Mallow bowed himself out, stopping at the door for a word with the smart footman. "Mrs. Arne was in this house for some time, your mistress tells me; how is it you did not tell me so?"
"I've only been here a week, sir," replied the man. Mallow gave him a shilling and went off.
"A dark, foreign-looking woman," he repeated. "Strange again! that is very much like the description the newspapers give of the housekeeper at Athelstane Place. And Semberry knows her, and Carson of Casterwell is Semberry's bosom friend. Humph! I shouldn't be surprised if the murdered man was the real Carson after all!"
[CHAPTER II.]
"MRS. PURCELL."
After his interview with Mrs. Dacre, Mallow's first impulse was to see Semberry and tax him with the deception he had practised upon Olive. But he was not a man who gave way to his impulses. He quickly realized that to do that at this stage would simply be to put the Major on his guard. Plainly he was connected in some way with Mrs. Arne, and it seemed more than likely, from the description of her given by Mrs. Dacre, that this so-called dressmaker was identical with the so-called housekeeper of Athelstane Place. In dealing with people so astute and so dangerous, Mallow saw that his only chance lay in gaining their confidence in some way. His next move must be to see Drabble, if necessary, in the character of a convert to his views. The doctor's vanity would be flattered, and in his enthusiasm he would not hesitate to welcome him as a member of the band. Once let him become acquainted with the schemes of these Anarchists, and he might hope for much knowledge which, by any other means, would be unattainable. The risk was considerable, that he knew well--for thus to connect himself with a set of fearless fanatics, was to play with fire with a vengeance. Once the oath taken, he was the tool of these ruffians; if he broke it--and that might be necessary for Olive's sake--he became their prey. He had no fancy to be blown to pieces or to be stabbed in the dark. But that was a risk he must perforce accept if he was to carry the thing through. He decided to take it, and affiliate himself with the brotherhood. His mind made up on that point, he found himself even looking forward with a certain thrill of excitement to the risks he was about to run. Plainly speaking, he was a spy venturing into an unknown land of snares and pitfalls. The least false step might prove fatal, not only to his hopes, but to his life. However, before actually involving himself, he called on Mrs. Purcell. He was anxious to tell her all about Olive, and to induce her to take the girl under her protection for the time being. He presented himself at Campden Hill one afternoon about five o'clock, and was graciously received by the old lady, with whom he was an especial favourite. Tui and Miss Slarge had already arrived, and were established there as Mrs. Purcell's guests, but Olive was still at Sandbeach. She shunned meeting even Tui and Miss Slarge. She knew that they would ask questions which would necessitate her explaining the invidious position in which she was placed. They were still under the impression that her husband was with her, and wondered why the happy pair did not return to the Manor House. On this point Mallow preserved a judicious silence for the present, though he had fully made up his mind to take Mrs. Purcell into his confidence. That would be necessary in order to enlist her sympathies for Olive, and to carry out his purpose. The subject was a delicate one, and would require careful handling.
A majestic female was Mrs. Purcell, with a haughty eye and a Roman nose. She was as stout as her sister was lean, and was draped with funereal pomp in silk and crape, and ornaments of glistening jet. She moved slowly and spoke slowly, and she modelled her speech on the best traditions of her hero, Dr. Johnson. Her looks were monumental, her conversations ponderous. She resembled the ideal Britannia--without, be it said, helmet or trident--in domestic life. She had flippantly been compared to Gibbon's "Decline and Fall," and, indeed, there was something of the epic about her, awe-inspiring and stately. She had never made or enjoyed a joke in her life. Pallas, Lady Macbeth, Hannah More--Mrs. Purcell was a combination of all three.
"Mr. Mallow," she said, bearing down on the visitor with full canvas, "I am glad to welcome you to my temporary hearth. With my sister, as with the vivacious Miss Ostergaard, you are already acquainted. We expect Lord Aldean, but for the time being our circle is limited, as you observe."
Mallow greeted the two ladies.
"And how is your book getting on?"