"You see, Mr. Denzil," said Ferruci, turning triumphantly to Lucian, "I did not buy this cloak; I am not the Italian this lady speaks of."
Lucian was extremely astonished at this unexpected testimony in favour of the Count, and questioned the shopwoman sharply. "Are you certain of what you say?" he asked, looking at her intently.
"Yes, I am, sir," replied the girl stiffly, as though she did not like her word doubted. "The gentleman who bought the cloak was not so tall as this one, nor did he speak English well. I had great difficulty in learning what he wanted."
"But you said that he was dark, with a moustache—and—"
"I said all that, sir; but this is not the gentleman."
"Could you swear to it?" said Lucian, more chagrined than he liked to show to the victorious Ferruci.
"If it is necessary, I could, sir," said the shopwoman, with the greatest confidence. And after so direct a reply, and such certain evidence, Denzil hadnothing to do but retire from an awkward position as gracefully as he could.
"And now, sir," said Ferruci, who had followed him out of the shop, "you come with me, please."
"Where to?" asked Lucian gloomily.
"To my friend—to my rooms. I have shown I did not buy the cloak you speak of. Now we must find my friend, Dr. Jorce, to tell you I was not at Jersey Street when you say."
"Is Dr. Jorce at your rooms?"
"I asked him to call about this time," said Ferruci, glancing at his watch. "When Mrs. Vrain speak to me of what you say I wish to defend myself, so I write last night to my friend to talk with you this day. I get his telegram saying he would come at two hours."
Lucian glanced in his turn at his watch. "Half-past one," he said, beckoning to a cab. "Very good, Count, we will just have time to get back to your place."
"And what you think now?" said Ferruci, with a malicious twinkle in his eyes.
"I do not know what to think," replied Lucian dismally, "save that it is a strange coincidence thatanotherItalian should have bought the cloak."
The Count shrugged his shoulders as they got into the hansom, but he did not speak until they were well on their way back to Marquis Street. He then looked thoughtfully at his companion. "I do not believe coincidence," he said abruptly, "but in design."
"What do you mean, Count? I do not quite follow you."
"Some one who knows I love Mrs. Vrain wish to injure me," said the Italian rapidly, "and so make theirself like me to buy that cloak. Ah! you see? But he could not make himself as tall as me. Oh, yes, sir, I am sure it is so."
"Do you know any one who would disguise himself so as to implicate you in the murder?"
"No." Ferruci shook his head. "I cannot think of one man—not one."
"Do you know a man called Wrent?" asked Lucian abruptly.
"I do not, Mr. Denzil," said Ferruci at once. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, I thought he might be the man to disguise himself. But no," added Lucian, remembering Rhoda's account of Wrent's white hair and beard, "it cannot be him. He would not sacrifice his beard to carry out the plan; in fact he could not without attracting Rhoda's attention."
"Rhoda! Wrent! What strange names you talk of!" cried Ferruci vivaciously.
"No stranger than that of your friend Jorce."
Ferruci laughed. "Oh, he is altogether most strange. You see."
It was as the Italian said. Dr. Jorce—who was waiting for them in the Count's room—proved to be a small, dried-up atom of a man, who looked as though all the colour had been bleached out of him. At first sight he was more like a monkey than aman, owing to his slight, queer figure and agile movements; but a closer examination revealed that he had a clever face, and a pair of most remarkable eyes. These were of a steel-grey hue, with an extraordinary intensity of gaze; and when he fixed them on Lucian at the moment of introduction the young barrister felt as though he were being mesmerised.
For the rest, Jorce was dressed sombrely in black cloth, was extremely voluble and vivacious, and impressed Lucian with the idea that he was less a fellow mortal than a changeling from fairyland. Quite an exceptional man was Dr. Jorce, and, as the Italian said, "most strange."
"My good friend," said Ferruci, laying his stern hand on the shoulder of this oddity, "this gentleman wishes you to decide a—what do you say?—bet?"
"A bet!" cried the little doctor in a deep bass voice, but with some indignation. "Do I understand, Count, that you have brought me all the way from my place in Hampstead to decide a bet?"
"Ah, but sir, it is a bet most important," said Ferruci, with a smile. "This Mr. Denzil declares that he saw me in Pim—Pim—what?"
"In Pimlico," said Lucian, seeing that Ferruci could not pronounce the word. "I say that the Count was in Pimlico on Christmas Eve."
"You are wrong, sir," said Jorce, with a wave of his skinny hand. "My friend, Count Ferruci, was in my house at Hampstead on that evening."
"Was he?" remarked Lucian, astonished at thisconfident assertion. "And at what time did he leave?"
"He did not leave till next morning. My friend the Count remained under my roof all night, and left at twelve o'clock on Christmas morning."
"So you see," said Ferruci airily to Lucian, "that I could not have done what you think, as that was done—by what you said—between eleven and twelve on that night."
"Was the Count with you at ten o'clock on that evening?" asked Denzil.
"Certainly he was; so you have lost your bet, Mr. Denzil. Sorry to bring you such bad fortune, but truth is truth, you know."
"Would you repeat this statement, if I wished?"
"Why not? Call on me at any time. 'The Haven, Hampstead'; that will always find me."
"Ah, but I do not think it will be necessary for Mr. Denzil to call on you, sir," interposed the Count rapidly. "You can always come to me. Well, Mr. Denzil, are you satisfied?"
"I am," replied Lucian. "I have lost my bet, Count, and I apologise. Good-day, Dr. Jorce, and thank you. Count Ferruci, I wish you good-bye."
"Not evenau revoir?" said Ferruci mockingly.
"That depends upon the future," replied Lucian coolly, and forthwith went away in low spirits at the downfall of his hopes. Far from revealing the mystery of Vrain's death, his late attempts to solve it had resulted in utter failure. Lydia had cleared herself; Ferruci had proved himself innocent; andLucian could not make up his mind what was now to be done.
In this dilemma he sought out Diana, as, knowing from experience that where a man's logic ends a woman's instinct begins, he thought she might suggest some way out of the difficulty. On arriving at the Royal John Hotel he found that Diana was waiting for him with great impatience; and hardly giving herself time to greet him, she asked how he had fared in his interview with Count Ferruci.
"Has that man been arrested, Mr. Denzil?"
"No, Miss Vrain. I regret to say that he has not been arrested. To speak plainly, he has, so far as I can see, proved himself innocent."
"Innocent! And the evidence against him?"
"Is utterly useless. I brought him face to face with the woman who sold the cloak, and she denies that Ferruci bought it."
"But she said the buyer was an Italian."
"She did, and dark, with a moustache. All the same, she did not recognise the Count. She says the buyer was not so tall, and spoke worse English."
"Ferruci could make his English bad if he liked."
"Probably; but he could not make his stature shorter. No, Miss Vrain, I am afraid that our Italian friend, in spite of the evidence against him, did not buy the cloak. That he resembles the purchaser in looks and nationality is either a coincidence or——"
"Or what?" seeing that Lucian hesitated.
"Or design," finished the barrister. "And, indeed, the Count himself is of this opinion. He believes that some one who wished to get him into trouble personated him."
"Has he any suspicions as to whom the person may be?"
"He says not, and I believe him; for if he did suspect any particular individual he certainly would gain nothing by concealment of the fact."
"H'm!" said Diana thoughtfully, "so that denial of the saleswoman disposes of the cloak's evidence. What about the Count's presence in Jersey Street on Christmas Eve?"
"He was not there!"
"But Rhoda, the servant, saw him both in the house and in the back yard!"
"She saw a dark man, with a moustache, but she could not say that he was a foreigner. She does not know Ferruci, remember. The man she saw must have been the same as the purchaser of the cloak."
"Where does Ferruci say he was?"
"At Hampstead, visiting a friend."
"Oh! And what does the friend say?"
"He declares that the Count was with him on Christmas Eve and stayed all night."
"That is very convenient evidence for the Count, Mr. Denzil. Who is this accommodating friend?"
"A doctor called Jorce."
"Can his word be trusted?"
"So far as I can judge from his looks and a short acquaintance, I should say so."
"It was half-past eight when the servant saw the dark man run out of the yard?"
"Yes!"
"And at half-past eight Ferruci was at Hampstead in the house of Dr. Jorce?"
"Not that I know of," said Lucian, remembering that he had asked Jorce the question rather generally than particularly, "but the doctor declared that Ferruci was with him at ten o'clock on that evening, and did not leave him until next morning; so as your father was killed between eleven and twelve, Ferruci must be innocent."
"It would seem so, if this doctor is to be believed," muttered Diana reflectively, "but judging by what you have told me, there is nothing to show that Ferruci wasnotin Pimlico at eight-thirty, and wasnotthe man whom the servant saw."
"Well, certainly he could get from Pimlico to Hampstead in an hour and a half. However, the main point about all this evidence is, that neither Ferruci nor Lydia Vrain killed your father."
"No! no! that seems clear. Still! still! they know about it. Oh, I am sure of it. It must have been Ferruci who was in Pimlico on that night. If so, he knows who Wrent is, and why he stayed in Jersey Street."
"Perhaps, although he denies ever hearing the name of Wrent. But I would not be surprised if the man who could solve the mystery is——"
"Who?—who?"
"Doctor Jorce himself. I feel sure of it."
Unwilling to give up prosecuting the Vrain case while the slightest hope remained of solving its mystery, Lucian sought out Link, the detective, and detailed all the evidence he had collected since the constituted authorities had abandoned the matter. Although Mrs. Vrain and Ferruci had exculpated themselves entirely, Denzil thought that Link, with his professional distrust and trained sense of ferreting out secrets, might discern better than himself whether such exculpations were warranted by circumstances.
Link heard all that Denzil had to tell him with outward indifference and inward surprise; for while unwilling, through jealousy of an amateur, to flatter the barrister by a visible compliment, yet he silently admitted that Denzil had made his discoveries and profited by them with much acuteness. What annoyed him, however, was that the young man had pushed his inquiries to the uttermost limit; and that there was no chance of any glory accruing to himself by prosecuting them further. Still, on the possibility that something might come of it, he wentover the ground already traversed by the amateur detective.
"You should have told me of your intentions when Miss Vrain spoke to you in the first instance," he said to Lucian by way of rebuke. "As it is, you have confused the clues so much that I do not know which one to take."
"It seems to me that I have pursued each clue until fate or circumstance clipped it short," retorted Lucian, nettled by this injustice. "Mrs. Vrain has defended herself successfully, much in the same way as Count Ferruci has done. Your only chance of getting at the truth lies in discovering Wrent; and unless Rhoda helps you there, I do not see how you can trace the man."
"I am of a different opinion," said Link, lying freely to conceal his doubts of success in the matter. "As you have failed through lack of experience, I shall attempt to unravel this skein."
"You attempted to do so before, and gave it up because of the tangle," said Lucian with quiet irony. "And unless you discover more than I have done, you will dismiss the matter again as impossible. So far as I can see, the mystery of Vrain's death is more of a mystery than ever, and will never be solved."
"I'll make one last attempt to unriddle it, however," answered Link, with a confidence he was far from feeling, "but, of course—not being one of your impossible detectives of fiction—I may fail."
"You are certain to fail," said Lucian decisively,and with this disheartening prophecy he left Link to his task of—apparently—spinning ropes of sand.
Whether it was that Link was so doubtful of the result as to extend little energy in the search, or whether he really found the task impossible of accomplishment, it is difficult to say, but assuredly he failed as completely as Lucian predicted. With outward zeal he set to work; interviewed Lydia and the Italian, to make certain that their defence was genuine; examined the Pegall family, who were dreadfully alarmed by their respectability being intruded upon by a common detective, and obtained a fresh denial from Baxter & Co.'s saleswoman that Ferruci was the purchaser of the cloak. Also he cross-questioned Mrs. Bensusan and her sharp handmaid in the most exhaustive manner, and did his best to trace out the mysterious Wrent who had so much to do with the matter. He even called on Dr. Jorce at Hampstead, to satisfy himself as to the actual time of Ferruci's arrival in that neighbourhood on Christmas Eve. But here he received a check, for Jorce had gone abroad on his annual holiday, and was not expected back for a month.
In fact, Link did all that a man could do to arrive at the truth, only to find himself, at the end of his labours, in the same position as Lucian had been. Disgusted at this result, he threw up his brief, and called upon Diana and Denzil, with whom he had previously made an appointment, to notify them of his inability to bring the matter to a satisfactory conclusion.
"There is not the slightest chance of finding the assassin of Mr. Vrain," said Link, after he had set forth at length his late failures. "The more I go into the matter the more I see it."
"Yet you were so confident of doing more than I," said Lucian quietly.
Link turned sulkily, after the fashion of a bad loser.
"I did my best," he retorted gloomily. "No man can do more. Some crimes are beyond the power of the law to punish for sheer lack of proof. This is one of them; and, so far as I can see, this unknown assassin will be punished on Judgment Day—not before."
"Then you don't think that Signor Ferruci is guilty?" said Diana.
"No. He has had nothing to do with the matter; nor has Mrs. Vrain brought about the death in any way."
"You cannot say who killed my father?"
"Not for certain, but I suspect Wrent."
"Then why not find Wrent?" asked Diana bluntly.
"He has hidden his trail too well," began Link, "and—and——"
"And if you did find him," finished Denzil coolly, "he might prove himself guiltless, after the fashion of Mrs. Vrain and Ferruci."
"He might, sir; there is no knowing. But since you think I have done so little, Mr. Denzil, let me ask you who it is you suspect?"
"Dr. Jorce of Hampstead."
"Pooh! pooh!" cried Link, with contempt. "He didn't kill the man—how could he, seeing he was at Hampstead on that Christmas Eve midnight, as I found out from his servants?"
"I don't suspect him of actually striking the blow," replied Lucian, "but I believe he knows who did."
"Not he! Dr. Jorce has too responsible a position to mix himself up in a crime from which he gains no benefit."
"Why! what position does he hold?"
"He is the owner of a private lunatic asylum. Is it likely that a man like him would commit a murder?"
"Again I deny that he did commit the crime; but I am certain, from the very fact of his friendship with Ferruci, that he knows more than he chooses to tell. Why should the Italian be intimate with the owner of a private asylum—with a man so much beneath him in rank?"
"I don't know, sir. But if you suspect Dr. Jorce you had better see him when he comes back from his holidays—in a month."
"Where is he now?"
"In Italy, and the Count has gone with him."
Diana and Lucian looked at one another, and the former spoke: "That is strange," she said. "I agree with Mr. Denzil, it is peculiar, to say the least of it, that an Italian noble should make a bosom friend of a man so far inferior to him inposition. Don't you think so yourself, Mr. Link?"
"Madam," said Link gravely, "I think nothing about it, save that you will never find out the truth. I have tried my best, and failed; and I am confident enough in my own power to say that where I have failed no one else will succeed. Miss Vrain, Mr. Denzil, I wish you good-day."
And with this bragging speech, which revealed the hurt vanity of the man, Mr. Link took his departure. Lucian held his peace, for in the face of this desertion of a powerful ally he did not know what to say. Diana walked to the sitting-room window and watched Link disappear into the crowd of passers-by. At that she heaved a sigh, for with him—she thought—went every chance of learning the truth, since if he, an experienced person in such matters, turned back from the quest, there could assuredly be no help in any one not professional, and with less trained abilities.
Then she turned to Lucian.
"There is nothing more to be done, I suppose," said she, sighing again.
"I am afraid not," replied Lucian dismally, for he was quite of her opinion regarding the desertion of the detective.
"Then I must leave this unknown assassin to the punishment of God!" said Diana quietly. "And I can only thank you for all you have done for me, Mr. Denzil, and say"—she hesitated and blushed, then added, with some emphasis—"sayau revoir."
"Ah!" ejaculated Denzil, with an indrawnbreath of relief, "I am glad you did not say good-bye."
"I don't wish to say it, Mr. Denzil. I have not so many friends in the world that I can afford to lose so good a one as yourself."
"I am content," said Lucian softly, "that you should think of me as your friend—for the present."
His meaning was so unmistakable that Diana, still blushing, and somewhat confused, hastened to prevent his saying more at so awkward a moment. "Then as my friend I hope you will come and see me at Berwin Manor."
"I shall be delighted. When do you go down?"
"Within a fortnight. I must remain that time in town to see my lawyer about the estate left by my poor father."
"And see Mrs. Vrain?"
"No," replied Diana coldly. "Now that my father is dead, Mrs. Vrain is nothing to me. Indirectly, I look upon her as the cause of his death, for if she had not driven both of us out of our own home, my father might have been alive still. I shall not call on Mrs. Vrain, and I do not think she will dare to call on me."
"I'm not so sure of that," rejoined Lucian, who was well acquainted with the lengths to which Mrs. Vrain's audacity would carry her; "but let us dismiss her, with all your other troubles. May I call on you again before you leave town?"
"Occasionally," replied Diana, smiling andblushing; "and you will come down to Berwin Manor when I send you an invitation?"
"I should think so," said Denzil, in high glee, as he rose to depart; "and now I will say——"
"Good-bye?" said Miss Vrain, holding out her hand.
"No. I will use your own form of farewell—au revoir."
Then Lucian went out from the presence of his beloved, exulting that she had proved so kind as not to dismiss him when she no longer required his services. In another woman he would not have minded such ingratitude, but had Diana banished him thus he would have been miserable beyond words. Also, as Lucian joyfully reflected, her invitation to Berwin Manor showed that, far from wishing to lose sight of him, she desired to draw him into yet closer intimacy. There could be nothing but good resulting from her invitation and his acceptance, and already Denzil looked forward to some bright summer's day in the green and leafy country, when he should ask this goddess among women to be his wife. If encouragement and looks and blushes went for anything, he hardly doubted the happy result.
In the meantime, while Lucian dreamed his dreams, Diana, also dreaming in her own way, remained in town and attended to business. She saw her lawyers, and had her affairs looked into, so that when she went to Bath she was legally installed as the mistress of Berwin Manor and its surrounding acres. As Lucian hinted, Lydia did indeed try to see her stepdaughter. She called twice, and was refused admission into Diana's presence. She wrote three times, and received no reply to her letters; so the consequence was that, finding Diana declined to have anything to do with her in any way whatsoever, she became very bitter. This feeling she expressed to Lucian, whom she one day met in Piccadilly.
"As if I had done anything," finished Lydia, after a recital of all her grievances. "I call it real mean. Don't you think so, Mr. Denzil?"
"If you ask me, Mrs. Vrain," said Lucian stiffly, "I think you and Miss Vrain are better apart."
"Of course you defend her. But I guess I can't blame you, as I know what you are driving at."
"What about Signor Ferruci?" asked Denzil, parrying.
"Oh, we are good friends still, but nothing more. As he proved that he did not kill Mark, I've no reason to give him his walking-ticket. But," added Mrs. Vrain drily, "I guess you'll be married to Diana before I hitch up 'longside Ercole."
"How do you know I shall marry Miss Vrain?" asked Lucian, flushing.
"If you saw your face in a glass, you wouldn't ask, I guess. Tomatoes ain't in it for redness. I won't dance at your wedding, and I won't break my heart, either," and with a gay nod Mrs. Lydia Vrain tripped away, evidently quite forgetful of the late tragedy in her life.
The heritage of Diana lay some miles from Bath, in a pleasant wooded valley, through which meandered a placid and slow-flowing stream. On either side of this water stretched broad meadow lands, flat and fertile, as well they might be, seeing they were of rich black loam, and well drained, withal. To the right these meadows were bounded by forest lands, the trees of which grew thickly up and over the ridge, and on the space where wood met fields was placed the manor, a quaint square building of Georgian architecture, and some two centuries old.
Against the green of the trees its warm walls of red brick and sloping roof of bluish slate made a pleasant spot of colour. There stretched a terrace before it; beneath the terrace a flower garden and orchard; and below these the meadow lands, white with snow in winter, black in spring, with ridgy furrows, and golden with grain in the hot days of summer. Altogether a lovely and peaceful spot, where a man could pass pleasant days in rural quiet, a hermitage of rest for the life-worn and heart-weary.
Here, towards the end of summer, came Lucian, to rest his brain after the turmoil of London, and to court his mistress under the most favourable circumstances. Diana had established herself in her ancestral home with a superannuated governess as a chaperon, for without such a guardianship she could hardly have invited the barrister to visit her. Miss Priscilla Barbar was a placid, silver-haired old dame, who, having taught Diana for many years, had returned, now that the American Mrs. Vrain had departed, to spend the rest of her days under the roof of her dear pupil.
She took a great fancy to Lucian, which was just as well, seeing what was the object of his visit, and complacently watched the growing attachment between the handsome young couple, who seemed so suited to one another. But her duties as chaperon were nominal, for when not pottering about the garden she was knitting in a snug corner, and when knitting failed to interest her she slumbered quietly, in defiance of the etiquette which should have compelled her to make a third in the conversation of her young friends.
As for Lucian and his charming hostess, they found that they had so many tastes in common, and enjoyed each other's society so much, that they were hardly ever apart. Diana saw with the keen eyes of a woman that Lucian was in love with her, and let it be seen in a marvellously short space of time, and without much difficulty, that she was in love with him.
But even after Lucian had been at the manor a fortnight, and daily in the society of Diana, he spoke no word of love. Seeing how beautiful she was, and how dowered with lands and rents and horses, he began to ask himself whether it was not rather a presumption on his part to ask her to share his life. He had only three hundred a year—six pounds a week—and a profession in which, as yet, he had not succeeded; so he could offer her very little in exchange for her beauty, wealth, and position.
The poor lover became quite pale with fruitless longing, and his spirits fell so low that good Miss Priscilla one day drew him aside to ask about his health.
"For," said she, "if you are ill in body, Mr. Denzil, I know of some remedies—old woman's medicines you will call them, no doubt—which, with the blessing of God, may do you good."
"Thank you, Miss Barbar, but I am not ill in body—worse luck!" and Lucian sighed.
"Why worse luck, Mr. Denzil?" said the old lady severely. "That is an ungrateful speech to Providence."
"I would rather be ill in body than ill in mind," explained Denzil, blushing, for in some ways he was younger than his years.
"And are you ill in mind?" asked Miss Priscilla, with a twinkle in her eyes.
"Alas! yes. Can you cure me?"
"No. For that cure I shall hand you over to Diana."
"Miss Priscilla!" And Lucian coloured again, this time with vexation.
"Oh, Mr. Denzil," laughed the governess, "because I am old you must not imagine that I am blind. I see that you love Diana."
"Better than my life!" cried the devoted lover with much fervour.
"Of course! That is the usual romantic answer to make. Well, why do you not tell Diana so, with any pretty additions your fancy suggests?"
"She might not listen to me," said this doubting lover dolefully.
"Very true," replied his consoler. "On the other hand, she might. Besides, Mr. Denzil, however much the world may have altered since my youth, I have yet to learn that it is the lady's part to propose to the gentleman."
"But, Miss Barbar, I am poor!"
"What of that? Diana is rich."
"Don't I know it? For that very reason I hesitate to ask her."
"Because you are afraid of being called a fortune-hunter, I suppose," said the old lady drily. "That shows a lack of moral courage which is not worthy of you, Mr. Denzil. Take an old woman's advice, young man, and put your fortunes to the test. Remember Montrose's advice in the song."
"You approve of my marrying Diana—I mean Miss Vrain?"
"From what I have seen of you, and from what Diana has told me about you, I could wish her no better husband. Poor girl! After the tragical death of her father, and her wretched life with that American woman, she deserves a happy future."
"And do you think—do you really think that she—that she—would be happy with—with me?" stammered Lucian, hardly daring to believe Miss Priscilla, whose acquaintance with him seemed too recent to warrant such trust.
The wise old woman laughed and nodded.
"Ask her yourself, my dear," she said, patting his hand. "She will be able to answer that question better than I. Besides, girls like to say 'yea' or 'nay,' themselves."
This seemed to be good advice, and certainly none could have been more grateful to the timid lover. That very night he made up his mind to risk his fortunes by speaking to Diana. It was no easy matter for the young man to bring himself to do so, for cool, bold, and fluent as he was on ordinary occasions, the fever of love rendered him shy and nervous. The looks of Diana acted on his spirits as the weather does on a barometer. A smile made him jocund and hilarious, a frown abashed him almost to gloom. And in the April weather of her presence he was as variable as a weather-cock. It is, therefore, little to be wondered at that one ordinarily daring should tremble to ask a question which might be answered in the negative. True, Miss Barbar's partisanship heartened him a trifle,but he still feared for the result. Cupid, as well as conscience, makes cowards of us all—and Lucian was a doubting lover.
Towards the end of his stay Miss Priscilla—as usual—fell asleep one evening after dinner, and Diana, feeling the house too warm, stepped out into the garden, followed by Lucian. The sun had just set behind the undulating hills, and the clear sky, to the zenith, was of a pale rose colour, striped towards the western horizon with lines of golden cloud. In the east a cold blue prevailed, and here and there a star sparkled in the arch of the sky.
The garden was filled with floating shadows, which seemed to glide into it from the dark recesses of the near woods, and in a copse some distance away a nightingale was singing to his mate, and filling the silence with melody. The notes fluted sweetly through the still air, mingling with the sigh of the rising wind and the musical splashing of the fountain. This shot up a pillar of silvery water to a great height, and in descending sprinkled the near flower beds with its cold spray. All was inexpressibly beautiful to the eye and soothing to the ear—a scene and an hour for love. It might have been the garden of the Capulets, and those who moved in it—the immortal lovers, as yet uncursed by Fate.
"Only three more days," sighed Lucian as he walked slowly down the path beside Diana, "and then that noisy London again."
"Perhaps it is as well," said Diana, in her practical way. "You would rust here. But is there any need for you to go back so soon?"
"I must—for my own peace of mind."
Diana started and blushed at the meaning of his tone and words.
Then she recovered her serenity and sat down on an old stone seat, near which stood a weather-beaten statue of Venus. Seeing that she kept silent in spite of his broad hint, Lucian—to bring matters to a crisis—resolved to approach the subject in a mythological way through the image of the goddess.
"I am sorry I am not a Greek, Miss Vrain," he said abruptly.
"Why?" asked Diana, secretly astonished by the irrelevancy of the remark.
Lucian plucked a red rose from the bush which grew near the statue and placed it on the pedestal.
"Because I would lay my offering at the feet of the goddess, and touch her knees to demand a boon."
"What boon would you ask?" said Diana in a low voice.
"I would beseech that in return for my rose of flowers she would give me the rose of womanhood."
"A modest request. Do you think it would be granted?"
"Do you?" asked Lucian, picking up the rose again.
"How can I reply to your parables, or read your dark sayings?" said Diana, half in earnest, half in mirth.
"I can speak plainer if you permit it."
"If—if you like!"
The young man laid the rose on Diana's lap. "Then in return for my rose give me—yourself!"
"Mr. Denzil!" cried Diana, starting up, whereby the flower fell to the ground. "You—you surprise me!"
"Indeed, I surprise myself," said Lucian sadly. "That I should dare to raise my eyes to you is no doubt surprising."
"I don't see that at all," exclaimed Diana coldly. "I like to be woo'd like a woman, not honoured like a goddess."
"You are both woman and goddess! But—you are not angry?"
"Why should I be angry?"
"Because I—I love you!"
"I cannot be angry with—with—shall we say a compliment."
"Oh, Diana!"
"Wait! wait!" cried Miss Vrain, waving back this too eager lover. "You cannot love me! You have known me only a month or two."
"Love can be born in an hour," cried Lucian eagerly. "I loved you on the first day I saw you! I love you now—I shall love you ever!"
"Will you truly love me ever, Lucian?"
"Oh, my darling! Can you doubt it? And you?" He looked at her hopefully.
"And I?" she repeated in a pretty mocking tone,"and I?" With a laugh, she bent and picked up the flower. "I take the rose and I give you—"
"Yourself!" cried the enraptured lover, and the next moment he was clasping her to his breast. "Oh, Diana, dearest! Will you really be my wife?"
"Yes," she said softly, and kissed him.
For a few moments the emotions of both overcame them too much to permit further speech; then Diana sat down and made Lucian sit beside her.
"Lucian," she said in a firm voice, "I love you, and I shall be your wife—when you find out who killed my poor father!"
"It is impossible!" he cried in dismay.
"No. We must prosecute the search. I have no right to be happy while the wretch who killed him is still at large. We have failed hitherto, but we may succeed yet! and when we succeed I shall marry you."
"My darling!" cried Lucian in ecstasy; and then in a more subdued tone: "I'll do all I can to find out the truth. But, after all, from what point can I begin afresh?"
"From the point of Mrs. Vrain," said Diana unexpectedly.
"Mrs. Vrain!" cried the startled Lucian. "Do you still suspect her?"
"Yes, I do!"
"But she has cleared herself on the most undeniable evidence."
"Not in my eyes," said Diana obstinately. "If Mrs. Vrain is innocent, how did she find out thatthe unknown man murdered in Geneva Square was my father?"
"By his assumption of the name of Berwin, which was mentioned in the advertisement; also from the description of the body, and particularly by the mention of the cicatrice on the right cheek, and of the loss of the little finger of the left hand."
Diana started. "I never heard that about the little finger," she said hurriedly. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. I saw myself when I knew your father as Berwin, that he had lost that little finger."
"Then, Lucian, you didnotsee my father!"
"What!" cried Denzil, hardly able to credit her words.
"My father never lost a finger!" cried Diana, starting to her feet. "Ah, Lucian, I now begin to see light. That man who called himself Berwin, who was murdered, was not my father. No, I believe—on my soul, I believe that my father, Mark Vrain, is alive!"
When Diana declared that her father yet lived, Lucian drew back from her in amazement, for of all impossible things said of this impossible case this saying of hers was the strangest and most incredible. Hitherto, not a suspicion had entered his mind but that the man so mysteriously slain in Geneva Square was Mark Vrain, and, for the moment, he thought that Diana was distraught to deny so positive a fact.
"It is impossible," said he, shaking his head, "quite impossible. Mrs. Vrain identified the corpse, and so did other people who knew your father well."
"As to Mrs. Vrain," said Diana contemptuously, "I quite believe she would lie to gain her own ends. And it may be that the man who was murdered was like my father in the face, but—"
"He had the mark on his cheek," interrupted Lucian, impatient of this obstinate belief in the criminality of Lydia.
"I know that mark well," replied Miss Vrain. "My father received it in a duel he fought in hisyouth, when he was a student in a German university; but the missing finger." She shook her head.
"He might have lost the finger while you were in Australia," suggested the barrister.
"He might," rejoined Diana doubtfully, "but it is unlikely. As to other people identifying the body, they no doubt did so by looking at the face and its scar. Still, I do not believe the murdered man was my father."
"If not, why should Mrs. Vrain identify the body as that of her husband?"
"Why? Because she wanted to get the assurance money."
"She may have been misled by the resemblance of the dead man to your father."
"And who provided that resemblance? My dear Lucian, I would not be at all surprised to learn that there was conspiracy as well as murder in this matter. My father left his home, and Lydia could not find him. I quite believe that. As she cannot prove his death, she finds it impossible to obtain the assurance money; so what does she do?"
"I cannot guess," said Lucian, anxious to hear Diana's theory.
"Why, she finds a man who resembles my father, and sets him to play the part of the recluse in Geneva Square. She selects a man in ill health and given to drink, that he may die the sooner; and, by being buried as Mark Vrain, give her the money she wants. When you told me of this man Berwin's coughing and drinking, I thought it strange, as myfather had no consumptive disease when I left him, and never, during his life, was he given to over-indulgence in drink. Now I see the truth. This dead man was Lydia's puppet."
"Even granting that this is so, which I doubt, Diana, why should the man be murdered?"
"Why?" cried Diana fiercely. "Because he was not dying quickly enough for that woman's purpose. She did not kill him herself, if her alibi is to be credited, but she employed Ferruci to murder him."
"You forget Signor Ferruci also proved an alibi."
"A very doubtful one," said Miss Vrain scornfully. "You did not ask that Dr. Jorce the questions you should have done. Go up to London now, Lucian, see him at Hampstead, and find out if Ferruci was at his house at eight o'clock on Christmas Eve. Then I shall believe him guiltless; till then, I hold him but the creature and tool of Lydia."
"Jorce declares that Ferruci was with him at the house when the murder was committed?"
"Can you believe that? Ferruci may have made it worth the while of this doctor to lie. And even granting that much, the presence of Ferruci at the Jersey Street house shows that he knew what was going to take place on that night, and perhaps arranged with another man to do the deed. Either way you look at it, he and Lydia are implicated."
"I tell you it is impossible, Diana," said Lucian, finding it vain to combat this persistent belief. "Allthis plotting of crime is such as is found in novels, not in real life——"
"In real life," cried Diana, taking the words out of his mouth, "more incredible things take place than can be conceived by the most fantastic imagination of an author. Look at this talk of ours—it began with words of love and marriage speeches, and it ends with a discussion of murder. But this I say, Lucian, that if you love me, and would have me marry you, you must find out the truth of these matters. Learn if this dead man is my father—for from what you have told me of the lost finger I do not believe that he is. Hunt down the assassin, and discover if he is whom I believe him to be—Ferruci himself; and learn, if you can, what Lydia has to do with all these evil matters. Do this, and I am yours. Refuse, and I shall not marry you!"
"You set me a hard task," said Lucian, with a sigh, "and I hardly know how to set about it."
"Be guided by me," replied Diana. "Go up to London and put an advertisement in the papers offering a reward for the discovery of my father. He is of medium height, with grey hair, and has a clean-shaven face, with a scar on it——"
"You describe the dead man, Diana."
"But he has not lost a finger," continued Diana, as though she had not heard him. "If my father, for fear of Lydia, is in hiding, he will come to you or me in answer to that advertisement."
"But he must have seen the report of his deathby violence in the papers, if indeed he is alive," urged Lucian, at his wit's end.
"My father is weak in the head, and perhaps was afraid to come out in the midst of such trouble. But if you put in the advertisement that I—his daughter—am in England, he will come to me, for with me he knows he is safe. Also call on Dr. Jorce, and find out the truth about Signor Ferruci."
"And then?"
"Then when you have done these two things we shall see what will come of them. Promise me to do what I ask you."
"I promise," said Lucian, taking her hand, "but you send me on a wild-goose chase."
"That may be, Lucian, but my heart—my presentiment—my—instinct—whatever you like to call it—tells me otherwise. Now let us go inside."
"Shall we tell Miss Barbar of our engagement?" asked Denzil timidly.
"No; you will tell no one of that until we learn the truth of this conspiracy. When we do, Lucian, you will find that my father is not dead but is alive, and will be at our wedding."
"I doubt it—I doubt it."
"I am sure of it," answered Diana, and slipping her hand within the arm of her lover she walked with him up to the house. It was the strangest of wooings.
Miss Barbar, with a true woman's interest in love affairs, was inclined to congratulate them both when they entered, deeming—as the chance had been sopropitious—that Lucian had proposed. But Diana looked so stern, and Lucian so gloomy, that she held her peace.
Later on, when her curiosity got the better of her desire not to offend her pupil, she asked if Denzil had spoken.
"Yes," replied Diana, "he has spoken."
"And you have refused him?" cried the old lady in dismay, for she did not relish the idea that Lucian should have lost by her counsel.
"No; I have not refused him."
"Then you have said 'yes,' my dear!"
"I have said sufficient," replied Diana cautiously. "Please do not question me any further, Miss Barbar. Lucian and I understand one another very well."
"She calls him by his Christian name," thought the wise old dame, "that is well. She will not speak of her happiness, that is ill," and in various crafty ways Miss Barbar tried to learn how matters actually stood between the pair.
But if she was skilful in asking questions, Diana was equally skilful in baffling them, and Miss Barbar learned nothing more than her pupil chose to tell her, and that was little enough. To perplex her still further, Lucian departed for London the next day, with a rather disconsolate look on his handsome face, and gave his adviser no very satisfactory explanation at parting.
So Miss Barbar was forced to remain in ignorance of the success or failure of her counsel, andcould by no means discover if the marriage she was so anxious to bring about was likely to take place. And so ended Denzil's visit to Berwin Manor.
In the meantime, Lucian went back to London with a heavy heart, for he did not see how he was to set about the task imposed on him by Diana. At first he thought it would be best to advertise, as she advised, but this he considered would do no good, as if Vrain—supposing him to be alive and in hiding—would not come out at the false report of his murder, he certainly would not appear in answer to an advertisement that might be a snare.
Then Lucian wondered if it would be possible to have the grave opened a second time that Diana might truly see if the corpse was that of her father or of another man. But this also was impossible, and—to speak plainly—useless, for by this time the body would not be recognisable; therefore, it would be of little use to exhume the poor dead man, whomsoever he might be, for the second time. Finally, Lucian judged it would be wisest of all to call on Dr. Jorce, and find out why he was friendly with Ferruci, and how much he knew of the Italian's doings.
While the barrister was making up his mind to this course he was surprised to receive a visit from no less a person than Mr. Jabez Clyne, the father of Lydia.
The little man, usually so bright and merry, now looked worried and ill at ease. Lucian—so much as he had seen of him—had always liked him betterthan Lydia, and was sorry to see him so downcast. Nor when he learned the reason was he better pleased. Clyne told it to him in a roundabout way.
"Do you know anything against Signor Ferruci?" he asked, when the first greetings were over.
"Very little, and that bad," replied Denzil shortly.
"Do you refer to the horrible death of my son-in-law?"
"Yes, I do, Mr. Clyne. I believe Ferruci had a hand in it, and if you bring him here I'll tell him so."
"Can you prove it?" asked Clyne eagerly.
"No. As yet, Ferruci has proved that he was not in Geneva Square on the night of the crime—or rather," added Lucian, correcting himself, "at the hour when the murder was committed."
Clyne's face fell. "I wish you could discover if he is guilty or not," he said. "I am anxious to know the truth."
"Why?" asked Lucian bluntly.
"Because if he is guilty, I don't want my daughter to marry a murderer."
"What! Is Mrs. Vrain going to marry him?"
"Yes," said the little man disconsolately, "and I wish she wasn't."
"So do I—for her own sake. I thought she did not like him. She said as much to me."
"I can't make her out, Mr. Denzil. She grew tired of him for a time, but now she has taken upwith him again, and nothing I can say or do will stop the marriage. I love Lydia beyond words, as she is my only child, and I don't want to see her married to a man of doubtful reputation like Ferruci. So I thought I'd call and see if you could help me."
"I can't," replied Lucian. "As yet I have found out nothing likely to implicate Ferruci in the crime."
"But you may," said Clyne hopefully.
Lucian shrugged his shoulders.
"If I do, you shall know at once," he said.
Although Denzil received Mr. Clyne with all courtesy, and promised to aid him, if he could, in breaking off the marriage with Ferruci, by revealing his true character to Mrs. Vrain, he by no means made a confidant of the little man, or entrusted him with the secret of his plans. Clyne, as he well knew, was dominated in every way by his astute daughter, and did he learn Lucian's intentions, he was quite capable—through sheer weakness of character—of revealing the same to Lydia, who, in her turn—since she was bent upon marrying Ferruci—might retail them to the Italian, and so put him on his guard.
Denzil, therefore, rid himself of the American by promising to tell him, on some future occasion, all that he knew about Ferruci. Satisfied with this, Clyne departed in a more cheerful mood, and, apparently, hoped for the best.
After his departure, Lucian again began to consider his idea of calling on Jorce regarding the alibi of Ferruci. On further reflection he judged that, before paying the visit to Hampstead, it might bejudicious to see Rhoda again, and refresh his memory in connection with the events of Christmas Eve. With this idea he put on his hat, and shortly after the departure of Clyne walked round to Jersey Street.
On ringing the bell, the door was opened by Rhoda in person, looking sharper and more cunning than ever. She informed him that he could not see Mrs. Bensusan, as that good lady was in bed with a cold.
"I don't want to see your mistress, my girl," said Lucian quickly, to stop Rhoda from shutting the door in his face, which she seemed disposed to do. "I desire to speak with you."
"About that there murder?" asked Rhoda sharply. Then in reply to the nod of Lucian she continued: "I told you all I knew about it when you called before. I don't know nothing more."
"Can you tell me the name of the dark man you saw in the yard?"
"No, I can't. I know nothing about him."
"Did you ever hear Mr. Wrent mention his name?"
"No, sir. He called and he went, and I saw him in the back yard at 8.30. I never spoke to him, and he never spoke to me."
"Could you swear to the man if you saw him?"
"Yes, I could. Have you got him with you?" asked Rhoda eagerly.
"Not at present," answered Lucian, rather surprised by the vindictive expression on the girl'sface. "But later on I may call upon you to identify him."
"Do you know who he is?" asked the servant quickly.
"I think so."
"Did he kill that man?"
"Possibly," said Denzil, wondering at these very pointed questions. "Why do you ask?"
"I have my reasons, sir. Where is my cloak?"
"I will return it later on; it will probably be used as evidence."
Rhoda started. "Where?" she demanded, with a frown.
"At the trial."
"Do you think they'll hang the person who killed Mr. Vrain?"
"If the police catch him, and his guilt is proved, I am sure they will hang him."
The girl's eyes flashed with a wicked light, and she clasped and unclasped her hands with a quick, nervous movement. "I hope they will," she said in a low, rapid voice. "I hope they will."
"What!" cried Lucian, with a step forward. "Do you know the assassin?"
"No!" cried Rhoda, with much vehemence. "I swear I don't, but I think the murderer ought to be hanged. I know—I know—well, I know something—see me to-morrow night, and you'll hear."
"Hear what?"
"The truth," said this strange girl, and shut the door before Lucian could say another word.
The barrister, quite dumbfounded, remained on the step looking at the closed door. So important were Rhoda's words that he was on the point of ringing again, to interview her once more and force her to speak. But when he reflected that Mrs. Bensusan was in bed, and that Rhoda alone could reopen the door—which from her late action it was pretty evident she would not do—he decided to retire for the present. It was little use to call in the police, or create trouble by forcing his way into the house, as that might induce Rhoda to run away before giving her evidence. So Lucian departed, with the intention of keeping the next night's appointment, and hearing what Rhoda had to say.
"The truth," he repeated, as he walked along the street. "Evidently she knows who killed this man. If so, why did she not speak before, and why is she so vindictive? Heavens! If Diana's belief should be a true one, and her father not dead? Conspiracy! murder! this gypsy girl, that subtle Italian, and the mysterious Wrent! My head is in a whirl. I cannot understand what it all means. To-morrow, when Rhoda speaks, I may. But—can I trust her? I doubt it. Still, there is nothing else for it. Imusttrust her."
Talking to himself in this incoherent way, Lucian reached his rooms and tried to quiet the excitement of his brain caused by the strange words of Rhoda. It was yet early in the afternoon, so he took up a book and threw himself on the sofa toread for an hour, but he found it quite impossible to fix his attention on the page. The case in which he was concerned was far more exciting than any invention of the brain, and after a vain attempt to banish it from his mind he jumped up and threw the book aside.
Although he did not know it, Lucian was suffering from a sharp attack of detective fever, and the only means of curing such a disease is to learn the secret which haunts the imagination. Rhoda, as she stated—rather ambiguously, it must be confessed—could reveal this especial secret touching the murder of Vrain; but, for some hidden reason, chose to delay her confession for twenty-four hours. Lucian, all on fire with curiosity, found himself unable to bear this suspense, so to distract his mind and learn, if possible, the true relationship existing between Ferruci and Jorce, he set out for Hampstead to interview the doctor.
"The Haven," as Jorce, with some humour, termed his private asylum, was a red brick house, large, handsome, and commodious, built in a wooded and secluded part of Hampstead. It was surrounded by a high brick wall, over which the trees of its park could be seen, and possessed a pair of elaborate iron gates, opening on to a quiet country lane. Externally, it looked merely the estate of a gentleman.
The grounds were large, and well laid out in flower gardens and orchards; and as it was Dr. Jorce's system to allow his least crazy patients asmuch liberty as possible, they roamed at will round the grounds, giving the place a cheerful and populated look. The more violent inmates were, of course, secluded; but these were well and kindly treated by the doctor. Indeed, Jorce was a very humane man, and had a theory that more cures of the unhappy beings under his charge could be effected by kindness than by severity.
His asylum was more like a private hotel with paying guests than an establishment for the retention of the insane, and even to an outside observer the eccentricities of the doctor's family—as he loved to call them—were not more marked than many of the oddities possessed by people at large. Indeed, Jorce was in the habit of saying that "There were more mad people in the world than were kept under lock and key," and in this he was doubtless right. However, the kindly and judicious little man was like a father to those under his charge, and very popular with them all. Anything more unlike the popular conception of an asylum than the establishment at Hampstead can scarcely be imagined.
When Lucian arrived at "The Haven," he found that Jorce had long since returned from his holiday, and was that day at home; so on sending in his card he was at once admitted into the presence of the local potentate. Jorce, looking smaller and more like a fairy changeling than ever, was evidently pleased to see Lucian, but a look on his dry, yellow face indicated that he was somewhat puzzled to account for the visit. However, preliminary greetings having passed, Lucian did not leave him long in doubt.
"Dr. Jorce," he said boldly, and without preamble, "I have called to see you about that alibi of Signor Ferruci's."
"Alibi is a nasty word, Mr. Denzil," said Jorce, looking sharply at his visitor.
"Perhaps, but it is the only word that can be used with propriety."
"But I thought that I was called on to decide a bet."
"Oh, that was Count Ferruci's clever way of putting it," responded Lucian, with a sneer. "He did not wish you to know too much about his business."
"H'm! Perhaps I know more than you think, Mr. Denzil."
"What do you mean, sir?" cried Lucian sharply.
"Softly, Mr. Denzil, softly," rejoined the doctor, waving his hand. "I shall explain everything to your satisfaction. Do you know why I went to Italy?"
"No; no more than I know why you went with Signor Ferruci," replied Lucian, recalling Link's communication.
"Ah!" said Jorce placidly, "you have been making inquiries, I see. But you are wrong in one particular. I did not go to Italy with Ferruci—I left him in Paris, and I went on myself to Florence to find out the true character of the man."
"Why did you wish to do that, doctor?"
"Because I had some business with our mutual friend, the Count, and I was not altogether pleased with the way in which it was conducted. Also, my last interview with you about that bet made me suspicious of the man. Over in Florence I learned sufficient about the Count to assure me that he is a bad man, with whom it is as well to have as little to do as possible. I intended to return at once with this information and call on you, Mr. Denzil. Unfortunately, I fell ill of an attack of typhoid fever in Florence, and had to stay there these two months."
"I am sorry," said Lucian, noting that the doctor did look ill, "but why did you not send on your information to me?"
"It was necessary to see you personally, Mr. Denzil. I arrived back a few days ago, and intended writing to you when I recovered from the fatigue of the journey. However, your arrival saves me the trouble. Now I can tell you all about Ferruci, if you like."
"Then tell me, Doctor, if you spoke truly about that alibi?"
"Yes, I did. Count Ferruci was with me that night, and stayed here until the next morning."
"What time did he arrive?"
"About ten o'clock, or, to be precise," said Jorce, "about ten-thirty."
"Ah!" cried Lucian exultantly, "then Ferruci must have been the man in the back yard!"
"What do you mean by that?" asked Jorce in a puzzled tone.
"Why, that Count Ferruci has had to do with a crime committed some months ago in Pimlico. A man called Mark Vrain was murdered, as you may have seen in the papers, Doctor, and I believe Ferruci murdered him."
"If I remember rightly," said Jorce with calmness, "the man in question was murdered shortly before midnight on Christmas Eve. If that is so, Ferruci could not have killed him, because, as I said before, he was here at half-past ten on that night."
"I don't say he actually killed the man," explained Lucian eagerly, "but he certainly employed some one to strike the blow, else what was he doing in the Jersey Street yard on that night? You can say what you like, Dr. Jorce, but that man is guilty of Mark Vrain's death."
"No," replied Jorce coolly, "he's not, for the simple reason that Vrain is not dead."
"Not dead?" repeated Lucian, recalling Diana's belief.
"No! For the last few months Mark Vrain, under the name of Michael Clear, has been in this asylum!"