Naturally Fanks was astonished at this confession; but he was so conversant with the character of the young man that he could not believe the journalist was guilty. Despite the coincidence of the tattooed cross and the relationship of Fellenger's wife with Anne Colmer, he did not think for a moment that his friend had anything to do with the crime. Nevertheless, it would appear from the hesitation of Hersham to speak openly that he had some knowledge--if not of the crime itself--at all events of the circumstances leading to its accomplishment. This was the only construction he could place on this last outburst.
"After what I have said, Hersham, I think you ought to confide in me," he remarked after a pause. "I do not suspect you in any way; yet you refuse to aid me. You ought to be the first to help me."
"I do not see how you make that out," replied Hersham, with a pale face. "I never met with Sir Gregory. I heard nothing but evil of his life, and he drove to suicide the sister of the girl to whom I am engaged. Why should I help you?"
"Ah!" cried Fanks, sharply; "then you can help me if you choose."
"I certainly cannot," returned Hersham, doggedly. "I have not the slightest idea who killed Fellenger. I can tell you nothing."
"Yes, you can; only you refuse to. Why I cannot say. You had better be careful, Hersham; you will not find me easy to deal with if you rouse my suspicions."
"Do you threaten me?"
"I warn you," retorted Fanks, smartly, "I am not accustomed to have my offers of help repelled. Your remark of a few moments ago shows me that you know something. What is it?"
"I know nothing."
"You do! Speak, if not for your own sake, at least for that of Miss Colmer."
Hersham stepped up to Fanks with an angry face. "How dare you introduce the name of Miss Colmer?" he cried. "I forbid you to speak of her."
"All the worse for you and for--her. She called at the chambers of the dead man. Why did she call there? She was at Tooley's Alley on the night of the murder. What was she doing in such a place? You refuse to tell me? I shall ask her."
Hersham sprang forward, and grasped the arm of Fanks to prevent his leaving the room. "Think of what you are about," he gasped. "Ask her nothing, you hear me, nothing."
"That rests with yourself. Tell me what you know and--"
"I know nothing," said Hersham, and turned away with an obstinate look.
"Good!" said Fanks, putting on his hat. "We now understand one another. I shall find out all without troubling you. Good-bye. And you may thank your stars that I do not arrest you on suspicion."
"I swear that I am innocent."
"I know that, else I would have had you in custody by this time. But you are screening another person. Anne Colmer, for instance."
"She knows nothing."
"I shall judge of that for myself," retorted Fanks, and left the room.
In Acacia Road the detective hailed a cab and drove to the nearest telegraph office. It had occurred to him that Hersham might attempt to communicate with Anne; and he was resolved to checkmate such a move. To this end he sent a wire to the head of the rural police at Taxton-on-Thames, instructing him to delay if possible all letters and telegrams which might come to Miss Colmer. Thereby he hoped to prevent Hersham warning the girl.
Arriving at New Scotland Yard, he detailed a man to watch Hersham, and sent him up to Acacia Road. A glance at "Bradshaw" assured him that to reach Taxton-on-Thames, Hersham would have to start from Waterloo. Thither he sent another detective, to keep an eye on the trains. Therefore, by letter, by telegram, and by railway, he had stopped Hersham from communicating with Anne Colmer. After taking these precautions he saw Crate.
"I am going to Taxton-on-Thames at three o'clock," he said.
"Are you going to look for the woman who directed the envelope, Mr. Fanks?"
Fanks stretched out his legs, and began fiddling with his ring. "That is just what is puzzling me, Crate," observed he. "I have told you of my conversation with Mr. Hersham. Well, unless he is deceiving me, Mrs. Conner, is a paralytic. She could not have directed that envelope; yet, going by the writing, I'll swear that an elderly woman penned the address. If not Mrs. Colmer--an obvious impossibility--who wrote it?"
"Anne Colmer," said Crate, promptly.
"No. For disguise, she would rather have adopted a masculine hand."
"Mrs. Boazoph?"
"If Mrs. Boazoph had been traced to Taxton-on-Thames I should say yes; if the letter had been sent from Mere Hall I should have said yes. But," added Fanks, with emphasis, "as it did not come from Mere Hall, and Mrs. Boazoph has nothing to do with Taxton-on-Thames, I am not inclined to suspect the lady."
"Then there is nobody else."
"There must be somebody else; and the somebody else committed the crime."
Crate thought. "Do you think that the negro sent that star?" he asked.
"I feel perfectly certain that the negro had nothing to do with the star."
"But we have proved conclusively that a negro killed Fellenger."
Fanks smiled complacently. "I should not be at all surprised if we found out that a negro had nothing to do with the murder," he said, slowly.
"But that is impossible, Mr. Fanks."
"Nothing is impossible in a criminal case," said Fanks. "Look here, Crate, as you know, it is not my habit to give an opinion before I have thoroughly threshed out the subject matter of a case; but in this instance, I shall depart from my rule. I should not be surprised if I had already spotted the assassin of Sir Gregory Fellenger."
"No!" cried Crate in admiration. "And who is it, Mr. Fanks. Man or woman?"
"Walls have ears, Crate. I shall whisper the name and when the case comes to an end--if it ever does--you can laugh at me or congratulate me at your will. Now then."
Fanks approached his mouth to the ear of Crate and whispered a single name. "That is my opinion," he said slowly.
Crate shook his head. "No, Mr. Fanks. I am loth to put my opinion, against yours, but I think you are making a mistake."
"Perhaps I am," assented Fanks, carelessly, "the case is a difficult one, and I am quite prepared to find out that I am wrong. All the same, I am confident that the person I named is guilty. I'll bet you five pounds to five shillings that I am correct."
Crate grinned and took up the bet. The behaviour of his chief flattered him, and he would not have minded losing. But he could not bring himself to agree with Fanks as to the name of the guilty person; for he had a theory of his own in which he believed. This theory was diametrically opposed to that of his superior.
"How long shall you be at Taxton-on-Thames," he asked Fanks, when this little piece of amusement was concluded.
"I may be a few days, a few hours, or a month. It all depends on what I find out. I must interview Anne Colmer; see her mother; and make inquiries about Binjoy and his negro servant."
"But the doctor is at Mere Hall. You must go there to ask about the negro."
"Rubbish. As I told you before, the negro has never been seen at Mere Hall. Binjoy lived at Taxton-on-Thames, and it is there that I must ask after this mysterious black man. Afterwards, I can go to Mere Hall."
"Have you any reason for going?"
"One. I wish to find out why Mrs. Boazoph visited the Hall."
"And what about the tattooed cross, Mr. Fanks?"
"Oh, I shall see that later on. But in the meantime I must pay these visits. Firstly, Taxton-on-Thames. Secondly, Mere Hall. Thirdly, the Isle of Wight and the Rev. Mr. Hersham."
"Humph!" said Crate, doubtfully. "From what you say, I should think Mr. Hersham junior would thwart your plans, if he could."
"I have not the least doubt of it," replied Fanks dryly, "but he is being watched. If he tries to thwart me I shall, at least, have the satisfaction of knowing it. By the way, do you know anything about Bombay?"
"That's in India, isn't it?" said Crate, rather taken aback by the apparent irrelevancy of this question. "I don't know anything about Bombay, Mr. Fanks, except what I've seen in books."
"You must extend your knowledge then; for I may want you to go there in a week or so."
"Has my going there anything to do with this case?" demanded Crate, still very much astonished at the turn the conversation had taken.
"It has everything to do with this case," replied Fanks, enjoying his perplexity, and the confusion of his somewhat slow-moving mind.
"Dr. Renshaw did not go to India," was Crate's next remark.
"Quite so. Renshaw having resumed his real name of Binjoy, is now at Mere Hall--in safety, as he thinks. I can lay hands on him any time; but I can't lay hands on that negro. You must do that, Crate."
"But the negro isn't in India, Mr. Fanks?"
"In my humble opinion--I may be wrong--he is," replied the other. "See here, Crate. Dr. Binjoy must know that as I am employed by Sir Louis to hunt down the assassin, I must see him sooner or later. If I see the new baronet, I can hardly help seeing his 'Fidus Achates.' Now, although Binjoy has--as he thinks--destroyed all trace of his connection with Renshaw, yet he cannot quite alter his personal appearance, which is rather noticeable. He may shave off his beard so as to make himself look younger; he may even get rid of his stoutness; but he cannot alter his voice or entirely change his pompous manner. He must, therefore guess that I may be struck with his resemblance to Renshaw. In some way--for I give him the credit of being clever--he will endeavour to account for the resemblance. I do not know the particular lie he will stick to; but of one thing I am certain;--he will keep up the deception that Renshaw is in India by means of prepared letters written to Dr. Turnor."
"It is my opinion, Crate," continued Fanks, solemnly, "that Binjoy has got rid of his negro servant by sending him to Bombay; and, from Bombay the negro will forward letters--already written--to Turnor of Great Auk Street. I may be wrong, of course, and I do not wish to act in a hurry. But the first letter I see from India, purporting to be from Binjoy-Renshaw, that very day you start for Bombay to look for the negro who is at present missing. I am content to stake my professional reputation that you will find him there."
"Well, you are a 'cute one, Mr. Fanks," said Crate in an admiring tone. "I should never have thought of that."
This tribute of respect from Crate put an end to the conversation for the time being. Fanks went to his chambers, packed a few clothes, and repaired to Waterloo Station. The detective who was watching there, assured him that Hersham had not been seen on the platform; and Fanks went down to Taxton-on-Thames quite satisfied that he had what the Americans call "the inside running."
He amused himself while in the train by making notes in his pocket book; and with figuring out the questions which he intended to ask Miss Colmer. Notwithstanding his assurance to Crate, he was very doubtful if he would be able to discover the assassin of Sir Gregory, for the further he went into the case the more intricate did it become. So far as he could see at the present moment, the person who had killed the Tooley Alley victim had every chance of escaping the gallows. All that the detective could do was to go on in the darkness; and trust to any stray gleam of light which might reveal the assassin; but at present, he could not see an inch ahead of him.
On arriving at Taxton-on-Thames he drove at once to the local post office; and, as he expected, he there found a telegram, which the police had succeeded in delaying. It was addressed to Anne Colmer, and ran as follows: "Detective coming; answer him nothing." There was no name; but from the context, and the place whence it had been sent--High Street, St. John's Wood--Fanks had no difficulty in guessing that it had come from Hersham.
"Very good," he murmured. "What Hersham knows, the girl knows. I failed to get the information from him; I may from her."
The Colmers, mother and daughter, dwelt at the further end of the village in a cottage adjoining the shop. The former was small, but the latter was quite an imposing structure for so sparsely-populated a neighbourhood. Indeed its owners made an excellent income out of the dressmaking business; and they were fairly comfortable in the position of life into which they had been forced by circumstances. They employed five or six girls in the workroom and three in the shop, so that Anne found her hands full in looking after these underlings, and in supervising the general run of the business. She was an admirable administratrix.
As may be guessed from the nature of her complaint, Mrs. Colmer was a mere cypher in the domestic economy of Briar Cottage--for so the house was named. The old woman usually sat in a wheeled chair beside a bow window, looking out on to the back garden. This latter sloped down to the river banks, and was prettily laid out, with a summerhouse at the lower end. From her window the paralytic could see the passing of boats and steamers, and enjoy the brightness of the aquatic life. She viewed this panorama from morn to eve; read on occasions, and meditated on her past life, which had been none of the happiest.
A mild and placid woman, she was of a singularly sweet disposition; and although she was chained to her chair by her affliction, she never complained. The paralysis extended only to her limbs, but her brain was still active, and she could give, and did give, her daughter excellent advice in connection with the business. The sorrowful expression on her face showed how keenly she had felt the loss of Emma. But that was not the only melancholy event in her life; there were others which will be spoken of in due course. Mrs. Colmer was not without her troubles, but she had her consolations also, and of these the love of Anne was the greatest.
On the day of Fanks' arrival the old lady was seated in her usual place, between five and six, waiting for Anne. Tea was ready for the girl, but Mrs. Colmer had already been fed by her nurse, and was looking forward to the usual conversation which took place at this time. All day Anne was busy in the shop, and Mrs. Colmer was left to her own devices; but when the labours of the day were ended, mother and daughter met to converse. To Mrs. Colmer this had been the happiest hour of the day--but that was before Emma went to London. She still talked to Anne, and took an interest in domestic and local affairs; but she was haunted by a feeling of impending evil, and she clung despairingly to her remaining child, dreading lest she should meet with the fate of her sister. An atmosphere of apprehension existed in Briar Cottage.
In due course Anne entered, and, having kissed her mother, sat down to tea. She was as beautiful as ever, but there was a haggard look on her face which accorded but ill with her youth. It would seem as though she dreaded the future also, and was expecting the happening of some terrible misfortune. After a short discussion of domestic matters the conversation languished, for, wrapped in her own thoughts, Anne did not seem inclined to talk. Mrs. Colmer noticed this, and commented thereon with affectionate solicitude, bent on knowing what made Anne so absentminded.
"Is there anything wrong, my dear?" she asked nervously.
"Nothing, mother; I am a little tired, that is all."
"There is more than that, Anne. For some days you have not been at all like yourself."
"Can you wonder at that, mother?" replied Anne, bitterly. "Think of all that has happened this last month."
An angry light came into the faded eyes of the old woman. "You should be glad of what has happened," she said in a stern voice; "that wicked man has been punished for his evil courses. He drove my Emma to her death, and himself has perished by violence. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; that is Scripture."
"All the same, mother, I wish that he had not been murdered. Gregory was a brute, I know, and the death of poor Emma lies at his door; but murder--" she shuddered. "It is so terrible to think that he should have been cut off in the midst of his wickedness."
"He has gone down into the pit, child. Let us talk no more of him. It is said that we must forgive our enemies, but it is hard for me to forgive him, even though he is dead. My beautiful Emma, she should have lived as Lady Fellenger, instead of dying through his cruelty. I hope, Anne, that your marriage will turn out happier than that of your poor sister."
"Ted will be the best of husbands," said Anne, in a tone of conviction. "He loves me as dearly as I love him. I wonder when he is coming down to see me again? I have so much to tell him."
"About your visit to Half-Moon Street?"
"That and other things," was Anne's answer; then, after a pause, "though indeed he may not be so ignorant of that visit as you think."
"Who could tell him but yourself?"
"That detective, mother. He saw me when I entered the room, and he followed me also. If I had not escaped him in the manner I told you, I should have been in trouble."
"You need not be anxious about that now, Anne. The detective can never find you----"
"I am not so sure about that," said Anne, in parenthesis.
"And as to Mr. Hersham knowing about your visit to Half-Moon Street," Mrs. Colmer continued, "I do not see how this detective you speak of can possibly tell him."
"I can see, mother. Mr. Hersham knows this detective--a Mr. Fanks; and he will probably see him about the case in the interests of the 'Morning Planet.' Should they meet--as they are almost sure to do--my name will certainly be mentioned. Then the story of my visit will come out, with the result that Fanks will find me here."
Mrs. Colmer turned slightly pale. "Are you afraid to meet him," she asked.
Anne shrugged her shoulders. "I can't say that I am overpleased," was her reply. "He is a clever man, and I shall have considerable difficulty in keeping my own counsel."
"You must tell him nothing--nothing."
"You can be sure of that, mother. Should Mr. Fanks come here he will go away as wise as he came. I know when to hold my tongue as on this occasion. Matters are too serious to be spoken of openly."
"Oh, dear, dear," said Mrs. Colmer in an agitated tone. "Into what difficulties have we not been led. I wish I had never let Emma go to London."
"Rather wish that she had never met with Herbert Vaud, mother."
"But, Anne, she loved Herbert."
"I do not think so, else she would never have married Sir Gregory. But you know she always was ambitious and impulsive; look where her ambitions have led her. If she had not met with Herbert she would not have become the wife of that wicked man; if she had not been his wife she would not have been driven to her death; and if she had not died, we should not have been involved in all this trouble."
"Trouble, trouble!" moaned Mrs. Colmer. "What troubles we have had, and more will come."
"Do not be afraid, mother," said Anne, kissing her. "You have always me to stand between you and danger. I may never meet with this detective; I may never be questioned by him, and so all will be well. But should he come, why--I shall know how to answer him."
"You will say nothing."
"On the contrary, I shall say a great deal," replied Anne. "But such things as will mislead Mr. Fanks. He shall never be set on the right path by my telling; be sure of that."
"I wish I could see you married to Ted, my dear," said her mother, comforted by these assurances. "It would be such a relief to my mind."
"I am afraid we will not be able to marry for some considerable time. My dear Ted is very clever, but he cannot earn enough for us both to live on; and I do not wish to be a drag on him. No, no, mother, we must wait until things mend, and the outlook is brighter."
"You could have married Dr. Binjoy."
"I would not marry Dr. Binjoy if there was not another man in the world," said Anne, with supreme contempt. "He is a self-indulgent sensualist. My Ted is worth a dozen of him."
"Still he is well-off," sighed Mrs. Colmer.
"I do not see how you make that out, mother. He was, and is, entirely dependent on Sir Louis Fellenger for his money; and I want to have nothing to do with the Fellengers. Their family have cost us dear enough already."
This reference to the dead Emma made Mrs. Colmer weep, and Anne had considerable difficulty in quietening her. However, she succeeded in the end, and left her mother to her own thoughts, while she herself went out into the garden for a breath of fresh air. Moreover, she wanted to be alone, for the purpose of thinking over the position of things. Anne could not but recognise that if certain contingencies arose, she and her mother would find themselves very awkwardly placed.
The evening was warm, and the sky was filled with a mellow light, which rendered languid the atmosphere. Against this, the trees stood out in bold relief, every twig and leaf being sharply outlined against the amber sky. The sound of distant laughter, and the musical splash of oars came to the ears of the girl as she walked slowly down the path towards the summerhouse. A low, redbrick wall ran along the bank of the river, and as she leaned over this low parapet, Anne could see some considerable distance to right and left. Before a boating house on the opposite shore a number of people were collected; and every now and then a boat would shoot out into the gleaming waters bearing two or three of them away. Someone musically inclined had brought a banjo, and Anne could hear the thrumming of the string's, and the echo of the latest music-hall ditty. Altogether, the scene was not without its charm; but she was too much taken up with her own troubles to pay much attention to the pleasant picture spread out before her. The quiet of the evening brought no peace to her.
"How foolishly I have acted," she thought, with a shiver. "If I had been wise I would have left these matters alone. I feel certain that Mr. Fanks recognised me as the woman he saw in Tooley's Alley. If he finds me out, he will ask me what I was doing there on the night of the murder. What can I say. I dare not tell him the truth, and he may refuse to believe what I say to him. I acted for the best, it is true, but my good intentions have led me into a position of danger. But I may be wrong--I may be quite safe. That man may never find me. If he does,"--she shivered again, and looked up the river.
Under the glow of the sunset sky, the waters rolled, a broad sheet of gold flecked here and there with the dark forms of boats. To the left Anne saw a skiff containing one oarsman, coming swiftly down the stream. In a half dreamy moment she calculated that he would pass almost immediately under the wall. Then she returned to her self-communings.
"If Ted were only here," she thought. "I should like to tell him all that I have done, and ask him how to act. For his own sake he must keep silent; and for the sake of my mother I must hold my tongue. Oh, it is terrible--terrible to know what I know, and yet remain dumb. And I am afraid of that detective. His eyes seemed to pierce me through on that day. Should he find me out he may compel me to speak. And if I speak--oh, the disgrace and shame of it. Why, why are such things permitted in this world. Oh, Ted! Ted, I wish you were here to comfort me."
She leaned her head on the wall and burst into tears. Anne was not easily moved; and it was an unusual thing for her to thus give way to her emotions. But she was only a girl after all, and her system was strung up and nervously excited by the knowledge of the secret she knew. She would like to have confided in someone, if only to relieve her overburdened mind; but she shrank from the consequences of such a step. A word from her, and the murder in Tooley's Alley--but, no, she put the thought out of her mind, and, still leaning her head on her arms, she wept bitterly.
Meanwhile the single oarsman rowed steadily towards the red brick wall, which was evidently the point for which he was making. Soon he came abreast of it; shortly he came under it, and Anne raised her head at the sound of the splash of oars, to behold the very man of whom she had been thinking. It was Ted Hersham.
Hersham brought his boat under the wall with a sweep, but before disembarking he looked up to Anne with an anxious expression on his face.
"Did you get my telegram?" he demanded hastily.
"Telegram!" she repeated. "I have received no telegram from you."
"I thought so," said the journalist, and laughed in a savage sort of manner.
"What do you mean?" demanded Anne, noting how haggard he looked. "Is anything wrong?"
"More than I like to say," was his answer.
At that moment it seemed to Anne that her presentiments were about to become true, and she waited with vague terror for his next speech. Ted did not open his mouth for some minutes, being fully occupied in making fast his boat prior to landing. In spite of the importance of the interview, and his desire to prepare Anne for the immediate coming of Fanks, he did not hurry himself, but executed his task with the utmost deliberation. On her part the girl held her peace, and not until her lover had taken her in his arms to kiss her passionately did she speak. Then she led him to the summerhouse--out of sight of Mrs. Colmer at the window--and broached the subject which was uppermost in her mind.
"Ted," she asked in a low voice, "is there any danger?"
"There is a great deal of danger."
"From what quarter?"
"From the worst of all quarters. Fanks has found you out."
"Ah!" she sat back suddenly and her face turned pale with apprehension. "Is he here?"
Hersham nodded. "I sent a telegram to warn you not to answer his questions."
"I did not receive it."
"I guessed you would not," replied her lover, with a nod. "Fanks visited me to-day, and left me with the intention of coming down here to see you. I sent the wire. Then I fancied that he might manage to get it delayed at the office here. I did not dare to go by Waterloo, as I made sure he would have the station watched. In this dilemma there was nothing left for me to do but to come down on my bicycle, which I did. I rode to Warby's boat-house, left my machine there, and came on to warn you."
Anne considered for a few minutes. "How was it that Mr. Fanks found me out?" she asked anxiously.
"He saw your portrait in my rooms."
"What was he doing in your rooms?"
"He came to question me about the cross tattooed on my arm."
"Did you tell him anything?"
"Nothing! What could I tell him? I am quite unaware how the cross came to be there. But with regard to his recognition of you; how was it that you went to the chambers of that dead scoundrel?"
"I went to get a photograph of Emma's that was in the possession of her late husband."
"Why did you wish to get the photograph?"
"It had some writing on the back, which may implicate another person in this trouble of the death. I think," she added, pointedly, "that you can guess the name of that person."
"I think I can," replied Hersham, gloomily, "and the worst of it is that Fanks will certainly find out that name."
"Impossible! I may be able to thwart him on that point."
"I hope so; but you do not know the man as I do. He is the most patient and pertinacious of men. He will stick to this case until he has the assassin of Sir Gregory in jail."
"God forbid!" ejaculated Anne, with a shudder.
"Amen to that!" answered Hersham. "Oh, Anne, my dear Anne," he continued, taking her hand, "how I wish we could end all this and fly to the ends of the earth!"
"My dear," she said gently, "we have others to think of besides ourselves. It would never do to desert them at the present moment. Besides there may not be so much chance of discovery as you think."
"I don't know; I am certain of nothing," said Hersham, with a sigh. "I only dread one thing--lest Fanks should force you into betraying that which you would rather hide."
"Don't trouble about that, Ted," returned Anne, dryly. "I think Mr. Fanks will find me more than his match. You need not have come to prepare me, for I am quite ready for the gentleman as soon as he chooses to call."
"That will be very soon. He is in the village now. I don't want him to see me. For that reason I came here in a boat."
"Do not be foolish, Ted," said Anne, quickly. "You must let him see you, else he will suspect that you know something about this matter. And you must be aware, dear, that you have your own safety to look to."
"Oh!" groaned Hersham, "how are we to extricate ourselves from this mess?"
"I think we will leave that to time; and you have me to comfort you."
"Dearest!" he drew her towards him; "without you I should not be able to move one step. At present all is dark and dreary; but let us hope that there are brighter days in store."
"I am certain that there are," said Anne; "but we have a great deal to endure before peace comes. We must go through the valley of humiliation to reach the promised land."
"Well!" said Ted, emphatically, "when we do reach it I think we must go to America, there to commence a new life. It is no use trying to construct a new one here out of the ruins of the old."
"That we shall see," replied Anne, with a sigh "God knows we have had a great deal to endure since the death of my poor sister. But let us for the moment banish this gloomy subject, and talk of ourselves. How are you getting on with your work?"
Hersham smiled and kissed her. He saw that she was striving to lighten the burden which had been laid upon him; and he was grateful for the kindness. All the same he found it difficult to put his troubles out of sight and memory, seeing that they were so insistent, and that within the next half hour he might be called upon to defend himself from a dangerous charge. Alone as they were in the summerhouse, they were afraid to speak openly, lest the birds of the air should carry to Fanks undesirable news which would please him, but ruin them. Under these circumstances Hersham agreed with Anne that it was best to let affairs connected with the case of Tooley's Alley remain in abeyance, until they were compelled to take action. In the meantime the unhappy pair went hand in hand into a Fool's Paradise of make-believe, and hollow joys. There was something pitiful in this playing with happiness.
"We will be very poor, my love," said Hersham, somewhat later in the conversation; "and I am afraid that you will miss all the luxuries to which you have been accustomed."
Anne laughed and kissed him. "You silly boy," she said kindly; "my luxuries are of the cheapest kind, as you well know. Besides I can face poverty with a brave heart with you."
"But your mother?"
"I am afraid she will not live long," sighed Anne. "She is growing so weak, and she has long, long fits of silence. Poor mother! she has had a hard life. I do not think she ever got over the death of Emma."
"Does she know anything about these other matters?"
"Very little. I kept as much from her as I could. Indeed, she would never have heard of the death at all had it not been for Herbert Vaud."
"He might as well have held his tongue," said Ted, angrily; "but the fact is, that since Emma's death and his illness he has not been quite right in his head. He returned comparatively well, as you know; but that journey to Paris to inquire after Lady Fellenger unsettled him again."
"Don't talk of Lady Fellenger," said Anne, with a shudder.
"Why not? Your sister was lawfully the wife of Sir Gregory."
"I know that. All the same, I hate to hear the name of the family."
"And yet," said Hersham, meaningly, "you were fond enough of Louis."
Again Anne laughed. "You must not be jealous of my friendship for Louis, Ted. He is a good fellow in his way. I was never in love with him as I am with you, but I liked him."
"And Binjoy, that pompous doctor, did you like him?"
"I hated him. I hate him still," she flashed out. "He is the evil genius of Louis. If these matters only concerned Dr. Binjoy, I should not keep silent and bear the burden I am doing."
"You have me to bear it with you," said. Hersham, softly.
"I know that, my dear. But there are some things which men and women have to face singly. Such a thing is this coming interview with Mr. Fanks. I wanted you to see him so as to disarm any suspicions which he may entertain. Still, I wish you to take no part in the conversation."
"But why?" asked Ted, with a frown. "I can't leave you to fight my battle."
"You must in this case," replied Anne, "you are a dear, good fellow, Ted, but you allow your heart to govern your head."
"That is very true. And it is the reverse with you, Anne."
"Not so far as you are concerned, Ted. I am as weak as water with you. If you see me hard to other people you must set it down to the severe training I have had in the school of adversity. I am only a girl in years, but I am a woman in experience."
"You are the dearest and bravest woman in the whole world," said Hersham fondly, kissing her hand, "and if happiness comes to us in the future, it will be through you. I shall do what you say and hold my tongue. But, my darling, are you sure that you can cope with Fanks."
"I do not know as I have only seen him, but once we cross swords and I shall soon learn my strength. I have a large stake to fight for, and the remembrance of that will make me desperate."
"Well," said Ted, dolefully, "we cannot turn back now. The enemy is within our gates, and we must fight. 'Væ victis.'"
"You may well say that," said Anne, bitterly. "'Woe to the vanquished' indeed. Come let us go to the house and see my mother, but you must say nothing to her about our conversation. She knows as much as is good for her, and her health will not stand any great shock."
"In that case," observed Hersham, as they strolled up the path, "you must not let her see Fanks."
"Trust me, Ted. Forewarned is forearmed."
Mrs. Colmer was delighted to see Ted, for he was a great favourite with the invalid. She had no suspicion of what had brought him down in so unexpected a manner, and chatted to the young man in the most cheerful of spirits. Meanwhile Anne gave her lover a cup of tea, and cut him some sandwiches. All the time she was straining her ears to catch the fall of the knocker on the front door. Every moment she expected to bear the crash which would announce the arrival of the detective, and as the minutes went by her nerves became strained to their utmost pitch. Ted saw what she suffered, but in the presence of Mrs. Colmer he could say nothing, and the old lady went chattering on. There was something cruelly ironical about the situation.
At last, Hersham could bear the suspense no longer, and making some excuse to Mrs. Colmer, he drew Anne out into the passage. There he placed his hands on her shoulders.
"Are you afraid?" he said, anxiously. "Are you afraid of the coming interview with this man?"
"Yes," said Anne, and shivered; the colour had left her cheeks, and she suddenly appeared older, and more haggard.
"Why are you afraid? Because of your visit to those chambers?"
"That and another thing."
"Does the other thing concern yourself."
"Yes. It concerns a visit to London on that night."
"Heavens! Where did you go?"
Before Anne could answer, a sharp knock came to the door, which drove all the blood into their hearts.
They looked at one another, for they now felt that the danger was on them. What would happen within the next hour.
"Where did you go on that night?" asked Hersham, hoarsely.
"To Tooley's Alley--to the Red Star Hotel."
"Anne, Anne. And you saw--"
Anne nodded. "Yes," she said, steadily, "I saw."
On arriving at Taxton-on-Thames Fanks had taken up his abode at the Royal Arms Hotel. It was his intention to make inquiries about Sir Louis Fellenger, Dr. Binjoy, and the negro servant of the latter. Ignorant that he had been thwarted by Hersham, he had also intended to interview Anne Colmer without loss of time, before she could see or even hear from her lover. The intercepted telegram proved conclusively that this girl knew something which Hersham did not want her to reveal; and in the absence--as Fanks supposed of all warning--he hoped to take her at a disadvantage. In this mood he took his way to her home.
So far as the detective could see, his future plans depended almost entirely upon the information which he expected to obtain from this girl within the next few hours. And in that supposition lay the irony of the situation. Being in this frame of mind, his astonishment may be conceived when on the door of Briar Cottage being opened he saw before him the man whom he thought was at that moment in London. For the minute he was unable to speak, but recovered himself to ironically congratulate Hersham on his dexterity in evading the machinery of the law. In reality Fanks was angered, but he had too much good sense to give way to bad temper. It was, in his opinion, useless to make bad worse.
"So you have stolen a march on me, Hersham," he said sardonically. "I was doubtful of your honesty in London; I am still more so now. How did you manage to dodge the traps I laid for you?"
"By knowing where they were laid," said Hersham, sullenly. "I guessed you would have the railway stations watched, so I came down here on my bicycle."
"A very ingenious idea; you have no doubt warned Miss Colmer not to answer my questions?"
"Yes," said Hersham, defiantly; "I have done so. As I did not receive a reply to my telegram, I guessed that you had intercepted my message in some way. It has arrived now, when it is too late. To see Miss Colmer, to warn her, I came down here at the risk of my own safety."
"Oh!" remarked Fanks, taking note of this injudicious speech. "That is as much as to say that you risked being arrested by me. I don't know that you are wrong, my friend. You deserve punishment for your trickery."
"You have evidence against me?"
"I have sufficient to ensure your arrest. On the whole, Hersham," said the detective, "I should advise you to help me. Otherwise I shall arrest you within the hour. Take your choice."
Before Hersham could answer this question Anne appeared at the door with a pale face and a determined manner. At once she intervened in the conversation, and placed herself between the two men.
"There is no necessity to threaten, Mr. Fanks," said she, quickly. "Come inside, and let us discuss this matter calmly. I am sure that Mr. Hersham will agree that this is the best course."
The journalist nodded sullenly, and the two men passed into the house, conducted by Anne. She led them into a room, the window of which looked on to the road, and here, when they were seated, she addressed herself more particularly to Hersham.
"You were wrong to speak as you did to Mr. Fanks," she said meaningly. "There is no reason why you or I should conceal anything. I am perfectly willing to tell all that I know--which is not much--and to afford this gentleman every information in my power."
"You will regret it if you do, Anne," said Hersham, warningly.
"You will regret it if you don't," interposed Fanks. "I really do not understand why you should act in this childish manner. I have always been your friend, yet you treat me a though I were your bitterest enemy."
"You are trying to trap me."
"If your conscience is clear I do not think you need be afraid of being trapped," retorted Fanks; "but it seems useless to hope for any sense from you. Perhaps this young lady may be more amenable to reason."
"You can depend upon me to help you, Mr. Fanks," said Anne, calmly.
Hersham rose to his feet with an agitated look on his face. "I shall leave you to reveal what you think fit," he declared. "At the same time I wash my hands of the consequences which may result."
And with a significant look at Anne, he left the room.
Fanks gave him a parting warning as he passed through the door. "You had better stay here, Hersham," he said, "as I may want to see you again. Whether you stay or go I can lay my hands on you at any moment."
"You are having me watched?" questioned Hersham, fiercely.
"Yes, I am having you watched; and you may thank yourself that you are placed in so unpleasant a position. Now, then, will you go to London, or stay here?"
Hersham hesitated for a moment, then, biassed by a look from Anne, he compromised. "I shall stay in the village," he said, and passed through the open door, leaving the detective with Miss Colmer.
Strange to say, Fanks was by no means at his ease with this woman the more so, as he mistrusted her promise to tell him all she knew. She had deceived him by flying from the chambers in Half-Moon Street; she might again mislead him with false reports. If she had anything to conceal, this ready acquiescence hinted that she would not tell her secret; and the detective was far more distrustful of her craft than of the foolish behaviour of Hersham. He might combat obstinacy with more or less success, but to deal with a diplomatic person like Miss Colmer, required a dexterous use of all the intelligence he possessed. Fanks, therefore, prepared for a duel of words; and weighed both expression, and information, during the ensuing conversation.
"Well, Mr. Fanks," said Miss Colmer, coolly, "I must congratulate you on your cleverness in determining my identity; I thought when I left you in Sir Gregory's chambers that I should be able to elude you altogether. I was wrong, it seems; you have found me out. Now that you have done so, may I ask what you want to know?"
"I want to know a great many things," said Fanks, emulating her coolness; "but the question is whether you will consent to answer all my questions?"
"You can judge for yourself. Ask me what question you will, and I shall answer to the best of my ability. But," added she, pointedly, "before you begin, let me ask you one question. Do you suspect that I have anything to do with the murder of Sir Gregory?"
"I can't answer that until you have replied to my questions, Miss Colmer; but, judging from your readiness to afford me information, I fancy that you do know something of the matter."
"You are right, I do know something of the matter; but I cannot promise to tell you who killed Sir Gregory. I know that he was murdered--no more; and even that information I gained from the newspapers."
Fanks made no reply to this remark; whereupon Miss Colmer continued: "Why do you think that I know anything about the crime? I never met Sir Gregory."
"Why did you come to the rooms of Sir Gregory?" replied Fanks. "I connect you with the murder because of that visit."
"If you know the story of my poor sister, you know why I came to Half-Moon Street," said Anne, coldly. "It was to ask the servant, Robert, for a portrait of Emma, that had been taken from her by Sir Gregory."
"I have seen that photograph, Miss Colmer. Did you want it back for the picture, or because it had some writing on the back?"
"What writing do you mean?" asked the girl, sharply.
Fanks produced the celebrated envelope from his pocket. "That is the writing," he said; "whosoever wrote that, also wrote on the back of the photograph of your sister. Perhaps you can tell me who is the scribe."
Miss Colmer looked earnestly at the envelope, and shook her head. "I never saw that writing before," she said, decisively.
"Yet you can see that the post mark is of this village."
"So it appears; nevertheless. I cannot name the writer; and I cannot understand why you show it to me."
"Well, Miss Colmer," said Fanks, disappointed with this answer, "when I find out who wrote this envelope I shall know who killed Sir Gregory."
"I am sorry I cannot help you, Mr. Fanks. I see that you think the envelope came from this house, but I assure you that you are wrong. Both my mother and myself considered Sir Gregory a villain because of his treatment of poor Emma; but we did not wish his death. If you came here to find the assassin you have wasted your time. I know nothing about the matter."
"Then what is it that Hersham did not wish you to reveal?"
"Nothing; he wished me to deny that I had been at the chambers of Sir Gregory on that day, lest you should think I had something to do with the murder."
"Oh!" said Fanks, disbelievingly. "And did Hersham wish you to deny also that you had been in Tooley's Alley on the night of the murder?"
Anne became pale at the directness of this attack, and took refuge in a plain denial. "I was not there," she said, obstinately. "Neither on that night nor at any time."
"Pardon me, I saw you myself."
"You must have been mistaken."
"I think not. Yours is not a face I could easily forget."
"Thank you for the compliment," said Anne, "but in this case I am afraid it is unmerited. I was not at Tooley's Alley on that night. If you doubt me, you can ask my mother."
"No!" said Fanks, after a moment's reflection, "I shall not ask your mother--yet." As a matter of fact, the detective was well assured that mother and daughter had prepared an alibi in case of discovery. Not being ready to analyse the matter, by reason of lack of information, and certain that Anne would persist in her denial, he wisely postponed all discussion until a more fitting occasion. He, therefore, on the face of it, accepted Anne's assertion, and merely remarked that Hersham was foolish to induce her to conceal what had better have been told.
To this, Anne replied, promptly: "You must forgive him, Mr. Fanks," she said. "He knows that I hated Sir Gregory for his treatment of my sister; and he fancies that my unlucky visit might implicate me in this matter. But I have told you the reason I went there; so you must blame or excuse me as you see fit."
"I shall do neither, at present," said Fanks, significantly. "But I shall ask you why you ran away from me on that day?"
"I was afraid of you."
"Why, you did not know me; you never saw me before."
"I saw your portrait," said Miss Colmer, frankly. "You gave one to Ted--Mr. Hersham--and he told me that you were a detective. When I saw you in those chambers I guessed that you had the case in hand; and I was seized with a panic fear lest you should suspect me to be mixed up in the crime. For that reason I fled. How did you trace me?"
"It was wrong of you to go, Miss Colmer," said Fanks, not replying directly, "and I was naturally suspicious of your flight."
"But you don't suspect me now?"
"Not since you have explained your visit. You ask me how I traced you. First, from your marvellous resemblance to your dead sister; and, secondly, from the post mark on this envelope. As I told you, the writing on envelope and portrait are the same. You see the connection?"
"Yes. I see the connection. And now, Mr. Fanks, I have told you all I know; is there any other question you wish to ask me?"
"Yes. Where was this photograph taken you wanted?"
"In this village."
"Was it your sister's possession?"
"It was; it was the only photograph we had of her. The negative was broken and there was no picture of my sister in existence. After the death, my mother wanted this picture; and, as I guessed that it might be at Sir Gregory's chambers, I went up for it."
"Did you see it in your sister's possession before she went away with Sir Gregory?"
"Yes. She took it from here when she went to London."
"Was there any writing on the back then?"
Anne reflected a moment. "No," she said. "There was no writing on it then."
"Do you think your sister wrote on the back of the portrait before she committed suicide?"
"If the writing on the back of the photograph is the same as that on this letter--or rather, envelope--I do not think she wrote it. This is not my sister's handwriting."
"You cannot think who wrote it?"
"No, Mr. Fanks; I am entirely ignorant of that."
Needless to say, Fanks took his departure from Briar Cottage in a very puzzled frame of mind. Before leaving, he told Miss Colmer that he would call again the next day. When he got back to his hotel he asked himself how much of her story he could believe; and he came to the conclusion that not one word of it was true. He was as far off discovery as ever.