THE INQUEST

On entering the hall Cyril found that a seat on the right hand of the coroner had been reserved for him, but he chose a secluded corner from which he could watch the proceedings unobserved.

On the left of Mr. Tinker sat a tall, imposing-looking man, who, on inquiry, proved to be Inspector Griggs.

The first part of the inquest developed nothing new. It was only when Mustapha stepped forward that Cyril's interest revived and he forgot the problem of his protégée's identity.

The Turk, with the exception of a red fez, was dressed as a European, but his swarthy skin, large, beak-like nose, and deep, sombre eyes, in which brooded the mystery of the East, proclaimed his nationality.

Cyril tried in vain to form some estimate of the man's character, to probe the depths of those fathomless eyes, but ignorant as he was of the Oriental, he found it impossible to differentiate between Mustapha's racial and individual characteristics. That he was full of infinite possibilities was evident—even his calmness was suggestive of potential passion. A man to be watched, decided Cyril.

Mustapha gave his testimony in a low, clear voice, and although he spoke with a strong foreign accent, his English was purer than that of his fellow servants.

That he had nothing to do with the murder seemed from the first conclusively proved. Several of the servants had seen him enter his room, which adjoined that of the butler, at about half-past nine—that is to say, an hour and a half before Lord Wilmersley's death could, in the doctor's opinion, have taken place—and Douglas on cross—reiterated his conviction that Mustapha could not have left his room without his having heard him do so, as he, Douglas, was a very light sleeper.

In answer to questions from the coroner, Mustapha told how he had entered the late Lord Wilmersley's service some fifteen years previously, at which time his master owned a house on the outskirts of Constantinople. As he dressed as a Mussulman and consorted entirely with the natives, Mustapha did not know that he was a foreigner till his master informed him of the fact just before leaving Turkey.

When questioned as to Lady Wilmersley, he was rather non-committal. No, he had never believed her to be dangerous.—Had she seemed happy? No, she cried often.—Did his lordship ever ill-treat her? Not that he knew of. His lordship was very patient with her tears.—Did he know how she could have obtained a pistol? Yes, there was one concealed on his master's desk. He had discovered that it was missing.—How could a pistol lie concealed on a desk? It was hidden inside an ancient steel gauntlet, ostensibly used as a paperweight. Mustapha had found it one day quite accidentally.—Did he tell his lordship of his discovery? No. His master was always afraid of being spied upon.—Why? He did not know.—Did Mustapha know of any enemy of his lordship who was likely to have sought such a revenge? No. His master's enemies were not in England.—Then his lordship had enemies? As all men have, so had he.—But he had no special enemy? An enemy is an enemy, but his master's enemies were not near.—How could he be so sure of that? He would have had word.—How? From whom? From his, Mustapha's friends.—Did his lordship fear his enemies would follow him to England? At first, perhaps, but not lately.—If his lordship's enemies had found him, would they have been likely to kill him? Who can tell? The heart of man is very evil.—But he knew no one who could have done this thing? No one.—Did he believe his mistress had done it? Mustapha hesitated for the first time. "They say so," he finally answered.

"But you, what do you think?" insisted the coroner.

"The ways of women are dark."

"Do you believe her ladyship killed your master—Yes or No?" repeated the coroner impatiently.

"It is not for me to say," replied Mustapha with unruffled dignity.

The coroner, feeling himself rebuked, dismissed the man with a hurried "That will do."

Mrs. Valdriguez was next called.

She was a tall, thin woman between fifty and sixty. Her black hair, freely sprinkled with silver, was drawn into a tight knot at the back of her small head. Her pale, haggard face, with its finely-chiselled nose, thin-lipped mouth, and slightly-retreating chin, was almost beautified by her large, sunken eyes, which still glowed with extraordinary brilliancy. Her black dress was austere in its simplicity and she wore no ornament except a small gold cross suspended on her bosom.

The woman was obviously nervous. She held her hands tightly clasped in front of her, and her lips twitched from time to time. She spoke so low that Cyril had to lean forward to catch her answers, but her English was perfectly fluent. It was chiefly her accent and intonation which betrayed her foreign birth.

"You lived here in the time of the late Lady Wilmersley, did you not?" began the coroner.

"Yes, sir."

"In what capacity?"

"As lady's maid, sir."

"When did you leave here, and why?"

"I left when her ladyship died."

"Did you return to Spain?"

"Yes, sir."

"How did you happen to enter the present Lady Wilmersley's service?"

"Lord Wilmersley sent for me when he was on his wedding journey."

"Had you seen him after you left Geralton?"

"From time to time."

"Do you know whether his lordship had any enemies?"

"Not of late years."

"Then you did know some. Who were they?"

"Those that he had are either dead or have forgiven," Valdriguez answered, and as she did so, she fingered the cross on her breast.

"So that you can think of no one likely to have resorted to such a terrible revenge?"

"No one, sir."

"On the night of the murder you did not assist her ladyship to undress, so I understand?"

"I never did. From the time her ladyship left her room to go to dinner I never saw her again till the following morning."

"And you noticed nothing unusual that evening?"

"I can't say that. Her ladyship was very much excited. She cried and begged me to help her to escape."

A murmur of excitement ran through the hall.

"What did you say to her?"

"I told her that she was his lordship's lawful wife; that she had vowed before God to honour and obey him in all things."

"Had she ever made an attempt to escape?"

"No, sir."

"Did she ever give you any reason for wishing to do so?"

"She told me that his lordship threatened to shut her up in a lunatic asylum, but I assured her he would never do so. He loved her too much."

"You consider that he was very devoted to her?"

The woman closed her eyes for a second.

"He loved her as I have never before known a man love a woman," she answered, with suppressed vehemence.

"Why then did he send for the doctors to commit her to an institution?"

"I do not know."

At this point of the interrogation Cyril scribbled a few words, which he gave to one of the footmen to carry to the coroner. When the latter had read them, he asked:

"Did you consider her ladyship a dangerous lunatic?"

"No, sir."

"Why, then, did you prophesy that she would kill your master?"

The woman trembled slightly and her hand again sought the cross.

"I—I believed Lord Wilmersley's time had come, but I knew not how he would die. I did not know that she would be the instrument—only I feared it."

"Why did you think his lordship's days were numbered?"

"Sir, if I were to tell you my reasons, you would say that they were not reasons. You would call them superstitions and me a foolish old woman. I believe what I believe, and you, what you have been taught. God shall judge. Suffice it, sir, that my reasons for believing that his lordship would die soon are not such as would appeal to your common-sense."

"H'm, well—I confess that signs and omens are not much in my line, but I must really insist upon your giving some explanation as to why you feared that your mistress would murder Lord Wilmersley."

The woman's lips twitched convulsively and her eyes glowed with sombre fire.

"Because—if you will know it—he loved her more than was natural—he loved her more than his God; and the Lord God is a jealous God."

"And this is really your only reason for your extraordinary supposition?"

"For me it is enough," she replied.

"Well, well—very curious indeed!" said the coroner, regarding the woman intently.

He paused for a moment.

"How did you pass the evening of the murder?" he asked.

"In my room. I had a headache and went early to bed."

"I suppose somebody saw you after you left Lady Wilmersley's room who can support your statement?"

"I do not know. I do not remember seeing any one," answered Valdriguez, throwing her head back and looking a little defiantly at Mr. Tinker.

"Ah, really? That is a pity," said the coroner. "However, there is no reason to doubt your word—as yet," he added.

Mrs. Eversley was next called. The coroner questioned her exhaustively as to the missing Priscilla Prentice. He seemed especially anxious to know whether the girl had owned a bicycle. She had not.—Did she know how to ride one? Yes, Mrs. Eversley had seen her try one belonging to the under-housemaid.—Did many of the servants own bicycles? Yes.—Had one of them been taken? She did not know.

On further inquiry, however, it was found that all the machines were accounted for.

It had not occurred to Cyril to speculate as to how, if Prentice had really aided her mistress to escape, she had been able to cover the nine miles which separated the castle from Newhaven. Eighteen miles in one evening on foot! Not perhaps an impossible feat, but very nearly so, especially as on her way back she would have been handicapped by Lady Wilmersley, a delicate woman, quite unaccustomed—at all events during the last three years—to any form of exercise.

It was evident, however, that this difficulty had not escaped the coroner, for all the servants and more especially the gardeners and under-gardeners were asked if they had seen in any of the less-frequented paths traces of a carriage or bicycle. But no one had seen or heard anything suspicious.

The head gardener and his wife, who lived at the Lodge, swore that the tall, iron gates had been locked at half-past nine, and that they had heard no vehicle pass on the highroad during the night.

At this point in the proceedings whispering was audible in the back of the hall. The coroner paused to see what was the matter. A moment later Douglas stepped up to him and said something in a low voice. The coroner nodded.

"Mrs. Willis," he called.

A middle-aged woman, very red in the face, came reluctantly forward.

"Well, Mrs. Willis, I hear you have something to tell me?"

"Indeed no, sir," exclaimed the woman, picking nervously at her gloves. "It is nothing at all. Only when I 'eard you asking about carriages in the night, I says to Mrs. Jones—well, one passed, I know that. Leastways, it didn't exactly pass; it stayed."

"The carriage stayed; where?"

"It wasn't a carriage."

"It wasn't a carriage and it stayed? Can't you explain yourself more clearly, Mrs. Willis? This isn't a conundrum, is it?"

"It was a car, a motor-car," stammered the woman.

"A car! And it stopped? Where?"

"I couldn't say exactly, but not far from our cottage."

"And where is your cottage?"

"On the 'ighroad near the long lane."

"I see." The coroner was obviously excited. "Your husband is one of the gardeners here, isn't he?"

"Yes, sir."

"So there is doubtless a path connecting your cottage with the castle grounds?"

"Yes, sir."

"About how far from your cottage was the car?"

"I didn't see it, sir; I just 'eard it; but it wasn't far, that I know," reiterated the woman.

"Did you hear any one pass through your garden?"

"No, sir."

"Could they have done so without your hearing them?"

"They might."

"Was the car going to or coming from Newhaven?"

"It was coming from Newhaven."

"Then it must have stopped at the foot of the long lane."

"Yes, sir; that's just about where I thought it was."

"Is there a path connecting Long Lane with the highroad?"

"Yes, a narrow one."

"What time was it when you heard the car? Now try and be very accurate."

"I wouldn't like to swear, sir, but I think it was between eleven and twelve."

"Did your husband hear it also?"

"No, sir, 'e was fast asleep, but I wasn't feeling very well, so I had got up thinking I'd make myself a cup of tea, and just then I 'eard a car come whizzing along, and then there was a bang. Oh, says I, they've burst their wheel, that's what they've done, me knowing about cars. I know it takes a bit of mending, a wheel does, so I wasn't surprised when I 'eard no more of them for a time—and I 'ad just about forgotten all about them, so I had, when I 'ears them move off."

"And they did not pass your cottage?"

"No, sir, I'm sure of that."

"Did you hear anything else?"

"Well, sir"—the woman fidgeted uneasily, "I thought—but I shouldn't like to swear to it—not on the Bible—but I fancied I 'eard a cry."

"What sort of a cry? Was it a man or a woman's?"

"I really couldn't say—and perhaps what I 'eard was not a cry at all——"

"Well, well—this is most important. A motor-car that is driven at half-past eleven at night to the foot of a lane which leads nowhere but to the castle grounds, and then returns in the direction it came from—very extraordinary—very. We must look into this," exclaimed the coroner.

And with this the inquest was adjourned.

LADY UPTON

Dr. Stuart-Smith to Mr. Peter Thompkins, Geralton Castle, Newhaven.

"Dear Lord Wilmersley:

"Lady Wilmersley showed signs of returning consciousness at half-past five yesterday afternoon. I was at once sent for, but when I arrived she had fallen asleep. She woke again at nine o'clock and this time asked where she was. She spoke indistinctly and did not seem to comprehend what the nurse said to her. When I reached the patient, I found her sitting up in bed. Her pulse was irregular; her temperature, subnormal. I am glad to be able to assure you that Lady Wilmersley is at present perfectly rational. She is, however, suffering from hysterical amnesia complicated by aphasia, but I trust this is only a temporary affection. At first she hesitated over the simplest words, but before I left she could talk with tolerable fluency.

"I asked Lady Wilmersley whether she wished to see you. She has not only forgotten that she has a husband but has no very clear idea as to what a husband is. In fact, she appears to have preserved no precise impression of anything. She did not even remember her own name. When I told it to her, she said it sounded familiar, only that she did not associate it with herself. Of you personally she has no recollection, although I described you as accurately as I could. However, as your name is the only thing she even dimly recalls, I hope that when you see her, you will be able to help her bridge the gulf which separates her from the past.

"She seemed distressed at her condition, so I told her that she had been ill and that it was not uncommon for convalescents to suffer temporarily from loss of memory. When I left her, she was perfectly calm.

"She slept well last night, and this morning she has no difficulty in expressing herself, but I do not allow her to talk much as she is still weak.

"I quite understand the delicacy of your position and sympathise with you most deeply. Although I am anxious to try what effect your presence will have on Lady Wilmersley, the experiment can be safely postponed till to-morrow afternoon.

"I trust the inquest will clear up the mystery which surrounds the late Lord Wilmersley's death.

"Believe me,
"Sincerely yours,
"A. Stuart-Smith."

Cyril stared at the letter aghast. If the girl herself had forgotten her identity, how could he hope to find out the truth? He did not even dare to instigate a secret inquiry—certainly not till the Geralton mystery had been cleared up. And she believed herself to be his wife! It was too awful!

Cyril passed a sleepless night and the next morning found him still undecided as to what course to pursue. It was, therefore, a pale face and a preoccupied mien that he presented to the inspection of the county, which had assembled in force to attend his cousin's funeral. Never in the memory of man had such an exciting event taken place and the great hall in which the catafalque had been erected was thronged with men of all ages and conditions.

In the state drawing-room Cyril stood and received the condolences and faced the curiosity of the county magnates.

The ordeal was almost over, when the door was again thrown open and the butler announced, "Lady Upton."

Leaning heavily on a gold-headed cane Lady Upton advanced majestically into the room.

A sudden hush succeeded her entrance; every eye was riveted upon her. She seemed, however, superbly indifferent to the curiosity she aroused, and one felt, somehow, that she was not only indifferent but contemptuous.

She was a tall woman, taller, although she stooped a little, than most of the men present. Notwithstanding her great age, she gave the impression of extraordinary vigour. Her face was long and narrow, with a stern, hawk-like nose, a straight, uncompromising mouth, and a protruding chin. Her scanty, white hair was drawn tightly back from her high forehead; a deep furrow separated her bushy, grey eyebrows and gave an added fierceness to her small, steel-coloured eyes. An antiquated bonnet perched perilously on the back of her head; her dress was quite obviously shabby; and yet no one could for a moment have mistaken her for anything but a truly great lady.

Disregarding Cyril's outstretched hand, she deliberately raised her lorgnette and looked at him for a moment in silence.

"Well! You are a Crichton at any rate," she said at last. Having given vent to this ambiguous remark, she waved her glasses, as if to sweep away the rest of the company, and continued: "I wish to speak to you alone."

Her voice was deep and harsh and she made no effort to lower it.

"So this was Anita Wilmersley's grandmother. What an old tartar!" thought Cyril.

"It is almost time for the funeral to start," he said aloud and he tried to convey by his manner that he, at any rate, had no intention of allowing her to ride rough-shod over him.

"I know," she snapped, "so hurry, please. These gentlemen will excuse us."

"Certainly." "Of course." "We will wait in the hall." Cyril heard them murmur and, such was the force of the old lady's personality, that youths and grey beards jostled each other in their anxiety to get out of the room as quickly as possible.

"Get me a chair," commanded Lady Upton. "No, not that one. I want to sit down, not lie down."

With her stick she indicated a high, straight-backed chair, which had been relegated to a corner.

Having seated herself, she took a pair of spectacles out of her reticule and proceeded to wipe them in a most leisurely manner.

Cyril fidgeted impatiently.

Finally, her task completed to her own satisfaction, she adjusted her glasses and crossed her hands over the top of her cane.

"No news of my granddaughter, I suppose," she demanded.

"None, I am sorry to say."

"Anita is a fool, but I am certain—absolutely certain, mind you—that she did not kill that precious husband of hers, though I don't doubt he richly deserved it."

"I am surprised that you of all people should speak of my cousin in that tone," said Cyril and he looked at her meaningly.

"Of course, you believe what every one believes, that I forced Ann into that marriage. Stuff and nonsense! I merely pointed out to her that she could not do better than take him. She had not a penny to her name and after my death would have been left totally unprovided for. I have only my dower, as you know."

"But, how could you have allowed a girl whose mind was affected to marry?"

"Fiddlesticks! You don't believe that nonsense, do you? Newspaper twaddle, that is all that amounts to."

"I beg your pardon, Arthur himself gave out that her condition was such that she was unable to see any one."

"Impossible! He wrote to me quite frequently and never hinted at such a thing."

"Nevertheless I assure you that is the case."

"Then he is a greater blackguard than I took him to be——"

"But did you not know that he kept her practically a prisoner here?"

"Certainly not!"

"And she never complained to you of his treatment of her?"

"I once got a hysterical letter from her begging me to let her come back to me, but as the only reason she gave for wishing to leave her husband was that he was personally distasteful to her, I wrote back that as she had made her bed, she must lie on it."

"And even after that appeal you never made an attempt to see Anita and find out for yourself how Arthur was treating her?"

"I am not accustomed to being cross-questioned, Lord Wilmersley. I am accountable to no one but my God for what I have done or failed to do. I never liked Anita. She takes after her father, whom my daughter married without my consent. When she was left an orphan, I took charge of her and did my duty by her; but I never pretended that I was not glad when she married and, as she did so of her own free-will, I cannot see that her future life was any concern of mine."

Cyril could hardly restrain his indignation. This proud, hard, selfish old woman had evidently never ceased to visit her resentment of her daughter's marriage on the child of that marriage. He could easily picture the loveless and miserable existence poor Anita must have led. Was it surprising that she should have taken the first chance that was offered her of escaping from her grandmother's thraldom? She had probably been too ignorant to realise what sort of a man Arthur Wilmersley really was and too innocent to know what she was pledging herself to.

"I have come here to-day," continued Lady Upton, "because I considered it seemly that my granddaughter's only relative should put in an appearance at the funeral and also because I wanted you to tell me exactly what grounds the police have for suspecting Anita."

Cyril related as succinctly as possible everything which had so far come to light. He, however, carefully omitted to mention his meeting with the girl on the train. As the latter could not be Anita Wilmersley, he felt that he was not called upon to inform Lady Upton of this episode.

"Well!" exclaimed Lady Upton, when he had finished. "All I can say is, that Anita is quite incapable of firing a pistol at any one, even if it were thrust into her hand. You may not believe me, but that is because you don't know her. I do. She hasn't the spirit of a mouse. Unless Arthur had frightened her out of her wits, she would never have screwed up courage to leave him, and it would be just like her to crawl away in the night instead of walking out of the front door like a sensible person. Bah! I have no patience with such a spineless creature! You men, however, consider it an engaging feminine attribute for a woman to have neither character nor sense!" Lady Upton snorted contemptuously and glared at Cyril as if she held him personally responsible for the bad taste of his sex.

As he made no answer to her tirade, she continued after a moment more calmly.

"It seems to me highly improbable that Anita has been murdered; so I want you to engage a decent private detective who will work only for us. We must find her before the police do so. I take it for granted that you will help me in this matter and that you are anxious—although, naturally, not as anxious as I am—to prevent your cousin's widow from being arrested."

"A woman who has been treated by her husband as Arthur seems to have treated Anita, is entitled to every consideration that her husband's family can offer her," replied Cyril. "I am already employing a detective and if he finds Anita I will communicate with you at once."

"Good! Now remember that my granddaughter is perfectly sane; on the other hand, I think it advisable to keep this fact a secret for the present. Circumstantial evidence is so strongly against her that we may have to resort to the plea of insanity to save her neck. That girl has been a thorn in my flesh since the day she was born; but she shall not be hanged, if I can help it," said Lady Upton, shutting her mouth with an audible click.

THE JEWELS

As soon as the funeral was over, Cyril left Geralton. On arriving in London he recognised several reporters at the station. Fearing that they might follow him, he ordered his taxi to drive to the Carlton. There he got out and walking quickly through the hotel, he made his exit by a rear door. Having assured himself that he was not being observed, he hailed another taxi and drove to the nursing home.

"Well, Mr. Thompkins," exclaimed the doctor, with ponderous facetiousness. "I am glad to be able to tell you that Mrs. Thompkins is much better."

"And her memory?" faltered Cyril.

"It's improving. She does not yet remember people or incidents, but she is beginning to recall certain places. For instance, I asked her yesterday if she had been to Paris. It suggested nothing to her, but this morning she told me with great pride that Paris was a city and that it had a wide street with an arch at one end. So you see she is progressing; only we must not hurry her."

Cyril murmured a vague assent.

"Of course," continued the doctor, "you must be very careful when you see Lady Wilmersley to restrain your emotions, and on no account to remind her of the immediate past. I hope and believe she will never remember it. On the other hand, I wish you to talk about those of her friends and relations for whom she has shown a predilection. Her memory must be gently stimulated, but on no account excited. Quiet, quiet is essential to her recovery."

"But doctor—I must—it's frightfully important that my wife (he found himself calling her so quite glibly) should be told of a certain fact at once. If I wait even a day, it will be too late," urged Cyril.

"And you have reason to suppose that this communication will agitate Lady Wilmersley?"

"I—I fear so."

"Then I can certainly not permit it. You don't seem to realise the delicate condition of her brain. Why, it might be fatal," insisted the doctor.

Cyril felt as if Nemesis were indeed overtaking him.

"Come, we will go to her," said the doctor, moving towards the door. "She is naturally a little nervous about seeing you, so we must not keep her waiting."

But Cyril hung back. If he could not undeceive the poor girl, how could he enter her presence. To pose as the husband of a woman so as to enable her to escape arrest was excusable, but to impose himself on the credulity of an afflicted girl was absolutely revolting. If he treated her with even the most decorous show of affection, he would be taking a dastardly advantage of the situation. Yet if he behaved with too much reserve, she would conclude that her husband was a heartless brute. Her husband! The one person she had to cling to in the isolation to which she had awakened. It was horrible! Oh, why had he ever placed her in such an impossible position? Arrest would have been preferable. He was sure that she could easily have proved her innocence of whatever it was of which she was accused, and in a few days at the latest would have gone free without a stain on her character, while now, unless by some miracle this episode remained concealed, she was irredeemably compromised. He was a married man; she, for aught he knew to the contrary, might also be bound, or at all events have a fiancé or lover waiting to claim her. How would he view the situation? How would he receive the explanation? Cyril shuddered involuntarily. Every minute the chances that her secret could be kept decreased. If she did not return to her friends while it was still possible to explain or account for the time of her absence, he feared she would never be able to return at all. Yes, it would take a miracle to save her now!

"Well, Lord Wilmersley?"

Cyril started. The doctor's tone was peremptory and his piercing eyes were fixed searchingly upon him. What excuse could he give for refusing to meet his supposed wife? He could think of none.

"I must remind you, doctor," he faltered at last, "that my wife has lately detested me. I—I really don't think I had better see her—I—I am so afraid my presence will send her off her head again."

The doctor's upper lip grew rigid and his eyes contracted angrily.

"I have already assured you that she is perfectly sane. It is essential to her recovery that she should see somebody connected with her past life. I cannot understand your reluctance to meet Lady Wilmersley."

"I—I am only thinking of the patient," Cyril murmured feebly.

"The patient is my affair," snapped the doctor.

What could he do? For an instant he was again tempted to tell Stuart-Smith the truth. He looked anxiously at the man. No, it was impossible. There was no loophole for escape. And after all, he reflected, if he had an opportunity of watching the girl, she might quite unconsciously by some act, word, or even by some subtle essence of her personality furnish him with a clue to her past. Every occupation leaves indelible marks, although it sometimes takes keen eyes to discern them. If the girl had been a seamstress, Cyril believed that he would be able by observing her closely to assure himself of the fact.

"Very well," he said aloud. "If you are willing to assume the responsibility, I will go to my wife at once. But I insist on your being present at our meeting."

"Certainly, if you wish it, but it is not at all necessary, I assure you," replied the doctor.

A moment later Cyril, blushing like a schoolgirl, found himself in a large, white-washed room. Before him on a narrow, iron bedstead lay his mysterious protégée. Cyril caught his breath. He had forgotten how beautiful she was. Her red lips were slightly parted and the colour ebbed and flowed in her transparent cheeks. Ignoring the doctor, her eager glance sought Cyril and for a minute the two young people gazed at each other in silence. How young, how innocent she looked! How could any one doubt the candour of those star like eyes, thought Cyril.

"Well, Mrs. Crichton," exclaimed Stuart-Smith, "I have brought you the husband you have been so undutiful as to forget. 'Love, honour, and obey, and above all remember,' I suggest as an amendment to the marriage vow."

"Nurse has been reading me the marriage service," said the girl, with a quaint mixture of pride and diffidence. "I know all about it now; I don't think I'll forget again."

"Of course not! And now that you have seen your husband, do you find that you remember him at all?"

"Yes, a little. I know that I have seen you before," she answered, addressing Cyril.

"I gather from your manner that you don't exactly dislike him, do you?" asked the doctor with an attempt at levity. "Your husband is so modest that he is afraid to remain in your presence till you have reassured him on this point."

"I love him very much," was her astounding answer.

Cyril's heart gave a bound. Did she realise what she had said? She certainly showed no trace of embarrassment, and although her eyes clung persistently to his, their expression of childlike simplicity was absolutely disarming.

"Very good, very good, quite as it should be," exclaimed the doctor, evidently a little abashed by the frankness of the girl's reply. "That being the case, I will leave you two together to talk over old times, although they can't be very remote. I am sure, however, that when I see you again, you will be as full of reminiscences as an octogenarian," chuckled the doctor as he left the room.

Cyril and the girl were alone.

An arm-chair had been placed near the bed, obviously for his reception, and after a moment's hesitation he took it. The girl did not speak, but continued to look at him unflinchingly. Cyril fancied she regarded him with something of the unquestioning reverence a small child might have for a beloved parent. His eyes sank before hers. Never had he felt so unworthy, so positively guilty. He racked his brains for something to say, but the doctor's restrictions seemed to bar every topic which suggested itself to him. If he only knew who she was! He glanced at her furtively. In the dim light of the shaded lamp he had not noticed that what he had supposed was her hair, was in reality a piece of black lace bound turbanwise about her head.

"What are you wearing that bandage for?" he inquired eagerly. "Was your head hurt—my dear?" he added diffidently.

"No—I—I hope you won't be angry—nurse said you would—but I couldn't help it. I really had to cut it off."

"Cut what off?"

"My hair." She hung her head as a naughty child might have done.

"You cut off your hair? But why?" His voice sounded suddenly harsh. Strange that her first act had been to destroy one of the few things by which she could be identified. Was she as innocent as she seemed? Had she fooled them all, even the doctor? This amnesia, or whatever it was called, was it real, was it assumed? He wondered.

"Oh, husband, I know it was wrong; but when I woke up and couldn't remember anything, I was so frightened, and then nurse brought me a looking-glass and the face I saw was so strange! Oh, it was so lonely without even myself! And then nurse said it was my hair. She said it sometimes happened when people have had a great shock or been very ill and so—I made her cut it off. She didn't want to—it wasn't her fault—I made her do it."

"But what had happened to your hair?"

"It had turned quite white, most of it." The girl shuddered. "Oh, it was horrid! I am sure you would not have liked it."

Cyril, looking into her limpid eyes, felt his sudden suspicions unworthy of him.

"You must grow a nice new crop of black curls, if you want to appease me," he answered.

"Oh, do you like black hair?" Her disappointment was obvious.

"Yes, don't you? Your hair was black before your illness."

"I know it was—but I hate it! At all events, as long as I must wear a wig, I should like to have a nice yellow one; nurse tells me I can get them quite easily."

"Dear me! But I don't think a wig nice at all."

"Don't you?" Her mouth drooped at the corners. She seemed on the verge of tears.

What an extraordinary child! he thought. But she mustn't cry—anything rather than that.

"My dear, if you want a wig, you shall have one immediately. Tell your nurse to send to the nearest hairdresser for an assortment from which you can make your choice."

"Oh, thank you, thank you," she cried, clapping her hands. Her hands! Cyril had forgotten them for the moment, and it was through them that he had hoped to establish her identity. He looked at them searchingly. No ring encircled the wedding finger, nor did it show the depression which the constant wearing of one invariably leaves. The girl was evidently unmarried. Those long, slender, well-kept hands certainly did not look as if they could belong to a servant, but he reflected that a seamstress' work was not of a nature to spoil them. Only the forefinger of her left hand would probably bear traces of needle pricks. He leaned eagerly forward.

"What are you looking at?" she asked.

"At your hands, my dear," he tried to speak lightly.

"What is the matter with them?" She held them out for his inspection. Yes, it was as he had expected—her forefinger was rough. She was Priscilla Prentice. Everything had fore-warned him of this conclusion, yet in his heart of hearts he had not believed it possible till this moment.

"Don't you like my hands?" she asked, as she regarded them with anxious scrutiny, evidently trying to discover why they failed to find favour in the sight of her lord.

"They are—" He checked himself; he had almost added—the prettiest hands in the world; but he mustn't say such things to her, not under the circumstances. "They are very pretty, only you have sewn so much that you have quite spoiled one little finger."

"Sewn?" She seemed struck with the idea. "Sew? I should like to sew. I know I can."

Further proof of her identity, if he needed it.

"Well, you must get nurse to find you something on which to exercise your talents—only you must be careful not to prick yourself so much in future."

"I will try, husband," she answered meekly, as she gazed solemnly at the offending finger.

There was a pause.

"Do tell me something about my past life," said she. "I have been lying here wondering and wondering."

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything. In the first place, are my parents living? Oh, I hope so!"

Here was a poser. Cyril had no idea whether her parents were alive or not, but even if they were, it would be impossible to communicate with them for the present, so he had better set her mind at rest by denying their existence.

"No, my dear, you are an orphan, and you have neither brothers nor sisters," he added hastily. It was just as well to put a final stop to questions as to her family.

"Nobody of my own—nobody?"

"Nobody," he reiterated, but he felt like a brute.

"Have I any children?" was her next question.

Cyril started perceptibly.

"No, no, certainly not," he was so embarrassed that he spoke quite sharply.

"Oh, are you glad?" She stared at him in amazement and to his disgust Cyril felt himself turning crimson.

"Now I'm sorry," she continued with a soft sigh. "I wish I had a baby. I remember about babies."

"I—I like them, too," he hastened to assure her. Really this was worse than he had expected.

"How long have we been married?" she demanded.

"I have been married four years," he truthfully answered, hoping that that statement would satisfy her.

"Fancy! We have been living together for four years! Isn't it awful that I can only remember you the very weeist little bit! But I will love, honour, and obey you—now that I know—I will indeed."

"I am sure you will always do what is right," said Cyril with a sudden tightening of his throat. She looked so young, so innocent, so serious. Oh, if only——

"Bah, don't waste too much love on me. I'm an unworthy beggar," he said aloud.

"You are an unworthy husband? Oh!" She opened her eyes wide and stared at him in consternation. "But it doesn't say anything in the prayer-book about not loving unworthy husbands. I don't believe it makes any difference to the vow before God. Besides you don't look unworthy—are you sure you are?" she pleaded.

Cyril's eyes fell before her agonised gaze.

"I'll try to be worthy of you," he stammered.

"Worthy of me?" she cried with a gay, little laugh. "I'm too silly and stupid now to be anything but a burden—I quite realise that—but the doctor thinks I will get better and in the meantime I will try to please you and do my duty."

Poor baby, thought Cyril, the marriage vows she imagined she had taken seemed to weigh dreadfully on her conscience. Oh, if he could only undeceive her!

A discreet knock sounded at the door.

The nurse made her appearance.

"The doctor thinks Mrs. Thompkins has talked enough for the present," she said.

Cyril rose with a curious mixture of relief and reluctance.

"Well, this must be good-bye for to-day," he said, taking her small hand in his.

She lifted up her face—simply as a child might have done. Slowly he leaned nearer to her, his heart was pounding furiously; the blood rushed to his temples.

Suddenly he started back! He must not—he dare not——!

For a moment he crushed her fingers to his lips; then turning abruptly, he strode towards the door.

"You'll come to-morrow, won't you?" she cried.

"Yes, to-morrow," he answered.

"Early?"

"As early as I can."

"Good-bye, husband. I will be so lonely without you," she called after him, but he resolutely closed the door.

At the foot of the stairs a nurse was waiting for him.

"The doctor would like to speak to you for a moment," she said as she led the way to the consulting-room.

"Well, how did you find Lady Wilmersley's memory; were you able to help her in any way to recall the past," inquired the doctor.

Cyril was too preoccupied to notice that the other's manner was several degrees colder than it had been on his arrival.

"I fear not." Cyril felt guiltily conscious that he was prevaricating.

"You astonish me. I confess I am disappointed. Yes, very much so. But it will come back to her—I am sure it will."

"I say, doctor, how long do you think my wife will have to remain here?"

"No longer than she wishes to. She could be moved to-morrow, if necessary, but I advise waiting till the day after."

"You are sure it won't hurt her?" insisted Cyril anxiously.

"Quite. In fact, the sooner Lady Wilmersley resumes her normal life the better."

"How soon will I be able to talk freely to her?" Cyril asked.

"That depends largely on how she progresses, but not before a month at the earliest. By the way, Lord Wilmersley, I want you to take charge of Lady Wilmersley's bag. The contents were too valuable to be left about; so after taking out her toilet articles, the nurse brought it to me."

"Ah! and—and what was in the bag?" asked Cyril fearfully.

"Lady Wilmersley's jewels, of course."

Jewels! This was terrible. If they were those belonging to his cousin, their description had been published in every paper in the kingdom. It was a miracle that Smith had not recognised them.

"Of course," Cyril managed to stammer.

The doctor went to a safe and taking out a cheap, black bag handed it to Cyril.

"I should like you, please, to see if they are all there," he said.

"That isn't the least necessary," Cyril hastened to assure him.

"You would greatly oblige me by doing so."

"I'm quite sure they are all right; besides if any are missing, they were probably stolen in Paris," said Cyril.

"But I insist." Stuart-Smith was nothing if not persistent. His keen eyes had noted Cyril's agitation and his reluctance to open the bag made the doctor all the more determined to force him to do so.

But Cyril was too quick for him. Seizing the bag, he made for the door.

"I'll come back to-morrow," he cried over his shoulder, as he hurried unceremoniously out of the room and out of the house.

A disreputable-looking man stood at the door of his waiting taxi and obsequiously opened it. Shouting his address to the driver, Cyril flung himself into the car and waved the beggar impatiently away.

No sooner were they in motion than Cyril hastened to open the bag. A brown paper parcel lay at the bottom of it. He undid the string with trembling fingers. Yes, it was as he feared—a part, if not all, of the Wilmersley jewels lay before him.

"Give me a penny, for the love of Gawd," begged a hoarse voice at his elbow. The beggar was still clinging to the step and his villainous face was within a foot of the jewels.

Cyril felt himself grow cold with apprehension. The fellow knew who he was, and followed him. He was a detective!

"A gen'lman like you could well spare a poor man a penny," the fellow whined, but there was a note of menace in his voice. Cyril tried to get a good look at him, but the light was too dim for him to distinguish his features clearly.

Hastily covering the jewels, Cyril thrust a coin into the grimy hand.

"Go!" he commanded, "go, or I'll call the police."

The man sank out of sight.

"My poor little girl, my poor little girl," murmured Cyril disconsolately, as he glanced once more at the incriminating jewels.

THE TWO FRENCHMEN

"You must be mad, Cyril! No sane man could have got into such a mess!" cried Guy Campbell, excitedly pounding his fat knee with his podgy hand.

Cyril had been so disturbed by the finding of the Wilmersley jewels that he had at last decided that he must confide his troubles to some one. He realised that the time had come when he needed not only advice but assistance. He was now so convinced that he was being watched that he had fled to his club for safety. There, at all events, he felt comparatively safe from prying eyes, and it was there in a secluded corner that he poured his tale of woe into his friend's astonished ears.

"You must be mad," the latter repeated.

"If that is all you can find to say, I am sorry I told you," exclaimed Cyril irritably.

"It's a jolly good thing you did! Why, you are no more fit to take care of yourself than a new-born baby." Guy's chubby face expressed such genuine concern that Cyril relaxed a little.

"Perhaps I've been a bit of an ass, but really I don't see what else I could have done."

"No, don't suppose you do," said Guy, regarding Cyril with pitying admiration.

"Oh, don't rub it in! The question now is not what I ought to have done, but what am I to do now?"

"What do you intend to do?"

"I haven't the slightest idea. I want your advice."

"Oh, no, you don't! Why, you wouldn't even listen to a sensible suggestion."

"What do you call a sensible suggestion?" Cyril cautiously inquired.

"To get the girl out of the nursing home and lose her. And it ought to be done P. D. Q., as the Americans say."

"I shall certainly do nothing of the sort."

"Exactly," cried Campbell triumphantly. "I know you, Lord Quixote; you have some crazy plan in your head. Out with it."

"I haven't a plan, I tell you. Now as I am being followed——"

"I can't believe you are," interrupted Guy.

"I feel sure that that beggar I told you about was a detective."

"Why?"

"He was evidently waiting for me and I couldn't shake him off till he had had a good look at the jewels."

"It is much more likely that he was waiting for a penny than for you, and beggars are usually persistent. I see no possible reason why the police should be shadowing you. It is your guilty conscience that makes you so suspicious."

"You may be right; I certainly hope you are, but till I am sure of it, I don't dare to run the risk of being seen with Miss Prentice. As she is in no condition to go about alone, I have been worrying a good deal as to how to get her out of the Home; so I thought—it occurred to me—that—you are the person to do it."

"Thanks, awfully! So you leave me the pleasant task of running off with a servant-girl who is 'wanted' by the police! You are really too unselfish!"

"Miss Prentice is a lady," Cyril angrily asserted.

"H'm," Campbell ejaculated skeptically. "That she is a beauty I do not doubt, and she has certainly played her cards very skilfully."

"Don't you dare to speak of her like that," cried Cyril, clenching his fists and half starting to his feet.

"By Jove, old man! You're smitten with her," exclaimed Campbell, staring aghast at his friend.

Cyril flushed darkly under his tan.

"Certainly not, but I have the greatest respect for this unfortunate young woman, and don't you forget it again."

Campbell smiled incredulously.

"Oh, very well! Believe what you like, but I didn't think you were the sort of man who never credits a fellow with disinterested motives, if he behaves half-way decently to a woman."

"Steady now, Cyril. Don't let's quarrel. You mustn't take offence so easily. I have never seen the young lady, remember. And you know I will help you even against my better judgment."

"You're a good chap, Guy."

"Thanks! Now let us first of all consider Miss Prentice's case dispassionately. I want to be sure of my facts; then I may be able to form some conjecture as to why Wilmersley was murdered and how the jewels came into Miss Prentice's possession. You tell me that it has been proved that she really left Geralton on the afternoon before the murder?"

"Yes; the carrier swears he drove her into Newhaven and put her down near the station. Further than that they have luckily not been able to trace her."

"Now your idea is that Miss Prentice, having in some way managed to secure a car, returned to Geralton that evening and got into the castle through the library window?"

"No, I doubt if she entered the castle. I can think of no reason why she should have done so," said Cyril.

"In that case, how do you account for her injuries? Who could have flogged her except your charming cousin?"

"I hadn't thought of that!" exclaimed Cyril.

"Granting that she is Priscilla Prentice, the only hypothesis I can think of which explains her predicament is this: Having planned to rescue her mistress, she was only waiting for a favourable opportunity to present itself. The doctor's visit determined her to act at once. I agree with you that to re-enter Geralton was not her original intention, but while waiting under the library window for Lady Wilmersley to join her, she hears Wilmersley ill-treating his wife, so she climbs in and rushes to the latter's assistance."

"Yes, yes," assented Cyril with shining eyes.

"But she is overpowered by Wilmersley," continued Campbell, warming to his theme, "who, insane with rage, flogs her unmercifully. Then Lady Wilmersley, fearing the girl will be killed, seizes the pistol, which is lying on the desk, and fires at her husband——"

"I am convinced that that is just what happened," cried Cyril.

"Don't be too sure of it; still, it seems to me that that theory hangs together pretty well," Campbell complacently agreed. "Of course, neither woman contemplated murder. Wilmersley's death completely unnerved them. If the gardener's wife heard a cry coming from the car, it is possible that one or the other had an attack of hysterics. Now about the jewels—I believe Miss Prentice took charge of them, either because Lady Wilmersley was unfit to assume such a responsibility or because they agreed that she could the more easily dispose of them. I think that Miss Prentice's hurried trip to town was undertaken not in order to avoid arrest, but primarily to raise money, of which they must have had great need, and possibly also to rejoin her mistress, who, now that we know that she made her escape in a car, is probably hiding somewhere either in London itself or in its vicinity."

"Guy, you are a wonder. You have thought of everything," cried Cyril admiringly.

"Of course, I may be quite wrong. These are only suppositions, remember," Campbell modestly reminded him. "By the way, what have you done with the jewels? I can't believe that you are in any danger of arrest, but if there is the remotest chance of such a thing, it wouldn't look very well if they were found in your possession."

"I had thought of that. I was even afraid that my rooms might be searched in my absence, so I took them with me."

"They are here?"

"Yes, in my pocket. I have hidden the bag and to-night I mean to burn it."

"Your pocket is not a very safe repository."

"Exactly. That is why I want you to take charge of them," said Cyril.