"An invitation--an invitation to dinner. By Jove, I never thought I'd get that far. The Honorable Mrs. Ward, too. Hurrah!"
Leonard Train made these remarks over a letter which had come by the morning post. It was a delicate perfumed friendly note, begging dear Mr. Train to come to dinner the next evening without ceremony. "I have just learned that your dear mother was at school with me," wrote Mrs. Ward in her most gushing style. "So you will see why I write informally. Do come." The "Do" was underlined, and Leonard could hardly contain himself for joy at this proof that a member of the aristocracy was disposed to be friendly. "A woman of the highest fashion, too," chuckled Leonard.
To account for Train's exuberant joy, which seemed out of all proportion to its reason, it must be explained that, notwithstanding his money, and what he regarded as his talents, he had never managed to enter the fashionable world. As he was as vain as a peacock, and anxious to shine and be admired among people worth knowing, this was a great grief to him. George took him to several houses, but Leonard did not seem to be a success, for after one visit he was never asked again, although he left cards assiduously. This invitation of Mrs. Ward's was purely voluntary, as she had met him only once and had snubbed him when she did meet him. At the time he had thought her a horrid woman, but now he was prepared to bow down and worship.
Leonard's father had been in trade, and the nice little income he inherited had been made out of a patent medicine, most drastic in its effects, that claimed to cure all diseases. Train senior, a shrewd innkeeper, had bought it from one of his customers--a drunken doctor meant for better things, but who had fallen on evil days. By judicious advertisement, and with the aid of many bought testimonials from penniless members of the aristocracy, Train managed to make the drug a success. Train's Trump Pill was seen on every boarding, and Mr. Ireland possessed one of the original posters.
Soon Train senior became rich, very rich, and, having improved his manners and suppressed his parents, he was taken up by people of good position who needed ready money. He bought his way into the fringe of the fashionable world, and finally married a rather elderly lady, who had blue blood, extravagant tastes, and no money. She presented him with Leonard, and then, thinking she had done her duty, arranged to enjoy herself. Mrs. Train spent the proceeds of the Trump Pill recklessly, and before her husband died she managed to get through the greater part of his wealth. Train settled an income of five thousand a year on his son, and let Mrs. Train do what she liked with the rest. Then he died, and Mrs. Train sent Leonard to Eton, afterward to college. When he was thus off her hands she enjoyed herself amazingly, and finally died in Paris, after spending every penny of the principal and interest of the large fortune left by her husband. Leonard mourned his mother, although he had seen very little of her. Then he settled in London on his five thousand a year and posed as a literary man. But the desire of his life was to be fashionable. Hence his delight at the letter.
"Of course I'll go," soliloquized Leonard, when calmer. "I wonder if George will be there. He loves that Ward girl, so he might. Mrs. Ward does not approve of the match, so he might not. I wonder if there is a regular engagement. If not, I might have a shot myself. The Honorable Mrs. Train--no, that would be the mother."
It will be seen that Leonard was not very faithful to his absent friend; but the fact is that Train was less devoted to Brendon than he had been. The episode of Amelia Square made him fight rather shy of George. The story of the marriage was shady, and in some way--Leonard couldn't exactly explain how--seemed to be connected with the murder of Mrs. Jersey. Moreover, Leonard knew something which he had not mentioned to Brendon, and would not have mentioned it for the fashionable world. However, he had said nothing about George's history, and so far had kept faith. But Brendon saw that Leonard was no longer so pleased to see him as formerly. He therefore avoided the fat young man, and Leonard did not seem to mind the avoidance. Indeed, he appeared to be rather relieved than otherwise. Brendon never asked himself the reason of this behavior, as he thought it best to let sleeping dogs lie. That Leonard would speak never entered his head.
And Leonard never intended to speak, being weak, but honorable in his own foolish way. But when Mrs. Ward's invitation came he walked blindfolded into a trap set by that clever little woman. She asked Train to dinner, not because she had known his mother--although that was true enough--but for the simple reason that she wished to hear what he knew about the Amelia Square tragedy. Brendon had told her much, but it was probable that Train, being a weak idiot in the hands of a pretty woman like herself, would tell her more. Mrs. Ward was by no means reconciled to the possibility of Brendon marrying her daughter, and wished to find some scandal smirching George, that she might induce Dorothy to break the engagement. She would have utilized the tales about Lola and Brendon, but that she was not sure of her ground in this particular direction, and, moreover, having seen the Spanish dancer, feared lest so passionate a woman should make an open scandal. It was the aim of Mrs. Ward's life to do wrong things, and to avoid troubles arising from them. Therefore, she, for the time being, put Lola on the shelf and arranged in her own scheming mind to make use of Leonard. "I can work him like a lump of putty," said Mrs. Ward, contemptuously. A vulgar illustration, but a true one. Besides, she said it in the solitude of her own room when she was dressing for dinner, so no one heard its vulgarity or its truth.
When Leonard entered the drawing-room he was welcomed by Dorothy, who told him that Mrs. Ward would be down shortly. "It is only a small dinner, Mr. Train," she said. "Mr. Vane is coming; no one else."
"I expected to find my friend Brendon here," said Leonard, thinking how beautiful she looked.
"No! Mr. Brendon is very busy at the present time with his book. He would have come otherwise."
"All things should give way where a lady is concerned," said Train, gallantly.
Miss Ward laughed. She had heard much of Train from Brendon, and thought him a kindly, but foolish young man. "I am not a woman of that sort, Mr. Train. I have no desire that a man should neglect his work for frivolity. You are a great friend of Mr. Brendon?"
"The greatest he has."
"And he was stopping with you in the house where that tragedy took place. He told me about it."
Train secretly wished that George had held his tongue on this particular point, as he had his own reasons for not wishing to be questioned. With the very best intentions as to holding his tongue, he knew his weakness for babbling well enough, and found it easier to abstain from talking altogether than to be temperate in speech. "Brendon certainly stopped with me," he said reservedly, "but we were sound asleep when the murder took place. Neither of us heard anything. After the inquest we both returned to the West End."
"It was a most unpleasant experience," said Dorothy, thoughtfully.
"Very," assented Train, wiping his face. "I shall never go in search of types again."
"You can find amusing types in the West End," remarked Dorothy, in a low voice. "Here is one."
The young man who entered the room was a small, attenuated, precise atom of a creature, immaculately dressed and with a rather shrill voice. He answered to the name of the Hon. Walter Vane, and was the cousin of Brendon, although he did not know of the relationship. But Dorothy and Train both knew, and compared Vane's physique disadvantageously with that of Brendon. The one man was a splendid specimen of humanity, the other a peevish hypochondriac. Walter Vane had been "fast" in his time, and although he was not yet thirty he was now suffering from the consequences of his rapid ways. He was in the twenties, yet he was bald. He was as nervous as an old woman and finicky as an elderly spinster. Lord Derrington, who was a bluff old giant of the country squire type, sneered at his degenerate descendant. All the same, he would not replace him by George, who was a man in looks and tastes after the old lord's own heart.
"Beastly night," lisped Vane, greeting Dorothy and taking no notice of Leonard. "I think there will be snow. I hope I won't get a bad cold. I am so subject to cold."
"Mr. Train--Mr. Vane," said Dorothy, introducing the two.
Vane stared and muttered something about "pleasure." Leonard caught no other word. He then continued his conversation with Miss Ward. "I sneezed twice at the Merry Music Hall the other night."
"That is where Velez dances," said Leonard, determined to speak.
Vane stared again, and it was Dorothy who answered. "My mother went to see her, and says she is a most extraordinary dancer."
"Oh, clever in a sort of mad way, and a regular bad one," chuckled the little man. Dorothy turned away. She did not like this conversation, as it offended her taste. But the next words of Vane made her pause. "I saw your friend Brendon at the hall, Miss Ward--the writing man, you know. A fine-looking chap, but sulky."
"The best man in the world," said Leonard, whereupon Dorothy gave him an approving look. She wondered what Vane would say did he know that the man he criticised so freely was his cousin and the legitimate heir to the Derrington title if he had his rights.
"Well, he has his larks like every one else. They say he is sweet on the dancer."
"Mr. Vane!" cried Dorothy, the blood rushing to her face.
The little man became confused, conscious that he had transgressed the bounds of good breeding. He knew that Brendon admired Dorothy, and that Dorothy took pleasure in his society, but he was unaware that any deeper feeling existed. Mrs. Ward had kept that sort of thing from him, as she did not want Vane to leave the coast clear for Brendon. And Vane was so egotistical that he never for one moment dreamed that George was his rival. Even if he had, he would have laughed the idea to scorn. In his eyes Brendon was merely a writing fellow and not to be named in the same breath with his noble, attenuated, rickety self.
"Well, good people," cried Mrs. Ward, entering the room at this very opportune moment, "are you all here? Mr. Vane, I am pleased. Mr. Train, how good of you to come. Ah," Mrs. Ward sighed, "you have your dear mother's eyes, and lovely eyes they were."
Having slipped in this compliment to put Leonard at his ease and throw him off his guard, Mrs. Ward delivered him to Dorothy and took Vane into a shady corner. "Dinner will be ready soon," she said, fanning herself although it was a cold winter's night. "I hope you are hungry, Mr. Vane."
"I was," admitted her guest, "but I have to nurse my appetite carefully, you know, Mrs. Ward, and I am rather put out."
"Not by Mr. Train, I hope. He is a nice fellow, really, very nice, with money made out of pigs or whisky or something," said Mrs. Ward, vaguely, for she was not certain. "What did he say?"
"He said nothing, but Miss Ward did."
Mrs. Ward shrugged. "Oh, well, you know, dear Dorothy has such odd ideas, and all that sort of thing. I suppose it was something about books, or philosophies, or grammar, or something. Enough to spoil any one's appetite, I'm sure."
"No. But I mentioned that Brendon--you know the writing fellow----"
"Yes, I know," said Mrs. Ward, viciously, and at once on the alert.
"Well, I said that it was rumored he was sweet on Lola Velez, and Miss Ward fired up. Is she so great a friend of his as all that?"
"Oh, by no means," responded Mrs. Ward, vivaciously. "A mere acquaintance, you know. They talk books, I believe, and how moths get wings like those animals before the flood. She thinks he is goody-goody. I'm sure he's dull enough. Lola Velez! oh, a perfect dear. How she can kick! So Mr. Brendon is in--well, I never should have thought it of him; but these quiet men are always the worst."
So Mrs. Ward rattled on in her incoherent manner, but perfectly clear in her own mind as to the good Vane's injudicious observation would do. If Dorothy once got it into her brain that George was an admirer of Lola, then there would be a chance of breaking the engagement. Before Vane could make any more remarks the gong thundered. Mrs. Ward rose at once, rather glad of the stoppage of conversation. She liked a lively man, and Vane was a fool. But for all that she was quite prepared to give him Dorothy, as she would have given her to a prize idiot provided the idiot was sufficiently rich. "You take in Dorothy," she said to Vane, thus getting him off her shoulders, but not hoping to find Leonard a pleasant change. "I will take Mr. Train under my wing."
In this order they entered the dining-room, Mrs. Ward trying to stifle a yawn and wondering how she would get through such a dull evening. Luckily, Vane mentioned that his grandfather had expressed his intention of looking in during the course of the evening, "If you will not mind, Mrs. Ward," he said politely.
"Oh, I'm rather glad," replied the little woman, drawing off her gloves. "Such a delightful old gentleman! His anecdotes are quite in the best style."
"He told one to a bishop the other day," said Vane, laughing.
"Really, how amusing! And what did the bishop say?"
"He said nothing, but he looked sermons."
"Ah," sighed Mrs. Ward, "bishops are so particular."
"I find them delightful," said Dorothy, filling in the pause.
"Of course, my dear, because they talk of Renan and missionaries and those sort of dry things. I remember the Bishop of Timbuctoo, or Central Africa, or some of those places one never heard of, telling me how his old curate was eaten alive by blacks and mosquitoes. I quite forget which; but he was eaten."
"I trust the blacks and mosquitoes didn't find the curate tough."
"I'm sure I don't know. He was just thirty, I believe, and bald."
"You said he was an old curate."
"Oh, dear me, Dorothy how can you expect me to explain what I mean?--at dinner, too. I mean he was young in years and old in saintliness. Do try this dish, Mr. Train? It is so good."
Leonard did try it, and did full justice to the merits of Mrs. Ward's cook. She kept a particularly good chef, as she knew the value of good cooking. "People like nice things to eat," she explained to Leonard, while Dorothy labored to entertain Vane. "It makes one so popular if one's chef can always be relied upon. I have known a woman's position ruined by inattention to the kitchen. One can break all the ten commandments if only one feeds the men." Then, thinking she had said too much, she added sweetly, "But of course I am only joking, Mr. Train, as one must be good and all that sort of thing."
"I'm sure you are all that is good and kind, Mrs. Ward."
"Now, that's really very nice of you. Mr. Brendon would never say a really nice thing like that. Of course he's a great friend of yours, isn't he? and he stopped with you when that poor woman----"
Leonard uttered an ejaculation. It seemed to him that he was pursued by the Amelia Square tragedy. First Dorothy, and now her mother. Was there no other topic of conversation? He would have answered an ordinary person rudely, being wearied of being questioned, but Mrs. Ward, having the key of the door which led into the fashionable world, was to be conciliated. He replied to her almost in the same words as he had used to Dorothy. "Mr. Brendon did stop with me," he said, "but we were asleep when the murder took place."
"How extraordinary!" said Mrs. Ward, languidly, yet with a keen eye on the change in Leonard's face. "I wonder who killed her?"
"No one knows," replied Train, shortly.
"Does no one suspect any one?"
"I believe not. The police are quite at fault."
"Oh, the police!" said Mrs. Ward, in a proper tone of contempt. "They never do anything except make love to cooks. Do you suspect any one?"
Leonard flushed. "I, Mrs. Ward? Why should I suspect any one?"
"Oh, I don't know. You have a clever face. Just the kind of a face that one would think a brilliant detective would have. You must have some suspicions?" Again her eyes searched his face.
"No," he protested. "I was asleep. I know nothing about the matter."
"How stupid of you!" said Mrs. Ward, beginning to think that her condescension in asking Leonard to dinner was wasted. "But you men are always so blind, poor dears! What kind of a woman was Mrs. Jersey?"
"A nice motherly old creature."
"I know--like a monthly nurse. Was Mr. Brendon introduced to her?"
"Yes. I took him into the drawing-room."
"Really. Have they drawing-rooms in Bloomsbury? How nice and civilized! Well, did Mrs. Jersey and Mr. Brendon get on well together? I want to know because you see, Mr. Train, he admires Dorothy, and it is such a sign of a man's good-nature if he gets on well with strangers. I suppose Mrs. Jersey liked him?"
"I think she did," replied Leonard, on whose weak head the claret was beginning to take effect, "but she was rather startled when she saw him first."
Mrs. Ward's eyes flashed so brightly that Leonard would have been warned of his indiscretion had he not been looking at his plate. "Oh, how very interesting! But she never saw him before. Why should she be startled?"
"It wasn't at him exactly," said Leonard, "but at a piece of yellow holly he wore in his coat."
"Yellow holly," repeated Mrs. Ward, with feigned surprise. "Why, of course Mr. Brendon wore a sprig. My daughter gave it to him."
"So he told me, Mrs. Ward."
"And I gave it to Dorothy," continued Mrs. Ward, who for some reason wished to make an explicit statement. "It is very rare, you know, and a man who lives in Devonshire sent me a bunch. Dorothy mentioned that Mr. Brendon had begged for a piece. Yes! he would naturally wear it on that night, as he had just left my house. But why was this unfortunate woman surprised?"
"I can't say; but she was," answered Train; "she turned white, and we all thought she was about to faint."
"Did she give any explanation?"
"No. In a few moments she recovered, and nothing more was said."
"Oh!" Mrs. Ward seemed disappointed. "Was that all?"
"Why--" Leonard turned his dull eyes on her flushed face--"what else did you expect to hear, Mrs. Ward?"
"Nothing! Nothing," she said hurriedly, for she did not wish to make him suspicious, "but it seems so odd. Dorothy giving the holly, you know, and that Mrs. Jersey should be upset. We must continue this conversation, Mr. Train. It is really most interesting. But you literary men are quite fascinating. After dinner in the drawing-room, Mr. Train. Dorothy!" She signaled with her fan, and her daughter arose. "Don't be too long over your wine," said Mrs. Ward, as she left the room. "We can't spare you, Mr. Train."
Leonard believed that all this attention was due to his own fascinations. His head was still heated with the wine he had drunk, yet he began to regret that he had said anything about the yellow holly. Certainly he had not promised George to be silent on this especial point; but he nevertheless thought it wiser to hold his tongue about all that had taken place in Amelia Square on the night of the murder. Warned in this way by his mother sense, Train took no more wine, but after a rather dull conversation with Vane he went into the drawing-room. Dorothy was at the piano and thither repaired Vane; but Mrs. Ward, seated near the fire, called Leonard to her side. "I must introduce you: Lord Derrington--Mr. Train."
The grandfather of George was a huge man, burly, red-faced, white-haired, and with a rather truculent expression. He was over seventy, yet carried his years like a boy. Under his bushy white eyebrows he shot a quick glance at Leonard from a pair of keen gray eyes and summed him up at once as a fool. But Lord Derrington had been a diplomatist many years before, and knew that even fools are sometimes useful. Moreover, he had learned from Mrs. Ward's aimless chatter that Train was a great friend of Brendon's, and he knew more about George than George thought. However, Derrington, after that one glance of contempt, was very civil to Leonard.
"I am glad to meet you," he said, with a nod. "You go in for books, I understand from Mrs. Ward."
He had a deep, raucous voice like that of an early starling, and spoke in an abrupt staccato kind of way. Train, who stood before him like a rabbit before a snake, compared him in his own mind with Becky Sharp's friend, the Marquis of Steyne. Derrington was quite as wicked and savage and unscrupulous as that celebrated nobleman.
"I do write a little," said Leonard, nervously.
"I believe in action rather than in writing," said Derrington. "There are far too many books written. Dreamers, all of you."
"Dreams may come true."
"And when they do come true, what is the use of them? Bah! In my young days we lived. Now people dream."
"I'm sure there's no dreaming about society nowadays," said Mrs. Ward, laughing. "Every one is as sharp as a needle to get the better of his or her neighbor."
"Mutual Deception Society," said Derrington. "You-give-me-so-much-and-I'll-let-you-go-so-far. That's the sort of thing."
"But there is a great deal of philanthropy nowadays."
"And what good does philanthropy do, Mr. Train?" said Derrington; "only makes people lazy. People are too sentimental. I would give half these paupers the cat if I had my way."
Train was quite sure that he would, for, with his red face and heavy jowl and savage air of command, he looked the picture of a Roman emperor. Derrington had the instincts of a despot, and Leonard could imagine him slaying and burning and doing all manner of evil things. He wondered how Brendon ever came to have such a villainous grandfather. It was on the tip of his tongue to say something about Brendon, just to observe the effect on Derrington. But his courage failed him and he held his peace. And at that moment Fate intervened. The drawing-room door opened, and a servant announced, "Mr. Brendon!"
The next moment George came face to face with his grandfather.
It was a most awkward meeting. Dorothy, Train, and Brendon knew the truth, but Mrs. Ward and Vane were ignorant. As to Lord Derrington himself, George was not sure. After his conversation with Lola he had a vague idea that since Bawdsey was connected in some way with his grandfather, Lord Derrington must have somehow learned that Brendon was the name his grandson had taken. There was no other way of accounting for the mention of Derrington's name by the private inquiry agent.
However this might be, Lord Derrington was too clever a man to betray himself. George felt that the old man knew who he was, but he could not be sure, for Derrington welcomed him with a well-bred air, as he would have done a stranger. Mrs. Ward watched the meeting curiously, and Brendon noticed her inquiring gaze. But he put this down to his knowledge that Derrington knew he was a suitor for Dorothy's hand and wished the girl to marry Vane. Leonard was the only person in the room who displayed any visible disturbance. He grew red and restless. Brendon was perfectly calm.
"How delightful of you to come, Mr. Brendon," said Mrs. Ward, rising and apparently forgetting that she had forbidden him the house. "I must introduce you: Lord Derrington--Mr. Brendon; and you know Mr. Train."
"We are old friends," said George, calmly. "Miss Ward"--he bowed to Dorothy, who emulated his serenity although she felt anxious. But when she saw her lover's composure she knew that nothing disagreeable would occur, and her apprehensions were relieved.
There ensued a general conversation relative to the weather, to the doings of a certain politician, and to sundry other subjects more or less vague. George talked excellently, and was conscious that Derrington was listening with approval. Again and again he wondered if the old man really knew who he was, and again and again he failed to arrive at any conclusion. After a time Leonard went with Dorothy to the piano, where she played for his delectation, and Mrs. Ward seized the opportunity to show Vane some new photographs of herself. Derrington and Brendon were practically alone, and the old lord appeared anxious to make himself agreeable. George was watchful for the cloven hoof, but it did not peep out. Truculent tyrant as Derrington was, yet he could play the part of a highly bred, polished gentleman of the old school to perfection. He did so on this occasion.
"I have heard of you from Mrs. Ward," he said in his harsh tones, which no amount of politeness could render agreeable, "but I do not think we have met before."
"No. I cannot recall any meeting," replied George, wondering if the other was about to hint that he had seen some one resembling him. "I have seen you in the distance, however."
"Distance lends enchantment to the view in my case."
"You are pleased to say so, Lord Derrington."
"I generally do say what I please," responded the old man, shooting a sharp glance at George.
"Are you related to the Brendons of Shropshire?"
"No. I have not that privilege."
Derrington chuckled at this reply. He thought George had a good deal of the man in him when he answered thus fearlessly. "I have seen your name somewhere lately," he observed, "but I can't recall where or in what connection."
Brendon laughed, quite at his ease, although he did not know if this was an attempt to make him speak out. However, he did speak out, with the idea of seeing what would happen. "I can supply the connection," said he, lightly, but keenly observant of the old man's face. "My name appeared as a witness at an inquest a week or so back."
"Ah, now I remember, Mr. Brendon. Quite so. It was that Amelia Square murder."
"You have a good memory, Lord Derrington."
"In this case you flatter me, Mr. Brendon. There is no difficulty in my remembering the especial case, as Mrs. Jersey was a tenant of mine."
George was not supposed to know this and displayed suitable surprise.
"Indeed," he said; "then you have lost a good tenant."
"Possibly," replied Derrington, rather grimly. "She always paid her rent regularly. You saw her?"
"Yes. My friend, Mr. Train, was stopping in the house----"
"That young man." Derrington cast a look in Leonard's direction. "I did not know he was there on that night."
"He was a witness also," said Brendon, significantly.
"I can't remember all the names sir. Well?"
"I stopped for the night with Mr. Train, and during the night Mrs. Jersey was murdered."
"You heard nothing--you saw nothing?"
"I was sound asleep the whole time," said Brendon, calmly.
"Humph!" Derrington pulled at his gray mustache in the very same way as George did when he was reflective. "What a pity. You might have discovered the assassin."
"I don't think the assassin will ever be discovered."
"That's luck for the assassin," rejoined the old lord, cynically. "You appear to be very certain, Mr. Brendon."
George shrugged his shoulders. "No more certain than the police are," he replied. "They examined every one in the house, and no one could be accused--there was absolutely no evidence. And the assassin could not have entered the house, as the door was locked, and the key was in the pocket of the murdered woman."
Derrington, for some reason, appeared to be rather relieved. "I read all that in the papers," he said roughly. "You are telling me nothing new. But there, you didn't say you would. By the way, you stopped at that house. Do you know a Miss Bull?"
George nodded. "She told my fortune," he said.
"She told Mrs. Jersey's fortune also, and a very true fortune did she tell," said Derrington, grimly. "What did she prophesy about you?"
"The usual thing," said Brendon, curtly.
"Trouble, I suppose. These card-people generally prophesy trouble, as it is certain to occur."
"There was trouble and enemies, and the promise that I should get my wish," said Brendon, with a quick look.
Derrington laughed. "What is your wish?"
"If I tell it I won't get it," replied George, also laughing; "but I don't believe in fortune-telling. It is rubbish."
"It wasn't in Mrs. Jersey's case," said the other, who appeared to be a trifle superstitious.
"Oh, that was a mere coincidence. But you asked me about Miss Bull, sir! Do you know her?"
Derrington nodded. "She came to me on behalf of Mrs. Jersey's niece and wished the lease renewed. I heard her story and consented. I dare say the niece will be quite as good a tenant as the aunt."
This conversation was all very well, but there was nothing to be learned from it on either side. Brendon could not discover if his grandfather knew to whom he was speaking, and Derrington found it impossible to learn if George could tell him anything of the case which had not been reported in the papers. For some reason Derrington wished to know what had transpired, and Brendon felt convinced that this anxiety was more than that of a landlord for the loss of a good tenant. He wondered if Derrington knew that Mrs. Jersey had written out a confession and that it was missing. He would had liked to find out, but since he could not reveal himself as Derrington's grandson there was no chance of getting this information. Besides, Derrington appeared to grow weary of discussing the murder. "It is worn threadbare," he said. "All the papers have been talking about it. I agree with you, Mr. Brendon, that the assassin will never be discovered."
"Never!" said George, looking full at the determined face of the old man. "Are you quite sure?
"I am sure of nothing in this world, save that you said so yourself, Mr. Brendon. However, there are pleasanter subjects to talk of. What about yourself--your aims, your ambitions, your chances of success?"
"Are those pleasant subjects?" laughed Brendon.
"To an old man such as I am," nodded the other. "I like to hear of the castles in the air which youth builds."
"I am afraid my castles will never turn to bricks and mortar," said Brendon with a sigh.
However, he was not averse to showing his grandfather that he was no fool, but a man with a head on his shoulders. George had a quick brain and a strong will and a considerable fund of information. He had taken a good degree at Oxford, and his literary articles always received praise from the public, and from his brethren of the press. Moreover, George was fond of politics, and could converse excellently on that fascinating subject. He laid himself out to please Derrington, knowing that the old tyrant was disappointed in the languid Vane, who was chattering commonplace to Mrs. Ward. In a short time Brendon and Derrington were engaged in a discussion about Ireland and Irish Home Rule, and the old lord approved, highly of Brendon's sentiments.
"You ought to be in the House, Mr. Brendon," he said.
"I have no one to help me to such a goal."
Derrington was about to speak, and fastened his little eyes on the keen, handsome face of the younger man. But he suddenly changed his mind and turned away to talk to Mrs. Ward. Brendon knew that he had succeeded in pleasing the old gentleman, and was glad that so much was accomplished. If Derrington found that he was clever and presentable, and likely to add luster to the family name, it was not improbable that he would recognize the marriage. But by this time George had it in his mind that Derrington knew who he was, and had been talking advisedly under the cover of pretended ignorance, so as to see what manner of man his unacknowledged grandson was. "Well," thought Brendon, "he has learned that I am no fool, at all events."
Mrs. Ward came across to George and left Derrington talking to Dorothy, for whom he professed a great admiration. He knew that Dorothy liked Brendon, as Mrs. Ward had told him so, and he frankly acknowledged to her that Brendon was a clever man. "I wish my grandson had his brains," said Derrington, regretfully.
"I am pleased you like him," responded Dorothy, who could not tell him that Brendon was his grandson, and hardly knew what to say. "He is as good as he is clever."
This remark did not please Derrington. "Humph! I don't like good young men. They generally become bad old scamps."
"Were you a good young man, Lord Derrington?" asked Dorothy, demurely.
He appreciated the joke. "One of the best," he said, with a twinkle in his eyes, "consequently I have gone to the other extreme for many years."
"They say one always returns to his first loves," said Dorothy, smiling, "so you may revert to your godly youth."
Derrington shook his wicked old head. "My first loves are all dead and buried, my dear. But this Brendon--you like him?"
Dorothy did not see why see should conceal her feelings. "I love him," she said quietly and firmly.
"Ha!" replied Derrington, showing no surprise. "Mrs. Ward hinted at something of that sort, but I thought that Walter----"
"Please say no more, Lord Derrington."
"Well, then, I won't." Derrington's eyes rested wrathfully on the withered young man he called grandson. "I don't wonder at your choice, my dear. What Walter requires is a nurse."
"That is a profession I have not taken up," said Dorothy, laughing. She was very anxious to say something good about George to Derrington, on the chance that it might soften his hard old heart. But after all, George had spoken for himself and was his own best advocate. If she interfered, seeing that she was supposed to know nothing of the relationship, she might make mischief. Therefore she held her tongue on the subject nearest to her heart and talked in the most general manner. Derrington said no more about Brendon, but Dorothy noticed that his eyes were rarely off the face of her lover. George had certainly made an impression.
Meantime, Vane joined Mrs. Ward, and Dorothy, seeing that Leonard was alone, beckoned him to approach. Derrington was not particularly pleased at having his conversation with a pretty girl interrupted, but he was polite, and, on learning that Train knew Brendon intimately, he began to ask him about his friend. Train, to please Dorothy, and because he really admired George, spoke most enthusiastically. Dorothy listened in silence, well pleased. From Derrington's curiosity and persistent questioning she began to think he knew something of the relationship.
"But really, you know, she is a great artist," Mrs. Ward was saying to Brendon; "there is something so original about her."
They were speaking of Lola Velez, and it was Vane who had introduced the subject. As Mrs. Ward was a married woman, and knew the seamy side of social life, Vane had no hesitation in speaking about the dancer to her. George, to whom the subject was distasteful, tried to avoid the discussion; but Mrs. Ward, on the alert for information, would return again and again to the topic.
"They say you know her very well," she declared.
"They? Who?" asked Brendon, lifting his eyebrows.
"I do, for one," said Vane in his weak voice; "a fellow told me that she owed her success to you."
"I am not sorry to put you right on that point," replied Brendon, his eyes hardening; "many false rumors are about--to one of which you alluded the other day, Mrs. Ward. This is another. What I know of Senora Velez, and how I know her, can be put in a nutshell," and George quietly related his rescue of the dancer.
"Then you did make her the success she is!" cried Mrs. Ward, when he ended. "Oh, yes, it's no use denying it. You picked a jewel out of the gutter and gave it a chance of shining."
"Perhaps I did that much. But she made a success by her genius."
"I hope she is grateful," murmured Vane, with a malicious smile.
Brendon turned on him sharply. "I don't know what you mean by gratitude," he said deliberately.
"Well," drawled the little dandy, "she is pretty and----"
"She is not at all pretty, Mr. Vane, and were she as lovely as Cleopatra it would not matter to me. My connection with her ceased when she made her success." George quite forgot the presence of Mrs. Ward and spoke vehemently. "Can't you understand that a man may do a kind action without being biased by the beauty of a woman?"
"Some men can," said Mrs. Ward, politely, "and I am sure you are one, Mr. Brendon. But suppose the woman----"
"I don't suppose anything, Mrs. Ward. I know. Senora Velez was poor. I helped her to attain to the position she now holds because I endeavor to follow the preaching of Christ, and she is to me a grateful friend. There is no more and no less to be said," and, a trifle ruffled, George turned on his heel to join Dorothy.
"Well, I'm sure," murmured Mrs. Ward, "and in my own house, too."
Vane sniggered. "There must be something in it," he said.
"And the profane language he used. Of course I don't believe a word he says."
"Neither do I. She's too pretty."
So these two scandal-mongers talked on, and George had only made matters worse by his explanation. However, he believed that he had nipped the scandal in the bud, and strolled into the next room with Dorothy to quiet his mind. Behind them they left Derrington talking to Train and rather enjoying himself.
The room in which they found themselves was a pretty little apartment hung with amber silk, and illuminated with lights in yellow shades. The furniture was also yellow, and the carpet of a primrose hue. Mrs. Ward only introduced her most intimate friends into this boudoir, as it was her own special sanctum; and if its walls could have spoken they could have supplied all the existing society papers with gossip enough to last a century.
"Do you think Lord Derrington knows who you are?" asked Dorothy as they seated themselves on a kind of divan.
"I am not sure," replied George, who did not want to tell her what he knew, lest he should have to introduce the name of Lola Velez. "I have an idea that he does."
Dorothy shook her head. "I don't think so. If he knows you he must be aware that you know him, and about the relationship, and would not speak so freely. I think he is taken with you, George."
"Well, he has been putting me through my paces. I only hope that our chance meeting of to-night may bear fruit. What is Train doing here? Your mother only had him in her house once before, and she does not like him."
"I can't make out why she asked him," said Dorothy; "he is a dull young man, though harmless enough. But my mother made a point of asking him to dinner."
"Humph! I wonder what that's for," said Brendon, wrinkling his brows, for he knew well that Mrs. Ward did nothing without expecting an equivalent return. Then he recollected her questions about the crime, and wondered if she had invited Leonard so as to pump him. It was just what Mrs. Ward did intend to do, but George could not think she had sufficient interest in the crime to justify such a course of action. Besides, he felt that he could trust Leonard to hold his tongue, in spite of the man's weakness. But in this he reckoned without Mrs. Ward, who could have wiled an anchorite to chatter, had she been so minded.
And that is what she was doing at the very moment. Almost as soon as the lovers had disappeared into the yellow boudoir Lord Derrington had taken his departure. He insisted that Vane should come also, and would not allow the little dandy to take leave of Dorothy, nor would he take leave himself. This was done to punish Vane. "Miss Ward is quite happy in there," he said to Mrs. Ward at the door of the drawing-room. "I won't have her disturbed."
"Oh, but really," cried Mrs. Ward, who did not want Vane to go away with a bad impression, "Dorothy is simply bored with him."
"If she is bored with such a brilliant fellow she would not enjoy the company of Shakespeare himself."
"I'm sure I shouldn't," murmured Mrs. Ward. "Shakespeare must have been an awful bore. But do say good-by, Lord Derrington. Dorothy will be so disappointed."
"No, she won't," snarled Derrington, who was enjoying himself at thus thwarting Mrs. Ward's schemes. "Come along, Walter. Take me home and tell me your latest ailment. Good-night, Mrs. Ward," and he went.
Derrington was chuckling, and Vane looked very sulky, so Mrs. Ward saw that the old man had done this thing to spite her. "Horrid creature!" she pouted; "he ought to be dead and buried. It isn't respectable being alive at his time of life. He'll make Walter Vane angry with me, and I'm sure----" Here she caught, sight of Leonard's astonished face, and became aware she was divulging secrets. At once she smoothed her brow and began to smile. This was an excellent opportunity to find out what she wanted. Taking Leonard's arm she led him to a chair some distance from the door of the boudoir.
"Now let us have a nice long talk, dear Mr. Train," she said, settling herself amiably. "Mr. Brendon and Dorothy are no doubt talking tadpoles or frogs or something nasty. They won't be out for a long time, so we can renew our pleasant conversation."
"I don't think it was very pleasant," said Train, unwillingly.
"What an ungallant thing to say!"
"I mean to talk about crime----"
"Is most amusing--I mean instructive. Oh, yes, I have read many of those novels--what do they call them?--detective novels."
"A very low form of literature," said the superior Leonard.
"Oh, they are amusing and interesting, and send one to sleep when one can't in spite of drops and morphia!" babbled Mrs. Ward in her childish manner. "And I have often thought how nice it would be if one could really try and find out who killed a person. Now in this case, Mr. Train, I am sure you heard something or saw something----"
"Upon my word I neither saw nor heard," protested Leonard. "I was in bed all the time."
"Didn't you hear a scream?"
"No."
"Then you must have heard the fall of the body, or the shutting of the door as the--ah!" Mrs. Ward saw from the expression of Leonard's face that she had touched upon something. "You did hear----"
"No! no!" he stammered, wondering how he was to get out of confessing about the opening of the front door without appearing rude.
"Nonsense. Confess! Confess, you silly man!"
But Leonard was too loyal. To lead her away from the point he asked a question. "Mrs. Ward, that yellow holly?"
"Yes. What about it?" She leaned forward eagerly.
"Did you give a sprig of it to any one else?"
"No. I only gave a bit to my daughter, and she----"
"She gave it to Brendon. Yes, I know. But did Miss Ward give any of it to a third person?"
"Certainly not. To do so she would have had to get it from me. But beyond the sprig that was given, and which Mr. Brendon had, no holly went out of this house."
"It is very rare, is it not?"
"I believe so. I dare say there wasn't another bunch in London on that particular night. Of course there might have been, still--but why do you ask all this?"
"Well," said Leonard, "it seems to me that the yellow holly has something to do with the crime."
Mrs. Ward drew a long breath but said no word. He was speaking half to himself, and she did not wish to interrupt his train of thought. But she listened with all her ears. Leonard continued: "I found a berry in the room where she was killed. Yes. They took us in to see the body, and a horrid sight it was. I turned my eyes to the floor, and there I saw--just by the table--a kind of amber bead. I dropped my handkerchief so that Quex might not suspect, and I picked it up. When in my own room I examined it. It was one of the yellow holly berries."
Mrs. Ward threw herself back with a kind of unholy triumph. "Do you know what you are saying, Mr. Train?" she said in a half whisper. "You are accusing Mr. Brendon----"
"No! no!" Train started to his feet. Mrs. Ward pulled him down again and pointed with her fan toward the boudoir.
"Hush! He might come out," she whispered. "But can't you see? Brendon wore the sprig in his coat on that night. He must have been in the room and have dropped the berry. What was he doing there if it was not to----"
"No," said Train, hoarsely. "I half thought of that myself, but it is quite impossible, I tell you. He could not have got out of his room unless he had come to me."
"How do you mean?"
"I locked the door of the sitting-room, which was between his bedroom and mine. There was no exit from his bedroom, and to get out and down the stairs he would have had to open the sitting-room door. Now the key was under my pillow and the door was locked in the morning. No, Mrs. Ward, Brendon is innocent."
"He might have stolen the key while you slept." Train shook his head. "Impossible. I sleep very lightly, and on that night I hardly slept at all."
"Why. Was anything wrong?"
"I can't tell you that, Mrs. Ward, without violating the confidence of my friend. Indeed, I have said too much. Promise me you will not speak of what I have told you."
"I promise, but I am quite sure that the holly berry was dropped by George Brendon, and that he was in Mrs. Jersey's sitting-room on that night. He is the criminal."
"I tell you he is not, Mrs. Ward."
"Don't excite yourself, Mr. Train. Here is Mr. Brendon and Dorothy." She sailed toward them with open hands. "Finished your talk. We must say good-night." And to herself she murmured, while smiling, "I've got you at last--I've got you at last." And Brendon shook hands with Madame Judas, quite unconscious of her premeditated treachery.