Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Google Books
https://books.google.com/books?id=vjuWVeJ8s_4C
(the University of Wisconsin--Madison)

THE PURPLE FERN

THE PURPLE FERN

BY

FERGUS HUME

Author of "The Mystery of a Hansom Cab," "The Yellow Holly," "The Silent House in Pimlico," &c., &c.

LONDON EVERETT & CO. 42 ESSEX STREET, STRAND, W.C. 1907

THE PURPLE FERN

[CHAPTER I]

THE MAN IN GREY

The train to Crumel was late. Due at four o'clock, it failed to reach its destination, until ten minutes past the hour. This was not the fault of the branch-line authorities. The London express had been behind time at Werry Junction, whereby the local had been forced to wait. The delay mattered little to the majority of the passengers, as time in the wilds of Essex is of less value than a similar commodity in the metropolis. But Dr. Jerce, being a famous urban physician, felt annoyed, as he had come down hurriedly, in this unpleasant weather, to see a patient, and wished to be back in Harley Street by nine o'clock. Also Dr. Jerce was Napoleonic in his love for precision, and the failure of the Company to obey the time-table irritated his usually bland temper.

Jerce was not unlike the great Corsican in looks,--that is, he was short and stout, calm in his manner and impenetrable in expression. His clean-shaven face, classical in outline, save that the jaw was of the bull-dog order, did not betray his present feelings of exasperation at the pin-prick of delay. When the belated local finally steamed leisurely into the terminus, he buttoned his sable-lined coat, adjusted his shining silk hat, and dusted unnecessarily his smart patent leather boots, so unsuitable to the season. Finally, with the same imperturbable air, he collected the Christmas magazines he had been reading on the way down, and stepped on to the thronged platform. A man in a grey coat, grey gloves, grey trousers, and a grey Homburg hat, leaped from the adjoining carriage, and followed closely at the heels of the popular physician. Jerce did not turn his head, as no sixth sense told him that he was being watched.

It wanted only a week to Christmas, and the weather was quite of the traditional Dickens kind. Deep snow almost overwhelmed the quaint little Essex town, and this, hardened by many nights of frost, sparkled like jewels in the clear radiance of street-lamps and shop-lights. The short winter's day drew to a bitterly cold close, and although the pedestrians, crowding the narrow, twisted streets, were, for the most part, warmly clad, many of the more sensitive shivered in the cutting east wind. But Jerce, having a sufficiency of flesh to cover his bones, and a fur-lined overcoat to protect that same flesh, stepped out briskly and comfortably, without regard to the chills of the season. The man in grey followed him at a respectful distance, keenly observant.

The shops, already decked for Yule-tide, looked unusually lavish with their blaze of lights, their mistletoe, and red-berried holly branches, and their extra display of Santa Claus presents and Christmas provisions. But the doctor did not look at the glittering windows, nor did the man in grey. Jerce, who appeared to be well known, nodded smilingly, right and left, to respectful townspeople, and his follower took note of this popularity. Finally, the physician turned down a somewhat dark side-lane--for it was not yet an official street--and entered an iron gate on the left-hand side, some distance down. This admitted him into the grounds of a large, square Georgian mansion of mellow red brick, covered with ivy and snow, and looking like a house with a history. The watcher was compelled to remain outside the high iron railings, as he was unable to give any plausible reason for entering. When Jerce rang the bell and finally disappeared inside the mansion, the grey man muttered an impatient word or two, and resigned himself to sauntering up and down the lane, until such time as the doctor should emerge.

But the air was nipping, while the man in grey was thin and thinly clothed. Shortly he began to shiver and turn blue. Glancing down the semi-lane, where it led into the truly rural country, he noticed the brilliant lights of an ambitious inn. Measuring with his eye the distance from the Georgian mansion to this hostel, the man in grey saw that he could shelter therein, and yet keep an eye on the gate, out of which the doctor presumably would come. The opportunity was too tempting. Crossing the road, he entered the bar, which looked warm and cheery. Jerce would scarcely return to London for an hour or so, therefore the watcher thought that, with an occasional glance out of the bar-room door, he could very well keep guard over the doctor's comings and goings. But the first thing he did, when inside, was to demand a Bradshaw.

"Lor' now," prattled the lady behind the counter, in a thin mincing voice, the very ghost of speech and with restless volubility, "if I didn't see it only an hour ago. Yes, I did, say what you like. Mr. Ferdinand,--though to be sure you don't know him,--but Mr. Ferdinand came in for a Scotch and Polly, and asked to look up the London trains for this evening. He had that Bradshaw in the private bar, if I remember, which I can't be certain. Through that door, sir, if you please. I'm sure I'll be able to oblige, though I can't be positive."

When this incoherent speech terminated, the thin stranger passed through a narrow door in a partition, plastered with gaudy almanacks and sober advertisement sheets, to enter a small cupboard cut off from the bar by the aforesaid partition. It contained two deal chairs, a deal table covered with a red cloth and strewn with newspapers and guide books, and nothing else. Dimly lighted by a smelling swing lamp dangling over the table, and better illuminated by a bright fire, it looked comfortable enough, when contrasted with the snowy world outside. The lady who talked so much, suddenly appeared from somewhere like a jack-in-the-box, and after turning up the lamp, poked the fire vigorously and unnecessarily, chattering all the time.

"You see, sir, only the gentry come to this private bar," she said, in her high-pitched voice, and taking stock of the stranger all the time, "and there's no gentry hereabouts to-night. Mr. Ferdinand,--but you don't know him, of course, but Mr. Ferdinand, and a pleasant young gentleman he is, was the last to look at that Bradshaw. Oh, yes, you were asking for it, sir,--of course, you were, though where it can be, I can't say, happy as I'd be to oblige you. But the table is so very untidy, sir,--" making it worse by tossing about papers and books and pamphlets,--"people won't leave things where they ought to, and this Bradshaw, which is a new one,--oh, here you are, sir. You'll be sure to find the train you want, or perhaps the local time-table," she snatched up a pink sheet, "which is published as an advertisement by my uncle, who keeps the baker's shop on the left hand side of our High Street, going towards the station. Oh, you prefer Bradshaw, sir. Well, sir, some likes this and some that, but I never, never could understand Bradshaw myself, my head for figures not being like my brother, who is truly wonderful, and quite a phenomenon. Figures is child's bricks to him, and--oh, there's someone asking for beer. You'll excuse me, sir, won't you," with a winning smile. "I'll attend to this customer and return, when I set Lydia to watch the others."

With these highly unnecessary remarks to a wearied listener, the brisk landlady, who was thin and small, tight-laced, and highly-coloured, disappeared as suddenly as she had presented herself, and was heard a moment later exchanging interminable greetings with the last person who had entered to toast the Season. The man in grey shrugged his lean shoulders and breathed a sigh of relief, when Mrs. Talkative departed. Shortly he nodded contentedly over the Bradshaw. The next London train did not leave Crumel until seven o'clock, so if Dr. Jerce intended to go to town on this night, he would have to be at the station at that hour. Of course, there was a chance that the doctor might remain, but the grey man did not think that this was likely, as he had observed the absence of a bag. Still, it was as well to provide against emergencies, and, when the landlady returned, the stranger asked a question in a deep, grave voice, which suggested, in some uncanny way, cemeteries and funerals.

"I may have to remain here to-night," said he, surveying the brightly-dressed, would-be fashionable lady, "can I have a bed, please?"

With all her frivolous exterior, the little woman had a head for business, and first glanced round the room to see if the visitor had brought a bag. He guessed the meaning of her hesitation.

"I shall pay for a bed and for two meals in advance," he remarked, solemnly, "that is, if I find it necessary to remain, Miss--Miss--"

"There, now," giggled the hotel fairy, pleasantly confused, "if I ain't always saying to Lydia--who is the housemaid--that strangers will call me Miss, though I should look married, having heard the wedding service three times, and the funeral words as often. My last name was Dumps, if you please, sir,--John Dumps, and a dear man he was, though not extraordinarily handsome. He left me this hotel--the Savoy Hotel," added the landlady, with emphasis, "and you can call me Mrs. Dumps."

The grave man listened impassively, with his keen eyes on the airy female, so gorgeously arrayed. He might have been of bronze for all the impression this speech seemed to make. Yet it conveyed to him the idea that Mrs. Dumps was a confirmed gossip, and sufficiently free with her tongue to tell him everything he wished to know concerning Crumel and its inhabitants. Making a mental note of this, the grey man reverted to his first statement. "I shall pay in advance, Mrs. Dumps," he remarked, "and the price."

"Seven shillings for supper and bed and breakfast. I can't say fairer than that, look as you like, Mr.--Mr.--lor, now, I don't know your--"

"Osip is my name," interrupted the man, and tendered two halfcrowns and a single florin.

Mrs. Dumps' claw-like fingers closed on the money in a way which suggested the miser. "Osip. Really! Osip! A strange name, Osip."

"I am a strange man," replied the other curtly, "would you mind getting me a glass of ginger beer, Mrs. Dumps?"

"Oh, Mr. Osip, really, Mr. Osip. Surely, port or whiskey at Christmas, let alone the freezing weather, and the frost causing thirst."

"I never drink alcohol, Mrs. Dumps."

"Lor now," said the landlady, confidentially, "if you aren't exactly like me on the mother's side, as I come of a full-blooded family given to choking and apoplexy. I don't believe in strong drink myself, Mr. Osip, say what you like."

"Then why sell it?" was the not unnatural question.

"I must live," said Mrs. Dumps, plaintively; then to avoid further remarks, she hopped into the bar like a wren, although her plumage was less sober. Presently she returned with the ginger beer. "And won't you take something to eat, Mr. Osip?" she asked, with her fashionable head on one side, more like a bird than ever.

"No, thank you," Osip paused, then faced her abruptly. "I am a stranger in Crumel and I think of taking a house here. Do you know of any to let, Mrs. Dumps?"

"My cousin does, Mr. Osip. Arthur Grinder, Grocer and Land-agent, with an insurance office and a dog-cart, in which he drives round our beautiful and interesting country. All orders----"

Osip cut Mrs. Dumps short in her description, which was evidently culled from the local guide-book, or from one of Mr. Grinder's pamphlets. "I shall see him to-morrow, if I stay," said he, hurriedly.

"But, surely, Mr. Osip, you'll stay, seeing you have paid?"

"Circumstances may arise which may make it necessary for me to return to London to-night. But I can afford the loss."

This speech made the landlady sweeter than ever. Apparently the stranger was rich, so she prepared to make herself aggressively agreeable. "If you become one of us," chirped Mrs. Dumps, more like a roguish bird than ever. "I dare say you'll like to know about the town."

Osip sat down near the fire and folded his arms.

"Information of that kind has its advantages," he said, dryly, "can you tell me anything about Crumel and its inhabitants?"

"Can I tell?" echoed Mrs. Dumps, shrilly contemptuous, "why, I was born and bred here. It is thirty years since I saw the light of day in dear Crumel. Thirty years," repeated Mrs. Dumps, challenging contradiction, which she seemed to expect with regard to her age. Osip might have suggested with some truth that she was over forty, but he did not judge it wise to interrupt the flowing current of her gossip. Nodding gravely he looked into the fire and Mrs. Dumps talked on rapidly, reverting again to the guide-book or to the pamphlet of Mr. Grinder, who was her cousin.

"Crumel," explained Mrs. Dumps, breathlessly, "has three thousand inhabitants, more or less, chiefly less, and the surrounding country is dotted with the delightful residence of well-to-do gentry. Formerly the place was called Legby, in the time of Charles the First; but when General Cromwell visited the then village, during one of his wars, the prosperity increased so greatly through his having made it his headquarters, that the inhabitants, in compliment to the great man, called the then village, Cromwell, which by time has become corrupted to Crumel."

"Very interesting," yawned Osip, visibly bored.

"The minster is tenth century, and very fine," continued the guide-book, "and also Low Church, the vicar being the Rev. Nehemiah Clarke, who is quite a Puritan, out of compliment, no doubt, to Cromwell, or Crumel, to whom the town, formerly the village of Legby, owes its greatness. And they do say," continued Mrs. Dumps, dropping the guide-book, to become merely a gossip, "that Mr. Clarke's daughter, Miss Prudence,--did you ever hear such a name, sir, and she isn't a bit prudent, well, then, Miss Prudence would rather her pa was High Church. I dare say Mr. Ferdinand, who loves Miss Prudence, would like it also, he being quite artistic."

"You have mentioned Mr. Ferdinand several times, Mrs. Dumps. Who is he?"

"An orphan, and so is his sister, Miss Clarice Baird,--wealthy orphans, too, Mr. Osip, I assure you," and Mrs. Dumps nodded vigorously.

Osip showed that he was becoming weary of this conversation, since he was not gathering precisely the information he required. Abruptly he changed the subject. "In this lane----"

"Street," interpolated Mrs. Dumps, indignantly.

"Very good: street. And nearly opposite to this inn----"

"Hotel, if you please, Mr. Osip. The Savoy Hotel."

"So be it, Mrs. Dumps. Well, then, in this street and nearly opposite to the Savoy Hotel, there is a red brick mansion, which I should like to purchase, if it is for sale."

"Lor, now, how funny that is, say what you like, seeing it's the very house where the Baird orphans live."

"Alone, Mrs. Dumps?"

"Oh, dear me, no, sir. They board, so to speak, with their guardian, Mr. Henry Horran, who suffers from some disease the doctors can't put a name to. He's been ailing, off and on, for over ten years; but the doctors can't cure him nohow, not knowin' what's wrong with his inside. Mr. Ferdinand ought to find out, seeing he's lived with Mr. Horran all his life, though to be sure, he ain't old, being but three and twenty."

"Mr. Ferdinand Baird is not a doctor, then?"

"He will be some day, if his brains hold out. He's a medical student, and what you might call an apprentice to Dr. Jerce."

"Ha!" said Osip, quickly, "your local doctor?"

"Lor, no, whatever made you think that, Mr. Osip. Dr. Wentworth's our local, and he isn't bad, though I know more about insides than he does. But what can you expect, as I always say, when he's unmarried, and can't understand ladies? Why, Sampson Tait can cure better than our Dr. Wentworth."

"Sampson Tait?"

"Our chemist," explained Mrs. Dumps, "my second cousin on my father's side."

"You seem to have endless relatives, Mrs. Dumps."

"Heaps and heaps, and they're always dying, which makes mourning come expensive. But I'm lonely, all the same, Mr. Osip, I do assure you, as no one can live lightheartedly, after burying three husbands. Of course, there's my daughter Zara, but she's in London. Her pa had her christened Sarah, but Zara to my mind is more romantic."

"Undoubtedly. Well, then, this Dr. Jerce?"

"Not to know him," interrupted Mrs. Dumps, throwing up her hands, "is to argue yourself unknown. He's famous in Harley Street, London, and they do say that he'll be knighted some day soon. A great day for Crumel that will be, as he's a native, and we're proud of him, not that it's to be wondered at, for a better man never lived."

"A better doctor?" said Osip, inquiringly.

"A better man," reiterated Mrs. Dumps, firmly. "He's kind to the poor, and lavish with money, and why, with such a loving heart, as I know he has, he never will marry, beats me hollow. But they do say as he loves Miss Clarice, though he'll never get her, say what you like, she being engaged, I do hear, to a soldier officer, called Captain Anthony Ackworth, who fires guns at Gattlinsands, five miles away on the seashore."

"Oh, and is Miss Baird rich?"

"She will be and so will her brother, when they and reach the age of five and twenty, being twins, though she's got the brains of the two. Mr. Horran is the guardian, and looks after the money, but since he's ill--and Lord knows what his illness is about--I dare say Dr. Jerce helps him to see that things are kept straight. The Bairds were a Scotch family in the time of James the First," added Mrs. Dumps, becoming again like a guide-book, "and that Stuart king gave them lands about Crumel, then the village of Legby. The old Manor-House is three miles from Crumel, and is let to a rich American, until the Baird orphans prefer to live in it; they meanwhile dwelling with Mr. Horran, who is their guardian by law constituted. That is Miss Clarice,--bless her--lives with Mr. Horran, but Mr. Ferdinand is usually in town, where he boards with Dr. Jerce, who is like a father to him, and I dare say would like to be a brother-in-law, not that he's likely to be so, with Captain Ackworth in the way."

"Does Dr. Jerce come down often?"

"Once a week at least, Mr. Osip, to see Mr. Horran. He's interested no end in the case, but he don't know what's wrong with the man."

"And Dr. Jerce is a good fellow," said Osip, thoughtfully.

"One of the very best. But won't you drink up your ginger beer, sir, and partake of some more? We must rejoice at Christmas time."

"I'll rejoice when I return," said Osip; then rose unexpectedly, and buttoned up his threadbare overcoat. "Meanwhile, I'll stroll through the town and inspect the shops."

"Be sure you look into the butcher's window," screamed Mrs. Dumps, as he passed out, "he being my nephew by his mother's side."

Osip made no reply, but vanished into the night, as Mrs. Dumps fluttered back to the bar, to charm fresh customers. A clouded sky revealed neither moon nor stars, but the hard snow emitted a kind of sepulchral radiance, which created a luminous atmosphere. By an odd inversion the light seemed to come from below, instead of being shed from above, as usual, and the effect was weird in the extreme.

Walking towards the red-brick mansion, Osip pondered over what he had heard from the chattering landlady, and congratulated himself on securing information, while not appearing to seek for the same. Opposite the Georgian mansion, he halted for a few seconds, and, as there appeared to be no one about, he made up his mind to venture into the grounds. Noiselessly opening the gate, he skirted the leafless hedge, and reached the side of the house. Here he found two French windows, giving on to a miniature terrace. The blinds were not down, nor were the curtains drawn, so the lamp-light poured forth across the snow in a gleaming stream. Osip cautiously peered in, and beheld Jerce talking to a pretty young girl, whom he took to be Clarice Baird. Without hesitation, he pressed his ear against the wall, and listened with all his ears.

[CHAPTER II]

AN ADVENTURE

"I am extremely puzzled," said Dr. Jerce, scratching his plump chin with his right fore-finger--a favourite gesture of his.

"Oh!--a clever man like you."

"Ah-a,--what pleasant feminine flattery."

"The truth. You are celebrated."

"Humph! So is a charlatan, if he advertises himself sufficiently."

"Charlatans don't cure people as you do, doctor,--nor can they ever hope to be knighted, like someone I know."

"Well," answered the stout man, again tickling his chin. "I am not so sure of that. Humbug often succeeds, where merit fails. Perhaps," his little black eyes twinkled, "perhaps that is why I can look forward to being Sir Daniel Jerce."

The girl looked closely into his bland face. "A charlatan would never confess to being puzzled."

"In this case," Jerce shrugged, and resumed a quarter-deck walk in the long drawing-room, "the Archangel Gabriel would be puzzled."

"What can be the matter with Uncle Henry?" observed his listener, pensively.

"Ask the Archangel Gabriel, Miss Baird."

"Miss Baird?" Like a woman her train of thought switched up a siding.

Jerce coloured all over his large waxen face, and he gulped with embarrassment. "Of course, I have known you since you were a little girl," he began, awkwardly, "but----"

She cut him short. "Then why not call me Clarice?"

"Only too delighted," he stuttered. "Clarice, then."

"Clarice now, I rather think," she laughed, and, wondering at the confusion of this usually self-contained physician, returned forthwith to the topic which had created this conversation. "What can be the matter with Uncle Henry?" she said again.

Jerce became the medical man at once, and shook his head. "Ten years of attendance on Horran have left me where I was at the beginning."

"How strange."

"Everything connected with medicine is strange. The human body is a box of tricks, with which we play, in the dark."

"A box of bricks, you mean."

"As you please. We doctors build up the bodies of the sick, so I suppose flesh and bones, muscles and nerves, are the bricks. But this case--Horran's case--humph!" he resumed his walk with knitted brows, "yes, quite so. I confess that a post-mortem would settle the matter."

Clarice rose with a horrified look. "What a cold-blooded speech. He is your oldest friend."

"Forgive me. Science is not quite human at times. Of course, I am here to cure Horran, not to kill him. I should indeed regret losing my best, and, as you say, my oldest friend. But how can I cure a man, when I don't know what is the matter with him?"

"What does Dr. Wentworth say?"

Jerce looked at the girl's pretty face and fairly laughed. "Wentworth is not a prospective knight," said he, dryly.

"Which means--?"

"That I don't wish to boast."

This time Clarice coloured. "I beg your pardon, doctor. I know that you are everybody and that Dr. Wentworth is nobody. You live in Harley Street and attend to titled people, while he works in a quiet Essex town amongst the middle-class and the poor. All the same," she was determined to have the last word, "the mouse may be able to assist the lion."

"I prefer a feminine mouse," said the doctor, smiling. "Suppose you assist me by detailing exactly what has happened."

Clarice leaned an elbow on the mantelpiece, and absently ruffled her brown hair before replying. "Mr. Horran has been complaining of headaches," she said at length, "and once or twice he has been sick. Also on rising suddenly from a chair, he has always felt giddy."

"You tell me nothing new, Miss--I mean Clarice. For ten years Horran has suffered in this way. Humph! The attacks of giddiness have not been so frequent, Wentworth tells me."

"No. Only every now and then."

"Humph! And his behaviour?"

"Well," Clarice hesitated, "he has been a trifle excited at times, and by Dr. Wentworth's advice he gave up his one glass of whisky at night."

"I see," Jerce once more scratched his chin. "Alcohol excites him."

"Anything unusual seems to excite him, doctor. Mr. Horran gets quite hysterical at times, and is always thinking of his health."

"Hypochondria!" muttered Jerce, with his eyes on the ground. "And on this particular occasion?"

"Didn't Dr. Wentworth tell you? Mr. Horran fell down in an epileptic fit and bit his tongue. We got him to bed, and sent for Dr. Wentworth, who insisted upon wiring for you."

"Quite so--quite so. Wentworth knows that I am deeply interested in this most mysterious case. What do these symptoms mean? Whence do they arise? I wish--" he cast a look on the girl, "no, I won't suggest a post-mortem again. All the same only a post-mortem can explain these things."

"Oh, doctor, do you think he will die?"

"No! no! There, there," the doctor patted her hand, "don't cry. Horran may go on living for the next twenty years--as he is only fifty-four, I don't see why he shouldn't."

"Then you can't see death?"

"I can't see death, or life, or anything, but a series of most puzzling symptoms, which neither I, nor Wentworth, nor the whole College of Surgeons can understand. However, we'll drop the subject just now, and think of tea."

"Oh, doctor, how can you think of food when--"

"When my patient is sleeping quietly. Why shouldn't I? There's nothing to be done until he awakes. Then I'll make another examination, although I don't expect I'll learn anything. I return to town," Jerce consulted a handsome gold watch, "by the seven train."

"It is very good of you to have come down so promptly."

"Not at all. I would go to the ends of the earth at a moment's notice, to attend to so interesting a case. Ha! ha! Cold-blooded science again, Clarice, you see. Come, come, let us say that I came willingly to see my old and valued friend, Henry Horran."

"Doctor, you are a great man."

"Flattering--very flattering. And why?"

"Great men, I have always read and heard, will never spare anyone in their aim to attain their ends."

"Humph. That is not quite so flattering. And my ends?"

"You want to find out the cause of this trouble."

"Naturally. I can't cure Horran unless I do."

"Yes. But you are more curious to learn the reason for the disease than to cure him."

"You wrong me," said the doctor quickly, "and to prove that you wrong me, I shall assuredly cure Horran, if it be in the power of man to set him on his legs again. Now you had better go and have some tea and toast. I'll return to Horran's room, and see Wentworth when he comes in."

"I can't eat, doctor," said Clarice, making no motion to obey. "That is foolish. Starving yourself will not cure your guardian. I dare say you are fond of him. Eh?"

"Have you known me more than twenty years to ask such a question? Of course, I am very fond of uncle Henry. He is the best of men."

"I agree with you there," said Jerce, earnestly, "but I don't think your brother agrees with you. That is strange."

"Why so, doctor?"

"You and Ferdy are twins,--twins may have the same likes and dislikes."

Clarice laughed. "For a clever medical man that is certainly not a clever speech. Twins are often alike in looks, and entirely different in disposition."

"I am aware of that," responded Jerce, calmly, "but I have always noted that you and Ferdy think alike, or did, until lately."

"That is because Ferdy is removed from my influence," said Clarice, sadly. "He always followed my lead. But since he has gone to town to stop with you and become a student of medicine, he thinks very differently from what I do. Naturally, perhaps, since he is seeing more of the world than I, and is a man."

"You should have been the man, Clarice, and Ferdy, the woman. I wish to do my best for your brother, because he is your brother, but----" Jerce made a gesture of annoyance, "Ferdy is so terribly weak."

"Don't be hard on him, doctor," she pleaded. "Ferdy never got on well with uncle Henry."

"He gets on with no one, my dear, save with those people who pander to his weaknesses." Clarice clasped her hands and looked anxious. "Doctor, there is nothing very wrong with Ferdy?" she asked, faltering. "No! no!" Jerce stopped in his walk to pat her shoulder. "I look after him as much as I can. Yet I must not disguise from you, Clarice, that Ferdy is--well, rather wild."

"Rather wild," echoed the girl. "He frequents music-halls, and goes with people who make pleasure their aim in life. Also he has sometimes been the worse for alcohol. These things, Clarice, do not lead to peace, or to greatness."

The girl sat down and covered her face. "When Ferdy came down yesterday, I noticed that he was not himself. He seems to have something on his mind."

Jerce shrugged his shoulders. "I dare say he is ashamed of himself."

"Can't something be done? If I spoke--"

"No, my dear," said the doctor, very decidedly, "you will only make matters worse. Ferdy, for the last twelve months, has been out of leading strings, and if you try, however delicately, to lecture him, he will only become obstreperous. But you need not be alarmed. I'll do what I can. I would do much for you, Clarice."

There was a note in his voice which made the girl look up. The usually pale face of the doctor was red, and his eyes had a look in them, which she was woman enough to understand. Rising with a nervous laugh, Clarice grappled with the situation at once. She did not wish to lose her amiable companion in a disappointed suitor. "Do what you can for Ferdy, doctor, and I'll ever be your--friend."

"But suppose I--"

"Friend, doctor," reiterated Clarice, steadily, and withdrew the hand he had clasped too warmly. "I wonder," stammered the medical man, nervously, "if you understand exactly what I mean." Clarice smiled. "I should not be a woman else. I understand, and so I say--friend."

"There is someone else?" asked Jerce, chagrined. Clarice turned the leading question with an embarrassing laugh. "There is always someone else, and in this instance the someone else, is my brother Ferdinand. I rely on you to bring him to his senses."

"Well," said Jerce, struggling back to calmness, "that may be difficult. You see, Miss Baird--"

"Clarice."

"No," said Jerce, steadily, "never again, until I have the right to call you Clarice."

"What right? No, no! that's a foolish question," she added hurriedly. "Doctor, doctor, do not put your feelings into words. Let things remain as they are. Help Ferdy and cure Uncle Henry, and then--"

"And then?" he bent forward eagerly.

"Then I shall ask you to dance at my wedding," replied the girl, and fairly ran out of the room. Jerce was so determined that she could scarcely avoid hearing him speak plainer than she wished. And if he did speak out, the answer her emotion would force her to give him, would inevitably create a disagreeable feeling, if not a positive breach of friendship. This was not to be thought of, as Jerce was necessary both to help poor weak Ferdy Baird, and to cure Henry Horran of his mysterious disease. Discretion, as Clarice rightly thought, was the better part of valour in this especial instance, and therefore she deliberately ran away. Jerce was left alone.

Naturally, he thought that he was unobserved, and the watcher at the window could see the various expressions which chased each other across his usually calm face. Judging from these, Jerce was annoyed that he had spoken so inopportunely. The fruit was not yet ripe, as he reflected, after recalling the few words he and Clarice had exchanged. First, he would have to bring Ferdy back to the paths of virtue; well, what then? Clarice might--on the other hand she might not. Certainly, she had laughed away his leading question, but also she had invited him to dance at her wedding--also laughingly. No! there could be no one else, and if Jerce saved the two men in which she was most interested, she might reward him by loving him, as he wished to be loved. Thanks to the gossip of Mrs. Dumps, the watcher at the window knew well that Jerce was dwelling in a fool's paradise, but it was not his intention, or will, to inform Jerce of the gunner officer at Gattlinsands, five miles away by the seashore.

Jerce, even though presumably alone, did not allow all his feelings to be seen on his face. But he felt that the room was stifling in spite of its being a cold winter's evening, and opened the window to gain a breath of sharp air. As he stepped out, he was suddenly grasped from behind, and the skilful exercise of a Ju-Jitsu motion placed him prostrate at the mercy of his assailant. In the light of the drawing-room lamps streaming through the open window, Jerce could see that the man wore grey clothes. He would have spoken, or would have called for assistance, but the grey man placed his hand on what is called Adam's apple, and paralyzed by pressure the vocal chords. Jerce lay voiceless and motionless, as though in a state of catalepsy, while the man went systematically through his pockets with the dexterity of a thief. In less time than it takes to tell, the assailant had failed to find what he sought, and, rising quickly, disappeared like a shadow, or a ghost. All the time he had spoken no word, and had not allowed his face to be seen. As his retreating feet scrunched the snow, Jerce, too shaken to rise immediately, lay where he was, wondering what had taken place, and wondering, most of all, why this very dexterous thief had gone through his pockets so thoroughly. Then he rose to his feet and found that his gold watch, his not inconsiderable sum of money, his rings and his silver match-box were all safe. Evidently, the assailant was no common thief. He had desired to find something, and had failed to find it, but what that something might be, Jerce could not think.

When he came quite to himself--for the shock of the assault had somewhat stunned him--he rushed along the terrace, and into the garden, which was parted by a single iron railing from the lane. But there was no one to be seen. The man in grey had vanished swiftly into the night, and Jerce could no more guess in which direction he had gone, than he could surmise why the man had assaulted him. He stared from the elevation upon which he stood, over the spectral wastes of snow, and then turned to re-enter. For the moment it was in his mind to send for the police; but he could give so scanty a description of his daring opponent, that it hardly seemed worth while. Not even the cleverest detective could recognise the man, from the mere fact that he wore grey clothes.

However, just as Jerce turned the corner of the terrace to re-enter by the still open French window, he heard the click of the iron gate as it swung to. A tall figure walked briskly up the snowy path, and, seeing him at the corner of the terrace, advanced towards him with an ejaculation of astonishment.

"Doctor," exclaimed the new-comer, bending forward to examine the features of the outraged man in the uncertain light. "I knew you were coming down, but I did not expect to find you out of doors on this freezing night."

"Ferdinand!" gasped Jerce, and stretching out his hand, he gripped the young man by his overcoat collar. Before Baird could expostulate, he was drawn unresistingly along towards the light streaming from the open window, and Jerce was looking fiercely at his tall form and grey clothes. "Tell me why you knocked me down just now?" demanded the doctor, much ruffled, and short of breath.

Ferdinand started back in genuine surprise. "I knock you down?" he repeated. "Why, doctor, you must be out of your senses. Why on earth should I knock you down?"

"To search my pockets for some reason."

Baird laughed at the monstrous charge. "Do you accuse me of robbery?"

"Oh, no! You took nothing, but you searched me. Why?" and Jerce looked closely at the handsome, weak face of the spruce young gentleman.

"But that you are a rabid teetotaler, doctor," said Ferdinand, with a shrug, "I should think you had been drinking. I have been for the last hour at the vicarage seeing Prudence, and before that I visited Mrs. Dumps' Savoy Hotel to look up the last train to town to-night. I have just returned, and you accuse me of assaulting you. It's too ridiculous!" And Baird, annoyed at being kept standing in the cold, began to fume like a spoilt child.

"I tell you, Ferdinand, that you knocked me down, here--where we are standing, and searched my pockets thoroughly. I recognise you by the grey overcoat you are wearing, although you were clever enough to hide your face."

"Grey clothes, eh?" mused Ferdinand, slowly. "There may be something in what you say, after all. A tall man in grey clothes, hat and all, passed me in the High Street, near Grinder's shop."

"Did you see his face?" asked Jerce, doubtfully.

"Yes. I don't usually take notice of a man's face, but this chap was a stranger here, and looked like a Londoner. He had a lean face, so far as I could see--yes, and a small black moustache. And--and,--oh, yes, doctor, there was a criss-cross scar on his cheek, I fancy. But, of course, he passed too quickly for me to observe him closely."

"A scar on his cheek," said the doctor, loosening his grip. "Humph! I congratulate you on your rapid powers of observation. Only a woman could have gathered so much in one moment. I ask your pardon, Ferdinand. Doubtless, it was this fellow who knocked me down."

"And here," Ferdinand looked round, "in our grounds. What cheek. I expected he wished to rob you."

"If so, he certainly did not fulfil his intention, even though he had me at his mercy," said Jerce, dryly, and stepped into the room.

"Shall I go for the police, doctor?"

"No. We'll say no more about it, my boy."

"Do you know this man?" asked Baird, puzzled.

"I fancy I do, if you describe the scar accurately."

"Oh, it was a criss-cross scar, right enough. But if he did not rob you, or wish to rob you, why did he go through your pockets."

"That," said Jerce, with emphasis, "is as much a mystery to me, as it is to you."

[CHAPTER III]

TWINS

Next morning, Clarice and her brother were at breakfast together in a cheerful little octagon-shaped room, all enamelled white panels, delicately painted wreaths of flowers and profuse gilding. More snow had fallen during the night, and through the tall, narrow windows could be seen a spotless world, almost as white as the breakfast-room itself. But a cheerful fire of oak logs blazing in the brass basket, where the bluish tiles took the smoke, and in the centre of the apartment a round table, large enough for two, was covered with dainty linen upon which stood a silver service, delicate china, and many appetizing dishes. Clarice was a notable housekeeper, and knowing that Ferdinand was fond of a good breakfast, used her best endeavours to provide him with the toothsome food he loved. And this was somewhat in the nature of a bribe.

"By jove!" said the young man, attacking a devilled kidney, "Jerce's housekeeper doesn't feed me like this."

"Then why don't you come down here oftener, Ferdy, and allow me to feed you," suggested Clarice, artfully, and filled him another cup of hot fragrant coffee.

"What rot--as if I could. Jerce keeps me at work, I can tell you. I scarcely have a minute to myself."

"And the minutes you have are given to other people than your sister," said Clarice, dryly.

"Ho! ho!" Ferdinand chuckled. "Jealous of Prudence."

"No! I should like to see you married to Prudence. She would keep you in order."

"Bosh! Jerce does that."

"I doubt it, after what he told me last night."

Knife and fork fell from Ferdinand's hands, and his rosy complexion became as white as the snow out of doors. "Wh-a-t--what--did he tell you?" he quavered, while Clarice looked at him, astonished.

"Only that you are a trifle wild," she hastened to explain. "Why should you look so alarmed?"

"I'm--I'm not alarmed," denied Baird, and absently wiped his forehead with his napkin. "That is, of course if Jerce talks about my being wild to you, and you speak to Prudence, she'll give me the go-by, like a shot. Prudence is awfully jealous."

"I'm not in the habit of telling tales," said Clarice, dryly.

"Jerce is, then. Why can't he hold his tongue?"

"Is what he says true?"

"I don't exactly know what he did say," said Ferdinand, irritably, and pushed back his plate. "You've spoilt my breakfast. I don't like shocks."

"Why should you receive a shock from my very simple observation?"

"Because--well, because of Prudence. I'm fond of Prudence, and I don't want her to know that I--well, that I--enjoy myself."

Clarice tried to catch his eye, so as to see if he was speaking the truth, but Ferdinand evaded her gaze, and rising, went to the fireplace, where he lighted a cigarette. The girl remained seated where she was, resting her elbows on the table, and with a frown knitting her brow. Ferdy was so weak, that she always feared lest his weakness should land him in trouble. Moreover, he was not truthful, when anything was to be gained by telling a falsehood. His confused manner showed that he had something to hide; but, she reflected bitterly, that to ply him with questions, would only make his recording angel take to shorthand, so rapidly would the lies pour out.

Ferdy, leaning his elbows on the mantelpiece, admired his own handsome face in the round mirror, and furtively glanced at the reflection of his sister. The twins were wonderfully alike, and wonderfully good-looking, but Clarice, strange to say, was the more manly of the two. That is her manner was more masculine and decisive, her mouth was firmer, and she had the squarer chin. With his rosy oval face, his Grecian nose, his full lips, and soft brown hair, which lay in silky waves on his white forehead, Ferdinand was much too pretty for a man. He possessed a slim, shapely figure, and wore the smartest of clothes with an aristocratic air. Curiously enough, considering his delicate looks, he was an excellent athlete, and also had proved his bravery more than once, when in the Wild Waste Lands at the Back of Beyond, whither he had gone a year previously on a tramp steamer. From that wild excursion he had returned brown and healthy, and full of life; but within twenty-four hours, Clarice, who had rejoiced at the apparently virile change, knew that Ferdy was as weak and wavering as ever. He was a weed to voyage with every current, a feather to be wafted hither and thither, on every breath of wind.

"I should have been the man," said Clarice, suddenly rising, and placing her hands on her hips with a throw-back of her shoulders.

"Eh--er--what's that you say?" asked Ferdy, absently.

His sister came to where he stood, and placed her face beside his. "I should have been the man, and you the woman," she declared, as they looked at their delicate, youthful faces in the mirror. "You and I are alike, Ferdy, but there is a difference."

"If we are alike, how can there be a difference?" asked the wise youth, pettishly.

"Can't you see? I can. Look at my chin, and at your own. Gaze into my eyes, see the firmness of my lips. There's a dash of the man in me, Ferdy, and much of the woman about you."

Baird dropped into an armchair and kicked his long legs in the air with a light laugh. "I suppose you say that, because I'm like you."

"You aren't like me. I wish you were."

"Come, now--your face and mine. Where's the difference?"

"In the points I have named," she replied, quickly. "I am not talking of the physical, Ferdy. I know you are brave enough, dear, and can hold your own with anyone, where fighting is concerned."

"I should jolly well think I could," muttered Baird, bending his arm and feeling his muscle. "I've never been licked in a fight yet."

"But," went on Clarice, with emphasis, "it's your nature I talk of. You are so weak--so very, very weak."

"I'm not," snapped Ferdy, flushing. "I always have my own way."

"Ah, that's obstinacy, not strength. Because a person said no, you would say yes, and vice-versa. But you are the prey of your own passions, Ferdy. You deny yourself nothing."

"Why should I?"

"Because it is by denial--by self-denial, that we make ourselves strong, Ferdy. Why, any woman could twist you round her finger."

"Any woman can twist any man, you mean. If you bring the sex question into the matter, Clarice, I admit that man is the weaker vessel. A woman can do what she likes with a man. Women rule the world, and why they should bother about this suffragette business, beats me."

"All men can't be twisted by women, Ferdy. Dr. Jerce, for instance."

"Pooh. He's so wrapped up in medicine and science that he hates the sex--your sex, I mean."

"I don't think so," said Clarice, recalling a scene on the previous night. "Dr. Jerce is a man like other men in that way, only he is sufficiently strong to hold his own with women."

"I say," cried Ferdy, restlessly, "what's all this chatter about?"

"About you, if you'll only listen," said his sister, looking down at the weak frowning face. "I'm worried about you, Ferdy. When you were here with me, I could manage you, but since you came back from that trip a year ago, and went in for medicine, you have changed for the worse."

"I don't see that," said Baird, sulkily.

"I do. There are lines on your face, which should not be there at your age. Look at the black circles under your eyes. You're getting the look of a man who stops up night after night, and you do."

"Who says that?"

"Dr. Jerce says it. You don't attend to your work, he says. You are always at music-halls; you take more drink than is good for you; you gamble above what you can afford, and I dare say that you make love to all manner of women."

"Oh, I say, you shouldn't say that last."

"Because I'm a girl--an unmarried woman," flashed out Clarice. "What rubbish! I'll say what I think to you, who are my only brother and my twin. Do you think that I am going to see you ruin yourself with wine and women and cards, simply because there are things a girl is not supposed to know? I am twenty-three. I have had endless responsibility since Uncle Henry took ill, so I am quite able to speak out and to save you if possible."

Ferdinand rose and flung his cigarette into the fire. "I won't have you talk like that to me," he declared, his voice thick with anger. "I am a man, and you are a woman."

"The reverse, I think," retorted Clarice, bitterly.

"You have got far too high an opinion of yourself," foamed Ferdy, kicking the logs angrily, "and when Uncle Henry dies, I'll show you who is to be master here."

Clarice ignored the latter part of this speech. "Why do you suggest that Uncle Henry may die?"

"He's ill--he can't last long," stammered Ferdy, evasively.

"How do you know? How does Dr. Jerce know? He told me himself that he could not understand this strange illness, and could not say whether Uncle Henry would live or die. Do you call yourself more clever than Dr. Jerce?"

"I have studied medicine, and--"

"For twelve months, and what you call study, I call pursuit of pleasure. You are wasting your life, and there is no one to stand between you and ruin, but me. I dare not tell Uncle Henry what Dr. Jerce reported to me, as his health is too delicate to stand shocks."

"You can tell him what you like," mumbled Ferdy, knowing very well that he was safe in giving the permission.

"I shall tell him nothing, but," added Clarice, with emphasis, "I'll tell Prudence, if you don't mend."

Ferdy clenched his hands and his eyes flashed.

"Prudence won't believe one word of what you say," he declared, angrily. "She loves me, as I love her, and--"

"Do you love her?" asked Clarice, sharply, and Ferdinand recoiled before the look in her eyes. "Dr. Jerce--"

"What has he dared to say?"

"Nothing more than what I have told you," said the girl, "but no man who is behaving as you are, can possibly love a woman truly."

"Oh, bother, leave these sort of things alone. You are a girl, and you don't understand. As to Jerce, he has his own secrets."

He turned on his heel to leave the room, but Clarice swiftly placed herself in his way. "Now, what do you mean by that?" she asked, wondering if Jerce had related the scene of the previous night in order to enlist Ferdy on his side to forward his suit.

"Well," mumbled the young man, pausing and fishing out another cigarette from mere habit, "there's no reason why I shouldn't tell you about the row. Jerce never said I wasn't to."

"What row--as you call it?"

"I don't know what else you would call it," retorted Ferdy, who had regained his good humour, with the shallow capacity of his nature. "I don't know who that chap in grey can be, but Jerce knows. And what's more, I believe he hunted him out last night. I was going to town with Jerce and he said that I could stop down here for a couple of days. If he wasn't after that grey chap, why didn't he want my company?"

Clarice listened to all this with a puzzled expression. "I don't understand a word you're talking about," she said, tartly; "what grey man--what row?"

"Well," drawled Baird, lighting his cigarette, and strolling back to his seat, "it's like this." And he related all that had taken place on the terrace, and described the man with the criss-cross scar on his face, ending up with a few comments of his own. "And Jerce must know the chap, for he wouldn't let me go for the police. Oh, Jerce has his secrets, and if a chap has to knock him down and go through his pockets, those secrets ain't respectable--that's all I have to say. A nice chap Jerce is, to talk of my being wild, when he's old enough to know better, and has larks like this."

"Why don't you tell him so?" asked Clarice, sarcastically.

"Oh, it's none of my business," replied Ferdy, airily. All the same his delicate colour came and went in a way which showed Clarice that he was afraid of Dr. Jerce. And very rightly, too, considering their relative ages and different positions in the world.

"It's a strange thing," said Clarice, thoughtfully, kilting up her dress and resting one slender foot on the fender. "I wonder Dr. Jerce didn't speak of the matter."

"Oh, he wants you to have a good opinion of him, so doesn't give away his little wickednesses."

"Ferdy!" said Miss Baird, sharply, for his flippant tone jarred on her, "you have no right to speak like this of Dr. Jerce. Everyone who knows him, is aware that his character is of the highest. He is charitable and attends to poor people in some London slum for nothing. No one can breathe a word against him. A man like Dr. Jerce would not hold the position he does, or expect to be knighted, unless his reputation and life were spotless. However, there's an easy way of learning the truth. Dr. Jerce is coming down again to-morrow to consult with Dr. Wentworth over Uncle Henry's case; I'll tell him what you say!"

"No! no!" This time Ferdinand went quite white and spoke with dry lips. "You'll only get me into a row. I dare say Jerce is all right. I never heard anyone speak of him save with the highest praise, and he has been a good friend to me. I don't want to quarrel with him."

"There is no need that you should do so, Ferdy. All I mean to ask Dr. Jerce is, why the man assaulted him and went through his pockets."

"He says that he doesn't know," said Ferdy gruffly.

"You say that he knows the man?"

"He might--that is, I think so. Anyhow, he wouldn't let me go for the police, so it looks as though he didn't want a public row. But you'd better not say anything, Clarice. Jerce may get his back up at my telling you. He'd row me. I don't want that. Jerce is a brick, you know, Clarry. He's lent me money when Uncle Henry kept me short."

Remembering the hopes expressed by the doctor, Clarice was vastly indignant at this revelation, and faced her weak twin with clenched hands. "How dare you borrow money from Dr. Jerce?" she said, and her eyes flashed. "Uncle Henry gives you all you want."

"He doesn't," said Ferdy, sulkily. "He allows me next to nothing. I call him a skinflint. What's two hundred a year?"

"Very good pocket-money. He pays your bills, keeps you for nothing, and gives you four pounds a week to waste. Yet with all that, you borrow from Dr. Jerce. How much have you had?"

"That's my business."

"Mine also. Tell me, or I'll tell Uncle Henry."

"Only a few hundreds," snarled Ferdy, reluctantly.

"A few hundreds!" Clarice sank into her seat and looked at Ferdy with consternation. "And how on earth have you spent so much, in addition to your own income?"

"Money will go," lamented Ferdy. "Whenever I break a pound, I never have any left within the hour."

"You'll bring disgrace on us some day," said Clarice, with a pained look. "Why didn't you come to me?"

"You're so high and mighty. You wouldn't have understood."

"I understand this much, that Dr. Jerce is the last man I should wish you to have money from."

"I thought you liked him."

"I did--I do, and I respect him. All the same, I wish you hadn't borrowed from him." Ferdinand rose and kicked the logs again in his petulant fashion. "I must have money somehow to enjoy myself."

"You have four pounds a week."

"What's that--I want fifty. And after all, it's my own money. When we come of age in two years we each have two thousand a year. I don't see why Uncle Henry should grudge me cash in the way he does. If you don't want to spend it, I do. And what's more," cried Ferdy, working himself into a rage, "I'm going to."

"You shan't spend Dr. Jerce's money," said Clarice, and her mouth shut firmly, while her eyes glittered like steel.

"How can you stop me from getting it?" scoffed Fred, uneasily. "I can ask him to refuse you more. Dr. Jerce will do anything for me."

Ferdy scowled. "I know that," he said, moodily.

"He hinted that he was in love with you. If you were only a decent sort, Clarry, you would marry him and help me. He's got heaps of tin, and you'd be Lady Jerce some day, you know."

"Oh!" said Clarice, and her voice was as hard as her eyes, "did Dr. Jerce ask you to speak to me?"

"No! no, on my honour he didn't; but he hinted that he'd like you to be his wife. I never said anything."

"Not even that I am engaged to Anthony Ackworth."

Ferdy looked up in genuine surprise. "Oh, by Jove, you ain't!"

"Yes, I am. He asked me to become his wife only six days ago. I consented, and we are engaged. Uncle Henry knows, and I intended to tell you later. I thought you might have guessed. Apparently you did not, being so wrapped up in yourself. I'm glad of that, as I want to tell Dr. Jerce myself. You would only bungle the matter."

"Ackworth's only a gunner chap," muttered Ferdinand, in dismay. "You had much better marry Jerce. He could help me, you know."

"With more money, I suppose."

"Well, not exactly that," confessed Ferdy, with an engaging air of candour, "though I shouldn't mind asking him for a fiver, if I were hard up, which I generally am. But when I become a doctor, Jerce could retire and hand over his patients to me, you know. Oh, there are lots of ways in which he could be useful to me, if you are nice to him. If you ain't, he may cut up rough, and Jerce isn't pleasant when he's in a rage, I can tell you."

"Oh!" said Clarice, contemptuously, "so to please you, I am to marry a man old enough to be my father."

"He's only fifty-five, and rich, and he'll have a title soon."

"So will Anthony, if it comes to that. His father is a baronet."

"A poor baronet," sneered Ferdy, with emphasis. "I'll have two thousand a year of my own when I am twenty-five," said the girl, ignoring the speech, "and Anthony has his pay and an allowance from his father. We will be able to live very comfortably on what we can get. Besides, Uncle Henry likes Anthony, and is delighted that I should marry him. As to Dr. Jerce--" she hesitated.

"What about him?" murmured Baird, nervously.

"I'll inform him of my engagement, when he comes down again. Also, I'll ask him about this row, as you call it, and request him to refuse you more money."

"You'll ruin me," gasped Ferdinand, on whose forehead the drops of perspiration were standing thickly.

"In what way?"

"Jerce will chuck me. He can be a beast when he likes."

"Let him be a beast," said Clarice, impatiently, "although I think you exaggerate. He'll say nothing. He has no right to say anything."

"Clarice!" He caught her hands. "For my sake you must marry Jerce."

The girl released herself, angrily. "What do you mean by that?"

"Jerce could help me so much," said Ferdy, feebly.

"Is that all?" asked Clarice, keeping her eyes steadfastly fixed on the weak, handsome face of her brother.

"Of course--of course," he replied, testily. "What else could there be, you stupid girl?"

"I don't know," she said, coldly, "but I do know, Ferdy, that you never by any chance tell the whole truth. You always keep something back, and that makes it difficult to know how to advise you."

"I don't ask for advice."

"No," she answered, bitterly, "you ask for a sacrifice which in your egotistic eyes is no sacrifice. And you are keeping something back from me. What reason have you to be afraid of Dr. Jerce?"

"I have no reason. I never said that I was afraid."

"And yet----"

"And yet--and yet," he broke in, snappishly, "you are making a mountain out of a mole-hill. I only suggest that you should marry--"

"Marry a man I don't love. My word is passed to Anthony."

"Clarice?"

The girl pushed him aside and opened the door. "That is enough. Go your own silly way, but don't ask me to come with you."

"Ah! You are always selfish."

"Always," said Clarice, sadly, and thinking of the many small sacrifices she had made for the fool before her, "therefore, I marry the man I love!" and she hastened from the room, unwilling to break down before one who would take such emotion as a sign of yielding.

Ferdy, left alone, kicked over the breakfast table, and vented his rage on the furniture generally. The room was quite a wreck by the time his feelings were completely relieved.

[CHAPTER IV]

A MYSTERY

The housekeeper of Mr. Horran's establishment was a small, withered-up old woman, who looked like the bad fairy of a D'Aulnoy story. She had nursed Clarice and Ferdy, and their father before them, so she was deeply attached to the twins. Of course, Ferdy being the more selfish of the two obtained all her affection, and although she was fond of Clarice, she lavished the treasures of her love on Ferdy, who gave her in return more kicks than half-pence. Mrs. Rebson was quite seventy years of age, and her face resembled a winter apple, so rosy and wrinkled it was. She must have had French blood in her old veins, for her vivacity was wonderful, and her jet black eyes were undimmed by age. Nothing ever seemed to put her out of temper, and her devotion to the twins had in it something of a religion.

Being thus bright and cheerful, it was strange that Mrs. Rebson should cherish a dreadful little book, which was called The Domestic Prophet, full of dismal hints. Published at the beginning of each year, it prophesied horrors for every month, from January to December, and was as lachrymose as the Book of Lamentations. Not a single, cheerful event enlivened the year from this modern prophet's point of view, and although the book (consisting of twenty-four pages) was bound in green paper, the cover should certainly have been black, if only for the sake of consistency. Over this lamentable production, Mrs. Rebson was bending, when Clarice entered fresh from her encounter with Ferdy.

"What is the matter, lovey?" asked the old woman, pushing up her spectacles on her lined forehead, "there's nothing to worry about. I have ordered the dinner, and seen to the Christmas provisions, and Mr. Horran's in a sweet sleep, and your good gentleman is coming this afternoon to kiss your bonny face, bless it, and bless him."

Clarice sat down with a disconsolate air. "It's Ferdy."

"Now, Miss," Mrs. Rebson's voice became sharper, and her manner quite like that of the nurse who put the twins to bed years before, "how often have I told you not to quarrel with your dear brother, as is bone of your bone and flesh of your flesh and the sweetest tempered baby I ever nursed?"

"Nanny!" Clarice called Mrs. Rebson by this childish name for the sake of old times, and perhaps from custom. "You are quite crazy about Ferdy, and he doesn't deserve your love."

"Indeed he does, Miss, and I wonder at your talking in that way. Oh, fie, Miss, fie," shaking a gnarled finger, "this is jealousy."

"It's common sense, Nanny," retorted Clarice, and detailed what Dr. Jerce had said about Ferdy, and what Ferdy had said to her. Mrs. Rebson listened to all this, quite unmoved. "But, of course, you won't believe a word I say against your idol," ended Clarice, bitterly.

"Because everyone's against him," cried Mrs. Rebson, wrathfully. "Oh, that Jerce man--I'll Jerce him if he dares to speak against Master Ferdy, who is an angel."

"There are two kinds of angels, Nanny, white and black."

"Master Ferdy's the kind of angel that plays a harp," said the old dame, with dignity, "and why shouldn't the poor boy amuse himself?"

"He'll get into trouble unless he's more careful. Drinking and gambling and sitting up all night with fast people."

"I don't believe a word of it," said Mrs. Rebson, energetically.

"Dr. Jerce says--"

"He's a liar, Miss, and don't come to me with tales of that angel. Why can't you hold your tongue, and think of your future with Mr. Ackworth, who is so fond of you and I hope you'll deserve his fondness."

"I'm fond of Ferdy, too, Nanny, and I want him to grow up to be a good man."

"He is a good man," said the old nurse, obstinately, "and there's no more growing of that sort needed. Mr. Horran, drat him, keeps the poor boy short of money."

"Two hundred a year--"

"What's that, when Master Ferdy will have two thousand?"

"He won't become possessed of that for two years, Nanny. Meanwhile, he has no right to gamble."

"I don't believe he does. Why, he spends all his money in buying books about health and medicine. I gave him five pounds the other day to get some."

"Oh, Nanny, your savings again, when you promised me you wouldn't."

"I can do what I like with my own, Miss Clarice. Besides, I have made Master Ferdy my heir, so why shouldn't he have the money now, if he likes, bless him."

"Nanny," said Clarice, seriously. "You are ruining Ferdy."

"Me!" Mrs. Rebson gave an indignant screech. "Me ruin the boy I love so dearly. Jealousy again, Miss Clarice. Go and read the Commandments, Miss, and weep for your sins."

"I don't think I'll find 'Honour thy brother' among the Commandments, Nanny," said Clarice, the humorous side of the business striking her; "however, I see it's useless to think you will blame Ferdy."

Mrs. Rebson looked round the comfortable little room, and removed her spectacles. "My dear," she said, in a rather shaky voice, "if I must speak plainly to you, I am rather put out about Master Ferdy. Not that it's his fault," added the nurse, hurriedly, "but when one sees him being led away by that hussy--"

"Who is that?" asked Clarice, anxiously.

"Mrs. Dumps' daughter. Zara, she calls herself, when I know that she was christened simple Sarah. Not that she is simple, my dear, for a more cunning fox isn't to be found, with her red hair--dyed--and her cream complexion and red cheeks, which are nothing but pearl-powder and rouge, drat her, and her mother also, for a fool!"

Clarice knew Mrs. Dumps, and also had frequently seen Sarah Dumps, but had never for one moment thought that Ferdy would be attracted by such a bold, chattering girl, who flirted indiscriminately with every man, good-looking or plain. "I thought Sarah had gone to London."

"So she has!" said Mrs. Rebson, fiercely, "she went over a year ago, and with her good looks--all paint and dye--and brazen impudence--ah, that's genuine enough--she pushed her way on to the stage."

"So Mrs. Dumps told me," said Miss Baird. "Sarah is dancing and singing at some West-end music-hall."

"She is that, and fine dancing it is, I don't doubt--the hussy. I'd rather see a child of mine in her grave than capering as a butterfly before gentry."

"Butterflies don't caper, Nanny."

"This one does," sniffed the old woman, viciously. "She calls herself Butterfly on the stage."

"The Butterfly?"

"No--just Butterfly, when she ought to be called Cat. Well, then, my love, Mrs. Dumps, who is a cousin of mine (and I don't think much of her dressing and screeching like a peacock) called to see me the other day, and told me that Master Ferdy had been seeing Sarah--I can't bring myself to call her Zara--such affectation. He's been driving and talking and walking, and giving her presents, and Mrs. Dumps, who is a born fool, thinks that Master Ferdy means marriage."

Clarice started to her feet. "Oh, Nanny!"

"What's the use of saying, 'Oh, Nanny,' like that?" snapped Mrs. Rebson. "You know what an angel Master Ferdy is, and how easily a pretty face can beguile him--not that Sarah is pretty, the minx. It's her fault, and I'd tar and feather her and ride her on a rail if I had my way. Why can't she leave the boy alone? I know you are jealous of Master Ferdy, Miss Clarice, but as you have a head on your shoulders--I don't deny that, lovey--it is only right that you should know the truth. I can't tell Mr. Horran, as there would be trouble."

Clarice went to the window, and looked out into the white, cold world, with her thoughts fixed anywhere but on the scenery. In fact, she was wondering what was best to be done about Ferdinand, who evidently had become entangled with Sarah Dumps. Dr. Jerce apparently knew of this entanglement, hence Ferdy's fear of him, and dread as to what he might have said. It was useless to talk to Ferdy, who would only go his own way, being obstinate, as all weak people are; while Mr. Horran was too ill to be told of the business. There remained Anthony and Dr. Jerce to help her. The second of these had made things unpleasant by wanting to marry her, so it was difficult to appeal to him for aid. He might demand his price. Finally, in two minutes, Clarice made up her mind to enlist Captain Ackworth on her side. He was not coming this afternoon, as Mrs. Rebson had said, but the next day, so she could speak to him then. Meanwhile, it would be best to be agreeable to Ferdy and keep him at home, lest he should go back to town and to this dreadful girl. Not that Sarah Dumps really was very dreadful, for being shrewd, she was quite respectable, and able to take excellent care of herself. But, naturally, Clarice thought she was dreadful, when Ferdy was in her toils--though what Sarah Dumps could see in poor, weak Ferdy, passed Clarice's comprehension.

"Well, deary?" asked Mrs. Rebson, impatiently.

"Say nothing to Mr. Horran, or to Ferdy," said Clarice, turning from the window. "I'll see what I can do."

"Treat Master Ferdy tenderly," warned Mrs. Rebson.

"Oh, yes," replied Miss Baird, indifferently. "Things will come all right, Nanny. Ferdy, after all, is in love with Prudence."

"Another hussy," snapped the nurse.

"A very clever one, then. She would make Ferdy a good wife, and rule him with a rod of iron."

"He doesn't want that, Miss. You can lead him with a silken thread."

"I am quite sure Sarah Dumps can," said Clarice, emphatically. "Ferdy can always be led in the way he wishes to go. No, no!" she waved her hand impatiently, "don't defend him any more, Nanny. I agree with you that Ferdy is all sugar-candy and honey. I'll try and put everything right."

"And it needs putting right," said Mrs. Rebson, in her most lively tone, "there's going to be trouble--yes, poverty--death--sorrow--disgrace--"

"Stop, stop!" cried Clarice, turning pale, "what do you mean?"

"The Domestic Prophet--"

"Oh, that creature. Pooh!" Clarice was much relieved. "I thought you were in earnest."

"The Domestic Prophet always is, deary."

"He's a fraud, Nanny. He never prophesies correctly."

"Yes, he does," cried Mrs. Rebson, obstinately, and adjusting her spectacles, "listen to this," and she read: "'The month of December will be dangerous to elderly men who are sick. They will probably die if the weather is severe, and in winter we may expect snow. Some elderly men will probably meet with a violent death, either by poison or the knife, or a railway accident, or by drowning, if they frequent seaside resorts. Beware the dead of night,' says the Domestic Prophet, 'to all men over fifty.'"

After reading this precious extract, Mrs. Rebson lifted her eyes, to find Clarice choking with laughter, and assumed an offended air. "You were always foolish, Miss," she said, disdainfully, "but these things will come true. Mr. Horran is doomed; he is over fifty."

"And how do you think he will die, Nanny--not in a railway accident or by drowning, as he can't leave the house. The severe weather may kill him, certainly, but I'll see that he is well wrapped up. There remains the knife and the poison. Which will he die of?"

Mrs. Rebson still continued, disdainful. "It's all very well sniggering, Miss, but the Domestic Prophet is right very often." She opened the dismal book again, and read: "'When a black cat bites its tail, take it for a sign of a sudden death.' And," added Mrs. Rebson, closing the book solemnly, "I saw my black cat bite its tail only yesterday. Also Mr. Horran is elderly, and should beware the dead of night."

"Well, then," said Clarice, flippantly, "I suppose Buster," this was the black cat's name, "hints, by biting his tail, that Mr. Horran is about to meet with a violent death at midnight."

"I don't say Mr. Horran, Miss. But Dr. Jerce is over fifty, and so is the Rev. Nehemiah Clarke."

"You also, Nanny--"

"The Domestic Prophet is talking of men, deary. You scoff, Miss, but mark my words, before the end of the month, we'll hear of something."

Miss Baird, still laughing, kissed the withered cheek. "I dare say," was her reply, "your prophet is very general in his applications. Well, I shall see Uncle Henry--"

"Don't tell him what I say."

"Oh, but I will, Nanny. It's too funny to keep to myself," and Clarice left the room laughing, while Mrs. Rebson, with a sigh for such levity, began to read The Domestic Prophet with renewed zeal.

Meanwhile, Miss Clarice proceeded to Mr. Horran's bedroom. This was on the other side of the house, and was similar in many respects to the drawing-room. Here also were two French windows opening on to a terrace, and the apartment was large and lofty and spacious, and was furnished half as a bedroom and half as a sitting-room. This was because Mr. Horran lived, for the most part of his life, beneath its roof. Formerly, he had occupied a room on the first floor, where the other bedrooms were, but being unable, by reason of his mysterious disease, to mount the stairs, he had, within the last five years, transferred this room, which was formerly a library, into his sleeping chamber. It was handsomely furnished, and very comfortable, and had a large open fireplace, in which, summer and winter, blazed a grand fire. The walls were of a deep orange colour, as Mr. Horran thought such a hue was most restful to the eye, and on them hung many fine pictures, and also several spears and swords and Zulu shields and Matabele assegais, which various friends had brought as presents. In front of one window stood a rosewood escritoire, covered with papers, but the way to the other window was left open, as it acted also as a door, whence Mr. Horran could emerge, on fine days, to take the sun on the miniature terrace. For an invalid, everything was perfectly arranged, and Mr. Horran was lodged luxuriously.

The old man himself was thin and wrinkled, but very straight and somewhat military in his looks, the resemblance being increased by a long, iron-grey moustache and closely clipped grey hair. He had left his bed and was sitting, clothed in a camel's hair dressing-gown, in a deep-seated leather armchair before the fire. When Clarice entered he was weeping, and she hastened towards him in alarm.

"Dear Uncle Henry," she said, putting her arms round his neck, "why did you get up? It is most imprudent. Dr. Jerce and Dr. Wentworth both say you should remain in bed. I wonder Chalks," this was Horran's valet and faithful attendant, "allowed you."

"I'm all right, my dear," said Mr. Horran, trying to recover his self-command, and patting Clarice's hand. "I'm only upset a little."

"And no wonder, after that fit."

"It is not the fit. That is all right now. I have been sleeping for about ten hours, and woke some time ago, feeling much better. Indeed, I felt so well, that I decided to rise, and take a stroll on the terrace, in the winter sunshine. Then I received a shock."

"What kind of a shock?"

"We won't say anything about it just now," said Horran, in a weak voice. "It would not interest you, and besides, I don't wish to talk of it. I have told no one, not even Chalks."

"Told him what?"

"Nothing, nothing," maundered on the old man, staring into the fire. "I feel ever so much better, my dear, only I can't help crying--some sort of emotion from the shock."

Clarice slipped down beside him, and held his cold hands. "Dear Uncle Henry, tell me what is the matter," she implored, "it isn't Ferdy?"

"No, no! Ferdy is all right. He's a good boy and very kind. It is very strange, Clarry, but I am now beginning to feel drowsy, and a few minutes ago, I was so wide-awake. Oh, dear me," he sighed, "I do wish Daniel, or Dr. Wentworth would find out what is the matter with me."

"They will find out soon, dear," said Clarice, soothingly.

"No. Clever as Daniel is, my disease seems to baffle him. He says that I may live for years, but I don't think that is likely, Clarry, dear. However, should I die suddenly, everything is straight. You and Ferdy will get your money within a week of my death."

"Dear, don't talk of your death."

"I must. It is just as well, Clarry, that you should know how matters stand. I have arranged that you will control Ferdy's money, as I have the power to do by your father's will. I was appointed sole guardian, and the will enables me to appoint another guardian should I die. But I shall not do that. I shall arrange, and have arranged, as my lawyer will tell you, to give you the whole four thousand pounds a year. You will be, so to speak, your own guardian, and Ferdy's also."

"You don't trust Ferdy, then, Uncle Henry?" she asked, in a low voice.

"No, dear," he patted her hand. "You are the clever one. Ferdy is unstable. I have seen that for many years, and so I placed him with Daniel, who will keep the boy straight. Ferdy is like your poor father, charming and weak; you more resemble your dear mother, who was my first and my last love. I never married because of your mother."

"I know, dear." Clarice kissed the cold hand tenderly, as she knew of this romance. She was the sole person to whom Horran ever spoke of the matter. He maundered on dreamily. "I told Daniel of my will, and he was not pleased. He said that a woman should not possess such power, as she was incapable of exercising it."

"Oh, indeed," said Clarice, flushing angrily. "I think Dr. Jerce will find me perfectly capable. I am glad that you have made me Ferdy's guardian, Uncle Henry, as he certainly needs a guiding hand. Have you told him about the will, dear?"

"No, I only told Daniel, who was displeased. But then he says that I may live for years. He spoke kindly, too, though he is wrong in believing I shall recover. Daniel and I have always been friends. We only quarrelled once, and that was over your mother. But she married Baird, and left us both in the cold. But for you, dear Clarry, I should have had a lonely life, my dear."

Clarice rose and moved towards the bell. "Let me call Chalks to put you to bed again, Uncle Henry. You are quite drowsy."

"No! no!" The invalid grew testy, sudden changes of mood being a characteristic of his unknown disease. "I'm comfortable here. And I want to see Daniel. Where is Daniel?"

"He returned to town last night, dear. I don't think he will come again until after Christmas."

"That is not for a few days," groaned Horran, in a piteous tone. "Oh, send for him, Clarry. I must see him about the letter."

"What letter, dear?" she asked, much puzzled. Horran raised his heavy lids with an effort. "The letter which I found on the terrace, near the window. It gave me a shock."

"Show it to me, Uncle Henry."

"No! You would not understand. Daniel might; he's so clever."

"Who wrote this letter?" coaxed Clarice, trying to get information. "There is no writing," he answered, drowsily. "It is not a letter."

"You said that it was."

"Picture writing, then, like the ancient Egyptians." She thought, naturally, that his mind was wandering, when he talked in so contradictory a manner. After a moment or so, his head fell back on the chair, and his eyes closed. He began to breathe deeply, and apparently was falling asleep. Clarice put her ear to his lips, as she saw them move, and caught three words, which conveyed nothing: "The--Purple--Fern!"

This was unintelligible, until she noticed an envelope at his feet, which had fallen out of his pocket. Picking this up, she took out the slip of paper it contained, and found thereon, no writing, but the representation of a tiny fern, stamped in purple ink.

[CHAPTER V]

THE VICAR

There seemed to Clarice to be a familiar look about this representation of a fern. The double sheet of writing paper was thick and glossy, with untrimmed edges, and on this the curved fern, with its fronds wonderfully delicate and distinct, had evidently been impressed with an india-rubber stamp, moistened with purple ink. The square-sized envelope bore no address, no stamp, and no seal. What could one make of such a missive? It appeared meaningless, yet to Clarice the fern itself recalled some faint memory. Probably that memory, whatever it might be, was clearer to Horran, and so had given him the shock of which he had complained.

After some consideration, Clarice slipped the envelope and sheet of paper into her pocket, thinking it advisable to remove them from Horran's sight. He had fallen into a deep sleep, and was breathing almost imperceptibly, his face looking singularly calm and unwrinkled. Whatever his disease might be, he certainly was not suffering pain; but it was strange that after a ten hours' sleep, he should again relapse into slumber. Still, from his looks there was no cause for alarm, so Clarice touched the bell, and when Chalks entered, she pointed silently to his unconscious master.

The valet was a round, rosy, stout little man, with twinkling black eyes, and a meek manner. He beamed with good nature and overflowed with the milk of human kindness. An attendant with so cheerful a disposition and smiling a countenance was quite the kind of nurse needed by an invalid, as his spirits were infectious, and frequently served to arouse the somewhat melancholy Mr. Horran from dismal musings. Chalks displayed no surprise at the sight of his patient asleep again, but lifted him in his arms and placed him gently on the bed. Clarice deliberated as to whether she should tell Chalks (who was intelligent and devoted to Mr. Horran) about the missive of the purple fern; but finally decided to say nothing concerning it to anyone until she had seen Anthony. The elusive memory, which would not come back to her in its entirety, suggested that Ackworth could account for the fern in some way.

"What do you think of him, Chalks?" she asked, indicating the unconscious man on the bed.

"I think's he's asleep, Miss," said Chalks, innocently.

"But why should he sleep again after ten hours' slumber?"

"Why should he be ill at all, Miss?" was the retort of the cheerful little man, "seeing that them doctors says as his organs is healthy, and that there ain't nothing whatever the matter with him?"

Miss Baird drew her white brows together in a perplexed way. "There must be some reason for his disease, Chalks."

"The doctors say there's no disease, Miss."

"But this sleep is unnatural."

"Master's health has been unnatural for the last ten years, Miss."

"What is your theory, Chalks?"

"I have none, Miss. Master gets headaches and giddy fits, and weeps and gets into rages, which ain't his real nature, and he's had two fits, and now sleeps like a top for hours. This ain't what you'd call health, Miss, and yet Dr. Jerce and Dr. Wentworth have both examined him heaps of times, only to find he's all right, both inside and outside. It's a riddle, Miss, that's what it is."

"What's to be done, then?"

Chalks advanced briskly to the bed. "Leave Master to me, Miss, and I'll put him between the sheets. Then we must wait until Dr. Wentworth comes again, Miss."

Clarice walked to the door, but cast a glance round the room, before going out. She saw that one of the French windows was open, and moved to close it. Chalks stopped her. "No, Miss, Master must have all the air he can get--Dr. Wentworth says so."

"And Dr. Jerce?" Chalks beamed like a cherub. "Bless your heart, Miss, he insists on Master getting as little air as possible. When Dr. Jerce comes down, Miss, he says the window must be closed; when Dr. Wentworth turns up, he opens it straight off. They don't agree, Miss, which is hard on me, Miss."

"It is perplexing," assented Clarice, laughing, "what do you do?"

"Well, Miss, I let them do what they like. If Dr. Jerce closes the window, I leave it so; when Dr. Wentworth opens it, I let it be. Sometimes that window is open all night and closed all day. At other times, Miss, it's open all day and closed all night. It depends on them dratted doctors."

Clarice laughed at this explanation, and seeing that her guardian, to all appearance, was in a healthy sleep, went away. "Tell me when he wakes up, Chalks," said she, at the door.

"Yes, Miss, if Master don't sleep for one hundred years, like the Sleeping Beauty," and Chalks chuckled at his own simple wit. Clarice passed the morning in attending to her domestic duties, and had a consultation with Mrs. Rebson about the Christmas festivities. That cheerful housekeeper remarked that it would be as well to make the house as bright as possible, since The Domestic Prophet declared that something terrible would happen before Christmas. What the event might be, Mrs. Rebson could not tell, as the prophet, after the manner of his kind, was obscure in the wording of his oracles. Nevertheless, Clarice became infected with the vague dread which Mrs. Rebson insisted she felt herself, and the memory of that oddly delivered envelope, containing the stamped picture of the purple fern, did not tend to dissipate her uneasiness. When she left Mrs. Rebson, still prophesying coming woes, like an elderly Cassandra, the girl felt that a walk would do her good, and, putting on her furs, she sallied forth, eager to breathe a less portentous atmosphere.

The day was bright and clear, the snow was hard and clean. In the lucid air lurked the sting of frost. Sitting over a fire, one was apt to shiver; but smart walking brought a colour to the most wan cheeks, and communicated a glow to the whole body. Clarice looked extremely pretty as the exercise tinted her oval face, and sent the warm blood spinning through her youthful veins. She walked in a determined, swinging way, with steadfast eyes and a firmly closed mouth, like a woman who knows her own mind, and who means to have her own way. It needed a very strong man to master this young lady of the new school, and Clarice believed that Ackworth was just the man to exercise authority. Certainly, Dr. Jerce might have mastered her also, as he was stern and strong. But then she did not love Dr. Jerce, and only from the tyrant she loved was Miss Baird ready to take orders.

Finding herself near the vicarage, Clarice determined to enter and see if Ferdy was there. As he had not come back to luncheon, it was probable that he had gone to Prudence Clarke for consolation, a thing Miss Baird quite approved of, as she respected Prudence, and would have been glad to see Ferdy engaged to so sensible a girl. The quarrel at the breakfast table had no doubt left Ferdy fretful and complaining, so it was pretty certain that he would visit Prudence and pour his woes into her sympathetic ears. Ferdy never could keep his troubles to himself, but invariably climbed to the highest house-top to shout out his puny griefs. Clarice wished him to marry Prudence, yet sometimes she doubted if so sensible a girl would tolerate such a baby man as a husband.

The servant who answered the door said that Miss Clarke had gone out skating with Mr. Baird, but that the vicar was in his study. Clarice would have turned away in pursuit of the young people, but that the parson heard her voice and came into the hall. He was an undersized, miserable man, with a head too large for his body, and an awkward, diffident manner, which seemed to continually apologise for the existence of Mr. Nehemiah Clarke. His voice was querulous, and his complaints were incessant. In his rusty black clothes, with his bent frame and untidy hair, he looked a most dismal object, and Clarice, in her then somewhat dejected state of mind, scarcely relished an interview with so cheerless a person. However, she could not help herself, and entered the study with the best grace she could muster.

"There," whimpered Mr. Clarke, waving his hands towards an array of bills, which strewed his desk like autumn leaves, "what do you think of that for Christmas, Clarice? How is a man to preach goodwill towards men, when men won't show any goodwill towards him?"

"But we all get bills at Christmas time," said Miss Baird, consolingly. "I get more than anyone else," moaned the vicar, sinking into the chair before his desk; "why they should come to me, I don't know."

"You should pay as you go, Mr. Clarke."

"I haven't any ready money, Clarice. It's all very well for you, in the lap of luxury; but I have only three hundred a year, and even that small sum comes to me slowly, since people will not pay their tithes without legal threats, and those cost money. I don't eat much, I dress plainly, I never enjoy myself, and keep only one cheap servant, yet the bills will come in. Prudence is responsible for many; she ought to emulate her name, but she won't. Imprudence would suit her better. Oh, dear me, how I can sympathise with Lear."

"I don't think Prudence is extravagant, Mr. Clarke," said Clarice, who resented this placing of burdens on other people's shoulders, "she always seems to me to be a sensible girl."

"In some ways--in some ways," muttered the vicar, discontentedly.

Clarice reflected for a few minutes. From hints dropped by Prudence, she had a shrewd idea of where the vicar's money went. "How is Frank, Mr. Clarke?" she asked, significantly.

"My son. He is still in London, trying to get work. Poor lad, he is very unfortunate. With his education and manners and brains, he ought to be one of the foremost men of the time; but the want of money is a bar to his advancement."

"What is Frank doing?"

"Nothing. He has tried the army, the medical profession, the legal profession, the lecture hall, and even the stage. But, as yet, he has not hit upon the field in which he can display his undoubted abilities to their utmost."

"You support him, I suppose?"

"I can't let the boy starve," said Mr. Clarke, defiantly.

"Well, then, it seems to me that Frank is more to blame than Prudence for your difficulties. He ought to support himself."

"He will some day, when he acquires the position to which his talents will lead him. Then he will bring glory to the Clarkes."

"He only brings misfortune and debts just now," said Clarice, dryly.

"Who says so?" asked the vicar, furiously.

"Prudence tells me that her brother will not do anything, but passes his time in idleness, and constantly comes to you for money. As he is over thirty years of age, he certainly should support himself."

"Poor Frank cannot help his misfortunes."

"I rather think that a man's misfortunes are, as a rule, of his own making, Mr. Clarke. Your own, for instance. You have three hundred a year and a free house. That ought to keep you out of debt; but if you will give all your money to Frank, what can you expect?"

"My dear--my dear," said Mr. Clarke, testily, "a girl like you can't understand these things."

"Oh, yes, I can. Since Uncle Henry has been ill all these years, I have had a great deal to do with business."

The vicar started. "I thought Mr. Barras was your guardian's lawyer."

"So he is. He attends to everything, but Uncle Henry rarely sees Mr. Barras himself, so I have to attend to necessary matters."

"Why doesn't Ferdinand--?"

"Ferdinand!" Clarice made a gesture of contempt.

"He is the same as your son, and spends money rather than earns it."

"My dear, you shouldn't say these things, unbecoming in a young girl's mouth. It is not modest in a woman."

Clarice stood up, very tall and dignified, and rather irritated. "What is the use of talking like that to me, Mr. Clarke. All that idea of the superiority of man is a thing of the past. I am only a woman, and a girl, as you say, but I have five times the sense of Ferdinand, and Uncle Henry trusts me rather than him. Prudence also is clever and sensible. I don't believe that she is extravagant, Mr. Clarke. Frank is the one who spends your money. If you would allow Frank to earn his own living, and let Prudence arrange your affairs, you would soon be out of difficulties."

"Prudence knows nothing of business, Clarice."

"And Frank knows less," retorted the girl, thoroughly angry. "Women have more intuition than men. But there is another way out of your difficulties, Mr. Clarke."

"What is that?" asked the little man, somewhat cowed by the determined demeanour of Miss Baird.

"Ferdy is in love with Prudence. Let them marry, and then I can arrange that your debts will be paid when Ferdy comes in for his money two years hence."

"But in the meantime?" moaned the vicar.

"We can arrange something--that is, if you will stop sending money to Frank. Let him sink or swim, Mr. Clarke. Self-reliance is the sole thing which will make a man of Frank."

"I'll see, I'll see," said Mr. Clarke, evasively, "but if I allow Prudence to marry Ferdinand--and I note that they love one another--do you think he will help me?"

"I shall help you."

"But how can you--?"

"Mr. Clarke, I spoke to Uncle Henry this morning, and he told me that as our guardian, he has the authority to appoint another one at his death. He doesn't trust Ferdy, so he has constituted me the head of our affairs. Ferdy gets two thousand a year, as I do, in two years, but I shall have the casting vote as to how his money is disposed of--at least, up to the age of twenty-five, when he takes it over. If Ferdy marries Prudence next year, I'll allow him a good income, on condition that he pays your debts. He will do it, if I advise, as I shall have the legal power when Uncle Henry dies."

"But if Mr. Horran does not die?"

"Then I'll see what Mr. Barras can do. He is the lawyer, and believes in me. He tells me everything."

Clarke rose, and began to pace the room. "Has Barras told you that Horran lent me one thousand pounds five years ago at ten per cent."

"No," said Clarice, somewhat startled, "is that so?"

"Yes. I am in great trouble over the loan. I borrowed it to help my son Frank, and I have had to pay interest at the rate of ten per cent. every year--that is, one hundred pounds. I have not paid up for three years, so I am indebted to Mr. Horran for three hundred pounds, and he threatens to sell me up--that means ruin."

"I don't believe it," cried Clarice, energetically. "Uncle Henry is a kind man, and would never do such a thing. Who says so?"

"Mr. Barras."

"Then I'll go up to London and see Mr. Barras after Christmas. He ought to have told me about this, but he did not. Why do you not see Uncle Henry yourself, Mr. Clarke?"

"I tried to, but Dr. Jerce would not let me. He said that I would upset Mr. Horran if I talked business to him. I therefore have kept away from the house."

"I noticed that you had not been near us for months," said Clarice, thoughtfully. "But how does Dr. Jerce come to know of the matter?"

"Mr. Barras told him."

Miss Baird flushed in an angry way. "It seems to me that Mr. Barras takes a great deal upon himself," she said, haughtily. "Since Uncle Henry is ill, and trusts me, I am the one to be spoken to, about these matters, and not Dr. Jerce. I'll question Uncle Henry about the loan, and see that everything is put right."

"Then I won't have to pay the three hundred," said the vicar, eagerly. "I can't say that," rejoined Clarice, bluntly. "I'll see what I can do. Of course, if Ferdy would only become engaged to Prudence, I might be able to do much, but as matters stand, Dr. Jerce and Mr. Barras may prove too strong for me."

"But Mr. Horran trusts you--so you say, Clarice?"

"He does. But he-Uncle Henry, I mean--has a great opinion of Dr. Jerce, and in his weak state may be influenced by him. I'll speak to the doctor and to Mr. Barras--more than this I can't promise."

The vicar looked more miserable than ever and twice opened his mouth to speak. Each time he closed it, while Clarice wondered at his hesitation. "Do you think that everything is right with Mr. Horran?" asked Mr. Clarke, at length.

"What do you mean by that?" she asked, startled.

"Mr. Horran has no money, you know, save what he receives from your estate by acting as your guardian."

Clarice stared. "I never knew that," she said, at length. "I understood, of course, that Uncle Henry received a sum for acting as guardian, since that is but right. But he has his own money and the house--"

"The house you live in belonged to your father, and now belongs to you," said Clarke, rapidly, leaning forward with eagerness to emphasise his words. "I know, because I buried both your parents, and was present at the reading of the will. Mr. Horran loved your mother and was trusted by your father; but he never had any money. When your father died he left everything to your mother, in trust for you and Ferdinand. When she went the way of all flesh, she constituted Mr. Horran, who then managed her business, your guardian, as she trusted him, and he was hard up. Did not Mr. Barras tell you all these things, Clarice?"

"No," she said, absently, and began to see that the lawyer had not trusted her so entirely as she had thought--neither had Horran, if the vicar was to be believed. "I shall speak to Uncle Henry," she said, after a pause, "and from him I shall learn the true position of affairs. Meantime, please say nothing, Mr. Clarke."

"No. I'll be silent. But this three hundred interest--?"

"I'll see about that also. I am sure that Uncle Henry does not mean to be hard on you. Of course, business may upset him, since he is so ill, and Dr. Jerce may be right in keeping you away. All the same, it seems to me that Dr. Jerce knows a good deal about our private affairs."

"I am sure that Mr. Horran tells him everything," said Clarke, with a gloomy air, "and Dr. Jerce is not friendly towards me. I don't know why, since we were at college together, but he is not friendly."

Clarice felt puzzled. This conversation with Mr. Clarke opened her eyes to the fact that business was not so easy a matter as she had imagined. If she was to be tricked by Mr. Barras keeping back details of finance, and if Dr. Jerce was influencing Horran secretly, it appeared that she would have some difficulty in straightening out things at the death. Nevertheless, Horran had assured her that when he passed away, she would find everything in good order. Before she could pursue the subject further in her thoughts, the door opened, and Prudence appeared, with Ferdy behind her. Prudence was a brunette, as dark as Ferdy was fair, but tall and handsome and full of life and spirits. From the downward curve of her mouth, it would seem that she had a temper. But just now, she appeared to be filled with joy, and rushed to kiss Clarice. "Dear! dear!" she said, quickly, "Ferdy has--Ferdy has--"

"I am glad," cried Clarice, guessing what had happened with the swift intuition of a woman; "it is exactly what I wanted Ferdy to do."

"Well, then," said Ferdy, who was radiant as a lover, and who evidently had forgiven his sister for the quarrel at breakfast, "I've done it."

"Done what?" asked the vicar, staring open-mouthed. "I have asked Prudence to become my wife."

"Thank God!" said Clarke, devout and egotistic, "my debts will be paid."

[CHAPTER VI]

A DISCOVERY

On that same night the weather changed with unexampled rapidity from cold to warm. A thick mist descended on Crumel, and the snow began to melt, as though under the influence of a summer sun. The long hours of darkness were filled with the dripping of water, the melting of snow, and the whole country was turned into a vast expanse of slush. The expectations of a White Christmas, entertained by old-fashioned people, vanished, and next day it seemed, from the warm humidity of the foggy air, as though the season of Yule had given place to early autumn.

Clarice looked out of her bedroom-window on to damp green lawns, from which patches of snow were quickly disappearing, and experienced a sense of discomfort, which she set down to the queer weather. Perhaps the earthquakes in the earlier part of the year had disarranged the English climate and altered the seasons, but assuredly the atmosphere was decidedly unhealthy. Yet the vague fears of the girl may have been less due to the sudden change of temperature than to the feeling of apprehension she entertained, since her conversation with Mr. Clarke, that money matters were not so satisfactory as she had thought them to be.

Hitherto Clarice had implicitly trusted Mr. Barras in her innocence of worldly ways. He had always been frank with her, so far as she could see, and having been delegated by Horran to tell her of all things connected with the estate, Clarice had believed that she knew everything. Now, if the vicar were to be believed, it appeared that Horran had lent him money, and was pressing for the payment of the interest. Also, Dr. Jerce seemed to know of the private business of the Baird orphans, and to be influencing Horran against the wretched Mr. Clarke. Certainly, the vicar was not a very estimable character, and his infatuation for his spendthrift son merited contempt rather than approbation. Nevertheless, Horran had known Clarke all his life and had been to college with him and with Jerce. He therefore, assuredly, should not be hard on the parson, whose sole fault was affection for an unworthy son. Also, if Jerce was influencing Horran, as Clarke suggested, he might advise leniency instead of bearing hard on the man, especially at Christmas time. Barras also appeared to be anxious to force the vicar into discharging the interest at a time when he could ill afford to pay three pounds, much less three hundred; and, more than this, Barras wilfully concealed from Clarice the facts of the case. If the lawyer withheld this item, he certainly withheld others, and Clarice, staring out of her window at the thaw, began to find herself doubting the honesty of Mr. Barras.

Added to these troubles were the facts of Horran's mysterious illness, and the mystery of the purple fern. More than ever, Clarice was determined not to speak to Jerce about the missive, which had sent Horran into his second deep sleep. Putting aside the fact that Jerce was in league with Barras--as it would appear--to bankrupt the vicar, the doctor, being in love with her, assuredly was not a person to whom she could talk freely. Then again, Ferdy's manner alarmed the girl. After his first outburst of joy on becoming engaged to Prudence, he had relapsed into moody silence, and seemed to be much worried over something, which he refused to explain to his sister.

In vain, on the previous night, had Clarice implored him to be entirely frank. Ferdy, declaring that there was nothing wrong, had maintained his moody manner, and had drunk much more wine than was good for a man with a weak brain. On the whole, Clarice, after reflection, concluded that her uneasiness was due less to the unexampled weather than to the domestic mysteries, by which she seemed to be surrounded.

On leaving her room, she found that Ferdy had already breakfasted, and had gone out. Presuming that he was haunting Prudence with the impatience of a young lover, Clarice thought no more about his absence, but breakfasted alone. Then she repaired to Mr. Horran's room to speak to him of the many matters which were on her mind. It was just as well, she thought, to go to the fountain head at once, and to learn if Horran really desired to sell up the vicar.

"Is Uncle Henry awake?" she asked, when Chalks presented himself. "No, Miss," was the prompt reply, "he is sound asleep, as usual."

"Dear me. And how long will he sleep?"

"Dr. Wentworth can't say, Miss. We tried to wake him, and can't, so Dr. Wentworth said it would be better to let him sleep until he had a consultation with Dr. Jerce."

Clarice cast a look at the French window, and saw that it was open wide, in spite of the fog. "I see that Dr. Wentworth has been here, Chalks," she said, remembering the whimsical explanation of the man about the disagreement between the two physicians. "Yes, Miss," said Chalks, casting a look at the window, "but when Dr. Jerce comes this afternoon, he will have that closed."

"Oh is Dr. Jerce coming this afternoon?"

"Yes, Miss. Dr. Wentworth doesn't like this constant sleeping of the master, and has sent for Dr. Jerce to consult."

"It is just as well," said Clarice, crossing to the bed and looking at the pale, calm face of the still sleeping man. "I want to talk to Dr. Jerce about some business."

This was hardly the term. She wished to ask Jerce why the grey man had searched his pockets, and why he was influencing Barras and Horran to be hard on the vicar. The matter of the purple fern, she intended to relate to no one but Anthony. A memory of his name made her glance at her watch, and she noted that he would soon make his appearance. Horran seemed to be sleeping as placidly as an infant, so she felt that there was no cause for alarm. Bending to kiss the placid face, she turned slowly towards the door.

"By the way, Chalks, have you seen Mr. Ferdinand this morning?" she asked, thinking that her brother might have paid a visit to the invalid.

"Yes, Miss," said the valet, promptly. "I saw him out of this," he waved his hand towards the open French window, "going to the Savoy Hotel."

"Oh," ejaculated Clarice, and hastily left the room. It seemed strange to her that Ferdy should seek out the mother of Sarah Dumps, just when he became engaged. Surely he did not love the dancer, when he had only lately proposed to Prudence. Remembering Dr. Jerce's remarks, and recalling the conversation of Mrs. Rebson, the girl felt uneasy on account of her brother. Ferdy seemed to have two strings to his bow. Sarah Dumps was not at home, certainly, yet,--here Clarice stopped and thought. A sudden idea struck her. She returned quickly to the sick-room. "Chalks, you go sometimes to the Savoy Hotel," she remarked, "were you there last night?"

"For half an hour, Miss," replied the valet, apologetically, "Mrs. Rebson watched master while I was away. I hope I didn't do wrong, but master seemed to be sleeping so quietly that I thought I might get a breath of fresh air."

"No! no! that's all right, Chalks. But do you know if Mrs. Dumps' daughter has returned for Christmas."

"Yes, Miss. She came back last night, and a very pretty girl she is, Miss, quite a--"

"Yes, yes! I have seen her," interrupted Clarice, hurriedly, and went away feeling more upset than ever. This, then, was the reason of Ferdy's visit to the Savoy Hotel. Sarah Dumps was in the field, and Ferdy was in her nets. Yet weak as the boy was, it seemed incredible that he should propose to one woman and immediately seek the company of another. Here, then, was another trouble for Clarice, and she did not know very well what to do. It was impossible to speak to Ferdy, as she had no proof that he loved Sarah Dumps, save from what Mrs. Rebson had said. A simple denial on the part of Ferdy would take the wind out of her sails, so to speak, and she would be helpless to do anything. On the other hand, Clarice felt certain that in some way Ferdy was playing a double game. She knew his weak character too well to give him the benefit of the doubt. For all she knew he might be engaged to both Sarah Dumps and Prudence at the same time. "Oh, dear me," cried her heart, "I wish Anthony would marry me and take me away from all these troubles;" but even as she thought, the wish seemed cowardly. She would have to remain and fight Ferdy's battles and those of the vicar. Also, if the purple fern meant any harm to Mr. Horran, she would be forced to help him also. The sole thing she could do was to seek Anthony's advice and aid.

Towards noon that young man arrived, having driven over from Gattlinsands in his dog-cart. Usually he came over on a motor bicycle, but as he explained to Clarice between kisses, the sudden thaw had made the roads death-traps in the way of slipping. "I'm jolly well splashed," said Ackworth, laughing, "but if Leander swam the Hellespont to see Hero, why shouldn't I wade through acres of slush to see you?"

"Of course," smiled Clarice, who felt much lighter-hearted, now that this strong young lover was present, "only you were driving instead of wading, my dear Anthony."

"Well, I dare say Leander would have taken a penny steamer had there been one," said Anthony, throwing back his handsome head, "so that makes my parallel the more perfect."

Clarice laughed again, and drew him silently to a sofa, whereon they sat hand in hand, after the delightfully foolish manner of lovers. Ackworth was certainly a Swain of whom any girl might have been proud. He was not the desperately good-looking god of the Family Herald, but was comely enough in his youth and strength to pass in a crowd. His closely clipped hair was fair, as was his moustache. He had a bronzed face and a pair of merry blue eyes, and was as well set up as military training and constant out-of-door exercise could make him. Finally, he had a well-groomed, clean look, and anyone could see that he was a thoroughly wholesome, honourable gentleman. Clarice, of course, deemed him to be perfection, which he was not; but he had more virtues than faults, and assuredly was masterful enough to satisfy the most exacting woman. As a Greek god, Anthony Ackworth was a failure; as a man to trust and love he came off very well. That he was not superlatively clever, did not lower Clarice's appreciation of his character.

"Well?" asked Anthony, unoriginally, "how are things?"

"All wrong," replied Clarice, quickly. "I have been most anxious to see you, dear. I want help."

"I should think you were clever enough to do without any help I could give you," said Ackworth, admiringly, for he looked upon Miss Baird as a Queen Elizabeth-cum-Catherine-George Eliot kind of woman. "Is Mr. Horran any better?"

"No--that is, he's asleep."

"He was asleep last time I was here."

"Yes. He then slept for ten hours and woke up to drop asleep again for a longer period."

"What a dormouse sort of existence. Is it that which worries you?"

"No. Uncle Henry is no better and no worse than he ever was. I have several things to worry me. Ferdy is engaged to Prudence Clarke."

"Lucky man. She's a pretty girl," said Anthony; "that shouldn't worry you, dearest. You wished to have her for a sister-in-law."

"Yes, but there's Sarah Dumps."

"What a name. Who is Sarah Dumps?"

"Butterfly."

"Butterfly what?"

"You know. She dances and sings under the name of--"

"Oh!" Anthony was suddenly enlightened. "I remember. I saw a dancer called Butterfly at the Mascot Music-hall. She's pretty, but not the kind of woman I admire."

"I am afraid Ferdy does," sighed Clarice.

"What. You don't mean to say--"

"Yes, I do. Listen to what Mrs. Rebson says." And Clarice related the conversation with the old housekeeper. "And you see," ended Miss Baird, anxiously, "if Sarah Dumps has come back, and Ferdy has gone to see her so immediately, I am afraid he is entangled with her."

Ackworth shook his head. "No, my dear," he said, very decidedly, "Ferdy is not clever, but, at least, he is a gentleman. No man would propose to one woman, and then immediately visit another old flame. I don't believe there is anything in the matter. Besides, Butterfly--to give her the name she is best known by--is ambitious of a richer husband than your brother, to say nothing of her wish for a title."

"But Mrs. Dumps--"

"Oh, the mother living here naturally thinks Ferdy a good match."

"Well, he is. He will have two thousand a year."

"Butterfly will want ten thousand. From all I have heard she has a wonderful capacity for spending."

"Is she--is she--," Clarice hesitated, "quite respectable?"

"Oh, quite," assented Ackworth, decisively, "she's too clever a young woman to play fast and loose with her reputation. She wants to marry well, you see, and therefore keeps straight. But I don't think you need be afraid of Ferdy, darling. He's only one of the many moths that have fluttered round that candle. Now that he's engaged he'll forget her. And, after all, it's mere talk. He may not be in love with Butterfly at all."

"Why should he visit her, so--"

"He may have gone to see the mother, or to have a drink," said Anthony, vaguely. "Ferdy's an ass, but he's all right."

"But Dr. Jerce says he drinks and gambles, and--"

"I'll have to talk to Ferdy, and see if I can lead him in the right way," said Ackworth, with some impatience. "Don't trouble yourself over your brother, dearest. Every young man of that age is more or less of an ass. But it's only like a young colt kicking his heels in a flowery meadow."

"Then I need not worry, Anthony?"

"No, I'll speak to Ferdy and take this especial worry off your shoulders, my dear. Anything else?"

"This." Clarice held out the letter, without explanation, as she wanted to know if the elusive memory would come more clearly to Anthony. He opened the envelope in silence, then sprang up with a shout when he saw the contents.

"The Purple Fern, by Jupiter!" said Ackworth, staring. "What does it mean?" asked Clarice, vaguely terrified.

Ackworth looked anxious. "Nothing very pleasant," he muttered; "I thought it had been stamped out."

"What had been stamped out?"

"This purple fern business. Don't you remember that the papers were full of it a year ago, Clarry?"

Clarice put her hand to her head. The memory came back with a rush, and she now knew why the pictorial representation of the fern had been vaguely familiar to her. "Oh," she exclaimed, "does it mean death to Uncle Henry?"

"What?" Anthony looked relieved. "Then you did not get it?"

"No. Uncle Henry told me that he found it outside his bedroom window. I expect he remembered about the murders, and received the shock he talked about. Why do you look so relieved?"

"I thought that the warning might have been directed to you," muttered Ackworth, turning over the envelope, "apparently it is not, and perhaps not even to Mr. Horran, since there is no address."

"Tell me, Anthony, exactly what it means," said Clarice, anxiously. "I remember reading a lot about those murders, but I almost forget."

"I wonder at that, considering how we talked them over," said Ackworth, sitting down again, and slipping his arm round her as though to protect her from harm. "Don't you remember, darling, that one person after another was found murdered in houses and in streets, with a purple fern stamped on the forehead. And in every case, a warning of a stamped fern was sent beforehand. Then the police caught one man red-handed. He was tried and hanged, but he would not give away his associates. But the police gathered that he was one of a gang who killed people to get money--since all the victims were wealthy--and in every instance the sign of the association, a purple fern, was stamped on the forehead of the victim. But with the hanging of the man that was caught, the murders ceased. This is the first time I have heard of a new warning being given. I should recommend Mr. Horran to take care of himself."

"Oh, Anthony, how terrible. Do you really think that he is in danger of his life?"

"Judging by the fact that seven people, men and women, were killed, after such a warning had been sent, I do think it is dangerous. I shall see the local police about this at once. The house must be watched. I wonder why Horran is to be killed. Is he very rich?"

Recollecting what Clarke had said, Clarice could reply easily: "On the contrary, he has nothing but what he earns by acting as our guardian. I wish he could explain exactly how he picked up the letter; but he is still asleep."

At this minute the wheels of a carriage were heard. Clarice, wondering if the new arrival was Jerce, opened the French window and stepped out on to the terrace, now sloppy with mixed snow and water and mud. She strolled to the end, followed by Anthony, and saw that Dr. Jerce had indeed arrived. He was stepping out of a hired fly, and had just handed the man his fare, when he caught sight of Clarice. At once he came towards her with outstretched hand. She took it unwillingly enough. "I received a wire from Wentworth," he said, anxiously. "I hope my old friend is not very ill again."

"No. He's in a sound sleep, and Dr. Wentworth is puzzled over the length of his slumber. Come in this way." And she went along the terrace.

"Thank you. Ah, Mr. Ackworth, how are you? Quite a change in the weather, isn't it? And I--why, what's the matter?"

The ejaculation was caused by a cry from Clarice. She had picked up a small object, which the thaw had revealed. It was a small gold box, and on its face was set a curved fern in amethysts.

"The Purple Fern again!" exclaimed Ackworth, amazed.

[CHAPTER VII]

DR. JERCE EXPLAINS

Ackworth and Clarice looked at one another dumfounded, and Dr. Jerce, with considerable amazement, looked at them. Finally, the eyes of all three rested on the object picked up by the girl. It outwardly appeared to be a snuffbox, and, with its surface of dull gold, wherein the amethystine fern was delicately set, looked an exquisite specimen of the jeweller's art. But to Jerce there seemed nothing about it to startle the young people. Yet Anthony appeared grave and Clarice even frightened.

"One would think you had picked up a serpent," said Jerce, jestingly; "what is there about that snuffbox which frightens you?"

"The Purple Fern!" she replied, pointing to the amethysts.

As the doctor still seemed to be puzzled, Ackworth explained. "Do you not remember those murders of a year ago?"

"Murders? Oh, er--yes. There was much in the papers about them, but I read the public journals very little. All my time is taken up with medical works. Just refresh my memory, will you, Ackworth? The dead bodies were stamped with a fern, weren't they?"

"Yes--on the forehead. Seven people were stabbed to the heart. One in Kensington Gardens, one in the Strand, one in a house at Hampstead, and one--"

"Yes! yes! I remember now," interrupted Jerce, impatiently, "but the murderer was caught and hanged, if I forget not."

"One murderer was caught," said Anthony, with emphasis, "but he had accomplices, whose names he refused to reveal."

"Really. But there have been no more murders since."

"No. For over a year they have ceased; but this," Ackworth pointed to the golden box, "and the warning received by Mr. Horran, look as though the accomplices who were not caught intend to begin another series of crimes."

Jerce looked confounded. "What's that you say, about Horran having received a warning?" he asked.

Before Ackworth could reply, Clarice drew the attention of the two men to the box, which she had opened. It was divided into two compartments, one of which was empty, while the other was filled with a silken pad, moistened with purple ink.

"Look!" cried Miss Baird, aghast, as well she might be. "This is the very box which contained the stamp for impressing the purple fern on the forehead of the victims. Here is the pad, but the stamp has gone. Oh, Anthony, how did this come here? The letter, too, and--"

"What letter?" asked Jerce, soothing her agitation, while Ackworth took over the box to examine it.

"It's not exactly a letter," said Clarice, striving to appear calm, "only Uncle Henry found an envelope outside his window yesterday. It contained a sheet of paper stamped,--but Mr. Ackworth can show it to you."

"Here it is," remarked Anthony, taking the envelope from his pocket, and passing it to the now grave doctor, "and now this box has been found, it seems to me that Mr. Horran is in danger of death."

Jerce examined the picture of the fern, turned and twisted the envelope to see if there was any address or postmark, and looked attentively at the dainty box. "Humph!" said he, cautiously, "the assassin must be a man of taste and culture, since he designed such a receptacle for his india-rubber stamp, and uses such costly stationery."

"A man," echoed Clarice, with a sudden idea, "the assassin may not be a man at all. That box and paper look as though a woman--"

"No," interrupted the doctor, decisively, "the person who dropped this gold box here is a man. And without doubt he is connected with those wretches who used the purple fern to stamp their handiwork. Yes," he spoke half to himself, "there certainly must be a gang."

"Of course," chimed in Ackworth, quickly, "the man who was caught defied the authorities to stamp out the criminals. He admitted that he had three accomplices--"

"Two, I remember now," broke in Clarice, "two."

"Well, then, he admitted that he had two accomplices, but refused to betray their names or hiding places. Also, he warned the Government that they would avenge his death; but for the last twelve months they have not done so. Now," Ackworth pointed to the box and the warning missive with great significance, "we must take steps to save Mr. Horran's life," he ended, decisively.

"Certainly! Certainly," agreed Jerce. "What's to be done?"

"I'll go at once to the local police."

"No, I should not do that, Mr. Ackworth. It will be better to come with me to London to-night and report the case at Scotland Yard."

"But in the meantime, Uncle Henry may be killed."

"Chalks can stop with him day and night, until a detective arrives."

"A detective!" echoed Clarice, in dismay, "and in this house."

"Why not?" asked Jerce, quietly. "We must take strong measures. I see no reason why Horran should be killed, as he is not a wealthy man; and this gang always selected their victims, both men and women, from rich people. Perhaps to supply these luxuries." He touched the valuable box and expensive envelope. "But certainly the man in grey means to kill Horran, else why the warning?"

"The man in grey" asked Ackworth, inquiringly.

"Ferdy told me about that," said Clarice, quickly. "I was going to ask you about the man. Why did he search your pockets?"

"I did not know at the time," said the doctor, gravely, "but I know now. Come this way." He walked into the drawing-room through the window. "We must speak softly, so that no one may overhear."

"But we are quite safe here," said Clarice, as Anthony closed the window; "why are you afraid doctor?"

"Walls have ears, my dear Miss Baird, and the remaining man of the triumvirate is clever and cunning."

"The remaining man," said Ackworth; "then another of the three is dead?"

Jerce nodded and sat down quietly. He looked somewhat upset. "It is a very unpleasant business," he said, anxiously, "and I am to blame in not having allowed Ferdinand to inform the police about the assault made on me the other night. Had the man in grey been arrested, this warning or threat might not have come. Also the fact of the box with the purple fern would have ensured his hanging, as one of the gang who committed those cruel murders. I am much to blame. All I can say is, that not until I returned to Harley Street on that night did I guess why the man in grey wanted to search my pockets."

"And why did he?" asked Clarice, who had been listening to this explanation with a puzzled look.

"That's a long story."

"Then begin at the beginning," said Ackworth, impetuously, "for I want to know everything so that I can see my way."

"To what, Mr. Ackworth?"

"To protecting Mr. Horran, and getting this blackguard arrested."

Jerce nodded approvingly. "I shall lend you all the assistance I can, Mr. Ackworth," said he, firmly. "Unless this man is caught, he will be a veritable scourge to society."

"The story--the story!" cried Clarice, with impatience.

"It is, indeed, a story; more like romance than real life," said Jerce, quickly. "You know, Miss Baird, that I have a consulting room in Tea Street, Whitechapel."

"Yes, Mr. Horran told me that also," said Anthony. "You physic poor people for nothing."

"I do. I earn so much money in the West End that I think it is only right to use my talents for the poor. We must do what good we can in this world, you know, Mr. Ackworth. I don't set up for being a philanthropist, but in my humble way I do what good I can. Well, then," he resumed, quickly, seeing that Clarice was growing impatient again, "I was there--in Tea Street--some two months ago, and attended on a young man, who was dying of consumption. He appeared to be clever, refined, and intelligent, and, for that miserably poor quarter, his room was furnished with great taste and somewhat expensively. He seemed to be absolutely alone, and I did what I could to save his life. All my skill was of no avail, and he died. As I had refused to receive a fee, he gave me a sealed envelope, and told me to carry it constantly upon my person."

"Why?" asked Clarice, wonderingly.

"I'll tell you later. The dying man also warned me that if I was attacked by a fellow with a criss-cross scar on his left cheek, to open the envelope. Then the man died and was buried. I did not attach much importance to the sealed letter, and--"

"Didn't you open it?" asked the girl, eagerly.

"Not until the man in grey attacked me."

"I should have opened it at once," she said, quickly.

Jerce smiled. "Eve's curiosity," he answered; "however, I am not a woman, so I refrained from unsealing the envelope, and after a time I slipped it, with some other papers, into my safe, and thought no more about the matter. But when this grey man attacked me the other night, the incident was recalled to my mind, but not," added Jerce, with emphasis, "not until Ferdinand told me that he had seen a man in grey clothes with a scar on his cheek. I then returned to London and opened the envelope. I found therein a paper containing a name and address."

"What were they?" asked Anthony, who was listening attentively.

"Alfred Osip, 14, Rough Lane, Stepney. Also there were a few lines, stating that the man who wrote them--my consumptive patient--and Osip were the surviving members of the Purple Fern gang, and that if Osip's room in Stepney were searched, papers proving the guilt of all would be found. Well, then, Mr. Ackworth, one man has been hanged, another has died of consumption, and the third, Alfred Osip, is the person who attacked me on that terrace, and no doubt, in the struggle, dropped this golden box, which at one time undoubtedly contained the india-rubber stamp used to mark the victims."

"I see," said Clarice, "but why should Osip attack you, doctor?"

Jerce looked at her in surprise. "My dear, you are usually quicker in seeing things," he said, rebukefully. "Of course, Osip in some way knew that his dying accomplice had betrayed him, and that I carried the sealed letter--as he thought--on my person. That was why he searched. I should have had him arrested, when Ferdinand suggested going for the police; but I never dreamed that the wretch was connected with the Purple Fern gang. However, I have made what amends I can. I went at once to Scotland Yard, and told the authorities what I have told you. Now, this warning to Horran--undoubtedly sent by Osip--and this box, will be valuable evidence. He may be caught red-handed, if he attempts the murder. But you can see now, Mr. Ackworth, why I suggest that you should not inform the local police. Osip is cunning and dangerous, so it will be advisable for us to get a detective from London to see into the matter. I fear the Crumel police may bungle the business. I return to London this afternoon--or, to be precise, this evening, so I shall at once communicate this new discovery to the Scotland Yard authorities."

Ackworth nodded. "I think your plan is the best, Doctor," he said, in a meditative voice, "only I hope this brute will not murder Mr. Horran in the meantime."

"I suggest that Chalks should remain constantly with Mr. Horran."

"Will not that arouse Mr. Horran's suspicions?" asked Anthony. "After all, in his delicate state of health, it will not do to let him know that he is in danger of death."

"Uncle Henry knows already," said Clarice, impetuously. "The discovery of the envelope gave him a shock--he said so, and wanted to see you, doctor. I expect the sight of the fern recalled the murders to him at once. I had an idea that the fern was familiar to me, but until Mr. Ackworth refreshed my memory, I could not be sure."

"I'll speak to Chalks," said Jerce, rising, "but it will be just as well that no one else in the house should know about the matter, and----"

"There's one who knows," said a voice, coming from a distant alcove, and Ferdy's head appeared over the back of a deep leather armchair, which faced towards a window.

The doctor started and looked displeased. "Ferdinand," he said, in an angry voice, "why did you listen to what does not concern you?"

"I think it concerns me a great deal," said Ferdy, coolly, and came forward into the full light of the room, very pale, and with ruffled hair. "I went to sleep in that chair, and woke up at the sound of your voices. I listened, half unconsciously, and then, when the story became interesting, I listened with all my ears. As the chair-back is towards you, I expect you did not see me."

"I wish you had come out, Ferdy," said Clarice, much annoyed, as she recalled her conversation with Ackworth, "how long have you been sleeping?"

"Not very long. I came in through the window, when you were out on the terrace."

Ackworth looked hard at Ferdy to see if he was lying, but could only make out that the young man looked extremely upset. He remarked upon it with some dryness, and Baird turned on him at once with the fractiousness of a spoilt child. "That story has made me quite sick," said he, restlessly. "I don't want to be murdered in my bed."

"The warning was not sent to you," said Clarice, contemptuously.

"If it had been, I'd have gone to the police station right off. I wish you had let me go on that night, doctor."

"I wish I had," said Jerce, regretfully. "However, it's too late now, and we must do the best we can. Don't say a word about this to anyone, Ferdinand."

"I jolly well won't. I don't wish to be mixed up with these horrid things," said Baird. "I'm going upstairs to lie down now. I was sleepy before with walking, but now I'm quite sick with--"

"Sleepy with walking," whispered Clarice, drawing close to him. "Ferdy, you have been drinking in the Savoy Hotel. Your eyes are red and your cheeks are pale. You have been--"

"Oh, leave me alone," said Ferdy, rudely, and twitching his sleeve from Clarice's hand, he abruptly left the room.

Anthony bit his lip. "That young monkey deserves a kicking," he said, sharply; "if he were not your brother, Clarice, I should break his neck."

Dr. Jerce started. Already the girl had called the man by his Christian name, and now the man was returning the compliment. Clarice coloured with genuine annoyance, as Jerce was the last man to whom she wanted the secret of her engagement revealed. The doctor looked sharply from one to the other, but, saying nothing, walked towards the door, with official composure. Clarice did not know if he guessed the truth, or if he deemed the interchange of familiar names mere slips of the tongue. Jerce's face was inscrutable.

"Will you come with me to see our patient?" he asked Clarice, politely.

"Certainly, doctor. Please remain here, Mr. Ackworth." She cast a side glance at Jerce to see if he noted the stiff address, but he made no sign. "I shall return almost directly."

Anthony looked puzzled, as he could not understand why Clarice had coloured when speaking to the doctor, and was perfectly unaware that Jerce had hinted at a proposal. However, as the presence of a third person did not permit of an explanation, he merely bowed his acquiescence. Clarice looked at her lover for one moment in a hesitating manner, then hastily followed the doctor.

She caught up with him at the door of Mr. Horran's bedroom, and they entered without speaking. As usual--since Wentworth had last seen the patient--the French window was wide open. Jerce immediately shut it sharply.

"I have told you a dozen times to keep this window closed," he said, severely, to Chalks.

"I don't open it, sir," protested the valet. "Dr. Wentworth--"

"He has his views and I have mine," said Jerce, imperiously. "Mr. Horran is my patient, and Dr. Wentworth is merely called in, as a local practitioner, to act while I am absent. The window must be kept closed day and night. Do you hear?"

"Yes, sir," said Chalks, sulkily. "I think master is waking, sir." Both Jerce and Clarice turned towards the bed, and saw that Horran was sitting up. He smiled in a dreamy way, when he caught sight of his old friend, but seemed disinclined to talk. Jerce felt the man's pulse, and listened to the beating of his heart. Then he produced an ophthalmoscope, and examined the eyes, turning up the lids delicately with his fingers. After a few minutes he drew back with a puzzled expression and shook his head, while Horran, in a semiconscious condition, sank back on his pillow.

"Well?" asked Clarice, eagerly.

Jerce shrugged his shoulders. "As usual, I can say nothing," he replied, in a low voice. "I can find no trace of optic-neuritis, and the visual acuity is normal. On my next visit, when Wentworth is present, I shall make a more precise examination."

"What is to be done?"

"Nothing at present. I never met with a more interesting, or more perplexing case in all my experience. I would give much to know the true cause of these symptoms. I must return to town by the three o'clock train," concluded the doctor, glancing at his watch.

"No!" said a strong voice from the bed, and there they saw Horran, sitting up, apparently wide awake. The sudden change was one quite characteristic of his mysterious disease. "No," repeated the sick man, with an anxious glance at Jerce, "you and I must have a talk, Daniel. Things must be settled between us."

"Yes, yes," said Jerce, good-naturedly; then sank his voice to address Clarice. "He apparently wants to talk about his will. Leave me alone with him. Take Chalks with you."

Clarice kissed her guardian, but he took no notice of her, as his eyes were steadily fixed on the doctor's strong, calm face. "Things must be settled between us," repeated Horran, as Clarice and Chalks departed.

[CHAPTER VIII]

WHAT HAPPENED NEXT

"Well?" asked Anthony, when Clarice returned to the drawing-room, "is Mr. Horran any better?"

"I think so. He is awake and his voice is stronger, but whether the improvement will last, I can't say."

"What does the doctor say?"

"Nothing. He is very perplexed over this disease, and does not know what is the matter."

"That doesn't say much for Jerce's reputation," said Ackworth.

"Dr. Jerce is only a man, after all," answered Clarice, earnestly, "and Uncle Henry's disease is so very mysterious, that neither he nor Dr. Wentworth can say anything explicit."

Ackworth twisted his hands behind his back and swayed to and fro on his toe-tips. "I wonder if Mr. Horran is really ill, after all."

Clarice, with her handkerchief to her mouth, looked at him suddenly and inquiringly. "What do you mean?"

"From what I have seen of Mr. Horran," said Ackworth, quietly, "he does not appear to be ill. His colour is good, he eats well, and sleeps a lot. He has not lost flesh, and his eyes are steady. Certainly, he appears to become giddy at times, but that might be biliousness from his sedentary life. Also he gets cross and fractious--that, again, might be liver. He lives very unhealthily, stewing in that room with a fire, and such an existence is enough to produce all the symptoms he suffers from, without any real physical cause."

"Well?" questioned Clarice, not knowing what this speech meant.

"You won't be offended?" asked Ackworth in his turn, and uneasily.

"With what?"

"I am about to say something about the Purple Fern."

"Yes?" she stared at him, amazed.

Ackworth still continued to sway to and fro, and gazed at the ground as he replied, "Mr. Horran may take exercise at night."

"Go on. I don't understand."

"His illness may be a feint."

"For what?"

"For business connected with the Purple Fern."

"Anthony!" Clarice recoiled, as though he had struck her. "Oh, I know it sounds ridiculous," said Ackworth, hurriedly, "and perhaps it may prove to be ridiculous. All the same, the fact of that man searching Jerce on the terrace, and this mysterious illness, and the envelope containing the stamped fern, and the presence of the gold box, which Jerce now has--well, you see--I don't exactly know how to put it."

Clarice drew near to him again. "Do you mean to say that Uncle Henry has anything to do with these murders?"

"Oh, no--I don't go so far as that, my dear. Do you remember that when I became engaged to you, you asked me to see Barras, the lawyer, since your guardian was too ill to be spoken to?"

"Yes, I wanted you to inquire about the money."

"Well, I spoke to Barras last week, and learn that you certainly get two thousand per annum in a couple of years. Ferdy gets the same, and Mr. Horran is sole guardian, with a right to appoint another guardian should he die. Mr. Barras, wishing to stand well with me, I suppose, as your future husband, hinted that you might not find everything right at Horran's death."

"But Uncle Henry told me that everything was in order," cried Miss Baird, "and declared that he had appointed me guardian to look after Ferdy's money when he died--when Uncle Henry died, I mean."

"Humph! That does not entirely agree with Mr. Barras' hints, and he did no more than hint. But something is wrong, and Mr. Horran--as I understood from Barras--is the cause of its being wrong."

"Uncle Henry has always been a good friend."

"Quite so, but has he been a good guardian?"

"Yes. No one could have been a better one, so far as I know."

"Precisely," said Anthony, quickly, "so far as you know. But the fact is, Clarice, I don't like Mr. Horran, and I never liked him, and--and--" he hesitated.

"Go on--go on. Don't keep me in suspense."

"Well, then, three months ago I was in town, and went to a ball at the Shah's Rooms. It was not--to be plain--a very reputable dance, or at all events it was extremely Bohemian. I went there before I was engaged to you, Clarice; now, I should not go. Well, then, at that dance, I saw Mr. Horran--"

"Oh, that's quite impossible. He has not been out of his room for years and years."

"I recognised him at a glance," said Ackworth, steadily, "his military carriage, his spare figure, his long, iron-grey moustache. And he was with a tall man, who had a criss-cross scar on his left cheek."

"The man in grey who searched Dr. Jerce on the terrace?"

"The same--if Dr. Jerce's description is to be relied upon. I never thought of the thing until you left the room. Then, remembering our late conversation, the memory of the incident came back. Now, Clarice, if this man--as Jerce declares--is mixed up in the Purple Fern business, he certainly was with Mr. Horran, and that, don't you see, brings your guardian into the affair."

Clarice turned quite pale. "It is very mysterious," she said to herself, "and yet it seems perfectly absurd. Uncle Henry is ill; he has always been ill, off and on, for the last ten years. I have lived in this house with him all the time. How could he possibly go to town even once without my knowledge?"

Ackworth shrugged his square shoulders. "Oh, as to that, a good motor-car could take him to London and back in a few hours."

"Uncle Henry has not got a motor-car."

"He may have one we do not know of," said Ackworth, quickly, "and as that French window of his opens on to the terrace on the other side of the house, it would not be difficult for him to slip out, and back again, without your knowing."

"But Chalks has sat up with him often."

"Quite so, but he may have slipped out on the nights Chalks did not sit up with him."

"Are you sure it was Uncle Henry you saw at the Shah's Rooms?"

"I caught only a glimpse of him with the scarred man, but I feel certain he was Mr. Horran. He has rather a striking personality and appearance, you know. Also, when I moved forward to speak to him, he saw me, and vanished in the crowd of dancers. If he was there, when he was supposed to be ill at home, there may be something in Mr. Barras's hints. Also, as he was with the man in grey, and the box was found on the terrace yonder by you, and a stamped picture of the fern was delivered to him, it seems to me that Mr. Horran is secretly mixed up with the matter."

"It is all supposition," said Clarice, uneasily. "Quite so. However, the best thing to do will be to ask Mr. Horran for an explanation."

"Yes. And Dr. Jerce."

"No, I shouldn't do that. Jerce is an eminently respectable man, and if anything was wrong, I should think he would show scant mercy to the wrong-doer."

"Dr. Jerce may know more than you imagine," said Clarice, quickly, and she related what the vicar had said about the loan. Ackworth listened with great attention.

"Humph! Jerce apparently suspects something also. Horran has been money-lending, it seems, and is quite a Shylock. Why don't you speak to Horran about the loan to the vicar? It is your money Horran has been playing with, if it is true that he has nothing save an income for acting as your guardian."

"But Mr. Clarke told me that Dr. Jerce would not allow him to see Uncle Henry about the loan."

"Dr. Jerce wants to keep his patient quiet, and may be quite deceived about this disease--if it is a disease."

"Dr. Jerce is too clever to be deceived."

"But he is," insisted Ackworth, "seeing that neither he nor Wentworth can state what the disease is. I tell you what, Clarice, you announce your engagement to me, and that will give some colour for me to interfere. Then we can get Mr. Clarke in to see Mr. Horran, and also we can ask Mr. Horran about his appearance with the man in grey at the Shah's Rooms. Finally, we can ask Mr. Barras to be present and make him explain his hints. In this way, everything will be cleared up, and matters can be placed upon a proper basis."

Clarice assented. "I think your idea is very good," she said, quietly; "all the same, I fancy you are exaggerating, when you say that Uncle Henry has to do with this dreadful business of the Purple Fern."

Ackworth shrugged his shoulders. "He can best explain that. I am quite prepared to state on oath that I saw Mr. Horran with the Purple Fern man at the Shah's Rooms. But, of course, as you say, I may be exaggerating. Everything I say may be explained by Mr. Horran, but only he can put things right."

At this point of the conversation, Dr. Jerce returned to the drawing-room, looking rather perturbed for so serene a man. He was drawing on his gloves as he entered. "Where is Ferdinand?" was his first question, as he cast a look round.

"Upstairs, lying down," said Clarice, "don't you remember he--"

"Yes! yes!" Jerce turned to the door again. "I know where his room is. I must see him before I go." He glanced at his watch. "I'll just have time for a short conversation before I catch this three o'clock train. Excuse me, Miss Baird, but--"

"Doctor, stop--stop. What is the matter with Uncle Henry?"

"He is annoyed by Mr. Clarke."

"About the loan?" asked Clarice, quickly. Jerce looked at her, astonished. "Yes. Do you know about that?"

"Mr. Clarke himself told me, and said that you did not want him to see Uncle Henry about it."

"I certainly did not," said Jerce, decidedly. "Clarke is always in difficulties, and Horran has been very good to him. His talking of incessant trouble would only irritate Horran, so I would not allow him to enter the house. But it seems that Mr. Clarke slipped in through the French window, and made trouble to-day, while Chalks was out. I have promised to see Clarke when I return here again, and to arrange that the interest of the loan stands over for another six months, which will give him time to turn round, as it were. But I wish he had not forced his way into the sick-room. He has done harm."

"But, doctor, about the Purple Fern?"

"Oh, Horran talked about that; but I have managed to set his fears at rest. He thinks he may be murdered, so I have told Chalks to stay with him all night. To-morrow, the Scotland Yard people will take up the matter. I'll go to the Yard to-night, and tell everything we have discovered; also, I'll give in the gold box as evidence."

"And don't you think--" began Ackworth, when Jerce cut him short.

"I have no time to talk," he said, impatiently. "I must see Ferdinand and then catch this train, as I have much to do. Miss Baird, your guardian is rather feverish with excitement; you had better not see him to-night. To-morrow, I'll come down again." And with these final instructions, Jerce slipped out of the room.

Clarice and Anthony looked at one another. "I shall see Uncle Henry for all that," said Clarice, determinedly.

"No! no. Better obey the doctor's instructions," urged Anthony, "after all, what we have to say will keep until to-morrow."

"But I am so worried."

"I know, darling--I know." He slipped his arm round her slender waist. "But it is best to settle this perplexing business in a ship-shape way. Leave Mr. Horran alone for to-night."

Clarice thought for a few moments. "Anthony," she said, earnestly, "I cannot wait for days for an explanation, and it seems to me that there can be none, unless Mr. Barras is present. Christmas is here in a couple of days, so I want you to go up to town and bring down Mr. Barras to-morrow. Then we can take him into Uncle Henry's room, and have an explanation."

"Humph!" said Anthony, doubtfully. "It seems to me that if Jerce goes to Scotland Yard, the authorities there may wish for an explanation from Mr. Horran."

"Not if you hold your tongue as to Uncle Henry's being at the Shah's Rooms," she said, anxiously.

"You want me to shield him?"

"We don't know yet that he is guilty," she reminded him, sharply.

Ackworth nodded. After all, he had doubtful ground to go upon, in connecting Horran with the criminal triumvirate whose trade-mark was the Purple Fern. The man might be entirely innocent, notwithstanding appearances. However, if Barras was an honest lawyer--and, on the face of it, there was no reason to think that he was not--he would be able, in the presence of his client, to state if the property of the Baird orphans was administered honourably. If Horran had been using the money for his own secret pleasure, and for loans to Clarke and others, he would be forced to account for the same. And such a forced explanation would inevitably compel him to acknowledge or deny that he was at the Shah's Rooms when Ackworth saw him. If he confessed so much, he would also have to explain how he came to know the grey man, who assuredly--if the gold box was to be accounted for--had to do with the Purple Fern crimes. Then, in one way or another, matters might be explained. They were certainly mysterious enough at present.

In the meantime, the lovers postponed inevitable disagreeables, in order to talk about their own particular future, and to enjoy themselves the more, they went for a short drive in Ackworth's dog-cart, which had been waiting all this time at the door, in charge of Mr. Horran's groom. Anthony had not brought his own servant, so the conversation of himself and his fiancée was perfectly free and unfettered. As they drove along the High Street, Dr. Jerce passed them, in earnest conversation with Ferdinand.

"I expect he's bringing your brother to his senses," said Ackworth, hopefully.

"I hope he will," sighed Clarice. "I am not very fond of Dr. Jerce, but he is certainly a good man, and his example is one which Ferdy should follow. I wonder," she added, musingly, "if Ferdy ever saw Uncle Henry at the Shah's Rooms. That is just the sort of fast place which Ferdy would go to."

Anthony flicked the horse's ears with his whip, and laughed. "I have been there also," said he, coolly. "Perhaps I should not have confessed as much to you, my dear."

"Why not?" demanded Clarice, with perfect candour. "You must not think me a cotton-wool young woman. I quite understand that men are men."

"And that women are angels?" questioned Anthony, bending to see her pretty face.

"We leave that for the men to say," returned Clarice, dryly.

"This man says it--of you."

"This man does not talk sense."

"Nor does he intend to. I have had enough of sense for the day, my dearest. Sensible conversation invariably means worry. Let us enjoy our golden hour, without transmuting it into dull lead."

Miss Baird, who was feminine after all, and very much in love and young in years and spirits, thought that this was an excellent idea, so the rest of the drive was all that could be desired in the way of cheap and genuine happiness. When it ended, she gave Anthony Russian tea in a tumbler and dainty caviare sandwiches. Ferdy, as they learned from Mrs. Rebson, had returned from the railway station to enjoy his golden hour at the vicarage, and Mr. Horran had again fallen asleep.

But simple happiness over afternoon tea could not last for ever, and when Anthony set out for Gattlinsands, after a lingering farewell, Clarice felt the reaction. To prevent herself from feeling dull, it was necessary that she should do something, so true to her intention of defying Dr. Jerce, she tapped at the door of the sick-room. Chalks appeared, with a whispered communication that the patient was awake and too fractious to see anyone on that night. Clarice returned to the drawing-room, and read indolently until Wentworth came to pay a late visit at eight o'clock. Just as she descended the stairs, dressed for dinner, Miss Baird caught the young physician at the door, and accosted him at once.

"Is Uncle Henry better, doctor?" she asked, coming forward.

Wentworth was a slim, shy man, who wore spectacles, and spoke in a jerky, staccato manner when addressed by a woman. "Better--yes--that is,--more awake. Lethargy passed away--very bad temper. Better leave him alone until the morning. 'Night, Miss Baird," and he shot off in confusion, like a timid schoolboy.

Clarice made a hurried meal, and returned drearily to the empty drawing-room, without any desire to encounter the fractiousness of her guardian, which she had experienced on more than one occasion. After the somewhat exciting day she really felt worn-out and in need of rest, therefore made up her mind to retire comparatively early. However, she hoped that Ferdy would come home soon to explain his absence from the dinner table, and passed the time in playing Patience until ten o'clock. Finally, after asking Mrs. Rebson if the house was locked up, and if Ferdy had returned--which he had not--she ascended the stairs to bed. At the top of them she found Ferdy clinging to the banisters. Apparently he had entered the house without Mrs. Rebson's knowledge.

"Oh!" said Clarice, perceiving his condition. "Again."

Ferdy chuckled. "I've been--S'v'y H'l--B't'fly pretty girl--j'lly ev'ning--such fun--it's--it's--" Here he missed one step and rolled down two, with an idiotic giggle. Clarice would have struck him in her disgust, but that would have done no good. Being a prompt and powerful young woman, she caught him by the collar of his coat and dragged him into his bedroom on the first floor. There she locked him in, while Ferdy protested weakly all the time, and only yielded to superior force.

"Faugh!" said Clarice, throwing the key on her dressing-table. "What a weak fool he is." She sat down and stared at the reflection of her face in the Louis Quinze mirror. It looked weary and drawn. "I shall be an old woman soon if this sort of thing goes on," she thought. "Oh, dear me, how tired I am of bearing other people's burdens. I must end it. In some way, I'll get the truth out of Uncle Henry, settle the money matters, marry Anthony, and wash my hands of everything. As to Ferdy, I'll marry him to Prudence and let her look after him."

Having thus arranged the future, she retired to rest. But not to sleep, since her brain was much too active for slumber. She tossed and turned and sighed wearily at intervals, as the hours dragged on to midnight. Only on hearing the church clock strike twelve did she begin to lose consciousness, and, finally, thankfully sank into a deep slumber, which lasted for hours.

Towards dawn, as is often the case with worried people, she began to dream in a confused, broken way, and the purple fern, very naturally, since it was in her mind, mingled with her fleeting visions. She fled--so it seemed--through dark streets, of nightmare length, pursued by the man in grey, who assumed monstrous proportions. He caught her, at the end of interminable miles, and--so she dreamed, with gasping horror--stabbed her to the heart. Then she felt the mark of the Purple Fern--the mark, indeed, of the Beast, as it might be--stamped on her forehead. Afterwards, half awake and half asleep--only in her dream she was dead--she felt herself being placed in a narrow coffin, and heard the hammering of the nails, which closed her in for ever and ever and ever. With a violent effort she broke the nightmare's bonds, and woke in a cold perspiration, to see the cold, faint dawn glimmering behind the window blinds, and--horrible feeling--to hear the knocking continue. But not on her dream coffin. The blows came on her bedroom door, steady, persistent, terrifying. She heard her name called in a quavering voice, and sprang out of bed, confused and dazed.

Wrapping a dressing-gown round her and somewhat recovering her senses, she hastily unlocked the door, which she invariably kept closed during the hours of sleep. On the threshold stood Chalks, white and shaking, with chattering teeth and trembling hands.

"Miss! Miss!" he stammered, and then fled down the stairs, unable to get out his words. Sick with fear, Clarice followed in her disordered attire, and came to Horran's room. On the bed lay the body of the sick man, with a cruel wound in his breast. He was stiff and cold, dead--murdered--and on his chill forehead was the infernal mark of the Purple Fern.

[CHAPTER IX]

THE INQUEST

Mr. Horran was as dead as a door nail. There could be no doubt about that. While Chalks shivered and wrung his hands in the middle of the room, demoralised and helpless, Clarice bent over the bed, in a dazed manner. She could scarcely grasp the situation, notwithstanding that it had been foreshadowed--as it were--by the mystery of the grey man. Without doubt, he was the assassin. The sinister omen of the Purple Fern had been fulfilled. An eighth victim had been struck down, and his forehead bore the infernal trade-mark of the triumvirate, which no longer existed. One of the members had been hanged; another had died from natural causes; but the survivor, Alfred Osip, of Rough Lane, Stepney, had accomplished alone the accursed work which the three had undertaken.

"I was sent away," explained the valet, with chattering teeth, "by master at eleven o'clock, as he would not let me sit up with him. I came into the room, as usual, about seven o'clock--a few minutes ago, Miss--to see if master wanted me. Then I saw that"--he pointed to the bed--"and this!"--he picked up an assegai, which was lying near the escritoire. "Look at the blood on it, Miss, and look at the cruel wound in master's breast."

The bedclothes were perfectly smooth, and turned down to the dead man's waist in an orderly manner. The jacket of his pyjamas was open, and the breast revealed a ragged wound, upon which the blood had congealed. Apparently, the assassin, Osip, had found the unfortunate man sound asleep, and, having taken the assegai from the collection of barbaric weapons on the wall, had turned down the clothes to stab his victim with a surer aim. There was no sign of a struggle, and even Clarice's untutored senses told her that Henry Horran had been foully murdered in his sleep. But how had the assassin entered? The window--she wheeled round with a set face, and stretched out an arm.

"The window is open," she said, in a dry cracking voice.

"Yes, Miss," whispered Chalks. "Dr. Wentworth saw master, after Dr. Jerce went away, and opened the window, as usual."

"You fool!" cried Clarice, furiously, and recollecting Jerce's precautions, in the face of the warning, "you have made two mistakes. You should have obeyed Dr. Jerce in sitting up all night with Mr. Horran; and the window, according to his directions, should have been closed."

"I told you about the window before, Miss," said Chalks, doggedly. "I let them doctors do what they liked, as it ain't my place to advise medical men. As to sitting up, Dr. Jerce told me to do so, but master insisted that I should leave about eleven, as usual. How can I obey them all?" asked the little man, tearfully. "I ask you that, Miss."

"But you knew the danger, and----"

"What danger, Miss? Master has slept with that window open, off and on, for three years--ever since Dr. Wentworth came to look after him. He said it was to be open, and Dr. Jerce always wanted it to be shut. I let them do what they liked."

"You should have remained all night with Mr. Horran," said Clarice, remembering that Chalks knew nothing about the warning of the Purple Fern, or the need of especial supervision.

"With a royal Bengal tiger, Miss?" wailed Chalks, "for that was what master was last night. I never saw him so cross--never. He seemed to have something on his mind, and went on awful."

"What did he say?" asked Miss Baird, thinking Horran's utterances might shed a light on the darkness.

"I can't tell you Miss. It was swearing for the most part. But he made me go to bed, and laughed when I declared that Dr. Jerce told me to sit up with him."

"How did you leave him?"

"Sitting up in bed, swearing."

"With that window open?"

"It was ajar, as Dr. Wentworth left it," explained the valet, cautiously. "Dr. Jerce closed it in the day, and Dr. Wentworth opened it, when he left, about eight o'clock, last night."

"Did you hear any noise in the room during the night?"

"Now, how could I, Miss?" complained the little man, in an injured tone, "seeing that my bedroom is at the back of the house, and that I sleep like a top, through being worn out with master's tempers. I left at eleven last night, and came again at seven; but what happened between them hours, I know no more than you do."

"I know what happened," said Clarice, with a shudder, and looking at the still figure on the bed. "Murder happened--as you see."

"But why should it happen, Miss? Master had his tempers, but he would not have harmed a fly."

"I can't tell you the reason, Chalks; but, doubtless, Osip intended to murder Mr. Horran for some wicked purpose of his own."

"Osip!" echoed the valet, starting. "Why, that is the man who was going to stop at Mrs. Dumps' Savoy Hotel a few days ago, and didn't."

"What day was that?" asked Clarice, quickly.

Chalks searched his memory, and mentioned the very evening, when Dr. Jerce had been searched on the terrace. There was no longer any doubt in Clarice's mind but what Horran had been killed by Osip; but why so inoffensive a man should be thus cruelly put out of the way she could not conjecture. However, theorising would not help, so she moved away from the bed with a sigh, and tried to recover her composure.

"You had better go at once for the police, Chalks," she said, rapidly. "Meanwhile, I'll rouse up my brother and the servants."

"They are already up, Miss."

"Do they know?"

"No, Miss. I just cast one glance, and then flew up to you, Miss."

"Why not to Master Ferdinand?"

"Because, Miss, we always look to you for orders," said the valet, respectfully; "and about the body, Miss?"

"Don't touch it--don't touch anything," said Clarice, warningly. "It is necessary that the police should see the room as it is; and on your way to the Police Station, Chalks, send a telegram to Captain Ackworth at Gattlinsands."

"And to Dr. Jerce, in London, Miss?"

"There is no need; Dr. Jerce is coming down to-day, as usual."

Clarice went to see Mrs. Rebson, and communicated the dreadful news of the crime. In a few minutes, the other servants were also informed, and everyone was horrified that such a tragedy had taken place in the quiet house. Mr. Horran had little enough to do with the domestics, seeing that he usually kept to his room; but he was sufficiently well liked to make one and all regret that he had come to so terrible an end. And Mrs. Rebson's expressions of sorrow were mingled with congratulatory comments on the triumph of The Domestic Prophet.

"Didn't I tell you, miss!" she said, nodding convincedly; "didn't I tell you that trouble and death and disgrace would come; and you laughed at me--what do you think of the Prophet now?"

Miss Baird shook her head, being too stunned by the catastrophe to express her wonder or her reasons for disbelief. She went to her own room to dress, and Mrs. Rebson sailed down to the kitchen with the Domestic Prophet in her hand, ready to partake of a cup of tea, and to expatiate on the wonderful manner in which the seer's chance shot had hit the bull's-eye of the future.

Having completed a hasty toilet, Clarice took the key of Ferdy's bedroom from her toilette-table, and went to release him. As might be expected, seeing that the hour was early, Ferdy was still in bed, and fast asleep. When his sister shook him, he rolled over, and muttered something uncomplimentary. His debauch of the previous night had left him somewhat haggard; but the night's rest had, to a great extent, smoothed away the lines of dissipation from his handsome face.

"Get up, Ferdy," said Clarice, harshly. "Uncle Henry is dead."

The word--so terribly significant--penetrated even to Ferdy's shallow, sleepy brain, and he sat up with widely-opened, horrified brown eyes. "Uncle Henry!" he gasped. "Dead!"

"Murdered!" whispered his sister, grey and shaken.

"Wh-a-a-at!" Ferdy sprang out of bed, and his pink pyjamas formed a strange contrast to his white, horrified face. "Clarry, you--you--must--you must be mistaken!"

"I have just seen his body, with a wound in the breast, and with the mark of the Purple Fern on the forehead."

"Clarry!" Ferdinand caught her by the hand. "What I overheard yesterday in the drawing-room--what you and Ackworth and Jerce--?"

"Yes, yes," she said impatiently, and wrenched herself free. "Everything is plain. This man Osip murdered Uncle Henry last night. I have sent for the police. Dress yourself quickly, Ferdy, and come down to see them with me. I expect the Inspector will come, and I have also sent for Anthony."

Ferdy caught her by the dress, as she moved towards the door. "But, Clarry, Clarry, why has Uncle Henry been killed?"

"I know no more than you do. We must find out. It is something that we know the name of the murderer."

Ferdy gasped. "And--and--do you?" he stuttered.

"Of course. That man Osip is----"

"Oh!" Ferdy wiped his face. "Osip,--of course--the Purple Fern man. But how can you be certain he is guilty?"

"He put his trade-mark on Uncle Henry's forehead," said Clarice, and left the bedroom, after a second command to Ferdy that he should dress quickly, and come on the scene of action.

"Osip! Osip!" said Ferdy to himself, stripping for his bath; "that's the man in grey, Jerce talked of--the man who called on old Mother Dumps and paid her for a bed he did not use. I wonder if he really is guilty. At all events," murmured Ferdy, thankfully, and splashing in his tub, "as Clarry locked me in last night, they can't say that I have anything to do with it. Poor Uncle Henry!--but," cheerfully, "now I'll get my money, and can marry Prudence; if," ruefully, "if Sally Dumps will let me."

Meanwhile Clarice, downstairs, was talking to Inspector Tick, who was in charge of the Crumel police, and who had come with two constables to see about the tragedy. Miss Baird told him all that had happened since Jerce had been searched on the terrace by the man in grey, who had given the name of Osip to Mrs. Dumps. Then she conducted Tick to the death-chamber, and left him to examine Chalks and the body. Later Wentworth arrived, and two hours afterwards Captain Ackworth appeared on the scene. Both were horrified.

"Didn't you hear a cry, Clarice?" asked Anthony, when in possession of the facts.

"I heard nothing," she replied, "nor did Chalks. But that is not to be wondered at, since Chalks sleeps at the back of the house, and is far away from Uncle Henry's room."

"Did Ferdy hear anything?"

"I don't think so, though I haven't asked him. He came home drunk last night, shortly after ten o'clock, so I locked him in his room. And, in any case, Anthony, I don't think a cry was uttered, for Uncle Henry must have been stabbed by the assegai, in his sleep."

"The window was open?" questioned Ackworth, thoughtfully. "Why?"

Clarice explained the contention between the two doctors, as regards fresh air, and how the local practitioner, being the last to see the patient, had left the fatal window ajar. "There's nothing to be learned from that," ended Clarice, with a shrug. "I expect this Osip man was haunting the house to kill Uncle Henry, and the open window gave him his chance."

"Humph!" said Anthony, meditatively; "there is one peculiar circumstance. If Osip is guilty, he would have brought a weapon with him. Why, then, should he take an assegai from the wall? Such a clumsy article, too."

"I don't know," answered Clarice, "but I expect we'll learn all that is to be learned, at the inquest. It will take place to-morrow."

For the whole of the morning, Inspector Tick was busy making notes and asking questions. He examined Wentworth about the window; Clarice, again, as to the finding of the gold box; Ferdinand about the presence of Osip at the Savoy Hotel; and then, after a word or two with Chalks on the same subject, went off to see Mrs. Dumps. In the midst of all this excitement, Dr. Jerce arrived. He looked much distressed, as he had heard the truth at the station.

"My dear Miss Baird," he exclaimed, when he learned all that she knew. "How terrible. My oldest and best friend. Dear, dear!--and just when I had arranged that the matter of Osip should be inquired into."

"Have you seen the Scotland Yard authorities?" asked Ackworth, suddenly.

"Yes, last night. I handed over the gold box, and explained. They said they would send down a detective to-day, and, on hearing the news at the station, I sent a wire to expedite his arrival. Then we shall get at the truth."

"It seems to me that we know the truth," said Clarice, quickly. "Osip killed Uncle Henry, and took advantage of the open window to do so."

"Ah!" said Jerce, bitterly, "if my directions had only been attended to, the assassin would not have been able to enter the house. I look upon Wentworth as responsible in some measure for the crime."

"Oh, no! no!" expostulated Anthony. "Wentworth did not know that Horran's life was threatened. We ought to have told him all."

Jerce shook his head, and still condemned Wentworth. When that doctor appeared out of the death-chamber, where he had been examining the body, he and Jerce had a wordy argument. Jerce blamed Wentworth for not leaving the window closed, as Jerce had left it; and Wentworth complained that Jerce should have told him that the dead man's life was in danger. "Had I known that," said Wentworth, "I should have left the window closed."

"According to the etiquette of our profession," said Jerce, stiffly, "my treatment took precedence of yours. I closed the window yesterday before I went, and you should have left it closed."

"I believe in fresh air," snapped Wentworth, holding to his point.

"And in this disease I believe in warmth for the patient," retorted the more famous doctor. "Do you set your opinion against mine?"

"I have my own views about this disease," said Wentworth.

"You don't know what it is, sir!"

"Neither do you, if it comes to that, Dr. Jerce."

"I am just about to find out," said the great man, and stalked from the drawing-room, followed by the humbler member of the profession, who was still bent upon asserting his dignity.

It was a sad Christmas Eve for Clarice. Anthony stopped as long as he could, but had to return to his duties early in the evening. Ferdy behaved much better than his sister expected him to, since he remained at home, and did his best to comfort her. After dinner, the Vicar looked in, and talked religion; but Clarice, knowing what a weak man the parson was, did not find much encouragement in his ministrations. The kitchen was much livelier than the drawing-room, for there Mrs. Rebson was enthroned with the Domestic Prophet in her lap, recounting over and over again what the book had said, and how she had applied it to Mr. Horran.

The next day being Christmas, the inquest could not be held, but on Boxing Day the jury and the local Coroner arrived to inspect the body and to hold an inquiry. Already the London papers had heard of the murder, and, as it was the eighth of the Purple Fern series, a number of reporters came from the Metropolis to take notes. Never before was the quiet little town so lively, for cheap trippers took advantage of cheap fares to come and view the scene of the latest crime. Many even preferred this new excitement to the well-worn amusements of Southend, which was not very far distant. Mrs. Dumps especially did a roaring trade, being particularly popular, from having conversed with the murderer. The shrewd little woman made the best of the notoriety, which had so suddenly rendered her famous.

"I'm sure," she cackled a dozen times in the course of the day, "you could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard that such a nice man as Mr. Osip was nothing but a cut-throat assassin. And he wanted to take poor Mr. Horran's house, too--just like his artfulness, when he intended murder and sudden death, as the Prayer Book says. Oh, that Dumps were alive to support me, for my limbs is giving with horror at the thought that I might likewise be cut off in the prime of my youth and beauty. Lydia, beer to that gentleman over there! And now I'll have to get ready for the inquest, my evidence being required to hang the assassin. Though assassin he didn't look like, I can tell you, gentleman. As nice a spoken man as I ever listened to, which shows how careful we ought to be, seeing that in the middle of life we are in our grave, as the Bible says." After which and a few other incoherent speeches, the little woman arrayed herself in her smartest frock and took her way to the house of death.

Here the Coroner presided in the drawing-room over twelve good and lawful men. There was no mystery about the murder, as everyone was perfectly satisfied that Alfred Osip was guilty. But it was necessary to collect all evidence to reveal how Osip had committed the crime, and to gather any clues together which might lead to his capture. The two Bairds were present with Ackworth and Dr. Jerce. Before the proceedings began, Clarice took the opportunity to ask the latter if he had discovered the reason for Horran's mysterious disease, which had baffled him and everyone else for so many years.

"Yes," whispered Jerce, calmly, but with a look of triumph in his eye, "and I was right in my surmise, as to what was the matter. My poor friend would have died of the disease had he not been murdered."

"What was the disease?" asked Clarice, curiously.

"You would not understand if I explained," said Jerce, shrugging; "the description would be too technical."

"But I want to know."

"Well," said the great physician, "when I removed the skull-cap, I found a cyst had formed under the membranes and was pressing on the brain. The probable cause of the cyst was cystic degeneration of an old blood-clot, the result of intracranial hæmorrhage."

Clarice shook her head. The death by the assegai was easier to understand.

[CHAPTER X]

A CHANCE WHISPER

The Coroner, a stolid old country doctor of sixty, with a ruddy face, shrewd eyes, and a beard which would have done credit to a Christmas card Santa Claus, opened the proceedings after the jury had inspected the corpse. His few brief remarks regarding the nature of the death, and the heinousness of the crime, introduced fussy Inspector Tick, with a sheaf of notes, dealing with up-to-date evidence.

Tick described the appearance of the dead man, described the state of the room, hinted at the open window, and laid before the jury the deadly assegai, with which the death wound had, in all human probability, been inflicted. Then the Inspector reverted to the appearance of the man in grey at the Savoy Hotel, under the name of Alfred Osip, and related what Dr. Jerce had said about the struggle on the terrace. Afterwards he mentioned the finding of the envelope containing the representation of the purple fern, and the discovery by Miss Baird of the gold box. He finished by again drawing the attention of the jury to the fact of the open window, and to the finding of the dead man by Chalks. Not being an orator, Inspector Tick spoke with hesitation, and set forth his facts dryly; but these were so interesting, that the lack of ornamentation was not apparent.

Mrs. Dumps was the first witness called by the Inspector, and she deposed, in a shrill voice and with many words, that Alfred Osip--so the man in grey called himself--came to the Savoy Hotel, and had paid for bed, breakfast, and dinner. After making inquiries about the inhabitants of Crumel, and especially about those in the deceased's house, "The Laurels," on the plea that he thought of settling in the town, Mr. Osip had departed, and had never returned. There was nothing in Osip's talk, declared Mrs. Dumps, which gave her any hint that he contemplated murder. He had not reappeared at the Savoy Hotel.

There was nothing further to be gained from Mrs. Dumps, so she was requested to stand aside, which she did unwillingly enough, as she liked the publicity of her position. Dr. Jerce followed next, and described how the man in grey--presumably Alfred Osip--had searched him on the terrace of The Laurels, and explained that he probably wanted the letter given to witness by the sick man in Tea Street, Whitechapel. Jerce also stated that the letter had been handed by him to the Scotland Yard authorities in London, and they had made inquiries, the result of which would be explained to the jury by Mr. Sims, a detective now present. The Coroner asked a few questions regarding the deceased's illness, and the open window; all of which Jerce answered in detail. He explained the cause of the disease, as gathered from the post-mortem examination, and the reason why the window had been left open by Wentworth and closed by himself. Afterwards, Jerce deposed as to the cause of death, which took place from Horran having been stabbed to the heart--apparently during his sleep, said the witness--by an assegai, which was produced by Inspector Tick. The murder, according to the condition and stiffness of the body, must have taken place between the hours of one and two o'clock in the morning. The doctor finally stated that he had been a life-long friend of the deceased and never knew him to have any enemies.

Dr. Wentworth's evidence was much the same as that of Jerce. He held to fresh air, although Dr. Jerce preferred the patient to have warmth, and so had opened the window just before he left the deceased at eight o'clock in the evening. The deceased was fractious and uneasy on that evening, but had assigned no reason for such uneasiness, which witness took to be connected with his mysterious illness. That illness had now been explained by the post-mortem examination. Samuel Chalks deposed to being the valet of Mr. Henry Horran, and stated that at the request of the deceased he had retired to bed, although instructed to sit up by Dr. Jerce. But that deceased had been so angry, the witness declared that he would have obeyed the doctor's orders; as it was, he judged it best to humour his master, lest worse should happen. The window was certainly open when he left the room, as witness had not touched it, according to his custom, when it was set ajar by Dr. Wentworth at eight o'clock. Witness had not taken any notice of the arms on the walls on that evening, and so could not say if the assegai was in its place. He never saw it about the room, until he found it on the floor, and Mr. Horran dead in bed, with a wound in his breast.

Coroner: "Did deceased notice the open window?"

Witness: "No! Sometimes the window was open and sometimes shut. Mr. Horran never troubled about it in any way."

Coroner: "Had you any suspicion that deceased wished you to leave him that night in order to see someone?"

Witness: "No! He was swearing in bed when I left him."

Coroner: "Did you lock the door of the bedroom?"

Witness: "No! The door of the bedroom was never locked."

A Juryman: "Did you hear any noise outside, which led you to believe that someone might be lurking about?"

Witness: "No, sir!"

Coroner: "And you knew nothing of this purple fern business?"

Witness: "No! Miss Baird never told me, nor did Dr. Jerce. If I had known I should have stopped in the room, notwithstanding master's bad temper."

Coroner: "Mr. Horran was not alarmed, or apprehensive?"

Witness: "Not in the least. He was in a bad temper, and wished me to leave him, so I did."

Coroner: "Do you know why the deceased was in a bad temper?"

Witness: "The Rev. Mr. Clarke had called in the afternoon, and after he left, Mr. Horran was very cross. As he was good-tempered up till Mr. Clarke's visit, I suppose Mr. Clarke put him out in some way."

The Coroner gave instructions that Mr. Clarke should be called as a witness, since this had not been done. Meanwhile, Clarice Baird deposed that the deceased was her guardian, and had been ill with some mysterious disease for ten years, more or less. Usually, he was good tempered. She did not see him on the evening of the crime, as he refused to receive her, being out of temper. Dr. Jerce had told her that Mr. Clarke had seen deceased, and Dr. Jerce was vexed, as he did not wish deceased, in his bad state of health, to be worried with business. Witness also stated how she had found the gold box, and had handed it to Dr. Jerce, who had taken it, along with the picture of the Purple Fern and the letter given to him by the sick man of Tea Street, Whitechapel, to Scotland Yard. Deceased had seemed much agitated when he found the picture of the Purple Fern in the unaddressed envelope outside his window, but had never gone into details about the matter, and she had not found an opportunity of speaking to him on the subject. As a matter of fact, deceased had fallen asleep while talking of the picture of the fern, and witness had picked it up. Beyond that he was agitated, witness had no reason to believe that Mr. Horran expected to be murdered. Still, since the other seven deaths, connected with the Purple Fern, had always been preceded by the same warning, it was possible that Mr. Horran was in dread of a violent death. Witness also stated, that she had heard no noise or cry during the night, and, indeed, had known nothing of the crime, until Chalks, the valet, came up to lead her down to the scene of the tragedy. From the disposition of the bedclothes, she fancied that deceased must have been stabbed in his sleep, before he had time to wake or call out. Witness had told the valet to leave the room exactly as it was, when found by him, and had then sent for the police.

Coroner: "When you found the box, did you see deceased about it?"

Witness: "No, sir! Mr. Horran was asleep for hours and hours, and I had no opportunity."

Coroner: "Would you have done so had deceased been awake?"

Witness: "Certainly!"

Dr. Jerce, re-called, said that he had not related the finding of the gold box to deceased, since he was already in a state of nervous excitement, owing to the visit of Mr. Clarke. Witness intended to wait until Mr. Horran was more composed, and then it was his intention to tell him about the golden box, and about Osip--that is, such details as were in the letter given to him by the young man who died in Tea Street. Dr. Jerce stated that he had placed all evidence in the hands of the Scotland Yard authorities on the same night that he went up, and that he had intended to come down next day and relate everything to deceased, whom he hoped to find more composed. "But when I arrived at the Crumel railway station," ended witness, "I found that my poor friend had been murdered."

Mr. Clarke, hastily summoned from the vicarage, then put in an appearance, and stated that he had received money from Mr. Horran, through his solicitor, Mr. Barras. He had long wished to see Mr. Horran on the matter of the interest, which was overdue, and for payment of which witness was being pressed. But Dr. Jerce would not allow witness to see Mr. Horran because Mr. Horran's health was delicate, and--according to Dr. Jerce--it would have been detrimental to his condition to worry him with business. Witness, however, was passing The Laurels, and saw the French window of Mr. Horran's bedroom open. He, therefore, slipped in on the impulse of the moment. Mr. Horran had expressed himself as angry about the thousand pounds loan, as he declared that he had not given Mr. Barras leave to lend money at the rate of ten per cent. He had told witness that he would write to Barras, and would see him--witness--in a few days, about the matter, telling him not to worry in the meantime. Deceased certainly appeared to be very much annoyed, and witness expressed his regret that he had not obeyed Dr. Jerce's wish and had refrained from paying the visit. His only excuse was that he had slipped into the bedroom on the impulse of the moment, and on seeing the window open from the lane.

Coroner: "You can see the window from the lane?"

Witness: "Certainly--very plainly."

Coroner: "Did you leave deceased in a bad temper?"

Witness: "So bad that I was sorry--in the interests of peace--that I had paid my visit."

Coroner: "Did Mr. Horran express any fear of being killed?"

Witness: "Not a word."

Coroner: "Did he touch on the fact of the Purple Fern murders?"

Witness: "No, sir. He never mentioned them. I only conversed with him for twenty minutes, and then it was about my own business."

The Coroner suggested that Mr. Barras should be called, but the lawyer had not come down from town, as he was away on a holiday and would not return for a few days. He had been telegraphed for to Paris, where he was spending his holiday. The Inspector pointed out that any evidence given by Mr. Barras would not bear on the crime, but with this the Coroner disagreed. "Mr. Barras," said the Coroner, "might be able to explain why he lent Mr. Clarke money without the leave of the deceased."

Inspector Tick: "Possibly, sir; but that would have no bearing on the case in hand. We are here, sir, not to search into deceased's private affairs, but to learn why he was killed, and who killed him."

Coroner: "An inquiry into the past life of deceased may reveal why he was murdered."

Again the Inspector disagreed with this, and again the Coroner objected; so there was a wrangle, which lasted for some minutes. Finally, Inspector Tick, being the more obstinate of the two, it was agreed that the inquest should not be postponed, as the Coroner had suggested, for the presence of the lawyer, Barras.

The last witness called was Thomas Sims, a smiling little Jewish-faced man from Scotland Yard, with an olive complexion and a pair of dark, inquisitive eyes. He deposed that the apartments in Rough Lane, Stepney, had been searched by the police, but Osip, having probably taken alarm, had cleared out everything likely to incriminate him. The young man who had died of consumption in Tea Street, Whitechapel (attended by Dr. Jerce, out of kindness), might or might not have been connected with the Purple Fern crimes. The only evidence which connected him with them was that he had accurately described Alfred Osip; and the sole evidence which associated Osip with the young man and with the murders was the gold box, which had been found by Miss Baird. Also, it was probable that as Osip--according to Mrs. Dumps and to Dr. Jerce--had been in Crumel a short time before, he had left the warning of the pictured fern outside the window of the deceased. Every effort had been made to find Osip, but without result. From the time he had searched Dr. Jerce on the terrace of The Laurels, he had disappeared. According to the ticket-collectors and porters and officials at the Crumel railway station, Osip had not even returned to London from that station. It was possible that after searching Dr. Jerce, the man had walked to the next station--Benleigh--to escape any pursuit should Dr. Jerce have given the alarm.

A Juryman: "And why didn't Dr. Jerce give the alarm?"

Dr. Jerce arose to explain, and was permitted to do so by the Coroner, although his rising was out of order. "I ran after the man," he said, calmly, "as soon as I could pull myself together. He had disappeared. Mr. Ferdinand Baird, who came up, suggested that the police should be called in, but when he described the man as having a scar on his left cheek, I then remembered the letter which my dying patient in Whitechapel had given me, with instructions to open it should I be attacked by such a man. I judged it best to return to London and open the letter before taking any action. I went to Scotland Yard as soon as I learned that Osip was connected with the Purple Fern crimes. More I could not do."

"You should have given the man in charge for assault," insisted the juryman.

"Doubtless," replied Jerce, ironically, "but I did not wish to make a scandal in my friend's house. Moreover, since the deceased's health was extremely delicate, it would have been injurious to him to be disturbed by an account of the struggle on the terrace. And that he would have learned, had I called the police to The Laurels."

No one could deny but what Jerce had acted sensibly, and the juryman--still holding to his opinion--was crushed. "If this Osip had been arrested at the time of the assault," muttered the juryman, "we should not have had the murder."

"And how was I to know, my good sir, that the man Osip contemplated murder?"

"The letter you received from the Tea Street man----"

"Was not opened by me until I returned to town after the assault. And then I went at once to Scotland Yard," retorted Jerce.

The juryman retired from the contest, and the Coroner then summed up the evidence as clearly and concisely as he could. Bearing in mind, he observed, the Purple Fern murders and the presence of Osip, who was clearly connected with the same, and above all, remembering the fatal mark on the forehead of the deceased, there could be no doubt that this crime was the eighth of the fatal series. One of the criminals who had perpetrated these terrible assassinations had been hanged, another had died from consumption, but the third--Alfred Osip--was still alive and had undoubtedly stabbed Henry Horran. It was proved by the fact that the usual warning had been given by means of the pictured fern. The window--according to Mr. Clarke--could be seen from the lane, so without doubt Osip, lurking therein, had seen that the window was open--as a light was in the room--and, waiting until the small hours of the morning, when his victim would presumably be asleep, he had entered and killed the unfortunate gentleman. The Coroner ended his speech with a request that the jurymen would bring in a verdict in accordance with the weight of evidence, which plainly pointed to Alfred Osip as the criminal.

The jury did so very promptly, as not one of them, and not one of the listeners to the evidence, had any doubt but that Osip was the guilty person. Therefore, after bringing in a verdict of "Wilful murder against Alfred Osip," the inquest was brought to an end, and the jurymen, very well satisfied with themselves, went home. But although the verdict had been given, the criminal was still at large; and now that he had commenced operations in Crumel, it was doubtful when he would stop. The locksmiths of Crumel did a fine trade during the next few days, as everyone wanted bolts and bars, patent locks, and ingenious alarms. The quiet little Essex town was terribly scared by the presence of this unseen beast of prey.

During the inquest, Clarice, looking round to see who was present, noticed a fashionably-dressed young lady, with a wonderful complexion and copper-coloured hair. At once she recognised her as the notorious Butterfly. Sarah--or Zara--Dumps was seated by her mother and greatly resembled the elder woman. But her mouth was firmer and her eyes were more deep-set. Notwithstanding the boldness of her appearance and the frivolity of her attire, she nevertheless looked clever and quite capable of dominating the weaker nature of Ferdy Baird. Once or twice Butterfly met the grave gaze of Clarice, and, rather to the latter's surprise, immediately dropped her eyes with a quick flush. This was strange, considering the known boldness of the girl, and Clarice wondered what it might mean.

When the inquest was over, and the jurymen were leaving the house along with the rest of the crowd, Clarice noticed the girl again. She was chatting in a low voice to Ferdy, while Mrs. Dumps sailed ahead with the Coroner, explaining how he should have managed the case. Rather annoyed that her brother should thus publicly flaunt his acquaintance with so notorious a young woman, Clarice pressed through the throng, in order to touch Ferdy's arm, and draw him away. But before she could carry out her purpose, a single sentence, falling from the lips of Zara, made her change her mind. Butterfly's lips were almost touching Ferdy's ear, and she spoke in a low and rapid voice, but sufficiently loudly for keen-eared Miss Baird to overhear.

"Now that Osip is accused," whispered Zara, softly, "there can be no danger."

[CHAPTER XI]

THE DOG

Clarice quite intended to ask Ferdy what was the meaning of Zara's strange remark, but other things took up her attention, and for the time being she forgot the saying. As regards the murder, of course, neither Clarice nor any one else thought that there was any mystery about the death of Mr. Horran. Undoubtedly Osip had killed him, in due accordance with the traditions of the Purple Fern. Only in this instance it was difficult to guess why the crime had been committed on an inoffensive man. The other seven victims, men and women, had been selected for their wealth, and in every case either the body had been robbed of jewellery, or the house of the dead--when the especial murder took place in a house--had been looted. In the case of Horran, nothing had been stolen, therefore robbery--as in the other cases--could not be the motive for the crime.

However, Clarice did not trouble her head much about the matter, although the facts of Mr. Horran (according to Ackworth) having been in the company of Osip at the Shah's Rooms, and the curious observation of Zara to Ferdy, might have urged her to make enquiries. Still, there was no mystery about the death, save the want of a motive, and, therefore, there was nothing to unravel. Horran was dead, the hue and cry was out against his assassin, and two days after the inquest the funeral took place. Owing to the publicity of the death, and the respect in which Horran was held by his fellow-townsmen, there was a great crowd at the cemetery. Ferdy acted as chief mourner along with Dr. Jerce, the life-long friend of the deceased, and Mr. Clarke read the burial service. Clarice, according to custom, stopped at home while her unfortunate guardian was being laid in his untimely grave. It was then that she remembered Zara's observation, and wondered anew what it meant.

Did the girl mean that now Osip was accused there could be no danger to Ferdy? Clarice asked herself this question, but without receiving any answer from her consciousness. The facts of the murder were sufficiently plain, save as to the motive, so in any case it had nothing to do with Ferdy. Moreover, if Zara meant that Ferdy was implicated in the matter--and on the face of it that seemed absurd--such an accusation, if made, could be rebutted by Clarice herself, since she had locked Ferdy in his room on the night when the purposeless crime was committed. Miss Baird used the word purposeless because she could not conjecture why Horran should have been killed in so tragic a manner. Unless, of course, the motive for the committal of the crime was connected with Horran's acquaintanceship with Osip. Why the dead man had been at the Shah's Rooms, and in Osip's company, was yet to be explained, but only the assassin could give the reason for that secret visit to London, and he was not likely to come forward, considering that there was a price on his head. Clarice, at the suggestion of Dr. Jerce, had offered a reward of two hundred pounds for the apprehension of the man in grey, and the London detective, Sims, had gone back to Town with the firm determination to win that sum of money. But he admitted to Miss Baird herself, with a rueful smile, that it was like looking for a needle in a haystack to capture the remaining member of the Purple Fern Triumvirate.

As yet Barras had not put in an appearance, although he had been expected to be present at the funeral. A telegram from him stated that he would be down immediately afterwards, and would come to The Laurels to read the will of the deceased. There had been some difficulty in finding Mr. Barras in Paris, and only at the eleventh hour had he returned to England.

Meanwhile Clarice, in deep mourning, sat in the drawing-room waiting for the arrival of the solicitor, and for the return of the funeral party. Ackworth had not come over to attend, as stern duty compelled him to go to Southampton with a draft of men for India. But he promised to return as soon as he was able. Clarice anxiously expected him, as she had much to say about the property and about their marriage. Especially about the latter, as, since the death of Horran, Dr. Jerce had too openly displayed his interest in the girl. It was, therefore, necessary to put an end to the doctor's hopes by announcing her engagement to Captain Ackworth.

While Clarice thought of these things, Mrs. Rebson, at her elbow, kept up a cheerful conversation about the truths enshrined in the pages of The Domestic Prophet. "One thing's come true, Miss," she said, briskly; "I only hope the other won't."

"What other?" asked Miss Baird, listlessly.

"Why, the disgrace, Miss. We had the death to an elderly man, who should have been beware of the midnight hour--death by a knife, too."

"Only it was an assegai," retorted Clarice, scornfully; "your prophet made a mistake in the weapon."

"The Domestic Prophet doesn't condescend to tell everything," said Mrs. Rebson, much offended, "but you can't say but what the murder hasn't taken place."

"No," sighed the girl, "poor Uncle Henry."

"We've had death and sorrow," went on the housekeeper, relentlessly, "and disgrace has still to come."

"Disgrace! What nonsense."

"So you said before, Miss. Don't scoff, when you know what's happened. Disgrace must come, as The Domestic Prophet plainly says." She turned over a few pages, and cleared her throat to read:--"If a crime of any nature has been committed by any person during the months of December, January, or February, that person, if hanged, will assuredly bring disgrace on those nearest and dearest to them. Let degenerates beware, says the seer."

"Oh, what rubbish."

Mrs. Rebson put the book in her pocket, took her spectacles off her nose, and rose in a stately manner. "Death has come," she said, in her most scathing voice. "Sorrow has come. You scoffed at both, being hard of heart. Now disgrace will befall this house, and----"

"How can it?" asked Clarice, impatiently. "Osip doesn't belong to this house or to us. The disgrace falls on him since he is guilty."

Mrs. Rebson had no answer for this, so retreated with dignity, her faith in the Domestic Prophet still unshaken "Mark my words, Miss Clarice, disgrace is coming," and with that she left the room, much to the relief of Miss Baird, who was very weary of the gimcrack sayings and pinchbeck philosophy which Mrs. Rebson set such store by.

Scarcely had Mrs. Rebson departed, when Ferdy entered by the window. He looked tall and slim in his deep mourning, and very well content with himself. His grief for the guardian, who had been so kind to him, was apparently swallowed up by the reflection that he could soon be enjoying two thousand a year. His first glance round the drawing-room was in search of Barras.

"Where's that lawyer chap?" asked Ferdy, producing a cigarette.

"He has not arrived yet," replied Clarice, rather disgusted at this want of feeling. "How can you talk so, Ferdy, when poor Uncle Henry is just buried? Tell me about the funeral."

"There's nothing to tell," said Ferdy, flinging himself into the most comfortable armchair; "it was much the same as other funerals."

"You have no heart, Ferdy."

"And no money," retorted the youth, coolly; "but that will soon be remedied, thank heaven."

Clarice could not help smiling to herself, in spite of her grief, when she thought of how Ferdy would be disappointed. It then occurred to her that he had some especial desire in wanting the money so badly, and, pending the arrival of the lawyer, she asked questions. "I suppose you want your two thousand a year in order to marry Prudence."

"Perhaps," said Ferdy, cautiously.

"Perhaps," echoed his sister, raising herself angrily. "Why, you have proposed to Prudence."

"I know that, and I love Prudence. All the same, a proposal doesn't invariably mean marriage."

"Oh," said Clarice, in disgust. "Then you still hanker after Zara?"

Ferdy lighted his cigarette calmly. "I don't know what you're talking about," he observed, obstinately.

"Mrs. Rebson says that you are always at the Savoy Hotel."

"She had better mind her own business, the interfering old cat," was Ferdy's retort; "besides, Zara doesn't always live there."

"She lives in town, and so do you, I know, Ferdy; I dare say you see a lot of her there."

"Oh! Has Jerce told you so?"

"No. But I am certain that you are familiar with her."

"Are you, indeed?" said Ferdy, in an aggravating tone, "and on what grounds, since you are so clever?"

Clarice leaned forward. "I heard Zara say to you immediately after the inquest that, as Osip was accused, there could be no danger."

This time Ferdy was startled. He dropped his cigarette and bent down to pick it up, and to hide the sudden rush of colour which came to his cheeks. "Did you hear anything else?" he asked, hesitating.

"No. But I want to know the meaning of the sentence I did hear."

Ferdy rose and paced the drawing-room, shrugging his shoulders. "What an inquisitive girl you are," he said, carelessly. "Zara only meant that as Osip was accused, there would be no danger of any other murder being committed."

This sounded a plausible enough explanation, yet Clarice doubted its truth. "That is not the meaning," she said, impetuously.

"What is the meaning, then?" asked Ferdy, sharply.

"I don't know, unless she meant that you were free from danger."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Ferdy, angrily, and dropped his cigarette again. "Do you think that I have anything to do with the death of Uncle Henry?"

"Certainly not, seeing that I locked you up in your room on that night. All the same, I shouldn't be at all surprised if you knew this man Osip, and that he had influenced you in some way."

"I don't know Osip from Moses," said Ferdy, doggedly. "All I saw of him was a glimpse on the night he searched Jerce, and then it was only a casual glance when passing him in the High Street. How could I possibly know such a blighter?"

"Uncle Henry might have introduced you."

Ferdy wheeled round in genuine amazement. "Uncle Henry! Are you out of your senses, Clarry? You know Uncle Henry never went out of his room for years and years, and certainly this man in grey never came to The Laurels until the time he searched Jerce."

"Do you know the Shah's Rooms, Ferdy?"

"Yes; I sometimes go there," snapped Ferdy, unhesitatingly.

"You go there very often, I expect," said his sister, bitterly, "well then Anthony went there, and--"

"What!" scoffed Ferdy, "the immaculate Anthony!"

"He's no more immaculate than any other man. Besides, when he was there a couple or three months ago, he was not then engaged to me. But Anthony saw Uncle Henry with this man Osip."

Ferdy went quite white. "You--Anthony must be mistaken."

"No! Anthony didn't know Osip at the time--"

"And he doesn't know him now."

"He knows the looks of the man. The person with Uncle Henry at the Shah's Rooms was a tall, slim man with a criss-cross scar on his left cheek."

"That's Osip, true enough," muttered Ferdy, "judging from the glimpse I caught of him in the High Street and in a bad light. But it is quite absurd to say that Uncle Henry was at the Shah's Rooms. You know that his disease prevented him from leaving his room."

"We did not know what the disease was at the time," said Clarice, coolly. "There may be some mistake, as you say, but Anthony is too keen-eyed to make one. Did you ever see Uncle Henry in Town?"

"No, I never did."

"Did you ever see this Osip?"

"Not in Town," said Ferdy, truthfully, "but I saw him in the High Street on that night when Jerce was searched. Look here, Clarry, let us have an understanding, if you please. Do you accuse me of--"

"I accuse you of nothing," interrupted Clarice, rising, a trifle wearily. "Only the observation of Zara--"

"I have explained that."

"In a lame way. I am certain that you know nothing about the murder, Ferdy, as you were locked in and--"

"How dare you? how dare you?" burst out the young man, furiously red and angry. "Even to hint at such things is an insult to me. I am not a saint; all the same, I am not a devil."

"Don't excite yourself, Ferdy. We know that Osip is guilty, and that no blame attaches to you. But I fail to see why Zara should have made that observation to you."

"Go and ask her," snapped Ferdy, rudely.

"I don't speak to persons of that sort," said Clarice, icily.

"She's a good, decent, pretty, hard-working girl."

"What an array of adjectives. I never said that she was not. All I wish to know--and my desire to know is suggested by the chance observation I overheard--is, are you acquainted with Osip, or are you in any way influenced by Osip?"

"I am not. How dare you suggest such a silly thing? As to Uncle Henry having been at the Shah's Rooms; that's sheer rubbish."

Clarice walked thoughtfully to the window. "I dare say I am worrying myself unnecessarily," she observed. "There is no mystery about Uncle Henry's death, and Anthony may have made a mistake. But you do make me anxious, Ferdy, dear, with your wild ways. You are so unsophisticated, that I fear lest you should be led astray."

"I'm quite able to look after myself," fumed the young man, again producing his cigarette case, that unfailing resource in embarrassment.