As Brendon was in the neighborhood of Amelia Square he paid a visit to the boarding-house. Having learned from Ireland that Miss Bull had informed him how Lord Derrington was connected with the late Mrs. Jersey, George thought it just as well that she should be questioned. Certainly Miss Bull, who appeared to be a dour and secretive sort of person, might not speak. On the other hand, if he could induce her to be frank he might learn from her--presuming she knew--the reason why Lord Derrington had leased the Amelia Square house to Mrs. Jersey. It was a forlorn hope, but Brendon was so eager to learn the truth that he clutched even at this straw. Therefore, on leaving Ireland, he turned his steps in the direction of the boarding-house. Much as he disliked entering it again, it was necessary that he should do so.
On his way Brendon meditated on Ireland's remarks about the holly. He remembered the agitation of Mrs. Jersey when she saw the sprig in his coat. She had been at San Remo when his father was stabbed, and Ireland had mentioned that the woman with whom the deceased man had left the ballroom wore a sprig of yellow holly. Had the berries been red, George might not have thought so much of the matter; but yellow holly is comparatively rare, and evidently Mrs. Jersey's alarm had been caused by her recollection of the murder. The sight of the holly had revived her memory.
"I wonder if she had anything to do with the murder," mused George as he turned into Amelia Square. "Could she have been the woman in the blue domino? Certainly she was a servant and my father would have had nothing to do with her. But at the ball she would wear a domino and be closely masked. But even so, by what means could she have induced my father to leave the room with her? I don't suppose she murdered him herself, for she had no reason to do so, unless it was jealousy, which for a woman in her position was absurd. Bah! I am making a mountain out of a mole-hill. Eliza Stokes probably never went to the ball and had nothing to do with the blue domino or with the matter of the crime. From what Ireland says, however, a piece of yellow holly was mentioned in connection with the murder, and Mrs. Jersey, then Eliza Stokes, probably heard of it. That was why she shivered and turned pale when she saw the sprig in my coat."
Having thus decided the question, though not in a very satisfactory way, George rang the bell and was admitted into the house by Jarvey. The boy welcomed him with a grin, as George had given him half-a-crown when he left the mansion after the inquest. "Miss Bull, sir, yes, sir," said Jarvey, "step this way," and he introduced Mr. Brendon into the sitting-room in which the murder had taken place. It was empty, but Jarvey departed immediately to fetch Miss Bull.
George knew the room well. It had been used by his grandfather as a breakfast-room, and many a meal had he enjoyed at that very table. As the furniture had been sold to Lord Derrington, together with the house, the table was the very article of furniture at which Mrs. Jersey had been stabbed when seated. Brendon looked from the table to the door, and wondered if the assassin had entered stealthily, with a bared weapon, and had stabbed the wretched woman before she had time to turn her head. But on second thoughts he was inclined to think that the assassin had been in friendly conversation with Mrs. Jersey before inflicting the fatal stroke. Even in the short distance between table and door Mrs. Jersey would have had time to spring to her feet and give the alarm. "No," thought George, as he seated himself, "what I said to Train is correct. The assassin engaged Mrs. Jersey in friendly conversation, and then watched for an opportunity to strike from behind."
He would have continued trying to puzzle out the circumstances of the crime but that Miss Bull entered, accompanied by Margery. The little old maid looked whiter and more haggard than ever, but her eyes gleamed brightly, and she seemed to be in perfect health. Margery, now being the nominal head of the house, appeared more important, but she kept her eyes on Miss Bull's face, and in all things took her orders from this superior being. Miss Bull was a despot, although kindly enough, and Margery was her slave.
"How are you, Mr. Brendon?" said Miss Bull, smiling in her prim way, but without offering her hand. "I did not expect to see you again."
"Why not?" asked George, quickly.
Miss Bull shrugged her thin shoulders and fastened her beady eyes on his face. "Many of the boarders left on account of Madame's murder, so I thought you had done the same."
"I was only a visitor, Miss Bull. Had I been a boarder I should not have left. The murder did not scare me."
"No," replied Miss Bull, indifferently, "I don't suppose it did. I only talked for the sake of talking."
Brendon knew this was untrue, as Miss Bull was not a woman to waste words. Besides, the old maid's eyes were fixed with a certain amount of curiosity on his face, and he could not conceive why this was so. He was rather embarrassed how to begin the conversation, especially as Margery was present. Something of this showed itself in his manner, for Miss Bull drew Margery's hand within her own and nodded affably. "Miss Watson is the head of the house," she said. "Do you come to see her or me, Mr. Brendon?"
"I come to see you," said George, hoping she would send the inconvenient third away. But she did nothing of the sort.
"In that case Margery can stop as my friend, Mr. Brendon. Anything you say before her will go no further. She keeps my secrets."
"Always! always!" cried Margery, her eyes on the old maid. "I would rather die than reveal your secrets, Miss Bull."
"Rather tragic, my dear, rather tragic," replied the elder, patting the hand she held. "I have really no secrets worth revealing. A lonely old woman, Mr. Brendon, solaced by the friendship and devotion of this lonely girl."
Margery, who had flushed at the rebuke, stopped and kissed the old maid's hand. Miss Bull patted her head and turned cheerfully to her visitor. "Yes, Mr. Brendon?" she said in an interrogative manner. Again George felt awkward, but judged it best to plunge into the middle of the matter and get it over as soon as possible. "You called to see a certain Mr. Ireland," he said, "about the lease of this house. I have to come to ask you why you did so."
Miss Bull stopped patting Margery's hand and her lips tightened. "I don't see what business that is of yours," she said tartly.
"On the face of it, Miss Bull, I admit that the question sounds impertinent. But I am anxious to learn something about Mrs. Jersey's early life, and since you know something----"
"I know nothing," interrupted Miss Bull, quickly, "absolutely nothing. I came here as a boarder many years ago, and, as is my custom, I kept myself to myself. Madame and I did not get on well together. She was not a lady."
"Do you know what she was?" asked Brendon, shrewdly.
"I have already said that I know nothing," replied Miss Bull, coldly.
Evidently it was impossible to learn anything from so secretive a woman. Nevertheless, George tried another tack. "Do you know if Mrs. Jersey left any writings behind her?"
He asked this because it struck him that Mrs. Jersey might have been tempted to write out her relations with the Vane family. It was apparent that Lord Derrington had given her a lease of the house to silence her about the possible marriage, so for the sake of her niece Mrs. Jersey might have left some confession which would secure its renewal. And that the lease had been renewed was evident from the fact that the boarding-house was still being carried on in the old way, and by the niece.
Miss Bull did not reply to this question herself. "That is not my business," she said; "Miss Watson took possession of her aunt's papers."
"They were in a green box," said Margery, artlessly.
"What did they consist of?" asked Brendon.
"You need not answer that question, Margery," said Miss Bull, quickly, and from that moment, Margery preserved a lumpish silence. George rose in despair.
"You will not help me," he said, taking up his hat.
"So far as I can see there is no reason why we should help you," was Miss Bull's reply, and she rose in her turn.
Brendon saw nothing for it but to go, yet he hesitated to abandon the chance of learning something from Miss Bull. He stared at her pinched, white face and wondered if it would be any good appealing to that love of romance which is inherent in the heart of every woman. Old and withered as Miss Bull was, she might soften under the influence of a love-tale. Brendon disliked telling his business to strangers, especially anything regarding Dorothy, whom he looked upon as a sacred vestal not to be lightly mentioned. However, so much was at stake that he determined to speak openly, on the bare chance of Miss Bull yielding. But he could not speak in the presence of the girl Margery. She was such a sullen animal that to mention his love in her presence would be like casting pearls before swine. He therefore turned to Miss Bull, who stood with folded hands, eyeing him frigidly. "If I could see you alone," said Brendon.
Miss Bull cast a shrewd glance at him, rapidly made up her mind and told Margery to go. The girl looked at him tigerishly, as she was evidently jealous, and sulkily withdrew. When the door was closed Brendon resumed his seat, but Miss Bull remained standing. This was not a good sign; but George was now committed to a certain course and had to follow it.
"Miss Bull," he said deliberately, "what I am about to tell you, being my own private business, I must ask you to keep to yourself."
"I don't want to hear it," said Miss Bull. "I never care for other people's secrets."
"This is not a secret, Miss Bull. It is merely that I am engaged to be married."
"Indeed, and what interest can that have for me, Mr. Brendon?"
"This much. You are a woman and must feel interested to a certain extent in a love romance. I am aware that I am appealing to you in a way which you may regard as foolish, but I am so anxious for certain information, and, from what Mr. Ireland said, you alone can give it. To put the thing in a nutshell--I am in love, and you can forward my marriage if you will."
Miss Bull heard him in silence, but as he talked a faint crimson flushed her face and a softer light shone in her hard eyes. She put her hand to her heart, as though she felt a cruel pain, and sank into a chair. Alarmed by her pallor, which had now returned, George would have called for assistance, but she stopped him. "I shall be all right shortly," she muttered in faint tones. "Marriage, love, what have I to do with such things?" She paused, and then continued, her voice gathering strength as she proceeded, "Who is the bride, Mr. Brendon?"
"She is not a bride yet; she never may be," replied the young man, gloomily, "for if she does not become my wife she will accept no one else. I can trust her implicitly. Her name is Dorothy Ward."
Miss Bull rose with an ejaculation and her face grew red. "Is her mother the Honorable Mrs. Ward who married Lord Ransome's son?"
"Yes. Do you know her?" asked George, surprised at her emotion.
"I have heard of her," replied Miss Bull, resuming her seat with feigned indifference, but with barely concealed agitation. "Dorothy Ward. A handsome girl. I have seen her in the Park."
"She is as good as she is beautiful," cried Brendon, enthusiastically.
"I'll take your word for that," said Miss Bull in a softer tone. "Mr. Brendon, I will help you. Don't ask me why. Perhaps it is on account of your romance; perhaps because--because--" her hand clenched itself and she fought down an outburst--"no matter. I will do what I can to forward the marriage. What do you wish to know?"
"About Mrs. Jersey."
"In relation to Lord Derrington?"
"Yes. He was the landlord of this house, I believe."
"He was and is. It was leased to Mrs. Jersey, furniture and all, by the year."
"By the year," said Brendon, surprised. "Why not a seven-years' lease in the ordinary way?"
"I cannot say. I am only telling you what Mrs. Jersey's lawyer told me. Lord Derrington bought this house from Mr. Ireland with the furniture as it stood, and as it stood he gave it to Mrs. Jersey. She turned it into a boarding-house some fifteen years ago. I don't think she added or took away any furniture. It is in the same condition as when it left Mr. Ireland's hands. And he, I believe, sold it on account of the last owner."
"He did," admitted George. "The last owner was Mr. Anthony Lockwood; he was----" George had it in his mind to state that Lockwood was his father. But the time was not yet ripe for such a disclosure, and he said nothing at the moment. "He was a singing-master," he finished rather lamely. "Mr. Ireland told me all about him."
"That is all correct, so far as I know, Mr. Brendon. I dare say you wish to know why I saw Mr. Ireland. I did so on behalf of Margery Watson, as I wanted the girl to continue the boarding-house. I like the poor creature, and when her aunt died she was left very badly off."
"Didn't Mrs. Jersey leave any money?"
"No. She lived principally on an annuity from Lord Derrington."
"Ah!" said Brendon, his suspicions becoming more and more confirmed, "so he allowed her an annuity. Why?"
"I can't tell you that. But with the death of Mrs. Jersey the annuity naturally ceased. I asked Mr. Ireland about the lease, and then sought out Lord Derrington. I represented to him the position of Margery Watson, and he was good enough to renew the lease in her name, on my security."
"Still by the year?" asked George.
"Still by the year. So now the poor girl can live."
"You are a good woman, Miss Bull, to help her in this way."
"I am not good," cried Miss Bull, vehemently. "God knows I have enough sins to repent of. Don't call me good, Mr. Brendon. I am only a desolate old woman who has had a hard life. I should have been married and settled, but--but"---- She shook her head and the tears came into her hard eyes. "God help me, I have had sorrows, and will have them till I die."
"That shows you have a good heart," said George, alluding not to her sorrows, but to her actions toward Margery. "Well, Miss Bull--" he rose--"you have told me what I want to know. I hope to make use of it. In return for your confidence I should tell you----"
"Tell me nothing," cried the old maid, quickly. "I don't wish to hear your secrets. The less said the soonest mended. When Miss Ward becomes Mrs. Brendon," she added with a dry smile, "you can send me a piece of wedding cake."
"She will not become Mrs. Brendon," said George, shaking his head. "I will be frank with you, Miss Bull. My name is not Brendon."
She rose from her seat and looked at him steadily, perusing every line in his face. "I thought I had seen some one like you before. I see now--now--don't tell me your name is--is--but it's impossible."
"My real name is George Vane. I am Lord Derrington's grandson."
The little woman looked at him wildly for a moment and then quietly slipped to the ground. She had fainted in real earnest, and George rang the bell for assistance. Margery, who had evidently been lurking outside, rushed in. When she saw her friend extended pale and lifeless on the carpet she turned on George with a furious face.
"What have you been doing to the poor darling?" she demanded, "you--you." She raised her hand to strike, but Brendon caught her by the wrist.
"I have been doing nothing," he declared, quelling the rage of the she-bear by the power of his glance. "Miss Bull fainted unexpectedly. Thank goodness here is some one."
It was one of the servants, but Margery waved her off. "No one but me--no one but me!" she cried, and took the slender form of her friend up in her arms. "Wait here," she added to George. "I'll be down soon."
When she left the room George looked at the servant, who was a quiet, respectable old woman. "Is that girl mad?" he asked.
"She's queer, poor soul, sir," replied the woman, "and entirely devoted to Miss Bull. And well she may be for it is Miss Bull who manages the house. The girl is a natural, sir."
"She looks like it," replied George, sitting down. "You can go. I shall wait here until Miss Bull recovers."
"Yes, sir," replied the woman, and departed. But as she closed the door George heard her muttering something to herself about the danger of Margery's claws scratching him.
Brendon did not feel very comfortable on this point himself. He saw that Margery was a kind of untamed animal who had been brought into subjection by Miss Bull. No other person could manage her, and should she return, still in a passion, Brendon feared lest she should use physical violence. Still he held his ground, as he was anxious to learn how the old maid was feeling, and still more anxious to find out, if possible, why she had fainted on hearing his name. "I wonder if Mrs. Jersey told her anything," muttered George as he looked out of the window; "but that's impossible. Mrs. Jersey would keep her own secret so as to terrorize over Derrington. Besides, Miss Bull declared that she recognized my face. I wonder if she knew my father, and if she can throw any light on the murder. It is strange that she should be connected with the matter and live in the same house as Mrs. Jersey. Upon my word," said George, in disgust, "it seems as though there were a gang of shady people here connected with my affairs. And she was moved by the mention of Dorothy's name. I wonder what that meant?"
But whatever it did mean he did not learn that day. Margery returned and stated that Miss Bull was better, but was too faint to resume the conversation. She begged Mr. Brendon to call another day. Margery gave this message in quite a friendly way, and nodded smilingly to the astonished George. "You are better disposed toward me," he said, taking up his hat.
"Miss Bull told me to be kind to you," she declared, still smiling; and then, with a burst of good nature, "I will be kind. Do you want to know about the papers?"
"If you choose to tell me," said George, artfully, but rejoicing at the opportunity this offered of learning something.
"Yes, I do choose," said Margery. "She asked me to be kind to you."
"Well, then, tell me," replied George, humoring her.
"There was a lease in the green box, and many bills," said Margery, "a few photographs, and that was all. I couldn't see the story."
"What story, Miss Watson?"
Margery nodded with a cunning smile, and answered, in a whisper, as though her aunt was still alive and within hearing. "She told me it was a story she was writing. Oh, such a long story! Sheets and sheets of a story--foolscap sheets. She kept them in a long blue envelope and would not let me see them."
George reflected that evidently Mrs. Jersey had been writing out an account of her early life, and Margery's next words put the matter beyond a doubt. "My aunt said that she would let me have the story to read after she died. But I could not find it in the green box."
"Perhaps you did not look thoroughly," suggested George.
"Yes, I did, and I looked in all other places. But I could not find it. The story was Italian," went on Margery, staring at him, "for when my aunt wasn't looking I peeped. San Remo is in Italy, isn't it?"
"I believe so," replied George, more and more convinced that Mrs. Jersey had left a confession behind her. "Did you tell Miss Bull?"
Margery nodded. "She said I wasn't to say a word about it. But she will not be angry at my telling you. She likes you, and says you are like some one she once knew and loved."
Brendon did not pursue the conversation. He was afraid lest Margery might say too much and Miss Bull might be angry. And it was necessary that he should keep on good terms with Miss Bull. Evidently she had known his father; she may even have loved him. But George had heard so much that day that his brain was quite bewildered, and he wanted to be alone to think the matter out. Only one last request he made of Margery. "Will you show me the photographs which were in the green box?" he asked persuasively.
"I can't," she replied, drawing down her lip like a child; "Miss Bull has them. But she'll show them to you," brightening, "for she likes you. I like you too. You are so handsome."
With a laugh and a blush at this naïve compliment George left the house, promising to call again. With his head filled with many thoughts consequent on his two interviews, he emerged from Amelia Square and walked down to Oxford Street. A shout aroused him from his day-dreams as he reached the corner. He saw a tall, red-headed man crossing the road, and a cab was bearing down on him. The man stood paralyzed in the center, and it was apparent that the horse would soon be on him. George, almost without thinking, dashed into the street, and, seizing the animal, reined it back on its haunches with a powerful hand. There was a shout of admiration from the throng on the footpath, a few oaths from the driver of the hansom, and the next minute the red-headed man was thanking his preserver on the pavement and shaking his hand violently.
"Don't you think I'll forget it, sir," he said with rather an American accent. "You have saved Bawdsey, and Bawdsey can help you at a pinch."
Brendon was too bewildered by this extraordinary address to take it all in. Besides, the admiring crowd pressed around. Seeing this, Bawdsey took him by the arm and ran him round the corner into a quiet street. George recovered and looked at the man he had saved.
He was a tall man with a thin face, though his body was rather stout. His hair was red, his eyes were blue, and he had an alert manner about him which made Brendon wonder how such a sharp person ever came to place himself in the position of being run over. But Bawdsey gave him no time to think. "What is your name?" he asked.
"George Brendon."
Bawdsey stepped back, and a look of genuine surprise overspread his freckled face. And he was apparently more astonished than he showed, as Brendon guessed by the trembling of his hands. "I have lived over fifty years in the world," said Bawdsey, "and this is the queerest thing I ever dropped across. And I drop across many queer things, stranger."
"Well, Mr. Bawdsey, if that is your name," said George, good-humoredly, "it is a good thing I have saved your life. But you seem as though you could--"
"I can--I can," interrupted Bawdsey, anticipating the remark. "But have you ever heard of that disease--fear of open spaces?"
"No," replied Brendon, "what is it?"
"I shan't give you the medical name," said Bawdsey, "as you would not understand. But it is a dread to cross any open space. At times it takes me unexpectedly, and I get a sort of paralysis of the will and cannot move. That was why I stopped in the middle of the road. I should have been killed but for you."
"Perhaps I had better see you home, then," said Brendon.
"No. I shall take a cab. It is only now and then that the thing takes me. It can't be cured and maybe it will get worse. At present it does not prevent me attending to my work. Come home with me and I'll tell you more. I live in No. 43 Amelia Square."
"What, in that house?" cried George, for this was the number of the Jersey mansion.
"Yes. What do you know of it?"
"Nothing."
"Oh, yes, you do; but you won't trust me. However, I'll see you again, and I'll trust you. Take care of Lola Velez. She means you harm."
The next moment he was gone, and George was staring after him.
Lola Velez was the rage for a season. She sprang into fame in a single night, and thenceforth held an undisputed position as the favorite of the London public. She was not exceptionally handsome, nor was her dancing distinguished by any special grace; but about her there was something weird and original, which appealed to her audience. Such an extraordinary dancer had never been seen on the stage. She capered like one in a frenzy, with mad leaps and bounds, and throughout her orgiastic performance behaved as one possessed. It was not so much the poetry of motion as the madness of movement. George Brendon had been instrumental in introducing her to the public, and she owed her position as much to his kindness as to her own genius.
It was a snowy winter's night when Brendon found her. He had just entered Pembroke Square, where he had lodgings, when he heard a moan. Turning aside into the shadow of a wall he found a woman lying there, exhausted with cold and hunger. Always anxious to do good, he brought the poor creature to his rooms. Under the influence of food and wine and warmth she revived sufficiently to tell her story.
Her name, she stated, was Lola Velez. She was Spanish by birth, but had lived many years in Italy. Trained as a dancer, she had appeared at several of the best theaters with more or less success; but owing to her violent temper she had lost all chance of gaining a permanent position. But that Lola was rendered weak by privations she would not have told George the exact truth; but she confessed to her temper, to a certain episode connected with the stabbing of a woman of whom she was jealous, and to the many quarrels which had resulted in her being thrown out of employment. Finding Italy too hot to hold her, she had danced her way to Paris through various small towns, but here, as elsewhere, her temper proved her ruin. Then she had crossed the Channel, only to find that the market was overstocked with dancers. Unable to obtain employment, and having very little money, the unfortunate woman had fallen lower and lower, until she was reduced to begging in the streets. Finally she was turned out of her poor lodgings and had expended her last sixpence on food. It was shortly after this that Brendon found her.
He acted the part of a good Samaritan. Giving her a sovereign; he sent her away, restored in a measure to her right mind. The next day he saw the proprietor of a music-hall, with whom he was acquainted, and procured her an engagement in a ballet. It was a Dresden china piece, and the violent dancing of Lola was by no means suited to the Watteau costumes and stately dances of the powder and patches type. But the manager--a shrewd Jew called Kowlaski--saw in his new recruit the possibilities of success. He staged a ballet adapted from "The Bacchanals" of Euripides, and Lola danced the part of Agave, the mother of Pentheus, who is rendered insane by Bacchus.
Her success was immediate. She enacted the part with a reckless abandon and a wild frenzy which thrilled the house. For the moment Lola was not herself, but the wild Theban Queen raging in the orgies of the Wine-god. All London came to see the frantic revels over which Lola presided, and night after night the little music-hall was filled to overflowing. Lola made good use of her fame. She insisted that her salary should be raised, took modest lodgings in Bloomsbury, and, for a time, saved her money as a provision against old age and poverty. On the stage she was a dancing demon, but at home no one could have been more modest. There was not a breath of scandal against her, in spite of Mrs. Ward's hint to Brendon.
This change in the formerly reckless woman was caused by love and gratitude to George. He had saved her from starvation, from death, he had procured her the engagement which had led to her success and present ease, and, figuratively speaking, she cast herself and all she had at his feet. Brendon found this excessive gratitude rather trying. Even then he was in love with Dorothy, whom he had met twice or thrice, and he was not disposed to accept the wild passion which Lola so freely offered to him. He tried to make her see reason, to look upon him as a friend and not as a lover, but in her insane way she resolutely refused to regard him as other than the man she intended to marry. In spite of her tempers and her wild career Lola had never erred, and so far Brendon could well have made her his wife. But he did not love her, and hardly relished the idea of taking this wild creature to his heart and home.
Lola could not understand this coldness. She was accustomed to see men at her feet and to spurn them. Now that she was willing to surrender her liberty and to give her love, it exasperated her to think that the one man she had chosen would have none of her. As yet she knew nothing of Brendon's love for Dorothy, but with the instinct of a jealous woman guessed that some such passion engrossed the mind of the man she desired to marry. Again and again she deluged George with questions, which he always refused to answer, so she could learn nothing. Wearied of her persistency, Brendon stopped away, and for a few weeks Lola did not see him. She followed him to his rooms, but found him absent. Then she saw his name in the papers connected with the Amelia Square tragedy, and wrote to him. He accepted her invitation and came to supper, less because of her desire than because he wished to speak to her about Bawdsey. The name of Lola Velez on the lips of the red man had startled Brendon almost as much as the fact that Bawdsey appeared to be acquainted with him. George could not recall meeting the man, and as he was not yet sufficiently famous for his name to be on the lips of the public, he wondered how it came about that Bawdsey knew of his existence. Anxious to know who the man was, he sent a note, marked private, to Miss Bull, and received a reply stating that Mr. Bawdsey was a new boarder, and, so far as she knew, a gentleman who lived on his income. But this did not satisfy Brendon, as it did not account for Bawdsey's knowledge. There remained Lola to question, and to Lola George went a night or two after the rescue of the red man. George made up his mind, and a strong mind it was, that he would not leave Lola until he knew positively how her name came to be mentioned by Bawdsey.
At eleven o'clock Lola was anxiously awaiting his arrival, and when he entered her little sitting-room she flew to kiss his hand, her usual extravagant form of greeting. George, like all Englishmen, hated scenes, and these Lola was always making. In vain had he tried to break her of these melodramatic tendencies. Her hot Southern blood would not cool, and she overwhelmed him with protestations of more than friendship. Of these he took no notice, and as it takes two to make love as well as to make a quarrel, Lola was yet far from gaining her heart's desire. This was a formal offer of marriage.
Having just returned from the music-hall, Lola wore a loose tea-gown of scarlet trimmed with glittering jet. It was a bizarre garment, but the vivid color suited her dark face and Southern looks. She was rather tall, very slender, and she moved with the dangerous grace of a pantheress. Her face was oval, sallow and thin, with ever-changing expressions. She was never two minutes the same, but her prevailing mood was one of fierce intensity. The smoldering fire in her great black eyes blazed into passionate love as she swept forward to greet her visitor.
"My deliverer, my adored!" she cried in moderately good English, and kissed his hand with burning lips.
George snatched it away. "Don't, Lola. You know I hate that sort of thing!" And so saying he threw down his coat and hat on the sofa at the far end of the room.
Lola shrugged her shoulders and coiled up a tress of her black hair which had come loose. Putting it in its place, she glanced into the mirror over the fireplace to see that her comb was at the right angle. She wore a diamond comb in the Spanish fashion. So fond was she of jewels that George sometimes fancied she must have Jewish blood in her veins. All her savings went in jewels--diamonds for choice. "They are pretty," Lola would say when Brendon remonstrated with her, "and when I am poor they can be changed into money. Oh, yes, why not?"
"Ah, but you are a cold blood, you English man," she said in allusion to Brendon's action. "But what would you--it is the fogs and cold snows. Come, my friend, to the table--to the table."
She clapped her hands, and seizing George by the arm forced him into a seat. The supper looked very tempting. Lola had an eye for the beautiful, and arranged the table herself. A tall silver lamp with a pink shade shed a roseate light on the white cloth, the glittering crystal, and the quaint silver spoons and forks. Lola had picked up these things at odd times and displayed very good taste in her selection. In the center of the table was an oval silver dish filled with pink roses. "What extravagance!" said George.
"Ah, bah! I got them from San Remo--from a friend of mine," said Lola, removing a dish-cover; "they cost me not one sou. George, my dear friend, the Chianti is in the flask there, and this macaroni? Eh?" George passed his plate. The viands were cooked in the Italian fashion, and there was a foreign air about the supper which was grateful after a long course of English cooking. What with the foreign dishes, the pink-shaded lamp, and the candles likewise in pink shades on mantelpiece and sideboard, George felt as though he were in a Soho restaurant. The night was cold, he was hungry, and the supper, with its surroundings, was novel. He therefore made a good meal. Lola watched him eat with satisfaction.
"Ah, you like my housekeepers," she said, meaning housekeeping; "it is to your mind. Yes? Eh, my friend, I could feed you as fat as pigs if you would but allow me."
"I don't want to be fat," retorted George, reaching for the Chianti. "Give me a cigarette, Lola."
She produced her own case, and not only supplied him with one, but insisted on placing it between his lips and on lighting it. George wriggled uncomfortably, but it was no use objecting to Lola's ways. She would indulge her whims at any price. And he did not wish to leave until he had accomplished his mission.
"There, little friend," cried Lola, when he was seated comfortably by the fire and she was puffing also at a cigarette, "now we must talk. Why have you not been? Oh! you wicked young boy!"
"I have been engaged," replied George, secretly admiring the careless grace with which she was half lying, half sitting in the armchair opposite. She showed a dainty foot encased in a red stocking and a red shoe. Lola was all in crimson from head to foot, save for the jet and her dark face and hair. She looked like some sorceress bent upon unholy conjurations.
"Engaged!" she repeated with a flash of her wonderful eyes. "That is words for 'I don't want to come.'"
George laughed, shook his head, and changed the subject. Her remark about having a friend in San Remo ran in his mind. "Have you ever been there?" he asked, naming the town.
"Ah, bah! have I been anywhere? All Italy I know--all--all."
"You know it better than Spain. Yet you are Spanish."
"I am whatever you desire, my George. Yes, I am of Spain--of Cadiz, where my parents sold oil to their ruin. They came to Italy, to Milan and made money to live from wine. I was trained to the dance--they died, and I, my friend----"
"You told me all this before," interrupted Brendon, ruthlessly. "I ask if you have ever been to San Remo?"
"Why, yes, assuredly, and why not?" She looked at him with narrowing eyes as she put the question, blinking like a cat.
"There is no reason, only I was thinking----" He paused.
"Eh, you think--of what?"
"Oh, something which does not concern you, Lola."
"All that is of you is to me," she responded. "I love you."
"Lola, be reasonable."
"Pschutt! I mock myself of your reason," she cried, snapping her fingers and speaking in quite a French way. "I leave reasons to your chilly English ladies. I--eh, but you know I am of the South. To you--to you, my adored preserver, do I give myself."
George grew angry. "If you talk like this, Lola, I shall go away."
"Ah, then good-night to you. Let it be adieu and never come back."
"Not at all. Be a reasonable woman and sit down. Give me some more wine and a cigarette. I want to ask you a question."
Lola poured out the wine and tossed him a cigarette, but she refused to sit down or to compose herself. In a flaming temper she whirled about the room, talking all the time. "Ah, yes, but it is so always! I am a fool to love you, cold one--pig of an Englishman."
"That's grateful," said George, quietly, and she was at his feet.
"Ah, but no! I am a bad womans. I am entirely all wicked. You are an angel of the good God. Dearest--my own----" She stretched adoring hands, and her eyes glittered like stars.
George reasoned with her. "Lola, do you wish me to be pleased with you?"
"Assuredly, and why not?"
"Then sit down in your chair like a Christian and talk sensibly."
She sat down, or rather flung herself into the chair with a whirl of scarlet draperies. "Decidedly I am a Christian. I go to mass, I confess--yes, I confess to the priest how I love you."
"Do you really love me, Lola? I was told that you wished me harm."
She started from her chair with a passionate gesture.
"Who says it is liars of the worst. Tell me who speak, that I may tear and scratch."
"No! no! I don't want a scandal."
"For her sakes, oh, yes!" She subsided sulkily. "I am nothings."
"For whose sake?" asked Brendon, rather alarmed, for he did not wish this tigress to know about Dorothy.
"The other woman's. Oh, yes, there is some one else. I know. You are mine all, and would be but for the other womans. Imbecile that I am to think of you who kick me hard--hard. And I can learn nothing--nothing. If I did--if I knew, I----" She stopped and breathed hard.
"I wonder you don't have me watched," said George, thoroughly angry at her unreasonable attitude. Lola tossed her head, and her expression changed to one of alarm. Brendon saw the change and guessed its meaning. "You did have me watched."
"And what if I did?" she demanded defiantly. "You are mine."
"I am not yours," he retorted angrily. "I have given you no cause to think that I would marry you."
Lola burst into tears. "You took me from the stones and snows," she wept with extravagant grief. "Why did I not die? You fed me with foods and made me shine in this London; you win my heart, and then--then--pschutt!" she snapped her fingers, "you toss it aside."
"Why did you have me watched?" asked George, sternly.
"I want to know of the other woman," she replied sullenly.
"There is no----" He broke off. "It has nothing to do with you."
Lola sprang to her feet with fierce eyes. "Then there is another--another--oh, you cruel! Name of names, but I shall find her. I shall tell her----"
"You shall tell her nothing--you shall not see her."
"But I will. Eh; yes. You do not know me." This with a stamp.
"I know you cannot behave decently, Lola. If you have me watched again, if you dare to--to--bah!" George stamped in his turn. "I have had enough of this. Behave, or I go and will not return."
She flung herself at his feet with a wail. "Ah, but no," she sobbed, "I do love you so dearly--I will die if you love me not."
George drew himself roughly away, and taking her by the hands placed her in a chair, where she hid her face and sobbed. "Who was it you got to watch me--you hired to watch me?" George advisedly used the word "hired" as he thought she might have engaged one of her friends to do the dirty work, instead of engaging a professional. Yet he knew she was quite capable of going to a private inquiry office.
"I shall not tell you," said Lola, sitting up with a hard expression on her mouth and in her eyes.
"Did you pay him much?" asked Brendon, dexterously.
"I paid him what I chose," retorted Lola, falling into the trap.
"Ah! Then it was a professional detective you engaged. You have been to one of those inquiry offices."
"That is my business," said Lola, who, seeing she had made a slip, became more obstinate than ever. More to show her calmness, she lighted a fresh cigarette and smoked it defiantly.
George shrugged his shoulders. He was not going to argue with her. Remembering that Bawdsey had mentioned her name, and that Bawdsey appeared to know all about himself, he began to put two and two together. Certainly he might be wrong, and Bawdsey might have nothing to do with the matter. Still it was worth while trying to startle Lola into a confession by the use of his name. His rescue of Bawdsey hinted that the long arm of coincidence might be at work. "Well, I don't know where he comes from----" began George.
Lola snapped him up. "Ah, yes, and you think it is a man. Bah! why not a woman, my dear?" she sneered.
"Oh, you may have half-a-dozen at work--male and female both," said George, taking his seat, "but I should have thought that the red man was clever enough to----"
She threw away her cigarette and rose to her feet with such manifest alarm that George knew his guess was correct. "You talk foolish."
George looked at her angry face serenely. "Did Bawdsey when he said you wished me harm?"
"What?" She flung up her hands, with blazing eyes. "Did he say I do wish you harm? Was it--that--that cow--pig----"
"Don't call names, Lola, and don't distress yourself. It was Bawdsey."
Lola saw that she had gone too far, and had, vulgarly speaking, given herself away. She tried to recover lost ground. "I do not know his names," she said sullenly; then burst out, "but I wish you no harm. Eh, will you believe that, my preserver?"
"I'll believe nothing if you will not tell me the truth," said Brendon, a little cruelly. "Come, Lola, admit that you paid Bawdsey to watch me."
"I did not pay--no, not one sou. He did it for love."
"Oh, indeed! So Bawdsey is in love with you?"
Lola threw back her head defiantly. "Yes, he is, and I care not one, two, three little trifles for him. Chup! He is old--he is red--he is one big fool, that I can twist and twist----"
"And you apparently have done so. Well, then, Lola, did you get him from a private inquiry office?"
"No, I did not so. He loved me, and sent me flowers--oh, many, many flowers--those roses." She pointed to the silver dish.
"So you can't tell the truth even in that," said George, deliberately. "What of the friend in San Remo?"
"It is his friend. He had flowers from his friend. He told that."
Brendon sat up with an eager look in his eyes. So Bawdsey knew some one in San Remo. Probably he had been there, and Bawdsey was acquainted with his name. Brendon began to think that there was some meaning in all these things and plied Lola with questions. She was sulky at first and would not answer. But Brendon knew how to manage her, and before the conclusion of the conversation he got the whole truth out of her. This was accomplished by using what the Americans call "bluff."
"So Bawdsey knows San Remo, and he is fifty, or over fifty, years of age. H'm! He knows all the history of the place, I suppose."
"I know not--nothing do I know."
"Ah, that's a pity! Bawdsey could tell you some nice tales." He fixed a keen glance on her. "About some yellow holly, for instance."
Lola winced, for the shot had gone home. But she still held to her declaration of ignorance. "I know nothings--absolutely."
"But apparently this man knows a great deal. He is in love with you, and must have told you much. Did he inform you of a certain murder which took place at San Remo?"
"Ah, bah! Why should he? I knew of all already."
"You! How did you know?"
"My father and my mothers, they lived in San Remo when--oh, they did tell me all of that Englishman."
"Did they know who murdered him?" asked George, marveling at this unexpected discovery.
"No. No one know anythings."
"Was there no suspicion?"
"Not one suspicions. I know nothings," she repeated doggedly.
"It strikes me that you do. How did you and Bawdsey come to be talking of this matter?"
"We did not talk." Lola looked down at her foot as she told the lie and moved it restlessly.
George rose and took up his hat. Throwing his coat over his arm, he moved toward the door. "Good-night, mademoiselle."
She sprang to her feet and flew after him. "No! no!" she cried in lively alarm. "You must not go, my dearest dear."
"What is the use of my stopping when you will not show your gratitude toward me by telling the truth?" George hated to make such a speech as this, but it was the only way in which he could move her.
"I will tell! I will tell. Sit down. The coat--you shall not go. I will say all. Ask what you will. Sit, my little cabbage--a wine in the glass--ah, yes!--and a cigarette. Come, be good. Am I mademoiselle?"
"No," said George, smiling on her pleading face, "you are my friend Lola now that you are sensible."
"Ah, only friend!" she said sadly. "But I speak. Yes?"
George began at once to question her, lest the yielding mood should pass away. "You made the acquaintance of Bawdsey at the hall?"
Lola nodded. "He loved me; he sent me flowers; he was made a presentation to me by Kowlaski. I learn that he looks after people, what you call a--a--un mouchard----"
"A spy--yes, go on."
"And I made him watch you. I told him your name."
"Did he know my name?" asked Brendon, quickly.
"He knew everything--oh, yes--all--all!"
Brendon was taken aback. "All--all what?" he asked amazed.
"Why--" Lola twirled her fingers--"all what you would not tell to me, my dear. That your names is Vane, and milor----"
"Derrington! Did Bawdsey mention Lord Derrington?"
"Yes. Oh, many times he speaks of milor. I speaks of San Remo. This--this Bawdsey ask me of the blue domino--of the holly----"
"Of the murder, in fact."
"It is quite so, my friend. Of the murder of your father."
"What?" George started from his seat. "Did he know that the man who was murdered at San Remo was my father?"
"Yes, and that it was difficult about the marriages."
"That also. He appears to know the whole story. And he mentioned Lord Derrington. That is how he comes to be acquainted with these facts. A spy--Derrington is employing him. And the man is boarding in Amelia Square." George struck his hands together. "By Jove, it's a conspiracy, and I never knew anything!"
"I do not wish you to have the marriages right, George," said Lola, with a pout. "If you are as what you are, then you will marry me. She will not be madame."
"She? Who?"
"The woman you--you--love." Lola got out the word with difficulty and burst into extravagant rage. "But she will not have you. No, you are mine. You will be Brendons--as I know you, and not Vane--never milor. I will not let it. If you are milor you marry her."
"Did Bawdsey tell you the name of the lady?"
"No. But he will tell. But she is a well-born one, and I am of the gutter. But I love you--ah, yes I love you!" She threw her arms round him. "Be still Brendons, and not milor, and I am yours."
"No! no!" George took her arms from his neck and spoke more soberly. "Lola, hold your tongue about what you have told me, and I'll see you again. If you speak, I see you no more."
"I will be silent," she said as Brendon put on his coat. "But you are cruel, wicked. You shall never be milor, never!"
"How do you know?" asked George, contemptuously.
Lola's eyes blazed. "I know. I know. You will never be milor."