“My uncle talks so much of you, Miss Winston. You are—oh, one of his great favourites. I wish we had met more happily. I have just returned from Milan, into all this sorrow. It is too sad!”
“Ought Mr. Melikoff to be here? He looks very ill,” said Winnie, with a glance at Boris; and Maddelena looked at him, too, her eyes softening, as they always did when they regarded him.
“Alas! he would come, though I and my uncle sought to dissuade him; but he is very obstinate, our poor Boris, and distracted with grief. But he will—he must—recover in time.”
Winnie nodded sympathetically and retreated, much to the relief of Austin Starr, who from the distance had watched the incident uneasily, though why he should be disturbed he could not have said. But thenceforth, for the greater part of that grim day, he concentrated his attention chiefly on those three, feeling more and more convinced that they presented a psychological problem which, if it could be solved, would elucidate the mystery of Paula Rawson’s murder. When Roger Carling was brought into the dock Starr saw Boris Melikoff sit up, as if galvanized into life, his white face set like a fine, stern mask, his dark eyes, feverishly brilliant, fixed relentlessly on the prisoner’s face.
So far as Austin’s observation went, Roger was quite unaware of that fierce, fanatical stare, and of all the other eyes focused upon him. With head erect he listened with grave attention as the case against him was stated by the prosecution, and later supported in nearly every detail by the many witnesses. Usually he watched each speaker in turn, and in the intervals his eyes always sought those of Grace, in silent and spiritual communion that gave strength and courage to them both. At those moments husband and wife were as unconscious of the crowded court, of the whispered glances of the spectators, as if they had been transported to another world which held none but themselves.
Maddelena could not see Grace Carling’s face, but she watched Roger as intently as Austin Starr watched her.
As he watched, Austin’s perplexity increased. At first her expressive face revealed a most curious emotion, in which there was no trace of the hatred and resentment betrayed so plainly by Boris Melikoff, or of the fury that had distorted it by Paula Rawson’s grave. On the contrary, she looked at Roger admiringly, exultantly, as women look at a hero who has done some great deed. Austin felt that he really would not have been surprised if she had clapped and cheered!
Now, why on earth should she look at Roger Carling like that?
But presently her face changed and softened, became gravely thoughtful. She sat very still, leaning forward, her elbows on the rail in front of her, her chin resting on her clasped hands, her dark brows contracted, and Austin thought he read in her wonderful eloquent eyes doubt, dismay, increasing anxiety, and a great compassion.
What was in her mind? What did she know—or conjecture?