“Exactly, Sir Charles. I should not be able to identify her from a photograph were one obtainable, which I doubt—she is far too clever for that sort of thing—but the evidence is conclusive enough to satisfy me, at least, of the lady’s identity.”
“But how—how?”
“Mr. Narkom will tell you, Sir Charles, that from our time of starting this morning to our arrival here we made but one stop. That stop was at the Portsmouth mortuary before we appeared at this house. I wished to see the body of the man who was drowned. I have no hesitation, Sir Charles, in declaring that that man’s name is not, and never was, Axel von Ziegelmundt. The body is that of Nicolo Ferrand, ‘La Tarantula’s’ clever lover. The inference is obvious. ‘Miss Greta Hilmann’s’ anguish and despair were real enough, believe me (that is why it deceived everybody so completely). It is not, however, over the frightful position of young Beachman that she sorrowed, but over the death of Ferrand. Had he lived, I believe she has daring enough to have remained here and played her part to the end, but she either lost her nerve and her mental balance—which, by the way, is not in the least like her under any circumstances whatsoever—or some other disaster of which we know nothing overtook her and interfered with her carrying on the work in conjunction with her brother.”
“Her brother?”
“Yes. He would be sure to be about. They all three worked in concert. Gad! if I’d only been here before the vixen slipped the leash—if I only had! Let us have the elder Mr. Beachman in, if you please, Sir Charles; there’s a word or so I want to have with him. You’ve had him summoned, of course!”
“Yes, he and the telegraph operator as well; I thought you might wish to question both,” replied he. “Grimsdick, go—or, no! I’ll go myself. Beachman ought to know of this appalling thing; and it is best that it should be broken by a friend.”
Speaking, he left the room, coming back a few minutes later in company with the telegraph operator and the now almost hysterical dock master. He waited not one second for introduction or permission or anything else, that excited father, but rushed at Cleek and caught him by the hand.
“It’s my boy and you’re clearing him—God bless you!” he exclaimed, catching Cleek’s hand and wringing it with all his strength. “It isn’t in him to sell his country; I’d have killed him with my own hand years ago, if I thought it was. But it wasn’t—it never was! My boy! my boy! my splendid, loyal boy!”
“That’s right, old chap, have it out. Here on my shoulder, if you want to, daddy, and don’t be ashamed of it!” said Cleek, and reached round his arm over the man’s shoulder and clapped him on the back. “Let her go, and don’t apologize because it’s womanish. A man without a strain of the woman in him somewhere isn’t worth the powder to blow him to perdition. We’ll have him cleared, daddy—gad, yes! And look here! When he is cleared you take him by the ear and tell him to do his sweethearting in England, the young jackass, and to let foreign beauties alone; they’re not picking up with young Englishmen of his position for nothing, especially if they are reputed to have money of their own and to be connected with titled families. If you can’t make him realize that by gentle means, take him into the garden and bang it into him—hard.”
“Thank you, sir; thank you! I can see it now, Mr. Cleek. Not much use in shouting ‘Rule Britannia’ if you’re going to ship on a foreign craft, is there, sir? But anybody would have been taken in with her—she seemed such a sweet, gentle little thing and had such winning ways. And when she lost her father, the wife and I simply couldn’t help taking her to our hearts.”