"Her dying confession?" repeated the barrister blankly. "Is she dead, also?"
"Yes. It is a long story, Mr. Denzil. Sit down, and I'll tell it to you. As you have had so much to do with the beginning of the case, it is only fair that you should know the end, and a strange end it is."
Without a word Lucian sat down, feeling quite confused, for in no way could he guess how Clear had come by his death at the hands of Rhoda. He had suspected Lydia as guilty of the crime; he had credited Ferruci with its commission, and he had been certain of the guilt of Clyne, alias Wrent; but to discover that the red-headed servant was the culprit entirely bewildered him. She had no motive to kill the man; she had given evidence freely in the matter, and in all respects had acted as an innocent person. So this was why she had left Jersey Street? It was a fear of being arrested for the crime which had driven her into the wilds. But, as Lucian privately thought, she need not have fled, for—so far as he could see—beyond the startling announcement of Link, there was no evidence to connect her with the matter. It was most extraordinary.
"I see you are astonished," said Link, with a nod; "so was I. Of all folk, I least suspected that imp of a girl. The truth would never have been known, had she not confessed at the last moment; for even now I cannot see, on the face of it, any evidence—save her own confession—to inculpate her in the matter. So you see, Mr. Denzil, the mystery of this man's death, which we have been so anxious to solve, has not been explained by you, or discovered by me, but has been brought to light by chance, which, after all, is the great detective. You may well look astonished," repeated the man slowly; "I am—immensely."
"Let me hear the confession, Link!"
"Wait one moment. I'll tell you how it came to be made, and then I'll relate the story in my own fashion, as the way in which the confession is written is too muddled for you to understand clearly. Still, it shows plainly enough that Clyne, for all our suspicions, is innocent."
"And Rhoda, the sharp servant girl, guilty," said Lucian, reflectively. "I never should have thought that she was involved in the matter. How the deuce did she come to confess?"
"Well," said Link, clearing his throat as a preliminary to his narrative, "it seems that Mr. Bensusan, in a fit of philanthropy, picked up this wretched girl in the country. She belonged to some gypsies, but as her parents were dead, and the child a burden, the tribe were glad to get rid of her. Rhoda Stanley—that is her full name—was taken to London by Mrs. Bensusan, who tried to civilise her."
"I don't think she succeeded very well, Link. Rhoda, with her cunning ways and roaming about at night, was always a savage at heart. In spite of what Clyne says in his confession, I believe she took a delight in turning No. 13 into a haunted house with her shrieking and her flitting candles. How she must have enjoyed herself when she heard the talk about the ghost!"
"I have no doubt she did, Mr. Denzil, but even those delights wearied her, and she longed to get back to the free gypsy life. When she found—through you, sir—that the police wanted to know too much about Clear's death, she left Mrs. Bensusan in the lurch, and tramped off down to the New Forest, where she picked up again with her tribe."