In his note to Guy, Cyril had asked the latter to join him at his club as soon as he had left Priscilla at the hotel, and so when the time passed and his friend neither came nor telephoned, Cyril's anxiety knew no bounds.
What could have happened? thought Cyril. Had Priscilla been arrested? In that case, however, Guy would surely have communicated with him at once, for the police could have had no excuse for detaining the latter.
Several acquaintances he had not seen for years greeted him cordially, but he met their advances so half-heartedly that they soon left him to himself, firmly convinced that the title had turned his head. Only one, an old friend of his father's, refused to be shaken off and sat prosing away quite oblivious of his listener's preoccupation till the words "your wife" arrested Cyril's wandering attention.
"Yes," the Colonel was saying, "too bad that you should have this added worry just now. Taken ill on the train, too—most awkward."
Cyril was so startled that he could only repeat idiotically: "My wife?"
"Am I wrong?" exclaimed the Colonel, evidently at a loss to understand Cyril's perturbation. "Your wife is in town, isn't she, and ill?"
What should he answer? He dared not risk a denial.
"Who told you that she was ill?" he asked.
"It was in the morning papers. Didn't you see it?"
"In the papers!"
Cyril realised at once that he ought to have foreseen that this was bound to have occurred. Too many people knew the story for it not to have leaked out eventually.
"I have not had time to read them to-day," replied Cyril as soon as he was able to collect his wits a little. "What did they say?"
"Only that your wife had been prostrated by the shock of Wilmersley's murder, and had to be removed from the train to a nursing home."
"It's a bore that it got into the papers. My wife is only suffering from a slight indisposition and will be all right in a day or two," Cyril hastened to assure him.
"Glad to hear it. I must meet her. Where is she staying at present?"
"She—she is still at the nursing home—but she is leaving there to-morrow." Then fearing that more questions were impending, Cyril seized the Colonel's hand and shaking it vehemently exclaimed: "I must write some letters. So glad to have had this chat with you," and without giving the Colonel time to answer, he fled from the room.
Cyril looked at his watch. Ten minutes to three! Guy must have met with an accident. Suddenly an alarming possibility occurred to him,—what if the police had traced the jewels to Campbell? The bag, which had disappeared, must have been taken by them. Griggs, when he inquired so innocently about "Lady Wilmersley," had been fully cognisant of the girl's identity. What was to be done now? He could not remain passive and await developments. He must—was that—could that be Campbell sauntering so leisurely toward him? Indeed it was!
"What has happened?" asked Cyril in a hoarse whisper, dragging his friend into a secluded corner. "Tell me at once."
"Nothing, my dear boy. I am afraid I kept you waiting longer than I intended to. I hope you have not been anxious?" Guy seemed, however, quite unconcerned.
"Anxious!" exclaimed Cyril indignantly. "Well, rather! How could you have kept me in such suspense? Why didn't you come to me at once on leaving Miss Prentice?"
"But I did. I have just left her."
"And she is really all right? The governess, Miss What's her name, is with her?"
"Certainly. But I didn't want to leave Mrs. Thompkins alone with a stranger in a strange place, so I stayed and lunched with them."
Cyril almost choked with rage. He had had no lunch at all. He had been too upset to think of such a thing and all the time they—oh! It was too abominable! Campbell was a selfish little brute. He would never forgive him, thought Cyril, scowling down at the complacent offender. For he was complacent, that was the worst of it. From the top of his sleek, red head to the tips of his immaculate boots, he radiated a triumphant self-satisfaction. What was the matter with the man? wondered Cyril. He seemed indefinably changed. There was a jauntiness about him—a light in his eyes which Cyril did not remember to have noticed before. And what was the meaning of those two violets drooping so sentimentally in his buttonhole? Cyril stared at the flowers as if hypnotised.
"So you liked Miss Prentice?" he managed to say, controlling himself with an effort.
"Rather! But I say, Cyril, it's all rot about her being that Prentice woman."
"Ah, you think so?"
"I don't think—I know. Why, she speaks French like a native."
"How did you find that out?" asked Cyril, forgetting his indignation in his surprise at this new development.
"We had a duffer of a waiter who understood very little English, so Mrs. Thompkins spoke to him in French, and such French! It sounded like the real thing."
Cyril was dumfounded. How could a girl brought up in a small inland village, which she had left only six months before, have learnt French? And then he remembered that the doctor had told him that she had retained a dim recollection of Paris. Why had the significance of that fact not struck him before?
"But if she is not Priscilla Prentice, who on earth can she be? She can't be Anita Wilmersley!" he exclaimed.
"Of course not. She—she—" Guy paused at a loss for a suggestion.
"And yet, if she is not the sempstress, she must be Anita!"
"Why?"
"Because of the jewels in her bag."
"I don't believe they are the Wilmersley jewels——"
"There is no doubt as to that. I have the list somewhere and you can easily verify it."
"Then the bag is not hers. It may have been left in the seat by some one else."
"She opened it in my presence."
"But you proved to me last night that she could not be Lady Wilmersley," insisted Guy.
"So I did. Anita has masses of bright, yellow hair. This girl's hair is dark."
"Well, then——"
"There seems no possible explanation to the enigma," acknowledged Cyril.
"Perhaps she wore a wig."
"She did not. When she fainted I loosened her veil and a strand of her hair caught in my fingers. It was her own, I can swear to that."
"She may have dyed it."
"I never thought of that," exclaimed Cyril. "No, I don't think she could have had time to dye it. It takes hours, I believe. At nine, when she was last seen, she had made no attempt to alter her appearance. Now Wilmersley was——"
"Hold on," cried Guy. "You told me, did you not, that she had cut off her hair because it had turned white?"
"Yes," assented Cyril.
"Very well, then, that disposes of the possibility of its having been dyed."
"So it does. And yet, she carried the Wilmersley jewels, that is a fact we must not forget."
"Then she must be a hitherto unsuspected factor in the case."
"Possibly, and yet—-"
"Yet what?"
"I confess I have no other solution to offer. Oh, by the way, what is the number of her room?"
Guy stiffened perceptibly.
"I don't think I remember it."
"How annoying! I particularly asked you to make a note of it!"
"Oh, did you?" Guy's face was averted and he toyed nervously with his eye-glass.
"Of course I did. You must realise—in fact we discussed it together—that I must be able to see her."
"As there is nothing that you can do for her, why should you compromise her still further?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that you ought not to take further advantage of her peculiar affliction so as to play the part of a devoted husband."
"This is outrageous—" began Cyril, but Campbell cut him short.
"While you fancied that she was in need of your assistance, I grant that there was some excuse for your conduct, but to continue the farce any longer would be positively dishonourable."
Cyril was so surprised at Campbell's belligerent tone that for a moment it rendered him speechless. From a boy Guy had always been his humble admirer. What could have wrought this sudden change in him? wondered Cyril. Again his eyes lingered on the violets. It was not possible! And yet Cyril had often suspected that under Guy's obvious shrewdness there lurked a vein of romanticism. And as Cyril surveyed his friend, his wrath slowly cooled. For the first time it occurred to him that Campbell's almost comic exterior must be a real grief to a man of his temperament. His own appearance had always seemed to Cyril such a negligible quantity that he shrank from formulating even in his own mind the reason why he felt that it would be absurd to fear Guy as a rival. A man who is not to be feared is a man to be pitied, and it was this unacknowledged pity, together with a sudden suspicion of the possible tragedy of his friend's life, which allayed Cyril's indignation and made him finally reply gently:
"I think you are mistaken. I am sure she still needs me."
"She does not. Miss Trevor and I are quite able to look after her."
"I don't doubt your goodwill, my dear Guy, but what about her feelings?"
"Feelings! I like that! Do you fancy that her feelings are concerned? Do you imagine that she will be inconsolable at your absence?"
"You appear to forget that she believes me to be her husband. Her pride—her vanity will be hurt if I appear to neglect her." Cyril still spoke very quietly.
"Then I will tell her the truth at once," exclaimed Campbell.
"And risk the recurrence of her illness? Remember the doctor insisted that she must on no account be agitated."
"Why should it agitate her to be told that you are not her husband? I should think it would be a jolly sight more agitating to believe one's self bound to a perfect stranger. It is a wonder it has not driven the poor child crazy."
"Luckily she took the sad news very calmly," Cyril could not refrain from remarking. Really, Guy was intolerable and he longed with a primitive longing to punch his head. But he had to control himself. Guy was capable of being nasty, if not handled carefully. So he hastily continued:
"How can you undeceive her on one point without explaining the whole situation to her?"
"I—" began Guy, "I—" He paused.
"Exactly. Even you have no solution to offer. Even you have to acknowledge that the relief of knowing that she is not my wife might be offset by learning not only that we are quite in the dark as to who she is, but that at any moment she may be arrested on a charge of murder."
"I don't know what to do!" murmured Guy helplessly.
"Do nothing for the present."
"Nothing!" exclaimed Guy. "Nothing! And leave you to insinuate yourself into her—affections! She must be told the truth some day, but by that time she may have grown to—to—love you." Guy gulped painfully over the word. "You are a married man. That fact evidently seems 'too trifling' to be considered, but I fancy she will not regard it as casually as you do."
"This is absurd," began Cyril, but Guy intercepted him.
"You feel free to do as you please because you expect to get a divorce, but you have not got it yet, remember, and in the meantime your wife may bring a countersuit, naming Miss—Mrs. Thompkins as corespondent."
This suggestion staggered Cyril for a moment.
"And in that case," continued Campbell, "she would probably think that she ought to marry you. After having been dragged through the filth of a divorce court, she would imagine herself too besmirched to give herself to any other man. And your wealth, your title, and your precious self may not seem to her as desirable as you suppose. She is the sort of girl who would think them a poor exchange for the loss of her reputation and her liberty of choice. When she discovers how you have compromised her by your asinine stupidity, I don't fancy that she will take a lenient view of your conduct."
"You seem to forget that if I had not shielded her with my name, she would undoubtedly have been arrested on the train."
"Oh, I don't doubt you meant well."
"Thanks," murmured Cyril sarcastically.
"All I say is that you must not see her again till this mystery is cleared up. I didn't forget about the number of her apartment, but I wasn't going to help you to sneak in to her at all hours. Now, if you want to see her, you will have to go boldly up to the hotel and have yourself properly announced. And I don't think you will care about that."
"I promised to see her. I shall not break my word."
"I don't care a fig for your promises. You shan't see her as long as she believes you to be her husband."
Luckily the room was empty, for both men had risen to their feet.
"I shall see her," repeated Cyril.
"If you do, I warn you that I shall tell her the truth and risk the consequences. She shall not, if I can help it, be placed in a position where she will be forced to marry a man who has, after all, lived his life. She ought—" Guy paused abruptly.
"She ought, in other words, to be given the choice between my battered heart and your virgin affections. Is that it?"
"I mean——"
"Oh, you have made your meaning quite clear, I assure you!" interrupted Cyril. "But what you have been saying is sheer nonsense. You have been calling me to account for things that have not happened, and blaming me for what I have not done. She is not being dragged through the divorce court, and I see no reason to suppose that she ever will be. I am not trying to force her to marry me, and can promise that I shall never do so. Far from taking advantage of the situation, I assure you my conduct has been most circumspect. Don't cross a bridge till you get to it, and don't accuse a man of being a cad just because—" Cyril paused abruptly and looked at Guy, and as he did so, his expression slowly relaxed till he finally smiled indulgently—"just because a certain lady is very charming," he added.
But Guy was not to be pacified. He would neither retract nor modify his ultimatum. He knew, of course, that Cyril would not dare to write the girl; for if the letter miscarried or was found by the police, it might be fatal to both.
But while they were still heatedly debating the question, a way suddenly occurred to Cyril by which he could communicate with her with absolute safety. So he waited placidly for Guy to take himself off, which he eventually did, visibly elated at having, as he thought, effectually put a stop to further intercourse between the two. He had hardly left the club, however, before Cyril was talking to Priscilla over the telephone! He explained to her as best he could that he had been called out of town for a few days, and begged her on no account to leave her apartments till he returned. He also tried to impress on her that she had better talk about him as little as possible and above all things not to mention either to Campbell or Miss Trevor that she had heard from him and expected to see him before long.
It cost Cyril a tremendous effort to restrict himself to necessary instructions and polite inquiries, especially as she kept begging him to come back to her as soon as possible. Finally he could bear the strain no longer, and in the middle of a sentence he resolutely hung up the receiver.
When Cyril arrived in Newhaven that evening, he was unpleasantly surprised to find, as he got out of the train, that Judson had been travelling in the adjoining compartment. Had the man been following him, or was it simply chance that had brought them together, he wondered. Oh! If he could only get rid of the fellow!
"You have come to see me, I suppose," he remarked ungraciously.
"Yes, my lord."
"Very well, then, get into the car."
Cyril was in no mood to talk, so the first part of the way was accomplished in silence, but at last, thinking that he might as well hear what the man had to say, he turned to him and asked:
"Have you found out anything of any importance?"
"I fancy so, my lord."
"Really! Well, what is it?"
"If you will excuse me, my lord, I should suggest that we wait till we get to the castle," replied Judson, casting a meaning look at the chauffeur's back.
"Just as you please." His contempt for Judson was so great that Cyril was not very curious to hear his revelations.
"Now," said Cyril, as he flung himself into a low chair before the library fire, "what have you to tell me?"
Before answering Judson peered cautiously around; then, drawing forward a straight-backed chair, he seated himself close to Cyril and folded his hands in his lap.
"In dealing with my clients," he began, "I make it a rule instead of simply stating the results of my work to show them how I arrive at my conclusions. Having submitted to them all the facts I have collected, they are able to judge for themselves as to the value of the evidence on which my deductions are based. And so, my lord, I should like to go over the whole case with you from the very beginning."
Cyril gave a grunt which Judson evidently construed into an assent, for he continued even more glibly:
"The first point I considered was, whether her Ladyship had premeditated her escape. But in order to determine this, we must first decide whom she could have got to help her to accomplish such a purpose. The most careful inquiry has failed to reveal any one who would have been both willing and able to do so, except the sempstress, and as both mistress and maid disappeared almost simultaneously, one's first impulse is to take it for granted that Prentice was her Ladyship's accomplice. This is what every one, Scotland Yard included, believes."
"And you do not?"
"Before either accepting or rejecting this theory, I decided to visit this girl's home. I did not feel clear in my mind about her. All the servants were impressed by her manner and personality, the butler especially so, and he more than hinted that there must be some mystery attached to her. One of the things that stimulated their curiosity was that she kept up a daily correspondence with some one in Plumtree. On reaching the village I called at once on the vicar. He is an elderly man, much respected and beloved by his parishioners. I found him in a state of great excitement, having just read in the paper of Prentice's disappearance. I had no difficulty in inducing him to tell me the main facts of her history; the rest I picked up from the village gossips. The girl is a foundling. And till she came to Geralton she was an inmate of the vicar's household. He told me that he would have adopted her, but knowing that he had not sufficient means to provide for her future, he wisely refrained from educating her above her station. Nevertheless, I gathered that the privilege of his frequent companionship had refined her speech and manners, and I am told that she now could pass muster in any drawing-room."
"Did she ever learn French?" interrupted Cyril, eagerly.
"Not that I know of, and I do not believe the vicar would have taught her an accomplishment so useless to one in her position."
"Did she ever go to France?"
"Never. But, why do you ask?"
"No matter—I—but go on with your story."
"Owing partly to the mystery which surrounded her birth and gave rise to all sorts of rumours, and partly to her own personality, the gentry of the neighbourhood made quite a pet of her. As a child she was asked occasionally to play with the Squire's crippled daughter and later she used to go to the Hall three times a week to read aloud to her. So, notwithstanding the vicar's good intentions, she grew up to be neither 'fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red herring.' Now all went well till about a year ago, when the Squire's eldest son returned home and fell in love with her. His people naturally opposed the match and, as he is entirely dependent upon them, there seemed no possibility of his marrying her. The girl appeared broken-hearted, and when she came to the castle, every one, the vicar included, thought the affair at an end. I am sure, however, that such was not the case, for as no one at the vicarage wrote to her daily, the letters she received must have come from her young man. Furthermore, she told the servants that she had a cousin in Newhaven, but as she has not a relative in the world, this is obviously a falsehood. Who, then, is this mysterious person she visited? It seems to me almost certain that it was her lover."
"Possibly," agreed Cyril. "But I don't quite see what you are trying to prove by all this. If Prentice did not help her Ladyship to escape, who did?"
"I have not said that Prentice is not a factor in the case, only I believe her part to have been a very subordinate one. Of one thing, however, I am sure, and that is that she did not return to Geralton on the night of the murder."
"How can you be sure of that?" demanded Cyril.
"Because she asked for permission early in the morning to spend the night in Newhaven and had already left the castle before the doctors' visit terminated. Now, although I think it probable that her Ladyship may for a long time have entertained the idea of leaving Geralton, yet I believe that it was the doctors' visit that gave the necessary impetus to convert her idle longing into definite action. Therefore I conclude that Prentice could have had no knowledge of her mistress's sudden flight."
"But how can you know that the whole thing had not been carefully premeditated?"
"Because her Ladyship showed such agitation and distress at hearing the doctors' verdict. If her plans for leaving the castle had been completed, she would have accepted the situation more calmly."
"Has nothing been heard of these doctors?"
"Nothing. We have been able to trace them only as far as London. They could not have been reputable physicians or they would have answered our advertisements, and so I am inclined to believe that you were right and that it was his Lordship who spread the rumours of her Ladyship's insanity."
"I am sure of it," said Cyril.
"Very good. Assuming, therefore, that Lady Wilmersley is sane, we will proceed to draw logical inferences from her actions." Judson paused a moment before continuing: "Now I am convinced that the only connection Prentice had with the affair was to procure some clothes for her mistress, and these had probably been sometime in the latter's possession."
"H'm!" ejaculated Cyril sceptically. "I think it would have been pretty difficult to have concealed anything from that maid of hers."
"Difficult, I grant you, but not impossible, my lord."
"But if Prentice had no knowledge of the tragedy, why did she not return to the castle? What has become of her? Why have the police been unable to find her?"
"I believe that she joined her lover and that they are together on the continent, for in Plumtree I was told that the young man had recently gone to Paris. As I am sure that she knows nothing of any importance, I thought it useless to waste time and money trying to discover their exact locality. That the police have not succeeded in finding her, I ascribe to the fact that they are looking for a young woman who left Newhaven after and not before the murder."
"You think she left before?"
"Yes, and I have two reasons for this supposition. First, I can discover no place where he or she, either separately or together, could have spent the night. Secondly, if they had left Newhaven the following morning or in fact at any time after the murder, they would certainly have been apprehended, as all the boats and trains were most carefully watched."
"But no one knew of her disappearance till twenty-four hours later, and during that interval she could easily have got away unobserved."
"No, my lord, there you are mistaken. From the moment that the police were notified that a crime had been committed, every one, especially every woman, who left Newhaven was most attentively scrutinised."
"You are certain that Prentice could not have left Newhaven unnoticed, yet her Ladyship managed to do so! How do you account for that?"
The detective paused a moment and looked fixedly at Cyril.
"Her Ladyship had a very powerful protector, my lord," he finally said.
"A protector! Who?"
Again the detective did not reply immediately.
"It's no use beating about the bush, my lord, I know everything."
"Well then, out with it," cried Cyril impatiently. "What are you hesitating for? Have you found her Ladyship or have you not?"
"I have, my lord."
"You have! Then why on earth didn't you tell me at once? Where is she?" cried Cyril.
There was a pause during which the detective regarded Cyril through narrowed lids.
"She is at present at the nursing home of Dr. Stuart-Smith," he said at last.
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Cyril, sinking back into his chair and negligently lighting another cigarette. "I thought you had discovered something. You mean my wife, Lady Wilmersley——"
"Pardon me for interrupting you, my lord. I don't make mistakes like that. I repeat, the Dowager Lady Wilmersley is under the care of Dr. Smith."
The man's tone was so assured that Cyril was staggered for a moment.
"It isn't true," he asserted angrily.
"Is it possible that you really do not know who the lady is that you rescued that day from the police?" exclaimed the detective, startled out of his habitual impassivity.
"I confess that I do not. But of one thing I am sure, and that is that she is not the person you suppose."
"Well, my lord, I must say that you have surprised me. Yet I ought to have guessed it. It was stupid of me, very."
"I tell you that you are on the wrong track. Lady Wilmersley has golden hair. Well, this lady's hair is black."
"She has dyed it."
"She has not, for it has turned completely white," exclaimed Cyril, triumphantly.
"Did she tell you so?"
"Yes."
"Her Ladyship is cleverer than I supposed," remarked the detective with a pitying smile.
"I am not such a fool as you seem to think," retorted Cyril. "And I can assure you that the lady in question is incapable of deception."
"All I can say is, my lord, that I am absolutely sure of her Ladyship's identity and that you yourself gave me the clue to her whereabouts."
"I—how?"
"I of course noticed that when you heard her Ladyship had golden hair, you were not only extremely surprised but also very much relieved. I at once asked myself why such an apparently trivial matter should have so great and so peculiar an effect on you. As you had never seen her Ladyship, I argued that you must that very day have met some one you had reason to suppose to be Lady Wilmersley and that this person had dark hair. By following your movements from the time you landed I found that the only woman with whom you had come in contact was a young lady who had joined you in Newhaven, and that she answered to the description of Lady Wilmersley in every particular, with the sole exception that she had dark hair! I was, however, told that you had said that she was your wife and had produced a passport to prove it. Now I had heard from your valet that her Ladyship was still in France, so you can hardly blame me for doubting the correctness of your statement. But in order to make assurance doubly sure, I sent one of my men to the continent. He reported that her Ladyship had for some months been a patient at Charleroi, but had recently escaped from there, and that you are still employing detectives to find her."
"I did not engage you to pry into my affairs," exclaimed Cyril savagely.
"Nor have I exceeded my duty as I conceive it," retorted the detective. "As your Lordship refused to honour me with your confidence, I had to find out the facts by other means; and you must surely realise that without facts it is impossible for me to construct a theory, and till I can do that my work is practically valueless."
"But my wife has nothing to do with the case."
"Quite so, my lord, but a lady who claimed to be her Ladyship is intimately concerned with it."
"I repeat that is all nonsense."
"If your Lordship will listen to me, I think I can prove to you that as far as the lady's identity is concerned, I have made no mistake. But to do this convincingly, I must reconstruct the tragedy as I conceive that it happened."
"Go ahead; I don't mind hearing your theory."
"First, I must ask you to take it for granted that I am right in believing that Prentice was ignorant of her Ladyship's flight."
"I will admit that much," agreed Cyril.
"Thank you, my lord. Now let us try and imagine exactly what was her Ladyship's position on the night of the murder. Her first care must have been to devise some means of eluding his Lordship's vigilance. This was a difficult problem, for Mustapha tells me that his Lordship was not only a very light sleeper but that he suffered from chronic insomnia. You may or may not know that his Lordship had long been addicted to the opium habit and would sometimes for days together lie in a stupor. Large quantities of the drug were found in his room and that explains how her Ladyship managed to get hold of the opium with which she doctored his Lordship's coffee."
"This is, however, mere supposition on your part," objected Cyril.
"Not at all, my lord. I had the sediment of the two cups analysed and the chemist found that one of them contained a small quantity of opium. Her Ladyship, being practically ignorant as to the exact nature of the drug and of the effect it would have on a man who was saturated with it, gave his Lordship too small a dose. Nevertheless, he became immediately stupefied."
"Now, how on earth can you know that?"
"Very easily, my lord. If his Lordship had not been rendered at once unconscious, he would—knowing that an attempt had been made to drug him—have sounded the alarm and deputed Mustapha to guard her Ladyship, which was what he always did when he knew that he was not equal to the task."
"Well, that sounds plausible, at all events," acknowledged Cyril.
"As soon as her Ladyship knew that she was no longer watched," continued the detective, "she at once set to work to disguise herself. As we know, she had provided herself with clothes, but I fancy her hair, her most noticeable feature, must have caused her some anxious moments."
"She may have worn a wig," suggested Cyril, hoping that Judson would accept this explanation of the difficulty, in which case he would be able triumphantly to demolish the latter's theory of the girl's identity, by stating that he could positively swear that her hair was her own.
"No, my lord. After carefully investigating the matter I have come to the conclusion that she did not. And my reasons are, first, that no hairdresser in Newhaven has lately sold a dark wig to any one, and, secondly, that no parcel arrived, addressed either to her Ladyship or to Prentice, which could have contained such an article. On the other hand, as his Lordship had for years dyed his hair and beard, her Ladyship had only to go into his dressing-room to procure a very simple means of transforming herself."
"But doesn't it take ages to dye hair?" asked Cyril.
"If it is done properly, yes; but the sort of stain his Lordship used can be very quickly applied. I do not believe it took her Ladyship more than half an hour to dye enough of her hair to escape notice, but in all probability she had no time to do it very thoroughly and that which escaped may have turned white. I don't know anything about that."
This was a possibility which had not occurred to Cyril; but still he refused to be convinced.
"Very well, my lord. Let me continue my story: Before her Ladyship had completed her preparations, his Lordship awoke from his stupor."
"What makes you think that?"
"Because, if his Lordship had not tried to prevent her escape, she would have had no reason for killing him. Probably they had a struggle, her hand fell on the pistol, and the deed was done——"
"But what about the ruined picture?"
"Her Ladyship, knowing that there was no other portrait of her in existence, destroyed it in order to make it difficult for the police to follow her."
"H'm," grunted Cyril. "You make her Ladyship out a nice, cold-blooded, calculating sort of person. If you think she at all resembles the young lady at the nursing home, I can only tell you that you are vastly mistaken."
"As I have not the honour of knowing the lady in question, I cannot form any opinion as to that. But let us continue: I wish to confess at once that I am not at all sure how her Ladyship reached Newhaven. That waiting automobile complicates matters. On the face of it, it seems as if it must have some connection with the case. I have also a feeling that it has, and yet for the life of me I cannot discover the connecting link. Whatever the younger man was, the elder was undoubtedly a Frenchman, and I have ascertained that with the exception of an old French governess, who lived with her Ladyship before her marriage, and of Mustapha and Valdriguez, Lady Wilmersley knew no foreigner whatever. Besides, these two men seem to have been motoring about the country almost at random, and it may have been the merest accident which brought them to the foot of the long lane just at the time when her Ladyship was in all probability leaving the castle. Whether they gave her a lift as far as Newhaven, I do not know. How her Ladyship reached the town constitutes the only serious—I will not call it break—but hiatus—in my theory. From half-past six the next morning, however, her movements can be easily followed. A young lady, dressed as you know, approached the station with obvious nervousness. Three things attracted the attention of the officials: first, the discrepancy between the simplicity, I might almost say the poverty, of her clothes, and the fact that she purchased a first-class ticket; secondly, that she did not wish her features to be seen; and thirdly, that she had no luggage except a small hand-bag. How her Ladyship managed to elude the police, and what has subsequently occurred to her, I do not need to tell your Lordship."
"You haven't in the least convinced me that the young lady is her Ladyship, not in the least. You yourself admit that there is a hiatus in your story; well, that hiatus is to me a gulf which you have failed to bridge. Because one lady disappears from Geralton and another appears the next morning in Newhaven, you insist the two are identical. But you have not offered me one iota of proof that such is the case."
"What more proof do you want? She is the only person who left Newhaven by train or boat who even vaguely resembled her Ladyship."
"That means nothing. Her Ladyship may not have come to Newhaven at all, but have been driven to some hiding-place in the Frenchman's car."
"I think that quite impossible, for every house, every cottage, every stable and barn even, for twenty-five miles around, has been carefully searched. Besides, this would mean that the murder had been premeditated and the coming of the motor had been pre-arranged; and lastly, as the gardener's wife testifies that the car left Geralton certainly no earlier than eleven-thirty, and as the two men reached the hotel before twelve, this precludes the possibility that they could have done more than drive straight back to the Inn, as the motor is by no means a fast one."
"But, my man, they may have secreted her Ladyship in the town itself and have taken her with them to France the next morning."
"Impossible. In the first place, they left alone, the porter saw them off; and secondly, no one except the two Frenchmen purchased a ticket for the continent either in the Newhaven office or on the boat."
Cyril rose from his seat. Judson's logic was horribly convincing; no smallest detail had apparently escaped him. As the man piled argument on argument, he had found himself slowly and grudgingly accepting his conclusions.
"As you are in my employ, I take it for granted that you will not inform the police or the press of your—suspicions," he said at last.
"Certainly not, my lord. On the other hand, I must ask you to allow me to withdraw from the case."
"But why?" exclaimed Cyril.
"Because my duty to you, as my client, prevents me from taking any further steps in this matter."
"I don't understand you!"
"I gather that you are less anxious to clear up the mystery than to protect her Ladyship. Am I not right?"
"Yes," acknowledged Cyril.
"You would even wish me to assist you in providing a safe retreat for her."
"Exactly."
"Well, my lord, that is just what I cannot do. It is my duty, as I conceive it, to hold my tongue, but I should not feel justified in aiding her Ladyship to escape the consequences of her—her—action. In order to be faithful to my engagement to you, I am willing to let the public believe that I have made a failure of the case. I shall not even allow my imagination to dwell on your future movements, but more than that I cannot do."
"You take the position that her Ladyship is an ordinary criminal, but you must realise that that is absurd. Even granting that she is responsible for her husband's death—of which, by the way, we have no absolute proof—are you not able to make allowances for a poor woman goaded to desperation by an opium fiend?"
"I do not constitute myself her Ladyship's judge, but I don't think your Lordship quite realises all that you are asking of me. Even if I were willing to waive the question of my professional honour, I should still decline to undertake a task which, I know, is foredoomed to failure. For, if I discovered Lady Wilmersley with so little difficulty, Scotland Yard is bound to do so before long. The trail is too unmistakable. It is impossible—absolutely impossible, I assure you, that the secret can be kept."
Cyril moved uneasily.
"I wish I could convince your Lordship of this and induce you to allow the law to take its course. Her Ladyship ought to come forward at once and plead justifiable homicide. If she waits till she is arrested, it will tell heavily against her."
"But she is ill, really ill," insisted Cyril. "Dr. Stuart-Smith tells me that if she is not kept perfectly quiet for the next few weeks, her nervous system may never recover from the shock."
"H'm! That certainly complicates the situation; on the other hand, you must remember that discovery is not only inevitable but imminent, and that the police will not stop to consider her Ladyship's nervous system. No, my lord, the only thing for you to do is to break the news to her yourself and to persuade her to give herself up. If you don't, you will both live to regret it."
"That may be so," replied Cyril after a minute's hesitation, "but in this matter I must judge for myself. I still hope that you are wrong and that either the young woman in question is not Lady Wilmersley or that it was not her Ladyship who killed my cousin, and I refuse to jeopardise her life till I am sure that there is no possibility of your having made a mistake. But don't throw up the case yet. So far you have only sought for evidence which would strengthen your theory of her Ladyship's guilt, now I want you to look at the case from a fresh point of view. I want you to start all over again and to work on the assumption that her Ladyship did not fire the shot. I cannot accept your conclusion as final till we have exhausted every other possibility. These Frenchmen, for instance, have they or have they not a connection with the case? And then there is Valdriguez. Why have you never suspected her? At the inquest she acknowledged that no one had seen her leave her Ladyship's apartments and we have only her word for it that she spent the evening in her room."
"True. But, if I went on the principle of suspecting every one who cannot prove themselves innocent, I should soon be lost in a quagmire of barren conjectures. Of course, I have considered Valdriguez, but I can find no reason for suspecting her."
"Well, I could give you a dozen reasons."
"Indeed, my lord, and what are they?"
"In the first place, we know that she is a hard, unprincipled woman, or she would never have consented to aid my cousin in depriving his unfortunate wife of her liberty. A woman who would do that, is capable of any villainy. Then, on the witness-stand didn't you feel that she was holding something back? Oh, I forgot you were not present at the inquest."
"I was there, my lord, but I took good care that no one should recognise me."
"Well, and what impression did she make on you?"
"A fairly favourable one, my lord. I think she spoke the truth and I fancy that she is almost a religious fanatic."
"You don't mean to say, Judson, that you allowed yourself to be taken in by her sanctimonious airs and the theatrical way that she kept clutching at that cross on her breast? A religious fanatic indeed! Why, don't you see that no woman with a spark of religion in her could have allowed her mistress to be treated as Lady Wilmersley was?"
"Quite so, my lord, and it is because Valdriguez impressed me as an honest old creature that I am still doubtful whether her Ladyship is insane or not, and this uncertainty hampers me very much in my work."
"Lady Upton assured me that her granddaughter's mind had never been unbalanced and that his Lordship, although he frequently wrote to her, had never so much as hinted at such a thing; and if you believe the young lady at the nursing home to be Lady Wilmersley, I give you my word that she shows no sign of mental derangement."
"Well, that seems pretty final, and yet—and yet—I cannot believe that Valdriguez is a vicious woman. A man in my profession acquires a curious instinct in such matters, my lord." The detective paused a moment and when he began again, he spoke almost as if he were reasoning with himself. "Now, if my estimate of Valdriguez is correct, and if it is also a fact that Lady Wilmersley has never been insane, there are certainly possibilities connected with this affair which I have by no means exhausted—and so, my lord, I am not only willing but anxious to continue on the case, if you will agree to allow me to ignore her Ladyship's existence."
"Certainly. But tell me, Judson, how can you hope to reconcile two such absolutely contradictory facts?"
"Two such apparently contradictory facts," gently corrected the detective. "Well, my lord, I propose to find out more of this woman's antecedents. I have several times tried to get her to talk, but so far without the least success. She says that she will answer any question put to her on the witness-stand, but that it is against her principles to gossip about her late master and mistress. She is equally reticent as to her past life and when I told her that her silence seemed to me very suspicious, she demanded—suspicious of what? She went on to say that she could not see that it was anybody's business, where she lived or what she had done, and that she had certainly no intention of gratifying my idle curiosity; and that was the last word I could get out of her. Although she treated me so cavalierly, I confess to a good deal of sympathy with her attitude."
"Have you questioned Mrs. Eversley about her?" asked Cyril. "She was housekeeper here when Valdriguez first came to Geralton and ought to be able to tell you what sort of person she was in her youth."
"Mrs. Eversley speaks well of her. The only thing she told me which may have a bearing on the case is, that in the old days his Lordship appeared to admire Valdriguez very much."
"Ah! I thought so," cried Cyril.
"But we cannot be too sure of this, my lord. For when I tried to find out what grounds she had for her statement, she had so little proof to offer that I cannot accept her impression as conclusive evidence. As far as I can make out, the gossip about them was started by his Lordship going to the Catholic church in Newhaven."
"By going to the Catholic church!" exclaimed Cyril.
"Exactly. Not a very compromising act on his Lordship's part, one would think. But as his Lordship was not a Catholic, his doing so naturally aroused a good deal of comment. At first the neighbourhood feared that he had been converted by his mother, who had often lamented that she had not been allowed to bring up her son in her own faith. It was soon noticed, however, that whenever his Lordship attended a popish service, his mother's pretty maid was invariably present, and so people began to put two and two together and before long it was universally assumed that she was the magnet which had drawn him away from his own church. I asked Mrs. Eversley if they had been seen together elsewhere, and she reluctantly admitted that they had. On several occasions they were seen walking in the Park but always, so Mrs. Eversley assured me, in full view of the castle. She had felt it her duty to speak to Valdriguez on the subject, and the latter told her that his Lordship was interested in her religion and that she was willing to run the risk of having her conduct misconstrued if she could save his soul from eternal damnation. She also gave Mrs. Eversley to understand that she had her mistress's sanction, and as her Ladyship treated Valdriguez more as a companion and friend than as a maid, Mrs. Eversley thought this quite likely and did not venture to remonstrate further. So the intimacy, if such it could be called, continued as before. What the outcome of this state of things would have been we do not know, for shortly afterwards both Lord and Lady Wilmersley died and Valdriguez left Geralton. When his Lordship went away a few weeks later, a good many people suspected that he had joined her on the continent. Mrs. Eversley, however, does not believe this. She has the most absolute confidence in Valdriguez's virtue, and I think her testimony is pretty reliable."
"Bah! Mrs. Eversley is an honest, simple old soul. A clever adventuress would have little difficulty in hoodwinking her. Mark my words, you have found the key to the mystery. What more likely than that his Lordship—whose morals, even as a boy, were none of the best—seduced Valdriguez and that she returned to Geralton so as to have the opportunity of avenging her wrongs."
"I can think of nothing more unlikely than that his Lordship should have selected his cast-off mistress as his wife's attendant," Judson drily remarked.
"Not at all. You didn't know him," replied Cyril. "I can quite fancy that the situation would have appealed to his cynical humour."
"Your opinion of the late Lord Wilmersley is certainly not flattering, but even if we take for granted that such an arrangement would not have been impossible to his Lordship, I still refuse to believe that Valdriguez would have agreed to it; even assuming that his Lordship had wronged her and that she had nursed a murderous resentment against him all these years, I cannot see how she could have hoped to further her object by accepting the humiliating position of his wife's maid. It also seems to me incredible that a woman whose passions were so violent as to find expression in murder could have controlled them during a lifetime. But leaving aside these considerations, I have another reason to urge against your theory: Would his Lordship have trusted a woman who, he knew, had a grievance against him, as he certainly trusted Valdriguez? She had free access to his apartments. What was there to have prevented her from giving him an overdose of some drug during one of the many times when he was half-stupefied with opium? Nothing. The risk of detection would have been infinitesimal. No, my lord, why Valdriguez returned to Geralton is an enigma, I grant you, but your explanation does not satisfy me."
"As long as you acknowledge that Valdriguez's presence here needs an explanation and are willing to work to find that explanation, I don't care whether you accept my theory or not; all I want to get at is the truth."
"The truth, my lord," said the detective, as he rose to take his leave, "is often more praised than appreciated."
As Cyril sat toying with his dinner, it was little by little borne in on him that the butler had something on his mind. How he got this impression he really did not know, for Douglas performed his duties as precisely, as unobtrusively as ever. Yet long before the last course had been reached, Cyril was morally certain that he had not been mistaken. He waited for the dessert to be placed on the table; then, having motioned the footmen to leave the room, he half turned to the butler, who was standing behind his chair.
"Douglas."
"Yes, my lord?" The man stepped forward, so as to face his master.
"Is anything the matter?" asked Cyril, scrutinising the other attentively.
The abrupt question seemed neither to surprise nor to discompose the butler; yet he hesitated before finally answering:
"I—I don't quite know, my lord."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Cyril impatiently. "You must know whether or not something has happened to upset you."
Douglas fidgeted uneasily.
"Well, my lord—it's this way, my lord—Susan, the upper 'ousemaid, says as how there has been somebody or—" here his voice sank to a whisper and he cast an apprehensive glance over his shoulder—"or something in the library last night!"
Cyril put down the glass of wine he was carrying to his lips untasted.
"She thinks she saw a ghost in the library?"
"No, my lord. She didn't see anything, but this morning she found finger-marks on the top of his Lordship's desk."
"Pooh! What of that? One of the servants may have gone in there out of curiosity."
"But what would anybody be doing there in the night, I should like to know? And Susan says those marks could only 'ave been made last night, my lord."
"Why?"
"On account of the dust, my lord. It takes time for dust to settle and a 'ousemaid, who knows 'er business, can tell, after she's been in a place a couple of months, just about 'ow long it's been since any particular piece of furniture has been dusted. Aye, Susan knows, my lord. No young 'ousemaid can pull the wool over 'er eyes, I can tell you."
"Does every one know of Susan's suspicions?"
"No, my lord. Susan's a sensible woman, and though she was frightened something terrible, she only told Mrs. Eversley and Mrs. Eversley told me and we three agreed we'd hold our tongues. Every one's that upset as it is, that they'd all 'ave 'ighstrikes if they knew that It was walking."
"Don't be a fool, Douglas. No one believes in ghosts nowadays. But even if there were such things, an intangible spirit couldn't possibly leave finger-marks behind it."
"But, my lord, if you'll excuse me, my aunt's cousin—" began the butler, but Cyril cut him short.
"I have no time now to hear about your aunt's cousin, though no doubt it is a most interesting story. Send Susan to me at once."
"Very good, my lord."
Susan had, however, no further information to impart. She was positive that the marks must have been made some time during the night.
"And it's my belief they were made by a skeleton hand," she added. "And as for going into that room again, indeed I just couldn't, not for nobody, meaning no disrespect to your Lordship; and as for the other 'ousemaids, they'll not go near the place either and haven't been since the murder."
"Very well, Susan, I shall not ask you to do so. Those rooms shall not be opened again till this mystery is cleared up. I will go now and lock them up myself."
"Thank you, my lord."
Striding rapidly across the hall, Cyril opened the door of the library. This part of the castle had been equipped with electric light and steam heat, and as he stepped into the darkness, the heavy-scented air almost made him reel. Having found the switch, he noticed at once that the room had indefinably changed since he had been in it last. Notwithstanding the heat, notwithstanding the flood of crimson light, which permeated even the farthest corners, it had already assumed the chill, gloomy aspect of an abandoned apartment.
Stooping over the desk, he eagerly inspected the marks which had so startled the housemaid. Yes, they were still quite visible, although a delicate film of dust had already begun to soften the precision of their outline—very strange! They certainly did look like the imprint of skeleton fingers. He laid his own hand on the desk. His fingers left a mark at least twice as wide as those of the mysterious visitant.
For a long time he stood with bent head pondering deeply; then, throwing back his shoulders, as if he had arrived at some decision, he proceeded to explore the entire suite. Having satisfied himself that no one was secreted on the premises, he turned off the light, shut the door—but he did not turn the key.
Some hours later Cyril, in his great four-posted bed, lay watching, with wide-open eyes, the fantastic shadows thrown by the dancing firelight on the panelled walls. To woo sleep was evidently not his intention, for from time to time he lighted a wax vesta and consulted the watch he held in his hand. At last the hour seemed to satisfy him, for he got out of bed and made a hasty toilet. Having accomplished this as best he could in the semi-obscurity, he slipped a pistol into his pocket and left his room.
Groping his way through the darkness, he descended the stairs and cautiously traversed the hall. Not a sound did he make. His stockinged feet moved noiselessly over the heavy carpet. At the door of the library he paused a moment and listened intently; then, pistol in hand, he threw open the door. Darkness and silence alone confronted him. Closing the door behind him, he lighted a match and carefully inspected the desk. Having assured himself that no fresh marks had appeared on its polished surface, he blew out the match and ensconced himself as comfortably as the limited space permitted behind the curtains of one of the windows. There he waited patiently for what seemed to him an eternity. He had just begun to fear that his vigil would prove fruitless, when his ear was gladdened by a slight sound. A moment later the light was switched on. Hardly daring to breathe, Cyril peered through the curtains. Valdriguez! Cyril's heart gave a bound of exultation. Had he not guessed that those marks could only have been made by her small, bony fingers?
Clad like a nun in a loose, black garment, which fell in straight, austere folds to her feet; a black shawl, thrown over her head, casting strange shadows on her pale, haggard face, she advanced slowly, almost majestically, into the room. Cyril had to acknowledge that she looked more like a medieval saint than a midnight marauder.
Evidently the woman had no fear of detection, for she never even cast one suspicious glance around her; nor did she appear to feel that there was any necessity for haste, for she lingered for some time near the writing-table, gazing at it, as if it had a fascination for her; but, finally, she turned away with a hopeless sigh and directed her attention to the bookcase. This she proceeded to examine in the most methodical manner. Book after book was taken down, shaken, and the binding carefully scrutinised. Having cleared a shelf, she drew a tape measure from her pocket and rapped and measured the back and sides of the case itself.
What on earth could she be looking for, wondered Cyril. Not a will, surely? For his cousin's will, executed at the date of his marriage, had been found safely deposited with his solicitor. A later will, perhaps? One in which she hoped that her master had remembered her, as he had probably promised her that he would? Yes, that must be it.
Well, there was no further need of concealment, he decided, so, parting the curtains, he stepped into the room.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
His own voice startled him, it rang out so loud and harsh in the silence of the night.
Valdriguez knelt on the floor with her back to him, and it seemed as if the sudden shock had paralysed her, for she made no effort to move, and her hand, arrested in the act of replacing a book, remained outstretched, as if it had been turned to stone.
"It is I, your master. What are you doing here?" he repeated.
He saw her shudder convulsively, then slowly she raised her head, and as her great, tragic eyes met his, Cyril was conscious of a revulsion of feeling toward her. Never had he seen anything so hopeless yet so undaunted as the look she gave him. It reminded him, curiously enough, of a look he had once seen in the eyes of a lioness, who, with a bullet through her heart, still fought to protect her young.
Staggering a little as she rose, Valdriguez nevertheless managed to draw herself up to her full height.
"I am here, my lord, to get what is mine—mine," she repeated almost fiercely.