Cyril leaned wearily back in his chair. He was in that state of apathetic calm which sometimes succeeds a violent emotion. Of his wife he had neither seen or heard anything since they parted the night before.
"My lord!"
Cyril started, for he had not noticed Peter's entrance and the suppressed excitement of the latter's manner alarmed him.
"What is the matter now?" he demanded.
"She's 'ere, my lord," replied Peter, dropping his voice till it was almost a whisper.
Cyril sprang from his seat.
"Who?" he cried. "Speak up, can't you?"
"The—the young lady, my lord, as you took charge of on the train. I was just passing through the 'all as she came in and so——"
"Here?" exclaimed Cyril. "Why didn't you show her up at once?"
"But, my lord," objected Peter. "If 'er Ladyship should 'ear——"
"Mind your own business, you fool, or——"
But Peter had already scuttled out of the room.
Cyril waited, every nerve strung to the highest tension. Was he again to be disappointed? Yet if his visitor was really Anita, some new misfortune must have occurred! It seemed to him ages before the door again opened and admitted a small, cloaked figure, whose features were practically concealed by a heavy veil. A glance, however, sufficed to assure him that it was indeed Anita who stood before him. While Cyril was struggling to regain his composure, she lifted her veil. The desperation of her eyes appalled him.
"My God, what is the matter?" cried Cyril, striding forward and seizing her hands.
She gently disengaged herself.
"Lord Wilmersley—" Cyril jumped as if he had been shot. "Yes," she continued, "I know who you are. I also know who I am."
"But who told you?" stuttered Cyril.
"You did," she quietly replied.
"I? What do you mean?"
For the first time the ghost of a smile hovered round her lips.
"You called me Anita! You didn't know that, did you?"
"Did I really? What a blundering fool I have been from first to last!" Cyril exclaimed remorsefully.
"You need not reproach yourself. For some days I had been haunted by fragmentary visions of the past and before I saw you yesterday, I was practically certain that you were not my husband. Oh! It was not without a struggle that I finally made up my mind that you had deceived me. I told myself again and again that you were not the sort of a man who would take advantage of an unprotected girl; yet the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that my suspicions were correct. Then I tried to imagine what reason you could have for posing as my husband, but I could think of none. I was in despair! I didn't know what to do, whom to turn to; for if I could not trust you, whom could I trust? When I heard my name, it was as if a dim light suddenly flooded my brain. I knew who I was. I remembered leaving Geralton, but little by little I realised with dismay that I was still completely in the dark as to who you were, why you had come into my life. It seemed to me that if I could not discover the truth, I should go mad. Then I decided to appeal to Miss Trevor. She was a woman. She looked kind. She would tell me! I was somehow convinced that she did not know who I was, but I said to myself that she would certainly have heard of my disappearance, for I could not believe that Arthur had allowed me to go out of his life without moving heaven and earth to find me."
"You did not know——?"
Anita shook her head.
"No; it was Miss Trevor who told me that Arthur was dead—that he had been murdered." She shuddered convulsively. "You see," she added with pathetic humility, "there are still so many things I do not remember. Even now I can hardly believe that I, I of all people, killed my husband." Great tears coursed slowly down her cheeks.
Cyril ached for pity of her.
"Why take it for granted that you did?" he suggested, partly from a desire to comfort her, but also because there really lingered a doubt in his mind.
"Do you suspect any one else?" she cried.
"Not at present, but——"
She threw up her hands with a gesture of despair. "No, of course not. I must have killed him. But I never meant to—you will believe that, won't you? Those doctors were right, I must have been insane!"
"I am sure you were not. Arthur only intended to frighten you by sending for those men."
"But if I was not crazy, why can I remember so little of what took place on that dreadful night and for some time afterwards?"
"I am told that a severe shock often has that effect," replied Cyril. "But, oh, how I wish you could answer a few questions! I don't want to raise your hopes; but there is one thing that has always puzzled me and till that is explained I for one shall always doubt whether it was you who killed Arthur."
Again the eager light leaped into her eyes.
"Oh, tell me quickly what—what makes you think that I may not have done so?"
Cyril contemplated her a moment in silence. He longed to pursue the topic, but was fearful of the effect it might have on her.
"Yet now that she knows the worst, it may be a relief to her to talk about it," he said to himself. "Yes, I will risk it," he finally decided.
"Do you remember that you put a drug in Arthur's coffee?" he asked out loud.
"Yes, perfectly."
"Then you must have expected to make your escape before he regained consciousness."
"Yes—yes!"
"Then why did you arm yourself with a pistol?"
"I didn't! I had no pistol."
"But if you shot Arthur, you must have had a pistol."
She stared at Cyril in evident bewilderment.
"I could have sworn I had no pistol."
Cyril tried to control his rising excitement. "You knew, however, that Arthur owned one?"
"Yes, but I never knew where he kept it."
"You are sure you have not forgotten——"
"No, no!" she interrupted him. "My memory is perfectly clear up to the time when Arthur seized me and threw me on the floor."
"After that you remember nothing?"
"Oh, yes, I have a vague recollection of a long walk through the dark—of a train—of you—of policemen. But everything is so confused that I can be sure of nothing."
Cyril paced the room deep in thought.
"It seems to me incredible," he said at last, "that if you did not even know where to look for a pistol, you should have found it, to say nothing of having been able to use it, while you were being beaten into unconsciousness by that brute."
But Anita only shook her head hopelessly.
"It is extraordinary, and yet I must have done so. For it has been proved, has it not, that Arthur and I were absolutely alone?"
"Certainly not! How can we be sure that some one was not concealed in the room or did not climb in through the window or—why, there are a thousand possibilities which can never be proved!"
"Ah!" she exclaimed, her whole body trembling with eagerness. "I now remember that I had put all my jewels in a bag, and as that has disappeared, a burglar—" But as she scanned Cyril's face, she paused.
"You had the bag with you at the nursing home. The jewels are safe," he said very gently.
"Then," she cried, "it is useless trying to deceive ourselves any longer—I killed Arthur and must face the consequences."
"What do you mean?"
"I have decided to give myself up."
"You shall not! I will not allow it!" he cried.
"But don't you see that I can't spend the rest of my life in hiding? Think what it would mean to live in daily, hourly dread of exposure? Why, death would be preferable to that."
"Oh, you would be acquitted. There is no doubt of that. That is not what I am afraid of. But the idea of you, Anita, in prison. Why, it is out of the question. A week of it would kill you."
"And if it did, what of it? What has life to offer me now?"
"Give me time. I will find some way of saving you. I will do anything—everything."
"There is nothing you can do," she said, laying her hand gently on his arm. "You have already risked too much. Oh, I can never thank you enough for all your goodness to me!"
"Don't—don't—I would gladly give my life for you!"
"I know it, Cousin Cyril," she murmured, with downcast eyes. A wave of colour swept for a moment over her face.
Cyril shivered. With a mighty effort he strove to regain his composure. Cousin Cyril! Yes, that was what he was to her—that was all he could ever be to her.
"I know how noble, how unselfish you are," she continued, lifting her brimming eyes to his. "But your life is not your own. We must both remember that."
"Both? Anita, is it possible that you——"
"Hush! I have said too much. Let me go," she cried, for Cyril had seized her hand and was covering it with kisses.
At this moment the door-handle rattled. Cyril and Anita moved hurriedly away from each other.
"Inspector Griggs is 'ere, my lord."
Peter's face had resumed its usual stolid expression. He appeared not to notice that his master and the latter's guest were standing in strained attitudes at opposite ends of the room.
"I can't see him." Cyril motioned Peter impatiently away.
"Why didn't you see the inspector?" exclaimed Anita. "This is the best time for me to give myself up."
"No, no! I have a plan——"
He was interrupted by the reappearance of Peter.
"The inspector is very sorry, my lord, but he has to see you at once, 'e says."
"I can't," began Cyril.
"It is no use putting it off," Anita said firmly. "I insist on your seeing him. If you don't, I shall go down and speak to him myself."
Cyril did not know what to do. He could not argue with her before Peter. So turning to the latter, he said:
"You can bring him up in ten minutes—not before. You understand?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Anita," implored Cyril, as soon as they were again alone, "I beg you not to do this thing. If a plan that I have in mind succeeds, you will be able to leave the country and begin life again under another name."
She hesitated a moment.
"What is this plan?"
He outlined it briefly.
She listened attentively, but when he had finished she shook her head.
"I will not allow you to attempt it. If your fraud were discovered—and it would surely be discovered—your life would be ruined."
"No—" he began.
"I tell you I will not hear of it. No, I am determined to end this horrible suspense. Call the inspector."
"I entreat you at all events to wait a little while longer."
"No, no!"
Cyril was almost frantic. The minutes were slipping past. Was there nothing he could say to turn her from her purpose?
"My wife is here. If she should hear, if she should know—" he began tentatively.
He was amazed at the effect of his words.
"Why didn't you tell me that she was here?" exclaimed Anita with flashing eyes. "Of course, I haven't the slightest intention of involving her in my affairs. I will go at once."
"But you can't leave the house without Griggs seeing you, and he would certainly guess who you are. Stay in the next room till he is gone, that is all I ask of you. Here, quick, I hear footsteps on the stairs."
Cyril had hardly time to fling himself into a chair before the inspector was announced.
"Good-morning, my lord. Rather early to disturb you, I am afraid."
Cyril noticed that Griggs's manner had undergone a subtle change. Although perfectly respectful, he seemed to hold himself rigidly aloof. There was even a certain solemnity about his trivial greeting. Cyril felt that another blow was impending. Instantly and instinctively he braced himself to meet it.
"Not at all. What can I do for you?" he replied in his usual quiet voice.
The man hesitated a moment.
"The fact is, my lord, I should like to ask you a few questions, but I warn you that your answers may be used against you."
"I have nothing to fear. What is it you want to know?"
"Have you missed a bag, my lord?"
"That confounded bag! It has turned up at last," thought Cyril. What on earth should he say? How much did the fellow guess?
"You had better ask my man. He knows more about my things than I do," he managed to answer, as he lifted a perfectly expressionless face to Griggs's inspection.
"Quite so, my lord. But I fancy that as far as this particular bag is concerned, that is not the case."
"Why not?"
"Because I do not see what reason he could have had for hiding one of his master's bags up the chimney."
"So the bag was found up the chimney? Will you tell me what motive I am supposed to have had for wishing to conceal it? Is there anything remarkable about it? Did it contain anything you thought I might want to get rid of?"
The inspector eyed him narrowly.
"It's no use, my lord. We know that Priscilla Prentice bought this bag a fortnight ago in Newhaven. Now, if you are able to explain how it came into your possession, I would strongly advise your doing so."
Still Cyril did not flinch.
"I have never to my knowledge laid eyes on the girl, and I cannot, therefore, believe that a bag of hers has been found here."
"We can prove it," replied the inspector. "The maker's name is inside and the man who sold it to her is willing to swear that it is the identical bag. One of our men has made friends with your chamber-maid and she confessed that she had discovered it stuffed up the chimney in your bedroom. She is a stupid girl and thought you had thrown it away, so she took it. Only afterwards, it occurred to her that you had a purpose in placing the bag where she had found it and she was going to return it when my man prevented her from doing so."
"Very remarkable! It all fits together like clock-work. I congratulate you, Inspector," said Cyril, trying to speak superciliously. "But you omitted to mention the most important link in the chain of evidence you have so cleverly forged against me," he continued. "How am I supposed to have got hold of this bag? I did not stop in Newhaven and you have had me so closely watched that you must know that since my arrival in England I have met no one who could have given it to me."
"No, my lord, we are by no means sure of this. Quite the contrary. It is true that we have, so to speak, kept an eye on you, but, till yesterday, we had no reason to suspect that you had any connection with the murder, so we did not think it necessary to have you closely followed. There have been hours when we have had no idea where you were."
"You surprise me!"
"It is quite possible," continued the inspector without heeding Cyril's interruption, "that you have met either Prentice or Lady Wilmersley, the dowager, I mean."
"Really! And why should they have given this bag to me, of all people? Surely you must see that they could have found many easier, as well as safer, ways of disposing of it."
"Quite so, my lord, and that is why I am inclined to believe that it was not through either of them that the bag came into your possession. I think it more probable that her Ladyship brought it with her."
"Her Ladyship? What do you mean?" Cyril's voice grew suddenly harsh.
"You told me yourself that her Ladyship met you in Newhaven; that, in fact, she had spent the night of the murder there."
Cyril clutched the table convulsively.
Amy! They suspected Amy. This was too horrible! Why had it never occurred to him that his lies might involve an innocent person?
"But this is absurd, you know," he stammered, in a futile effort to gain time.
"Let us hope so, my lord."
"There has been a terrible mistake, I tell you."
"In that case her Ladyship can no doubt easily explain it."
"Her Ladyship is ill. She cannot be disturbed."
"I am afraid that cannot be avoided. I must see her at once. But if you wish it, I will not question her till she has been examined by our doctors."
Cyril rose and moved automatically towards the door.
The inspector stepped forward.
"Sorry, my lord, but for the present you can see her Ladyship only before witnesses. May I ring the bell?"
"What is the use of asking my permission? You are master here, so it seems," exclaimed Cyril. His nerves were at last getting beyond his control.
"I am only doing my duty and I assure you that I want to cause as little unpleasantness as possible."
A servant appeared.
The inspector remained discreetly in the background.
"Ask her Ladyship please to come here as soon as she can get ready. If she is asleep, it will be necessary to wake her."
"Very good, my lord."
The two men sat facing each other in silence.
Cyril was hardly conscious of the other's presence. He must think; he knew he must think; but his brain seemed paralysed. There must be a way of clearing his wife without casting suspicion on Anita. Yet he could think of none. Was it possible that he was now called upon to choose between the woman he hated and the woman he loved, between honour and dishonour? No, there must be a middle course. Time would surely solve the difficulty.
The door opened and Amy came slowly into the room. She looked desperately ill.
She was wrapped in a red velvet dressing-gown and its warm colour contrasted painfully with the greyness of her face and lips. On catching sight of the inspector, she started, but controlling herself with an obvious effort, she turned to her husband.
"You wish to speak to me?"
"You can see for yourself, Inspector, that her Ladyship is in no condition to be questioned," remonstrated Cyril, moving quickly to his wife's side.
"Just as you say, my lord, but in that case her Ladyship had better finish her dressing. It will be necessary for her to accompany me to headquarters."
"I will not allow it," cried Cyril, almost beside himself and throwing a protecting arm around Amy's shoulders.
Her bloodshot eyes rested a moment on her husband, then gently disengaging herself, she drew herself to her full height and faced the inspector.
"What is the matter? You need not try to spare me."
"His Lordship——"
"Do not listen to his Lordship. It is I who demand to be told the truth."
"Amy, I beg you—" interposed Cyril.
"No, no," she cried, shaking off her husband's hand. "Let me know the worst. Don't you see that you are torturing me?"
"There has been a mistake. It is all my fault," began Cyril.
She silenced him with an imperious gesture.
"I am waiting to hear what the inspector has to say."
Griggs cast a questioning look at Cyril, which the latter answered by a helpless shrug.
"A bag has been found in his Lordship's chimney, which was lately purchased in Newhaven. Do you know how it got there? But perhaps before answering, you may wish to consult your legal adviser."
She cast a quick glance at her husband.
"I will neither acknowledge nor deny anything until I have seen this bag and know of what I am accused," she answered after a barely perceptible pause.
Griggs opened the door and called:
"Jones, the bag, please."
The inspector handed it to Amy.
She looked at it for a moment. Cyril watched her breathlessly. What would she say? Had the moment come when he must proclaim the truth?
"Am I supposed to have bought this bag?" she asked.
"No, my lady. It was sold to Prentice, who was sempstress at Geralton and we believe it is the one in which Lady Wilmersley carried off her jewels."
Amy gave a muffled exclamation, but almost instantly she regained her composure.
"If that is so, how do you connect me with it? Because it happens to have been found here, do you accuse me of having robbed my cousin?"
"No, my lady, but as you spent the night of the murder in Newhaven——"
To Cyril's surprise she shuddered from head to foot.
"No, no!" she cried, stretching out her hands as if to ward off a blow.
"It is useless to deny it. His Lordship himself told me that you had joined him there."
"I lied! It was not her Ladyship who was with me. Her Ladyship was in Paris at the time. I swear it on my honour. The bag is—is mine. You can arrest me. I am guilty." Thank God, thought Cyril, he had at last found a way of saving both his love and his honour.
"Guilty of what, my lord? Of a murder which was committed while you were still in France—" asked Griggs, lifting his eyebrows incredulously.
"Yes! I mean I instigated it—I hated my cousin—I needed the money, so I hired an accomplice. He bungled things. I give myself up. I confess. What more do you want?" cried Cyril.
"Not so fast, my lord. Of course, if you insist upon it, I shall have to arrest you, but I don't believe you had anything more to do with the murder than I had, and I would stake my reputation on your being as straight a gentleman as I ever met professionally. Wait a bit, my lord, don't be 'asty." In his excitement Griggs dropped one of his carefully guarded aitches.
The door opened.
"Mr. Campbell, my lord."
"Guy," exclaimed Cyril. "You have arrived in the nick of time. I have confessed."
"Confessed what?" Campbell cast a bewildered look at the inspector.
"His Lordship says that he hired an assassin to murder Lord Wilmersley."
"What rot! You don't believe him, I hope?"
"Heshallbelieve me," cried Cyril. "I alone am responsible for Wilmersley's death. The person who actually fired the shot was nothing but my tool. I will never betray him, never!"
"Honour among murderers, I see! Really, Cyril, you are too ridiculous," exclaimed Campbell.
Suddenly he caught sight of Amy, cowering in the shadow of the curtain.
"Who is this lady?" he asked.
"My wife! Look after her. Look after everything." Cyril gave Guy a look in which he tried to convey all that he did not dare to say.
The door again opened.
"Mr. Judson is 'ere, my lord. I told him you were engaged, but he says he would like to speak to you most particular."
"I don't want to see him," began Cyril.
"Don't be a greater fool than you can help," exclaimed Campbell. "How do you know that he has not some important news?"
"But—" objected Cyril.
"Good morning, your Lordship. How do you do, Inspector. Mr. Campbell, I believe. Your servant, your Ladyship. I took the liberty of forcing myself upon you at this moment, my lord, because I have just learnt certain facts which——"
"It is too late to report," interposed Cyril hastily. "I have confessed."
The detective smiled indulgently.
"Why, my lord, what is the use of pretending that you had anything to do with the murder? I hurried here to tell you that there is no further need of your sacrificing yourself. I have found out who——"
"Shut up, I say. I did it. It's none of your business anyhow!" cried Cyril incoherently.
"Don't listen to his Lordship," said Amy. "We all know, of course, that he is perfectly innocent. He is trying to shield some one. But who?" She cast a keen look at Cyril.
"That's just it," Judson agreed. "And it is partly my fault. I convinced his Lordship that Lord Wilmersley was murdered by his wife. I have come here to tell him that I was mistaken. It is lucky that I discovered the truth in time."
"Thank God!" cried Cyril. "I always knew she was innocent." His relief was so intense that it robbed him of all power of concealment.
Amy's mouth hardened into a straight, inflexible line; her eyes narrowed.
"I suppose that you have some fact to support your extraordinary assertion?" demanded Griggs, unable to hide his vexation at finding that his rival had evidently outwitted him.
"Certainly, but I will say no more till I have his Lordship's permission. He is my employer, you know."
"What difference does that make?" asked Cyril. "I am more anxious than any one to discover the truth."
"Permit me to suggest, my lord, that it would be better if I could first speak to you in private."
"Nonsense," exclaimed Cyril impatiently. "I am tired of this eternal secrecy. Tell us what you have found out."
The detective's brows contracted slightly.
"Very well, only remember, I warned you."
"That's all right."
"Have you forgotten, my lord, that I told you I always had an idea that those two Frenchmen who were staying at the Red Lion Inn, were somehow implicated in the affair?"
"But what possible motive could they have had for murdering my cousin?" demanded Cyril.
The detective's eyes appeared to wander aimlessly from one of his auditors to another.
"We are waiting. What about those Frenchmen?"
It was Amy who spoke. She moved slowly forward, and leaning her arm on the mantelpiece confronted the four men.
"You wish me to continue?" asked Judson.
"Certainly. Why not?"
The detective inclined his head and again turned towards Cyril.
"Having once discovered their identity, my lord, their motive was quite apparent."
"Well, who are they? Out with it."
"The elder," began Judson, speaking very slowly, "is Monsieur de Brissac. The younger—" he paused.
For a moment Cyril was too stunned to speak. He could do nothing but stare stupidly at the detective. Amy guilty! Amy! It was incredible!
"Stop! Your suspicions are absurd! Do not listen to him, Inspector!" He hardly knew what he was saying. He only realised confusedly that something within him was crying to him to save her.
A wonderful light suddenly transfigured Amy's drawn face.
"Cyril, would you really do this for——"
"Hush!" He tried to silence her.
She turned proudly to the inspector.
"I don't care now who knows the truth. I killed Lord Wilmersley."
"Don't listen to her! Don't you see that she is not accountable for what she is saying?" cried Cyril. He had forgotten everything but that she was a woman—his wife.
"I killed Lord Wilmersley," Amy repeated, as if he had not spoken, "but I did not murder him."
"Does your Ladyship expect us to believe that you happened to call at the castle at half-past ten in the evening, and that during an amicable conversation you accidentally shot Lord Wilmersley?" demanded Griggs.
"No," replied Amy contemptuously, "of course not! I—" She hesitated.
"If your Ladyship had not ulterior purpose in going to Newhaven, why did you disguise yourself as a boy and live there under an assumed name? And who is this Frenchman who posed as your brother?"
Amy threw her head back defiantly. A faint colour swept over her face.
"Monsieur de Brissac was my lover. When we discovered that his Lordship was employing detectives, we went to Newhaven, because we thought that it was the last place where they would be likely to look for us. I disguised myself to throw them off the scent."
"But the description the inspector gave me of the boy did not resemble you in the least," insisted Cyril.
"It was I nevertheless. I merely cut off my hair and dyed it. See!" She snatched the black wig from her head, disclosing a short crop of reddish curls.
"You have yet to explain," resumed the inspector sternly, "what took you to Geralton in the middle of the night. Under the circumstances I should have thought your Ladyship would hardly have cared to visit his Lordship's relations."
Ignoring Griggs, Amy turned to her husband.
"My going there was the purest accident," she began in a dull, monotonous voice, almost as if she were reciting a lesson, but as she proceeded, her excitement increased till finally she became so absorbed in her story that she appeared to forget her hearers completely. "I was horribly restless, so we spent most of our time motoring and often stayed out very late. One night a tire burst. I noticed that we had stopped within a short walk of the castle. As I had never seen it except at a distance, it occurred to me that I would like to have a nearer view of the place. In my boy's clothes I found it fairly easy to climb the low wall which separates the gardens from the park. Not a light was to be seen, so, as there seemed no danger of my being discovered, I ventured on to the terrace. As I stood there, I heard a faint cry. My first impulse was to retrace my footsteps as quickly as possible, but when I realised that it was a woman who was crying for help, I felt that I must find out what was the matter. Running in the direction from which the sound came, I turned a corner and found myself confronted by a lighted window. The shrieks were now positively blood-curdling and there was no doubt in my mind that some poor creature was being done to death only a few feet away from me. The window was high above my head, but I was determined to reach it. After several unsuccessful attempts I managed to gain a foothold on the uneven surface of the wall and hoist myself on to the window-sill. Luckily the window was partially open, so I was able to slip noiselessly into the room and hide behind the curtain. Peering through the folds, I saw a woman lying on the floor. Her bodice was torn open, exposing her bare back. Over her stood a man who was beating her with a piece of cord which was attached to the waist of a sort of Eastern dressing-gown he wore.
"'So you thought you would leave me, did you?' he cried over and over again as the lash fell faster and faster. 'Well, you won't! Not till I send you to hell, which I will some day.'
"At last he paused and wiped the perspiration from his brow. He was very fat and his exertions were evidently telling on him.
"'Why shouldn't I kill you now? I have my pistol within reach of my hand. It is here on my desk. Ah, you didn't know that, did you?' He gave a fiendish laugh.
"The woman shuddered but made no attempt to rise.
"I was slowly recovering from the terror which had at first paralysed me. I realised I must act at once if I meant to save Lady Wilmersley's life. The desk was behind him.
"Dropping on my hands and knees, I crept cautiously toward it. 'Kill you, kill you, that is what I ought to do,' he kept repeating.
"I reached the desk. No pistol was to be seen; yet I knew it was there. As I fumbled among his papers, my hand touched an ancient steel gauntlet. Some instinct told me that I had found what I sought. But how to open it was the question. Some agonising moments passed before I at last accidentally pressed the spring and a pistol lay in my hand.
"He again raised the cord.
"'Stop!' I cried.
"He swung around and as he caught sight of the pistol levelled at his head, the purple slowly faded from his face.
"Then seemingly reassured at finding that it was only a boy who confronted him, he took a step forward.
"'Who the devil are you? Get out of here!' he cried.
"'Stay where you are or I fire.'
"'What nonsense is this?' he blustered, but I noticed that his knees shook and he made no further effort to move.
"'Climb out of the window. There is a car waiting in the road,' I called to the girl.
"'She shall not go!' he shrieked. The veins stood out on his temples.
"I held him with my eye and saw his coward soul quiver with fear as I moved deliberately nearer him.
"'Do as I tell you. Run for your life,' I repeated.
"'But you?' gasped Lady Wilmersley.
"'I have the pistol. I am not afraid. I will follow you,' I assured her.
"I knew rather than saw that she picked up a jacket and bag which lay near the window. With a soft thud she dropped into the night. That is the last I saw of her. What became of her I do not know." Amy paused a moment.
"As Lord Wilmersley saw his wife disappear, he gave a cry like a wounded animal and rushed after her. I fired. He staggered back a few steps, then turning he ran into the adjoining room. I heard a splash but did not stop to find out what happened. Almost beside myself with terror, I fled from the castle. If you have any more questions to ask, you had better hurry."
She stopped abruptly, trembling from head to foot, and glanced wildly about her till her eyes rested on her husband. For a long, long moment she regarded him in silence. She seemed to be gathering herself together for a supreme effort.
All four men watched her in breathless suspense.
With her eyes still fastened on Cyril she fumbled in the bosom of her dress, then her hand shot out, and before any one could prevent her, she jabbed a hypodermic needle deep into her arm.
"What have you done?" cried Cyril, springing forward and wrenching the needle from her.
A beatific smile spread slowly over her face.
"You are—free," she gasped.
She swayed a little and would have fallen if Cyril had not caught her.
"Quick—a doctor," he cried.
"It is too late," she murmured. "Too late! Forgive me, Cyril. I—loved—you—so——"
Under a yew tree, overlooking a wide lawn, bordered on the farther side by a bank of flowers, three people are sitting clustered around a tea-table.
One of them is a little old lady, the dearest old lady imaginable. By her side, in a low basket chair, a girl is half sitting, half reclining. Her small figure, clad in a simple black frock, gives the impression of extreme youth, which impression is heightened by the fact that her curly, yellow hair, reaching barely to the nape of her neck, is caught together by a black ribbon like a schoolgirl's. But when one looks more closely into her pale face, one realises somehow that she is a woman and a woman who has suffered—who still suffers.
On the ground facing the younger woman a red-headed young man in white flannels is squatting tailor-fashion. He is holding out an empty cup to be refilled.
"Not another!" exclaims the little old lady in a horrified tone. "Why, you have had three already!"
"My dear Trevie, let me inform you once and for all that I have abandoned my figure. Why should I persist in the struggle now that Anita refuses to smile on me? When one's heart is broken, one had better make the most of the few pleasures one can still enjoy. So another cup, please."
Anita took no notice of his sally; her eyes were fixed on the distant horizon; she seemed absorbed in her own thoughts.
"By the way," remarked Campbell casually as he sipped his tea, "I spent last Sunday at Geralton." He watched Anita furtively. A faint flutter of the eyelids was the only indication she gave of having heard him, yet Guy was convinced that she was waiting breathlessly for him to continue.
"How is Lord Wilmersley?" asked Miss Trevor with kindly indifference.
"Very well indeed. He is doing a lot to the castle. You would hardly know it—the interior, I mean." Although he had pointedly addressed Anita, she made no comment. It was only after a long silence that she finally spoke.
"And how is Valdriguez?" she inquired.
"Much the same. She plays all day long with the dolls Cyril bought for her. She seems quite happy."
Again they relapsed into silence.
Miss Trevor took up her knitting, which had been lying in her lap, and was soon busy avoiding the pitfalls a heel presents to the unwary.
"I think I will go for a walk," said Anita, rising slowly from her seat. There was a hint of exasperation in her voice which escaped neither of her hearers.
Miss Trevor peered anxiously over her spectacles at the retreating figure.
Campbell's rubicund countenance had grown strangely grave.
"No better?" he asked as soon as Anita was out of earshot.
Miss Trevor shook her head disconsolately.
"Worse, I think. I can't imagine what can be the matter with her. She seemed at one time to have recovered from her terrible experience. But now, as you can see for yourself, she is absolutely wretched. She takes no interest in anything. She hardly eats enough to keep a bird alive. If she goes on like this much longer, she will fret herself into her grave. Yet whenever I question her, she assures me that she is all right. I really don't know what I ought to do."
"Has it never occurred to you that she may be wondering why Wilmersley has never written to her, nor been to see her?"
"Lord Wilmersley? Why—no. She hardly ever mentions him."
"She never mentions him," corrected Guy. "She inquires after everybody at Geralton except Cyril. Doesn't that strike you as very suspicious?"
"Oh, you don't mean that——"
He nodded.
"But she hardly knows him! You told me yourself that she had only seen him three or four times."
"True, but you must remember that they met under very romantic conditions. And Cyril is the sort of chap who would be likely to appeal to a girl's imagination."
"Lady Wilmersley in love! I can't believe it!" exclaimed Miss Trevor.
"I wish I didn't," muttered Guy under his breath.
She heard him, however, and laid her small, wrinkled hand tenderly on his shoulder.
"My poor boy, I guessed your trouble long ago."
"Don't pity me! It doesn't hurt any longer—not much at least. When one realises a thing is quite hopeless, one somehow ends by adjusting oneself to the inevitable. What I feel for her now is more worship than love. I want above all things that she should be happy, and if Cyril can make her so, I would gladly speed his wooing."
"Do you think he has any thought of her?"
"I am sure he loves her."
"Then why has he given no sign of life all these months?"
"I fancy he is waiting for the year of their mourning to elapse. But I confess that I am surprised that he has been able to restrain his impatience as long as this. Every day I have expected—"
"By Jove!" cried Campbell, springing to his feet, "there he is now!"
Miss Trevor turned and saw a tall figure emerge from the house.
Being plunged suddenly into the midst of romance, together with the unexpected and dramatic arrival of the hero, was too much for the little lady's composure. Her bag, her knitting, her glasses fell to the ground unheeded as she rose hurriedly to receive Lord Wilmersley.
"So glad to see you! Let me give you a cup of tea, or would you prefer some whiskey and soda?" She was so flustered that she hardly knew what she was saying.
"Thanks, I won't take anything. Hello, Guy! You here? Rather fancied I might run across you."
Cyril's eyes strayed anxiously hither and thither.
"Looking for Anita, are you?" asked Guy.
"I?" Cyril gave a start of guilty surprise. "Yes, I was wondering where she was." His tone was excessively casual.
"Humph!" grunted Campbell contemptuously.
"She has gone for a little walk, but as she never leaves the grounds, she can't be very far off," said Miss Trevor.
"Perhaps—" Cyril hesitated; he was painfully embarrassed.
Guy came to his rescue.
"Come along," he said. "I will show you where you are likely to find her."
"Thanks! I did rather want to see her—ahem, on business!"
"On business? Oh, you old humbug!" jeered Campbell as he sauntered off.
For a moment Cyril glared at Guy's back indignantly; then mumbling an apology to Miss Trevor, he hastened after him.
They had gone only a short distance before they espied a small, black-robed figure coming towards them. Guy stopped short; he glanced at Cyril, but the latter was no longer conscious of his presence. Without a word he turned and hurriedly retraced his footsteps.
"Well, Trevie," he said, "I must be going. Can't loaf forever, worse luck!" His manner was quite ostentatiously cheerful.
Miss Trevor, however, was not deceived by it. "You are a dear, courageous boy," she murmured.
With a flourish of his hat that seemed to repudiate all sympathy, Guy turned on his heel and marched gallantly away.
Meanwhile, in another part of the garden, a very different scene was being enacted.
On catching sight of each other Cyril and Anita had both halted simultaneously. Cyril's heart pounded so violently that he could hardly hear himself think.
"I must be calm," he said to himself. "I must be calm! But how beautiful she is! If I only had a little more time to collect my wits! I know I shall make an ass of myself!"
As these thoughts went racing through his brain, he had been moving almost automatically forward. Already he could distinguish the soft curve of her parted lips and the colour of her dilated eyes.
A sudden panic seized him. He was conscious of a wild desire to fly from her presence; but it was too late. He was face to face with her.
For a moment neither moved, but under the insistence of his gaze her eyes slowly sank before his. Then, without a word, as one who merely claims his own, he flung his arms around her and crushed her to his heart.
"It is a very hotbed of mystery, and everything and everybody connected with it arouses curiosity.... The plot is unusually puzzling and the author has been successful in producing a really admirable work. The climax is highly sensational and unexpected, ingeniously leading the reader from one guess to another, and finally culminating in a remarkable confession."—N. Y. Journal.
"We have individually and unanimously given first place to the MSS. entitled 'Beyond the Law.' It is a lively, unaffected, and interesting story of good craftsmanship, showing imagination and insight, with both vivid and dramatic qualities."
The scene is laid in Ireland and in France, the time is the William of Orange period, and deals with the most cruel persecution against the Catholics of Ireland.
"A born teller of stories. She certainly has the right stuff in her."—London Standard.
"In these days of overmuch involved plot and diction in the writing of novels, a book like this brings a sense of refreshment, as much by the virility and directness of its style as by the interest of the story it tells.... The human interest of the book is absorbing. The descriptions of life in India and England are delightful.... But it is the intense humanity of the story—above all, that of its dominating character, Nick Ratcliffe, that will win for it a swift appreciation."—Boston Transcript.
"Well written, wholesome, overflowing with sentiment, yet never mawkish. Lovers of good adventure will enjoy its varied excitement, while the frankly romantic will peruse its pages with joy."—Chicago Record-Herald.
"A masterpiece."—Phila. Ledger
"The well-known author of 'The Rosary' has not sought problems to solve nor social conditions to arraign in her latest book, but has been satisfied to tell a sweet and appealing love-story in a wholesome, simple way.... There is nothing startling nor involved in the plot, and yet there is just enough element of doubt in the story to stimulate interest and curiosity. The book will warm the heart with its sweet and straightforward story of life and love in a romantic setting."—The Literary Digest.
Nearly One Million copies of Mrs. Barclay's popular stories have now been printed.