeze up. Sounds like a judge of your courts ordering a man to be lynched. Well, Mr. Denzil, it seems to me as you'd best hustle Ercole. If he knows who the woman is—and he wouldn't buy cloaks for her if he didn't—he'll know who this Wrent is. I guess he can supply all information."
"Where does he live?"
"Number 40, Marquis Street, St. James's. You go and look him up, while I tell poppa what a mean white he is. I guess poppa won't let him come near me again. Pop's an honest man, though he ain't no Washington."
"Suppose I find out that he killed your husband?" asked Lucian, rising.
"Then you'd best lynch him right away," replied Lydia without hesitation. "I draw the line at murder—some!"
The barrister was somewhat disgusted to hear Mrs. Vrain so coolly devote her whilom admirer to a shameful death. However, he knew that her heart was hard and her nature selfish; so there was little use in showing any outward displeasure at her want of charity. She had cleared herself from suspicion, and evidently cared not who suffered, so long as she was safe and well spoken of. Moreover, Lucian had learned all he wished about her movements on the night of the crime, and taking a hasty leave, he went off to Marquis Street for the purpose of bringing Ferruci to book for his share in the terrible business. However, the Count proved to be from home, and would not be back, so the servant said, until late that night.
Denzil therefore left a message that he would call at noon the next day, and drove from St. James's to Kensington, where he visited Diana. Here he detailed what he had learned and done from the time he had visited Mrs. Bensusan up to the interview with Lydia. Also he displayed the cloak, and narrated how Mrs. Vrain had cleared herself of its purchase.
To all this Diana listened with the greatest interest, and when Lucian ended she looked at him for some moments in silence. In fact, Diana, with all her wit and common sense, did not know how to regard the present position of affairs.
"Well, Miss Vrain," said Lucian, seeing that she did not speak, "what do you think of it all?"
"Mrs. Vrain appears to be innocent," said Diana in a low voice.
"Assuredly she is! The evidence of the Pegall family—given in all innocence—proves that she could not have been in Geneva Square or in Jersey Street on Christmas Eve."
"Then we come back to my original belief, Mr. Denzil. Lydia did not commit the crime herself, but employed Ferruci to do so."
"No," replied Denzil decidedly. "Whether the Italian is guilty or not, Mrs. Vrain knows nothing about it. If she were cognisant of his guilt she would not have risked going with me to Baxter & Co., and letting me discover that Ferruci had bought the cloak. Nor would she so lightly surrender a possible accomplice as she has done Ferruci. Whatever can be said of Mrs. Vrain's conduct—and I admit that it is far from perfect—yet I must say that she appears, by the strongest evidence, to be totally innocent and ignorant. She knows no more about the matter than her father does."
"Well," said Diana, unwilling to grant her stepmother too much grace, "we must give her the benefit of the doubt. What about Ferruci?"
"So far as I can see, Ferruci is guilty," replied Lucian. "To clear himself he will have to give the same proof as Mrs. Vrain. Firstly, he will have to show that he was not in Jersey Street onChristmas Eve; secondly, he will have to prove that he did not buy the cloak. But in the face of the servant's evidence, and the statement of the shopwoman, he will find it difficult to clear himself. Yet," added Lucian, remembering his failure with Lydia, "it is always possible that he may do so."
"It seems to me, Mr. Denzil, that your only chance of getting at the truth is to see the Italian."
"I think so myself. I will see him to-morrow."
"Will you take Mr. Link with you?"
"No, Miss Vrain. As I have found out so much without Link, I may as well proceed in the matter until his professional services are required to arrest Count Ferruci. By the way, I have never seen that gentleman. Can you describe his appearance to me?"
"Oh, as far as looks go there is no fault to be found with him," answered Diana. "He is a typical Italian, tall, slender, and olive complexioned. He speaks English very well, indeed, and appears to be possessed of considerable education. Certainly, to look at him, and to speak with him, you would not think he was a villain likely to murder a defenceless old man. But if he did not kill my poor father, I know not who did."
"I'll call on him to-morrow at noon," said Lucian, "and later on I shall come here to tell you what has passed between us."
This remark brought the business between them to a close, but Lucian would fain have lingered to engage Diana in lighter conversation. Miss Vrain,however, was too much disturbed by the news he had brought her to indulge in frivolous talk. Her mind, busied with recollections of her deceased father, and anxiously seeking some means whereby to avenge his death, was ill attuned to encourage at the moment the aspirations which she knew Lucian entertained.
The barrister, therefore, sighed and hinted in vain. His Dulcinea would have none of him or his courting, and he was compelled to retire, as disconsolate a lover as could be seen. To slightly alter the saying of Shakespeare, "the course of true love never does run smooth," but there were surely an unusual number of obstacles in the current of Denzil's desires. But as he consoled himself with reflecting that the greater the prize the harder it is to win, so it behooved him to do his devoir like a true knight.
The next day, at noon, Lucian, armed for the encounter with the evidence of Rhoda and of the cloak, presented himself at the rooms which Count Ferruci temporarily inhabited in Marquis Street. He not only found the Italian ready to receive him, but in full possession of the adventure of the cloak, which, as he admitted, he had learned from Lydia the previous evening. Also, Count Ferruci was extremely indignant, and informed Lucian that he was easily able to clear himself of the suspicion. While he raged on in his fiery Italian way, Denzil, who saw no chance of staying the torrent of words, examined him at his leisure.
Ercole Ferruci was, as Diana had said, a singularly handsome man of thirty-five. He was dark, slender, and tall, with dark, flashing eyes, a heavy black moustache, and an alert military look about him which showed that he had served in the army. The above description savours a trifle of the impossible hero of a young lady's dream; and, as a matter of fact, Ferruci was not unlike that ideal personage. He had all the looks and graces which women admire, and seemed honest and fiery enough in a manly way—the last person, as Lucian thought, to gain his aims by underhand ways, or to kill a helpless old man. But Lucian, legally experienced in human frailty, was not to be put off with voluble conversation and outward graces. He wished for proofs of innocence, and these he tried to obtain as soon as Ferruci drew breath in his fiery harangue.
"If you are innocent, Count," said Lucian, in reply to the fluent, incorrect English of the Italian, "appearances are against you. However, you can prove yourself innocent, if you will."
"Sir!" cried Ferruci, "is not my word good?"
"Not good enough for an English court," replied Lucian coldly. "You say you were not in Jersey Street on Christmas Eve. Who can prove that?"
"My friend—my dear friend, Dr. Jorce of Hampstead, sir. I was with him; oh, yes, sir, he will tell you so."
"Very good! I hope his evidence will clear you," replied the more phlegmatic Englishman. "And this cloak?"
"I never bought the cloak! I saw it not before!"
"Then come with me to the shop in Bayswater, and hear what the girl who sold it says."
"I will come at once!" cried Ferruci hastily, catching up his cane and hat. "Come, then, my friend! Come! What does the woman say?"
"That she sold the cloak to a tall man—to a dark man with a moustache, and one who told her he was Italian."
"Bah!" retorted the Count, as they hailed a hansom. "Is all that she can say? Why, all we Italians are supposed to be tall and dark, and wear moustaches. Your common people in England never fancy one of us can be fair."
"You are not fair," replied Lucian drily, "and your looks correspond to the description."
"True! Oh, yes, sir! But that description might describe a dozen of my countrymen. And, Mr. Denzil," added the Count, laughing, "I do not go round about saying to common people that I am an Italian. It is not my custom to explain."
Lucian shrugged his shoulders, and said no more until they entered the shop in Bayswater. As he knew from the previous visit where the saleswoman was located, he led the Count rapidly to the place. The girl was there, as brisk and businesslike as ever. She looked up as they approached, and came forward to serve them, with a swift glance at both.
"I am sorry to trouble you again," said Lucian ceremoniously, "but you told me yesterday that yousold a blue cloak, lined with rabbit skin, to an Italian gentleman, and—"
"And am I the gentleman?" interrupted Ferruci. "Did I buy a cloak?"
"No," replied the shopwoman, after a sharp glance. "This is not the gentleman who bought the cloak."