Transcriber's Notes:
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https://books.google.com/books?id=muIhAAAAMAAJ
[the New York Public Library]

THE BEST NOVELS BY
FERGUS HUME

The Mystery of a Hansom Cab
The Sealed Message
The Sacred Herb
Claude Duval of Ninety-five
The Rainbow Feather
The Pagan's Cup
A Coin of Edward VII
The Yellow Holly
The Red Window
The Mandarin's Fan
The Secret Passage
The Opal Serpent
Lady Jim of Curzon Street

The Sacred Herb

BY

FERGUS HUME

AUTHOR OF
"Lady Jim of Curzon Street," "The Rainbow Feather,"
"The Opal Serpent," "A Coin of Edward VII,"
"The Mystery of a Hansom Cab," etc.

G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Copyright, 1908
By G. W. DILLINGHAM CO.

The Sacred Herb Issued Jan., 1908

The Sacred Herb

[CHAPTER I.]

THE LATEST SENSATION

Lord Prelice felt desperately bored. Like Xeres, he longed for some new pleasure, yet knew not where to look for one. This was the result of being surfeited with the sweets of extraordinary good fortune. Born to a title, endowed with passable good looks, gifted with abilities above the average, and possessed of admirable health, he should have been the happiest of men; the more especially as his income ran well into five figures, and he had the whole wide world to play with. Certainly he had played with it and with life, up to his present age of thirty-five years. Perhaps this was the reason of his acute boredom. If all work and no play makes Jack dull; all play and no work must necessarily make him blase.

Therefore, in spite of the excellent breakfast spread before him on this bright summer morning, when London was looking at its best, the young man was ungratefully wondering what he could do to render life endurable. He ate from habit and not because he enjoyed his food; he read the morning papers, since it was necessary to be abreast of the times, for conversational purposes, although very little was new therein and still less was true. By the time he arrived at the marmalade stage of the meal he was again considering the possibilities of the next four and twenty hours. In this discontented frame of mind he was discovered by his aunt.

Lady Sophia Haken bustled into the pleasant room exasperatingly cheerful, and very pleased with life in general and with herself in particular. She was an elderly woman of a somewhat masculine type who lived a simple out-of-door existence, and who proclaimed loudly that it was necessary for humanity to return to the Stone Age for true enjoyment. Having been riding in the Row for the last two hours, she entered in her habit, filled with the egotism of the early riser. As a near relative, she could not do less than scold Prelice for lingering over a late breakfast, and told him,—also as a near relative—that she scolded him for his good. She had done so very often before without result, and, but that she loved to lay down the law, would have long since given over the attempt to improve her nephew. Nevertheless, anxious to achieve the impossible, she attacked him with pristine vigor, as though aware for the first time of his bad habits.

"Nine o'clock and still at breakfast," said Lady Sophia significantly, and slapped her skirts with a whip which she would have dearly liked to lay across her lazy nephew's broad shoulders.

Prelice looked indolently at the clock, then at the table, and finally at his fuming aunt. "I cannot deny it," he said, with a yawn.

"Is that all you have to say?" she asked, much disgusted.

Prelice heaved a sigh. It was necessary to say something, if only to stem the coming tide of verbose speech. "How well you are looking."

"Because I have been up since six o'clock."

"How unwise; you will probably sleep all the afternoon."

Lady Sophia snapped, tartly: "I shall do nothing of the sort."

"Oh, very well," he assented, "you will do nothing of the sort. Anything for a quiet life, even agreement with the improbable."

His aunt grasped her whip dangerously. "How exasperating you are!"

"I was just thinking the same about you," confessed Prelice, good-humouredly; "it is so disagreeable for a late riser to be reminded of the time." And having folded his napkin, he lighted a cigarette.

"How long is this going on?" demanded Lady Sophia fiercely. His imperturbability made her long to shake him thoroughly.

"How long is what going on?" asked Prelice provokingly.

"This idle, idiotic, insane, sensual, foolish, wicked, dilatory existence!"

"Seven adjectives," murmured the young man, opening his eyes. "Waste, waste—oh, what waste!"

"How long is this going on?" inquired his relative again, and whipped her skirts—instead of Prelice's back—with renewed vigour.

He was forced to answer. "As long as I do, no doubt. What else is to be done, I should like to know?"

"You shall know. Serve your country."

"What! And be abused in the penny press? No, thank you."

"You can surely help your brother-man."

"Surely—only to learn how much ingratitude exists in the world."

Lady Sophia stamped, bit her lip, and looked like a ruffled cockatoo in a bad temper. She wanted to quarrel, and it annoyed her that Prelice would not meet her half way, by supplying a reason. She had to invent the quarrel, and bring about the quarrel, and carry on the quarrel, and finish the quarrel without assistance. "Marry!" was the one word which suggested itself, and she hoped that it would be like a red rag to a bull.

"Oh, Jerusalem!" Prelice shook his closely cropped fair head. "I would much rather serve brother-man than marry sister-woman. You offer me a choice of unoriginal evils."

"You never will face the truth," declared Lady Sophia irrelevantly; and forthwith—according to an old-established custom—she proceeded to recount the family history—that is, she picked out the worst traits of Prelice's ancestors and debited them to his account. He smoked through two cigarettes, and nodded at intervals, not very much interested, since he had heard the same oration at least a dozen times. Lady Sophia having worked her way from the reign of Elizabeth down to that of Edward VII., ended with a lurid, penny-sensational picture of what would befall her listener in the near future, unless he worked like a nigger.

"Such a bad illustration," interposed Prelice placidly; "niggers don't work. As I have just returned from the West Indies, I ought to know." Lady Sophia snorted down the interruption, and seeing that he was still unimpressed, tried to goad him into industry by mentioning several of his school-fellows who had attained to comparative fame and fortune, while Prelice—as she scathingly put it—had been grovelling in the mud. "Even young Shepworth," ended Lady Sophia, somewhat out of breath, "and he was never clever—even he is Counsel for the Defence this very day in an important murder case."

"I'm deuced sorry for his client," murmured Prelice indolently.

"Why should you be?" demanded his aunt aggressively.

"You said that he wasn't clever."

"He must be." Lady Sophia contradicted herself with feminine calmness. "If he wasn't he certainly would not be talking this very day at the New Bailey. Go and hear him, Prelice, and be ashamed that a fool—yes, a superlative fool—should succeed where you fail."

"What do you mean?" inquired her nephew, with great curiosity. "First you say that Ned isn't clever——"

"Ned! Ned. I never mentioned Ned. Who is Ned?"

"Shepworth. Edward Shepworth—Ned for short. We were great chums at Eton, you know. But you say that he isn't clever, then you insist that he is, and wind up by calling him a fool."

"You know quite well what I mean," said Lady Sophia with dignity.

"I really don't," confessed her nephew artlessly, "you describe such a complex character. However, as I have nothing to do to-day——"

"And never have anything to do—idler."

"I shall go to the New Bailey, and listen to Ned hanging his client!"

"So brilliant a barrister as Mr. Shepworth will certainly get her off," said Lady Sophia decisively.

Prelice passed over this new contradiction. "It's a woman?"

"Yes. Mona Chent. You know her."

"I'm sure I don't. The criminal classes don't attract me."

"She is not a criminal, but a lady," said his aunt, as though the two things were incompatible; "and you do know her. Mona Chent, the niece of old Sir Oliver Lanwin."

Prelice reflected with bent brows. "I never heard the name before, I assure you, Aunt Sophia," he said at length. "Remember that I have been travelling round the world for the last seven years and know very little of the latest London sensation."

"You ought to stay at home, and make yourself acquainted with people, Prelice."

"Including this murderess?"

"She is not a murderess," cried Lady Sophia energetically. "I always did think that she was a sweet girl, and if she did kill her uncle, it was no more than he deserved. I never liked him."

"Therefore he ought to be murdered," said Prelice, rising and stretching himself before the empty grate. "So Sir Oliver was the victim. I have heard of him. He used to send Ned shells and barbaric things from the South Seas. And now Ned is repaying him by defending his murderess."

"I tell you Mona did not murder the man. I know her. I have received her. Would I receive a murderess?"

"It might be a draw to some of your parties," said Prelice politely, and with a recollection of several dull entertainments. "But I cannot quite gather from your clear explanation if she is guilty or not."

"Half London thinks that she is, and half asserts her innocence."

"What does Shepworth think?"

"He naturally believes her to be innocent."

"Because he defends her?"

"Because she is his future wife."

Prelice looked startled. "Oh, Jerusalem! And if he proves her innocence he'll marry her, I suppose."

"As she is her uncle's heiress, and Mr. Shepworth is poor, I presume he will. Ten thousand a year is not to be despised."

"But a wife with such a past," protested the young man. "Ugh! Did Miss Chent murder her uncle to get the money?"

"She didn't murder him at all. Look at the facts of the case——"

"I shall be delighted to, if you will place them before me."

"You ought to know all about them," said Lady Sophia, rising impatiently; "everyone has been talking about the case for the last month;—ever since Mona Chent was arrested, in fact."

"Ah, but you see I have only just arrived in London. I shall go to my club and get posted up in the latest scandal."

"The latest sensation," corrected his aunt. "Go to the New Bailey instead, and hear Mr. Shepworth place the case before the judge and jury. His eloquence will make you sorry for your lazy, useless life; he will be a K.C.," cried Lady Sophia, becoming prophetic, "and Attorney-General and Lord Chancellor, and——"

"King of Timbuctoo, no doubt. Loud cheers."

Lady Sophia looked indignantly at the scoffer, who beamed on her benignly with laughing blue eyes. "You have deteriorated since you left the Army."

"No doubt, the standard of morality in the Army being so high."

"Oh!" His aunt stamped, and flung open the door with a tragic air. "I have done with you. Your flippancy is disgusting. I repeat, Prelice, I have done with you." And she departed hastily, lest a reply from the scoffer should spoil her impressive exit.

Prelice laughed, knowing that Lady Sophia would never be done with him while she had a tongue to wag. Also he believed that she was truly fond of him, and knew that she had only too much reason to accuse him of wasting his life. He resolved to mend his ways, more as an experiment in self-denial than because he wanted to, and cast about for a model person to imitate. After Lady Sophia's conversation the name of Edward Shepworth naturally suggested itself, so Prelice arrayed himself in purple and fine linen, and ordered round his motor car. Within two hours he was driving out of Half-Moon Street, and was soon dodging the traffic of Piccadilly.

It was so delightful, manipulating the machine in the sunshine, and acting as a chauffeur so appealed to him that he was minded to turn the Mercedes in the direction of Richmond. But the hints about the murder being an unusual one kept him to his earlier determination; also a copy of The Daily Mirror assured him that the accused girl was exceedingly pretty; finally, he had always been friendly with the Counsel for the Defence, and thought that he would renew the tie of old school-days. These things brought his smart Mercedes to the bran-new portals of the Criminal Court, and when he had handed over the steering-wheel to his chauffeur he sought out the arena, wherein Shepworth was fighting for the life of his promised wife.

Naturally the first person at whom the young man looked was the prisoner in the dock, and he mentally confessed that The Daily Mirror photograph had not done her justice. It could scarcely do so in mere black and white, as Miss Chent needed vivid tints to convey her peculiar charm. She was one of those rare blondes who embody sunshine in hair and eyes: a dragon-fly of humanity, all radiance and glow. Since she was on trial for her life, Prelice quite expected to see a white-faced, terrified creature, worn out with shame and suffering. But Miss Chent might have been in an opera-box, for all the emotion she displayed. Prelice had more experience of women than was good for him, but he never beheld so perfectly dressed, or so perfectly serene a girl. It would be absurd to say that so level-headed a young man fell in love with this attractive criminal at first sight; but he certainly felt drawn to her. She looked like a captive angel, and without knowing the rights or wrongs of the case, Prelice mentally pronounced her to be entirely innocent. Her calmness, if not her beauty, acquitted her, as his susceptible heart decided, for no woman with an unclean conscience could have faced judge and jury with such manifest confidence. Prelice thought of Joan of Arc on trial for sorcery; of Mary Stuart before a prejudiced tribunal; of Marie Antoinette; and of the Vestal, who proved her innocence by drawing Tiber water in a sieve. He might also have recalled the Marquise de Brinvilliers, likewise calm, beautiful, and—guilty. But he did not.

The Court was filled with more or less fashionable people, who came to make a Roman holiday of Sir Oliver Lanwin's violent death, and Miss Chent's position. Doubtless she had been well known in Society, and those who had been her friends were here to watch her in the new role of an accused criminal. Prelice was disgusted at the heartless conduct of some ladies, who whispered and tittered, and used opera-glasses to stare at the unfortunate girl. He internally commended his aunt for having had the good taste to remain absent, and then turned his eyes on the array of barristers to search for Ned Shepworth.

If the prisoner was serene in the consciousness of innocence, her counsel certainly was less composed. A strong will and the second nature of custom kept Shepworth sufficiently self-controlled to deceive those who had but a passing acquaintance with his personality. But Prelice, who had known the young barrister for years, noted that his usually ruddy complexion was whiter than usual, and that his eyes seemed to be sunken in his head by reason of the dark shadows beneath them. Shepworth was a slim, handsome man, brown-haired and brown-eyed, with a clean-shaven face and a resolute mouth. In his wig and gown he looked a very presentable son of Themis, if somewhat less composed than the traditionally unemotional lawyer should be. He was seated at the long table with two older men, who apparently were his coadjutors; and near the defence trio the Counsel for the Prosecution—appointed by the Public Prosecutor on behalf of the Crown—was chatting amiably with his colleague, a keen-faced young barrister. Behind sat many other lawyers wigged and gowned, who were taking the deepest interest in the proceedings. For the moment the Court was so still that the rustling of the briefs, as the barristers turned their pages, could be plainly heard.

"Are those two fellows assisting Mr. Shepworth in the defence?" Prelice whispered to a legal-looking bystander at his elbow.

"No," replied the man in a low voice; "the big fellow is Cudworth, K.C., and the other is young Arkers, who acts as Junior Counsel, Shepworth is not defending, as he was in the house when the crime was committed, and will be called as a witness."

So Lady Sophia was inaccurate as usual, and Prelice felt somewhat disappointed that he would not have an opportunity of hearing his old school-chum orating. However, he had little time to think, for at this moment the Prosecuting Counsel got on his legs to open the case. Prelice felt that the curtain had risen on a tragedy. He wondered what would be the scene when the curtain fell.

[CHAPTER II.]

THE TRIAL.

The Counsel, in a clear and deliberate voice, opened his speech with an unvarnished statement of the case; and a very remarkable story he unfolded. Prelice, as an experienced traveller, had always believed in the impossible; but it seemed to him that he had returned to prosaic England to hear a veritable fairy-tale. There was something extremely fantastic about the way in which the crime was said to have been committed. As set forth by the speaker, the event happened in this wise.

Sir Oliver Lanwin, the last male heir of an ancient Kentish family, whose seat was situated near Hythe, had found himself, some forty years previous to the trial, a pauper with a newly inherited title. Seeing no chance in England of rehabilitating his fortunes, he had taken what little money he possessed to New Zealand, leaving his only sister well provided for, as the wife of an army officer named Chent. After making some money in various ways at Hokitika, Sir Oliver had purchased a fruit schooner to trade amongst the South Sea Islands. Being successful, he had bought other ships, and for more than thirty years he had been a kind of Polynesian merchant-prince, owing to his wealth and enterprise and keen business capacity. He had never married, because of an early disappointment, and ten years before, he had returned to England with a capital representing ten thousand a year. With this he had retired to his ancestral seat, near Hythe, and there proposed to end his days in comfort, after the fashion of Sinbad, the famous sailor of the Arabian Nights. He brought with him an old shell-back mariner, Steve Agstone by name, who was an important witness for the prosecution. Unfortunately, said the Counsel, the man had disappeared, immediately before the inquest, after hinting to the housekeeper, Mrs. Blexey, that he had actually witnessed the committal of the crime, for which the prisoner was being tried. In spite of all efforts made by the police, this witness could not be discovered, and it was impossible to say why he had disappeared. But Counsel hoped to produce other witnesses, who would prove beyond all shadow of a doubt that the prisoner was guilty.

After proceeding thus far, Counsel sipped a glass of water, hitched his gown more comfortably on to his shoulders, and continued his speech amidst the breathless silence of the listeners.

Being a bachelor, Sir Oliver felt somewhat lonely, since he was of a sociable disposition. For a few months he kept open house, but as his nature proved to be exacting and imperious, he did not get on well with his neighbours. Finally, he proclaimed that they were all idiots, and closing his doors, he became more or less of a recluse. It was then that Sir Oliver's widowed sister, Mrs. Chent, died suddenly, leaving her daughter Mona—the prisoner—to the care of her uncle. Sir Oliver became extremely fond of the young lady, who was of a lively and amiable disposition. Indeed, his attachment was so great that he made a will in her favour, by which she was to inherit ten thousand a year and the family-seat.

"And here," proceeded Counsel impressively, "I may mention a circumstance which, in the light of after events, has some bearing on the case. Mr. Oliver, while bathing at Samoa, had his leg taken off, from the knee, by a shark. He thus was unable to indulge in field sports, in games, or indeed in any kind of out-of-door life. He therefore took to reading, and of a somewhat unusual kind. Jacob Bohme, Paracelsus, and Eliphas Levi were his favourite authors, from which it can be judged that the dead man took a deep interest in psychic questions.

"He also consulted palmists, fortune-tellers, astrologers, and crystal-gazers, frequently asking them down to Lanwin Grange. In fact, at the very time when the crime was committed, Madame Marie Eppingrave, a well-known Bond Street interpreter of the future, was staying in the house. She will be called as a witness. But you can see, gentlemen of the jury, that the late baronet was an exceedingly superstitious man, although clear-headed in business and perfectly capable of managing his affairs."

It was at this point that Shepworth caught sight of Prelice, and he nodded in a friendly manner. Then he scribbled a note, and sent it by an usher to the young man. It proved to be a request that Prelice would wait for him at the door when the Court adjourned for luncheon. Prelice slipped the missive into his pocket, and nodded a reply. Shepworth seemed to be pleased with this prompt acceptance, and immediately resumed his attitude of attention, while Counsel continued to boom out facts with the drone of a bumble-bee.

As the narrative proceeded it appeared that, a few months before his death, Sir Oliver had received a South Sea visitor in the person of a young sailor called Captain Felix Jadby, whose father he had known at Tahiti. The baronet was extremely intimate with the visitor, and practically gave him the run of the house. Captain Jadby came and went at will, and Sir Oliver talked to him a great deal in connection with matters dealing with Polynesian trade. This was not to be wondered at, since the baronet, having been a trader himself, it was pleasant for him to converse with one who knew about such things.

Unfortunately, Captain Jadby fell in love with the prisoner, and wished to marry her. She refused to become his wife, on the plea that she loved Mr. Edward Shepworth, and was engaged to him. Sir Oliver was annoyed at the engagement, as he desired the marriage with Captain Jadby to take place. On the day of his death he quarrelled seriously with the prisoner, and, according to Madame Marie Eppingrave's evidence—since she was present during the quarrel—Sir Oliver stated that if the prisoner did not marry Captain Jadby he would disinherit her. Prisoner still refused, and retired to her room, saying that she would not reappear until Captain Jadby was out of the house. For the sake of peace Jadby went up to London that same day, with the intention of returning by the ten o'clock train. Then, if prisoner still remained obdurate, he intended to say good-bye to his host, and leave for the Colonies within the week.

"And now, gentlemen of the jury," continued Counsel, with another hitch of his gown, "we come to the most important part of the story. Previous to going to London, Captain Jadby had a wordy quarrel with Mr. Shepworth, and from words the quarrel came to blows. Mr. Shepworth's foot slipped and he slightly sprained his ankle, so that he was not able to leave Lanwin Grange, as he desired. His position was an unpleasant one, since Sir Oliver was not well disposed towards him on account of the engagement which existed with the prisoner. As Captain Jadby had left the Grange, Mr. Shepworth wished to go also, and would have gone, but that his sprained ankle prevented his removal, and he therefore remained in his room. Now, gentlemen, you can see the position of the several people connected with this matter at the time when the crime was committed. Captain Jadby was in London, intending to return at ten o'clock; Mr. Shepworth was in his room with a sprained ankle which prevented his leaving it; the prisoner was also in her room, and even though Captain Jadby had departed, for the time being, she declined to come down to dinner. Madame Marie Eppingrave and Sir Oliver dined alone, and then the baronet retired to his library, where until nine o'clock—according to Madame Marie's evidence—he chatted with her on occult subjects. Also, as Madame Marie will state, Sir Oliver expressed himself strongly on the subject of the prisoner's refusal of Jadby.

"As Sir Oliver was in the habit of retiring early to bed on account of his health, his factotum, Steve Agstone, entered the library at nine o'clock to bolt and bar the windows. There were no shutters; and this please remember, gentlemen, as it is an important point. The servants had already retired, and after making the library safe, Steve Agstone left the room with the intention of waiting up for Captain Jadby, who was expected back by the ten o'clock train, and who intended to walk to the Grange. Madame Marie lingered for a few minutes to say good-night, and then retired to her bedroom. She declares that it was five minutes after nine o'clock that she left the library. Sir Oliver—so she says—was seated at the table near the window reading and smoking.

"Here, gentlemen," pursued Counsel, taking up a plan, "is a drawing of the library." He passed it by an usher to the foreman of the jury. "You will see that there is only one door to the library, which leads out into the hall, and which is opposite to the fireplace. The inner walls of the room, on three sides, are covered with books, but the fourth wall—the outer wall, gentlemen—has in it three tall French windows, which lead on to a terrace over a lawn. The lawn extends for some distance, ending in flower-beds, these in their turn being encircled by shrubs, and farther back by the park trees. When Madame Marie left the room Sir Oliver was seated at his writing-table, marked 'X,' immediately before the middle window. As the night was chilly there was a fire burning in the grate. You understand, gentlemen? Good. Now we come to the discovery of the crime."

Counsel then went on to state that Captain Jadby returned, according to his promise, at ten o'clock—that is, his train arrived at the station, which was about half-a-mile from the Grange. He walked to Sir Oliver's house, as he had no luggage to carry, and the night was fine if somewhat cold. On emerging from the avenue on to the lawn he saw that there was a light in the library; and it was here that Counsel again drew the jury's attention to the fact that the windows had no shutters. Captain Jadby therefore thought that, as Sir Oliver had not retired to bed, he would knock at one of the windows, and enter the house that way, so as to avoid rousing the other inmates by ringing the bell. He advanced to the lighted windows, and looked through the middle one, which was veiled, as were the others, with curtains of Indian beadwork. To his surprise, he saw that Sir Oliver, seated at his desk, was lying forward on the writing-table. "I am precise to a fault here, gentlemen," said Counsel jocularly, "but it is absolutely to be even pedantic, so that you will understand.

"Sir Oliver," he continued, "was lying with his face on his outstretched hands, and in an armchair near the fireplace sat the prisoner, in a white dressing-gown with her hands on her lap. Captain Jadby could not see very distinctly, owing to the beadwork curtains, but he saw sufficient to guess that something was wrong, especially as his knocking produced no effect either on Sir Oliver or on the prisoner. He unconsciously pushed at the middle window, and, to his surprise, discovered that it was not locked. He therefore entered, and what he saw made him ring the bell at once, to summon the household.

"And what did he see, gentlemen of the jury? he saw that Sir Oliver was dead. He had been stabbed to the heart, under the left shoulder-blade, apparently while seated at his desk. The body had naturally fallen forward. The prisoner, seated in the armchair with her hands on her lap, was in an unconscious state, but her hands and the white dressing-gown were stained with blood—with the blood, gentlemen," said Counsel impressively, "of her uncle. Before anyone could enter the room she revived, and on seeing the body of her uncle, displayed great terror and horror. Steve Agstone, who had been waiting up for Captain Jadby, was the first person to enter, and on discovering the dead body of his master—to whom he was sincerely attached—he at once rushed out of the house for a doctor. By this time the servants were aroused by the noise, and with them came Madame Marie Eppingrave. Even Mr. Shepworth, lame as he was, managed to crawl down the stairs, so loud had been the clamour which had awakened him.

"And what did the prisoner say to all this? Gentlemen, she told a most ridiculous story to account for her presence in the library. According to her statement, which the inspector from Hythe took down in the presence of witnesses, prisoner said that she could not sleep on account of her quarrel with her uncle. She came down the stairs at a quarter to ten o'clock, and entered the library, with the intention of making friends with her uncle. When she entered—so she declares—the room was filled with pungent white smoke, through which she could dimly see Sir Oliver seated at the writing-table. The smoke made her senses reel, but by holding her handkerchief to her mouth she managed to stagger to the middle window. She had just managed to unfasten the catch when she fell unconscious. The next thing she remembers—according to her preposterous story—is the presence of Captain Jadby. She declares that she did not know when Sir Oliver was stabbed, and when she entered the library did not know why it should be filled with smoke. When Captain Jadby entered—as he will tell you—there was no smoke, and the fire had burned down to red cinders."

Again Counsel had to drink a sip of water, as he had been talking for some time, and there was a low murmur of conversation heard before he again began to speak. The story, which he alleged that Miss Chent had told, seemed ridiculous; and even Prelice, prejudiced as he was in her favour, thought that the defence was absurd. But Miss Chent never moved a muscle; she did not even change colour. Quiet, and without a word, she sat in the dock, waiting patiently for her innocence to be made manifest. And yet, as everyone thought, her tale was too ridiculous for words.

"And finally, gentlemen," said Counsel, taking up his brief, "I would draw your attention to the medical evidence. The doctor called in stated that Sir Oliver was murdered about ten o'clock—mark that, gentlemen—about the very time that the prisoner confesses she was in the library in a state of unconsciousness. Captain Jadby did not arrive until thirty minutes after ten, as he did not walk very quickly. And again, gentlemen, no weapon was found wherewith the wound—a wide, clean wound—could have been inflicted. But an Indian dagger with a jade handle, used by Sir Oliver as a paper-knife, is missing. With that I verily believe the deceased was stabbed. And remember, gentlemen, that the window was unfastened; and if we are to believe this foolish tale of a pungent smoke, prisoner unfastened it when she entered and immediately before she fainted. Gentlemen, she did faint, but not then. No! Can you not guess what took place? The prisoner came down the stairs to see her uncle; perhaps, as she declares, to make it up with him, since we may as well give her the benefit of the doubt. But in place of reconciliation, the quarrel grows more bitter. Impulsive and furious, the prisoner snatches the paper-knife—a dangerous weapon remember, gentlemen—and while Sir Oliver turns again to his book, stabs him in the back. She then opens the window, and buried the paper-knife, all bloody, in the garden. On re-entering, the sight of the dead body shows her what a terrible crime she has committed. Instead of refastening the window she staggers forward, with the intention of regaining her bedroom, and of playing the part of an innocent woman. But her nerves, which maintained her strength and consciousness so far, fail at the critical moment. She manages to reach the armchair, and falls into it unconscious, some time after ten o'clock. There she lies, with blood-stained hands and dress, until Captain Jadby arrives, when she recovers her senses to tell a wild and improbable story. Sir Oliver, as the medical evidence proves, was alive when she entered the library at a quarter to ten. He is dead, and his blood is smearing the prisoner's dressing-gown at half-past ten, when Captain Jadby arrives. And all that time prisoner says that she was unconscious. Quite so. She was, up to the moment of Captain Jadby's arrival, and from the moment, when she staggered into the room, after burying the knife in the garden. And now, gentlemen——" Here Counsel went on to state that in spite of all efforts the knife could not be found. He also detailed more explicitly the medical evidence, and gave the name of the witness whom he proposed to call, and ended with a damning indictment of the reasons which had led the prisoner to commit the crime. Amongst these was the fact that by Sir Oliver's death prisoner would inherit ten thousand a year at once, and would thus have been enabled to marry Edward Shepworth.

When his speech was finished Counsel sat down, wiping his brow, and a hum of conversation rose in the crowded Court. Mona's eyes wandered here and there, and rested finally on the pitying face of Lord Prelice. For a moment she remained calm, and then flushed deeply, the first sign of emotion she had given. A moment later and she was led away in charge of a warder, while the Court adjourned for luncheon.

[CHAPTER III.]

THE PAPER-CUTTER.

"I am delighted to see you, Dorry," said Shepworth, addressing Prelice by his Eton nickname, when the young man had been called "Dormouse," shortened as above, on account of his lethargic habits. "I want you very badly. Come and grub somewhere, and we can talk."

Prelice responded very cordially, as the two had been very close friends at the old school, and submitted to be led round the corner to a small hidden restaurant much affected by the gentlemen of the long robe. Here, when they were snugly ensconced in a corner, Shepworth ordered food for his friend, but contented himself with a cigarette, and a cup of strong coffee. "I can't eat a morsel," he protested when Prelice advised a meal. "I am too much bothered over this case. How the deuce did you come to the Court, Dorry?"

Prelice, who possessed a hearty appetite, tackled a plate of cold beef, and answered between mouthfuls. "My aunt Sophia bully-ragged me this morning as an idler, and advised me to hear you spouting. She wanted to make me ashamed of myself."

"And are you?" asked Shepworth aimlessly.

"Rats!" said his lordship inelegantly; "but I'm sorry, old man. This is a sinfully hard business for you. Why didn't you write me that you were engaged?"

"I didn't know where to find you, Dorry. Lady Sophia, whom I met once or twice, told me that you were scampering round the world. I have wanted you, Prelice, these last few months. Yes, and before that."

"Before the murder, do you mean?"

"Yes! I have never had a chum since I left school. Lots of friends, no doubt, good men all, but a chum," he laid his hand on Prelice's shoulder with a burst of emotion. "Oh, Dorry, what a mercy you are here, and that I have some safe person in whom to confide. I should have had to tell someone in the long run."

"Tell someone what?" asked Prelice soberly.

"About that poor girl."

"Miss Chent?"

"Yes! It is an awful position for her, and for me. No! Don't look at me like that, Dorry. I swear that I'm not thinking of myself. I'd give my right hand to save Mona."

"She is innocent, of course?" asked Prelice, pushing away his plate.

"Yes! I am certain that she is innocent, although——" He hesitated for a moment, then flung away his cigarette, leaned his arms on the marble-topped table, and looked earnestly at his friend. "You heard Belmain's speech?"

Prelice nodded. "You mean the prosecuting Counsel."

"Yes! He was fair enough in the beginning and in the middle, but he had no right to rub it into the jury about the knife and about Mona's guilt being so certain. That part should have been left to the time when he addressed the jury, and after the evidence on both sides had been heard."

"I thought it was rather prejudging the prisoner myself, Ned."

Shepworth shuddered. "Don't call Mona a prisoner," he expostulated. "Every time that infernal Belmain alluded to her so, I felt sick."

"It is rough on you undoubtedly," murmured Prelice; and not wanting any more food, for Shepworth's agitation had spoilt his appetite, he turned to the waiter and ordered coffee. Shepworth passed along his cigarette case. "Very rough on you, Ned."

"Oh, don't talk about me," rejoined the barrister, restlessly; "think of Mona, a young girl, gently born and bred, being accused of murder and being put into prison. It's horrible."

"She seemed to me to be the calmest person in Court."

"Because she knows that she is innocent. She's a religious girl too, and firmly believes that God will prove her innocence."

"Well, He will," said Prelice quietly. "I'm not a saint myself, but I know that God looks after us all."

"Yet innocent people have been hanged before now, Dorry!"

Prelice did not answer immediately. Lighting his cigarette, he meanwhile looked very straight at his friend. "You don't seem to have a good defence," he remarked suddenly.

"Yes and no," replied Shepworth, fidgeting. "Not only is there a very good reason why she should love her uncle, but a better one that she should wish him to have remained alive."

"What do you mean?"

"That will, you know, Dorry; the will made by Sir Oliver in favour of Mona?" Prelice nodded. "It has been destroyed," went on Shepworth; "bits of it were found in the grate. There was a fire burning in the library on that night, if you remember Belmain's speech. Well, the will had been torn up and thrown into the fire. A few bits fell under the grate, and these prove beyond all doubt that it is the will which Sir Oliver made in favour of Mona. Now, if guilty, why should she destroy a document which gave her ten thousand a year?"

"But I say," remarked Prelice thoughtfully, "towards the end of his speech Belmain distinctly stated that Miss Chent had killed her uncle so as to get the money. If he knows of the burning of the will——"

"Oh, the other side admit that a will was burnt, but deny that it was the one made in Mona's favour. They will try and prove that Sir Oliver was drawing up another will disinheriting her because she would stick to me, and that she burnt this will after killing the old man. We fight hard on that point, Dorry."

"Has the will in favour of Miss Chent been found?"

"No. The lawyers have not got it, as Sir Oliver kept it himself. It can't be found, and, of course, we say—that is, our side, Cudworth, Arkers, and myself—that the will was burnt."

"Presuming it is, who inherits?"

"Captain Jadby."

"What—the South Sea chap?"

Shepworth nodded. "It seems that Sir Oliver was a great friend of his father's at Tahiti, and made a will out there in favour of young Jadby. He brought it home with him, I believe. Of course, the will in Mona's favour invalidated the first document, so unless the second will had been destroyed, the first would not hold good."

"Which points to the fact," said Prelice quickly, "that Jadby had a reason to murder Sir Oliver."

"I say," Shepworth glanced around in alarm, "don't talk so loud. There isn't a shadow of evidence to connect Jadby with the crime. He was in London on that day, and only returned by the ten train. However, he claims the property, but until this trial is ended nothing will be done about that."

"Humph!" said Prelice reflectively. "I expect it was on account of the earlier will that Sir Oliver wished Miss Chent to marry Jadby."

Shepworth nodded. "He thought to kill two birds with one stone; to let them both have the money, and, so to speak, blend the two wills into one. Jadby loves Mona too, but she hates him."

"And, moreover, is engaged to you," mused Prelice, tipping the ash off his cigarette. "It's a queer case."

"Much queerer than you think, Dorry."

"Now what do you mean by that?" asked Prelice.

Shepworth glanced round again, and cautiously brought his lips to his friend's left ear. "I swear that Mona is innocent. She is a good, kind, religious girl, who would not hurt a fly, much less Sir Oliver, whom she loved in spite of that ridiculous quarrel. All the same——"

"Well, well, go on!" said Prelice impatiently.

"That knife," breathed Shepworth nervously.

"The jade-handled paper-cutter. Well?"

"She had it in her hand."

"When? Where?" Prelice could not grasp the true significance of this very serious statement.

"In the library, when she was unconscious in the chair."

"How on earth do you know, Ned?"

Shepworth looked round again, and wiped his face. "See here," he whispered. "I was in bed with that sprained ankle, as Belmain said. In our row I gave Jadby the worst of it, including a black eye, although he fought like a cat with nine lives. But I tripped, and hurt my foot, as Belmain said in his speech. It was swollen and painful, but not so much but what I could have got away to town."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because Mona asked me to stop and support her. She expected further trouble with her uncle. I lay awake, trying to bear the pain as best I could, for my ankle got worse when I lay down. About a quarter to ten I heard Mona pass my door and go down the stairs."

"How did you know that it was Miss Chent?"

"I would know her footstep amongst a hundred; and she admitted afterwards that she had gone down to the library at that hour. I wondered where she was going, but lay quiet, listening for her return. At length, some fifteen minutes or so after ten o'clock, I could bear the suspense no longer, and hobbled downstairs in my dressing-gown. I thought that she might have gone to the library to see her uncle, and that further trouble might be brewing. As I promised to stand by her, ankle or no ankle, it seemed right that I should learn what was going on."

"Very reasonable of you, Ned. Continue." Prelice was deeply interested.

"I opened the library door, and saw her seated in the armchair."

"Was there any sign of smoke?"

"No! But there was a peculiar smell in the room."

"What kind of a smell?"

Shepworth wrinkled his brows. "I can scarcely describe it," he said after some thought; "a sweetish, heavy, sickly scent—like a tuberose. That's as near as I can get. Mona told me afterwards that she also thought it resembled the thick perfume of a tuberose. It came from the smoke, of course—it must have come from the smoke."

"You believe in the smoke then?"

"Oh yes. Sir Oliver had evidently been trying some magical experiment."

Prelice looked doubtful. "Magic is all bosh," he remarked.

"I'm not so certain of that, Dorry. There are queer things done, even in this twentieth century."

"H'm! Then you believe Miss Chent's improbable story?"

"I do—because I saw her insensible in the chair."

His listener reflected. "Was Sir Oliver dead then?"

"Yes! Sitting in his chair and lying half on the desk. He had been stabbed in the back."

"Was the window, or one of the windows, open?"

"I never noticed. And remember, Jadby did not say that the middle window was ajar, but only that the latch had been unfastened."

"I remember that. What happened next?"

Shepworth explained. "I found Sir Oliver dead, and Mona unconscious."

"One moment, please." Prelice became quite like a cross-examining barrister himself. "Had she fainted?"

"It was more than a faint, Dorry. She was in a kind of trance—quite like a person seized with catalepsy. I know; I am sure; because I shook her, and pinched her, and tried my best to rouse her."

"You should have opened the window to admit the fresh air."

"I never thought of doing so. I was too agitated."

"Natural enough—natural enough," murmured the other absently, and cast his eyes round the restaurant idly while thinking of what next to say. His gaze fell on a slim, boyish-looking young man of medium height, who had just entered, and who was looking at the unconscious Shepworth with an undeniable scowl. "Who is that?" asked Prelice in a whisper. "He seems to know you."

Shepworth looked up and across the crowded room, whereat the man—he was dark and clean-shaven and somewhat Italian in his looks—scowled more than ever. "Jadby," said the barrister under his breath. "Captain Jadby!" And he stared hard at his enemy. On his part, the captain returned the stare with scowling interest, and dropped into a seat near the door, no great distance away.

"Looks like a half-caste," breathed Prelice, glancing furtively at the young man; "good-looking too, but with a bad temper I should say."

If expression went for anything, Jadby certainly did not possess a superlatively even temper. His mouth was hard, his eyes were filled with sombre fire, and he seemed to be an alert, wiry, impetuous man, who could hold his own excellently in a fight. Dressed in a well-cut frock-coat, with dark-stripped trousers, a white waistcoat, a highly-polished silk hat, and patent-leather boots with spotless spats, he looked a great dandy, quite of the Bond Street-Piccadilly-Pall-Mall type. All the same, there was a suggestion of the sea in the way he rolled in his gait and held his slim brown hands. "A dangerous man to have for an enemy," thought Prelice, looking furtively at the smooth, feline face and sullen eyes.

However, as Jadby busied himself in selecting a luncheon from the menu-card, Prelice, after taking in his picturesque personality, paid no further attention to him. Nor did Shepworth. He and the captain scowled grudging recognition of one another, and then ostentatiously looked in other directions. Lord Prelice lighted another cigarette, and resumed the conversation, which the episode of Jadby's entrance had interrupted. "You say that Miss Chent was holding the paper-cutter when you found her."

"Yes! It was a dangerous Indian dagger, and the blade and the hilt were stained with blood. Mona's hands and dress were also stained. I really believed for the moment that she had killed Sir Oliver, and my only thought was how to save her."

"A terrible situation," murmured Prelice, looking round again for Jadby, and then saw to his surprise that the man had disappeared. It was apparent that the captain, not liking to be in the same room with the barrister who had thrashed him, had gone out again. However, this was just as well, as Jadby could not listen. "So you removed the knife," said Prelice, eying his friend.

"Yes! It seemed the most reasonable thing to do. I took it away at once, seeing that I could not rouse her for an explanation. It was my intention to hide the knife in my bedroom, and then return to take Mona away. I ran upstairs with the knife, and concealed it in my mattress, and then cautiously came back to the library. When I reached the door, however, I heard someone moving in the room, so thought it best to go back. Don't think me a coward, Dorry. You must see that I was in as dangerous a position as Mona herself, after I hid the knife."

"I quite understand," replied Prelice swiftly. "I expect Captain Jadby was in the library."

"He was. I am certain he was, for just as I reached the first landing I heard the library bell ring. Remember that he said he rang it as soon as he found Mona insensible and Sir Oliver dead."

"What have you done with the knife?"

"It is concealed in my desk in my study in my flat. I dare not produce it, lest I should get into trouble. Besides, its production would do Mona harm, as would my evidence of finding it in her hand. I must hold my tongue, Dorry, and lie as best I am able. But now you can see how needful it was for me to hold my tongue and have you beside me. You must be silent and stand by me."

Prelice shook hands, and they rose to return to the Court. The action brought them round to face the door, and there—at the marble-topped table—they saw Jadby sipping coffee, as though he had never moved. "H'm!" said Prelice, rather puzzled. "The fellow comes and goes like a ghost. Just like a half-caste cat." And he stealthily glanced at the captain, who was ostentatiously reading a newspaper, and took no notice, even when the young men brushed past him to leave the restaurant.

"I say, Ned," remarked Prelice thoughtfully when they were outside, "do you think that Miss Chent will be proved guilty?"

"No. I suppress my evidence about the knife, remember; and then the destroyed will is in her favour. The sole chance for the prosecution to prove Mona's guilt is to find Steve Agstone. He declares that he was looking through the window, and saw Mona kill Sir Oliver."

"To whom did he say this?"

"To Mrs. Blexey, the housekeeper. She is a witness for the prosecution, and is nearly broken-hearted. She loves Mona, like everyone else."

"H'm! Do you believe Agstone's story?"

"No! The old man hated Mona for some reason or another, and besides, he was drunk when he confessed to Mrs. Blexey. I expect, when sober again, he found that he would be forced to prove his words, and knowing that he could not, made himself scarce. I hope that he won't be found, Dorry."

"What does it matter if he is telling lies?"

"I believe it is a lie, Dorry, and so do you; but will the judge and jury believe as we do, if Agstone appears and sticks to what he told Mrs. Blexey? No, hang him, I hope he'll not turn up."

"Who do you think murdered Sir Oliver?"

"I can't say. But remember that the middle window was unfastened. Anyone could have entered from the outside and stabbed him."

"You forget," said Prelice quickly, "Miss Chent herself confesses to having unfastened the window."

"Quite so; but recollect also that she did not know when she entered the library if her uncle was dead or alive. A quarter to ten that was."

"But he surely would have made some sign if——"

"No!" interrupted Shepworth decisively. "What of the thick white smoke at which everyone jeers? It probably rendered Sir Oliver insensible, as it did Mona."

"Can you explain the smoke?"

"I cannot, unless Sir Oliver was trying one of his infernal experiments in connection with the next world."

"What book was he reading when found dead?"

"There were several books open on the desk," explained Shepworth; "one was the first volume of Captain Cook's voyages; another Pierre Loti's 'Reflets sur la Sombre Route'; and the third 'Polly in Polynesia,' some silly book with a silly title by a silly feminine globe-trotter. I expect Sir Oliver had been refreshing his South Sea memory."

"Were the books open at pages dealing with any particular subject?" demanded Prelice after a pause.

Shepworth considered. "When examining Sir Oliver's body, I glanced down at the open pages, and saw something about Easter Island. I didn't take much notice, as you may guess; but an illustration of the Easter Island statues was displayed in Cook's voyages. But I'll tell you a queer thing, Dorry. Afterwards, when the murder was discovered, the three books were all closed."

"That is natural."

"I don't agree with you," rejoined Shepworth emphatically; "the desk should have been left in its original untidiness until the police came to take possession. But someone closed those books."

"What do you make of it?" demanded Prelice abruptly.

"Well, my theory is that someone—I can't say who—wished to prevent the police seeing that Sir Oliver had been reading about Easter Island. Why, I don't know; and perhaps I may be making a mountain out of a mole-hill."

"Mole-hills are important on occasions," said Prelice dryly; "witness the death of William III. Easter Island! Easter Island!" he went on in a musing way. "H'm! h'm! h'm! now what the dickens do I know about Easter Island in connection with this case?" But he asked this question in vain. His memory refused to supply information.

[CHAPTER IV.]

EVIDENCE FOR THE PROSECUTION.

The Court had reassembled rather late in the afternoon, so there was little chance of much evidence being taken. Prelice went back to his seat still wondering what thought hovered at the back of his brain about Easter Island. He had visited that lonely and little known spot during his travels in the company of a friend given to occult studies, who insisted that the dismal spot of land was one of the remaining portions of the great Continent of Lemuria, which was said to have stretched from New Zealand to Africa. They had seen the famous statues, and had fraternised with the somewhat dirty natives, who had welcomed them warmly, as might be expected, seeing how few visitors ever came to the desolate land. For one week Prelice and his friend, Dr. Horace by name, had dwelt with the savages, and during that time had seen much of their manners and customs, and even had witnessed religious rites in front of the gigantic statues. Prelice had an idea that there he had seen something, suggested anew by this murder case, but vainly attempted to recall what it was. His memory would not help him in the least.

Meanwhile Shepworth, looking much more cheerful now that he had unbosomed himself to his chum, was again beside Cudworth, K.C., and young Arker. Belmain called his first witness as soon as the judge took his seat, in the person of the medical man who had examined the body of the murdered baronet.

The medical evidence was very scanty. Dr. Quick stated that, to the best of his belief, the dead man had been stabbed somewhere about ten o'clock. The blow had been delivered straight and strong, and the blade of the weapon used had penetrated right to the heart. Death must have taken place instantaneously, and while Sir Oliver, suspecting no treachery, had been reading. Belmain in cross-examination deduced from this that the prisoner was guilty, since Sir Oliver would scarcely have turned to his reading again had a stranger been in the room. Also, had the person who committed the crime been one whom the dead man suspected of any such design, he would assuredly not have presented a defenceless back to such an assassin. No! It was evident that the prisoner, after quarrelling with her uncle, had waited until he again was buried in his books, and then had stabbed him with the paper-knife. The doctor stated that the wound had been caused by a broad, thin blade, which exactly described the jade-handled paper-knife which was missing.

Several of the Grange servants were called to prove that Sir Oliver had been heard quarrelling violently with his niece. He was, as the evidence proved, a very hot-tempered and imperious man, and used language of the worst. In fact, the coachman, called to prove an outburst of temper when driving his master, said the late baronet could outswear any navvy. It was also clearly proved that Sir Oliver and his niece were on the worst possible terms when the crime was committed. Several times Sir Oliver declared that he would disinherit her, unless she surrendered her will and married Captain Jadby. But prisoner, as her maid said, had as imperious a temper as her uncle, and was well able to hold her own. "I don't mean," said the witness, "that Miss Chent was ever unkind to me, for she always behaved with consideration. I only mean that Sir Oliver could not brow-beat her, as he did the rest of them."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Belmain. "Who did he brow-beat?"

"Captain Jadby for one, sir. He was fond of Captain Jadby, and used to walk arm in arm with him in the garden, using him as a crutch for his lameness, as it were, sir. But he stormed a good deal, and Captain Jadby didn't fight like Miss Chent."

"You imply then that Captain Jadby was frightened of Sir Oliver?"

Witness (evasively): "I don't know, sir. I'm sure that my master was a terrible man, and only liked those who gave way to him."

In cross-examination, Cudworth for the defence asked: "Do you believe that prisoner is capable of committing the alleged crime?"

"No, sir, no," declared the lady's maid fervently. "Miss Chent is as good and kind a young lady as ever breathed. I don't think for one moment that she killed the master, and no more does anyone else."

The other servants gave similar evidence, all pointing to Sir Oliver's ungovernable temper, and to Miss Chent's dexterous way of managing him by meeting like with like. With Sir Oliver she fought on every occasion, otherwise she would have been reduced to slavery; but with other people Miss Chent was always kind and even-tempered. Although the witnesses called were for the prosecution, not one of them would confess to a belief in the prisoner's guilt. Belmain was rather disconcerted by his unanimous approval of Miss Chent, and tried his best to bully the witnesses into blaming her. But he failed on every occasion, and even when Mrs. Blexey was hoisted into the box he could not induce her to run down the girl. This loyalty created a deep impression, and prisoner for the first time showed emotion.

Mrs. Blexey was very stout, and very red-faced, and very tall, and extremely frightened. She looked like an elephant, and certainly possessed the timid nature of a rabbit. The contrast between her gigantic appearance and her timid speech amused those present so greatly that a continuous tittering was heard until the judge threatened to clear the Court.

Belmain: "You are Emma Blexey, the late Sir Oliver's housekeeper?"

Mrs. Blexey: "Yes, my lord!" (with a curtsey).

Belmain (facetiously): "You need not give me a title before I have earned it, my good woman." (Laughter.)

Mrs. Blexey: "Oh no, my lord—I mean my dear sir." (Laughter.)

When the laughter over this second form of address had subsided, Mrs. Blexey stated that the prisoner was as attached to her uncle as he was to her. They had tiffs on occasions, as Sir Oliver's temper was none of the best, but Miss Chent was never in the wrong, and usually contrived to pacify the irascible baronet. He was as fractious as a child, said the housekeeper, and required similar management. But, on the whole, he and Miss Chent—Mrs. Blexey refused to call her young mistress "the prisoner"—got on extremely well. As to the phrase about disinheriting, that was a favourite threat of Sir Oliver's, which meant practically nothing. He used it on every occasion, sometimes in earnest, and often in fun. It meant nothing, she said again.

Belmain: "He meant it when the prisoner refused to marry Captain Jadby, no doubt."

Mrs. Blexey (wiping her red face): "The Lord knows what he meant, sir. He was a queer gentleman."

Then Belmain proceeded to question the housekeeper regarding the admission which Steve Agstone was said to have made to her. It would have been preferable to obtain the evidence of the old sailor first hand, but since he could not be discovered the Counsel got what he could out of Mrs. Blexey. And what she knew he had to drag out of her by persistent questioning, for her sympathies were entirely with the prisoner. She stated that Agstone drank a great deal, and was always in trouble with Sir Oliver on that account. But that he had been the baronet's factotum for many years he would have been dismissed dozens of times. A drunken, grumpy, sullen savage, was the description given by the housekeeper. "But he was good-natured enough when sober," she confessed, "and quite devoted to Sir Oliver."

Belmain: "A kind of loyal henchman, in fact. Well, and what statement did he make to you, and when did he make it?"

Mrs. Blexey: "On the morning after the murder, Agstone—or Steve as everyone called him—was drinking rum to drown his grief at the death of Sir Oliver. He sat for a long time in my room weeping, and said that he knew Miss Mona would do for her uncle. Those were his very words, and I told him that he was speaking rubbish."

Belmain: "What happened then?"

Mrs. Blexey: "He fired up, and declared that while waiting up on the previous night for Captain Jadby, he had gone down the avenue to see if he was coming. Not finding him, and seeing the light still in the library, he wondered if Captain Jadby had arrived and had gone in to say good-night to Sir Oliver. He therefore went to one of the windows, and saw Miss Chent stooping over the fire to burn something. Sir Oliver was leaning forward on the desk with his head on his outstretched arms. Miss Chent also had a knife in her hands. Steve said that he thought there had been a row, and that Sir Oliver was weeping, as he sometimes did, being old and feeble from much hardship. He said that, had he guessed that Miss Chent had just murdered his master, he would have given the alarm. As it was, afraid lest Sir Oliver should be angry at his spying, he stole back into the house by the front door, and went to his own room at the back of the house. There he waited for Captain Jadby, and rushed into the library when he heard the bell."

Belmain: "I understood that Agstone told you that he had actually seen the prisoner kill Sir Oliver."

Prelice, in the body of the Court, thought so too, as he remembered what Ned had said during the luncheon. But Mrs. Blexey emphatically denied such a story. "I mentioned the matter to Mr. Shepworth but I am sure that he said nothing. But Steve might have talked in his drunken way to others, and might have told a different story. I know that there is a prevailing impression that he saw the murder, but he did not say so to me."

So spoke Mrs. Blexey, and Belmain looked worried. "You are telling the truth?" he demanded, in vexed tones.

"I am here to tell the truth," retorted Mrs. Blexey, "and I am, so there." After this somewhat incoherent speech she was cross-examined by Cudworth, and expressed her belief that Agstone had scarcely measured his words. Being devoted to Sir Oliver himself, he had always been very jealous of the favour shown to Miss Chent, and fairly hated her. Undoubtedly his wild maunderings were intended to hurt Miss Chent, and to get her into trouble. But Agstone had disappeared before the inquest, where he would have had to give evidence on oath. Mrs. Blexey firmly believed that had he been put on his oath he could not have substantiated what he had said to her. "I never could bear that Steve," she cried; "he was a sneaking dog, saving your presence, and had no love for anyone except Sir Oliver."

"Do you know where he is now?" asked Belmain, returning to the attack.

"No, I don't, sir, and I don't want to."

"I quite believe that," rejoined Counsel dryly, "seeing that you are prejudiced in prisoner's favour."

As Mrs. Blexey had surmised that Steve might have told a story of actually seeing prisoner kill her uncle to the other servants, Belmain recalled several witnesses. But not one of them could state that the current report was true. Steve had certainly hinted to several that he could bring home the crime to Miss Chent; but he had supplied no details, and as his hints were given when he was drunk, no one paid much attention to them. On the afternoon of the day following the night of the murder Steve had gone out for his usual stroll in the direction of Sandgate, and had not returned. The evidence of a detective proved that he had taken the train to London, and had been traced as far as Charing-Cross Station. There he had disappeared, and in spite of all search, his whereabouts could not be discovered.

By this time it was growing late, and judge, jury, lawyers, and listeners all exhibited symptoms of weariness. Therefore the Court rose, with the intention of sitting at eleven o'clock on the following morning. It was the general opinion that, unless Steve Agstone could be placed in the witness-box, the prisoner would not be convicted. Also Miss Chent's calm demeanour, and the loyalty of the Grange servants, which had placed her character in so attractive a light, went far to enlist public sympathy in her favour. Those who left the Court had more belief in her innocence than when they had entered. Many insisted that she could not possibly be guilty; but others pointing to the fact—which had been forthcoming at the inquest—that she had burned a new will disinheriting her, declared that, without doubt, she had murdered her uncle so as not to lose the money. All the same, the majority favoured the prisoner, and many well-wishers hoped for her acquittal.

Shepworth was pleased and hopeful. "The tide is quite in Mona's favour, Dorry," he said to Prelice when the Court rose, "and unless Steve Agstone turns up, she must be set free for want of evidence."

"There is the question of the burnt will, you know, Ned."

"We can prove that it was the will made in Mona's favour which was burnt," said Shepworth decisively. "Sir Oliver made no new will, as he had not left the house for quite a month, and could not have altered his will before then. His lawyer never came down to the Grange to draw up a will, and if Sir Oliver had drawn up a new one himself, he would have asked some of the servants to be his witnesses. We know that no one was asked to witness any document."

"Captain Jadby and Steve Agstone might have witnessed."

"No. There is a chance certainly that Agstone might have done so, but one signature would have been of no use. And had Jadby witnessed a new will, he would not have benefited under it. Besides, since he had the will made in the South Seas, and Sir Oliver assuredly wished him to have the money, along with Mona, all that had to be done was to destroy the will made in Mona's favour, and then Jadby, having the cash, could leave her penniless unless she married him. Which is just what has happened," ended Shepworth.

"Of course," said Prelice thoughtfully, "Miss Chent might have been trying, when seen by Steve, to rescue the will from the fire into which it had been thrown by Sir Oliver."

Shepworth wheeled round. "Do you believe that she is guilty?"

"Oh, no. But we must look on all sides. And Agstone——"

"Is a liar," interrupted the barrister quickly. "I don't believe that he saw Mona bending over the fire. She was insensible, by her own showing, from the moment she entered the room until Jadby woke her. And remember that I found her insensible."

"It would help her if you said so."

"I don't agree with you. Were I examined about my presence in the library, I might let slip that the knife——"

"Yes, yes," said Prelice hastily. "I see. It will be better for you to hold your tongue. I hope that Agstone will not appear."

"If he does not, Mona is safe," rejoined Ned, with a sigh of relief. "Oh, poor Mona. Think of her in prison, Dorry."

"She will soon be out of it," answered Prelice soothingly. "I am quite sure that she will be acquitted. Where are you going now?"

"Home to my flat. I am quite worn out. Come and look me up this evening about ten or eleven, when I have had a sleep. I live at Alexander Mansions, Kensington Gore. Number Forty."

"Alexander Mansions," repeated Prelice, surprised; "why, here is the long arm of coincidence, Ned. Mrs. Dolly Rover has asked me to a masked ball, which she is giving in her flat—a most unsuitable place for a bal masque I think."

"Oh, no," said Shepworth, with a flush of colour, though why he should show this emotion Prelice could not say; "the flat occupied by Mrs. Rover is above mine. She has, in fact, two flats furnished on a most palatial scale. Her husband is a rich little beast, you know."

"Why a little beast?" asked Prelice, rather perplexed.

Shepworth's colour grew deeper. "He is not worthy of his wife. She was Miss Newton, you know, very clever and very beautiful. Dolly—fancy a man being called Dolly——"

"Short for Adolphus. It is not an uncommon abbreviation."

"It is contemptible for a man—and he's a rat. Dolly Rover," added Shepworth contemptuously, "fooh! the effeminate monkey. Well, good-bye. I'll see you between ten and eleven."

When Ned jumped into a cab, Prelice walked home wondering why he should run down the dapper little stockbroker whom Miss Newton had married. Then he remembered that Shepworth had admired Miss Newton before she changed her name to Rover.

[CHAPTER V.]

MRS. ROVER'S MASKED BALL.

"It is a long lane that has no turning!" Lord Prelice began to believe that there might be some truth in the proverb, for the lengthy lane of idleness, down which he had sauntered for many years, seemed to be rounding the corner to open out into the road of industry. The chance observation of Lady Sophia, which had sent him to the New Bailey, had become a sign-post, as it were, showing him which way he was to go. In other words, he was now involved in Shepworth's troubles, out of sheer friendship. Ned had confessed that he required assistance, and had turned to his old school-chum for the same. Prelice was naturally willing to do what he could towards aiding Ned in extricating Miss Chent from her perilous position, and so found work for his idle brain to do. Of course, as he tried to believe, he could resume his former life when the service was duly rendered. The wedding-bells which rang for Mr. and Mrs. Shepworth would dismiss their best man once more to his sauntering.

But this, as Prelice began to think, was easier said than done, mainly owing to the looks of Miss Chent. He had not spoken to the girl, and knew her character solely through the evidence of the Grange servants, who had been placed in the witness-box. Also Ned, as he remembered, had said very little about his affianced wife, and Prelice knew none whom he could question as to the prisoner's qualities. Yet, for all his scanty knowledge, he felt strangely drawn towards the unhappy woman, and confessed inwardly that he would feel a pang on seeing her become Mrs. Shepworth. Without doubt Prelice was in love, although not head over ears, and he swore at himself for being so disloyal to his friend. Mona—the name slipped quite naturally into his mind—Mona would assuredly be acquitted, unless the missing Agstone appeared, which was extremely unlikely, and then she would as assuredly marry Ned, who had so manfully stood by her in this grave trouble. Therefore it behooved Prelice, as an honourable gentleman—and he was all that—to put her out of his mind, if he wished to continue meeting Shepworth's gaze squarely. And, after all, a peer worth twenty thousand a year could pick and choose almost any woman for his wife; it was hard on Ned that such a peer should play the part of David in the parable, and select the less fortunate commoner's one ewe-lamb.

The struggle between more than a liking for Mona, and a feeling of genuine friendship for Ned, made Prelice waver in determining his future behaviour. His first inclination, when aware of his feeling, was to cross the Channel for a prolonged stay abroad, and leave Shepworth to his own devices. Then it occurred to him that this course would be cowardly, and he resolved to remain and help. Nothing that the world could cavil at could ever take place, since Prelice, with his high sense of honour, never dreamed of paying marked attentions to Miss Chent. All the same, if he came often into Mona's company—and that seemed inevitable should he remain—his life's happiness would certainly be at stake. He would have his feelings to smother, and therefore—as he plainly saw—would be most unhappy. Prelice at this early stage of infatuation termed his feeling towards the girl "affection," but he knew very well that, given time and opportunity, affection of this sudden kind might easily increase to love. In that case, seeing how Miss Chent was engaged to be married, he would be vainly crying for the honeymoon.

His lordship, then, felt less happy in the evening than he had done in the morning. Then he had been heart-whole; now the sight of a beautiful woman in peril had aroused the deepest and most chivalrous feelings of which his nature was capable. Placed thus between the devil and the deep sea, Prelice compromised dangerously with his conscience. He resolved to crush down his newly born desire for Mona, and to help Ned as best he could. In this way did the young man mix fire and snow, in the vain hope that such hostile elements would blend. Common-sense should have told him otherwise.

Having so decided—although not over-pleased with his decision, and with good reason—Prelice dressed for dinner. He remembered that he had promised to partake of this agreeable meal at his aunt's. A solitary chop at his club would have been preferable, as he was disinclined for company. But, aware from experience that Lady Sophia would strongly object to an excusing telegram, Prelice smothered his unwillingness, and reached the abode of his relative shortly before eight o'clock.

Lady Sophia lived magnificently in Brummel Square. The fourth daughter of a pauper Duke, she had married a wealthy city man—that is, she had entered into a social partnership, as there was little genuine marital feeling about the union. Simon Haken was a dried-up, active atom of humanity with a bald head, a pair of piercing dark eyes, and an exasperating chuckle, which he used when getting the better of anyone. As he usually scored over less clever financiers, he chuckled very often, and this sardonic merriment imparted a somewhat cynical expression to his withered face.

His wife, large, and expansive, and fresh-coloured, looked like an elephant beside a grasshopper, when the two went into Society, and they were generally known as the Mountain and the Mouse. But Haken cared as little for the jest as did Lady Sophia. As husband and wife in its strictest sense they were failures, being two and not one; as partners they were admirably matched. Having no children, and plenty of money and excellent health, and no strong emotions, the two enjoyed life immensely. Possessed of a complacent husband, of a good position, ample cash, and absolute freedom, Lady Sophia even forgot to sigh for the delights of the Stone Age when she reflected upon the position in life to which it had pleased Providence to call her.

On this occasion Mr. Haken, as usual, had wired detention in the city on business, so Lady Sophia received her nephew in a solitary drawing-room, as handsomely furnished as she was dressed. "You are just in time for dinner," said she with emphasis, implying thereby that Prelice was usually late.

"I always am in time," answered the guest, smiling but preoccupied. "Dinner is a sacred feast which cannot be trifled with. I would as soon insult the King as the Cook." Then he sat and stared at the points of his patent-leather boots with the air of a misanthrope.

"You are out of spirits," declared Lady Sophia, rapping his knuckles with her lorgnette. "I prescribe a round of pleasure. To-night you shall escort me to two dances and four musical parties."

"But I haven't done anything to deserve such punishment."

"How absurdly you talk. These festivals——"

"I agree with the man who said that life would be endurable were it not for its festivals."

"Nonsense. He could not have been in Society."

"He just was, and so made a profoundly true observation. I renounce Society and all its play. Besides," added Prelice inconsequently, "I am going to a masked ball to-night at Mrs. Dolly Rover's."

"That woman!" cried Lady Sophia, with disdain.

Prelice looked up, surprised. "I thought you liked her?"

"As Constance Newton, not as Mrs. Rover," she informed him swiftly.

"They are one and the same," he urged.

"Not at all. Marriage changes a woman into something entirely different. Constance was a charming girl; Mrs. Rover is a flirting, fast-living, heartless, spendthrift, Society doll."

"Society Doll—y Rover," murmured Prelice, noting his aunt's usual waste of adjectives. "Will you come to this ball?"

"What!" Lady Sophia almost screamed, "a masked ball, and at my age? Oh, how can you be so ridiculous, Prelice? And at Mrs. Rover's too; a woman who neglects her husband, and squanders his money, and whips him like a poodle, I believe."

"He is something of a poodle, isn't he?"

"That is no reason why he should be whipped," she snapped heatedly; "and if you knew how she had treated your friend Mr. Shepworth, you would not go near her disreputable ball."

Prelice pricked up his ears, remembering the unnecessary blush of the barrister at midday. "How did she treat Shepworth?" he asked.

"How? Can you ask?"

"Of course, seeing that, as a newly returned traveller, I know nothing."

"Well then, she was almost engaged to him, and he was very much in love with her. She threw him over in a cold-blooded way, because Dolly Rover came along with a better-filled purse. He's a horrid little cad," added Lady Sophia candidly, "and his father was a chemist, or a draper—I forget which. All the same, he is too good for a jilt, who played blind hooky—don't raise your eyebrows, Prelice; it's vulgar, but expressive, and I shall use it—who played blind hooky with poor Mr. Shepworth."

"But are you sure, aunt? Ned is engaged to Miss Chent."

"Out of pique—out of pique," she assured him. "Mona is a nice girl, poor darling, even though she did murder her uncle, not that I believe she did. But Constance is the one love of Mr. Shepworth's life, and fifty Monas won't make up for the loss. Mona, if ever she does become Mrs. Shepworth, which I very much doubt, will only be a make-shift."

"Oh!" Prelice was almost too indignant to speak. That so peerless a girl should be talked of as a "make-shift" seemed positively wicked. "You must be mistaken. Ned would not behave so badly."

"Ask him then."

"I shall do this very night."

"Then you will go to that woman's?"

"Yes. I accepted, as I always liked Constance. Besides, I have to see Ned, who lives in these same mansions——"

"I know he does," burst out Lady Sophia; "quite indecent I call it."

"Oh, hang it, aunt, a man must live somewhere."

"Not next door to a woman who has jilted him."

"He doesn't live next door, but on the floor below."

"It would be more creditable if he lived in Timbuctoo. I believe that he loves her still, and she's quite capable of loving him back in spite of the marriage service, which I don't believe she listened to. As for her husband——" Lady Sophia was about to give her opinion of Mr. Dolly Rover, when the butler threw open the door, and announced dinner. At once she took her nephew's arm, and changed the conversation. "Tell me about the case," she chattered as they passed to the dining-room. "Have they hanged that poor girl?"

"Who? Miss Chent? No, and I don't believe they will."

"Ah!" Lady Sophia pulled off her gloves. "I always said that she was innocent."

"Of course, if Agstone turns up, she may be convicted."

"Agstone—oh yes; the man who declares that he saw her kill Sir Oliver."

Prelice corrected her, while taking his soup. "He only saw her bending over the fire with a knife in her hand."

"Burning the will after killing her uncle. What a horrid girl!"

"Aunt Sophia, will you tell me plainly if you believe Miss Chent to be innocent or guilty?"

"How can I judge when I haven't heard the evidence? You talk as though I were on the jury. I like Mona, and I'm sure she didn't kill him; but if she did, he deserved it, as he was a nasty old bully."

Prelice desisted in despair, and helped himself to fish. Lady Sophia seemed to change her mind every half minute, and never considered facts when she wanted to deliver an opinion. Besides, she preferred fiction, as it was less trouble to invent than to remember. All the same, her sympathies appeared to be with Mona, and Prelice felt pleased that it should be so. Should the girl be acquitted, her position would be extremely difficult, and she would require a staunch friend of her own sex. Why should not that friend be Lady Sophia, whose support could do much to efface the stain of a Criminal Court? But until the case was decided, Prelice did not dare to hint that such an idea had crossed his mind. As the servants were hovering round the table he could not talk confidentially to his aunt, so drifted into general conversation about mutual friends. He thus became posted up in the latest Mayfair gossip, and so was brought up to date in necessary knowledge. And Lady Sophia knew as much about London as Asmodeus did about Madrid, and like that delightful demon, she could unroof houses to some purpose. Luckily for the men and women about whom she talked, the presence of the butler and two footmen prevented entire candour.

As the food was excellent and the conversation interesting, not to say necessary—for Prelice as a newly returned traveller required much posting-up in recent scandals—nephew and aunt lingered for a considerable time at table. When the meal was ended Prelice preferred to accompany Lady Sophia to the drawing-room, instead of remaining solitary over Haken's famous port. They had half-an-hour left for coffee, and then Lady Sophia would have to start out on her round of festivals.

"You ought to come with me, Prelice," she said later, as he helped her on with her cloak; "everyone thinks that you are dead."

"Well, aunt, you would not have much pleasure in taking a corpse about with you. Besides, I promised to look up Ned this evening."

"No doubt, and he'll be at that woman's ball. Most indecent, seeing that poor Mona is in gaol."

"Ned isn't such a blighter," cried Prelice crossly.

"I never called him a blighter, whatever that may mean," retorted Lady Sophia with great dignity. "Mr. Shepworth is an estimable young man, whom you would do well to imitate."

"I intend to. He and I are going to save Miss Chent."

"How horrid; you'll be a kind of detective."

Prelice nodded. "It's something to do."

"As if you required anything to do with your rank and money."

"But I say, aunt, you advised me this morning——"

"Oh, I never remember anything I say in the morning," said Lady Sophia airily. "You are so stupid, Prelice, you always take one at the foot of the letter. You won't come with me. Oh, very well. Help me into the brougham, you horrid boy. I believe you'll fall in love with Mona, and give me a criminal for a niece."

This was Lady Sophia's parting shot, and when her motor-brougham spun towards the first turning out of the square, Prelice laughed long and loudly. His aunt was nearer the truth than she had been the whole evening, although she was far from suspecting it. It never entered her elderly head that a man of the world, such as her nephew certainly was, would fall in love on the spur of the moment. "And I should not have suspected myself of such lunacy either," thought his lordship as he turned in the direction of Half-Moon Street to procure domino and mask for the ball.

The street before Alexander Mansions was filled with carriages and motors and four-wheelers and hansoms, together with a crowd of onlookers, who passed remarks, complimentary and otherwise, on the many guests of Mrs. Rover. The mansions themselves were palatial and splendid, with a royal flight of broad marble steps to the main entrance. Prelice, shuffling on his domino and assuming his mask, climbed these, to find himself with other revellers in a vast hall, with two staircases ascending on either side at the farther end, and between them two lifts, the cages of which soared and sank with parties of pleasure-seekers. Prelice delivered his rainbow-hued ticket of invitation to a gorgeously uniformed commissionaire, and took his time in climbing the long stairs. Many other people did the same, instead of waiting for the lifts, but, as all were masked and cloaked, the young man could recognise no one.

As Shepworth had stated, Mr. and Mrs. Dolly Rover occupied the whole of the third floor—that is, they tenanted two flats which faced each other, and the outer doors of these, opening on to a spacious landing, had been removed from their hinges. Thus the guests could pass easily from one flat to the other, and the landing between was a nest of greenery and roses, like the hanging gardens of Babylon. The flats themselves had wide corridors, spacious rooms, and lofty ceilings, so they were capable of receiving a large number of guests. On this occasion they were crowded, and it would seem as though Mrs. Rover had invited everyone on her visiting-list. And there may have been others, not set down on that list, since the masks and dominos prevented recognition.

Prelice looked about for his hostess, but found himself received by a tiny, pale-faced man with large, plaintive blue eyes set in a white expanse of absolutely colourless skin. He wore a domino over his smart evening-dress, but no mask, and was so clipped and curled, and brushed and washed, that Prelice easily guessed him to be the poodle mentioned by Lady Sophia. Pushing out a small tightly gloved hand, he murmured a nervous greeting to each new arrival; but after this ceremony was ended no one seemed to take any notice of him.

As all who came were masked, Prelice wondered how Mr. Rover could possibly know whom he was greeting. Of course, there was the rainbow-hued ticket given to the commissionaire below, which would guarantee the respectability of the presenter. But tickets of this sort could be stolen and forged, and as no further supervision was exercised to ensure the identity of the guests, Prelice considered that such a procedure was somewhat rash. His thoughts were confirmed by a dried-up little man who appeared without a mask, and who was rebuked by Mr. Rover for his originality.

"You shouldn't, you know," expostulated the host in a penny whistle kind of voice; "no one is to know anyone until the clock strikes twelve, when we all unmask for supper. Why, even my wife insisted that I should receive in her place. She would be spotted, you know, if she stopped here to shake hands, and she doesn't want to be found out until midnight. The whole fun of a masquerade lies in secrecy, so obey the rules, Haken, and put on your mask."

Prelice started when he heard the name, and twisted his neck to see if the new-comer really was his uncle-by-marriage. It was Simon Haken sure enough, for no one could mistake his looks let alone his celebrated chuckle. The young man laughed, and wondered what Haken—by no means a Society butterfly—was doing at the ball of a lady whom his wife openly disliked. And then he remembered that lying telegram from the city. Mr. Haken had his little secrets it would seem, and was more human, under the rose, than when posing as a money-making machine. His dutiful nephew determined, before the evening was out, to let his sly uncle know that his misdoings were discovered.

Meanwhile the little millionaire was chuckling and masking. "It is a risk, you know, Rover," he observed dryly. "You don't know who is here. Half the swell mobsmen of London may have come after diamonds."

"Oh, dear me, how can you talk so, Haken?" said the host fretfully; "the man below examines the tickets."

"As if anyone could not forge or steal one," retorted Haken, voicing his nephew's thoughts. "Well, in to-morrow's papers I shall look for a criminal scandal." And with his odious chuckle Haken brushed past Prelice towards the ballroom of the left-hand flat.

His lordship, tired of watching new arrivals, thought that he also would go and view the revellers. But he had hardly moved half-a-dozen paces when he unexpectedly began to think of Easter Island. A sweet, heavy perfume, as of tuberoses, was wafted in his nostrils. But why should such a familiar fragrance recall that desolate land, environed by leagues of ocean?

[CHAPTER VI.]

A STARTLING DISCOVERY.

Odour is one of the strongest aids which memory can have, and a chance whiff of a particular scent will recall to the most lethargic brain, circumstances both trivial and important of long-forgotten years. But the well-known fragrance of the tuberose usually brings funerals to mind, since that flower is so extensively woven into burial wreaths and mortuary crosses. It was strange indeed that it should conjure into an idle-thinking mind the vision of a heathen festival.

There were many people crowding the corridor, so that it was impossible for the young man to tell who wore the flowers which gave forth the magical scent—for magical it was in its effect. They might adorn a man's button-hole or a woman's bodice. He could not tell, since the evening-dress of both sexes was veiled by voluminous dominos. But as he leaned against the wall, the vision became clearer and more insistent. His body was in London—in Alexander Mansions, at a masked ball, as he well knew—but the scent of the tuberose had drawn his spirit across leagues of trackless sea to the uttermost parts of the earth. The present vanished, and he beheld the past.

Before him, as the interior vision opened, he saw colossal images of a vanished and forgotten race, rudely hewn into the semblance of human beings, each bearing a cylinder—according to Captain Cook's description—on its gigantic head. These reared themselves from vast platforms of Cyclopean architecture, overgrown with tropical vegetation, and strewn with bleaching bones. And in the soft radiance of the southern moon Prelice beheld a kneeling crowd of bronze-hued worshippers, tattooed and painted, adoring the weird stone gods. An old priest, his face and body streaked with white pigment, murmured strange names over a rude stone altar, whereon blazed a clear fire. He invoked terrible deities incarnate in the giant idols—Kanaro! Gotomoara! Marapate! Areekee!—and cast upon the flames the yellow leaves of a sacred herb. A thick white cloud of smoke spread like a milky mist before the statues, veiling their grotesque looks and vast outlines, and the sickly scent of the tuberose grew powerful. Then did the priest become rigid as the dead, and his spirit blended with the spirits of those grim gods he worshipped. Finally, the fragrance which loaded the heavy air—whether of Easter Island or London Prelice could not tell—passed away, and with that odour passed the vision.

It could only have lasted a minute or so, but was so terribly vivid that Prelice could scarcely believe that his surroundings were real when the material asserted its sway. He had closed his eyes to behold the vision, which the scent had invoked, and opened them again, with a bewildered expression, to see the pushing, laughing, chattering throng of guests. Although a commonplace young man, and contemptuous, as a rule, of the unseen, he felt that the recollection had not been brought back for nothing. The dead man at Lanwin Grange had been reading about Easter Island when foully stabbed, and the accused girl had described to her lover the white smoke and sickly perfume, which also had to do with that isolated land. And Mona also—Prelice remembered faithfully what Shepworth had told him—had been in a state of catalepsy, like the priest of the vision. And, after all, although he chose to call what he had seen mentally a vision, it was simply a vivid recollection of what he and Dr. Horace had beheld a year or two before. But what had a fetish worship in Easter Island to do with a murder in Kent? That was a question which Prelice could not answer.

There was no time to invent possible explanations or to reason out answers. Being in Rome, the momentary dreamer had to do as the Romans did; and as Prelice was at a ball, he was compelled, out of courtesy to his hostess and host, to enjoy himself. He did not have far to go for an adventure, as a lady in a blue domino, and with a fringed mask to disguise her voice, stole to his side, and engaged him in airy conversation. Who she was the young man did not know, and probably she was equally ignorant of his identity. But on this especial night, Mrs. Rover's flat was Liberty Hall with a vengeance, for men and women, trusting in masks and dominos for concealment, flirted and danced and drank and laughed with one another in a most outrageous manner. There was no need of introductions, or of reticence, or of timidity; in that Eden's Bower of flowers and ferns faces were hidden, but souls were revealed.

The blue domino proved to be a most charming companion, full of fun and flirtation, and a delightful dancer. Prelice found her extremely entertaining, and she appeared to reciprocate the feeling. After a particularly perfect waltz, and an inspiriting glass of champagne, his lordship did his best to lure the unknown into a corner where she might unmask. But the lady shook her head laughingly, and ran off to the ballroom with another man, whose stature of a life-guardsman had caught her roving eyes. Prelice solaced himself with another glass of wine, and looked about him for another female of man. It was then that a chuckle at his elbow made him turn.

"Now then, now then," said the gentleman who had chuckled, "let me come to refresh myself." He spoke irritably, and pushed past Prelice in a hurry. "Waiter! Waiter, a glass of champagne."

"I thought you were a teetotaler, uncle!" whispered Prelice.

Mr. Haken, betrayed by his chuckle, and wheeled suddenly, and spilt the wine he was about to sip. To his nephew's surprise he was trembling, and his stammering voice betrayed his agitation. "Who—who are you?"

Prelice whispered his name. "You needn't be alarmed," he added; "I won't tell Aunt Sophia that you are accepting her enemy's hospitality."

Haken drank off his wine in one deep gulp, and set down the glass, with his hands still shaking. "I would rather you did not tell her," he said in a low tone. "Sophia dislikes Mrs. Rover, and would be annoyed if she knew that I was here. I have come on business."

"What! Business at a ball? Invent a more credible story, uncle."

"It is true," insisted Haken, becoming more composed. "I have to see a political man from the Continent about a loan. He doesn't want it to be known that I am meeting him, so we thought that this would be the best place to ensure secrecy. Not a word of this, Prelice."

"Of course not," replied the young man, puzzled to know why Haken should take the trouble to explain; "but don't mention my name. I also wish to be unknown."

"What are you doing here?" asked Haken abruptly.

"I came to the ball, and also I have to see Ned Shepworth, who——"

"Shepworth," gasped Haken, backing nervously. "Oh yes! friend of our charming hostess; friend of mine also. Is he here?"

"No. He would not come to a ball when his promised wife is in prison."

"Of course not; very creditable of him, to be sure," muttered Haken, and took another glass of wine with a whispered apology. "I am teetotal as a rule, you know; but Society always tries my nerves, and I need sustenance. I wish the man I have to meet here had chosen my office in the city. But it wouldn't have done—it wouldn't have done. There would be trouble were it known that he was in London. What is the time, Prelice?"

"Don't mention my name or I'll mention yours," said Prelice impatiently, and drew out his watch. "It is eleven o'clock."

Haken nodded. "I must meet my man. Eleven-fifteen is the time. As to mentioning my name, what does that matter? I came here without my mask. Never thought of putting it on."

Prelice nodded in his turn. "I saw you when Rover received you."

"Then hold your tongue—hold your tongue. Not a word to Sophia, mind."

"Not a word," Prelice promised gravely; and Mr. Haken, drawing a long breath—it would seem to be of relief—at having extracted the promise, vanished into the many-hued crowd with his usual chuckle. While the millionaire gave vent to that chuckle there did not seem to be much chance of his concealing his identity.

Lord Prelice looked after him somewhat puzzled. He could quite understand why Haken did not want his wife to know of his presence in Alexander Mansions; but it was difficult to account for the old man's agitation and quite unnecessary explanations. As a rule, Haken was extremely reticent, and on such an important matter as a secret meeting with a Continental diplomatist, would be much more so. Yet he had gone out of his way to set himself right with his nephew, and by telling his private business, when a gay excuse of needing a night off, would have been sufficient to account for his presence. However, Prelice simply shrugged his shoulders, and did not deem the incident worth remembering. Why should not Simon Haken enjoy himself in this way if he liked, and turn Mrs. Rover's ballroom into an office, wherein to meet his foreign clients? All the same—and Prelice gave this a passing thought—it was strange that the chance meeting with one who knew him should so upset him. And it was still stranger that, if Mr. Haken wished to preserve his incognito, he should have arrived unmasked.

Having lost both his uncle and his charming blue domino, Prelice took a tour through the rooms in search of further adventures. He could only afford a few minutes, since he had to call upon Shepworth at eleven o'clock, and it was already that hour, as he had told Haken. Still, a few minutes more or less would not matter, and Prelice wished to see if he could espy Mrs. Dolly Rover, in order to renew his acquaintance with her and to compliment her on the success of her ball. And it undoubtedly was a success, for everyone seemed highly amused, and the laughter and small talk went on incessantly. Many people were dancing to the music of a gaily uniformed Hungarian Band, and many more were ensconced in flirtation corners, making the best of the hour which would elapse before everyone unmasked for supper.

Prelice therefore wandered leisurely throughout the two flats, exchanging a few chaffing words with the different women who addressed him, and looking for the tall form of his hostess. Alas! there were many tall women, who looked as imperial and graceful as Mrs. Rover, and Prelice felt like Ali Baba's robber when he examined Morgiana's chalk-marks on the various doors. He therefore began, by way of some diversion, to admire the costumes of the women, which showed themselves more or less plainly from under the flowing dominos of silk. In fact, the heat of the night and of the rooms was so great that many ladies loosened the strings and buttons of their dominos, and permitted their frocks to be plainly seen. They would have removed their masks also in some cases, so stifling was the perfumed air; but the rule of the ball stopped them from doing so. Still, as many revealed the gowns they were wearing, it was probable that some would pay for their flirtatious sins when the supper hour and recognition came.

The young man had an eye for colour, but knew very little about millinery, so if anyone later had asked him to describe the various dresses, he would have been puzzled. But one woman wore a dress which attracted him from its oddity. It was a flowing gown of white silk, and from hem to waist the skirt was adorned with triple lines, at intervals, of narrow red velvet. The spaces between the triple lines were equal, and the lines of red velvet themselves ran apparently entirely round the skirt. The effect was bizarre, and rather fascinating; but what made Prelice note the dress so exactly was the wonderful ubiquity of the lady who wore it. He went into the ballroom of the right-hand flat, and there she was dancing; he strolled into the left-hand ballroom, and found her flirting in a corner with another partner. Then he stumbled across her in the corridor, and later discovered her at the buffet sipping champagne. Her domino was green, as was her mask, and she seemed to be in several places at once. Prelice was amused at her activity, and at the way in which she seemed to permeate the entire place. She was certainly getting all the enjoyment she could out of the ball. He spoke to her once, but she made no reply, and disappeared before he could address her again. Rather annoyed that she would not respond, Prelice yawned, and discovering that it was half-past-eleven, decided to descend and look up Shepworth.

The stairs were crowded, not only with people leaving and arriving, but with flirting couples, who were cooling themselves in the purer air, which ascended from the main entrance of the mansions. These expostulated loudly, and sometimes silently—if irritated gestures went for anything—with those who pushed past them to go up or down. Prelice came in for his share of blame, as he cautiously steered his way to the second floor. Here there were but few people, as the guests kept to the third-floor stairs and to those leading to the fourth. A look at the left-hand door as he came down showed Prelice that it was Number Forty, so he pressed the button of the electric bell, and waited for the door to be opened. As he did so, and while he was leaning against the wall, still wearing his mask and domino, the ubiquitous lady in the green domino with the oddly trimmed frock descended the stairs alone. She cast a swift look at him as he passed, and it was not until she vanished below that Prelice became aware that the scent of the tuberose was again in his nostrils. He had half a mind to run after her, and—assuming the privilege of a masked ball—ask her if she was wearing such a flower. But, in his idle way, he did not think it was worth while, and remained where he was.

No one came to answer the bell, so Prelice judged that Shepworth's servants were out, perhaps fraternising with Mrs. Rover's domestics at the ball overhead. He rang again, however, believing that Shepworth must be within and awake by this time. As again the door did not open, Prelice raised his hand to the knocker. To his surprise, the door yielded a trifle, and then he discovered that it was slightly ajar, but so little so that he had believed it to be closed. For the moment there was no one on the landing, so he stepped into Shepworth's flat, without closing the door after him.

"I say, Ned. Ned, are you in?" cried the young man, pausing in the corridor, which was similar to that overhead in Mrs. Rover's flat. "I say, Ned! It is me. It is Prelice." And he slipped off his mask.

There was still no reply, and then Prelice smelt stronger than ever that strange odour, which had evoked the Easter Island vision. His thoughts again flew back to the heathen festival, and he walked along the corridor wondering why the scent should follow him here. On the left-hand side he peeped into a drawing-room, but it was empty. The door opposite was surely that of the dining-room. It was closed, but Prelice opened it and walked in to look for his friend. Shepworth was in the room sure enough, but Prelice uttered an irrepressible cry when his amazed eyes fell on the barrister.

In a deep saddle-back chair, placed between the fireplace and the near window, sat Shepworth, bolt upright, with his hands resting upon his knees, in the hieratic attitude of an Egyptian statue. His intensely calm face was pearly-white, his brown eyes were fixed in a glassy, unnatural stare, and he appeared as rigid and stiff and unbending as though hewn out of granite. There was no disorder about his clothing, the evening-dress he wore was as accurate and neat as though he had got ready to go to the ball overhead. Prelice stared at him, tongue-tied and motionless with astonishment. Then his eyes mechanically wandered round the room. They fell immediately upon another figure seated on the far side of the dining-table, with outstretched arms sprawling nervelessly across the cloth. On them rested a huge head covered with shaggy red hair.

Drawn, as by a loadstone, Prelice stole forward with staring eyes, and saw, with a sudden shudder, that the man at the table was stone-dead. He had been stabbed ruthlessly in the back, under the left shoulder-blade. Everything in the room was in absolute order. Only one man, dead, sat at the table, sprawling half across it, and the other man, insensible, was stiffly seated in the armchair. And the whole apartment was permeated with the scent which suggested Easter Island; suggested also that other murder at Lanwin Grange.

[CHAPTER VII.]

SHEPWORTH EXPLAINS.

An unsteady footstep roused Lord Prelice from his momentary stupor, and he wheeled automatically to see a little man, masked, and wearing a black silk domino, swaying to and fro at the open dining-room door. But the sight of the two apparently dead men, and the presence of their possible murderer, seemed to sober the new-comer in a single moment. Before Prelice could spring forward, he gasped and fled. Almost immediately his voice, tense with terror, was heard shouting the news of his discovery to the revellers on the stairs.

Prelice cursed under his moustache, and ran into the passage to close the outer door, which he now remembered he had foolishly left ajar. Possibly the little man, being intoxicated, had stumbled up the stairs on his way to the ball, and finding the door open, had so far mistaken his way as to stagger in. Prelice wondered if the stranger was Haken or Rover, both small of stature; but he recollected that he had never seen either drunk. Besides, drunk or sober, Rover or Haken would never mistake Shepworth's flat for the one overhead.

At the outer door Prelice swiftly changed his mind. He saw that the murder of the red-headed man was similar in all respects to that of Sir Oliver Lanwin. Then Miss Chent had been given time to recover, and so had been accused of the crime, although she protested that she had been in a state of catalepsy, induced by the scented smoke. Shepworth likewise was insensible, and, judging from the odour in the dining-room, from the same cause. It would be better, decided the young man rapidly, that Shepworth should be seen by a score of witnesses thus insensible, for then it could be proved that so helpless a man could not have struck the blow. Thus, when a crowd of startled people came pouring down the staircase, and into the flat on the second floor, Prelice threw open the door widely, and admitted them with a hurried explanation.

"There has been a terrible crime committed," he declared, leading the way to the dining-room. "I came here a few minutes ago to find Mr. Shepworth, the owner of the flat, insensible as you see, and this other man stone-dead. He has been stabbed."

"Stabbed!" Several voices echoed the word, and one woman gave a faint scream. The passage was crowded to the very door of the dining-room, and as many as could were looking over one another's shoulders to view the sinister scene. And like a ball from one person to another was tossed in various tones the ominous word "Murder!"

"Who stabbed the man?" asked a medium-sized masker in a blue domino, who had placed himself directly in front of the mob, blocking the doorway. He addressed Prelice, and his manner was offensively suspicious.

"I do not know," disclaimed that young gentleman quietly, for it seemed absurd indeed that he should be suspected. "I came here to see Mr. Shepworth only ten minutes ago."

"How did you enter?" The tone of the question was still offensive.

"The outer door was slightly ajar," explained the other suavely. "I pushed it open, as I had an appointment with my friend. I decline to defend myself further, as you seem to suspect me."

"Send for the police! Send for the police!" said many voices; and a rough male voice was heard recommending that Prelice—only the voice called him the murderer—should not be allowed to escape.

"What nonsense," cried the young man indignantly, raising his voice on hearing so direct an accusation. "I have nothing to do with the matter. I am Lord Prelice, if anyone here knows me."

The utterance of a title had a magical effect, and several people began to unmask; amongst these was the aggressive masker who had questioned Prelice.

"You can explain to the police," said this man sharply.

"Certainly, Captain Jadby."

"You know me?"

"I saw you in Court to-day, and also in Geddy's Restaurant, Burns Street."

Jadby nodded, but did not relax his suspicious manner. "It is strange that you should be here," he said, marching into the room.

"Not at all," rejoined Prelice hotly. "I had an appointment to see Mr. Shepworth, and came only a few minutes ago."

Jadby took no notice of this speech, but lifted the shaggy red head of the dead man. Apparently he knew who he was, for after a single glance he dropped the heavy head again, and wheeled round with an amazed face. "Steve Agstone," he gasped, "the missing witness!"

Prelice also startled, backed against the wall with outstretched hands and open mouth. In a flash he saw how dangerous was the position of the barrister; and indeed many confused voices were muttering as to the guilt of Shepworth. Captain Jadby, letting his eyes fall on the dead man, made himself spokesman for all.

"Shepworth murdered him to win the case," he said, nodding. "I ask your pardon, Lord Prelice, for suspecting you."

"I would rather you continued to do so," cried Prelice angrily. "It is absurd to think that Shepworth killed this man. Look at him," he pointed to the rigid form in the armchair; "he is incapable of raising a hand."

"Miss Chent was also incapable," sneered the captain, "yet——"

"She is innocent," stormed Prelice fiercely; "she no more killed her uncle than did Shepworth this witness."

Everyone was listening eagerly with open eyes and ears to the altercation; and it is impossible to say how long it would have continued, but for the entry of the police. Two constables pushed their way through the crowd, and forthwith—when they had taken in the situation—began to clear the place. The crowd of pleasure-seekers, now unmasked for the most part, were driven outside. Some fled down the stairs, anxious to get away from the scene of the tragedy, while others returned to the Rovers' flat. But the fact of the murder ruined the ball. It broke up, like Macbeth's famous banquet, "with most admir'd disorder," and in ten minutes the rooms were deserted. Everyone ran away, as though from the plague, and Mr. Rover, looking like a frightened rabbit, came down to make inquiries.

"Is Shepworth dead?" he asked tremulously of a stalwart policeman whom he found guarding the closed door of Number Forty. "Everyone says that Shepworth is dead; and my wife has fainted."

"The doctor is with Mr. Shepworth now," said the constable gruffly. "I don't know what's the matter with him, and it ain't my duty to say anything, sir."

"Oh dear! Oh dear!" Rover wrung his small white hands. "How very, very dreadful all this is. Who is the other man—the dead man?" He handed the officer half-a-sovereign so as to gain a reply.

Dogberry unbent. "They do say, sir, as the corpse is Steve Agstone, who is the missing witness in the Lanwin murder case."

"How wicked—how very wicked. But if Mr. Shepworth is dead——"

"He ain't, sir," the constable slipped the gold into his pocket; "he's in a faint of sorts I believe. And they do say as he killed Steve Agstone, so as to save the young lady he's defending. Now I can't tell you more, sir, and I've said too much already. Just go home and keep quiet, sir. The police will look after this matter here."

Rover, still wringing his useless hands, and muttering to himself like the weak-brained little man he was, wearily climbed the stairs to his deserted ballrooms. As he ascended, two women and a man came down, white-faced and shaken. They tried to enter Number Forty, but the constable stretched forth a brawny arm to prevent entrance.

"But we must come in," said the man deferentially; "we are Mr. Shepworth's servants. I am his valet, this lady is the cook, and yonder is the housemaid. We have a right to enter."

"You can't until the doctor and the inspector have done with your master," said the constable stolidly. "And why aren't you in bed?"

The cook, a large, red-faced lady, gaily dressed, replied. "Mr. Shepworth allowed us to join Mrs. Rover's servants at the masked ball."

"Then none of you were in this flat when the murder was committed?" questioned the policeman, doing a little detective business on his own account.

"Oh, lor', no," cried the housemaid timidly; "we've been upstairs since nine o'clock helping Mrs. Rover's servants with the party. Do let us in, Mr. Policeman."

"Stay where you are until orders come," commanded the officer sternly; and the trio sat disconsolately on the stairs. With the instinct of self-preservation, they had thoroughly explained their absence from the scene of the crime, and now felt perfectly safe.

Meanwhile in the dining-room a young medical man, who had fortunately been present at the ball, was reviving Shepworth with brandy and ammonia. The windows had been thrown open, and the fresh air was filling the room so rapidly that scarcely a trace of the tuberose fragrance remained. Prelice, having laid aside his mask and domino, was standing near the door with his hands in his pockets, watching a man in uniform, who examined the dead along with the official doctor whom the police had called in. The first individual was Inspector Bruge, a keen-looking, sharp-eyed man, with a clean-shaven face and closely clipped grey hair, and an abrupt red-tape manner. Captain Jadby was not present, having departed with the rest of the too curious onlookers; but Lord Prelice remained, as he had been the first to discover the crime, and Bruge wished to hear his account of it. Already the Inspector's note-book was in his hand to note down the result of the official doctor's examination. There was a dead silence in the room, faintly broken by the distant roll of vehicular traffic, with the occasional hoot of a motor horn. The bell of a near church boomed out midnight so unexpectedly that Prelice jumped. He might well be excused for doing so, as his nerves were considerably shaken.

"Twelve o'clock," said Bruge crisply. "When did you discover the crime, my lord?"

"At half-past eleven," replied Prelice, shivering. "Good heavens, is it only half-an-hour since then? It seems like years."

"We were on the spot in ten minutes," said Bruge with official satisfaction, "and haven't been long in getting things ship-shape. Now that these ladies and gentlemen have gone, we can look into matters. Doctor," he glanced at the young man attending to Shepworth, "is your patient reviving?"

"A trifle," answered the other, rising; "help me to place him near the window—in a draught."

"It is a long faint," said the Inspector, helping to wheel the armchair to the open window.

"It is not a faint at all. The man is in a cataleptic state, induced by the administration of some drug."

"Induced by the odour of a burning herb, you mean," said Prelice, looking at the rigid face of Shepworth, which was as expressionless as that of the dead man at the table.

"What's that?" questioned the Inspector, turning his head.

Prelice waved his hand. "I'll explain later, and after I have seen my friend Dr. Horace."

"Horace! Horace!" The medical man who was examining the corpse looked up at this remark. "I know him slightly. A great traveller, isn't he?"

"Yes," answered Prelice quickly; "he travelled with me to a little known part of the world called Easter Island. Lucky that he did so, and that I was with him. Between us we may be able to solve the mystery of this cataleptic business."

"You know that it is catalepsy, induced by some odour?"

"Of course I do. I have seen a man in that state before." And Prelice pointed to the rigid form of Shepworth.

"Where?" asked Bruge, looking at him with keen eyes, somewhat puzzled.

"On Easter Island."

The Inspector would have asked further questions when the elder doctor rose from examining Agstone's body, and stretched himself. "Well, Thornton?" he asked curtly.

"The man is dead right enough!" said Thornton, with a shrug; "that stab under the left shoulder-blade reached the heart at one blow. I don't see the weapon with which it was committed—the crime I mean."

"We haven't searched the flat yet," rejoined Bruge brusquely; "and if you remember, Thornton, the weapon which killed Sir Oliver Lanwin was not found either."

"What has this case to do with Sir Oliver Lanwin's death?"

Bruge looked surprised. "Don't you read the papers, doctor? There is a murder case on at the New Bailey which resembles this in every particular. Sir Oliver Lanwin was stabbed seated at his desk, and under the left shoulder-blade. His niece, who is accused, says that she is innocent, and was in a cataleptic state, just as this Counsel of hers is. What we see here," mused Bruge, "will go a long way towards helping her to prove her innocence. Mr. Shepworth need not have got rid of Agstone in this way."

"He didn't," cried Prelice sharply; "I'll stake my existence that Mr. Shepworth is perfectly innocent."

"My lord, we know that the prosecution hoped to convict Miss Chent on Agstone's evidence. It was necessary that the defence should keep him out of the way. And here is the man, very forcibly removed, and in the rooms of the young gentleman who is not only helping to defend Miss Chent, but who is her affianced husband. It looks strange."

Prelice pointed to Shepworth, who now showed signs of reviving. "I say to you, as I said to those people who burst into the flat when the alarm was given, that Shepworth is incapable of lifting a hand."

"Ah! but we don't know how long he has been incapable," said Bruge cunningly. "When was Agstone murdered, doctor?"

Thornton, who was twisting a cigarette, answered promptly enough. "I should say, judging from the condition of the temperature of the body, some time between ten and eleven o'clock."

"And can you tell," asked the Inspector, turning to the other doctor, "how long Mr. Shepworth has been insensible?"

"No!" said the young physician promptly; "but he'll tell us himself soon. He is coming round."

Even as he spoke Shepworth opened his eyes, and stared vaguely at those in the room. His gaze wandered in a bewildered manner from the Inspector to Prelice, and from Prelice to the two doctors. Finally, he looked meditatively at the dead body, which was stretched right across the blue cloth of the dining-table, with its glassy eyes staring at the ceiling. A shudder shook the barrister's frame, and as though moved by wires, he sprang stiffly to his feet.

"Prelice! Prelice!" he cried, and his voice grew stronger as his strength came back, as did his colour and senses. "Look! Look! Isn't it the same as in the Grange library! Agstone is dead, and I have been in a trance."

"You know then?" asked Bruge swiftly, "that the dead man is Agstone?"

"Yes! I have seen him many times, at the Grange. But how did he come here? Who murdered him?" And his eyes questioned those present dumbly.

"That is what we wish to ask you," said the Inspector.

Shepworth passed his hand across his forehead, which was now moist with perspiration. "The police," he murmured, "and Agstone dead. Will you place me in the dock beside Mona?" he asked Bruge passionately.

Prelice sprang to his side, and caught him by the hand. "Ned, Ned!" he urged, "pull yourself together and tell us how Agstone came to be murdered in this room."

"I can't tell you," cried Shepworth, wrenching away his hand. "I can tell you no more than Mona could. She was in a trance, and saw nothing, only coming out of it to find the dead beside her. I was in a trance, and saw—— Ah!" he broke off, and his wild eyes went roving round the room, "where is the woman?"

"What woman?" asked Bruge suddenly, and kept his eyes on Shepworth's face with a look of severe scrutiny.

"The woman who came in, masked and cloaked. She came in. Agstone admitted her. She waved the bronze cup before me, and then I—I—— Oh! what does it all mean?" he asked, breaking down, and with every reason, considering what he had undergone.

Prelice shook him gently by the shoulders. "I am beside you, Ned. I am looking after you. Only tell us everything you remember."

Shepworth stared straight before him, and then, as though a spring had been touched, he began to speak swiftly and coherently. "I was sitting reading in the drawing-room, when I heard three heavy blows struck on the wall of this room. As my servants were all upstairs, assisting at the ball, I wondered who was in my flat, and came out to inquire. The door of this room was closed, and I opened it to find a thick white smoke, smelling sweetly and sickly, curling from a bronze cup placed on the table. The fumes choked me, and I staggered instinctively to open the window. Before I could reach it, I fell."

"Senseless?" interpolated Thornton keenly.

"No!" Shepworth turned irritably. "How could I be senseless when I heard and saw everything?—up to a point, that is."

"What did you see?" questioned Bruge eagerly.

"I could move neither hand nor foot, nor could I call out," went on Shepworth slowly, "and I lay on the floor, half propped up against that chair. Then I saw," he shuddered, "a large hairy hand push aside the tablecloth, and shortly a man crawled from underneath. It was Agstone, for I recognised him without difficulty. He growled in a pleased manner, and lifted me into this chair. Then he went out, and remained absent for some time. When he returned a tall woman was with him, wearing a mask and a green domino. Taking the bronze cup, from which the white smoke still poured, she waved it under my nose. My senses left me, and I knew no more until I woke to find you all in my room. And Agstone is dead," ended the barrister, trembling. "Agstone is dead."

"And Agstone," said Bruge significantly, "is the chief witness for the prosecution."

[CHAPTER VIII.]

A PRIVATE EXPLANATION.

Shepworth made no reply to the insinuation contained in the remark of the Inspector. His brain was still dazed with the fumes of the white smoke, and after telling his story he sat indifferently in his armchair. Prelice watched him closely, recognising the mental confusion, then laid his hand on the poor fellow's arm. "You had better come and lie down," he said gently, and glanced at Thornton.

"Certainly, certainly!" answered that gentleman briskly, and in reply to the unspoken query of Prelice; "a few hours' sleep will cure Mr. Shepworth completely."

"Can I stay with my friend?" demanded Prelice, turning to Bruge.

The Inspector nodded absently, as he was evidently following some train of thought. "Will it be necessary to make a further examination of this?" he inquired, looking at the dead body and at Thornton.

"No, no—not at present. When it has been removed to the dead-house I will see to a further examination. I have seen the body before rigor mortis has set in, so that is all that is necessary. The man has been stabbed some time between ten and eleven, and he is as dead as a coffin nail." Thornton drew on his gloves. "Good-night!"

"Good-night," replied the Inspector. "Allow me to see you to the door." And he conducted both the medical men out of the room, leaving Prelice alone with his still dazed friend.

But Shepworth was not so dazed as he pretended to be, for the moment the door was closed he sprang to his feet. "Dorry, Dorry," he gasped, swaying, "the knife—look for the knife!" Then he dropped back again in the chair, too weak to stand.

"What do you mean?" demanded Prelice sharply, and much puzzled.

Shepworth clutched him. "I did not tell all," he stuttered hurriedly; "it would not have done to tell all. Listen, Dorry. Agstone came back again alone—alone, I tell you—before he brought the lady. I was still conscious, although unable to move in any way. He held the knife in his hand—the jade-handled paper-cutter with which Sir Oliver was murdered. I had it, as you know; it was concealed in my desk—in my study. Agstone must have found it. Agstone must have used it. No! Agstone is dead. I forgot. But someone must have used it to kill Agstone. Oh, my head, my head!" He grasped his hair, and rocked to and fro; then with an effort: "Look for the knife—under the table perhaps—under the——"

Before he could end the sentence Prelice, realising its importance, sprang forward, and lifted a corner of the tablecloth, which trailed on the ground. At the same instant Inspector Bruge appeared again, unexpectedly. His keen eyes immediately fixed themselves on Prelice.

"What are you doing, my lord?" he asked imperatively.

"Making a search," retorted the other bluffly. He did not know what else to say, and hoped that his ready and natural explanation would lull any newly aroused suspicions entertained by the officer.

It did to a certain extent. "You must allow us to do that, my lord. I think you had better take Mr. Shepworth to his bed. And we may as well cover this thing until it is taken away," added Bruge, gathering up the folds of the tablecloth to lay them over the stark-dead creature staring at the ceiling.

Shepworth moved at the same moment as Bruge; but Prelice, guessing that he wished to interfere, held him down with an iron grasp.

When the lifted cloth exposed the bare legs of the table, both the young men caught sight of an object lying underneath. Bruge, stepping back, espied it also, with his trained faculty of instant observation, and stooped to pick it up. The jade-handled paper-cutter lay just where the feet of the dead man had rested before the body had been shifted on to the table. The wonder was that it had not been discovered before; but then it had been concealed by the drooping cloth.

"The weapon with which the crime has been committed," murmured Bruge in a complacent tone; "after stabbing his victim, the assassin must have allowed the knife to fall under the table, or perhaps threw it there intentionally. A jade handle! H'm! It looks like a dagger too—an Eastern dagger. Where have I seen it—where?" And the Inspector fell into a brown study, turning and twisting the paper-cutter slowly.

Prelice pressed Shepworth's shoulder to keep him quiet, and cleared his throat to answer. "It is the knife used to kill Sir Oliver," he said, and felt Shepworth jerk his body in surprised remonstrance at this unnecessary frankness.

Bruge glanced up in amazement. "Why, so it is," he remarked wonderingly—"the very dagger. I remember now that I read the description given of this in the newspaper report of the inquest at Hythe. H'm! So that is how I fancied that I had seen it before." He balanced the knife on the palm of his hand. "A very good piece of description it must have been to so enable me to recognise this. But you," he glanced suspiciously at Prelice, "how did you know?"

The young man shrugged his square shoulders. "That is easily explained," he replied suavely. "I went to hear the case at the New Bailey to-day, as I thought that my friend here," he again pressed Shepworth's shoulder significantly, "was to speak in defence of Miss Chent. At the Court I heard the knife described. It is quite simple, you see."

"I wonder how it comes to be here?" mused Bruge, nodding acquiescence to this lucid explanation. "Odd, isn't it?"

"Not at all," rejoined Prelice easily; "the assassin of Sir Oliver Lanwin brought it here to kill Agstone."

"But Miss Chent is in prison," remonstrated the Inspector; "she could not have——"

"She never did in any case," interrupted Shepworth faintly, but rousing himself sufficiently to defend his promised wife. "She is innocent."

"It is natural that you should say so," remarked Bruge, with polite scepticism, then added significantly: "Did you expect Agstone?"

Shepworth's eyebrows went up wearily. "I? No! Why should I have expected a witness for the prosecution to call upon me? I have told you all that happened until I entirely lost my senses. The first I saw of Agstone was when he crawled from under that table. Then the smoke had rendered me, not unconscious, but unable to speak or move."

"Can this smoke you mention, do that?"

"I speak from experience, Mr. Inspector; and Miss Chent, if you remember, told the same story."

"Oh, I see that the two crimes are connected," said Bruge hastily. "The circumstances are the same as regards this mysterious smoke and its curious power. But you say," he added, turning to Prelice, "you say, my lord, that the assassin of Sir Oliver brought the knife to kill Agstone. Yet we see," he waved his hands towards the corpse, "that Agstone himself is a victim."

"Quite so; but he may have brought the knife for all that."

"Then you imply that Agstone murdered his master?"

"I imply nothing," retorted the young man restively; "but the knife could not have got here unless someone brought it, and as it was missing from the Lanwin Grange library, only the murderer who used it could have possessed it. Moreover," Prelice pressed Shepworth's shoulder to make him particularly note the next sentence, "moreover, Mr. Shepworth saw the knife in Agstone's hand."

Bruge wheeled swiftly towards the barrister. "You did not say that?"

"Not when the doctors and you were in the room," said Shepworth languidly. "I am only beginning to recover my senses, remember; but I told Lord Prelice that Agstone, after he left this room, returned and looked in, to see if I was insensible I suppose, before he brought in the lady. Then he had the knife in his hand."

"And what do you infer?" asked Bruge pointedly.

"There can only be one inference drawn," said Prelice, before Shepworth could speak; "Agstone must have had the knife in his pocket."

"Then Agstone must have murdered Sir Oliver," said Bruge triumphantly.

Shepworth shrugged his shoulders, and staggered to his feet. "I feel too dizzy to give an opinion," he said, leaning heavily on his friend. "We know that Agstone was devoted to Sir Oliver. Why should he have murdered him? Besides, he accuses Miss Chent."

"Naturally," cried the Inspector, who followed eagerly the scent of the red herring which Prelice had drawn across the trail. "If Agstone is guilty himself he naturally would throw the blame on another person; and if he was possessed of the knife he must be guilty. It was missed from the Grange library and reappears here."

"The masked lady might have brought it," suggested Shepworth.

Bruge, extremely pleased with his own theory, shook his head sapiently. "Mr. Shepworth saw the knife in Agstone's hand before he became insensible. You can swear to that?" he asked the barrister.

"Yes," said Shepworth truthfully; "I can swear to that."

"And you can swear that the masked woman killed Agstone?"

"No; I can't say that. When she waved the bronze cup before me I became entirely insensible."

The Inspector looked more knowing than ever. "Of course," said he in a complacent way, "she did not wish you to see her stabbing Agstone."

"But why should she have stabbed him?"

"We can't say until we know the lady. Did you recognise her?"

"No; she was masked and cloaked."

"A green domino, I think you said."

"And a green mask," supplemented Shepworth.

"She must have been at Mrs. Rover's ball," mused Bruge.

"Not necessarily," interpolated Prelice; "but as many people masked and cloaked were ascending and descending the stairs, she may have taken advantage of the ball to get into this flat unobserved."

"Quite so," assented the Inspector; "but who admitted her?"

"Agstone must have done that," said Shepworth.

"Probably; but who admitted Agstone?"

The barrister shook his head. "I can't say," he replied in a tired tone. "I heard a noise—three heavy blows struck in this room—as I told you, when seated in the drawing-room. I did not know that anyone was in the flat."

"What time did your servants go to assist at the ball?"

"Shortly before nine o'clock, when the dinner was over."

"You had dinner then?"

"Oh yes. I came from the Court worn out, and slept for a long time. I then had a light dinner."

"Agstone could not have been at the table then—under it I mean?"

"I think not," said the barrister slowly; "it is not a large table as you see. I would either have heard him, or I should have felt him with my feet."

"Your servants may have left the outer door ajar."

Shepworth nodded. "Perhaps. You can question them. But after dining I returned to the drawing-room before nine o'clock."

"And you did not re-enter this room until you came to see what the three heavy blows meant?"

"No; I did not."

"They must have been struck to make you enter the room."

"I think so, Mr. Inspector. Agstone wished to be smothered with the smoke. That was why the bronze cup was smoking on the table."

"Where is the bronze cup?" Bruge looked about him.

"I can't say. I last saw it when the lady waved it under my nose."

The Inspector meditated. "It's a queer case altogether," he mused, "and undoubtedly it is connected with the Lanwin murder," he mused again, and then looked up abruptly. "I believe that this second murder will exonerate Miss Chent," he said quietly.

"I hope so," rejoined Shepworth, walking towards the door heavily, and still leaning on Prelice's shoulder. "If she is condemned for murdering her uncle, I should certainly be arrested and tried for murdering Agstone. I had every reason to kill him, since on his evidence hangs the fate of Miss Chent."

"You may as well speak in the past tense, Mr. Shepworth, seeing that the man is dead. For my part, I believe that Agstone murdered his master, and was ready to throw the blame on Miss Chent so as to save his own skin. Only the assassin of Sir Oliver could have been possessed of the knife."

"Am I to consider myself arrested?" demanded the barrister.

"No," rejoined Bruge promptly, and held open the door; "but, of course, we must keep an eye on you," he added, smiling ambiguously.

Shepworth nodded languidly, and went out with his friend. "Come into my study, Prelice," he said almost in a whisper. "That knife——"

"Hush!" Prelice gripped the barrister's arm hard. He quite understood what Shepworth wished to do. "Not so loud."

But he need not have been so cautious, for the door of the dining-room had been closed by Bruge, who was now probably searching the clothes of the dead man for more evidence. The two young men went into the study, which was at the end of the passage, and there found that the desk had been forced open—that is, all the three drawers on each side, six in all—in a most dexterous manner. Agstone had apparently come provided with house-breaking tools, so as to gain possession of the dagger. "But how did he know that I had it?" asked Shepworth, perplexed.

"I daresay he was watching through the Grange window, and saw you take it from Miss Chent," suggested Prelice.

Shepworth nodded. "Let us put the room tidy," he said hurriedly, and closing the door; "I don't want the police to fuss about here."

The room really was untidy, for in searching for the knife Agstone had scattered the loose papers lying on the desk all over the carpet. The young man collected these, and placed them in order; then Shepworth closed the drawers of the desk carefully. In a few minutes—after replacing a chair that had been kicked over, and smoothing a rug that had been rucked up—the study looked quite in order. Nevertheless, Shepworth stared anxiously at the now innocent-looking desk. "I hope the police will not examine it," he said nervously.

"I don't think so, since you have explained so much, Ned. Their attentions will be confined to the dining-room wherein the murder took place. Will you go to bed?"

"No." Shepworth sat at his desk. "I don't want this examined. Let us sit here and have some strong coffee."

Prelice shook his head. "Don't," he advised; "better let us steal to your bedroom, and say nothing about having been here. If the police examine the desk you can pretend ignorance, and express surprise. On the other hand, if Bruge comes in and makes the discovery while we are here, he will naturally demand why we kept silence, and inquiries would lead to difficulties. Leave the thing to chance."

Shepworth agreed with this reasoning, since it was useless, and even dangerous, to create difficulties at the present juncture. The two walked silently to the bedroom, and here the barrister stripped, to put on his dressing-gown. Then, lying down outside the bed, he placed his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling, while Prelice lounged in an armchair close at hand.

"Why did you tell Bruge about the second entrance of Agstone with the dagger?" asked Shepworth suddenly.

"Because he had already seen the dagger," rejoined Prelice promptly. "It is as well to tell the truth when possible, and just as well that the Inspector should think Agstone—who cannot now contradict—brought the dagger. You heard what he said yourself about Agstone's possible guilt. Our frankness will probably save Miss Chent, as the murder of Sir Oliver will be attributed to Agstone because he possessed that paper-cutter."

Shepworth groaned. "But if Bruge knew that I took it from Mona?"

"Then there would be serious trouble. Let things remain as they are, Ned. We know that Miss Chent is innocent, and must save her."

"But we don't know that Agstone is guilty. He certainly is not, on the reasoning of Bruge."

"No; seeing that we know Agstone did not bring the dagger here. But the man is dead, and if he can be made to act as scapegoat for an innocent woman, so much the better."

The barrister sighed. "We are environed by difficulties," he murmured; then added significantly and unexpectedly: "Jadby called to see me this evening."

"What!" Prelice was startled. "I thought that you had quarrelled."

"So we had—so we did—and with fists too. But when I was reading in the drawing-room, and thinking of my poor girl shut up in prison, I heard a ring at the front door. The servants had gone to the ball, as you know, so I had to open the door myself. Captain Jadby was there, and after a stiff greeting he asked for an interview. I took him into the drawing-room, and——"

"One moment. Did you close the outer door?"

"Of course. Why do you ask that?"

"I fancied that you might have unconsciously left it open, and that Agstone might then have entered to conceal himself."

"No," said Shepworth decisively. "I am certain that I closed it. With Jadby I went to the drawing-room, and there he frankly expressed his regrets that we had quarrelled. He wished to make it up, and to join forces with me to save poor Mona."

"Because he loves her?"

"Quite so. He makes no secret of the fact that he is madly in love with Mona. Our hand-to-hand fight at Lanwin Grange rose solely from the fact that he would insist upon forcing his attentions on her. She appealed to me as her lover, so I tackled Jadby, and knocked him down. However, he seemed to be sorry that he had behaved like a bounder; so we shook hands, and then sat down to consider how we should act with regard to Mona's position."

"H'm!" Prelice looked sceptical. "From the glimpse I caught of Jadby I should not think he was the sort of man to forgive a punch in the eye, much less the loss of the girl he loves. He might have come here with the intention of trapping you; he might have admitted Agstone."

"No," replied Shepworth quickly. "I was with him all the time. I opened the outer door to admit him, and closed it when he departed. As he was under my eyes while in the flat, he had no chance of admitting Agstone secretly. I don't know how the man managed to enter and conceal himself under that table, but Jadby had nothing to do with it. Moreover," added the barrister decisively, "Jadby told me that he was as ignorant as everyone else of Agstone's whereabouts."

"Oh, a blighter like Jadby would say anything."

Shepworth protested. "I think we have judged Jadby wrongly."

"My dear Ned, you are altogether too good for this wicked world. I don't trust Jadby for one instant. He plays for his own hand."

"I know he does. He admits that he intends to claim the estate of Sir Oliver, and that he loves Mona. But he swears that he will take no steps until she is set free. Then she can marry me if she chooses."

Prelice laughed ironically. "And you believe him?"

"He seemed to be in earnest."

"About setting Miss Chent free? Oh yes; I am sure of that; but he intends to marry her, you may be sure. Jadby is very philanthropic. How does he propose to save Miss Chent?"

"By finding Agstone, and sending him out of the kingdom."

"And Agstone appears shortly after that proposal. H'm! H'm! H'm! I must have a personal interview with Captain Jadby, and ask him——"

"Ask him what?"

"If he has ever visited Easter Island."

"What on earth do you mean?" demanded Shepworth curiously.

But Lord Prelice refused to explain further.

[CHAPTER IX.]

DR. HORACE.

Next day everyone, from the man in the street to the lady in her drawing-room, was talking about the murder at Alexander Mansions. As a rule, those in Society talk very little about such horrors; but on this occasion people, more or less fashionable, felt that the crime had been committed, so to speak, on their very doorsteps. Mrs. Rover's ball had been broken up by the discovery of the crime, and many of the guests, crowding down to Shepworth's flat, had seen a murdered man for the first time in their frivolous lives. No wonder the tragedy made a sensation.

Moreover, the second crime in London was connected—no one knew exactly how—with the first crime at Lanwin Grange, Hythe. Sir Oliver had been murdered by his niece, who was now being tried for the offence. The victim had been a baronet, and the prisoner was a well-known figure in the social world. Now the missing witness, upon whose evidence was supposed to hinge the condemnation or acquittal of Miss Chent, had been violently done away with. And—hinted gossip—in spite of appearances, the barrister to whom the flat belonged must have killed the man, so that damaging evidence might be finally suppressed. Thus the two crimes had much to do with Society as a whole, and the newspaper placards informed the lower orders of "A Tragedy in High Life." Stump orators in Hyde Park chose the placards and the moment to talk of the decay of the upper classes, and of the need of a revolution to sweep away tyrants born in the social purple.

Finally, there was another thing which interested fashionable folk. Many guests at the masked ball had been robbed of valuable jewellery, and the police were entirely at a loss to trace the thieves. Undoubtedly, what Mr. Simon Haken had prophesied jokingly to his host had come cruelly true: swell mobsmen and light-fingered ladies had taken advantage of the use of masks at the ball to mingle with the legitimate guests, and appropriate gems and gold of great value. Bracelets, ear-rings, chains, brooches, and even rings—many of these had vanished, and scarcely a single woman had escaped the rapacity of the unknown thieves. This in itself was sufficient to make Mrs. Dolly Rover's entertainment notorious, and that a terrible murder should cap the climax of such roguery was almost too much for belief. Next day the journals sold like hot cakes, and the one topic of conversation with high and low had to do with this astounding criminality.

Lord Prelice returned to his rooms in Half-Moon Street just as the dawn broke over an astonished and indignant Mayfair, and threw himself on his bed to recuperate. Tough as he was with travel and adventure, he needed sleep very badly after the exciting events of the dark hours, and as he dropped off into slumber it struck him forcibly that the time of superabundant leisure had gone by for ever. Formerly an idler, who took comparatively little interest in life, and certainly none in the doings of other people, he found himself committed, through friendship, to a strenuous career. Ever since Lady Sophia's visit on the previous morning he had gradually become entangled in other lives, and until the crooked ways of these had been made straight he saw no chance of reverting to his happy-go-lucky existence. Prelice, having a high ideal of friendship, resolved to help Shepworth, and, through him, Miss Mona Chent, with all the brain power and physical power and social power at his command. And the opportunity of doing so was not unpleasing to an active-minded man, who had hitherto fritted away his intelligence in butterfly pursuits.

He woke at noon to receive a telegram, which his man brought in, with an apology for disturbing him.

It proved to be from Shepworth, and contained the amazing news that the barrister had been arrested for the murder. Considering that Inspector Bruge had assured Shepworth—and in Prelice's presence—that there was no chance of any suspicion being cast upon him in any way, the young man had to read the wire twice or thrice before he could fully grasp its sinister significance. It seemed absurd. Dozens of people, including Bruge and two medical men, had seen the insensible form of the accused man, and were content at the time that he could not raise a hand, much less execute a crime, which needed clear-headedness and strength. And it was the more ridiculous to arrest Shepworth, because the barrister had given a plain account of what had happened,—so far as he remembered—which was similar in most respects to what had taken place at Hythe. Of course, Prelice recollected the way in which he and Ned had concealed the true story of the knife; but it was impossible that Shepworth, now quite in possession of his wits, should have told an unnecessary truth. If he had, Prelice believed that he would be arrested also, as an accessory after the fact. The thought made him uncomfortable, until he brushed it away. Ned was not exactly an idiot, and on whatever plea he had been arrested, it certainly could not have to do with the story of the knife.

But it was necessary to learn what had taken place, and also to bail Ned out, so that they might work together to elucidate the mystery. This would be difficult considering the charge was one of murder; but Prelice indulged in a cold bath to freshen his physical powers, and after dressing rapidly, took a hansom back to Alexander Mansions. Here he was confronted at the door by the same burly police constable who had prevented Shepworth's servants from re-entering their master's flat some hours before. He treated Lord Prelice in the same way.

"You can't come in, my lord. Inspector's orders."

"I wish to see Mr. Shepworth," argued Prelice vexedly.

"It's against orders, my lord."

"Is he within?"

"Yes, my lord, but he isn't allowed to see anyone."

"Will you take a note in from me?"

"No, my lord. I can't do that."

"Can I see Inspector Bruge?"

"He is at the police station, my lord."

Prelice stamped with vexation at the obstacles placed in his way. He did his best to argue this official machine into something resembling reasonable humanity, but without success. Shepworth, he learned, was to be taken to prison later in the day, and the constable hinted that, since the charge was so serious, there would be no chance of the barrister being let out on bail. There was no other course open but to see Inspector Bruge, so Prelice drove to the Kensington Police Station, only to find that the man he wished to see had gone to Scotland Yard, presumably about the case.

Apparently there was nothing to be done at the moment in connection with this new trouble, so Prelice was half minded to repair to the New Bailey, and listen to the further progress of the charge against Miss Chent. Now that Agstone was dead, he did not think that she would be convicted. Also, the repetition of the circumstances of the Hythe crime in Alexander Mansions would assuredly strengthen her position, since the jury would now be compelled to believe her story of the stupefying smoke, which formerly had been regarded as absurd. And it was when the thought of the smoke entered his mind that Prelice recollected that Dr. Horace lived in the neighbourhood. He therefore walked to Rutland Square, and asked at Number Twenty for his former fellow-traveller. Chance stood the young man's friend, for the doctor was within, and saw him at once.

"This is an unexpected pleasure, Prelice," said the doctor, beaming. "I thought you were in the West Indies."

"I returned only a few days ago. Are you busy?"

"My friend, I am always busy." And Horace indicated a case of beetles and butterflies, with which he was dealing when his guest entered.

The room was a large one, with two broad windows looking out onto the quiet square, but all available space was taken up with records of the doctor's travels. The floor was carpeted with wild-beast skins, for Horace was a noted hunter; the walls were decorated with Polynesian war-clubs, with Zulu assegaies, with Redskin wampum belts and beaded moccasins. Also, there were Japanese gods, Chinese jars of grotesquely decorated porcelain, Hindoo swords, Persian tiles reft from mosques, and African canoe paddles rudely carved. As Horace never allowed any servant to meddle with his treasures the room was extremely untidy and dusty, and generally neglected, With the exception of a gigantic dining-table of mahogany and two chairs there was no civilised furniture, yet the place was so crammed with barbaric curiosities that Prelice could scarcely find a clear place to stand in. Finally, he stumbled through a narrow passage of Egyptian mummies and gigantic Maori idols to an uncomfortable cane chair near the window. Here he sat down, and looked at his host with some disgust.

"Why the dickens can't you live like a civilised being when you are in London?" he asked, lighting a cigar to dispel the frowsy smell of the room.

"I am perfectly comfortable," said Horace, clearing a place on the table to sit on. "This is my home; I live here."

"You camp here, I think. I never saw such a messy place in my life."

"Huh," grunted the doctor, filling a German pipe with strong tobacco. "You shouldn't come here in a Bond Street kit. Well, what is it? Are you longing to be on the trail again?"

"I am on a sort of trail certainly," admitted Prelice slowly, and inspecting the ash of his cigar. "A manhunt. Ah, your eyes light up at that, you bloodthirsty old pagan."

"A manhunt," repeated Horace meditatively, "and in London—slow business."

"Well, I don't know, Horace. It is one requiring a great deal of subtility. I have come for your assistance."

"Huh!" said the doctor again, and nodded. "I'm with you."

Prelice reflected for a few moments before beginning an explanation of his errand. He did not know how much to tell and how much to withhold. Horace saw his hesitation, and ascribed it to the right cause.

"I must know everything, Prelice," he said quickly, "else I do not assist. I have no notion of working in the dark, and failing through ignorance."

"You can read my thoughts as usual, I see," commented the visitor; "some more of that clairvoyant business, I expect. Well, I have a case to lay before you which will tax your occult powers to the utmost."

"Fire away," said Horace, and placing his hands on the table rocked to and fro, looking absurdly like a monkey. "The Missing Link" they called him in the Wilds, and certainly the name was deserved. Horace was a small man with a long body, short legs, and lengthy arms; very powerfully built, and very shaggy in appearance. Prelice looked at the doctor's large head covered with tangled red hair; at his beard and moustache of the same hue, untrimmed and untidy, concealing nearly all his flat face; and at his big horn-rimmed spectacles, which hid the brightest and keenest of blue eyes. He wore an old pair of flannel trousers, and a still older flannel shirt, the sleeves of which were turned up over two hairy wrists encircled with Matabele wire bracelets. To complete his barbaric looks his large ears, furry as those of a faun, were adorned with gold rings. A more quaint or a more extraordinary figure was not to be met with outside a Freak Museum. And Dr. Horace should have been exhibited in one, if only on account of the beautifully executed tattooing, which Prelice could see on his sunburnt arms, and on his chest, through the unbuttoned shirt.

No one would have taken this man-monkey to be a clever and learned scholar with a heart of gold and a fund of knowledge second to none. Prelice knew and esteemed him, and had fought with him—for the doctor was obstinate—and beside him in the Naked Lands at the Back-of-Beyond, when both held their lives in their hands. All the same, being fastidious, he sincerely wished that when the doctor returned to civilisation, he would leave behind him in the wilderness his uncouth manners and shabby dress and general appearance of being a prehistoric man of Lady Sophia's favourite Stone Age.

"Go on, go on," said Horace impatiently, "don't keep me waiting. I have lots to do, and can't waste time."

"You have lots to do in the way of dress, I think. Come and have a Turkish bath, and visit the nearest barber. Then I can take you to my tailor to be clothed properly, and——"

Horace interrupted characteristically by throwing his pipe at the young man. It was deftly fielded and returned. "Do you remember Easter Island?" asked Prelice when the doctor was again smoking; then in reply to a consenting grunt: "I see you do. And the Sacred Herb, eh?"

Horace scowled. "How do you come into the matter?" he growled.

"Into what matter?" queried the other.

"Oliver Lanwin's murder. It's in all the papers."

"Quite so; but why should my remark about the Sacred Herb make you think that I referred to Lanwin's murder?"

"Is there any need of an explanation?" asked Horace coolly. "If you didn't guess, as I did, that the Sacred Herb was used to make that smoke, why do you talk of the matter at all?"

"Then you think that the herb——"

"Course! Course!" growled Horace, beginning to rock again. "Lanwin haunted the South Seas. I knew him there. He must have got the herb from Easter Island, as it is the only place it grows in. When I read the girl's yarn of the smoke, I guessed straight off that Lanwin had been trying to induce a trance with the burning herb."

"Do you think that Miss Chent murdered him?"

"No! The library was filled with the smoke of the herb. Anyone not used to the fumes would go down like a shot, as she did."

"Then you believe Miss Chent's story?" asked Prelice eagerly.

Horace nodded. "She could not have made up such a clever yarn."

"Then why in Heaven's name," questioned the young man, rising, "did you not volunteer your evidence to save her?"

"Will it save her?"

"Assuredly! Everyone regards her story of being stupefied with the smoke as absurd. If you tell what we saw on Easter Island, in front of the statues——"

"Tell it yourself."

"I intend to. I am going to the Court now, and you," said Prelice with emphasis, "you are coming with me."

Horace knocked the ashes out of his pipe. "Why should I?" he demanded, with a stolid air.

"That's a long story," retorted Prelice restlessly.

"I can give you ten minutes. Don't talk through your hat."

Knowing his man, the visitor did not waste time, but bluntly detailed how he came to be drawn into the Lanwin murder case. But he naturally suppressed his feelings for the beautiful prisoner, and put down his interest, with some emphasis, to pure friendship for Shepworth. On reaching the end of the Hythe portion of the story, he paused to draw breath. "Is that all?" asked Horace grimly.

"The first part only," replied Prelice promptly, and narrated the events of the previous night from the time he went to Mrs. Rover's bal masqué to the time he left the Kensington Police Station to call upon his listener. During this latter part of the history Dr. Horace became restless, and wandered about his untidy room, stumbling over obstacles, and softly swearing, with a wonderful command of language. He appeared to be inattentive, but in reality had not lost a single word. When Prelice stopped he came to a halt before the young man. "I'll go with you to the Court," he declared. "The first thing to do is to save the girl. After that we can consider how to get Shepworth out of his difficulty."

"He is innocent, of course," observed Prelice, trying to read the rugged face of his new ally.

"Never said he wasn't," grumbled the doctor; then reflected for a few moments, raking his long beard with out-spread fingers. "See here," he burst out finally, "will you allow me to engineer this business?"

"I shall only be too glad. Are you going to use occult methods?"

"I don't need to. I have my own ideas, having read the newspapers."

"Then you think that Agstone murdered Lanwin?"

"No more than I think Shepworth murdered Agstone. On your own showing your barrister friend brought the knife to the flat. And it is on the false evidence of the knife, which you and Shepworth supplied, that Inspector Bruge seems to judge Agstone."

"Still——"

"Oh, don't talk poppy-cock," interrupted the little man impatiently.

"You are not polite, Horace."

"Was I ever polite?" demanded the other scornfully.

"No! To do you justice, you are always consistently rude!"

"Then why expect the impossible?" retorted Horace, and again stumbled about the crowded room, swearing softly. When again abreast of Prelice, who was sorely puzzled by this strange conduct, the doctor thrust out a large hairy paw. "Shake," said he brusquely.

Prelice did so promptly, and inquired: "Why?"

"Because you are giving me pleasure in allowing me to help you."

His friend looked at the odd creature perplexedly. "I don't understand what you mean," he declared, frowning.

"Never mind," returned Horace, with a chuckle; "when it is necessary for you to understand I'll straighten out things."

"Then you have a theory?"

"I have more than that; I have certain knowledge."

"Of what, in Heaven's name?"

"High cockalorum, snip snap snorum," was the jocular and enigmatic reply, "come to my bedroom, and we can chatter while I dress."

"Well," said Prelice as he sauntered after his friend, "I am glad that you are not going in that rigout. It isn't the fifth of November."

"Silly ass," snapped the traveller; "get a dressed-up doll to help you."

"All right. Come to a toy-shop and help me to choose one."

Dr. Horace began to laugh. "Why can't you talk sense?" he growled.

"I shall do so if you will set the example."

"Very good. I have some of the Sacred Herb here. Shall I take it to the New Bailey, and give judge and jury and counsel a practical illustration of how Miss Chent and Shepworth went into trances?"

"You can if you like. By the way, did you give any portion of that herb away, Horace?"

The doctor, who was plunging his hairy face in water, gurgled and grumbled, but made no reply. Prelice was nettled. "Why can't you be plain with me, confound you?"

"All right." Horace began to dry his face vigorously. "I don't believe that Miss Chent is guilty, or that Shepworth killed Agstone."

"I knew that before," said Prelice dryly; "you tell me nothing new."

"Oh," retorted Horace mockingly, "you want to hear something new, like an Athenian of St. Paul's period. Very good. Do you know why I take so deep an interest in this case?"

"No, I don't; unless it is to help me and Ned."

"I don't care a red cent about you and Ned. But I care a trifle about Agstone, poor devil."

Prelice sat up straight, and stared. "In Heaven's name, why?"

"Because," said Dr. Horace slowly, and looking at Prelice's puzzled face in the glass, "because Steve Agstone is my brother."

[CHAPTER X.]

THE VERDICT.

Here was a surprise indeed. Prelice knew that Dr. Horace had worked his way up from a humble position, and laid no claims to being of gentle blood. But he had never referred to the existence of a single relative, and the young man had always believed him to be alone in the world. Now it seemed that Agstone was his brother. And when Prelice recollected that Agstone was the same hirsute, red-haired, uncouth animal in appearance, it flashed across his mind that the brothers were twins. The extraordinary thing was that he had not noted the close resemblance before, since he had seen Agstone dead and Horace alive, within the last few hours. But the idea of connecting a common sailor with an eminent scientific man had never entered his mind.

In the cab, on the way to the New Bailey, Horace gruffly gave his companion a few facts to substantiate his statement, but Prelice observed that he said as little as he could.

"My full name is Horace Agstone," explained the doctor bluntly, "but as I got on in life and rose in the world I dropped the last and kept to the first. Steve is my elder brother by one year, and we are the sons of a Suffolk labourer. I had the brains of the family, and in one way and another managed to cultivate those same brains, with the result—no very great one—you see. Steve went to sea, and we did not meet for years and years. When he returned to England with old Lanwin he went down to Suffolk to look up the family. Our parents were dead and buried, but Steve learned my name and address from the vicar. He came to look me up, but as we did not hit it off very well, we considered it best to live our lives apart, as formerly. That's all."

Prelice threw his cigarette out of the cab, and stared at the horse in a meditative way. "Strange that you should be connected with this case also," he remarked dreamily.

The doctor grew red, and looked fierce. "What the devil do you mean by that? I have nothing to do with the case."

"Your brother——"

"I have nothing to do with my brother. He and I were born of the same mother, but beyond that we are—I mean we were, seeing he is dead—nothing to one another. If he chooses to kill people and be killed, that is his affair. No one can connect Steve Agstone with Dr. Horace, save the vicar of Burfield in Suffolk, unless you betray me. Not that I care, mark you, Prelice. I learned that fable of the old man and his ass very early in life, and never trouble about people and their opinions."

"I don't intend to betray you," said Prelice coldly, but flushing all over his freckled face; "you can be brother to Satan for all I care. Moreover, I have given confidence for confidence. If I know about your relation to Agstone, you know about the knife's evidence, which I and Shepworth suppressed."

"Right! Right! Don't get your hair off," said Horace, gripping his companion's knee in a painful manner. "You and I are chums of the Wild, old son, and those of that breed don't go back on one another." He released Prelice's knee, and leaned back, thoughtfully. "Of course, it was a shock for me to learn of Agstone's death."

"Didn't you see it in the morning papers?"

"No. I have more to do than to read riff-raff rubbish. You were the first to inform me. Well!" Horace leaned his arms on the splash-board calmly, "Steve's gone to see father and mother on the Astral Plane. I expect he will quarrel with them as usual. They never got on together."

Prelice suppressed a smile at this odd, unchristian way of viewing death, and nodded. "I quite understand why you don't believe Agstone to be guilty!" he remarked after a pause.

"Meaning that I'm a born fool," retorted Horace genially. "Make no mistake, old son. If Steve were guilty, I should not defend him in any way; but he was too devoted to old Lanwin to murder him. Besides——" The doctor suddenly checked himself. "But that's neither here nor there, my son."

"What isn't?" asked Prelice alertly.

"Never you mind; ask no questions and you'll be told no lies. Here we are at the door of the Temple of Falsehood. Get out."

Prelice alighted with his companion, sorely puzzled to know what this enigmatic remark meant. That Horace knew of something which had to do with the Lanwin case he was perfectly sure; that the something implicated the late Mr. Agstone he was also certain. But Prelice knew his friend sufficiently well to be satisfied that he would not explain, unless it appeared to him needful to do so. All that could be done was to trust blindly to the rugged old sinner, and perhaps he would be able to lead those concerned in the case out of the labyrinth of crime. He certainly appeared to hold a clue.

Dr. Horace, more brusque and domineering than ever, pushed his way into the crowded Court, eliciting comments the reverse of complimentary. Of these, with characteristic cynicism, he took no notice, but secured good places for himself and Prelice. In a few minutes he scribbled a note, and sent it to Cudworth, K.C. The Counsel read it with a puzzled air, glanced at the writer across the crowded Court, and whispered to the usher. Shortly Dr. Horace was requested to go to the lawyer's table, and was soon in deep conversation with the big barrister. While this was taking place Prelice stared at Miss Chent, who looked weary and sad as she sat in the dock. The strain of her perilous position was beginning to tell upon her, which was scarcely to be wondered at. Again her roving eyes caught sight of Prelice, and again she blushed, this time drawing a corresponding signal from him. Apparently the natures of these two were sympathetic.

The case was rapidly drawing to a close, as the witnesses for the prosecution had been examined, and now those for the defence were giving evidence. From a solicitor at his elbow the young man learned that Cudworth had succeeded in proving the destruction of the will in Mona Chent's favour. This had been done by the production of half burnt and minutely torn scraps of paper rescued from the grate in the library. These, pieced together, had revealed the mention of the prisoner's name, and of the ten thousand a year, and of the love and affection felt by the testator for his niece. As the will could not be found, and it was certain that Sir Oliver had framed no new testament, the presumption was that the burnt document was the will in question, and despite all efforts the other side could not prove otherwise. This was assuredly a great point in the prisoner's favour, as had she murdered her uncle she would certainly not have destroyed a deed which made her wealthy.

It was with great surprise that Prelice saw Shepworth placed in the witness-box to give evidence, since he had left him practically imprisoned in his own flat. Possibly Inspector Bruge had received instructions from Scotland Yard, on detailing what had happened in Alexander Mansions, to afford the judge and jury the opportunity of seeing how similar the murders of Agstone and his master were to one another. Shepworth was perfectly cheerful and composed, much more so than he had been on the previous day, so apparently he had no fear that his arrest would lead to his conviction. Indeed, he was so clearly innocent that Prelice expected he would be set free after the inquest proceedings on Agstone's body had taken place. Meanwhile he caught his friend's eye, and smiled, after which he smiled again encouragingly at Mona.

Shepworth's evidence was to the effect that Miss Chent loved her uncle, and would never have harmed him in any way. Sir Oliver, in the course of an occult conversation, had referred to a certain herb—he did not give it any name—which when burned produced trances. Apparently, when prisoner entered the library to make up her quarrel with Sir Oliver, the baronet had been testing the herb, and the fumes had reduced Miss Chent to an unconscious state. Then Shepworth went on to detail his own experience, and narrated the same story as he had told to Prelice, to the two doctors, and to Inspector Bruge. Finally, he mentioned that Agstone had re-entered the dining-room, before returning with the masked lady, holding a knife. As Shepworth, naturally, was not asked if the knife was concealed in his desk, there was no need for him to commit perjury, which he would have been unwilling to do, even to save the girl he loved.

While the barrister was giving his evidence Lord Prelice was called to Cudworth's side, and introduced by Dr. Horace. He learned that the Counsel wished him to appear as a witness and substantiate Shepworth's story, which the young man was perfectly willing to do. It thus happened that when Shepworth retired Cudworth examined Prelice, and heard from him how Shepworth had been found unconscious, and how many people, including Captain Jadby, had seen him in this helpless state. This evidence induced the recall of Jadby, and he reluctantly swore that the barrister was indeed unable to strike the murderous blow which had slain the old sailor.

Both Shepworth and Prelice had given evidence as to the finding of the knife under the table by Inspector Bruge, and that officer himself next appeared to say how he had picked it up. Mrs. Blexey, Madame Marie Eppingrave, and two of the Grange servants were then called to depose that the paper-cutter with the jade handle, found in the flat by Bruge; and produced in Court, was the same that had lain on Sir Oliver's writing-table in the library, wherein the crime had been committed. Thus the jury, and indeed everyone else, believed that Agstone had murdered his master, and then had brought the knife up to Alexander Mansions, presumably to kill Shepworth; but, of course, the question as to who had killed Agstone was not touched upon.

The final witness was Dr. Horace, and he dealt entirely with the questions of the perfumed smoke alluded to by the prisoner and by Shepworth. Producing a grotesque brown root and several stems covered with purple leaves, more or less withered, the doctor deposed that it was a certain plant growing in Easter Island, and nowhere else, so far as he knew. The natives gave it no name, but termed it "The Sacred Herb," and it was used by their priests to induce trances, in which the spirit was supposed to leave the body, and appear before the gods incarnate—so to speak—in the gigantic statues of the island.

Belmain (for the prosecution): "Did you give any portion of this herb to Sir Oliver Lanwin?"

Witness (emphatically): "No! I was acquainted with Sir Oliver in the South Seas, but I never met him in England. We did not get on well together, and were better apart."

Belmain: "Then how did Sir Oliver become possessed of this herb, which, by your own showing, is to be found only in Easter Island?"

Witness: "I cannot say how Sir Oliver got the herb. Of course, he was sailing the South Seas for years, and probably went to Easter Island. If he did, he certainly would have secured a portion of the herb from the native priests, seeing that he took so profound an interest in occult matters."

Belmain: "Then you think that Sir Oliver was experimenting with the herb when prisoner entered the library?"

Witness: "I think it extremely likely, considering the presence of the white smoke, and the tuberose perfume, which is exactly the kind of scent given off by the herb when burnt. The fumes of the herb would choke prisoner in the way she stated, and reduce her to unconsciousness."

Belmain (significantly): "To complete unconsciousness?"

Witness: "I think so, seeing that she was not accustomed to the smoke of the herb. A slight smoke would place anyone in a cataleptic state merely, but a dense smoke would take away all consciousness. It did so apparently in the case of Miss Chent, and although Mr. Shepworth was simply cataleptic at first, the waving of the bronze cup under his nose plunged him into the deeper state."

Belmain: "How did Agstone become possessed of the herb to burn in Alexander Mansions?"

Witness: "I really cannot tell you. Perhaps he went to Easter Island with his master, and got some leaves of the herb; or it might be that, when taking the knife away from the library, he also secured the leaves which were lying on Sir Oliver's desk."

Belmain (quickly): "How do you know the leaves were there?"

Witness (coolly): "I am only surmising. If Lanwin was experimenting with the herb, he must have got out his packet of leaves and roots. I expect, not being used to the herb, he was reduced either to catalepsy or to unconsciousness, and while thus helpless was murdered."

Belmain: "By Steve Agstone?"

Witness: "I am not prepared to say." (Very dryly.)

"A very improper question," rebuked the judge; and Belmain sat down feeling that he had not scored off this rugged witness.

Before Dr. Horace left the witness-box the judge, prompted by the foreman of the jury, requested him to burn some leaves of the herb at once. "But do not reduce us to a state of catalepsy," said the judge, with a smile; "we have to finish our business, you know."

A china plate was brought, and on this Horace gravely laid two or three leaves of the Sacred Herb. On applying a match, a thick curl of pungent white smoke arose, like a summer cloud, and the odour of tuberoses was perceptibly indicated in the heavy atmosphere of the Court. Prelice, who was standing near the witness-box, and so smelt the perfume very strongly, suddenly felt sick, and swiftly pushed his way into the fresh air. He was inclined to faint, being susceptible to odours, and but that a good Samaritan addicted to alcohol had produced a flask of brandy, he would have become unconscious. When quite restored, he thought how very powerful the herb was, when even so slight a breath of the smoke could muddle his senses. No wonder that Miss Chent and Sir Oliver and Shepworth had become unconscious when the full power of the burning purple leaves was poured through the rooms.

Prelice did not feel inclined to re-enter the Court, and sat outside in the vestibule, smoking a cigarette. Here he was joined by Captain Jadby, which rather surprised the young man, as he thought that the sailor's love for Mona Chent would have kept him in the Court. Also, Prelice was surprised when Jadby approached him in quite a friendly way, and with an apology.

"I hope you have forgiven me for my rudeness last night, Lord Prelice," was his ingratiating remark.

"I never gave it another thought," retorted Prelice brusquely. "Pray do not apologise again. You did so last night."

"Thank you," said Jadby, smiling all over his smooth, feline face. "I am glad that you take it in such a spirit. By the way, I never knew that you were acquainted with Dr. Horace."

Prelice stared at this impertinent remark. "Very probably," he said stiffly, "but then you know nothing about me."

"I know that you went to Easter Island, Lord Prelice. I heard of your visit when I went there myself."

"Oh," said Prelice alertly, "then you visited the Island also."

"I have just said so," rejoined Jadby coolly, "but I did not bring away any of the herb, if that is what you mean."

"It is not what I mean," said the other, wondering why Jadby should say such a thing. "I don't accuse you of murdering Sir Oliver, even though you inherit the property."

He was thus pointed and rude to get rid of the smiling man before him, as he felt the same antipathy to Jadby as he would have done to a cat, the one animal which Prelice could not endure. But the sailor was not at all annoyed, or if he was, did not show it. Rather did he smile in a very satisfied way. "Yes, I do inherit the property," he remarked, "and there is a good reason why I should."

"Really," observed Prelice, considering what the reason might be, but unwilling to ask.

"Yes, really," retorted the captain, still smiling; "of course, I am sorry for Miss Chent, but when she marries me all will be well."

"You forget, sir. She marries Mr. Shepworth."

"They are engaged," replied Jadby, with a shrug, "but I do not think that they will ever be married. Mrs. Rover——"

Prelice interrupted imperiously. "What do you mean by mentioning Mrs. Rover's name in this connection?" he demanded, flushing.

"Oh," said Jadby, with his hateful smile, "I understood that you and Mr. Shepworth were intimate friends. Good-day!" And before Prelice could stop him, Captain Jadby had vanished amidst the crowd, leaving, like the wasp he was, a sting behind him.

Prelice frowned. He recollected Shepworth's blush, Lady Sophia's remarks, and now considered Captain Jadby's hint. It would seem that his friend was either in love with Mrs. Dolly Rover or was entangled in some way. If that was the case, he could not possibly love Mona, and if he did not—— Prelice's face grew crimson, and his eyes brightened. Then he shook himself free of the thought. Jadby was implying that Shepworth was behaving dishonourably, and Prelice could not bring himself to believe that such was the case. He had known Ned too long to doubt him. All the same, he felt that an explanation would clear the air, and concluded to ask Shepworth for one as delicately as possible. Upon that explanation would depend his future movements.

Lord Prelice walked up and down the vestibule, musing on Mona, on her perilous position, on Shepworth's possible entanglement with Mrs. Rover, late Miss Constance Newton, and on the enigmatic hints of Dr. Horace dealing with the mysterious cases, in which friendship had involved him. Thus thinking, he lost all note of time, and it was only when a Court official came to turn on the electrics that he became aware of the passing of time. Glancing at his watch, he found that it was several hours since he had left the Court, and he determined to enter again, and hear the speeches of the Counsel for the Defence and Prosecution. But just as he turned in the direction of the Court he heard a cheer, and an excited throng of people poured out. In two minutes Prelice was in possession of the news, and learned that Mona Chent had been acquitted. She was free.

[CHAPTER XI.]

DR. HORACE'S WARNING.

When London was made acquainted with the verdict, the majority of people were satisfied that justice had been done. Miss Chent's behaviour while in the dock, the open sympathy of the Grange servants, the occurrence of the second murder, so similar in all respects to the first, and the evidence of Horace with regard to the anæsthetic properties of the Sacred Herb of Easter Island, went far to enlist the public in favour of the accused girl. Perhaps, also, her youth and brilliant beauty had something to do with the loudly expressed pleasure of those who read in the newspapers that she had been set free.

Of course, there were the usual malcontents, who agreed with no one, and wrote to the journals stating that the verdict was wrong. A communication to The Daily Telegraph insisted that Miss Client must have lied, declaring that she fell senseless while unfastening the window for fresh air. If it had been the case Captain Jadby would have found her lying near the window, whereas she was discovered in the armchair near the fire, some distance away. But a supporter of the late prisoner replied to this by pointing out that the murderer of Sir Oliver undoubtedly had picked up the girl while she was insensible, and placed her in the chair. The first correspondent retorted that Sir Oliver was dead, and his murderer conspicuous by his absence, when Miss Chent entered the library, and so could not have shifted her from the floor on to the chair. To this the defending writer wrote that there was no proof of Sir Oliver being dead when Miss Chent entered, as it was apparent that the fumes of the herb had drugged him into insensibility, and therefore the murderer must have entered later to kill the baronet, and remove his niece from the place where she fell, by her own showing, to the chair in which she was discovered by Captain Jadby. And so the war of letter-writing went on; and although Mona was free from the danger of hanging, her character was still stained, in the opinion of some people, with the blood of her uncle.

Prelice was furious when he read this correspondence, but, on the face of it, did not see how he could defend Mona, since he had no evidence to bring forward in her favour. On the testimony of the knife it was generally considered that Agstone had murdered his master, and then had come to Alexander Mansions to kill the barrister. But, of course, both Shepworth and his friend, knowing the true story of how the knife came into Agstone's possession, were by no means certain that the old sailor was guilty. The mystery of Sir Oliver's death was no longer one to the public—as everyone had been misled by the suppression of the evidence dealing with the knife—but it continued to be one to those who had suppressed that same evidence. But of one thing Lord Prelice was certain—namely, that Mona's character would have to be completely cleared by the discovery of the real criminal.

With this idea in his mind, he went next day to Alexander Mansions, and learned—somewhat to his surprise—that Shepworth was within. Inspector Bruge informed him of this at a chance meeting on the stairs, and affably told the constable guarding the door of Number Forty that Lord Prelice was to be admitted to see the prisoner. "Not that he is a prisoner," said Bruge, nodding; "we are merely detaining Mr. Shepworth until the inquest is held on the body of Agstone."

"When does the inquest take place?" asked Prelice, lingering to ask necessary questions.

"To-morrow, at three o'clock in the afternoon, at the Greyhound Hotel, Kensington. Beyond the fact that the jury will bring in a verdict of wilful murder against some person, or persons, unknown, I don't think that we—the police that is, my lord—can give any evidence to indicate the assassin of Agstone."

"Then why accuse Mr. Shepworth?"

"I don't accuse him."

"If you don't, why arrest him?"

"It is best to be on the safe side," said Bruge dryly; "and notwithstanding what Mr. Shepworth may have written to you, my lord, the arrest has not taken place. He is merely detained, pending the inquest."

"And under suspicion?" flashed out Prelice loyally.

The Inspector shrugged his square shoulders. "If you like to put it in that way," he said indifferently.

"But it is absurd to suspect Mr. Shepworth," cried Prelice excitedly; "many people saw him insensible, in the same way that Miss Chent was insensible. If she is guiltless—and a competent jury have acquitted her—Mr. Shepworth also must be innocent. The evidence of Dr. Horace——"

"Quite so, my lord," interrupted Bruge, with rather a bored air; "but all that will be discussed at the inquest. We need not enter into it now, considering we have insufficient premises to go upon."

"If anyone murdered Agstone——"

"Which they certainly did, since no man can stab himself in the back."

"It must have been the lady seen by Mr. Shepworth," finished Prelice.

"Hum! That might have been a hallucination."

"And the moon may be made of cream cheese," retorted Prelice heatedly.

"It may be," assented Bruge gravely; "I know no reason to the contrary, my lord. But this talk leads to nothing, and I am very busy. Go in and see your friend. You will find Dr. Horace with him."

"Dr. Horace?" echoed the young man, staring.

Inspector Bruge nodded. "So you may guess that, when thus permitted to see his friends, Mr. Shepworth is not a legitimate prisoner. By the way," added Bruge formally as he took his leave, "I am delighted that Miss Chent has been acquitted."

"Of course. She is innocent."

"Entirely innocent in my opinion, and very beautiful also. Mr. Shepworth is a lucky man, my lord. Good-day."

The Inspector descended the stairs, leaving Prelice somewhat puzzled. The young man could not quite determine whether Bruge believed Shepworth to be innocent or guilty. At one time he said one thing; again, he hinted at another. However, it was useless to ponder over the enigma; so Prelice entered the flat, after a word or two with the uniformed Cerberus who guarded the door, and was conducted by a somewhat pale parlour-maid to the library. Here he found Dr. Horace, looking more uncivilised than ever, in deep conversation with Ned. The latter sprang up when his friend entered. Shepworth had lost some of his ruddy colour, and his eyes had dark circles under them. Otherwise he appeared to be quite composed, and not at all like a man accused of a serious crime. And in spite of Bruge's protestations, Prelice believed that the Inspector did so accuse him, mentally at all events.

"You are just in time, Prelice," cried Shepworth, grasping the new-comer's hand warmly; "in addition to the mysteries of these murders we have another to solve in the person of our friend here."

"There's no mystery about me," said Horace gruffly. "I merely advise you to leave matters as they stand."

Prelice looked as astonished as Shepworth. "But I say," he cried, "you wanted to take a hand in the game yourself, Horace."

"I have taken a hand," retorted the doctor coolly, "and I have won. My aim was to save Miss Chent from being unjustly convicted; for whomsoever murdered Lanwin, I am convinced that she is innocent. As she is now free, and the prevailing opinion seems to be that Agstone is guilty, why stir up muddy water and waken sleeping dogs?"

"You forget," said Shepworth rather tartly, "that I have to be cleared myself. Bruge says that I am innocent, but the fact that he has practically arrested me proves that he thinks the contrary."

Horace, who was smoking his ungainly German pipe, shook his shaggy head vigorously. "When the inquest takes place, you will be discharged without a stain on your character. That being the case, my advice to you is a speedy marriage with Miss Chent, who is also free. Don't bother your head further about these two murders."

When Horace mentioned marriage with Mona so pointedly Prelice darted a side glance at his chum, bearing in mind the hints of Captain Jadby and Lady Sophia. As he expected, Shepworth coloured and looked confused. "At present I am not rich enough to marry Mona," he said in a halting way; "and by the burning of the will she loses the property."

Horace chuckled silently. "Which goes to Captain Jadby?"

"Yes. The earlier will comes into force now that the latter one has been destroyed."

"In that case," observed Horace, complacently puffing at his pipe, "I should advise her to marry Captain Jadby."

Shepworth, still looking uneasy, went to stare out of the window, and it was Prelice who replied. "I'm hanged if she'll do that."

"Why not?" inquired the doctor, with a keen glance. "Jadby has the money by Shepworth's showing; he isn't bad-looking, and he loves her devotedly. Also, it was Sir Oliver's wish."

"Jadby's a cattish ruffian," cried Prelice warmly, and with a sudden access of colour; "we don't know where he comes from or——"

"From the South Seas, my old son."

"Or who he is," continued Prelice impetuously. "It would be a shame that so delightful a girl should marry a shady buccaneer. Ned, you are engaged to Miss Chent—why don't you speak?"

"There is nothing to say," replied the barrister somewhat coldly. "If Miss Chent will take me, a pauper as I am, I shall only be too charmed to make her my wife."

Prelice raised his eyebrows. A conviction was forcing itself upon him that Ned had no real love for the girl. But if that was the case, why had he become engaged to her; why had he so vigorously defended her of late? Then there was Mrs. Dolly Rover; but Prelice knew nothing about that mysterious lady, as he had not seen her since returning to London. He had half a mind then and there to demand an explanation from Ned; but the presence of Dr. Horace restrained him, and with an afterthought of wisdom, he determined to interview Mrs. Rover herself before coming to an understanding with the barrister.

As it was therefore unnecessary to pursue the subject, and as already Horace was asking him mutely why he should take such an interest in an engaged young lady, Prelice changed the subject by an attack on the doctor himself. "I can't understand why you should wish to abandon the search into these cases when you were so keen yesterday to run the show on your own."

Horace quite understood the slang of the concluding remark. "I merely quoted a proverb about letting sleeping dogs lie," he said coolly.

"Why? Are you afraid for a certain person?" questioned Prelice, meaning Agstone and the listener's relationship with Agstone.

"Oh no," retorted the doctor, quite aware of what Prelice was referring to. "The person you hint at is dead, and everyone believes him guilty of the first murder. It doesn't matter who killed him, as Shepworth here is sure to be acquitted. I don't care a damn one way or the other, as you will respect my confidence."

"What confidence?" asked the barrister suddenly.

"One that I made to Prelice here," said the doctor dryly; then heaving up his squat figure from the armchair, he waddled towards the door. There he paused, and addressed himself to Prelice: "If you go on prying into this matter," he said, with uplifted finger, "you will be very, very sorry, my son."

"What do you mean?"

"Gammon and spinach," said Horace, again enigmatic, and hurled himself out of the room, still smoking his unwieldy pipe. The two young men stared at one another.

"Is he mad?" asked Shepworth.

"Mad like Hamlet, south-sou'west," rejoined the other in a vexed tone; "unless he is in league with that Jadby bounder, whom he knew in the South Seas, I don't know what he means by backing out."

"But surely you don't suspect Jadby?" asked Ned, startled.

"Why not? He was at Mrs. Rover's ball."

"Nonsense. She doesn't know him!"

"Remember the jewel robberies," said Prelice dryly; "a great number of people unknown to host or hostess were at that ball."

"But Jadby!" Shepworth bit his fingers perplexedly. "You can't suspect him? He came and saw me, and then went away. It was a woman whom Agstone brought in. She must have killed Agstone."

Prelice shrugged his shoulders, and sauntered about the room.

"Perhaps!" he remarked carelessly, sauntering about the room. "I certainly have no reason to suspect Jadby, save that he was at the ball."

"How do you know?"

"He was one of the crowd that rushed in to see you insensible, and he wore a domino and mask, as did the rest of them."

"Then how did you spot him?"

"He unmasked."

"That shows his innocence," declared Shepworth quickly, "for if he had come to the ball to slip down and murder Agstone, he would not have revealed himself."

"Hum! Hum! Perhaps not." Prelice threw himself into a chair. "However, I shall keep an eye on Jadby."

"Then you are still searching into the case?"

"Into both cases," corrected the other, lighting a cigar; "I want to learn who killed Lanwin, and who murdered Agstone."

"Out of friendship for me," cried Shepworth, grasping his chum's hand. "You are a brick, Dorry."

Prelice returned the grasp, but blushed a trifle. He knew that love for Mona prompted the desire to search, as much as friendship for the man before him. If he could only understand Shepworth's attitude towards the girl and towards Mrs. Rover! Again it was on the tip of his tongue to ask a leading question, but he suppressed the desire, and kept to his earlier resolution to see the lady in the flat overhead.

"By the way," said Prelice carelessly, "have you seen Miss Chent?"

"No," answered Shepworth rather ruefully. "I wish I could have seen her, but Bruge hurried me away from the Court to keep me as a kind of state prisoner here. However, Mona wrote me a short note thanking me for all I had done, and said that she was going down to Lanwin Grange."

"But if that belongs to Jadby——"

"The will isn't proved yet," interrupted the barrister quickly, "and until it is, Mr. Martaban thinks Mona should stop at the Grange."

"Mr. Martaban?"

"The late Sir Oliver's lawyer—a kind, clever old chap. He has taken Mona down to the Grange; and Mrs. Blexey, who is devoted to her, will look after the poor girl until I am free to visit her."

"You'll go down, of course," said Prelice nervously.

"Oh yes; as soon as the inquest is over and Bruge sets me free. I do not see how I can be arrested. But meanwhile, Dorry, you could do me a great favour?"

Prelice raised his eyes. "What is that?"

"Go down at once to Hythe and see Mona."

"But I don't know her," said Prelice, taken aback, although his face grew hot and his heart bounded at the idea of meeting this adorable girl, with whom he now knew himself to be in love.

"I'll give you a card of introduction. Tell her that I'm all right and will be down as soon as I can."

"All right," assented Prelice, feeling a guilty joy in thus yielding to a delightful temptation. "But the case?"

"That can look after itself until the inquest is over. Then, when I have seen Mona, and her future is settled by Martaban—her living and income and all that I mean—we can look into matters. I am as keen as you are to get at the truth of these two murders, Dorry. We can dispense with Horace."

"I wish I knew exactly why he backed out," muttered Prelice thoughtfully; "it is so unlike Horace to jib."

"Perhaps he has something to do with the matter himself, seeing that he possessed the Sacred Herb," said Shepworth jocularly.

"Nonsense. Horace would kill one man and a dozen men in fair fight, but he's not the chap to stick anyone in the back. By the way, tell me one thing, Ned. This lady, who came in with Agstone, and waved the cup under your nose to make you insensible—she wore a green mask, you said?"

"Yes; and a green domino also."

Prelice nodded. "Did you catch a glimpse of her frock by any chance, or did your senses fail you?"

"They did not fail me too quickly. I did see her frock. It was a white dress with thin lines of red running horizontally across it."

"Many lines?" asked Prelice breathlessly.

"It seemed to be ruled like a page of music," said Shepworth. "Why, what is the matter?"

"Matter!" echoed Prelice, who had risen and was dancing round the room like a school-boy. "What you say gives me a clue. I saw that dress at the ball. The lady who wore it was scented with tuberoses——"

"With tuberoses?"

"Or with the Sacred Herb. I must find out who she is."

"How can you?"

"I don't know. I can't say. But if we can find her we may learn if she killed Agstone, and why she did it. That discovery will lead to learning who murdered Lanwin. It is the beginning of the end. Give up the case indeed!" cried Prelice exultantly—"why, it's the only thing that renders life in London bearable."

"But do you think that this lady is guilty?" asked Shepworth doubtfully.

"Of course I do. Otherwise, why should she be scented with the perfume of the Sacred Herb, which has to do with both crimes?"

Shepworth shook his head, unable to answer this question.

[CHAPTER XII.]

MRS. DOLLY ROVER.

Shortly after the reference to the unknown lady, Lord Prelice took a hasty leave. There was nothing more to be said, as matters up to date had been threshed out thoroughly between them. Until the inquest had been held on the body of Agstone, and Shepworth's immediate future was decided, no move could be made towards elucidating the mysteries. Moreover, Prelice was mortally afraid lest Shepworth should alter his mind about making him ambassador to Miss Chent at Hythe. Strong-willed as the young man was, when he chose to exercise that same will he could not deny himself the pleasure of being in Mona's company, if only for ten minutes. Besides, he very much wished to learn if she truly loved Ned, for by this time he felt sure that Ned had no very deep affection for her.

In his hurry to catch a train to Hythe, Prelice quite forgot his determination to see Mrs. Rover, and learn how matters stood between her and the barrister. But the powers that direct the actions of men, and the lives that are made by such actions, brought about a meeting with the lady almost immediately. After shaking hands with the pseudo-prisoner, Prelice left the flat, to find Mrs. Rover arguing vehemently with the constable posted at the outer door. She wished to enter and see Shepworth; the constable, pursuant to strict orders, was trying to point out that his duty lay in stopping her, a point which Mrs. Rover obstinately refused to see.

"I wish to enter," she kept repeating. "It is necessary that I should see Mr. Shepworth, and——"

"Will I do instead?" said Prelice, suddenly appearing at the open door.

"Dorry!" cried Mrs. Rover, giving him the pet name of his youth. "What are you doing here?"

"I am talking to you," said the young man, shaking hands, "but just now I have been chatting with Ned."

"Then why can't I chat with him also?" demanded the lady.

Prelice shrugged his shoulders. "Ned is allowed to see no one, unless Inspector Bruge gives permission."

"What rubbish! Let me go in!" And Mrs. Rover, in a flaming temper, tried to push past the policeman.

"You can't, ma'am," he said firmly and respectfully; adding to the pale parlour-maid, who still lingered, out of sheer curiosity: "Close that door straight away."

"I'll report you," cried Mrs. Rover, when she saw the door practically banged in her angry face.

"All right, ma'am. But dooty is dooty."

"Constance! Constance!" whispered Prelice, touching her arm. "Don't make an exhibition of yourself before the servants. The man is only doing his duty. Come upstairs, and we can have a chat."

"What about?" demanded Mrs. Rover swiftly; and Prelice saw, or thought he saw, a glint of fear in her eyes.

"Well," he answered, smiling, "I have not had an opportunity of talking to you since I returned to town, so it is natural that I should wish for a short conversation."

Mrs. Rover, who apparently was an extremely obstinate woman, paused irresolutely, looking at the stolid policeman with a battle light in her eyes. But the constable met her gaze firmly, so finding that feminine persistence could do nothing in the face of an official barrier, she turned away biting her lip. "Come upstairs, Dorry," she said, beginning to ascend; "I can do nothing with that fool."

Prelice smiled at this Parthian arrow, and slipped a florin into the constable's hand to pacify him for the parting insult. Then he ran up after the lady, and reached her on the next landing. "You ought to be pleased, Constance," he said slyly; "you've had the last word."

"I should like to have had the last half-dozen," she retorted, putting a Yale latch-key into the lock.

"I think that you have even achieved that," replied Prelice dryly. "It is extraordinary that women never will learn that the law is stronger than sheer temper."

"I am not in a temper," snapped Mrs. Rover, sweeping into her flat. "I never was calmer in my life—never, never, never."

"I am quite content to believe that," said her companion acidly; for as Constance Newton, Mrs. Rover had not been noted for imperturbability. It was all the better, in Prelice's opinion, that her temperament should be thus fiery, as he would discover from her rash tongue much that a more cautious and composed woman would withhold. Moreover, Constance and her visitor had been friends for many a long year—witness her calling him Dorry—and she was accustomed to speak frankly to him about her troubles. Had Prelice been in England when the stockbroker was courting the lady, it is doubtful if Constance would ever have become Mrs. Rover. And Prelice strongly suspected that Mr. Rover found Ned Shepworth an inconvenient third in his married state.

"You are looking very well, Constance," said Prelice when the two were seated in the drawing-room, which was more gorgeous than artistic.

"I'm not well then. I'm nearly worried to death."

"So sorry. Tell me all about it."

"I'll do nothing of the sort."

"I beg your pardon. Let us chat about the weather."

"Do you think that I have time to waste in discussing barometers?" She rose, impetuously.

"Don't know, I'm sure," replied Prelice, keeping his temper admirably.

"Well then, I haven't."

"Would it do any good if I gave you a thorough shaking?"

"Yes, it would. If Dolly shook me I should respect him; but he lets me lead him the life of a dog, and doesn't even bark, much less bite."

"I see, you prefer a bull-dog to a poodle."

"Ned isn't a——" Mrs. Rover stopped in the centre of the room, grew red, and could have bitten out her tongue for so incautious a speech. "What rubbish you talk!" she said, trying to smile carelessly.

Prelice looked at her gravely. "I hope you are talking rubbish too."

"I wish I were dead and buried!" whispered Mrs. Rover, and once more sat down to burst into violent tears.

Expert in the handling of the sex, Prelice knew better than to offer a single word of consolation. He lay back in his chair, quietly watching the progress of the storm. Mrs. Rover was going through the usual programme of upset woman. She had raged, now she wept, and would shortly be offering an apology for her conduct on the plea of nerves.

Constance had certainly grown into a handsome woman. When Prelice had left England seven years before she was merely a school-girl, very gawky and very awkward. Now she appeared tall, majestic, and beautiful after the voluptuous style of Juno, Queen of Olympus. Her hair and eyes were dark, her features delicate and regular, and her figure was finely formed, even if a trifle inclined to stoutness, as it assuredly was. Prelice had somewhere seen an old print of Catherine II. of Russia, and it struck him that Mrs. Rover greatly resembled the Empress, although she was undeniably a more lovely woman. It was unfortunate that her face should have been marred by a sullen expression, hinting at a superlatively bad temper. But many people—unobservant as most people are—never noted this defect. They only saw before their ravished eyes a handsome, well-bred, graceful woman, perfectly dressed, and quite able to hold her own in the most exacting society. Yes, Constance had improved greatly. Prelice admitted that, but he wished to find out if she possessed the same beauty of character as of person. From what he had heard and what he had seen, he had grave doubts on this point.

"Pray excuse me," said Mrs. Rover, offering the expected social apology in a faint voice. "I'm rather upset; my nerves are out of order. The season has been trying, and then that horrid ball bowled me over, with its robberies and murders; not to speak of Dolly, who is—who is—— Oh, I don't know what he is."

"Do you think it is good taste to discuss your husband with me?" asked Prelice rather tartly.

"You are the only true friend I have in the world, Dorry."

"Then you have made no acquaintances since I left England seven years ago, Constance?"

"Oh, acquaintances?" she echoed contemptuously, rolling her damp handkerchief into a ball. "I have hundreds of these. But a friend—oh, Dorry, there isn't a single person I'd trust with a shoe-lace."

"He or she would not thank you if you did," replied Prelice, smiling; "a shoe-lace is not good security for anything."

"That's just it," wailed Mrs. Rover, dabbing her red eyes with the handkerchief; "people like one for what they can get out of one. But there isn't a soul to help me—poor me."

"Won't Ned?" asked her companion very deliberately.

Mrs. Rover darted a keen glance at him, and rose to alter the position of her hat in front of the mirror over the fireplace. Prelice knew quite well that she was watching him in the mirror, and carefully smoothed all expression out of his good-humoured face. "Ned!" repeated Mrs. Rover, patting her back hair; "oh yes, Ned, of course. Do you think they will hang him?" she demanded, wheeling round, rather white, and breathing hard.

"Good heavens, no. What put that into your head?"

"He isn't allowed to see me. The arrest——"

"Ned hasn't been arrested. The fact that he was seen insensible by heaps of people proves his innocence. Bruge is simply detaining him as a necessary witness, although I admit that Bruge is taking a somewhat high hand in the matter. Don't bother your head about Ned, Constance. He'll soon be free to marry that girl."

"Mona Chent!" Mrs. Rover clenched her hands, and breathed still harder, while Prelice anxiously watched the effect of his deliberate introduction of the name. "Oh yes." She went off into a meaningless trill of laughter. "She's free, isn't she? Lucky girl, for I quite believe that she killed her uncle."

"Why do you believe that?" demanded Prelice.

"Everyone says so."

"Everyone does not say so. The majority of people think that the verdict is a just one. I do myself."

"Do you know her?"

"No. What has that to do with it?"

"You won't like her when you do know her," said Mrs. Rover spitefully. "She's a horrid girl; I never liked her."

"That's a pity; you won't be able to visit Ned's wife."

"She isn't his wife yet," breathed Mrs. Rover, trying to keep her temper in check; "perhaps she never will be."

"Oh," Prelice spoke with calculated daring and cruelty, "do you then think that Mr. Rover will die?"

"You coward—you——" She broke off. "What do you mean by that?"

"I would rather you explained, Constance."

"I have nothing to explain. Did you come here to insult me?"

"Of course," replied Prelice, rising; "and now that I have done so, I may as well take my leave."

She seized him by the lapels of his coat before he could reach the door. "Don't go, don't go," she panted; "I do so want a friend. I'll tell you all; you shall know everything."

"If it is against your husband, I sha'n't listen."

"You shall! Sit down, and hear what I have to say."

Prelice was a strong young man, but for the moment her feminine strength prevailed, and he found himself forced into his former seat.

"I wouldn't say what I'm going to say to everyone," panted Mrs. Rover, who was very strongly moved, "but, even though we have been apart for so many years, I still regard you as my best friend. You and I were boy and girl together, Dorry—you remember——"

"Ned also," interposed Prelice pointedly.

"Yes! Yes. Of course. I always loved Ned."

"Constance, what are you saying?"

She rose, and beat her hands together. "The truth—the truth! I liked you, Dorry, I always liked you, but I loved Ned, and I shall love him until I die!" She looked like a tragedy queen.

Prelice grew impatient, being a very matter-of-fact young man. "Don't be melodramatic, Constance. Sit down, and explain quietly."

With that wonderful adaptability of women, at which man never ceases to marvel, Mrs. Rover sat down, and composed herself with a violent effort. When next she spoke it was in so cold and icy a tone that Prelice, had his eyes been closed, could have sworn that another person had joined in the dialogue. "You know that my father, the General, was not rich, and that my mother was extravagant. I was the only child, and my parents wished me to make a wealthy marriage, so that their affairs might be put right. That is, my mother wished it, for my father, dear old man, desired me to consult my own heart. I did, and it told me to marry Ned. We were half engaged. My father was willing in spite of his difficulties, but my mother would not consent. Ned was poor, you know; he had only five hundred a year of his own, and has not yet made a success at the Bar. Then Dolly Rover came along." She stopped, and bit her lip, while her hands moved restlessly, as though boxing her husband's ears.

"What about Mr. Rover?" asked Prelice soothingly.

Then the natural woman came out, and she rose in a rage. "I hate Dolly like poison," she cried, pacing up and down the room, twisting her hands together; "he's a horrid, sneaky little cur, who——"

"Don't abuse your husband, Constance," interrupted Prelice impatiently; "it does no good. You married him of your own free will."

"I did nothing of the sort. I married him to save my father from going through the Bankruptcy Court. It would have broken his heart, dear old father, and he would have died. Dolly knew that I hated him, and that I loved Ned. But he demanded his price, like the mean dog that he is. My mother was on his side too, and I could not bear to see my father suffer. I parted with Ned, and married Dolly. That is, I sold myself, on condition that father's debts were paid. I kept to my part of the bargain——"

"And didn't your husband keep to his?"

"No," Mrs. Rover stamped violently; "he paid a portion of the debts; enough to avert bankruptcy merely. But he left father the worry, and of that worry father died. My mother has married again—a rich man—so she is happy. And here am I tied to Dolly—ugh! the name—while my heart is breaking for Ned."

"It is a hard case," said Prelice, sorry for the miserable woman; "still, your self-respect, Constance."

"That is right—preach, preach, preach. So like a man," she mocked. "I have kept my self-respect as you term it. I am a good wife to Dolly, although I detest him. I have never said a word against him to anyone, and I wouldn't to you, but that I must speak or suffocate. I can trust you, Dorry, and you understand how I feel, and what I feel. I love Ned. I want to marry Ned, and here I'm tied to—to——"

Prelice interrupted. "It is hard on you, Constance, I admit," he said, "but you must make the best of it. You say that you lead your husband the life of a dog."

"Of a pet dog, of a poodle. He's so meek and mild and sneaky that I can't respect him. He merely sniggers when I grow angry, and chuckles how he got the best of me over the marriage by not paying all father's debts. Oh, what is the use of talking! I love Ned, and Ned loves me."

Prelice jumped up. "I can't believe that," he declared, growing angry, "for Ned is engaged to Miss Chent. If he loves you, why is he——"

"Don't ask questions," interrupted Mrs. Rover angrily; "or if you must ask them, go to Ned; or better still, to Mona Chent herself."

"What can I ask Miss Chent?" demanded Prelice sharply.

"It's very warm weather," mocked Mrs. Rover, "and I think there will be a thunder-storm."

The young man looked at her, and saw her mouth set obstinately. He knew as well as if she had spoken that there was nothing more to be got out of her for the time being. But what she had said made him all the more determined to see Miss Chent, and learn the truth about the engagement to Shepworth. Meanwhile he took the wind out of Mrs. Rover's sails by falling in with her humour. "It will be a good thing if it does thunder and rain," he remarked, glancing out of the window; "it will clear the air."

Mrs. Rover looked as though she would have struck him, but being unable to parry his thrust, threw herself sulkily on the sofa. Prelice took up hat and gloves to depart, but halted at the door with premeditated craft. A sudden thought had struck him. "Constance," he said in a natural tone, "I am in love."

"Indeed," she said indifferently.

"Yes; with a lady who was at your ball."

The remark made her rouse herself, and she sat up with a look of curiosity. "Who is she?"

"I want you to tell me that. I could not see her face, and very little of her figure, owing to the domino, but she seemed to be so charming when we talked together"—this was a lie to gain information—"that I quite lost my heart."

"It's easy lost," said Mrs. Rover, curling her lip. "The woman may be as ugly as sin under her mask. How was she dressed?"

"In a green mask and domino," Mrs. Rover stiffened, "and with a white dress streaked with lines of red velvet. Why do you laugh?" he asked, for Mrs. Rover was trying to suppress her mirth.

"Why?" she cried, shaking with merriment, "because I wore that dress and mask and domino."

"You?" Prelice looked horrified.

"Yes. Why do you look at me like that?"

"You?" Prelice backed to the door in silent horror. He could not trust himself to speak, and finally disappeared, leaving Mrs. Rover petrified with amazement, perhaps with dread.

[CHAPTER XIII.]

LANWIN GRANGE.

In the exercise of his profession, a legitimate detective would have waited to question Mrs. Rover. Since she had said so much he would have forced her to say all, in order to get at the truth as speedily as possible; but Lord Prelice was new to the business, and his emotions were not entirely under control. On leaving Alexander Mansions he felt that he was in possession of a most dangerous and perilous secret, the publication of which would cause even a greater sensation than that produced by the crimes themselves. The shock of learning that Mrs. Rover was the woman who had been brought by Agstone into Number Forty was very great, and quite confused Prelice's usually strong brain. He did not dare to call again on Shepworth, lest he should say too much.

It will be seen that Prelice, being an untrained detective, jumped somewhat hastily to a conclusion. Mrs. Rover had admitted that she wore the dress, the mask, and the domino which Shepworth had seen on the unknown lady. But Constance did not know that Ned had so described her appearance, and, if she had, would probably not have admitted that she had assumed such a costume at her bal masque. But the mere fact that, even in ignorance of Shepworth's description, she had, as the saying goes, given herself away, should have proved to Lord Prelice that she could not be guilty. Had Mrs. Rover entered Number Forty in Agstone's company, and had she struck the blow, she assuredly would not have incriminated herself so unthinkingly. Rather would she have denied that the frock mentioned by Prelice belonged to her.

After the first shock, and while Prelice was in the train going to Hythe, he began to revise his earlier opinion on the above-mentioned grounds. His common-sense came to his aid, and told him that, if guilty, Mrs. Rover would not have confessed even to a half-truth. Certainly, had she not done so, her maid, knowing what dress her mistress wore at the ball, might have blurted out the secret; but then, so far as the world knew, no inquiry would have been made about the wearer of that especial frock.

Of course, assuming that in a thoughtless moment Mrs. Rover had foolishly confessed the truth, Prelice could find a motive for her behaviour in committing the crime. It might be that Agstone wished to kill Ned, and that Mrs. Rover, to save the life of the man she loved, had struck down the sailor unawares. Having committed the deed, she could easily slip back to her own flat, and mingle with the masked crowd.

But then again, as Prelice further argued, while the train drew near to the coast, Mrs. Rover must have known that in murdering Agstone she was not only securing the freedom of Mona Chent, whom she hated, but also was placing her lover in a dangerous position. Agstone was a necessary witness for the prosecution, whom Shepworth of all men did not wish to see placed in the box, so the supposition would be, were the man found dead in Number Forty, that Shepworth had killed him to save Mona Chent. As a matter of fact, this is exactly what had taken place, and in saving Ned from the sailor's knife Mrs. Rover, always presuming that she was guilty, had simply condemned her lover to a death on the scaffold. But that Prelice had been clever enough to admit the crowd of guests, so that all might see the barrister's helpless position, it is certain that the man would have been arrested, and probably sentenced to death, since it would have been extraordinarily difficult for him to clear his character in the face of circumstances. Therefore on these assumptions, for that they were and no more, Prelice after much reflection decided that Mrs. Rover was innocent.

Finally, the young man recollected that a woman dressed as described, by Ned, and in the costume which Mrs. Rover confessed to wearing, had passed down the stairs while he was waiting for entrance to Number Forty and immediately before the discovery of the crime. She could scarcely have been Mrs. Rover, for as that lady could have easily proved an alibi by returning to her guests and casually unmasking at the right moment, it would have been useless for her to leave the mansions. Of course, the lady—whether Mrs. Rover or a stranger—certainly might have followed Prelice down to the door, knowing that he would be certain to discover the tragedy, and might merely have descended to return to the ballroom overhead when the young man entered Shepworth's flat. But then, again, the person in question could not have known that Prelice, masked and unknown, was going to enter Number Forty, so there would be no reason to track him there. And to conclude, the murderess—if a woman was guilty—must have known that Shepworth, being in a cataleptic state, must have seen and remembered her very peculiar frock.

On the whole, Prelice arrived at certain conclusions, by no means inimical to Mrs. Rover, by the time he alighted at Hythe Station. He believed that Constance was innocent for four reasons. Firstly, if guilty, she would not have confessed to wearing the dress, since such a confession would necessarily lead to her detection. Secondly, by killing Agstone she would not only have placed Shepworth in a dangerous position, but by getting rid of an inconvenient witness would have enabled Mona to escape possible condemnation. Thirdly, she would not have followed an unknown man—as Prelice was by reason of his mask and domino—down the stairs with the intention of seeing what took place. Fourthly, and lastly, she would not have sought safety in an incriminating flight—as the similarly dressed woman on the stairs apparently had—when she would have been much safer in her own ballroom and amongst her own guests. Only by such a course could she have provided an alibi.

No! Mrs. Rover, in spite of her startling admission, was innocent, and the sole conclusion that Prelice could arrive at, was the existence of a double—outwardly at all events. He remembered the extraordinary ubiquity of the green domino in the red-streaked white dress, and decided, very naturally, that there was another woman in the field. But what woman possessed a motive sufficiently strong to urge her to murder Agstone? As Prelice felt quite worn out with arguing in Mrs. Rover's defence, he decided to leave the answering of this new question to the portentous moment, when further evidence might reveal the identity of the unknown lady. Meanwhile, on arriving at Hythe, he rested himself at a quiet hotel, and soothed his troubled brain with an hour's necessary sleep. Later on, after an invigorating bath and an excellent dinner, he started to walk towards Lanwin Grange.

It was summer, and romance was in the air—at least Prelice scented its presence by some sixth sense. He was going to see the girl he loved—the girl with whom he had not, as yet, exchanged a single word. Therefore, although past the peacock age, he was particularly attentive to his appearance when assuming his evening clothes. As he strolled inland along the leafy lanes, through the July warmth of the twilight, this somewhat premature wooer looked as comely and well groomed a swain as any damsel, not demanding an Apollo, could desire. And it was a great proof of Prelice's infatuation that, in looking forward to meeting Mona, he almost forgot that he was merely the emissary of the man to whom the girl was engaged. The whole position was extraordinarily queer. He adored this girl, without being personally acquainted with her; she was affianced to his best friend; and yet he could not be certain if that same best friend really loved the girl herself. Even a Palais Royal farce could offer no more fantastic complication than this. Prelice felt that, after running round the wild world in search of the unusual, he had returned to find Romance sitting on his doorstep.

The way to the family seat of the Lanwins twisted inland and uphill through deep lanes and umbrageous woods. On emerging high up from the belt of trees Prelice found himself on a wide, unshaded road, snaking over bare Downs. For some distance he toiled upward; then the road mounted a rise to slip down into a cup-shaped hollow brimmed with cultivated woods. In the midst of these he saw an old grey house, seemingly prevented from falling to pieces by the ivy which covered its mouldering walls. From the lips of the hollow stretched the rolling grassy Downs, dotted with nibbling sheep, grey in the shadows of the coming night. But it was not yet night, for the sky was filled with a luminous light, all-pervading, yet emanating from no certain point. A breathless peace brooded over the vast, treeless uplands, and an even deeper peace seemed to enwrap the ancient mansion. It appeared to be the veritable palace of the Sleeping Beauty, set amidst enchanted woods. And Prelice thrilled with the idea that Beauty herself, awake and unkissed, awaited some prince in the seclusion of her faery castle.

Following the road, which here grew somewhat narrower, Lord Prelice descended into the hollow, passed under the shade of overhanging trees, and came out into a kind of artificial glade, smooth with carefully tended lawns and brilliant with flowers. The Grange itself was somewhat sunken in the ground, entirely level with the lawns, and looked like part of the woods themselves, so clothed was it with darkly green ivy. There appeared a weather-worn escutcheon over the great doorway, and lights gleamed from oriel windows in the east wing. But to the left Prelice saw the three tall French windows opening on to a wide terrace which had been referred to at the trial. These windows appeared quite out of keeping with the Tudor architecture of the mansion, but the visitor eyed them with great interest. It was through one of those windows that Agstone and Jadby had looked, to see the tragedy of Sir Oliver's death. And had that not taken place Prelice might never have been brought into contact with the most charming girl in the world. His heart beat loudly as he rang the bell.

Afterwards Lord Prelice never could explain clearly how he had first come into the presence of his goddess. In a bewildered manner he waited in the antique hall, after delivering his card to a pompous footman, and in a bewildered manner was led into a long, low, wide drawing-room with oriels at the farther end, brilliant with family crests in stained glass. So far as he could recollect, he did not look at the cumbersome Georgian furniture, or at the aggressively modern grand piano, which seemed to be out of place, or at the portraits of cavaliers and their ladies decking the mellow-hued walls, or even at the painted ceiling, or the carpet tinted with rainbow colours, subdued by time to grateful sobriety: he had no eyes save for a tall slim girl arrayed in a white dress, with a somewhat pale, worn face, who welcomed him in the sweetest of voices and with the most grateful of smiles. "I am glad to see Ned's best friend," she said, and her voice sounded like faery music in the new-comer's ravished ears, "and to thank him."

"To thank me!" muttered Prelice, staring at the lovely face in the mellow lamplight.

"I saw you in that terrible Court," she said swiftly, "and the way in which you looked at me gave me comfort. Other people—my friends, they call themselves—stared as though I were a wild animal, but you, Lord Prelice——" She threw out her hands with an eloquent gesture full of grace. "Ned wrote and told me that you were his friend."

"I am here to be yours also," stuttered Prelice, suppressing a wild desire to kneel and worship.

"We are friends already. It does not need words to confirm a friendship offered and accepted mutely and with gratitude."

Prelice felt more bewildered than ever. Here was a girl so entirely unconventional that she defied the usages of Society, which prescribed the etiquette for a primary meeting between bachelor and maid. It was marvellously sweet to be thus greeted; but Prelice must have revealed his delighted surprise too clearly, for Miss Chent laughed. "I am afraid that my proffer of unasked-for friendship surprises you," she said, smilingly; "but, you see, my poor uncle instructed me somewhat in psychology, and I look at the inner, rather than the outer."

"You said yourself, Miss Chent, that the friendship was asked for in Court," said Prelice earnestly; "and it was. As Ned's best friend, I claim to be yours also. I bring a message from Ned."

"You shall deliver it presently," said Mona, turning to a stout, white-haired gentleman with a genial face who was standing near the window silently. "Just now you must allow me to introduce Mr. Martaban, another loyal friend. Also," she waved her hand towards a spindle-legged Versailles table as the two men shook hands, "you must have some coffee."

Prelice accepted gratefully, as he would have taken poison from the hands of this delightful girl, so long as she served it, as she did the coffee, with her own white hands. Martaban took a cup also, and resumed the seat from which he had arisen when Prelice entered. Miss Chent pointed out a chair to her visitor, and herself reclined on a Louis Treize sofa. Then the three began to talk on immediate and earthly matters, and Prelice was forced to descend from transcendental heights. In that room, at that hour, and in the presence of such an angel, it seemed desperately hard to abandon romance for reality. But there was no help for it.

"Ned's message?" questioned Mona anxiously.

"He is all right, and will be down as soon as he can get away," replied the emissary, delivering the exact words of his friend.

"Then you don't think that he is in danger of being accused of this second crime?"

"No, no!" interposed Martaban in a genial but authoritative voice. "I have told you before, and I tell you again, that, under the circumstances, no one can accuse Mr. Shepworth. And that," added the solicitor, bowing towards the young man, "is due, my lord, to your wise action in admitting the crowd to see Mr. Shepworth insensible."

Prelice nodded his thanks. "Ned is perfectly safe," he said quietly.

Mona clasped her hands with a thankful gesture. "I am so glad—I am so thankful," she whispered softly; "he has been a dear, good friend in standing by me, when I so sadly needed help."

"Oh!" Prelice was rather indignant. "Seeing that he is something more than a friend to you, Miss Chent, he could scarcely fail to lay himself and his life at your feet. It is only what an English gentleman would do to any lady he respected, much less loved."

Mona coloured, and turned aside her face, rather embarrassed by the impetuous outbreak of her lover's friend. "Both English gentlemen and English ladies held aloof when I was in danger," she said simply, "so you can understand how much I prize the friendship both of Ned, and of Mr. Martaban here, seeing that they never believed that I was guilty."

"No one could believe that," cried Prelice, still impetuous, and throwing his usual discretion to the winds; "the moment I set eyes on your face I knew that you were innocent."

Miss Chent coloured again, and rather retreated from the confidential attitude she had assumed. Prelice was going ahead too fast, and her womanly nature, in spite of occult training, was taking alarm. "I must say that, seeing you did not know me, the belief was somewhat rash," she rejoined coldly; "however, I thank you."

"And you will allow me to help you?" asked Prelice eagerly, but timidly.

"Help Miss Chent," said the lawyer, looking keenly at the young man's glowing face. "In what way?"

Prelice laid down his cup, crossed his legs, and delivered himself of his opinion. It was just as well that both Mona and Martaban should learn of his determination to enter into their lives. "Everyone is delighted, with few exceptions," he said somewhat incoherently to the girl, "that you have been acquitted. But some insist that you must be guilty. Forgive me for inflicting pain," he added rapidly, "but it is necessary, so that you may entirely understand me. You are safe from the law, Miss Chent, but, with some idiots, your character is not yet clear. Also Ned, in spite of the absurdity of the thing, may be accused of making away with Steve Agstone in your interests. In order to set everything right it is necessary for us to make certain who killed your uncle, and who killed the sailor."

"But Agstone killed Sir Oliver," said Martaban quickly; "the evidence of the paper-cutter, which——"

"Quite so, quite so," interrupted Lord Prelice hurriedly, and skating quickly over this thin ice, "but we can't prove Agstone's guilt, beyond all doubt, without further evidence. For Miss Chent's sake, the truth—whatever it may be—must be made public."

"And what do you think is the truth?" demanded Martaban, puzzled.

Prelice, bearing Mrs. Rover in mind, shuffled again. "I am not prepared to give an opinion off-hand," he replied politely. "But what I wish you and Miss Chent to understand is, that Ned Shepworth has accepted my services towards hunting down the author, or authors, of this double crime. I wish Miss Chent, if she will, to accept them also."

"Willingly and with gratitude," said Mona, extending her slim hand.

Prelice contrived to press it in a friendly way, and not kiss it, as he felt strongly inclined to do, but the effort was great. "Then we can go ahead," he said easily; "and as I am now admitted to the inner circle as it were, I should like to know exactly how matters stand. About you, Miss Chent, for instance. Do you remain here?"