Dorothy was by no means of a jealous disposition. Moreover, her love for George was so deep and pure that she trusted him entirely. Nevertheless, having learned from the few words dropped by Vane, that Brendon knew Lola, she felt desirous of seeing the woman. That Lola was her rival she never for one moment believed, as she knew Vane's malicious nature and evil tongue. But the fact remained that Brendon's name was coupled with that of the dancer, and this incipient scandal annoyed Miss Ward.
There was no need for her to ask George why such a report should prevail, for she knew that he would be able to explain in a satisfactory manner, and, trusting him already, it was useless to demand details. Her feelings would remain the same after the telling of his story as they were now, therefore she avoided the disagreeable subject. Nevertheless, she was woman enough to desire a sight of Lola, and induced her mother to take her to the music-hall. Mrs. Ward was very pleased to do so, but she was too clever to hint that she guessed Dorothy's reason for making this request.
"Certainly, my dear," she said briskly. "I am very glad that you are coming out of your shell. Men hate a woman who can't talk of everything, and nothing is talked about but Lola."
"I must educate myself to please men, then," said Dorothy, dryly, "so I may as well begin with the dancer. On what night can we go?"
"Oh, Friday will do. Mr. Vane has invited us to dine at the Cecil, so I'll ask him to get us a box."
Dorothy would rather have gone with any one than with Mr. Vane, as she disliked his feeble attempts at lovemaking. However, there was nothing for it but to accept, since she had brought it on herself. With a smile which encouraged her mother to think she would behave sensibly toward Vane, she agreed to the proposed dinner-party and companionship, and Mrs. Ward wrote a note at once.
"I hope when she sees Lola, and hears the stories about that Brendon man, that she may refuse to have anything more to do with him," was Mrs. Ward's remark as she sealed her note. "I don't want to get the Brendon man into trouble by having him arrested for the murder. And I don't think Derrington would let me if I did wish it."
Her last speech was prophetic, for the next day Lord Derrington paid a visit to Curzon Street and had a short interview with Mrs. Ward, the gist of which was that she must hold her tongue.
"Brendon called to see me the other day," explained Derrington, looking grim, "and he showed me plainly that he had nothing to do with the matter."
"But how about the holly berry?"
"That is easily explained," replied Derrington, who, anticipating the question, had prepared an answer. "Brendon was one of the first to see the body, and in touching it the berry fell from the sprig. Afterward--mind you, afterward--Mr. Train found the berry, and, not knowing that Brendon had seen the body that morning, thought he had been in the room on the previous night."
"I'm sure he was," insisted Mrs. Ward.
"You are sure of nothing of the sort. Brendon could not have got downstairs without the connivance of Train, and you heard what Train said."
"He is such a fool!"
"The more likely to tell the truth," said Derrington. Then he asked, after a pause, "Why did you tell Dorothy to give the sprig of holly to Brendon on that night?"
Mrs. Ward shrugged her shoulders and looked down nervously. "Oh, it was the merest kindness on my part," she said, trying to speak quietly. Derrington contradicted her at once.
"It was nothing of the sort," he declared with roughness. "You wished him to have the yellow holly in his coat when he saw Mrs. Jersey, so that the woman might betray herself."
"I knew nothing about Mrs. Jersey at the time."
"Oh, but you did! With regard to the holly, you knew from me how it was used in connection with the death of my son at San Remo; and what I did not tell you, you learned from other people."
Mrs. Ward looked defiant. "Well, I did. I am sure every one knew about the murder at the time," she said, "and I met some old frumps who gave me all details."
"I quite understand that; but how did you know about Mrs. Jersey?"
"That's my business," cried Mrs. Ward, becoming imprudent. "You are right about the holly; I sent to Devonshire expressly to get some. It was my intention to inclose a sprig in a letter to Mrs. Jersey so as to frighten her----"
"What good would that have done?"
"My business again," snapped Mrs. Ward, becoming bolder. "I had my reason for wishing to recall your son's death to her mind, and I knew that the yellow holly would do so most successfully. When Dorothy came from the Park and told me that Brendon was to stop with his friend at Mrs. Jersey's boarding-house, I thought that it would be better to let George wear the sprig. And I managed it in such a way that neither Dorothy nor George guessed how I planned the business. And I succeeded. Mrs. Jersey saw the sprig and nearly fainted. I knew then that----" Here she stopped.
Derrington saw that it was useless to question her further. She would only lie, and had been telling lies, for all he knew. Moreover, he did not think she could tell him anything pertinent to the case.
"I shall ask you nothing more," he said, rising to take his leave. "You have some reason for all this intrigue, I have no doubt. What your intentions are, matters little to me. I came merely to warn you that Brendon is to be left alone."
"You won't have him arrested?"
"No. And what is more, I won't have him spoken about in connection with that crime."
Mrs. Ward forgot her desire to conciliate Derrington, forgot her desire to marry Vane to Dorothy, forgot everything in a sudden access of rage. "I shall do what I choose!" she cried.
"No," said Derrington, quietly, and looking her full in the face, "you will obey me."
"Obey you, Lord Derrington?"
"Yes. I have tried to conduct this interview quietly, Mrs. Ward, and to hint that your wiser plan is to be silent, but----"
"I don't want hints. I wish for plain speaking," raged the little woman. "How dare you address me like this?"
The old gentleman leaned forward suddenly and whispered a short sentence in her ear. Mrs. Ward's face turned pearly white and she tottered to a chair, closing her eyes as she fell into it. Derrington surveyed her with a pitiless expression.
"You will be silent about Brendon?" he asked.
"Yes," moaned Mrs. Ward. "I will say nothing."
When Derrington departed Mrs. Ward retired to bed after canceling her engagements for the evening. For twenty-four hours she stopped there, explaining to Dorothy that she was taking a rest cure. It apparently did her good, for on the evening of the day appointed for the meeting at the Cecil she arose looking bright and quite herself again. She had quite got over the fright given to her by Derrington, and, when she saw him later, treated him quite in her old manner. On his side the old gentleman made no difference, but he wondered how she was carrying herself so boldly. At once it occurred to his suspicious mind that there was some reason for this defiant behavior, and he determined to watch her. For this purpose he joined the party.
"It is the first time I have been to a music-hall for years," he explained to Dorothy; "but Walter has been talking so much about this new dancer that I felt I must see her."
"Why did you not dine with us at the Cecil?" asked Dorothy.
"I always prefer to dine at home, my dear young lady. Besides, it does not do for an old man to wag his gray beard uninvited among the young."
Meantime Mrs. Ward was chatting amicably to Vane and to a vapid War-Office clerk, who had formed a fourth at the Cecil dinner-party. He was a titled clerk, and heir to great estates, so Mrs. Ward made much of him. She was very diplomatic, and never neglected younger sons. "One never knows but what they may be rich some day," said Mrs. Ward in explanation of her wisdom.
The box was large and easily held the party. Mrs. Ward had a position directly in front, where she could see and be seen; but Dorothy kept herself behind the curtains. She could see the stage excellently, but did not wish to be recognized by any chance acquaintance. In an opposite box sat a red-haired man in immaculate evening-dress. Derrington recognized him as Bawdsey, but did not think it necessary to show his recognition. He sat at the back of the box between Vane and the War-Office clerk, and kept a watchful eye on Mrs. Ward.
That little woman sparkled like a diamond. She criticised the house, admired the decorations, and applauded the comic songs. It might have been that this indifferent attitude was one of defiance, as she must have known that Derrington was watching her. But she acted her part consummately, and he could not help admiring her coolness. "What an admirable actress," thought the old lord, "and what a dangerous woman!"
The ballet of "The Bacchanals" came at the end of the first part of the programme. When the curtain rose Dorothy was so anxious to behold Lola that she leaned forward so as to show her face to the whole house. Bawdsey saw her and put his glass to his eyes. He smiled slightly, and Derrington wondered why he did so. But at that moment, and while the stage was filling with dancers, he arose to receive some newcomers. These were none other than Miss Bull and Margery, for whom Bawdsey had procured the box. The little old maid was whiter than ever and wore her usual gray dress. Margery was smartly gowned in green, and with her light hair and stupid red face looked anything but beautiful. She placed herself in the best position, being evidently directed to do so by Miss Bull, for that lady preferred the shade. At all events, she secluded herself behind a curtain and kept her beady black eyes persistently on the stage. On seeing that the two were comfortable, Bawdsey disappeared, and did not return till the end of the ballet. Derrington saw all this, but no one else in Mrs. Ward's box took any notice. And why should they? Bawdsey and his party were quite unknown to them.
The ballet was modeled closely on the lines laid down by Euripides in his tragedy. The opening scene was the market-place of Thebes, and the stage was filled mostly with men. Pentheus, the King, is informed that the whole female population of the city, together with his mother, Agave, have gone to the mountains to worship a stranger. The seer, Tiresias, knows by his psychic powers that the stranger is none other than Bacchus, the god of wine, and implores Pentheus not to provoke his enmity. The King spurns this advice and gives orders that the so-called god shall be arrested. It was at this moment that Agavé appears. Dorothy looked at her eagerly.
Agavé has not yet assumed her Bacchanalian garb. She is still in the quiet dress of a Grecian matron, but her gestures are wild, and she is rapid in her movements. In the dance which followed she is interrupted by Pentheus, who strives to calm her frenzy. But Agavé, knowing the god of wine is at hand, becomes as one possessed. Bacchus appears and is arrested by Pentheus. He is chained and hurried into the palace. Agavé warns the King against the impiety he is committing. Pentheus defies the gods. There is a peal of thunder, and the palace of Pentheus sinks into ruins. At the back appears the ruins of the city walls, which have also fallen, and on the summit of the heaped stones stands Bacchus, the god confest. At a wave of his wand vines begin to clamber over the ruins, and the cries of the Bacchanalians are heard. Pentheus tries to seize the god again, and darkness covers the stage. The last thing seen was Lola dancing in a wild red light, with extravagant gestures.
Dorothy could not say that Lola was handsome, but she had about her a wild grace which was very fascinating. When dancing she seemed to think of nothing but the revels in which she was engaged. She never cast a look at the house, and Dorothy noticed this. She was therefore somewhat surprised when, during the second scene, she saw Lola deliberately look in the direction of the box and stare at her piercingly for quite a moment or two. Rather confused by this sudden regard, the girl drew back. Lola noticed her no more, but continued to dance.
The second scene was the camp of the Bacchanals, where Pentheus, as a follower of the god, comes to see the orgies. It was a mountainous scene with a lurid red sky broken by masses of black clouds. There is no need to describe the ballet in detail. The frenzied dancers of the Bacchanals seemed to send the audience wild. There was something fierce and murderous about these orgiastic movements. And through the wild throng darted Lola, in leopard-skin and garlands, bearing a cup of wine, and flinging herself about in wild madness. She appeared to be a devil, and Dorothy shrank back at the sight of her wild face. The music also was terrible, and excited the dancers to further efforts of madness. It was a feast of witches, a Walpurgis night, a revel of the earth-powers. There was nothing spiritual about this riot of the flesh; the audience shuddered at the fierce rapture of the dancers, at the alluring pain of the music, at the reckless abandon of Lola Velez.
"It's too awful!" murmured Dorothy, moving to the back of the box, beside Derrington; "that woman is a demon."
"Yet your friend Mr. Brendon helped her to this, position," said the old man, grimly.
"I am sure he cannot approve of this dancing," shuddered the girl, who was very pale.
"There is nothing improper about it," said Derrington.
"No. Everything is right in that way; but it is maddening, and unholy, and altogether terrible. The music is something like that in Tannhäuser--cruel, evil, voluptuous."
"Ah, your poor spiritual nature shrinks from that sort of thing! But Mrs. Ward seems to enjoy it."
She certainly did. Craning forward so as to get a full view of the stage, Mrs. Ward's eyes were alight. She would have enjoyed being in the throng herself, and would have danced as madly as the worst of them. And queerly enough Miss Bull appeared also spellbound. Her face was flushed, her eyes glittered, and her breath came and went in quick pants. "It's wonderful, Margery," she said, leaning out of the box and fixing her eyes intently on the whirling mass.
"It's very pretty," said Margery, stupidly. Her dull brain could not understand the wild madness of the scene, and she was as unmoved as though she had been listening to a sermon.
"Dorothy! Dorothy!" whispered Mrs. Ward, "come back to your seat. Lola juggles the head of Pentheus. It is the great dance."
"No," answered Dorothy, and clung to Derrington's arm. "I will stop here. It is too terrible."
The old man understood, and in the darkness of the box he slipped his arm round her. In that kind embrace Dorothy felt safe. If she looked upon that madness again she felt that she must cry out. Derrington quite appreciated her feelings. It was the repulsion experienced by the spiritual against the material.
The action of the ballet proceeded rapidly. Pentheus climbed a tree, the Bacchanalians surrounded it and dragged him down. Lola emerged from a frantic crowd bearing his head. Then began the dance, slowly at first with solemn pacings and stately gestures. The limelights, red and blue and green and yellow, were flashed on the swaying form of Lola as she eyed the head with terrible glances. Then the music flashed out into a wild galop. The scene became pandemonium. Lightning flashed, thunder rolled, the violins shrieked in the orchestra, the dancers spun, whirled, plunged, and sprang and bounded, and frantically rushed about the stage. Everywhere at unexpected moments Lola appeared, tossing, smiting, and caressing the head of Pentheus, whirling out and in as the rainbow lights played upon her restless figure. Finally, when the orgy was at its height, came a flash of lightning, a crash of thunder, the riot died away, the Bacchanalians sprang from the stage. Darkness descended, the music sank to lulling tones, and quiet, silvery moonlight flooded the stage. There alone, in the center, sat Agavé, restored to her right mind, weeping over the head of her son. And on this scene of sorrow the curtain fell slowly to the strains of sweet music. The audience drew long breaths and felt as though a nightmare were at an end.
"Let us go now," said Dorothy, standing up and still clinging to Derrington's arm. "I wish I had not come."
She was interrupted by an ejaculation from her mother. Mrs. Ward also was standing up, but her eyes were fixed on Miss Bull. The little old maid, as though feeling the influence of that glance, slowly looked in Mrs. Ward's direction. The eyes of the two women met. From those of Miss Bull flashed a look of hate, and she withdrew behind the curtain of the box. Mrs. Ward was white and shaking. Clutching Vane's arm she requested to be taken to her carriage. "It is too much for me," she said, alluding to the ballet.
Derrington stood on the pavement when the brougham rolled away bearing the mother and daughter, both silent, both pale. He was alone, as Vane and the War-Office clerk were back again in the hall. "Humph!" said Derrington, his eyes fixed on the retreating carriage. "So you know that little woman who called to see me about the lease. I wonder how that comes about. Miss Bull knew Mrs. Jersey, and you, Mrs. Ward, sent that yellow holly. I wonder----" The old man stopped; he could not quite understand what Mrs. Ward was doing, but he repeated his former observation. "A dangerous woman," said he. "I shall speak to Bawdsey about her;" and making up his mind to this he went in search of the detective.
All that night Dorothy was haunted by strange dreams, in which the figure of Lola played a prominent part. Usually calm and self-possessed, Dorothy slept like a child, but the fierce music, the mad dancing, the knowledge that George knew this terrible woman--for so she appeared to the girl--caused her to sleep brokenly. She was up early, and after a breakfast that was a mere farce she took her way to the Park. It was her usual custom to walk in a lonely part about eight o'clock in the morning but on this occasion she was at her usual spot by half-past seven. This was a seat under a spreading tree in the center of a wide lawn. Few people came there at so early an hour, and Dorothy often read for an hour before returning home. In a mechanical manner she took a book out of her pocket--it was the "Meditations" of Marcus Aurelius--and tried to fasten her attention on the soothing words of the stoic Emperor. But it was impossible. Before her inner vision passed the wild, flushed face of Lola Velez, and Dorothy could not drive it away. While endeavoring to do so some one came to sit on the seat. Dorothy, rather surprised, looked up. She saw Lola staring at her intently.
The dancer looked pale and worn. About her there was none of the unholy influence of the previous night. As the morning was cold she wore a sealskin coat and toque with a scarf of red silk twisted round her throat. This touch of color was all that was about her likely to suggest her foreign origin. With her pale face and piteous mouth and appealing eyes she looked like a broken-hearted woman. Dorothy's first movement was to go away; but when she saw the sorrow on that wild face she remained where she was. The two gazed at one another for a time, and the thought in the mind of each was the same. Both thought of George Brendon.
Lola began to speak without any preamble. "Mr. Bawdsey pointed you to me at the last night," she said in her imperfect English. "He declared you did walk early, and I have been with my eye on your mansion since six hours--what you call o'clock. I see you come, I follow you, I am here, Mees Vard, I am here."
"What do you want?" asked Dorothy, calmly, her nerves much more under control than Lola's were. Yet both were agitated.
"Ah," cried the foreign woman, throwing back her head, "give him to me! I love him--I worship him. Give him to me."
"Of whom do you speak, mademoiselle?"
"Ah, mademoiselle, so he speaks when angry. But I am no French. I am Señora--I am Spanish. I have warm blood here in my heart." She struck her breast fiercely. "And if you take him from me I will kill you. Yes, I will give you the death--quick, sure, sudden."
Her face drew near to Dorothy's as she spoke, and the girl could feel her hot breath on her cheek. But Dorothy had a brave heart of her own and did not flinch. For all she knew, Lola might intend to stab her at the very minute. The Park keeper was some distance away, and it was useless to create a scandal by calling him to her assistance. Lola was just the kind of mad creature to make a scene. Retaining control of herself, though her heart was beating rapidly, Dorothy fixed her eyes firmly on those of Lola. "Sit a little further away," she said, "and we will talk calmly."
"Are you not afraid?" asked Lola, surprised. She had always found the savage attitude so effective.
Dorothy laughed. "I was never afraid of anything or of any one in my life," she said coolly. "And I am not going to begin now. What do you want, mademoiselle? Why do you threaten me?"
"Bah!" cried the other, but moving back a little as requested, "you know, you blond white cat, you. It is George."
"What about George?"
"He is mine. He loves me. You would take him from me."
"If you are speaking of George Brendon----"
"Of who else should I speak? You know--ah, you know!"
"Yes. I know. I heard some rumors as to how he helped you. But I do not believe for one moment that he loves you."
"He does. You dare ask that he loves."
"I shall do nothing of the sort. We may as well understand one another, as you have no right to thrust yourself upon me."
"I do do what I do please," said Lola, sullenly.
"These sorts of things are not allowed in England, I am sorry for you, and so I speak. Otherwise, I should call the Park keeper."
"I want not any sorrow. I do want my own George."
"Mr. Brendon is engaged to marry me," said Dorothy, deliberately.
Lola sprang to her feet with flashing eyes. "It will not be," she almost shouted. "I love him."
"Sit down," said Dorothy, much in the same tone as she would have used to a fractious child, and Lola resumed her seat immediately. The woman was a creature of impulse. Had Dorothy raged also, she would have gained the ascendancy. But this calmness, to use a nautical simile, "took the wind out of her sails." She could only do as she was told.
"But I will have my George," she muttered.
"Listen to me," said Dorothy, quietly. "I have no right to answer your questions. But I am sorry for you. I will speak to Mr. Brendon."
"No--" Lola looked up in terror--"you must not do that. He will be very angry--oh, much--much enraged."
"Then that shows me you have been speaking untruths. Mr. Brendon does not love you----"
"But I say yes--yes--yes!" Lola sprang to her feet again and poured forth her wrath. "Ah, you think he will be milord and that you will marry him, but----"
"What do you know about that?" asked Dorothy, rising indignantly.
"Oh, I do know much--much," Lola snapped her fingers. "Yes, I know that which I do know. I can stop him from being milord, and that I will--I will. If he is milord he will marry--you--you. But as my own George he will make me--me--" she struck her breast again--"me, Lola Velez, madame his wife."
"You are talking nonsense," said Dorothy, coolly, though she felt annoyed and puzzled. "What can you know?"
"That which I do know. Wait--oh, wait a day--one day, two day, three day, and then--" She snapped her fingers. "You see--yes--you see how clever I am. I go, I go, you white cat. I go to get my George."
Lola darted away at a run, which slackened to a rapid walk as she neared the Park gates. Dorothy sat down again, too amazed to follow.
Kowlaski was a large, fat, good-natured blackguard of a man, quite without principle. He came from some remote village in the Balkans and was of Jewish birth. In his early days he arrived in London penniless and strove to make a living by selling toys in the street. Then he turned scene-shifter at a music-hall, and while thus engaged educated himself to write and read and to speak English with wonderful fluency. Also he saved money and speculated in a small way, having the marvelous Hebrew instinct of picking out lucrative ventures. Shortly he became stage manager. Then he found a clever woman who sang badly and acted wonderfully. Kowlaski advertised her into a success and she proved grateful. There is no need to trace his steady rise; but one thing led to another until he became proprietor of the very music-hall which had witnessed his humble beginning.
When he first set eyes on Lola he had guessed that it would pay to invest money in her. The success of the ballet proved that Kowlaski was right as usual, and he smiled his oily smile when he saw the crowded houses and looked over the receipts. The ballet would run for more than a year. He was sure of that, and set about some other business now that the music-hall was flourishing. It was at this point that Lola demanded a week's holiday. Kowlaski whimpered. He usually did so to make people think he was weak. But under his apparent weakness he was possessed of an iron strength.
Having great experience of women he thought to control Lola, but she, being gifted with a superlative temper, laughed in his face. All his cleverness could not make her swerve from the point. "I want a week to myself," she said doggedly. They were talking in French, as Kowlaski could swear more easily in that tongue and wanted freedom of speech.
"But, my dear child--" Kowlaski was always paternal--"it will not do. You are the draw, and if you go out of the bill the people will not come to my house."
"I don't care. I want a week, and a week I will have."
"Why do you wish for this week?"
"That's my business."
Kowlaski tried temper. "If you go, you leave my theater once and for all the time."
"Pschutt!" said Lola, snapping her fingers in his dismayed face. "I draw, and you are in no hurry to get rid of me."
Kowlaski tried reproaches. "If you were a grateful woman----"
"Ah, bah! What of gratitude? You wanted me or would you have seen me die in the gutter."
Kowlaski began to whimper. "You will ruin me, my dear!"
"It would serve you right if I did. You have ruined others in your time. Don't you think I know you? Come--" she rapped on the table--"I want the week. To-morrow and till next Wednesday I'm out of the bill."
"But it cannot be done."
"It must be. I want it to be done."
Kowlaski tried bribing. "I will raise your salary if you stay!"
"Oh, la, la, la, la! I am quite pleased with what I get. If I wished my salary raised I should have it raised. I go for a week."
In the face of this obstinacy Kowlaski gave in. But first of all he tried threats, and Lola threatened to throw a chair at him. He finally agreed that she should have her week, and Lola walked out of the office without thanking him. That was the last he saw of her for seven days.
He made the most of her absence, declaring that she had been called away to nurse a dying mother and would reappear with a broken heart to keep her engagements with the public. Bawdsey saw this notice.
It was the first he had heard of Lola's escapade, and he went at once to her rooms in Bloomsbury to ask where she was going. Lola had already gone, and, according to the landlady, had left no information as to her whereabouts.
"Did she take a box?" asked Bawdsey.
"A small box. She went away in a cab."
"Where did she tell the cabman to drive to?"
"To Oxford Street."
Bawdsey was disappointed. He saw that Lola had taken every precaution to hide her trail, and that there was not much chance of finding her. However, he went to see Kowlaski. The manager began to talk of the dying mother, and Bawdsey shut him up.
"Rubbish! That's for the public. I want to know where she is.
"My dear, I do not know," said Kowlaski, and for the first time in his wicked old life he told the truth.
Not to be beaten, Bawdsey sought out George Brendon. But George was as ignorant as the manager and the landlady. "I haven't the slightest idea," he said, when Bawdsey asked; "and, to tell you the truth, I don't see why you should try to find out."
"I want to know."
"That is apparent on the face of it. But you are not engaged to marry her, are you, Mr. Bawdsey?"
"No such luck," replied the detective, with a dismal face.
"Then I don't see what right you have to control her movements."
"Did she write and tell you where she was going?"
"No, and if she had done so I should not tell you," replied George, annoyed by the man's persistence.
"You may as well be civil to me, Mr. Brendon; you know that I am your friend."
"Oh, I've heard all that before! But people who talk much of friendship and gratitude are generally humbugs."
"I am not," said Bawdsey, quietly. "See here, Mr. Brendon, Lola is in love with you----"
"That's my business. Leave it alone."
Bawdsey took up his hat. "Oh, very well! If you will not be civil I cannot help you to learn who killed your father."
"What!" George sprang from the table at which he was writing and seized the man's arm. "Do you know that?"
"Gently, Mr. Brendon. No, I do not know, but----"
"Then what do you mean by saying----"
"We had better have a chat," said Bawdsey, and sat down. "But I wish to know where I stand. Lola loves you. Do you love her?"
"No," said Brendon, seeing that he would have to humor the man. "I am engaged to marry Miss Ward."
"Will you help me to marry Lola?"
"Willingly--though, to tell you the truth, I know very little about you, and to make that girl marry you----"
"Oh, Lola can look after herself, Mr. Brendon. If she becomes my wife she will have the upper hand. But I am so deeply in love with her that I am willing to play second fiddle. Can't you dispossess her of this infatuation for you?"
George shook his head and groaned. "No. She won't listen to reason."
"Well," drawled Bawdsey, recurring to his American accent, "I don't blame her for that. She is in love, and love listens to no one and nothing. I wouldn't listen to reason, either, if it entailed giving up Lola."
"See here, Bawdsey, if you can persuade this woman to get over her liking for me, and to marry you, I shall be delighted. I do not know where she is just now, but it is my impression that she has gone away because she is afraid of me."
"Afraid of you? Oh, that's absurd!"
"No, it isn't. The other morning she saw Miss Ward, and there was a scene in the Park."
Bawdsey hung his red head. "I fear that is my fault," he confessed. "I pointed out Miss Ward to Lola, and----"
"And it was I who foolishly mentioned that Miss Ward sometimes took a walk in the morning--in the Park."
"Oh," said Bawdsey, "I mentioned that also."
"Did you wish Lola to see Miss Ward?" asked George, angrily.
"No. Nor did I intend to say anything about the walking in the early morning. I simply pointed her out in the box to Lola, so that Lola might see there was no chance of your marrying her."
"As if any woman would accept such an excuse," said Brendon, contemptuously. "Then she questioned you about the walk?"
"Yes. She mentioned something about what you had told her, and I was rather free with my tongue. I am not usually," said Bawdsey, penitently, "but there's something about Lola that makes me behave like a child. I'm wax in her hands. So she saw Miss Ward?"
"Yes. And she knows that I am angry. Of course Miss Ward sent to tell me at once, and I called on Lola to give her a talking to, but she was gone when I arrived."
"Would you have spoken harshly to her?"
"Certainly. She had no right to trouble Miss Ward. But now you know why I think she has left town. In a week she will come back thinking my anger is at an end."
"And will it be?" asked Bawdsey, doubtfully.
"It is at an end now. I am quite content not to see Lola again so long as she leaves Miss Ward alone."
"I will try and keep her away," said the detective, "but I have very little influence with her."
"Tell her I am angry and will be still more angry if she does not keep away from Curzon Street. Well, we have discussed this matter. I now want to hear what you meant by your reference to my father. Do you know who killed him?"
Bawdsey shook his head. "I can't say for certain, but I can tell you who might know."
"Who is that?"
"Mr. Roger Ireland."
George looked astonished. "But that is ridiculous," he said. "Mr. Ireland told me that he did not know."
"Oh, I don't say that he knows for certain. But he is better acquainted with the matter than you think."
"How did you come to know Mr. Ireland?"
"He called to see Miss Bull, and I dropped across him."
"How did you get talking of the case?"
"Well, you see," said Bawdsey, easily, "we naturally talked of Mrs. Jersey, and one thing led to another until I discovered that Ireland had been in San Remo when your father was murdered. I wished to find out who killed him, so I questioned Mr. Ireland."
"Why do you wish to know who killed my father?" asked George.
"Because I think that the murder of Mrs. Jersey is connected with that crime. See here--" Bawdsey cleared his throat--"Mrs. Jersey was in San Remo at the time of the death----"
"How do you know that?"
"Don't I tell you I questioned Mr. Ireland?"
George looked sharply at the detective. "What magic did you use to make him talk? Mr. Ireland knows how to hold his tongue."
"Well, when he found that I was looking after the case of Mrs. Jersey (and I made no secret of that) he was good enough to tell me all he knew. He thought, as I did, that the murder in San Remo was connected with the crime of Amelia Square."
"Oh!" George wasn't at all satisfied, as he could not conceive how Bawdsey had induced Ireland to talk. However, he thought it wise to say no more, as he did not wish to make Bawdsey angry and thus run a chance of losing his explanation. "Go on."
"There is nothing more to say," said Bawdsey, rising. "Mr. Ireland declined to tell me who he thought was guilty, but he hinted that he had seen the lady in the blue domino unmasked."
"Did he recognize her?"
"I think he did, but he assured me that he could not be sure, and that he had not seen the lady again."
"Then he did know the face?"
Bawdsey's face assumed an impenetrable expression. "I can only refer you to Mr. Ireland," he said; "and as to Lola----"
"Oh, she'll turn up again," said Brendon, irritably. "Don't worry me about Lola. I wish you would marry her and take her back to your native land."
"What land am I native of, Mr. Brendon?" asked Bawdsey, calmly.
"America, I understand. You hinted as much when we met."
Bawdsey shook his head. "I am as English as you are," he declared.
"Well," said Brendon, with a shrug, "I thought as much. Your accent fails at times. You are not a good actor, Bawdsey."
"I may be a better actor than you think, Mr. Brendon."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Never you mind, sir. I can hold my tongue when it suits me, and on this occasion it does suit me. But remember, Mr. Brendon, that whatever happens you have a friend in me."
"What is going to happen?"
Bawdsey shook his head solemnly. "One never knows. We are not out of the wood yet, Mr. Brendon."
"Are you referring to my father's murder?"
"And to Mrs. Jersey's. I have my suspicions, and--well, there's nothing more to be said. When I am certain I shall let you know."
"You have your suspicions, then?"
"Yes. But I shall not impart them to any one--not even to you."
"One moment, Bawdsey," said Brendon, as the man had his hand on the door. "Do you suspect Miss Bull?"
"Why should I suspect her?" asked the detective, in surprise.
"Because she was not on good terms with Mrs. Jersey, and you have taken up your abode in the house----"
"To watch her, you would say. Well, maybe," rejoined the man, composedly. "I know what I know, and when I am more certain of what I know, sir----" He nodded. "Good-day," he said, and went abruptly.
It struck George that Bawdsey was a most mysterious person and knew far more about the San Remo murder than Derrington could have told him. Still, it was possible that Derrington had unbosomed himself to Bawdsey, and it was necessary to do so if he wanted the murder of Mrs. Jersey cleared up. And Derrington, from his refusal to admit that he was at the house on the night and about the time the crime was committed, seemed to knew something that might lead to the detection of the assassin.
"Humph," said George to himself when alone, "I have a great mind to go round and see that old man. It seems to me that Bawdsey is trying to serve two masters. It is impossible that my grandfather can know the truth. Yet, going by his height and figure, and that sable claret-colored coat, he was certainly in the house on the night in question. But it's none of my business."
He sat down again to his work and tried to interest himself in the chapter he was writing. But it was all in vain. Bawdsey's speech and Bawdsey's manner, and a conviction that the man was playing his grandfather false, kept recurring to his mind. After an hour's futile work he threw down the pen in despair and went out to call on Derrington.
On arriving at St. Giles Square he saw a carriage at the door of the mansion. On asking for Lord Derrington, George was informed that his lordship was engaged with Mrs. Ward and could see no one. Brendon turned away, wondering that he had not recognized the carriage, and he was still more vexed with himself when Dorothy put her head out of the brougham and called to him.
"My dearest," he said softly, so that the coachman and footman might not hear, "this is an unexpected pleasure. Why are you not inside?"
"My mother wished to see Lord Derrington alone," replied Dorothy. "I am waiting till she comes out. She has been with him for half an hour. I don't know what they are talking about."
It was at this moment that a message was brought out of the house from Mrs. Ward saying that her daughter could drive home as she would not be disengaged for another hour. Dorothy looked puzzled. "I can't understand," she said; "there is something wrong with my mother. Lord Derrington came to see her one day and she has been upset ever since."
George shook his head. He suspected Mrs. Ward of knowing more than she chose to confess, and based his suspicions on the fact of the yellow holly which she had given to Dorothy to present to him. She had made her daughter a cat's-paw, but why she should wish to startle Mrs. Jersey with a reminder of the San Remo murder was a thing George could not understand. Meanwhile, he kept these suspicions to himself and made some excuse. "Oh, Mrs. Ward and my grandfather are probably talking over my iniquities," he said easily. "But I don't see why I should not take advantage of this chance."
"What do you mean, George?" asked Dorothy with a becoming blush.
"Well, here is the brougham, and here you are. Why shouldn't we drive around the Park before you go home?"
"My mother will be angry," said Dorothy, hesitating. Then she blushed again. "But I shall brave her anger. We have much to talk about, as I wish to speak of Lola Velez."
"Dorothy, you surely do not think----"
"No, no! But I want to ask you a few questions. I believe she is mad, George. Get in and we will drive round the Park."
The order was given, George seated himself beside his divinity, and they drove away for a pleasant hour. "You see Fate plays into our hands," said George, taking those of Dorothy in his own. And then the conversation became quite private and very, very confidential.
Meantime, Mrs. Ward was seated in a chair facing Lord Derrington. The old gentleman looked savage, but Mrs. Ward was quite at her ease. They had been having a war of words, and Mrs. Ward so far had come off best. The conversation had been in reference to the sentence whispered in the little woman's ear when he had made her promise to hold her tongue about George.
"Of course I do think it is the meanest thing a man can do," said Mrs. Ward, bitterly. "What if I did cheat at cards? Every woman does that, and I was losing no end of money."
"I don't think your friends would take that view," said Derrington, grimly. "I came to hear of the matter quite by chance, and it is plain that you won over a hundred pounds by cheating."
"It's that horrid Mrs. Wayflete who told you----"
"No. If Mrs. Wayflete knows, she has held her tongue. I learned it from a source of which you are ignorant. But the fact remains, you cheated, and if your friends knew it you would be ostracized by all of them."
"As if they did not do these things themselves," retorted Mrs. Ward; "but since you have been so nasty, I intend to be nasty, too."
"I shouldn't advise you to be nasty to me, Mrs. Ward. I have a large reserve fund of strength."
"You'll need it all to hold your own against me." Lord Derrington nodded. "I quite admit that you are a dangerous woman," he said quietly.
"Well, and in what way have you made up your mind to be nasty?"
Mrs. Ward laughed. "You needn't repeat my adjectives," she said in her most frivolous manner. "If you want to know the way in which I intend to protect myself----"
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean this," cried the little woman, growing angry all at once. "I am not going to be threatened about that unfortunate episode connected with the cards--it was that horrid Mrs. Wayflete who told you, so don't deny it--I am not going to be threatened without holding my own. Besides, I want Dorothy to marry your grandson."
"Which one?" asked Derrington, coolly.
"You have only Walter Vane."
"Excuse me, George Brendon, whether there is a marriage or not, is equally my grandson."
"I believe you admire him."
"Very much, and it is in my mind to acknowledge him as my heir."
"I thought as much after your sticking up for him the other day," said Mrs. Ward, furiously. "Now, look here, Lord Derrington. If Dorothy marries that Brendon creature I won't be able to do a thing with her--you know quite well I won't."
"That means you won't be able to handle my money through George after I am dead," said Derrington, grimly.
"You can put it that way if you like. But Walter shall be Dorothy's husband, I have made up my mind."
"Because he's a fool and putty in your hands."
"I shouldn't be vulgar if I were you," said Mrs. Ward, in a dignified manner, and quite forgetting that she had once used the same illustration herself in connection with Brendon. "But so long as George leaves Dorothy alone I shall say nothing."
"That's really very good of you, Mrs. Ward."
"Your being nasty won't make me change my mind. But you quite understand the situation, Lord Derrington. Walter is to marry my daughter, and George is to be kept away."
"I don't see how he is to be kept away. I assure you Brendon is a strong man, and his will is quite equal to mine."
"Nonsense, you have the strongest will in London."
"And you come here to try and break it."
"Life is a game," said Mrs. Ward, leaning back, with a pretty air of philosophy. "And at present I hold the trump card."
"What is it?" asked Derrington, wondering by what means she hoped to make him consent to her demands.
"I'll tell you presently," said Mrs. Ward, in a most masterful tone, which amused Derrington. "But you understand that if George Brendon doesn't keep away I shall give information to the police and have him arrested in connection with that murder."
"Oh, no, you won't," said Derrington, good-humoredly.
"Oh, yes, I shall. As to your accusation about my having cheated, you shall say nothing about that."
"Indeed, I shall do so if you trouble Brendon."
"Think of Dorothy."
"I do think of Dorothy, and I'm very sorry she has such a mother."
"You dare to insult me," began Mrs. Ward, when Derrington, who was losing patience, cut her short.
"I've had enough of this," he said sharply. "You shall hold your tongue about Brendon or I'll tell what I know."
"Then I'll do the same."
Derrington bowed politely. "By all means," he said. "My reputation is already so bad that a word or two from you can scarcely make it worse."
"Oh, it's more than that," said Mrs. Ward, quietly, and she spoke in so positive a manner that Derrington began to recollect his worst sins. "Do you remember the night you came home here at one o'clock and found me in this very room?"
"Yes. You came with the amiable intention of telling me that George Brendon was going to pass the night at Mrs. Jersey's, and that you suspected that he was up to mischief."
"I took the trouble to come from a party for that very purpose," was Mrs. Ward's plaintive reply, "and how was I received?"
"I told you to mind your own business, if I remember."
"And you swore at me," said the little woman; "as if a man who calls himself a gentleman----"
"Mrs. Ward, I am getting tired of this circumlocution. What is it you have to say?"
"Well, on that night you were in a fir coat."
"My usual coat in winter."
"It was the night when Mrs. Jersey was killed."
"Was it, indeed? I never noticed the coincidence."
"No. But you knew about it," said Mrs. Ward; "you threw your coat on yonder sofa. I seated myself near it by chance. There was something hard in the pocket of the coat. When you were out of the room I took the something out. There it is," and she laid an Italian stiletto on the table.
"What is that?" asked Derrington, calmly, but with an anxious face.
"That," said Mrs. Ward, touching it daintily with her finger, "is the weapon with which Mrs. Jersey was stabbed."