The distance between the door of Cheyne Court and the end of the lane, whence the sounds appeared to issue, was by no means a short one, but at the first sound of Dollops's voice the four men sped down the centre of the dark drive and round the corner, the bull's-eye lantern of Constable Roberts sending a brilliant path of light before them.
Close to the identical spot, where earlier in the evening Constable Roberts had had his helmet pushed down over his eyes by an unseen assailant, two figures struggled together. One was vainly endeavouring to free herself from the clutches of her captor, the other was intent on bringing her to the ground. Scattered all about were the drawings and paraphernalia with which Dollops had evidently been carrying out his usual proceedings. The light of the lantern and Cleek's electric torch revealed his prisoner to be a slim, fair-haired girl of about three and twenty, clad in a soft white gown now sadly soiled and torn by the rough usage she had undergone, while over her shoulders was hanging a crumpled but unmistakable gold scarf.
It hardly needed the doctor's startled exclamation, "Jennifer!" to tell the detective that this was indeed the girl of whom he had spoken, for even from that distance there emanated the sweet fragrance of jasmine. There before him was the girl the host at the Hampton Arms had gossiped about, and who was a bitter rival of Lady Margaret Cheyne for the love of Sir Edgar Brenton.
"Why, Doctor!" she said bravely. "This is a lucky meeting. Who and what is this disgusting individual? I was just taking a little stroll, when I was seized hold of and dragged along like a sack of coals, or a criminal on the way to the police-station."
Cleek noted her voice and tone, and stood watching her. He said nothing, however, merely removed the pressure of his thumb from the controlling button of his torch, slipped that useful article into his pocket, and busied himself with picking up Dollops' papers on which he had obviously been taking measurements of footprints.
"Here you, whoever you are, just keep your 'ands off my papers," snapped Dollops with a wink at the Superintendent which passed unnoticed by that irate individual. "I say, Mr. Narkom sir, don't let that new man take off my papers, and don't you be took in neither, sir," he added, earnestly. "I didn't do the young person no 'arm, but she wasn't up to no good a creeping and watching in the dark."
"Well, you can take it from me, sir," interposed Dr. Verrall, heatedly, "this lady is a personal friend of mine, and had a perfect right to be strolling down the lane. She was probably on her way home from Lady Brenton's; were you not, Miss Wynne?"
"Yes, yes, that's just where I had been," the girl answered, her dark eyes flashing gratefully at the doctor, "but I refuse to say another word till you send away this enterprising youth who has bruised my arms nearly black and blue."
"Certainly, Miss Wynne," said Mr. Narkom. "Dollops, get along back to the station."
"But, sir, Mr. Narkom——"
"Not another word: do as I say."
Dollops gave a swift glance at Cleek's impassive face, then sullenly picked up his papers, the bundle of famous "tickle-tootsies" without which he never budged when on a case, and lounged away into the shadows of the trees.
"We are anxious to get on with a very important task, Miss Jennifer," said the Superintendent. "A very horrible deed has been committed within the last few hours, and I and my friend and ally——"
"Mr. George Headland," interjected that gentleman, blandly. While appearing to have been absorbed in dispatching Dollops, Cleek had been quietly taking in every detail relative to the girl's appearance, and had decided off-hand that he liked the look of her, despite her suspicious behaviour. She was just the type of womanhood that to connect with such a thing as murder was simply impossible. "Surely, Mr. Narkom, it is hardly necessary to explain if the details are already known. Perhaps Miss Jennifer had come down to learn any fresh news?"
"That is just what I have done," she said, gratefully, a note of agitation sounding in her rich voice, despite an effort to keep it calm. "I was just going for a stroll. I had a splitting headache, and only a good walk in the open air ever does it any good. All at once I met Constable Roberts. I stopped him and he told me dear Miss Cheyne had been murdered. Of course I did not want to be caught, and I was just trying to get back home when that young beggar set on me, mistaking me, I suppose, for an accomplice."
"Well, it's very deplorable," put in Cleek, mildly, "but you see, miss, he'd been told to arrest anybody who came along, and under the circumstances——" His voice trailed off into silence and the rest of the sentence went by default.
Miss Wynne nodded her head vigorously.
"Yes, yes, I suppose so; still, it has all been a mistake and now I think I had better be going home. You will be suspecting me of the actual murder next.
"Nonsense, Miss Jennifer, we might as well suspect Lady Brenton, or Sir Edgar, for that matter."
"Why, yes, indeed," said the girl, quickly. "But as Lady Brenton was confined to her room, also with a headache, and Sir Edgar is not expected back till the morning, I think we are all quite safe."
The curious one-sided smile moved up Cleek's left cheek, then vanished as quickly as it had come.
"Quite so, Miss Jennifer," he said, blandly. "Besides, it is not with women we are concerned but the owner of this revolver that we found on the spot——"
She saw the revolver and whirled upon him like a mad woman.
"My God! He did lea—Edgar—he said it had been stolen!"
Realizing the effect of her words, she then turned fiercely on them. "If you dare to suspect Edgar, you are wrong. He was never within miles of the place! You shan't drag him into this wretched mess, you shan't, I say, you shan't——"
"Calm yourself, my dear young lady; there is every proof of its being a woman as much as a man," put in Cleek gently.
"You are absolutely sure you have no knowledge of the murder, no suspicion?"
For the briefest second she seemed to hesitate. Then she spoke hysterically:
"Why should I? I shouldn't have come if Roberts had not told me it was Miss Cheyne."
"There is no more to be said, then," returned Cleek. "We will all say good-night, and perhaps you will let one of us see you home."
"I will take Miss Jennifer back, myself," responded the doctor with a pathetic alacrity which Cleek noted, and with a last good-night the two turned and set off down the lane.
"H'm!" said Cleek, rubbing his chin, "and so a fresh element of mystery enters. She knew all that had been done this night, I'll swear. There was no surprise, was there, Roberts, when you told her?"
"Come to think of it, sir, she never turned a hair, might have been a dead cat I was talking about."
"What do you make of it, Cleek?" Mr. Narkom asked, in a mystified manner.
"Nothing as yet. Roberts, get a guard round the house, and then turn in. We'll wait here till relief comes. Good-night."
But after the burly policeman had tramped thankfully away, Cleek turned to his companion.
"For a liar, commend me to a woman every time," he said. "Miss Jennifer does know who it was. She knew that it had already been committed, and every blessed thing of hers smelt of Huile de jasmin strong! Did you notice the gold lace scarf also?"
"Good Lord! Surely you do not believe——?" Mr. Narkom's voice was full of anxiety.
"I never 'believe' anything till I get proof. I may have my doubts and I do think at the moment that the young lady is either in the possession of dangerous knowledge, or else she is bent on throwing the blame on to Sir Edgar——"
"Good heavens, Cleek, how, why, what makes you think that?"
"First, because she was so evidently on the spot to be caught; secondly, her remark about the revolver was not so unstudied as it looked. No, my friend, you will find that Miss Jennifer knows a little more than you imagine, and means to turn that little to account in winning the man she has set her heart upon, much to our good doctor's dismay. I wonder, now, what poor young Dollops has got to say?"
A shrill whistle speedily brought the boy along, and his face when he saw that they were alone was a veritable picture of disgust.
"Lor' lumme, sir!" he exclaimed, "you never went and let yerself be taken in by that young woman's soft soap! Taking a stroll, indeed! Not she! Why, she climbed right out of one of those winders there, and dropped to earth like a first-class burglar born."
"In the house itself, did you say?"
"Yes, I did, Mr. Narkom, and I would 'ave told yer if yer 'adn't pitched into me! In the room over the porch she was, and she slid down the ivy, right in front of my blessed eyes, and then made out wot it was me that 'ad torn all 'er fings. I was running full tilt after another female, when I sees 'er, so there!"
"Another woman!" Narkom looked at Cleek, significantly.
"Are you sure it wasn't the same woman in the dark, Dollops?" asked Cleek, suddenly, "you might have made a mistake, you know."
Dollops gave vent to a little snort of disgust.
"Certain sure, sir, but the other lady wasn't near the house she wasn't. Sort of floating about under the trees in a kind of red dressing gown——"
"What's that—red—do you mean scarlet? Was it scarlet satin, Dollops? Do you think you know?"
"That I do, sir. Shining stuff it were and when I got near, she smelt something hevingly, like a garden full o' flowers."
"What's that?" rapped out Cleek, suddenly. "Huile de jasmin, of course. It must be the same woman I myself saw a month ago; and yet how does Miss Jennifer come to be there? If she is innocent, what was she doing in that room? And she was wearing a gold scarf, a piece of which I have here and which was clenched in the dead man's hand!"
"Heavens above, man!" snapped Narkom. "It's as clear as crystal. I should apply for a warrant for her arrest immediately."
"And yet, it was a revolver that had also been used, and one belonging to Sir Edgar. Miss Jennifer would hardly go so far as to murder the only obstacle that stood between the man she loved and his marriage to her rival. What, too, has become of that poor girl?"
"Don't ask me, Cleek," returned the puzzled Superintendent, dolefully. "It's the most infernal riddle I ever came across, and my head's aching with it. I'm off to get additional help, if you don't mind, or else we shall have crowds surging into that room before we know where we are."
"Right, Mr. Narkom, and as I still have a few threads to collect, Dollops and I will be off, too. We'll meet at the Hampton Arms. Come on, Dollops, we'll take a few impressions of those footprints before they're trodden out of existence to-morrow."
"Righto, Guv'nor."
Cleek took out his electric torch and the two set forth on their appointed task, leaving Mr. Narkom to set a sufficient guard over the silent figure of a dead man on whose face there rested an inscrutable smile. It was as if he were smiling over the secret he held and which was to puzzle many minds, and was one of the greatest riddles Cleek had ever attempted to solve.
Meanwhile that gentleman and his zealous assistant worked silently and surely. Not a depressed blade of grass was left before it was subjected to the keenest scrutiny, while exact outlines were taken of the clearly defined footprints, with which the lawn was fairly alive. To recognize the unmistakable imprint of the Government Regulation boot worn by Mr. Narkom and Constable Roberts was a simple matter. The footprints of Cleek and Dollops were also distinguishable, for both had early in their companionship decided to wear boots which would always enable them to tell their own footprints from any they might be tracking, a precaution that had stood them in good stead on more than one occasion.
It did so now, but even after having eliminated all the known ones there yet remained a bewildering number of marks, and a disgusted grunt broke from Dollops.
"Lor' lumme, the place is alive with them, sir, and they're all about the same size. They're that young woman's or I'll eat my 'at!"
But Cleek was silent, and as Dollops cautiously flashed his torch so that the light fell full upon his master's face, he gave a little start. Cleek was staring fixedly at the imprint of a newcomer, a man who had evidently come right up to a certain point, then stood still, as if waiting for something or someone to join him.
"Lor', sir," said Dollops, looking down now in the same direction, "there's that girl's footmarks, too. They go down the lane side by side."
An odd look flashed across Cleek's face, an odd smile dwelt for a moment about his mouth, for it looked as if the lad were right: the girl had been joined by a companion who had waited while she committed the deed. Once more Cleek's mind went back to the principals in the grim drama. Which was it? Jennifer Wynne, whose deception was so obvious; Sir Edgar Brenton, supposed to be in town; or the unknown stranger whose footprint they had found? It was a difficult problem, more difficult than he had at first imagined.
Finally he threw up his chin and faced the earnest young Cockney who was staring at him.
"Come, Dollops," he said with a little sigh, "there's no more to be done here. But if we'd only had a crop of your 'tickle-tootsies' we'd have caught those fine birds by their tail feathers and caged them. However, we haven't, so let's be off. There's plenty to do and not much time to do it in, and a walk back to the inn on this beautiful night will do us both a power of good."
It is not often that it falls to the lot of any village to revel in such abysmal depths of excitement as did the village of Hampton when the news leaked out, and once the affair was known to the local police and their respective wives, the news of the tragedy spread with the velocity of a hurricane. By nine o'clock the next morning there wasn't an inhabitant within a radius of ten miles that had not heard of the murder of Miss Cheyne, and the mysterious disappearance of Lady Margaret. An hour later, the lanes and fields were thronged to overflowing with the chattering mob of sightseers, which the police, strongly reinforced by the reserves of several neighbouring hamlets, found more than a difficult task to keep in order. The story grew with every telling.
Miss Cheyne had been killed—oh, yes, months ago—and this man who had taken her place had murdered Lady Margaret, though it was not to be allowed to leak out. "Oh, no"—with many a wise shake of the head, and knowing wink—"the police knew their business." But what had they done with the girl's body? Ah! that remained to be seen. Meanwhile, if human ingenuity and absolute disregard of time stood for anything, they meant to see the body of the impostor for themselves.
Tongues wagged and heads nodded, but nevertheless, none but the police themselves, and such representatives of the press as were absolutely necessary, had been permitted to cross the threshold of Cheyne Court, or even obtain the merest glimpse of the dead man. Notwithstanding Cleek's reserve, and Mr. Narkom's own restrictions, news had managed to leak out of the mysterious sign of the Pentacle upon the murderer's arm, and as Scotland Yard—as represented by Cleek and the Superintendent—refused to give forth any further knowledge that they might well be supposed to possess, imagination ran riot.
The correspondent of the Party Lantern therefore "discovered" that the murdered man was a famous member of a Royal house, condemned by his seniors to become dead to the world, owing to his having offended the masonic societies of his country. Further details the Lantern refused to give, though hinting darkly at deeds of misconduct that would have made Don Giovanni turn green with envy. As to the whereabouts of Lady Margaret, they again contented themselves with wild hints as to what they might have told, had it not been for their "honour."
On the other hand, the Evening Tatler "discovered" and declared the man to be nothing more exciting than a low-down anarchist, who had tried to do his boon companions out of their share of the loot of the Cheyne jewels. That they were any nearer to the truth, however, than their contemporary, was equally open to query; though when Mr. Narkom pointed out the arguments of the reporter to his ally Cleek gave a little approving nod.
"Best thing we can do is to shut that young man up," he said, tersely. "Get on to the Evening Tatler, Mr. Narkom, and tell the news editor that we only want vague eventualities given to the public just now—no facts at all. Otherwise, you know, we shall put the Pentacle Club on guard, and if this is one of its crimes, we want to scotch the whole gang once and for all. That this man was a member of the Club is certain, for the markings of that Pentacle were not branded on, as in former cases where people were murdered from motives of revenge, but finely tattooed, showing that our friend is decidedly an old hand at the game. Personally, I want to find out what Blake is doing."
Mr. Narkom mopped his face with a silk handkerchief, a sure sign of emotion upon his part.
"I don't think this can be James Blake," said he, reflectively, "for I looked up his record after what you said a little while back about his being the head of the gang and learned that he left England a year or more ago, and nothing had been heard of him in his old haunts, or by his boon companions since."
"Hmn," said Cleek with a grim little laugh, "lying low, evidently, after, or in view of some big coup, but that doesn't prove anything about our murdered friend here. It's finger-prints we want."
"And we shall have them, too," threw in the Superintendent triumphantly, fumbling in his pocketbook with fingers that themselves shook with excitement. "I had a copy made of Blake's."
"Good man," ejaculated Cleek, as he took the precious scrap of paper, and went up to the room wherein had been placed the victim of a vengeance, possibly as just as that of the law itself. By the time Mr. Narkom had made his way more slowly and ponderously up to the same spot, he found Cleek looking down with considerable disappointment.
"Barked up a wrong tree this time," he said, but the light of a great discovery shone in his eyes and his voice had an undercurrent of strong excitement. "This is not James Blake, but I can tell you who it is. Justice has simply been forestalled——"
His face was grim and Mr. Narkom looked up into it almost breathless.
"What is it, old chap; tell me?" he gasped. "What have you discovered?"
Cleek smiled.
"This man is the murderer of Elsie McBride, the old wardrobe seller of Crown Court, so her murder will not have gone long unavenged!"
"But—how—are you sure?" said the startled Superintendent.
"Quite sure, my friend," was the reply. "Whatever other disguises a man may assume, as we know, there is no escape from the irrefutable proof of finger-prints. Here——"
He lifted up the dead hand, and with a magnifying glass in his own, brought the thumb before Mr. Narkom's gaze.
"Now compare these thumb and finger marks with these which are a copy of those found on that dagger with which the poor woman was killed. You will see that they are identical. I'll nip off to town now and see whether I can get the other old woman down here to identify this man. I think, too, when we have discovered the motive for this murder we shall have gone far to have found out the reason why Lady Margaret was abducted. But that remains to be seen."
And afterward, when the turn of events had crowded even more important matters from his mind, Mr. Maverick Narkom remembered these words.
Meanwhile a search of the house had not revealed the hiding place of the famous jewels, and Mr. Shallcott, who was the first to come down and investigate after he had read the surprising facts in his morning paper, was full of remorse that they should have been lost.
"I shall never forgive myself, Mr. Headland," he said, peering short-sightedly at that gentleman. "I might have known there was something wrong in the jewels being taken out like that, and if only I had persisted in seeing the poor child alone, all would have been well."
Cleek laid a hand upon his arm and gave it a gentle pressure.
"You could not help yourself, Mr. Shallcott," replied he, sympathetically, "and neither legally nor morally can you be held responsible. She was the victim of a deep-laid plot to effect their theft. As to the murder, I cannot say yet. We can only await the turn of events."
Cleek himself felt a natural if morbid remorse for having so innocently placed Lady Margaret in the hands of the Pentacle Club. Accordingly, on the following day, when he was immersed in collecting his facts at the Hampton Arms, preparatory to going down to meet Mr. Narkom at the police station, he was greeted by the voice of Sir Edgar Brenton himself; he jumped up with pleasure and excitement in his voice.
"Ah, Sir Edgar, the very man I want," he said, looking into the lined, drawn face, no longer that of a boy, but of a man, and one in deepest trouble at that. "What have you been doing with yourself since last night? I expected you to have joined us in watching Cheyne Court. As it is, you know what has happened, I have no doubt."
Sir Edgar's apathetic eyes met his.
"Yes," said he, dully. "Miss Cheyne was murdered by those devils, after all. I thought they would. I was sure of it! But what I want to know is, where Lady Margaret is, Mr. Headland? What has become of her? Surely there is some trace of her by this time!"
His haunted, anguished eyes watched Cleek's inscrutable face and, notwithstanding the almost complete chain of evidence that was being slowly but surely welded about him, Cleek felt the same instinctive liking for the young man as he had when they had first met.
"I should have thought you could have answered that question better yourself, Sir Edgar," he said, quietly. "Why did you rush up to town so unexpectedly?"
A wave of scarlet passed over the young man's pallid face.
"I was a fool, I suppose, but as I was passing the station I saw, or I fancied I saw, the face of that girl whom Margaret called Aggie and I thought it might be a clue. I wasn't certain, I didn't pay much attention to the creature when I saw her with my girl in Trafalgar Square. And so, without stopping to think, I rushed up the steps, took a ticket, dashed on to the platform, and just had time to tell the porter to take a message up to my mother, who might have been anxious and started off."
"Yes," said Cleek, quietly. "But what about this Aggie you speak of? Did you see anything more of her?"
"Unfortunately, no, I lost sight of her at Waterloo, and knowing the futility of doing anything further—I—I came back——"
Cleek made a little clicking sound indicative of mild despair.
"I wish to God you had stayed away all night," he said under his breath.
"But that's just what I did do," returned Sir Edgar wearily. "When I got back to Hampton Station, a little boy came running up, and told me that this telegram had been waiting for me at the post office. I didn't stop to question, I can tell you, I simply tore it open, and when I read it, I was over that platform and off again before you could say 'Jack Robinson.'"
Cleek's eyes narrowed.
"What was in it; you don't happen to have kept it, I suppose?"
"As it happens, I have," said Sir Edgar, fumbling in his pocket and producing a crumpled ball of paper which Cleek took from his outstretched fingers.
"Hotel Central, come quick. Margaret," he read and Sir Edgar's voice broke in upon his thoughts in a high pitch of excitement:
"You can be sure I just rushed up there as fast as trains would carry me—only to find it a hoax. I waited about all night, and came back this morning, none the worse. But I'd like to lay hands on the man who sent me on that wild-goose chase."
Cleek looked at him for a brief second in silence, his face set, his chin cupped in the palm of his left hand. If this thing were true, it put Sir Edgar out of the affair altogether. But was it true? Was it not rather an attempt to establish an alibi, and thus throw dust in the eyes of the police? The hotel? Oh, yes, that part was easy, simplicity itself. He would go there and register, wait about for a girl whom he knew couldn't possibly be there, and then, after going up to the room, it would be the easiest thing in the world to step down unnoticed, thus getting back in time to have committed the deed. He recalled Jennifer's words: "Edgar—so he did leave——" Leave maybe—but what about the revolver? As for Constable Roberts' hypothesis that the young man had just arrived—why, he might well have been just leaving. And now this telegram! Cleek looked at it again, then gave vent to a low cry of astonishment.
"Hello," he said, "here's a pretty kettle of fish. This is an old telegram; look, here's the date, last Friday, by Jove!"
He held it before Sir Edgar's astonished gaze. "All the original words have been rubbed out," he continued as the young man stared at it. "You can see the roughened paper."
Then he turned on him suddenly.
"Now, my friend," he said, "considering that your revolver was found just near the body of the murdered man I think you will agree that this will take some explanation. Don't you think so?"
Sir Edgar started as though someone had stabbed him. A wave of colour suffused his face for a moment, then left it waxen white.
"Good God, you don't attempt to suggest that I——" he began, then appeared to lose the power of speaking altogether as he gazed into Cleek's stern eyes.
"I am not in the habit of suggesting," interrupted Cleek, "I am simply stating a fact which, as you know, is one that is in itself suspicious. It is useless also to blink at the fact that the real Miss Cheyne was murdered on that night when I found you wandering up and down the lane, with that same revolver in your pocket. Perhaps you can explain that also?"
"Heavens, man, but you don't think I committed still another murder," said Sir Edgar, incredulously. "I say, that's going a bit too far you know. I can understand a joke, but as to your thinking for one moment that I should do such a low-down dirty thing as to murder a woman, and an old one at that——"
Cleek laid a hand upon his shoulder.
"Not so fast, my friend, not so fast," said he with a little laugh. "There's an old French proverb which says qui s'excuse, s'accuse. Perhaps you know it. But the evidence is strong against you. What about that revolver with the 'B' on it? Perhaps you'll deny that?"
"I do, most emphatically I do!" responded Sir Edgar with a little snort of indignation. "That belonged to the old woman herself, I snatched it from her, and——"
"Cheyne does not to my knowledge begin with a 'B'," threw in Cleek, quietly. "The revolver bears your initial and a jury is a difficult thing to convince when facts are strong."
"Stuff and nonsense!" spluttered forth Sir Edgar, red with anger. "You can have me arrested straight away, if you like, but whatever happens, I mean to find Margaret, and to find out why I was lured away last night. You know where to find me when you want me." Turning angrily on his heel, he walked out, leaving Cleek smiling quietly to himself and rather liking this young spit-fire for the way in which he had risen to his fly.
"So he knows there is no danger of being convicted for a revolver-shot, does he? Now did he administer that prussic acid, or did he not?" was the next thought that passed through his mind.
He picked up his little bag and started toward the police station, where he hoped to meet Mr. Narkom.
It was a gorgeous spring morning, and at the top of the lane he could see a little group of people advancing toward him, in the first and foremost of whom he recognized Ailsa.
She had been nearly heart-broken over the catastrophe which had overtaken the girl in whom she had hoped to have found a life-long friend, and her first act had been to visit Lady Brenton. She had done her best to raise Edgar's mother from the fit of deep depression which seemed to have settled over her like a cloud.
At that lady's request, Ailsa had consented to stay at the Towers, and accordingly had seen but little of the man to whom she instinctively turned for help and guidance.
Suddenly she caught sight of him, and her little start and the rose-red colour which suffused her face caused Lady Brenton, a woman still in the early forties, to look quickly in the same direction.
"My dear, is this another reporter?" she inquired, anxiously. She had an inveterate horror of the press at all times, and since she had seen the recent papers carrying such head-lines as "The Cheyne Court Affair—Further Developments—Murder in High Life" and similar personalities, she lived in perpetual dread of being pounced upon and interviewed.
"No, dear," responded Ailsa with a happy little laugh, "this is not a reporter, but a dear old friend of mine, Mr. George Headland. He was an old friend, too, of my uncle, Sir Horace Wyvern, in the days before his second marriage. I think he will be the only man who can explain this mysterious catastrophe. I wonder if you would think it a liberty if I asked to be allowed to introduce him to you?"
"Far from it, Ailsa," answered Lady Brenton, impetuously. "I wish I could persuade him to visit us, it might cheer us up. Not that I want to be cheered exactly, but the thought of that child and the sight of poor Edgar's face almost breaks my heart. And I am so tired this morning——"
"I daresay you are," put in Ailsa, quietly. "You did not sleep well, did you?"
Lady Brenton looked at her with a little angry flush.
"As it happens I did, Ailsa. That's a strange thing, for you know what bad nights I have had lately. But what made you ask?"
"Well, I thought I heard your door open and shut in the night, as well as the night before that. I thought of coming to see whether you were ill, and fell asleep myself first."
"Indeed?" Lady Brenton's face was a little pale, though her voice was quite calm and steady.
"It must have been imagination on your part, my dear child, for I slept splendidly. But don't let us talk over last night." She turned impulsively, her voice shaking with emotion. "It's no use, I ought to be sorry for any human death—and to think of that poor old woman being murdered more than a month ago is too terrible—but I can't! I can only think that the obstacle to my boy's happiness is removed, if we can only find Margaret. I know it is very wrong of me to say so."
Ailsa pressed her arm in tender sympathy, but before she could reply Cleek had advanced to within speaking distance, and Ailsa was greeting him.
Another minute, mutual introductions having been made, Cleek found himself looking into the eyes of a handsome woman with hair but slightly gray, and with a purely cut, patrician face faintly lined, now pale as though from a sleepless night.
It did not take Cleek long to note that she was suffering from some intense anxiety, though her smile was none the less genuine, especially when a minute later she was joined by Sir Edgar, who was apparently by no means pleased to see the man who but a brief half hour ago had practically accused him of murder.
Suddenly the sound of light footsteps fell on their ears and, turning, Cleek saw Jennifer Wynne running after them.
"Dear Lady Brenton," she said, rather affectedly, as soon as she had got within talking distance, "I am so thankful I found it; see, you left your scarf behind." In her hand she held a long gold lace scarf totally different in texture to that which Miss Wynne had worn herself on the preceding night, but alike in colour to the scrap which rested in Cleek's pocketbook. As he noted this fact, and saw the sudden unconcealed terror showing on Lady Brenton's delicate face, he sucked in his breath sharply, switched round on his heel, and grew silent.
It was only for a brief second that her face showed any trace of that ill-concealed terror, then Lady Brenton was profuse in thanks and begged the girl to come back with her to The Towers.
"It is so sweet of you, dear Lady Brenton," purred Miss Jennifer, softly, "but I feel sure both you and Sir Edgar are too worried to need poor little me. I only thought you ought to have your scarf in safe keeping, so much depends on it now, you know," and with this parting shot, Miss Wynne turned and went back.
"Do come back to the house with us, Mr. Headland," Lady Brenton said, impulsively.
Cleek, only too willing to accept, soon found himself at Ailsa's side, swinging down the long, leafy lane.
Lady Brenton was a tactful woman, and after having glanced once or twice in their direction, she smiled significantly at her son and dropped behind, on the plea of the narrowness of the lane, whispering a minute later in carefully lowered tones to Sir Edgar:
"A most distinguished man, Edgar, and if I know anything of love affairs, we shall be parting with our pleasant little neighbour for good and all before the summer is over. Did you see the man's eyes? Positively worshipping her. Ah, well, it is good to be young, and once this is over——"
But her own heart was like lead within her breast.
The stroll through the leafy lane was a very pleasant one to Cleek though he strove to keep his thoughts fixed on the case which had called him to Hampton and the mysterious events which had taken place there.
"A very fascinating woman, I should say," he said to Ailsa, referring to Lady Brenton, who was just behind them.
"Very," was the quick answer, "and she is as good of heart as she is good to look at. It seems so sad that she should have such trouble, poor thing!"
"Yes, I noticed that she was evidently in some deep distress," responded Cleek, quietly, "and I should say she has spent some sleepless nights over it, too."
"That is just what I thought," said Ailsa, impulsively, "but she said she slept splendidly last night, and yet——" she broke off, evidently regretting the impulse under which the words had been uttered.
"Yet what?" prompted Cleek, gently.
Ailsa gave vent to a deep sigh.
"Oh, I expect I must have been mistaken," she said, "but I thought I heard her moving down the corridor last night. But I couldn't have, of course."
The queer little one-sided smile travelled up Cleek's face, but he made no comment, and the conversation drifted to other things, until they reached the gates of "The Towers."
Here, however, his thoughts were recalled to the case of the Purple Emperor with a little jerk, for the butler, having ushered them into the hall, said:
"Begging pardon, your ladyship, but there is a gentleman awaitin'."
Lady Brenton turned with a frown puckering her smooth brows.
"If it is a reporter, I will not see him!" she said, with a decisive wave of her hand. "You know that, Graves, very well. I told you yesterday not to admit strangers under any pretext."
"Beggin' pardon, my lady, but it is not a stranger. It is the Indian gentleman, Gunga Dall," responded Graves with a reproachful look at his mistress for ever having doubted him. "He was most anxious to see your ladyship and is waiting in the drawing room."
The exclamation that broke from his mistress's lips upon receipt of this statement was one of mingled relief and pleasure but a deep frown gathered on her son's face.
"That nigger here again, Mater? I can't think how you can bear him about you," he said, irritably. "I should have thought you had had enough of them out in India."
Lady Brenton's face showed signs of evident displeasure.
"Gunga Dall is not a 'nigger,' Edgar. How can you say such a wicked thing!" she expostulated, angrily. "He is a most charming man, and the only one who has ever cured my headaches for me. I haven't had such a night's rest for years as I had last night."
Cleek's eyes were quick enough to note the expression on Sir Edgar's face as Lady Brenton turned to lead the way. It showed such open-mouthed, intense incredulity that he could not resist a little smile on its behalf, nevertheless, as he followed his host and hostess into the room where awaited with Eastern patience the Hindoo whom Sir Edgar had so contemptuously designated "nigger."
If Cleek had expected to find the usual obsequious, cringing half-breed, so familiar to many travellers in India, he was destined to be agreeably disappointed. Gunga Dall was a Brahmin of high caste and ancient lineage, and his greeting to Lady Brenton was a model of grave reserve and courtesy.
A splendid specimen of the East was Gunga Dall, for his face fairly radiated good nature and a general belief in humanity, which was still more clearly displayed in his conversation. It was no wonder, therefore, that Constable Roberts had said: "'E wouldn't 'urt a fly." He truly looked that meek part to perfection. Cleek noted his very apparent admiration of Lady Brenton and wondered a good deal as those familiar lines,
"East is East, and West is West,
And never the twain shall meet."
came into his mind. The ball of conversation rolled leisurely, until the topic that was uppermost in almost every mind found its way to them at last.
But at the first mention of it Gunga Dall's dark face turned a sort of dull ivory hue, and he threw up his hands.
"It is all so terrible," he ejaculated, "and we of the East cannot view death as phlegmatically as you English. Such things as murder we cannot so easily discuss. I must beg to be forgiven if I withdraw myself from your discussion."
A short while afterward Cleek arose to depart and Ailsa went with him.
"Don't you think Lady Brenton is a dear woman?" she said, impulsively, as they turned into the lane, "and this awful business has completely upset her. She has simply longed for that poor child, Lady Margaret, to come back from France, and says she has even tried herself to see Miss Cheyne, but it has always been in vain."
Cleek rubbed his chin meditatively, and pondered a moment upon the import of these words. Was that what had taken her ladyship down to the lodge to see Miss Cheyne last night? If she was so fond of Lady Margaret, why had she not gone to the station to meet her? Why had Sir Edgar himself taken the foolish trouble of asking Miss Cheyne's permission when he knew it would be refused?
These were but a few of the thoughts that passed through his mind. But chiefly he could not drive away remembrance of the gold embroidery which decorated the turban of Gunga Dall, the only outward sign as regards clothes that the Hindoo gentleman wore to mark his Eastern origin.
"Lady Brenton is a very sensitive woman, I should say," he said, finally, "although she bears herself so well after the shock of Lady Margaret's disappearance. I see that you are very much attached to her."
"I am, dear," said Ailsa, enthusiastically. "She has been a very good friend to me in every way, and that was why I was so glad you happened to come along at that psychological moment."
"No gladder than I," said Cleek, reflectively. "Mr. George Headland does not perhaps fit in with my attire but who's to know the difference. I was afraid you would make it Lieutenant Deland, and I meant to have written you a little note and sent it up by Dollops. I do not want Sir Edgar to have any suspicions that he is being watched."
Ailsa looked up at him with grave, sweet eyes.
"I am afraid I do not understand. Oh!" with a sudden cry of fear, "do you mean that you suspect him, Sir Edgar, of being concerned? Why, his whole life is bound up in Lady Margaret! I can see that now, and it is hardly likely that he would harm her only living relative!"
"And yet," said Cleek, slowly, "he certainly had a revolver in his pocket when I met him in the lane on the night I drove to Hampton, and you yourself heard his threat of murder the day before yesterday."
Ailsa looked at him, her eyes wide, the colour draining slowly from her lips and cheeks. It was impossible not to grasp the truth as well as the significance of these two circumstances, slight evidences of guilt though they might appear.
"Oh, my dear," she said, faintly, "you surely can't think—a dear boy like Sir Edgar. You surely can't believe that he could have had a hand in such a frightful crime?"
"I hope not, Ailsa," responded Cleek, gravely, "for I admit I like the boy. But one thing is certain, if he did not actually commit the crime himself, he knows who did. Knows, too, that there is a woman likely to be implicated in the case."
"A woman—a—a woman?"
"Possibly two; at least two women were in Cheyne Court last night."
"Are you hinting at Lady Brenton? That would be too absurd for words!"
"I am hinting nothing," returned Cleek with a smile into her anxious face. "Now that I have seen her I would almost as soon suspect you yourself, shall we say," he added, smilingly.
He saw that Ailsa was almost overcome by the power of her emotion and he stood still beneath the shadow of the trees.
"Who knows as well as I do the falsity of appearances," he went on in that same grave tone, "and I am not likely to be swayed by circumstantial evidence, black as it may appear. What is more, I will prove this to you, for I know that you will help me to the utmost of your power. Here is one little clue that will tell heavily against someone. Ailsa, tell me, will you? Have you ever seen this before?"
While he was speaking his hand had gone to his pocket, and he drew out his pocketbook. Opening it, he took out a little scrap of gold lace and let her see it lying on his open palm. Her eyes dropped to the glittering fragment and a puzzled frown appeared on her face. Then suddenly she gave a little start and bent over it.
"I thought at first it was torn from my own dress," she said frankly, looking up at him with wide-open, serious eyes, "for as it happens I have a dress trimmed with embroidery exactly like it. Would you care to see it?"
"Not in the least, Ailsa mine," responded Cleek, quickly. "I am not going to suggest that you were at Cheyne Court last night—anyway, this fragment smells too strongly of jasmine to belong to you."
She laughed up into his face for a moment.
"Fancy remembering that!" she said, softly. "It is a scent I detest, though strangely enough a favourite one with Lady Brenton. Sir Edgar gave her quite a big bottle of it on her birthday, I believe. It is very strong, and the least drop is sufficient to scent the whole room. That's why I dislike it so, it seems somehow so suggestive!"
"Hmn," said Cleek, quietly, "that's strange, rather." Huile de jasmin, eh? And it was Lady Brenton's favourite scent. He fell to musing again. If Lady Brenton had been so soundly asleep last night, how came her scarf to be caught in the dead man's hand and the very scent she used to be permeating the whole place?
"I hope you are not going to think her capable of committing murder," Ailsa said with a smile, "because she possesses a gold scarf and likes jasmine. As it happens I know she was in her room all the night. It was not until the early hours that I fancied I heard a step, and even then I must have been mistaken."
"Nevertheless, she certainly visited Cheyne Court last night," persisted Cleek, calmly. "I know that beyond all possible doubt, for Dollops saw two women with gold scarves, and as we caught Miss Jennifer——"
"What?" Ailsa turned sharply as she spoke and Cleek told her of the little incident.
"I can believe anything of her," said she, dryly, when he had finished, "for I know how long she has sought to entrap Sir Edgar into an engagement and woo him from his allegiance to Lady Margaret this past year. But that Lady Brenton was there, at Cheyne Court, I will not—cannot believe. I am sure she never left the house——" She paused abruptly, and grew very pale, at the recollection of that swift step that had sounded on the polished floor of the corridor when all the house was still. In her innermost heart she knew that she had not been mistaken. And yet, and yet——
"Oh, but she is the soul of honour!" she said, looking up at Cleek with frightened eyes, "and she told me herself that she slept soundly all night. If she had gone out after I fell asleep——"
"It could be proved and very easily," put in Cleek, gently. "You know how moist the night was. The lane was wet and muddy. Her clothes, her skirt, her shoes—— But I will not suggest that."
"Nor would I do it," replied Ailsa. "Even if she did go out, and I would not admit it even now unless she said so, that does not mean that she had any ulterior motive. As for the scarf, well, it might be a piece from Lady Margaret's own for that matter——"
Cleek stopped short.
"Lady Margaret!" he rapped out in excitement. "Did she possess a gold scarf, then?"
"Yes; one that was given her by her father on one of his few visits to the convent. She showed it to me during the crossing, and from what I can see, this certainly looks as if it had been torn from hers."
Cleek's eyes were narrowed down to mere slits. So absorbed was he that he did not hear the pattering of an animal's feet behind them and he started as an old brown retriever flung himself on Ailsa, greeting her boisterously.
"Jock, you dear, I am so glad; he didn't kill you after all. I am so glad!"
She stopped and patted the dog affectionately, then answered the inquiry in Cleek's eyes.
"He is so old," she said, softly, "and Sir Edgar was going to get rid of him. He had even bought prussic acid or something, I believe, but evidently poor old Jock is to be allowed to live a little longer."
So absorbed was Ailsa in the animal, that she failed to note the gleam of anxiety in Cleek's eyes.
"Prussic acid, eh?" he said to himself, musingly, "presumably to kill an old dog. Not so old, either, by his running powers." And Sir Edgar had certainly been in Cheyne Court for he himself had ascertained that by the footprints which Dollops had so conscientiously copied. Well, it was a puzzling case. If Lady Margaret herself, driven to desperation, had killed the woman—or man, as she might have discovered him to be—who kept her prisoner? Did Sir Edgar know, and was he shielding her; concealing her in London? Or was it, after all, Lady Brenton?
Struck with a sudden idea, he turned to Ailsa.
"One moment, dear," he said, quietly. "Do you know anybody who has a scarlet cloak, satin, I think?"
"Scarlet satin coat?" echoed Ailsa. "Why, what can that have to do with it? As it happens, I do know, for I possess one myself and very fond of it I am, too. But why do you ask?"
"Oh, just a fancy of mine, that's all," replied Cleek with apparent irrelevance. "I thought perhaps Lady Brenton had one, but if she hasn't—unless she might have borrowed yours, you'd lend it to her I know. Did you?"
"No, that I certainly did not. For one thing, why should Lady Brenton wish to wear my things? Anyhow, I know she did not borrow mine with my knowledge."
"Hmn, I see. You couldn't have left it lying around anywhere?"
Ailsa laughed gaily.
"How like a man! As if I should leave satin opera coats lying round. They're much too precious! But of course it is in one of the cupboards at The Towers. I left it there once, and it has been there ever since."
She was gazing down the lane which wound its way round the fields and distant houses and now gave a little cry of dismay.
"Oh, here is that dreadful girl again and her brother! I can't help it, dear," she added, impulsively, "but Miss Wynne and I do not get on well. I know her better than I care about."
Cleek looked critically at the pair who were advancing round the bend of the lane, and his thoughts readjusted themselves.
"Perhaps you will tell me about them," he said, quietly. "Who and what are they, this Miss Wynne and her brother?"
Ailsa turned her soft eyes up into his face.
"Miss Wynne, Jennifer is her other name, is the only daughter of old Dr. Wynne. She keeps house for Mr. Bobby Wynne. What he does and how he earns any money is always a mystery to me. For he never appears to do anything."
"If I remember correctly, Dr. Verrall appeared to be rather 'interested' in the lady," Cleek struck in.
Ailsa nodded.
"That's perfectly true," she said, quickly. "Indeed, if it were not for the fact that she has set her heart upon becoming the future Lady Brenton, I believe she would marry him. For he adores her; that's patent to all."
A slight pause followed this as Cleek's eyes sought hers for a moment with a look in their depths that brought the warm colour into her cheeks.
"He is not the only one who adores his lady," he put in gently, "and what else is there about this interesting couple, pray? I am anxious to hear."
"I know you are," she responded, "and I can understand how every little detail in the chain of evidence counts. You can rely upon me to supply them to you as soon as they come my way."
Cleek looked at her gratefully.
"Indeed I do," he said, quietly. "Believe me, Ailsa, any little scraps of fact or gossip that you can give me I shall be grateful for. You may be sure no harm will be done, and it may possibly lead to some quicker discovery."
It was then to Miss Wynne's advantage, he reflected, to have Lady Margaret out of her path, if only for the time being. With Miss Cheyne out of the reckoning as well there would be an added danger, but it would be turned to an advantage if Sir Edgar were accused of the murder, and Miss Jennifer alone could save him—— His thoughts trailed away as this suddenly awakened thought took hold of him. Supposing Sir Edgar were accused of the murder as he had imagined, and it was in Miss Wynne's hands to tighten the noose about his neck, or shake it off altogether? He wondered idly if her woman's heart would act disinterestedly in such an event and wondering, quite suddenly he knew. It would be as Sir Edgar's wife that Jennifer Wynne would free him—not otherwise.
He turned to Ailsa again.
"Shall we meet Dr. Wynne as well?" he asked quickly.
"Oh, no, he died more than a year ago; that is why Master Bobby is able to waste his time and money I expect."
"Hmn—yes, explains Dr. Verrall, too: his presence in the village, I mean," he added, not wishing to voice his suspicions as yet.
"Yes," said Ailsa, "and as he is desperately in love with her, it is to be hoped that she will not succeed in her endeavours to become the future Lady Brenton. Certainly if gifts could win her, Dr. Verrall would succeed, he has simply loaded her with presents. They are unique ones, too: mostly strange things from temples——"
She broke off suddenly as Cleek's lips pursed themselves into a low whistle of surprise.
"What is the matter, dear?"
"Nothing. Do you happen to know from where Dr. Verrall came to this place?"
"India, I believe. I know he has had a lot of Indian patients down here, and he is a perfect encyclopedia on the subject of precious stones."
Cleek glanced at her swiftly.
Hmn—— Here was another item of interest. Anglo-Indian, was he? And knew all about precious stones? What about the Eye of Shiva, then? It might well be that he was in league with the priests and had been heavily bribed to secure that stone. He could easily have obtained the prussic acid; who better than a doctor with his own private dispensary? Yes, he must keep an eye on Dr. Verrall—and obtain an entry into his house.
He puckered up his brows. Obviously the easiest way would be to become a patient, though it would be useless to expect that the doctor would not speedily see through his fraud and know that he was an object of curiosity. Cleek gave a little impatient toss of his shoulders as if to throw away these great ideas, and came back again to Miss Jennifer Wynne and her brother who were now within hailing distance of them.