"Yes, that must be an early photograph of Mrs. Sinclair," the baronet exclaimed. "How do you come by that?"
Mr. Tracy hesitated to disclose the chain of his thoughts. To do so might cause much pain to the worthy little Scotchman, who, at least, had been sincere in his affection for this woman, and Mr. Tracy shrank from doing that. Yet, so much might be at stake!
"It looks like an extraordinary freak of fortune, but of course I may be wrong. I found that photograph among a lot of papers, and did not know whose likeness it was. You are sure it is Mrs. Sinclair?"
"Morally certain," said Sir Ross. "What does it all mean?"
"Possibly nothing," Mr. Tracy answered; "possibly a great deal, including an explanation of that alleged relationship. You can help me more than I thought, though, perhaps, at the cost of suffering to yourself. I believe that this is a picture of Sir Geoffrey's widow, Dame Lavinia Holt. If I am right, it will prove at least that Mr. Melville Ashley has committed perjury in one important particular, and it may prove God knows what else."
"What else?" thundered Sir Ross. "That Mrs. Sinclair shot Sir Geoffrey Holt?"
"The Lord forbid!" said Mr. Tracy very earnestly; "but I have to rescue an innocent man. Whoever did that murder, it was not Ralph Ashley, as I mean to make clear before the world. If I can prove that this"—and he laid his hand upon the portrait found by Gwendolen—"is a picture of Lady Holt, I can save my man. That done, I'll gladly leave the rest to God and to the Crown."
CHAPTER XXIV.
MRS. SINCLAIR RESOLVES TO GO AWAY.
Lavender never ceased to regret the impulse which had prompted her to persuade Melville to let her accompany him on that fateful visit to Fairbridge. Missing the constant attendance of him and of Sir Ross Buchanan, after their unfortunate meeting in her drawing room, she became bored with her own society, and was really only influenced by that, and perhaps by some little idle curiosity, when she called upon him at Jermyn Street and induced him to give her the innocent pleasure of a picnic up the river. It seemed too cruel that her simple want of something definite to do on that one day of her life should have involved her in such an appalling catastrophe. She had never known a moment's peace or happiness since then. Had it not been for her lack of occupation and for her natural terror of the thunderstorm, she would not have gone to the Manor House at all, would not have been a witness of the tragedy, would not have had this burden on her soul. Were it not for her knowledge whose hand took Sir Geoffrey's life she could have faced the world with a clear conscience on the subject of that crime, could have awaited the issue of Ralph's trial with comparative equanimity, and have received Melville with no reservation of mistrust or horror of the blood upon his hands.