Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page Scan Source: https://books.google.com/books?id=XdGhh1J46g4C
(University of Wisconsin--Madison)

THE SCARLET BAT

A Detective Story

By

FERGUS HUME

AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "THE GOLDEN IDOL,"
"THE WHEELING LIGHT," "MADAM MIDAS," "THE INDIAN BANGLE," ETC.

LONDON
F. V. WHITE & CO. LTD.
14 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1905

THE SCARLET BAT

[CHAPTER I]

SOWING THE WIND

"I say you're a bad lot!"

"And I reply that you're a liar!"

"Take that!"

"Here's the repayment!"

The man who had spoken first went down like a log. He was a red-headed creature, with a rasping voice and an aggressive manner, evidently one of those who bullied his way through the world, for want of a bold spirit to stand up to him. In this instance he found his match, for the handsome face of the young fellow he insulted was sternly set and considerably flushed. After the war of words came the blow from the bully. His fist passed harmlessly by the head of this antagonist, and a well-delivered return blow caught him fairly on the jaw. Then red-head lay down to consider the lesson he had been taught.

"You confounded scoundrel!" said the other, standing over him. "You may be thankful that I don't wring your neck. You're no good in the world that I can see, and would be better out of it."

"Guess you'd like to send him on the journey into Kingdom Come?" suggested a weather-beaten little man near at hand, who looked like a sailor.

"I just would," said the young man, panting. "What does the ruffian mean by making me a target for his brutal wit? He'd leave the world fast enough if I had my way. Lie still!"

This to red-head, who was rising. But the prostrate man did not obey the injunction, having some fight left in him yet. He scrambled to his feet, and rushed with a lowered head at his enemy like a bull. But the other was ready. He skipped aside, and the red-head met the wood of the counter with a sickening thud. This time he dropped insensible. The sailor man knelt beside the defeated. "I guess you'd better skip, Lancaster," said he. "You've done it this time. An' the police are coming."

It was not the police, but the attendants, who forced their way through the crowd in the bar. Seeing this, Lancaster's friend, by name Dicky Baird, and by profession an idler of the West End, seized his chum's arm and dragged him out of the bar by main force.

"No use waiting for a summons," said Dicky, when the two were in the vestibule. "I think you'd better get home, Frank."

The other stared at a poster which announced that a new musical comedy would be produced that night at the Piccadilly Theatre, with Miss Fanny Tait in the chief part.

"I'm not going till I see her," he said, pointing to this name.

"What, Fairy Fan? Why, all the row was about her."

"Because he abused the woman. She's a good sort, and I like her very much. You know I do, but there's no love."

"Not on your part, perhaps, but Starth loves her, and you knocked him down."

"I wish I'd killed him," said Lancaster, between his teeth.

"Don't talk rashly, Frank," said the other, with uneasiness. "If anything goes wrong with Starth you'll get into trouble."

"Malice aforethought," said Lancaster, carelessly. "Pshaw The man isn't hurt. He'll be up and swearing before the play begins."

It seemed that he was right, for a tall, bulky dark man approached with a smile. "Starth's all right," said he, with a nod. "You've swelled his eye a bit, Frank, but that's all. Berry's going to put him into a hansom. And now we'd better get to our seats."

The others assented, and the trio moved into the theatre. As they passed down the steps leading to the stalls, they caught a glimpse of Captain Berry conducting a swaying figure to the door.

"How did the row begin?" asked Dicky, when they were seated.

"Starth said I didn't know who my father was," said Frank.

"Well, you don't, do you?"

"That's neither here nor there. Starth has nothing to do with my domestic business."

"H'm!" said Baird to himself, thoughtfully.

Frank Lancaster was a dark horse, and although Dicky had known him for some years, he was not aware of his private history. Lancaster kept that to himself, and seemed unnecessarily annoyed by the question of Baird. Dicky could see nothing in Starth's remark which should lead to a free fight, though to be sure Fairy Fan's name had likewise been mentioned. However, Frank seemed indisposed to speak, and like a wise man Baird held his usually too-free tongue.

Miss Tait, commonly known as Fairy Fan, was a popular music-hall star, who danced gracefully and sang sweetly. For a salary largely in excess of her merits, she had deserted the halls for the theatre, and to-night was her first appearance in "The Seaside Girl." Hence the large audience and the subdued excitement. At the present moment she was dancing like a fay and singing like a lark, but the three men nevertheless talked all the time.

"Jolly little thing, ain't she?" said Dicky. "She comes from the Californian Slopes."

"Did she pick up those diamonds there?" asked the dark man, who was a Rhodesian called Darrel, and acquainted with stones of price.

"No. Banjo Berry, who is her uncle, gave them to her. He's a rich man, and lavishes his money on his niece."

"Why does he let her appear on the boards, then?" asked Darrel, heavily.

"Ask Frank, here. He's a friend of Berry's."

"I'm not," growled Lancaster, still ruffled by his late encounter. "I can't bear the creature. His niece is worth a dozen of him."

"Is she his niece?" questioned the Rhodesian millionaire.

"Yes. There's no doubt about that. I respect Miss Berry immensely."

"I thought her name was Tait."

"On the bills. In private she's Miss Fanny Berry. Her uncle is rich, but, in spite of that, she's so vain that she likes to appear on the stage. I like her, and--"

"You're in love with her," contradicted Baird.

"A trifle. Anyone would love such a pretty woman. But I wouldn't ask her to marry me."

"No, Starth will do that."

"She won't have him," said Frank, snappishly. "He's a bad lot."

"A very sore lot at present," put in Baird, smiling.

"It's his own fault," replied Lancaster. "Why can't he leave me alone. It's not the first time he's quarrelled with me."

"Because he knows you are a rival in the affections of Fairy Fan."

"Rubbish, Dicky! Don't get that bee in your bonnet. Starth can marry her for all I care. I merely admire her, and only came into contact with her when Berry wrote asking if I could write her a couple of songs. I came and saw, and--"

"And she conquered," said Darrel. "Who is Berry? I fancy I've met him before. If he's the same man, he hasn't any morals."

"We'll say principles," remarked Baird. "Berry's a fiery-tempered Tom Thumb, who talks 'American' slang through his nose concerning an interesting past of a superlatively shady description. 'Been a South Sea blackbirding skipper from the looks of him, and I expect he made his money in that way. Ever met him?"

"Los Angeles, now I come to think of it," said Darrel.

Frank looked up uneasily. "Who is he, anyhow?"

"Don't know," responded the millionaire, imperturbably. "He was running an apple orchard when I dropped across him. Clean shot, too."

Baird laughed. "Sounds like a retired pirate of sorts. But he's on the square now. He and Miss Berry have rooms in Bloomsbury, and go to church and have the entry of some decent houses. Frank knows all about them."

"Only that she's a nice woman and a good woman, and that Berry is a ruffian. He won't let Starth marry her."

"I hope not," said Darrel, darkly. "I've known Starth a long time, and he's a bounder. But he's got an uncommonly pretty sister, as beautiful and sweet-tempered as he is the reverse. Hush! Let's stick to the play; we're talking too much."

Frank certainly couldn't be accused of chattering, as he was rather silent. Even the rattling chorus and the jokes of the low comedian could not banish the frown from his brow. And he became aware that a man was looking at him--a fair-faced, effeminate little man, with light eyes and a deprecating manner. Lancaster, in no very good temper, scowled at the man, who immediately turned away his head. As he did so the first act ended amidst loud applause.

"An eighteen months' run if the other act is as silly," pronounced Baird; "but the management won't keep Fan all that time. She's as freakish as a cat, and her uncle is rich enough to allow her to snap her fingers at the Treasury."

"She _is_ a cat from the looks of her," said Darrel, grimly. "Come out, boys, I'll put up the drinks."

Dicky assented affably, as the night was warm. But Frank remained behind. "I don't want to run the risk of meeting Starth again. He might come back."

"To fetch his sister," said the big Rhodesian. "Yonder she is in a box with an old lady."

"What a pretty girl," said the frivolous Dicky, and departed.

Lancaster raised his glasses, rather curious to see what Miss Starth was like. He beheld a slender, dark girl, as unlike her brother as possible. Plainly dressed in some gauzy stuff, with a string of seed pearls round her neck, she looked about twenty years of age, but might have been even younger. Apparently she had all the unappeasable curiosity of youth, for her dark eyes roved round the theatre with great eagerness. Finally they rested on Frank, and she flushed when she found he was looking directly at her. First she looked away after the manner of girls, then she stole a stealthy glance at the rude young man, and finally became engrossed in conversation with the elderly lady who was her companion. Frank still looked. He was most polite to the sex, but this face interested him so much that he stared almost rudely. Twice their eyes met, in spite of Miss Starth's ostentatious indifference. She coloured, and he--to his astonishment--likewise blushed. There was something about her which took his heart by storm. To be sure he was susceptible where a woman was concerned, but it seemed absurd to be fascinated by a girl after a few league-long glances. Still, she was distinctly agreeable to him. Fairy Fan he admired after the manner of youth, but she was a pink-and-white doll beside this glorious creature who looked like a queen. Where could his eyes have been to admire the fragile charms of Miss Berry, when true beauty was to be found alone in a stately brunette with coils of shining hair, and eyes like fathomless lakes in the starshine? Fan had been Frank's Rosaline; this vision of loveliness was his Juliet, which means in plain English that he had fallen in love at first sight. But, as he assured himself calmly, such a passion was at once ridiculous and impossible. All the same he continued to "behold vanity," until his divinity grew really angry, and concealed herself behind an envious curtain, which shielded her beauty. At once Lancaster became aware of his bad manners.

"Hang it! I should like to apologise," he thought as his friends returned, and then considered dismally that he had quarrelled past all reconciliation with the brother of his angel, and that there was no chance of a meeting.

Starth hated Frank virulently, because Miss Berry openly approved of the young man's good looks and genuine talents. But even before Fairy Fan appeared to enchant a London public, Starth and Lancaster had never been able to meet without snarling at one another like dogs. Frank was not to blame, being good-natured and much too indolent to fight. But Starth snapped at everyone. That he should have so charming a sister was extraordinary. Even Dicky, the most critical of men, thought so. "Ripping girl, Miss Starth," said he.

"I didn't notice," grunted Lancaster, not wishing to have Baird know too much on account of that gentleman's long, long tongue. He might repeat things to Starth, who could find offence everywhere.

The second act requires no description. It was like the first, but slightly more incoherent. Fairy Fan had it all her own way, as the low comedian had not yet had time to invent his part. When the curtain fell on a pronounced success, with Fan standing in the midst of flowers, Baird bustled out to the bar again with Darrel and his chum. It was to discuss the prospects of the play that they went.

Frank did not notice that the neat man with the light eyes was following them. He was taken up with the weather-beaten Berry, who rejoiced over the triumph of his niece. He was a small man, and had a hard face that might have been hewn out of iron-wood. His lips were tightly closed, his eyes were grey and close-set, and he carried himself in a bouncing, aggressive way, which must have cost him many a fight in the Naked Lands where bounce is not approved of. Berry--Captain by courtesy--looked quite out of place amidst civilised surroundings. A pea-jacket, a tarpaulin hat, a streaming bridge and a rocking, plunging tramp ship would have been more in keeping with his piratical appearance. Why such a Captain Kidd should accompany his niece to London and play the part of a sober citizen puzzled a great many people, Baird amongst the number. But Banjo Berry--such was his odd name--always explained profusely, having no call to do so. Whereby the more astute assumed, and not unreasonably, that he had something to hide.

"Well," said this mariner, gaily, "I guess the play's a go."

"A great success," said Frank, so indifferently that the little man looked at him sharply. Lancaster was wont to be more enthusiastic where Fairy Fan was concerned.

"She sang your chanty well," he remarked, following them to the bar.

"First rate," assented Lancaster. "How's Starth?"

"Sent him home in a cab of sorts," replied Berry, still puzzled. "I guess he'll wake up and apologise to-morrow morning."

"Not to me," said Frank, aggressive at once, in spite of the charming sister. "I don't want to have anything to do with him."

"Ah, pistols and coffee for two is your idea of a meeting," was the Captain's reply. "You'd like to see him buzz into the everlasting darkness, I guess?"

Before Frank could reply, his arm was plucked. In the crowd he did not see who it was for the moment. There was a rush of thirsty souls to the bar, and Berry disappeared in the mob. Still the unknown kept his hand on Lancaster's arm, and drew him towards the door with a gentle pressure. Rather surprised, Frank allowed himself to be so drawn, thinking it was one of his friends. But when the crowd grew thin he found himself face to face with the small, neat man.

"Well?" said Frank, interrogatively.

"I'm glad you didn't answer," said the man with the light eyes. "It is dangerous to answer that man."

"Captain Berry. Why?"

The stranger opened the swing door and stepped into the street. He did not even wait for Frank, but walked along the pavement, dexterously avoiding the people as he walked. Taken by surprise by this odd demeanour, Lancaster followed, and managed to catch up with the man as he was turning into a side street which was deserted. "What do you mean?" asked Lancaster, catching the man by his coat. "Who are you?"

The other stopped under a lamp-post, and laughed in an elfish way. "No matter who I am," he said in a precise voice, "but what I am is another and more important matter."

"Well, what are you?" asked Lancaster, more and more puzzled.

"A man who can read faces and hands and tell the secrets of the future," said the other, gravely.

"Bah!" was Frank's disgusted exclamation. "A charlatan."

"Just so. A charlatan. Yet I am sufficiently interested in you to warn you against coming danger."

"Do you know me?"

"No. I don't know your name or your face, nor anything about you. I happened to be in the bar when you hit that red-headed man, and I saw that the little fellow--"

"Captain Berry?"

"Is that his name? Well, he was trying to foment the quarrel. He is your enemy."

"Nonsense! He has no cause to be my enemy."

"That is the worst kind of enemy to have--one who pretends friendship and strikes in the dark. I read your face, sir, and the face of the red-headed man. If you two meet again--" He hesitated.

"Well?" asked Frank, sharply. "If we meet?"

"One of you will die."

In spite of his scepticism Lancaster felt a chill run through his veins at this speech. "Rubbish!" he said, roughly. "Which one?"

"I sha'n't tell you that," replied the unknown. "You may consider my reply rubbish also. But there is that in your face, sir, which hints at coming trouble. Your fate and the fate of the red-headed man are bound up together. Also, there is a woman."

"How do you know that?" asked Frank, thinking of Fan.

"She is a relative of the red-headed man," said the unknown, "and it is probably--" Here he broke off abruptly. "I sha'n't tell you any more. I may be wrong, I may be right, but the signs are there."

"What signs?"

"Good-night, sir," said the man, and passed swiftly away before Frank could retain him. Lancaster walked to his rooms without returning to the theatre. He laughed at the warning, so vague and absurd did it seem. All the same it haunted him, and he had cause to remember the man afterwards. He never saw the seer again, but, as after events proved, undoubtedly the man was no charlatan.

[CHAPTER II]

REAPING THE WHIRLWIND

Lancaster was by way of being a journalist, and managed to struggle along on an inadequate income. He had no influence, and sweated freely for his money. A few far-seeing editors assured him of a brilliant future, but did not seem anxious to assist him to realise their prophecies. No one knew who Lancaster was, or where he came from, as he never spoke of his past. For five years he had been in town, and, unable to do anything else, had drifted into journalism. But in his heart he cherished the notion of startling London with an up-to-date novel. Pending the joy of waking up to find himself famous, he acted as theatrical critic for the _Daily Budget_, a paper which paid the lowest prices for the best procurable talent, and eked out his income with stray articles. Occasionally he wrote verses, and in this way had made the acquaintance of Fairy Fan, who had read some of his attempts in the papers and thought that he might compose words fit for her rosy mouth to sing.

She took a fancy to him, for he was handsome and well-bred. But even Miss Berry, pretty and astute woman as she was, could not learn anything of Lancaster's past, cleverly as she tried to find out. Her uncle, using coarser methods, tried also, but failed likewise. Only to one man had Frank unbosomed himself, and that was to Eustace Jarman, who had first extended to the lonely young man a helping hand. A memory of Starth's words made Lancaster wonder if Jarman had revealed anything, and he would have sought out his friend to ask him directly had not Jarman dwelt in Essex. However, Frank concluded that Starth had merely made the remarks about his parents in a casual way, and without any real knowledge, so he dismissed that matter easily from his mind.

But he could not so easily dismiss the memory of the quarrel, especially as the charming face of Miss Starth floated persistently before his mental vision. Jarman had introduced Frank to Starth three years before, and the two men had never got on well together. By mutual consent they avoided one another, until Miss Berry brought them together to quarrel over her beauty. Starth thereafter became more and more insulting, until his behaviour resulted in the row of the previous night. Had Frank not seen the beautiful sister he would not have cared much, having small regard for the brother. As it was, he felt depressed the next morning, seeing in that final quarrel an insurmountable barrier to making acquaintance with his divinity.

Being in this frame of mind he was both surprised and pleased to receive a note from Starth asking him to call that afternoon between four and five. It seemed that Starth wished to apologise as he had gone rather far--so he stated in his note--on the previous night. Lancaster was astonished that Starth should behave thus reasonably. The action was unlike him. But as the olive branch was held forth, and as there was a chance of meeting the sister, Lancaster decided to accept. No answer was required, so Starth evidently expected him to come. Frank finished his work for the day, and went to his rooms to dress himself more smartly. If Miss Starth were to be present he wanted to appear at his best, but if she were not--

It was at this point that Lancaster sat down to consider. How did he know that the note might not be a trap? He thought it strange that Starth should come forward in this way, and at a second meeting the man might try to revenge himself for his punishment. A black eye is not forgiven easily by any man, and Starth was the last person to let bygones be bygones. Then, again, if there was to be trouble Miss Starth would not be there, and the careful dressing would be wasted. Lancaster was no coward, but he did not wish to accentuate his bad relations with Starth. He had half a mind to send round stating that he could not come, but the hope that, after all, his divinity might be present, decided him to go. Having made up his mind he completed his toilet, and ended by stowing away a pistol in his hip pocket. It was a loaded Derringer, which Frank sometimes took with him when he went round the slums on dangerous business connected with his journalistic work. On the present occasion it was taken merely to intimidate Starth should he have arranged a trap.

"The man's a coward," thought Frank, as he issued forth into the July sunshine, "so if he threatens in any way I can show him the pistol if necessary. I'd rather use my fists as I did last night, but for all I know he may have a revolver handy. It's as well to be on the safe side."

All the same he rather despised himself for this precaution, and twice was on the point of returning to his room to discard the weapon. Still, Starth was a dangerous man, and might use something lethal only to be met with by a revolver; and if nothing happened no one would ever know that he--Lancaster was thinking of himself--carried a pistol. In spite of his experience of life, Frank was callow in many ways, else he would not have armed himself in so unnecessary a manner.

Starth lived in a South Kensington side street, a blind alley where the houses were small, and each was fronted by a weedy garden. Lancaster found himself after a brisk walk--he never took a cab unless forced to, and disliked a 'bus ride--facing a blank, dismal house of two storeys with green shutters. It had not been painted for years, and the front was blistered, weather-stained, discoloured, and generally dilapidated. Some attempt had been made to cultivate the patch of ground in front, but, beyond rearing a few marigolds and pansies, the attempt had not been successful. Up a path bordered by oyster shells, Frank advanced to a rustic porch of green latticework, entwined with dusty creepers, and rang a jingling little bell whose shrill summons he could hear. While waiting he casually noticed that the right-hand window was slightly open, although the blind was pulled down. Before he could observe further, the door opened so suddenly that it almost seemed as though the person behind had been waiting in the passage.

The person was a small sluttish servant, with gooseberry eyes and a pasty white face. She was attired in her best blue dress, and wore a large picture-hat trimmed with more flowers than adorned the garden. Also she had on gloves, and carried a yellow umbrella. As soon as she saw Frank she burst into voluble speech.

"Yer the gent as wishes to see Mr. Starth, and I am glad to see you, sir, for he said as you was goin' to be 'ere at four, it now bein' half-past, and I'm goin' out, my young man waiting for me. This way, sir, and please be quick, as I am in a hurry. Missus 'ave gone out too, but the tea's all ready and the kettle on the fire."

Almost before she finished this incoherent address, she conducted the astonished Frank up a stuffy staircase, and into a front room. Hastily shoving him into this, she banged the door, and hurried away, presumably to meet her young man. Lancaster, puzzled by this reception, and by the mean look of the room in which he found himself, halted at the door, waiting for his host to speak. Starth was sitting in an armchair by the window, with a book. He threw this down, and advanced to his visitor with outstretched hands.

"I'm glad you've come, Lancaster," he said, eagerly. "I am so ashamed of myself that I hardly know what to say."

"Say nothing more," said Frank, laying aside his hat and cane. "I am only too glad to come to an understanding. I can't comprehend why you quarrel with me."

"Jealousy," said Starth, quickly, and sat down.

"Of me and Miss Berry? Well, you needn't be. I don't love her."

Starth pulled down the blind so as to prevent his discoloured eye showing up too badly. "I thought you were to marry her?" he remarked.

"Certainly not. Such an idea never entered my head. Who said so?"

"Captain Berry."

Frank looked puzzled, then laughed. "I should have thought Berry more ambitious for his niece. I haven't any money."

"That's just it," said Starth, slowly. "If you are poor, how did you come to give her those diamonds?"

"I never did. I heard you gave them to her."

Starth laughed, and glanced round the stuffy room. "Would I live in this dog's kennel if I could afford such stones?" he said. "My dear Lancaster, I'm desperately hard up. Between my sister and myself there is enough to live on, no more."

"I saw your sister last night," said Frank.

"Yes. She lives in Essex, but happened to be in town, so I got her a box. She went back this morning with Mrs. Perth."

"Is that the lady who was with her?"

Starth nodded. "She and my sister live together in a small cottage at Wargrove. But I needn't bore you with my family history. I want you to accept my apology."

"I do, Starth. But why did you mention my parents?"

"It was the only thing I could think of."

"To make me angry, I suppose? H'm! You know nothing about me."

"No. Is there anything interesting to know?"

"I fear not," said Lancaster. "My story is a dull one. Still, I thought that Jarman might have said something."

"He said nothing. I never asked about you," responded the other, quickly. "Fact is, Lancaster, I don't think you and I ever got on well together. My fault, I'm afraid, as I have such a bad temper. I am jealous, too, as I love Miss Berry and want to marry her."

"You can, for all I care," said Lancaster, quietly. "I did admire her greatly, but I never had any intention of marrying her. As to the diamonds, who told you that I gave them to her?"

"No one directly. But Berry hinted--"

"Why should he hint?" said Frank, thoughtfully. "He knows I'm as poor as the proverbial church mouse. Do you think he wants me, or expects me, to marry his niece?"

"Yes, I do," said Starth, promptly; "and that was why I grew jealous."

"Then I can't see his reason. I have no money, no position, and no influence. Miss Berry doesn't love me--"

"The Captain says she does," said Starth, quickly.

"Oh, that's rubbish! She likes me because I write her songs, and we get on well together. As for love--" Frank shrugged his shoulders.

"Have you never been in love, Lancaster?"

Frank grew red and shook his head, looking down meanwhile. Starth's jealous eyes followed his every movement, and he eagerly waited for an answer. But none came. Frank could not bring himself to say that he had fallen in love with a girl he had seen but once, and to say it to her brother. In place of gratifying Starth's curiosity he changed the subject. "What a queer servant that was who admitted me," he said. "She was quite angered because I had delayed her appointment with her young man. Had I known, I'd have been punctual."

"It's Tilly," said Starth, carelessly. "A queer creature, as you say--a London slavey of the regular type. I believe Mrs. Betts--that's my landlady--gets her cheap from a workhouse. I let her go to see her young man because Mrs. Betts, who keeps her well in hand, is away at the wedding of some cousin or another. I've got all the house to myself till nine o'clock. But, I say, let's have tea."

Frank made no objection, as he was thirsty, and Starth went down to get the hot water. Pending his return Lancaster strolled about the room, and looked at the photographs. There was one of the beautiful girl he had seen on the previous night, and he nearly stole it. Also he was taken with a gorgeous portrait of a tall, thick-lipped negress, which had an Arabic inscription written at the foot. "Who is this, Starth?" asked Frank, when his host returned with the tea-tray and a kettle of hot water.

Starth glanced at the photograph. "A girl called Balkis. I believe she comes from Zanzibar. I met her at the Docks when I was exploring an opium den."

"H'm! She looks as though she had a temper."

"She has. Took a fancy to me, and gave me her picture, with that writing. It's something about Allah and good luck, I believe. I saw her a good many times at that opium shop. She runs it, I believe."

Lancaster sat down while Starth made ready the tea. It struck him, from these remarks, and from a certain strange odour in the room, that Starth smoked opium. Perhaps the drug was accountable for his queer tempers and utter disregard of decency. Frank began to be rather sorry he had quarrelled with the man, since, if he smoked opium, he was to a certain extent not accountable for his actions. Starth, with his swollen face and discoloured eye, looked queer and grim, and had a haggard look about him which hinted at excess of some sort.

"Here you are," said Starth, passing along a cup. "Do you take sugar Or perhaps," he added, as he handed over the basin, "you would like a drink of whisky?"

"Tea's good enough for me," said Frank, sipping. "Well, Starth, I'm glad we've come to some sort of understanding. I hate rows."

"So do I, but jealousy always makes my blood boil."

"But, you see, you've no cause to be jealous."

"I can see that now. But Berry kept hinting that it was an arranged thing between you and Fan."

"H'm! I'll have a talk with him. He's no right to make false statements of that kind. I wonder what his game is. I'm certainly not a desirable match for his niece, putting aside the fact that she doesn't care two pins for anyone but herself."

"Are you sure of that, Lancaster?" said Starth, with rather an anxious look. "I'm mad about her, and want to marry her."

"I shouldn't like Banjo Berry for a connection myself," said Lancaster, setting down his cup. "What a strange taste that tea has."

"They never clean the kettles here," said Starth, hastily. "It's smoke or fur inside the kettle, or something. My tea tastes bad also."

Frank refused another cup, and smoked a cigarette while Starth related his feelings for Fairy Fan in detail. Also he mentioned that he hoped to see much of Lancaster, and that he should like to introduce him to his sister. This last remark made Frank's heart leap with joy, but somehow he could not find words to thank his host. Starth seemed to recede a long way, and his voice sounded like that of a phonograph. Lancaster tried to rise, but sank back in his chair drowsily. He felt sure that there was foul play, as he saw faintly the man lean forward to scrutinise him. But his brain was clouded, his speech was thick, and wave after wave of something deeper than sleep poured over him. His last thought was something about opium being in the tea, but he could not put this into words. After that last effort of the mind to overcome the lethargy his head fell back, and he became unconscious.

In after days Frank never could be got to tell his dreams. The mere memory of them would make him shudder. Far away in the land of sleep he wrestled with unknown foes, and passed a time of sheer agony not to be paralleled by any experience of the waking hours. He seemed to have slept for centuries when he came to himself on the sofa, with a furred tongue and an aching head. There was a faint light in the room as the blinds were up, and for a few minutes the young man, still half stupefied with the drug, could not grasp the idea of his whereabouts. Then after an effort or two at thought, his self-consciousness came back with a rush. He rose slowly and staggered into the centre of the room, only to stumble over a body.

It _was_ a body, for he fell on top of it. His memory became clearer with the horror of the discovery. He remembered his visit, the empty house, the drugged tea, and, recalling his dread of foul play on the part of Starth, he slipped his hand round to his hip-pocket. The Derringer was gone. When he made that discovery, Frank leaped to his feet with a strangled cry. By this time he had his wits about him; but still remained a vague fear of the thing on the floor.

His frock coat had been removed and cast on the carpet beside the sofa. He found it by the feel, and obtained a match out of the ticket-pocket. Striking this he bent over the dead. It _was_ Starth. "Great Heavens!" said Frank, under his breath. "Starth--dead--shot!"

Assuredly shot, for there was a small hole under the left eye. The bullet must have passed into the brain, killing the poor wretch instantaneously. As the match flickered out, Frank was left alone in the half-gloom beside this dead thing, trying to think how the poor wretch had come by his death. Then it dawned anew on him that his pistol was gone, that the man had been shot. Who had slain him? What revolver had been used? The first question he could not answer, but the second answered itself. Since his weapon was gone, it assuredly had been used to commit the murder.

But was it murder? What about suicide? Frank tried to argue the case. As he did so, the clock on the mantelpiece struck nine. The sudden tingle of the bell set his blood leaping. He recalled how Starth had expected Mrs. Betts and Tilly back at that hour, and making a dash for his coat, he hastily struggled into it. He must not be found here with the dead man. The row on the previous night, his foolish words, his weapon, his being alone in the house with a man with whom he was well known to be on bad terms--all these things would weave a rope to hang him. Realising his danger with a gasp, Frank lighted another match, and found cane and hat. But he had no more matches, although he desired to search for the Derringer. All he wanted now was to get away, and he hastened down the stairs in a state of agony, the perspiration standing on his brow, and his heart in his mouth.

There was no difficulty in opening the door. He closed it again, and went down the path, through the gate, and on to the road. Here a street-lamp threw a strong light. Under it stood a girl and a young man. "My, sir!" said Tilly, catching sight of his face, "you have been a time with Mr. Starth. I 'ope he ain't angered. He--"

Lancaster waited to hear no more, but walked rapidly down the lane, he knew not whither. All he wanted was to get away from the gallows, from the dead.

[CHAPTER III]

A FRIEND IN NEED

Popular prejudice regards Essex as a damp, marshy flat, inhabited by mosquitoes, rheumatic yokels, and children of the sea-mist. But Eustace Jarman dwelt on a far-extending plateau, whence from his study window he surveyed Tilbury, Gravesend, the mouth of Thames river, and vast tracts of meadow-lands divided into irregular squares by erratic hedges. His home was three miles from the nearest railway station as the crow flies, and, being cut off from civilisation, by acres of furze-grown common, was as isolated as his misanthropic soul could desire.

Jarman had the reputation of being a solitary man, and those who knew him in literary circles hinted at the destroying influences of the inevitable woman. But Eustace never explained. After a journalistic career in town he disappeared into the Essex wilds, and devoted himself to writing music-hall sketches, short tales, and articles on countries he had visited. As he had been round the world twice or thrice, and knew the manners and customs of various peoples, he was well paid for his contributions. The cost of living at Wargrove was nil, and Jarman was supposed to be saving money. At times he would vanish into the Far East, or seek South America when there was a chance of trouble between tin-pot republics, but he always returned to his Essex plateau, to live a hermit's life. Miss Cork waited on him, and looked after his simple needs, and Miss Cork mentioned frequently that he was the queerest gent she ever set eyes on.

"The Shanty," as he called his place, was an old farmhouse, buried amongst elm and oak trees, and surrounded by an orchard and a flower garden, all more or less in ruins. Jarman would not allow the place to be tidied up, as Miss Cork suggested, loving better the eccentric untrimmed look of his property. The hedges grew sprawling at their own sweet will, long grass flourished up to the very door, and poppies, sun-flowers, and straggling rose-trees showed above this miniature jungle. Eustace possessed three rooms, two of which were occupied by beds for himself and any chance friend, and a third apartment, large and airy, which served as a study, a dining-room, a smoking-room, and a parlour. In this last were collected trophies of Jarman's travels, ranging from Japanese curiosities to South Sea oddities. Books also--but these were everywhere, and overflowed from the study into the passages, into the hall, up the stairs, and in some degree into the bedrooms. Everywhere there was a scent of tobacco smoke, and Eustace loafed about in flannel bags with an old shooting jacket and a worn cricketing cap on the back of his head.

The house was not very large, and Jarman was over six feet. But he moved with a dexterity remarkable in so huge a man, and was as handy as a woman in looking after his housekeeping. Miss Cork lived at the back, and merely acted as lieutenant in carrying out her master's orders. When she wished to introduce feminine innovations Eustace protested. He loved his savage bachelor life and his hermit-crab shell too much to desire new-fangled customs. Extra civilisation, especially of the womanly kind, meant extra work, and Eustace was a lazy man.

It was a wet July night when Lancaster sought this refuge. All day it had been raining hard, and Jarman was just thinking of putting on his waders for his usual walk, when Miss Cork entered to announce a visitor. On her heels followed Frank, and Eustace stared when he saw him. The stare was excusable, for Lancaster appeared in a silk hat, a frock-coat, and patent-leather boots. He was mired with clay from the roads, torn by the furze of the common, and dripped like an insane river-god. Also, without invitation, he collapsed into the nearest chair, while Jarman's jaw fell still lower at the sight of his white face, his clenched mouth, and his glassy eyes. Miss Cork, half blind, saw few of these things, but she withdrew to the kitchen to soliloquise on the costume of the visitor, inappropriate alike to the weather and the country. Meanwhile Jarman, behind closed doors, continued to stare.

"What is the matter?" he asked at last.

"I caught the last train from Liverpool Street," explained Frank, in faint tones, "and walked across the Common. I'm dead beat. Give me a whisky and soda."

Jarman supplied this refreshment speedily, and again demanded explanations. "But you'd better get into a dry kit before you make 'em," said he, bustling about. "What a crazy rig to negotiate the country in. Been drinkin'?"

"Do I ever drink, you ass?"

"Not your style, I know, but that's the sort that generally goes a mucker in the end. Cut into my bedroom and I'll hand you out a few things. Hang it, man, hold up!"

Lancaster, who had lurched against the big man's shoulder, pulled himself straight, and tried to smile. Jarman could see that the poor young fellow was on the verge of hysterics, being overwrought, and quite broken down. Therefore he spoke roughly to brace the slack nerves. With a few choice expletives he chased Frank into the bedroom, made him strip to the skin, and after a thorough towelling, saw him inducted into a pair of flannel trousers and a faded blazer, together with a woollen shirt and a pair of old slippers. Then he demanded if Frank was hungry, and led him back to the parlour.

"No, I'm not hungry," said Frank, dropping into a chair near the fire, for Eustace approved of a fire when the rain fell; "but another whisky--"

"Not a bit of it. You'll get squiffy. You must eat!"

"But I want to tell you--"

"Later! Later! Meantime, bread and meat."

Jarman looted the kitchen, and, having sent Miss Cork to bed, boiled the kettle and returned with a tray. This he placed before his guest, and stood over him while Frank forced ham and bread down a most unwilling throat. Then he gave the young man a pipe, mixed him a second glass of whisky of the weakest description, and demanded explanations.

"I can give them in one word," said Frank, now more composed. "Murder!"

Jarman stared again, and whistled. Then he went to see that the door was closed, and returned to his seat. "Who have you been killing?"

"No one. But I'm in danger of being accused. I am innocent--I swear I am innocent, Eustace?"

"All right, old man," replied Jarman, patting his junior on the back. "I know you wouldn't come to me if you were guilty."

"If I were, would you shelter me?"

"H'm! Depends upon the kind of murder. I don't mind a fair fight sort o' killing. 'Fact, I've shot a man or two myself in the Great Waste Lands."

"But I didn't shoot Starth. I really didn't."

"Starth! What, is he--"

"Dead! Dead! Shot dead. But not by me--not by me."

Eustace chewed his pipe, and stared into the fire, pulling hard. He appeared to be worried.

"Poor girl!" said he at length.

Frank understood on the instant. "Does she love her brother?"

"Do you know her?" asked Eustace, without looking up.

Lancaster shook his head. "I saw her last night at the theatre. Her brother insulted me, and asked me to see him to-day, as he wanted to apologise--"

"Wait!" Jarman threw up his hand. "The whole truth, if you please."

"I'm telling the truth, if you will only listen."

"Apologising doesn't sound like Starth," objected Eustace.

"I thought so when I got his note, and I am convinced now that his invitation was a trap."

"To have you shot?"

"How do I know?" He was shot himself.

"By whom?"

"I can't say. I was lying in a stupor when it happened."

"Drugged--with opium?" hinted Jarman.

"Yes. Did you know that Starth--"

"All along." Jarman placed the tips of his fingers together. "See here, Frank, I know Miss Starth very well. She lives here with an old lady called Mrs. Perth. Their cottage is only a stone's throw away from my diggings. I met the brother there in the long ago, and--"

"And introduced him to me. I wish you hadn't."

"It's too late now, seeing that the man's dead, to raise objections. I never approved of Walter Starth. A bad lot--a very bad lot. He never liked you. I don't know why. But I didn't think it would come to this."

"Jarman"--Frank started from his seat--"you don't suppose--"

"Sit down, you ass." Jarman pushed Lancaster back into his chair. "I wouldn't take things so quietly if you had killed him. Barring that, I'm glad the man's out of the world. He was no use in it."

"My own words--my own words!"

"When and where?"

"At the Piccadilly Theatre last night. I shouted them in the bar after I knocked him down."

"H'm! Shouldn't talk like that, Frank, it's foolish."

"I know it is. I'm in a fix, that's why I come to you."

"Well," said Eustace, refilling his briar, "the best thing you can do is to tell me everything from the start.

"Where am I to start from. You know about Fairy Fan?"

"Yes; and about Starth's love for her. He looked upon you as a rival, and the knowledge didn't increase his liking for you. Well?"

Frank straightened himself, and forthwith delivered a succinct account of all that had taken place, from the encounter on the previous night to his leaving the house in Sand Lane, South Kensington.

"I took the Underground to Liverpool Street and caught the down train by the skin of my teeth. I didn't even return to my diggings, as I was afraid of being arrested. I'm a marked man now, Eustace. The police will hunt me down. And I am innocent."

"Why didn't you give the alarm when you found Starth dead?"

"Man alive, that would have delivered me into the power of the law."

"I know that. Just asked the question to see what you'd say. H'm! It's a nasty case for you. The circumstantial evidence--"

"I know--I know. Who knows better than I?" Frank rose to pace the room anxiously. "I spoke foolishly about Starth being better out of the world, at the theatre. I took my pistol with me--I was alone in the house with him!--that servant saw me leave, and I daresay noticed my agitation. Jarman, it's awful. I don't see how I'm going to get out of the danger. They'll hang me."

"Steady, old man. They won't hang you. I won't let them."

"Then you'll help me to get out of the country?"

"No. If you cut, you'll surely be caught. By to-morrow every seaport in the kingdom will be watched. You must stay here."

"But I'll be traced."

"I don't think so. Plenty of men go up and down on this line in frock-coats and tall hats. I don't suppose anyone took particular notice of you."

"The train was crowded."

"All the better. There's safety in a crowd. No, Frank, don't leave England. Stop here, and I'll fix you up some sort of disguise. The very daring of the thing may be your salvation. The police will never think that you will remain so near town. I'll make things safe with Miss Cork, and she's the only person who has seen you. When we get time to turn round we can sift matters out."

"What a good chap you are, Jarman!"

"Nothing of the sort. If you were guilty I shouldn't chance the risk of being an accessory after the fact. As it is, I'll see you through the business. It's a nasty affair, there's no denying that. I expect the sister will come over to-morrow to ask for my assistance."

"Oh!" Frank jumped up nervously. "Do you think she'll recognise me?"

"Of course not. She only saw you once, and that at a distance, Besides, I don't suppose she inquired your name. Finally, as I intend to disguise you, she won't guess that anything is wrong. You work the typer?"

"Yes."

"Good! Then you'll stop here as my secretary. I'll dictate, and you'll work the machine. With your moustache cut off, dyed black hair, a stained face, and a pair of goggles for weak eyes, no one will recognise you."

"But no one hereabouts knows me, except Miss Starth, and she only saw me in the glare of the electrics for a few minutes."

"Frank, you're an ass! The _Police Gazette_ will have a full description of you. Everyone will be on the look-out. Thank Heaven, you're of the commonplace type. Pink and white, fair hair, blue eyes, well-groomed, military figure, and all the rest of it."

"How will my blue eyes match black hair?"

"We'll say you're Irish, and you can fix up a brogue. Trust me. I've been in several holes myself, and know how to get out of the deepest."

"But, Jarman, who do you think killed the man?"

"I can't say that until I know more. The reason is to be found in Walter Starth's past. He has sown the wind pretty freely, and I can hardly wonder at his reaping this whirlwind."

"Do you think he intended to trap me?" asked Lancaster.

"Yes. He's not the man to apologise. And the house being empty on that evening shows that Starth was up to some trickery. Maybe he intended to kill you. However, he never intended to die himself."

"How do you know? He may have committed suicide."

"Bosh! Starth was the last man in the world to have such an idea. He wasn't cowardly enough. I will say that. Besides, if he wished to commit suicide he would scarcely invite you to see him do it."

"I don't know. He might have left a letter saying I shot him, and then got out of the world to hang me."

Jarman shrugged his huge shoulders. "That's an extreme measure of revenge. If he wanted to get you into trouble, he would certainly like to be present to see how you took your gruel. Another thing, from what you say, your pistol was used."

"I think so. At all events, it was taken from my pocket."

"H'm! He searched you. Anything else missing?"

"The note in which he asked me to call."

"That proves Starth set a trap. I think--no I don't; I can't deliver an opinion until I know more. Go to bed and sleep."

"I can't sleep," said Frank, passionately. "I'm ruined."

But for all that he dropped into a deep slumber almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.

"Worn out, poor wretch!" said Eustace.

[CHAPTER IV]

TWO HUNDRED POUNDS REWARD

"What do you think of my new secretary, Miss Cork?" asked Jarman next morning, when his housekeeper was laying the table. He put the question purposely to arrange matters for the disguise.

"I didn't see quite rightly, Mr. Jarman, my eyes being weak. Young?"

"And dark and Irish. His eyes are weak to the extent of blue glasses."

"I didn't see them, sir."

"No, poor chap. He broke them crossing the Common, left his baggage in London, and got lost in our country."

"Oh, he'll know it soon, Mr. Jarman. I'm an Essex woman myself--Billericay way--and the country is easy. What's the gentleman's name, Sir?"

"Desmond," said Eustace, lying with an unmoved face. "Desmond O'Neil."

"I'll remember, sir."

"And, oh, Miss Cork, I shouldn't mention about his late arrival and loss of baggage if I were you. The Irish are sensitive."

"As well I know from politics, Mr. Jarman. No, sir, I'll say nothing."

Miss Cork was a tall, lean woman with watery grey eyes and grey hair screwed into a cast-iron knob behind. Her lips were thin, and her nose red by reason of tight-lacing. Miss Cork had a good figure and improved it, in her own opinion, by making her waist smaller. She usually wore a grey dress with cloth slippers, and moved like a shadow. For many years she had been with Eustace, who had produced her from a London police-court where she was being charged with vagrancy. But he never told anyone this, and Miss Cork bore a high character. But she was not popular, as she never gossiped. And a woman who does not gossip in a village is not fit companion for those who want to know their neighbours' affairs. Eustace knew that she would hold her tongue. Nevertheless, he was glad that her limited vision had not been able to take in Frank Lancaster as he had been.

As it was, Mr. Desmond O'Neil appeared late at the breakfast, and Miss Cork, bringing in the bacon and eggs, silently avowed the truth of her master's description. The new secretary was brown-skinned, with dark hair, and a clean-shaven face, shaded about the eyes with blue spectacles. Miss Cork was rather doubtful about the clean-shaving. From the glimpse she got of him on the previous night she fancied he had worn a moustache, and this she mentioned to Jarman. "It was a smear of clay," explained Eustace. "The poor chap was tumbling in the mud all the time. Were you mired, O'Neil?" he asked, aloud.

"I was that!" responded the Irish gentleman, wondering why his host kicked him under the table.

"The mud do splash high in Essex," said Miss Cork. "I'm a Billericay woman myself, Mr. O'Neil." Then she left the room, and Jarman explained. But Frank continued uneasy.

"I don't like the looks of that woman," he said. "Is she honest?"

"Oh, quite, except what she says about Billericay. She's invented the idea of being a native of those parts, as the villagers here don't like strangers. But she's been with me for three years. I picked her up in London."

"Where?"

"Well, it isn't fair to give her away. She's had a past, although I don't know the rights or wrongs of it. But she'll hold her tongue."

"Suppose a reward is offered, will she?"

"Sure. She owes me too much to play me false," said Jarman, pouring out the coffee. "And where's the reward to come from?"

"The Government--"

"Pooh! Government won't offer much, even if it offers any, which isn't likely. No one else will plank down the money. Miss Starth hasn't much, and there are no relatives. Make your mind easy about the reward. There won't be a cent offered for your apprehension."

"What's Miss Starth's name?" asked Frank, who made a fair breakfast.

"Mildred," responded Jarman, with a flush. "She's the sweetest girl you ever met."

"I saw that from the glimpse I caught of her," said Lancaster, and wondered why Jarman coloured through his tan. He scented a rival, but could not be sure, and, of course, was unable to ask questions. Besides, in spite of his newly-born passion, his position was so dangerous, that he had but one thought, namely, how to escape being hanged on circumstantial evidence.

Frank wished to talk of the matter the moment breakfast was over, but this Eustace would not allow. "You'll have enough of it before you win free," he said. "We must wait until we hear what the newspapers have to say. I daresay there's nothing in the morning lot; but this afternoon we may read something. Then, again, I expect to see Mildred--I mean Miss Starth. She's sure to be wired for."

Frank noticed the slip, and became convinced that Eustace admired the girl more than a little. However, his brain was too filled with his own danger to think of anything else, and he accompanied Jarman on an exploring tour round the village. The idea was that his arrival and appearance and position as secretary should be made as public as possible, so that he might become an accepted fact. After the first few days the villagers would accept him as part of the Shanty household, and cease to discuss him. The subsequent indifference would be another element of safety.

So round the village that afternoon the two went, arm-in-arm. Jarman took his new secretary into several shops, and then to the post-office, which was conducted by a fat woman, who read all the letters and made all the mischief she could. Early as it was, she had a piece of news.

"Oh! Mr. Jarman," said she, puffing, for the day was hot and muggy after the rain, "whatever's come to Miss Starth? I saw her driving like a mad thing to catch the two train. And she only keeps a donkey too--leastways, it's Mrs. Perth who does."

"I suppose she was going to town, Mrs. Baker."

"Then I hope it isn't to a funeral, Mr. Jarman, for her face was as white as a winding sheet. Ah, well, it ain't none of our business."

"No!" said Eustace, emphatically; "it certainly is not."

"That's what I say," replied Mrs. Baker, not seeing the intended rebuke. "As I always says to Baker, if people managed their own affairs without being talked about, people wouldn't be so bothered. And how do you like the country, sir?" This last was to Frank.

"It is extremely pretty," replied Lancaster, cautiously.

"Ah, when you're here long enough, you'll say so, sir. But I suppose you've just come?"

"He came last night, Mrs. Baker, from Ireland?"

"Dear me! I get butter from there. And will you be staying long, sir?"

"I hope so," answered Lancaster, seeing why Jarman had brought him into the company of this inquiring lady. "I am Mr. Jarman's secretary."

"Well, I'm glad you've a companion at last, Mr. Jarman, though a wife would be more to a single gentleman's mind. And I always thought--"

"Good-morning!" interposed Eustace, hastily, and left the shop, tucking a bundle of newspapers and letters under his arm. When they got some distance along the road he laughed.

"What do you think of Mrs. Baker?" he asked.

"She seems to be a kind of gazette. I suppose you took me in so that she could talk of my personal appearance, and my engagement as a secretary, and all the rest of it."

"Precisely. The wider you are known the safer you will be. Mrs. Baker will describe your appearance, and detail how you came from Ireland where she gets her butter. We'll send a few letters through her hands, addressed to Desmond O'Neil, and then she'll drop talking. So even if you are traced by any chance, Frank, there will be no danger of a detective connecting you with the man who is wanted."

Lancaster shuddered. "It's like a nightmare," he said. "Yesterday I was a free man, with a career before me; now I'm an outlaw, with a price set on my head."

"It's unpleasant. But wait--wait. Time works wonders. The real criminal may be discovered. Let us hear what news has come to Rose Cottage."

"Is that where Miss Starth lives?"

"Yes. She and Mrs. Perth share the place. Their united incomes are just enough to keep them in comfort."

"Is Miss Starth engaged?" asked Lancaster, with a side glance.

"No," said the other, with unnecessary fierceness. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, she's so pretty that I thought--"

"Oh, bother your thinking!" broke in Eustace, testily. "Mildred isn't the girl to get engaged in a hurry."

"You seem to know her well, calling her by her name."

"I've known her for some years, and as she is something of a poetess I help her to get her poems into print. She looks on me as a kind of--of father," added Jarman, colouring.

Frank nodded. He guessed the truth, but was too languid to argue it. But he couldn't help asking what Mrs. Baker had been about to observe when Eustace left the shop. "Was she speaking of Miss Starth?"

"I don't know. Mrs. Baker is by way of being a matchmaker, and always couples names. There was a rumour that I was engaged to Mildred."

"It wasn't true?"

"No. I've had enough of women. Seven years ago in 'Frisco--" Jarman checked himself impatiently. "What's the use of raking up old tales. You seem very interested in Miss Starth?"

"Naturally," said Lancaster, sadly, "seeing what I am supposed to have done. If she knew, she would denounce me."

"Not on the evidence you have placed before me," said Jarman. "She's a sensible girl. And the death of her brother will add to her income."

"What an unpleasant speech!" said Frank, in vexed tones.

"We live in a world of facts, my boy. Besides, that beauty is no loss."

By this time they had arrived at the Common. Here Jarman turned down a shady lane, and passed through an arcade of chestnut trees. At the end of this was an open space surrounded by trees, and amidst these a thatched cottage that might have come out of a fairy-tale from the quaint look of it. The walls were whitewashed, the windows of lattice work, and in front of it flourished a garden filled with old-fashioned flowers, evidently the delight of those who had planted them. A white paling fence separated it from the lane, and over the gate of this leant an elderly lady. Frank recognised Mrs. Perth.

She was a delicate old dame, with an ivory-hued face, smooth white hair, and dressed severely in black from head to foot, even to a black straw hat. She beckoned to Eustace. He knew well enough why she was in mourning, but for obvious reasons asked questions.

"Why are you in black, Mrs. Perth? No bad news, I hope?"

"I don't know if you call it bad or good," she replied, with some asperity. "Walter has been murdered."

Frank, in the background, winced, and dug his cane into the turf. But Eustace took the intelligence with well-feigned surprise. "Murdered! Mrs. Perth! How terrible. Who murdered him?"

"Ah! that's what has to be discovered. Mildred received a letter this morning, telling her that Walter had been found last night shot through the head in his rooms in Sand Lane. Also he was stabbed in the breast--right through the heart."

"Stabbed also," began Frank, incautiously, when Jarman interposed.

"My new secretary, Mrs. Perth--Mr. Desmond O'Neil. He comes from Ireland."

"I am happy to meet you, Mr. O'Neil," said the old lady in a most stately manner. "What was it you said?"

"I was--was--only expressing--my--my surprise," stammered Frank.

"That the man should be stabbed as well as shot," put in Jarman, ever watchful. "I don't wonder at it. Wasn't one mode of death enough?"

"Apparently not. The shot must have killed him, too, as it was under the right eye!"

"The _right_ eye," objected Frank, and it was on the tip of his tongue to correct the speech, but he swallowed his words. "How horrible!"

"You may well say that. We don't know all the details yet," said Mrs. Perth, addressing Eustace, "and Mildred has gone up to town to hear what she can. The police are in possession of the house. Let us hope the assassin will be found."

"Let us hope so," muttered Frank, and then aimlessly strolled away to a little distance to overcome a qualmish feeling.

"He's rather a nervous chap," explained Jarman to Mrs. Perth; "bad health and weak eyes."

"He does indeed look pale, Mr. Jarman. I fear I'm not looking well myself this morning."

"No wonder," said Eustace. "The shock--"

"Well, it was a shock to us both," interrupted Mrs. Perth, speaking low. "But to tell you the truth, Mr. Jarman, Mildred is more grieved than I am. I never liked Walter. Heaven forgive me for speaking ill of the dead, but--well, Mr. Jarman, you know what a bad man he was."

"We'll bury his reputation with him, poor wretch."

But this Mrs. Perth did not seem inclined to do. "He led Mildred a truly awful life," she continued. "But for my influence she would have parted with her income to him. Moreover, he wished her to marry one of his disreputable friends."

"I never knew that!" cried Eustace, and looked displeased now that he had acquired the knowledge. "Who is it?"

"Mr. Denham. You met him here when Walter brought him down."

"Ugh!" Jarman looked disgusted. "An effeminate little dandy. But I don't think there was any harm in him, Mrs. Perth. He was an ass, pure and simple."

"And disreputable," insisted Mrs. Perth. "He came from the United States, and neither his manners nor his principles are English. I believe he had money, and for that reason Walter desired to bring about the marriage."

Eustace fidgeted. "I oughtn't to ask, of course," said he, "but did this--did Denham propose?"

"Certainly not," said the old lady, promptly, "I saw to that. No, Mr. Jarman, say what you will, Walter is better out of the world than in it. Had he lived he would certainly have ended in gaol. Think what such a disgrace would have meant to Mildred!"

"Oh, I think Starth would always have kept on the safe side," said Jarman. "He had a great notion of looking after his own skin, had Starth. Have you--has his sister any idea as to who killed him?"

"No. Walter's life was distinctly apart from ours. I never allowed him to come to Rose Cottage more often than was necessary, as he worried Mildred, and, indeed, myself. He knew a bad lot of people, and most probably met his death at the hands of one of them. But I must say," added Mrs. Perth, frankly, "that it was kind of this Mr. Berry to inform us of the tragedy."

"Berry?" cried Lancaster, who had again strolled within earshot.

"Yes! Mr. Banjo Berry--a most peculiar name. Do you know him?"

Jarman answered for obvious reasons. "I was speaking about him this morning," said he, hastily. "I suppose the mention of the name in connection with this case recalled it to your mind, O'Neil?"

"Yes," said Frank, taking his cue. "Banjo Berry is not an ordinary name. Did you ever meet him, Mrs. Perth?"

"No. Mr. Starth's friends were not mine," replied the old dame, stiffly; "but this Mr. Berry must have been most intimate with Walter, as he says in his letter to Mildred" (she was again addressing Jarman) "that he intends to offer a reward of two hundred pounds for the detection of the assassin."

Lancaster dropped his stick in sheer amazement and to prevent any betrayal, Eustace took his arm with a significant pressure. "Well, Mrs. Perth, anything I can do shall be done," he said cheerily. "You will let me know when Miss Starth returns?"

"Certainly. We shall both be thankful for your aid."

Mrs. Perth retired into the cottage, and the two friends went on their way, Frank in a state of bewilderment. "What does Berry mean by offering a reward?" he gasped.

"He means to hang you," said Jarman, promptly.

"But he's my friend."

"H'm! He--as you told me--has said that so often that I begin to think he is your enemy."

"Why? I have given him no cause to hate me."

"H'm! Who knows? He was a friend of Starth's."

"That didn't matter," said Lancaster. "Starth himself hinted that Berry wished me to marry his niece. If I was undesirable as her husband before, I am still more undesirable as an outlaw."

Jarman thought, then asked questions. "How did you meet Berry?"

"He called to ask me to write some songs for Fairy Fan, having seen my poetry in the magazines."

"I see. Observe, Frank. Berry sought your acquaintance--you did not seek his. He brought you and Starth together again?"

"Well, he did. I dropped Starth's acquaintance, as you know, because we didn't get on well. He came to know Fairy Fan somehow, and I was constantly meeting him there."

"And this woman made running with you both?"

"Well, she was capricious. Some days she would snub me and flirt with Starth; on other days she would give him the go-by and stick to me."

"Quite so. She divided her favours to arouse jealousy between you."

Frank coloured and looked uneasy. "If you put it that way, she did."

"What was Berry's attitude"

"I can hardly say, save that whenever he was present Starth and I always had a row."

"H'm! A kind of male Ate," said Jarman, musingly. "Berry was speaking to Starth last night, before Starth insulted you?"

"Yes. But what has that got to do with it."

"Everything! Frank, I tell you this man Berry is at the bottom of the whole mystery. He got you into the trouble, now he means to hang you!"

Lancaster stared. "But his reason?" he asked.

Jarman made an extraordinary reply. "Because of the Scarlet Bat."

[CHAPTER V]

THE INQUEST

There was considerable excitement over the murder in Sand Lane, especially in theatrical and journalistic circles. The deceased was a well-known figure in Bohemia, as for years he had consorted with actors, with reporters, and with sundry idle men, who, doing nothing themselves, sought the company of those gifted with creative and mimetic powers. Walter Starth, being cursed with enough to live on, had developed into a thorough loafer, and chose Bohemia to dwell in, because its gaslight attractions were congenial to his mind. Occasionally he wrote an article or short story himself, and sometimes walked on in a melodrama as a guest; but he never did any real work, preferring idle talk and constant drinking. He was not a favourite with the Slaves of the Lamp, but his burly figure and red head were excessively familiar. Consequently there was immense curiosity manifested regarding his untimely and terrible death.

Who had killed him? That was the first question which everyone asked. But before the inquest took place it was known that Frank Lancaster was the assassin. How the rumour had started no one knew, but somehow, within twenty-four hours after the discovery of the body, Lancaster's name was on every lip. Now, Frank, moving in the same Bohemia, was as great a favourite as Starth was the reverse, and at the outset everyone declined to believe that he had slain Starth in so brutal a manner. But afterwards the open enmity between the two men was recalled, their attentions to Fairy Fan were mentioned, and an exaggerated version was given of the quarrel in the Piccadilly Theatre. When the inquest was held it was quite believed that Lancaster was the guilty man. His flight proved his guilt.

Frank, concealed under the dyed hair and brown face of Desmond O'Neil, wished Eustace to be present at the inquest, but Jarman did not think it wise to put in an appearance.

"Captain Berry will be there," said he, "and, as I stated before, I am pretty sure that for some unexplained reason he is your enemy. It is probable that he has made himself acquainted with as much of your sayings and doings as he can gather, and he doubtless knows that I am your friend. I'll keep out of it, Frank, lest Captain Berry should be induced to run down here and ask questions. If so, he might spot you in spite of your disguise. Besides, we'll see all that there is to be seen in the papers, and what isn't reported Mildred will explain when she returns."

"Is she stopping in town for the inquest?"

"Yes. Mrs. Perth has gone up also, as the poor girl is much cut up. A brother is a brother, however bad he may be."

Frank reflected for a few moments. "Eustace," said he at last, "do you remember what I told you about Starth taunting me with not knowing my father. That's true, you know."

"Yes. But afterwards he confessed that he said that only to get you dandered."

"How did he know that he would rile me in that way? Why should he hit the bull's-eye with a pot-shot? I fancied at the time that you might have told him something."

"No!" denied Jarman. "I keep my pores open and my mouth shut. It's probable that Starth learnt something about your family history from the egregious Berry."

"But how does Berry come to know anything?"

"That's one of the things we must find out, one of the elements connected with his attitude towards you."

"Do you think he knows what the Scarlet Bat means?"

"Yes. He knows more than you do, and, on the face of it, he purposely made your acquaintance to get you into trouble. Witness the way in which he brought you and Starth together, and secured Fairy Fan's aid to make bad blood between you. He wanted Starth dead and you hanged. At least, I think so; but, of course, I'm groping in the dark."

"But what's hanging to it?" asked Frank, much puzzled.

"I don't know. Money, I should say."

"So far as I know, there's no money worth all this trouble on Berry's part coming my way."

"Observe, my son," said Jarman, paternally, "so far as you know. That is the crux of the whole thing. You are as puzzled as myself over the meaning of the Scarlet Bat. As it's the only mystery about you, save the reason of Berry's enmity, I take leave to jam the two mysteries together. When they make one, we may perhaps be able to get at the truth."

"I don't see how we're to start," said Lancaster, knitting his brows.

"Nor I. Wait till the inquest is over. Then we'll have something to go upon. Berry will be a witness as to your quarrelling with the dead man. Berry will collect evidence to make the case blacker. And when Berry has done his worst, we'll know his cards. See! Then you and I will play our game with a hidden hand. And now, my son, start in with the typing. I have to get this story sent in to-morrow, and you must do something to keep up the fiction of being my secretary."

While Jarman and his friend were engaged in literary pursuits in Essex, the inquest was being held in London on the body of Walter Starth. After the jury had surveyed the corpse, and had particularly examined the bullet hole and the knife wound, either one of which was sufficient to cause death, the police inspector in charge of the case detailed facts. He had been called in by Mrs. Betts, the landlady of the deceased, and found Walter Starth dead in his sitting-room. The body was on the floor, with a wound in the heart and a bullet hole under the left eye. No knife had been found, but a pistol--to be more accurate, a Derringer revolver--was discovered in the fireless grate. There was no sign of a struggle. Everything was in its place. The man, apparently taken by surprise, must have died instantly. It was impossible to say whether he was knifed first or shot afterwards--but that was part of the doctor's evidence. A card had been found torn in two and lying on the floor. It bore the name of Frank Lancaster, and an address. On the silver plate of the Derringer were the initials "F. L.," so the inspector, presuming that Lancaster, owner of the pistol, was the assassin, had called at that address given on the card to arrest him.

At this point the coroner said that witness was assuming too much.

Inspector Herny submitted that the revolver used was the property of Lancaster, that the torn card bore his name, and that the servant Matilda Samuels stated that a man answering to the description of Lancaster had called to see the deceased. Also Lancaster and Starth had quarrelled at the Piccadilly Theatre on the night before the committal of the crime, and Lancaster had been heard to threaten the deceased. Finally, Captain Berry, whom the inspector had come into contact with at Lancaster's chambers--where he was paying a visit--stated that the two men were bitter rivals for the hand of his niece, Miss Berry, known on the stage as Fairy Fan.

"Why was not Lancaster arrested?" asked the coroner.

"He fled, sir," replied Herny. "After the committal of the crime, he did not return to his rooms. The last seen of him was when he passed Matilda Samuels a few minutes after nine o'clock."

The doctor who had examined the body deposed that either wound was sufficient to cause death. From the condition of the body he thought that the man was killed between six and eight o'clock. It was the doctor's opinion that Starth had been shot first and stabbed afterwards. He could give no absolute reason, save that if the suspected person using a knife had thus secured his end, he would hardly fire a shot into a dead body, especially into the head. "The noise would have attracted the neighbours," said the doctor, "and as the man was dead, there would be no sense in acting so foolishly. But in a vindictive spirit the assassin might certainly have mutilated the body with the knife. I am convinced that he killed Starth with the revolver."

The coroner interposed. Twice the witness had referred to the assassin as "he." How did he know that the criminal was a man?

The doctor answered that he did _not_ know, but the presumption favoured a male criminal. It was improbable that a woman would be such a straight shot (the doctor had been in South America and talked so), and, moreover, the knife had been driven so deeply into the heart that he doubted whether a woman would have strength to make such a wound. Besides, after firing the shot and securing her purpose, a woman would never have had the nerve to stop in the room for over an hour.

"There is no evidence that any woman stopped in the room for an hour."

The witness explained that he was thinking of Inspector Herny's remark of Lancaster having been seen by the servant leaving at nine. If Lancaster were guilty, he must have stopped in the room with his victim's body for over an hour. The murder took place between six and eight, and Lancaster did not leave till after nine.

"Most irregular, these remarks," said the coroner, discontentedly. "You have no right to assume so much. Which wound killed the man?"

"Either wound would cause death," said the doctor, sticking to his opinion, "but it is my belief the shot was the cause. The mutilation was an after-thought."

When this witness stepped down, Mrs. Betts the landlady was called. She knew nothing at all. On that day she had gone to a wedding--one of her cousins--and had been absent from midday till half-past nine. She returned to find Tilly (the servant) in hysterics, and her lodger dead. She then called in the police. Mrs. Betts never knew that her lodger expected anyone. He had said nothing to her. She had never given Tilly permission to go out during her absence, and had severely reprimanded her for leaving the house. It was Tilly's duty to have remained in until Mrs. Betts returned. The landlady declared that she never heard of any quarrel, that she never saw Lancaster, and that she knew of no one likely to have killed her lodger. Mr. Starth was a quiet gentleman in the house, whatever he may have been outside. He rarely had a visitor. Captain Berry was one of the few who called. Sometimes Mr. Starth would go away for a week, and always returned looking ill.

All this and much more of little account was extracted from the garrulous landlady, but she could throw no light on the darkness of the crime. She was succeeded as a witness by Tilly, whose evidence was delivered amidst floods of tears. The poor little wretch had been severely frightened when she entered the house after leaving her young man.

"I went to take Mr. Starth's lamp," she said, sobbing, "as he allays liked oil an' not gas. He was lying a deaden, so I 'owled and dropped, till missus shook me up. There wasn't anyone in the house. But that gentleman what called come out just as I wos talking to Alf. He looked white an' queer like. I spoke of the long time he'd bin, but he said nothin', and jus' cut."

"Were the two men on good terms?" asked the coroner.

"Well, sir," said Tilly, hesitating, "I can't 'ardly say for certing. I wos left in the 'ouse when missus went to the weddin', and Mr. Starth, he called me up, arskin' if I wos in the humour to see Alf, which is my young man, a bricklayer. I sed, 'Right oh!' and he tells me I could cut when a gentleman called to see him. 'There might be a row,' ses he, 'cos this gent 'ates me awful, an' I don't want you to 'ear bad language,' ses he. So I gets ready for Alf, and when the gent comes after four, and very late he wos, I shoves him into the room and cuts."

"Did you hear the greeting given by Starth to Lancaster?"

"No! I jus' shoves him in, and cuts."

"It was Lancaster who called?"

"Yuss. Mr. Starth ses as the gent he expected wos Lancaster by name, an' a fair, yeller-'aired cove. He seemed to 'ate 'im, tho' he ses as it wos Lancaster who 'ated 'im," finished Tilly, confusedly.

"Do you think Mr. Starth got you out of the house so as to quarrel freely with his visitor?"

"Yuss. He said as there would be a row."

"Could anyone have got into the lower part of the house during your absence?"

Tilly stole a look at hard-faced Mrs. Betts. "Why, bless y'no, sir. I wos perticler about lockin' an' barrin' the winders. But Mr. Starth could 'ave let anyone in. I left him with Mr. Lancaster, that's all I knows. W'en I come back after leaving Alf, I sawr 'im dead, w'en I brought the lamp. I nearly dropped with 'orror, an' after puttin' the lamp down I ran to woller on the kitchen floor with fear till missus come an' shook me up. I wos too feared to holler fur the perlice."

When Tilly was dismissed with a streaming face to the companionship of Alf, who lurked at the back of the court, Captain Berry was called. The little skipper looked harder than ever, and delivered his evidence in a dry fashion, with unwinking eyes and without saying more than was needful. His language smacked of the Great Waste Lands.

"Yes, sir, I guess I knew the corpse, and Lancaster. They fair hated one another, and there was always a shine between them when they met. My niece sent 'em fair crazy. They both wanted to marry her, but she shied when they asked her. She didn't want to run in double harness with either. Not much. I tried to make them two boys friends, but they wouldn't cotton to one another nohow. Starth _did_ liquidate considerable, and at the Piccadilly Theatre made trouble. Oh! he came right along, callin' Lancaster high-and-mighty names. I wanted to put the stopper on Starth's jaw, but Lancaster sailed in and levelled him straight. A pretty hitter is Lancaster; but I don't call it square of a man to wish another out of the world."

"Did Lancaster say that?" asked the coroner.

Berry spat and nodded. "Several times, you bet. He said he'd like to wring Starth's neck, that he'd be better out of the world than in it, and that he'd like to kick him out of the world. Oh, there was an holy show. I took Starth home, but he never let on that he was goin' to make it up with Lancaster next day. They made no appointment as I heard on. Oh! I guess Lancaster had a row with Starth in his own shanty, and let out at him with the Derringer. A clean shot, sir." Berry spat again. "The knife? Don't know anythin' of th' knife. But I heard as Lancaster was in 'Frisco once, so he might have imported a bowie. Yes, sir, that wound was made by a bowie."

Berry said much more to the same effect, and appeared to be quite sure that Lancaster was guilty. He was followed by Baird, who had been imported into the case by the skipper on a word to Inspector Herny. Baird admitted reluctantly that Lancaster had threatened to kick Starth out of the world, and that the two men were on the worst of terms.

Afterwards followed the cause of the trouble. Fairy Fan, exquisitely dressed, and quite overcome with emotion, deposed that the two men both asked her to marry them. She refused both, as she wished to stay with her dear uncle. Starth and Lancaster hated one another, but she never thought it would come to this. Starth usually started the quarrel, but it was always Lancaster who threatened. He frequently expressed a wish that Starth was dead. Lancaster told her that when slumming for his newspaper he sometimes carried a revolver. The weapon produced in court was his. She had seen it once. It had belonged to his father, Lancaster said. The elder Lancaster's name was Frank also, hence the initials on the silver plate. The death of Starth and the wickedness of Lancaster had inflicted two several shocks on her, so that she had been out of the bill at the Piccadilly Theatre. She never thought Lancaster was so bloodthirsty. He always seemed to be such a quiet young man. Starth's language was certainly most insulting.

Mildred Starth was then called. She deposed that she was a sister of the deceased. She lived in Essex, and saw very little of her brother. They got on pretty well, but she was fond of a quiet life, and her brother was never happy unless he was leading a fast one. On the night previous to the murder she was in town. Her brother was in the box at the Piccadilly Theatre; that was the last she saw of him. He seemed excited and a little overcome with drink. She had heard him express hatred of Lancaster, but he was careful in her presence not to explain the reason. She had never heard him threaten Lancaster, but twice she had heard him express fears lest Lancaster should kill him. He described Lancaster as a ruffian from San Francisco. Witness had never seen the accused man.

This formed the gist of evidence collected by the police, and it was quite enough to permit the coroner making a speech strongly condemning Lancaster. He said that no doubt Lancaster had intimated his intention of calling on Starth, as there was no reason to believe that Starth, who was manifestly afraid of his opponent, had invited him to come. Lancaster had undoubtedly brought the revolver with him, and it would seem that he had called on deceased with the intention of committing the murder. Perhaps Starth--as seemed probable--had torn Lancaster's card in two (the pieces having been found), and the insult had fired Lancaster's rage. Hence the murder. It seems that no one heard the shot; at all events no one could be found who could give such evidence. The jury must therefore take the doctor's opinion that Starth had been shot between six and eight. It was impossible to say why Lancaster had remained behind with his victim's body until nine. But he apparently did, as he was seen leaving the house by the servant, Matilda Samuels. The jury had inspected the body, they had heard the evidence and the cause of death, and on the facts before them would give their verdict.

This was easily given. Without the least hesitation the jury brought in a verdict of wilful murder against Frank Lancaster. After that the crowd went out, and the neighbourhood buzzed with excitement. The one question asked was whether the police knew the whereabouts of the guilty man.

The police did not, and to a reporter Inspector Herny confessed that he had absolutely no clue. Lancaster had vanished like a water bubble.

[CHAPTER VI]

A SCRAP OF PAPER

When the big dailies arrived at the Shanty containing accounts of the inquest, Lancaster was perfectly convinced that Jarman was right. Captain Berry was his enemy sure enough, though for the life of him Frank could not conjecture the cause of such hostility. Also it seemed as though Fairy Fan was likewise against him, since--according to Frank--she lied freely during her five minutes' evidence.

"Starth might have asked her to marry him," he explained to his friend, when they were strictly alone, "but I certainly never did."

"Had you any idea of doing so?"

Lancaster hesitated, not being willing to reveal his deepest and most sacred feelings even unto this staunch friend. "I don't know to what lengths my infatuation might have carried me."

"Oh then you did love her?" said Jarman, alertly.

"That depends on what you call love. I certainly had a fancy for her. I thought her pretty and fascinating, and she was always on her best behaviour with me. I think she liked me more than a little."

Eustace laid one big finger on the _Daily Telegraph_ significantly. "It looks like it," said he.

"Berry's put her against me," replied Frank in disturbed tones. "I'll swear that she would never lie like that, unless she was put up to it in some way. She _did_ like me, although she was always too selfish to love anyone but herself. Jewels and laces, carriage and pair, admiration and cutting a dash--that was what Fairy Fan desired. I could not offer her these things, so she was careful not to compromise herself with me in any way. I never got so far as asking her to marry me, though I don't know but what I mightn't have been such an ass had I not changed my mind."

"And what caused you to change your mind, my son?"

Frank looked oddly at the big man, and then fixed his eyes studiously on his pipe, while making an evasive reply. "I saw someone I liked better," he explained, "and then my admiration for Fairy Fan seemed to vanish like a cloud of smoke. After I saw that other face I thought no more of Fan, and was able to tell Starth with a clear mind that I didn't care about her. I'd have danced at his wedding with pleasure."

"H'm! And who is the--no, I have no right to ask that. But to continue with the lady's evidence. We know the the first. And the second?"

"I never expressed any wish to her that Starth should die. I told her, certainly, that I sometimes carried a revolver when slumming. But I never mentioned that it belonged to my father, nor did I show it to her. Lastly, I never said to Fan that my father's name was the same as my own."

"Was it?"

"Well, yes. Francis, same as mine."

"And did the revolver belong to him?"

"It did. I got it from my aunt. There was a silver plate on it with my father's initials, and my own, of course."

"She might have seen the revolver produced in court," said Jarman, thoughtfully; "but why should she state that it was your father's?"

"Chance shot!" suggested Frank.

"No. She knew the initials on it were your father's and not yours. H'm! She's in this conspiracy along with Berry."

Lancaster rose to pace the room in an exasperated manner. "Why should there be a conspiracy?" he demanded.

"You've asked me that before," said Jarman, calmly, "and I have replied that I think money is at the bottom of it. Evidently Berry forced his acquaintance on you; and Fairy Fan made the running to create jealousy and bring about this catastrophe. Money, my boy!"

Frank sat down in despair. "I don't see it," he said, pushing his hands into his pockets. "Supposing there is money (though for the life of me I can't think where it's to come from), why is it needful for me to be hanged before Berry and Fairy Fan get it?"

"That's what puzzles me," said Eustace, nodding. "If they wanted you out of the way, they could have polished you off at Sand Lane as easily as they did Starth."

"Do you think they killed him?"

"I do, or else they employed someone else to do it. But you were lured there to be inculpated in the crime, and, begad! they've managed finely to put the rope round your throat. The money--well, I can't make it out, considering the means they've taken to get you into trouble, but there's money in the matter some way. And a mighty big sum too, seeing they've gone as far as murder."

"But it's all so vague; and all supposition on your part."

"I admit it. All the same I can theorise in no other way, unless--"

"Well, what is it?"

"I was going to say that perhaps it's blackmail. They may find out where you are and come forward, offering to save your neck from being wrung if you pay them well."

"That inculpates themselves. Besides, if I am entitled to money of which I knew nothing, it was easy enough for Fan to marry me. Then all would have been square for Berry and her without having had to slay Starth and outlaw me."

"Sure enough," groaned Jarman, who was getting more and more puzzled. "What it all means I can't say. You have been outlawed in due form, and the police are after you. All you have to do is to remain quiet and not give yourself away, as you nearly did to Mrs. Perth the other day."

"I hadn't my feelings under control," said Frank. "Her talk of that stab in the breast startled me. I can't understand why I didn't see it at the time."

"Did you feel the man's heart?"

"No. The sight of the bullet wound under the left eye was enough for me. All I wanted to do was to get away and hide."

"Well, then, as you had only a match, and didn't feel the poor man's heart, it's easy to see how you missed the knife wound." Jarman took up the paper again. "The doctor says that Starth was shot first and mutilated afterwards."

"But why should the poor wretch have been mutilated at all?"

"I can't say. It looks like a piece of savagery to me. Though, to be sure, I think mutilation's a wrong word to be used for a clean stab. If his ears had been cut off now, or--"

"Don't!" said Frank, with a shudder. "It's horrible! The man was shot dead, and then stabbed to make sure. That's how I read it."

"Well, the person who sent him into the other world must have been anxious to make certain." This time it was Eustace who paced the room. "I only heard of one corpse being treated like that before."

"Where was that?" asked Lancaster.

"In San Francisco some years ago!"

"Who was it, and why was he slain twice--for that's what it amounts to?"

Jarman did not answer immediately. It was close on eight o'clock, and he stood looking out of his study window into the luminous night. He and the secretary had been haymaking throughout the afternoon, and the shaven expanse of a particularly rough lawn was dotted with haycocks picturesquely disposed. Beyond was the untrimmed hedge which Jarman could never allow to be cut, and under this grew straggling white rose-bushes, the flowers of which showed starlike in the glimmering light. Over the hedge through a vista of leafy elms could be seen the far-extending country, and the lights of Tilbury in a long line like flying illuminated railway carriages. A clear, starry sky and a yellow harvest moon completed the beauty of the scene, and the nightingales were singing wildly in the copse at the bottom of the meadow. Jarman heaved a sigh of delight.

"It's a peaceful scene," said he, with a look of pure pleasure. "Why do I go into gaslight and noisy crowds when I can dwell always in this Arcadia?"

"Well, you don't," said Frank, not seeing where this speech would lead to. "You haven't been in a London theatre or drawing-room for ages."

"True enough. I keep out of those things. But I was saying that San Francisco was noisy."

"Were you? I didn't hear you," said Frank. Then, as Jarman again made no reply, he spoke up rather pettishly. His position didn't soothe his nerves in any way, poor fellow. "You can trust me, Eustace."

"How do you know I was becoming confidential?"

"Because you talked sentiment about the scene before you."

Eustace returned to his seat and laughed rather sadly. "You're an observer, my son," said he. "Yes. You have told me about your past--we must have a repetition of that story some day, for reasons you will easily understand--now I'll tell you my romance."

"About a woman?"

"Yes. Did you ever know a romance that didn't include a woman? And this one of mine included a corpse, too."

"Shot and stabbed?"

"Both--in the streets of 'Frisco six or seven years ago. The man's name was Anchor."

"Are you talking of the corpse?" asked Lancaster, settling himself.

"Of what else. He was a lucky miner, and, having made no end of money, he built a new raw palace near 'Frisco, where he settled with his wife."

"Ah!" said Frank, intelligently, "she's the woman."

"Quite so, and I loved her for all I was worth, till I found her out."

"Eustace," remarked Lancaster, finding these details scrappy, "if you will start in an' sail plainly, I won't interrupt."

Jarman took a pull at his pipe. "I'll give the gist of it in a few words," said he, slowly. "I was doing some journalistic work in 'Frisco, and ran across Anchor. He was a big, burly, rough chap, but a whacking good sort. We chummed up, and he invited me to see him. I was introduced to Mrs. Anchor, and fell in love with her."

"What was she like?"

"You promised not to interrupt. Never mind what she was like. My taste then is not my taste now."

"Mildred!" thought Frank, but said nothing.

"I think she liked me more than a little. But after I visited at her house for a time, I found that Anchor was turning nasty."

"Jealous, I suppose?"

Eustace nodded. "But upon my soul he had no cause to be. I was as straight as a die. It's not my fashion to loot other men's wives. I think Mrs. Anchor did her best to make him jealous. After a time I became sure, and then found out--it matters not how--that she wished to get rid of her husband. I was to be the man to remove him."

"Confound! Did she want you to murder the man?"

"Well, that was her idea. But all this I didn't find out for a long time. Anchor grew nasty, and I rarely went to his house. But Mrs. Anchor used to come and see me in the city sometimes."

"Was that quite straight?"

"No, it wasn't, in one way. But, you see, she came to tell me that she was afraid that her husband would kill her. I wasn't up to her game then. A third man came in. His name was Sakers--a nasty, dry, bad-tempered chap. He and Mrs. Anchor became thick as thieves. Then she gave me the go-by."

"Oh! I suppose she hoped Sakers would kill her husband?"

"Yes. It seemed that Anchor was ruined. His wife spent all his money, and the raw new palace was sold. The pair came to live at 'Frisco, and Sakers loafed on the Front with Mrs. Anchor."

"Were you still in love with her?"

"I was. I tell you, Frank, I really did love that woman. She was the most fascinating woman I ever met, and I've flirted with them in all countries. Well, after a time, she chucked Sakers and came to me. I gathered that she knew of some money which could be got if her husband was out of the way."

"How?"

"Well, I didn't inquire. She proposed so plainly that I should shoot Anchor--seeing that even her pranks couldn't make him jealous enough to get up a duel--that I grew angry. That was an eye-opener. But even then if she'd dropped the business I might have gone on loving her, but she up and slanged me properly. Then I saw what a bad mind she had, and showed her the door. What her scheme was I don't know. After that, a week later, Anchor came to see me."

"To make trouble?"

"No, poor chap. He came to make it up. Said that he had been mistaken in me, and that he didn't believe all the lies that were told about my being in love with Mrs. Anchor. Then he cried, and said that she had bolted with Sakers."

"Why wasn't he man enough to follow, and shoot?"

"He was off that night to Chicago, where the two had gone. But he came to see me to explain. It seemed that there was some money--about a million--that he had something to do with. He promised to see me again before he left for Chicago, and to give me some papers about the matter. It was by the midnight train he was going, and he was to call back at eight. I went to the door of my house with him--it was in a quiet side street, and we stood chatting at the door."

"But why didn't he bring the papers with him?" asked Frank.

"He didn't know if I'd take them, and, moreover, was afraid of being robbed and killed by--well, I can't say who by, but Sakers was mixed up in the business."

"I see. Mrs. Anchor had told Sakers what she told you, and he, less scrupulous, intended to kill Anchor to get these papers."

"That's about the size of it. But the whole thing was so vague that I couldn't get at the pith of it. Anchor would tell me nothing until he came back with the papers at eight. All he said when we shook hands at the door was 'Tamaroo--'"

"Well, go on. Tamaroo what?"

"He didn't get any further," said Jarman, "for at that moment he was shot."

"Shot! In the open street?"

"It was a quiet side street, and, being about meal-time, there was no one about. Also it was almost dark. The man who shot Anchor must have been concealed in a corner close at hand. I turned, and saw him cutting along the street. I followed, calling for the police. But he bunked into a crowded street, and I lost him. I went up to a policeman and made him come back with me. I had been away for fifteen minutes on the chase. Anchor was still lying before my door, but in addition to the shot wound there was a knife in his heart. In this instance Frank, the knife was left in the wound. It was a brand-new bowie, and nothing could be made of it in the way of evidence."

"What happened then?"

"Well, at first I was thought to be guilty, but I soon cleared my character. Anchor was buried, and I never saw nor heard of Mrs. Anchor, nor Sakers again."

"What about the papers?"

"I never heard anything of them either. But it appeared that when Anchor was seeing me a negro came to his lodgings to wait for him. As he didn't turn up the negro skipped. I fancied he might have been an emissary of Mrs. Anchor's to steal those papers. But none were found."

"And who killed Anchor?"

"Well, I fancy Sakers fired the shot. But who knifed him I can't say."

Frank rose, and walking to the window stretched himself. "It's a gruesome story," said he; "and what did Tamaroo mean?"

"I can't tell you. That was the one word the poor fellow said before he was stretched a corpse. Well, Frank, after that I got sick of the West and came home. A strange romance?"

"Very. But I can't make top nor tail of the business. It is strange that Anchor should have been both shot and stabbed as Starth was."

"For that reason I tell the story. Keep it to yourself, Frank. I do not care about wearing my heart on my sleeve."

"I'll say nothing," assented Lancaster, "and you know quite enough to round on me if I do. I say"--he peered through the window into the moonlight--"who is the lady?"

Jarman rose, and looked over Frank's shoulder. There was a white figure crossing the lawn. "It's Mildred--Miss Starth."

Frank made for the door. "I'll go to my bedroom," he said. "I am not able to meet her yet, as I might give myself away. Besides, she may wish to talk to you about the case."

"H'm! Yes, it's just as well. Clear out. I'll let you know all that is needful."

So Frank disappeared, and Jarman opened the front door to his visitor. Mildred looked very weary. She wore a white dress with black bows, and saw him looking sideways at it when she entered the study.

"I haven't had time to get proper mourning," she said, sinking into a chair. "Mrs. Perth is furbishing up an old dress for to-morrow."

"I wasn't thinking of that," said Jarman, mendaciously. "Have some wine, Miss Starth? You look so tired."

"I'm worn out. That awful inquest, and poor Walter's death." She hid her face in her hands. "It's all so sudden, so terrible! I have been in bed ever since I returned."

"So Mrs. Perth told me. I know the verdict."

"Do you think it is a true one?" asked Mildred, suddenly.

Jarman was taken aback. "How should I know?"

"The jury say that Mr. Lancaster killed Walter. But as I was leaving the room someone--I don't know who--slipped a paper into my hand. I have brought it to you, as I can't understand."

She handed Jarman half a sheet of notepaper. On it was written in an unformed, childish hand three words--"Frank. Innocent. Tamaroo!"

"Tamaroo!" Jarman leaped up. "Tamaroo! What does it mean?"

[CHAPTER VII]

CUPID'S BARGAIN

While Jarman was receiving Miss Starth at the door, Miss Cork had brought in the lamp and pulled down the blinds. In the yellow light Mildred could see that his face was pearly white. As Eustace was not usually emotional, she guessed that the paper she had given him must be interesting enough to surprise him out of his ordinary self.

"What is it?" she asked nervously. "Oh! what is it?" Her nerves were slack, poor girl, from the anxieties of the last week.

Jarman did not answer directly. That he should have stumbled on the word "Tamaroo" in this unexpected manner, immediately after telling his story to Frank, surprised him not a little. The coincidence was extraordinary, and, he suspected, providential. He could not see what connection there could be between the murder of Anchor in San Francisco and that of Walter Starth in Sand Lane, but the mysterious word "Tamaroo" seemed to link the two. Perhaps it might prove the clue to the mystery of the last crime. Jarman sat down to hurriedly arrange his thoughts, but he was unable to answer Mildred for a time. After her exclamation she remained quiet, clasping and unclasping her hands, shaken to the core of her soul by the disturbed looks of this ordinarily phlegmatic man.

"I don't know what it means," confessed Jarman finally, and looked again at the paper. "This is written by an uneducated person, and by one who knows Lancaster well enough to address him by his Christian name. Who slipped it into your hand?"

"I don't know," said Mildred again. "I was passing out with the crowd after the verdict had been given, and I felt this being pushed into my hand. My fingers closed on it mechanically. For the moment I never thought to look round for the person. When I examined it outside it was, of course, too late."

"H'm! That's a pity. If we could only find who wrote it there might be some chance of clearing up the mystery."

"Then you think there _is_ a mystery, Mr. Jarman?"

"About your brother's death? Certainly I do. I know Lancaster very well. Indeed, it was I who introduced him to your brother, and I am absolutely certain that he is not the man to commit so brutal a crime."

"But his threats on the previous night?" objected Mildred.

"Mere foolish speaking. And, far from proving his guilt, they, to my mind, hint at his innocence. Had he intended to kill your brother he would have been more circumspect in his language."

"But if Mr. Lancaster is innocent, why did he run away?"

Jarman shrugged his shoulders. "You can't expect a man to have all his wits about him at such a moment. He was"--here Jarman was about to explain the drugging, but on second thoughts he did not think it wise to appear to know too much--"he was in the house alone with your brother, whom he had threatened," he continued, "and when the murder took place saw that there was every chance of his being accused. To avoid being arrested on circumstantial evidence, he fled."

"Have you any idea where he is?" asked Miss Starth, quickly.

"No," replied Jarman, deliberately. "I have not seen Frank Lancaster for some months. He was always in town, and, as you know, I rarely go up. You believe him to be guilty?"

"Everything seems to point to his guilt."

"I admit that. But I am convinced from what I know of him that he is perfectly innocent."

"If so," said Mildred, shrewdly, "he must at least know who killed my brother, seeing that he left the house _after_ the death."

"I don't profess to explain," said Eustace, who was unwilling to lie more than was necessary to shield Lancaster. "Did your brother ask Lancaster to call on him?"

"No!" replied Mildred, decisively. "Walter was rather afraid of Mr. Lancaster. They were bad friends for some reason, and Mr. Lancaster threatened to give Walter a thrashing."

"Did he threaten to kill him?"

Mildred hesitated. "Well, Walter said that Mr. Lancaster would shoot him if he got the chance, as he always carried a revolver."

"Lancaster only carried a revolver when he went slumming."

"He wasn't slumming when he visited at Sand Lane."

"No! I can't explain that. All I can say is that, from what I know of Lancaster, he might have thrashed your brother, but he certainly would not murder him."

"But Mr. Darrel tells me that Mr. Lancaster was very bitter against my brother."

"When did he tell you that?" said Jarman, who knew Darrel, and, regarding him as a possible rival, did not approve of him overmuch.

"To-day, when I got up. Mr. Darrel is staying at the Rectory for a few days. You know, he is a friend of the rector's."

"Yes, I know," replied Eustace, thinking he must put Frank on his guard, since Darrel might recognise him. "Why did Darrel come down?"

"On a visit to the rector. But he also said that he came to see if he could help me in any way."

"I can do all the help that is necessary," said Jarman, jealously.

"I told him so, and, then, Captain Berry is anxious to assist."

"H'm!" said Eustace, pulling his big moustache. "Mrs. Perth told me that he had offered a reward. Very good of him."

"Captain Berry was a great friend of Walter's. He wrote me the sad news almost immediately."

"Almost too immediately," replied Jarman. "What time did you get his letter?"

"By the eleven post."

"Then it must have been posted in London before midnight, and the fact of the murder was not known to the general public till next morning. How came Captain Berry to have such early information?"

"I don't know," said Miss Starth, blankly. "Do you think--"

"I think nothing," interposed the big man, quickly. "I have never met Berry, and I know nothing about him. But Mrs. Perth doesn't seem to entertain a good opinion of him."

Mildred, in spite of her grief and sadness, could not help smiling. "You know that Mrs. Perth never approved of Walter's friends. She was my governess, you remember, and still thinks it's her duty to look after me."

"And after that Denham man."

"Oh! he is only a boy--" said Mildred, with contempt, "and a very silly boy. Walter brought him down twice, but I don't suppose he'll come here again."

"Where did Starth meet him?"

"At Captain Berry's. Mr. Denham came from San Francisco with Captain Berry. They are great friends."

"And thereby hangs a tale," muttered Jarman, who was intensely suspicious of the skipper and his associates. "Well, and what are you going to do now, Miss Starth?"

"I can do nothing," she said, with a helpless gesture. "I have seen our lawyer about Walter's affairs, and Walter's income comes to me. I don't know what to do about his death except wait."

"For the capture of Lancaster?"

Miss Starth moved uneasily. "I am not revengeful," she said, "and my brother was not such a good man as he should have been. But if Mr. Lancaster is guilty he ought to be punished."

"Yes. _If_ he is guilty. But presuming his innocence--"

"He will have an opportunity of proving that when he is tried."

"Ah!" said Jarman, pulling again at his moustache, "then you anticipate that he will be captured?"

"Captain Berry says he will never rest until he is captured. We had a long talk about the matter."

"Has Berry any clue?"

"No. Neither has Inspector Herny. Since that servant saw Mr. Lancaster leave the house, nothing more has been heard of him. I don't want him to be captured. His being hanged wont bring poor Walter to life, and that paper makes me doubt if he is guilty."

"Did you show this to Berry?" asked Jarman, who still held the paper.

"No. I showed it to no one, not even to Mrs. Perth. I wished to consult you about it."

"I am glad you said nothing, Miss Starth," said Jarman. "May I keep this paper? I may be able to find out something, you know."

"Certainly. I shall be glad if you will help me."

"I wish to help you in every way. You know that."

Jarman's voice shook a little, and the woman in Mildred took the alarm. She rose to go, whereupon Jarman insisted on seeing her to Rose Cottage. "But there is no need," protested Mildred, "the moon is shining, and I am quite safe. Don't trouble."

"It's a pleasure," insisted Eustace, putting on his cap, and being thus obstinate Mildred let him have his own way. She was even secretly pleased, as she liked Eustace extremely.

They stepped out into the moonlight, and took their careful way between the haycocks. The night was very still. Occasionally there would float towards them an outburst of song from the copse-hidden nightingales, diversified by the hoot of an owl, or the whirr of a distant train steaming towards London. Mildred had simply thrown a lace shawl over her head to run across to the Shanty, and her face looked wonderfully pure and white in the ivory radiance of the moon. Eustace felt his pulses throb with suppressed excitement, and the blood tingled pleasantly in his veins. He was in love with Mildred, he was jealous of Darrel, and these passions lifted him somewhat out of his usual self. The romance of San Francisco appeared the veriest prose beside this lyrical night. Yet he felt that he could not break in upon the grief of the girl with his tale of love, and so walked sedately by her side, holding himself well in hand.

As they passed into the lane, and under the chequered shadows of the elms, Mildred felt the influence of her companion. She was not in love with Jarman, or with anyone, but she liked and admired him immensely, and, granted that the fairy prince did not come along, was not unprepared to listen should he speak. Still, the feeling of sorrow for the death of her brother lay heavily upon her, and she sighed as the cool night wind ruffled her dark hair. After a time, to break the silence, she asked Jarman about the new secretary.

"Mrs. Perth told me that he was very handsome," she said.

"Oh, he's good-lookin' enough," replied Eustace, "but his spectacles rather spoil him. Weak eyes, you know."

"I was not aware that you intended to engage a secretary."

"I have so much work to do."

"You might have engaged me," said Miss Starth, reproachfully. "I can type quite as quickly as you can dictate, and you know I am always glad to assist you."

"I know that," said Jarman, suppressing a strong inclination to take her in his arms. "We have done some work together."

"_You_ have. I don't know what I should have done without you to correct my verses and help me to get them printed. I was only sixteen when I showed you my first poem."

"Yes. And very shy you were over it. Natural in a schoolgirl."

"I am not a schoolgirl now, Mr. Jarman."

Who knew that better than Eustace? "I wish you were," he muttered.

"Why? You should be glad to see me grow up, Mr.--"

"Why so formal, Miss Starth--Mildred. Call me Eustace."

"I should like to--Eustace," said the girl, frankly--too frankly, alas! for any feeling of love to lurk in the words. "You know how fond I am of you," and she squeezed his arm playfully.

"Mildred!" He could stand it no longer, although he felt that this was not the time to speak of love. But the influence of the hour, of her words, and the feeling of jealousy inculcated by Darrel's arrival made him confess his secret. "Mildred?"

"Yes." She detected the change in his voice, and grew nervous.

"I--I--love you!"

"Mr. Jarman--I mean Eustace!"

"I didn't mean to speak," went on the man, rapidly. "I know you have heavy troubles to face. But I wish to help you. If you would accept me as your husband, if you would lean upon me through life, I would do all that I could to save you from being worried."

Under the shadow of the trees, a stone's-throw from the white gate of Rose Cottage, Mildred stood still, her hands clasped before her. A shaft of light piercing the leafage shed its radiance on her beautiful face, and Eustace put a constraint on himself. Under his breath he quoted the Arabic proverb: "Blessed be Allah who made beautiful woman."

"Eustace, I never thought of this!"

"And you are angry?"

"No--no. I'm not exactly angry. But--"

"You love me, then--you love me!" She could feel his breath on her cheek, and shrank away from the passion expressed in his deep voice.

"I am not angry, but I don't love you. Wait!" She flung up her hand as she heard his sigh. "I like you--oh, yes, I like you more than anyone I ever met."

"More than Darrel?"

"Mr. Darrel; I don't care a bit for him. I wish you wouldn't talk so." She stamped her foot. "You know how troubled I am about poor Walter's death, and we were getting on so nicely."

"You and Walter?"

"No, poor fellow. You and I. We were such companions, and I always told you everything--and now talking like this!" Miss Starth's eyes filled with tears. "It's a shame."

"I can't help loving you."

"Well, I love you--in a way. No, don't come any nearer. I--I--looked on you as a--a--father," sobbed Mildred.

"Oh, Heavens! There's no more to be said after that. Let me remain in that relationship."

"No. That is"--Mildred dried her tears, and became alarmed because she thought she was inflicting pain--"that is--you know, I don't mind--well, if you can't guess."

"Does that mean you will marry me?" asked Jarman, catching his breath.

Mildred rolled her handkerchief up into a ball, and became more of a woman and less of a schoolgirl. "I will marry you on one condition."

"What is that?" he asked, eagerly.

"That you find out and punish the person who killed Walter."

Jarman's heart leaped. "Do you mean Lancaster?" he asked, alarmed.

"No--if what that paper says is true. I mean the real person. You say that Mr. Lancaster is innocent, and I know you too well to doubt your word. Find the real person, and--" she bent forward as though to seal the bargain with a kiss. But before her face could touch his own she drew back, and flittered towards the gate.

"Mildred!" he cried. "Mildred!"

"Good-night!" floated back faintly, and he heard the closing of the door. Alone with the night and with his great happiness, he tried to realise his good fortune. "She doesn't love me yet," he thought, as he walked back to the Shanty on tip-toe excitement, "but she will--she will. Heaven bless her How could I have loved Mrs. Anchor? This is the real thing, and Mildred--oh! what a boy I am yet." He wiped his face. "Of course I'll find out who killed her brother, both to win her and to save Frank. Dear Frank--poor fellow!" Jarman felt immensely sorry for Lancaster being, as it were, out in the cold. "I must tell him."

And tell him he did, blurting out the news almost before he filled his pipe. "I say, Frank, I'm going to start in and find out who killed Starth!" he declared.

"Miss Starth has asked you to do so?" said Frank, trying to suppress his jealousy.

"Yes. And she is going to reward me, if I am successful, with her hand."

Lancaster stared. "I--I--hope you'll be happy," he gulped. "She'll get a good husband."

"And I an angel for a wife."

"An archangel--a Madonna--a saint," said Frank, incoherently. But his heart ached.

[CHAPTER VIII]

A PLEASANT SURPRISE

The Rectory was like a bee-hive. Mr. Arrow was the happy father of ten healthy children, and his wife was pretty well worn out looking after them. One of the boys was at Sandhurst, a couple were at school, but the majority of the children remained to make the old house lively. Why Darrel, who loved his comforts, should come to such a noisy establishment, Arrow could not conjecture, although he was glad to welcome him. Darrel himself declared that he came to see his old tutor, and Arrow accepted the flattering compliment. But when he found that his guest paid three visits to Rose Cottage in as many days, the rector began to mistrust the excuse. However, he said nothing to Darrel, as the Rhodesian was rich, and might be trusted to do something towards launching the young Arrows into the bleak world.

Darrel was a big man, as huge as Jarman, but black and sulky in his looks. His manners were soft, and he resembled a large tom-cat more than anything else, particularly when speaking, as he positively purred. With the children he was a favourite, as he always presented them with gifts; but it was understood that on condition of this largess, they were to leave him alone. Consequently, he had all his time to himself, and spent it dodging about Rose Cottage, or filling the little parlour with his gigantic person.

Mrs. Perth rather liked him, as he was always deferential to her, and she was not averse to his courtship of Mildred, for that was what his continual, and not always welcome, presence amounted to. But the girl herself thought Darrel possessed a violent temper, and always declared that she would not marry him if he were as rich as Vanderbilt. However, as the Rhodesian came ostentatiously to condole with her on account of her trouble, she could not very well express herself as she wished. Moreover, in a measure, she was now engaged to Jarman, but she told no one of the agreement she had made with him, not even Mrs. Perth. It was now over a fortnight since the death of Starth, and as he was buried, Mildred was recovering her spirits. She had never cared particularly for her brother, who was something of a bully, and had seen so little of him that his death made scarcely any difference in her life. Consequently, beyond that she was in mourning, she showed little sign of the catastrophe. And Walter had only himself to thank for the calmness with which she accepted his decease.

One afternoon Mrs. Perth was out, and Darrel sat with Mildred drinking tea in the parlour. It was a small room filled with chintz-covered furniture, and looked extremely cool. The window was open, and Darrel, who felt the heat, sat near it cup in hand. He was dressed in spotless flannels, and looked better-looking and less black than usual. Mildred, in her sombre dress, was fanning herself vigorously.

"I wish I could feel as cool as you do," she said, enviously.

"It's more looks than anything else," replied Darrel in his heavy way. "I'm warm enough--quite. How I'll stand town I don't know."

"When are you returning?" asked Miss Starth, indifferently.

"To-morrow--if you don't want me to stay."

"I have no control over your movements, Mr. Darrel."

But the coldness of the tone had no effect. "I mean, that there may be something I can do for you. Now that your brother is dead--"

"Mr. Jarman is looking after things for me, thank you," said Mildred, stiffly. "The only thing you can do is to find out who killed Walter."

Darrel raised his bushy eyebrows. "There's no difficulty about that, Miss Starth. The verdict of the jury--"

"Was wrong. I can't believe that this Mr. Lancaster committed so horrible and apparently purposeless a crime."

"Have you any reason to believe him innocent?"

Mildred, for obvious reasons, did not answer this question directly. "I can't see his motive," she said, looking down pensively.

"The evidence of that lady at the inquest--"

"I know nothing about any lady," retorted the girl, flushing. Then, to change the conversation and mark her sense of Darrel's bad manners, she asked a question. "Did you know Mr. Lancaster?"

Darrel nodded. "I thought I told you," he said. "He was sitting next to me on that night I saw you in the theatre."

"The night before the tragedy," said Mildred, shuddering. "What is he like to look at?"

"Fair chap, blue eyes, and--"

"Wait!" Miss Starth recollected the man who had stared at her. "Do you mean to say that he was the gentleman who sat next to you?"

"Yes. I said so. Fair hair, and--"

"I know," she broke in hurriedly. "He was looking at me; our eyes met, and he--oh he didn't look like a man who would commit murder."

"I shouldn't have thought it of him myself," said Darrel; "but if he didn't, who did? That's the point."

"I wish you to find that out if you will."

"Certainly. I'll do my best, on conditions."

"Conditions!" Mildred stared, and looked annoyed.

"Yes," said the Rhodesian, stolidly; "promise to be my wife, and I'll hunt down Lancaster."

Mildred gasped. This was the same bargain as she had made with Eustace, so the situation was duplicated. But she more than liked Jarman, and cared very little for Darrel. Moreover, now that she knew the suspected man was the one who had stared at her, and to whose face she had taken a fancy, she was inclined to agree with Eustace that he was innocent. So refined a man could not possibly have committed so brutal a crime. And, finally, she was displeased that Darrel should again broach a subject about which she had asked him to be silent.

"I told you before, and I tell you again, Mr. Darrel, that I cannot become your wife," she said, with some heat.

"Why not?" asked the man, stolidly.

Mildred grew exasperated. "Because I don't love you."

"Love may come after marriage."

"I prefer it to come before," she declared. "I won't marry you."

"Yes, you will," said Darrel, closing his obstinate mouth; "your brother was in favour of the match."

"At one time, but not lately."

"I know, and I can't understand why he changed."

"Whether he changed or not doesn't matter," said Miss Starth, sharply; "the thing is out of the question."

"No, it isn't. I've made up my mind to marry you, and marry you I shall."

She rose and turned on him indignantly. "Do you threaten me?"

Darrel rose also, but did not reply directly. "I never made up my mind yet to get a thing that I didn't succeed," he said. "I wanted to be rich, and I am rich. I want you to be my wife, and I intend to make you my wife."

"No! No! No!" She stamped her foot three times.

"Oh, yes," said Darrel, calmly. "Think it over. I go to town to-morrow, but will come back in a month. I'll expect my answer then."

"Take it now," she cried, indignant at his impertinence. "No!"

"That's not the answer I require," he said, collecting his cane and hat. "You must say yes."

"I won't!"

Darrel took not the slightest notice, but held out his hand. Mildred declined to take it, and repeated her refusal. The big man turned to the door. "I'll come in a month for my answer," said he, and went out.

Mildred was very angry at his persistence, but she had quite as strong a will as Darrel, and determined that nothing would induce her to become his wife. But she dreaded his return, as she knew he was not easily shaken off. For the moment she was minded to tell Eustace, but a reflection that such a confidence might lead to a quarrel, made her change her mind. "But I'll never marry that Darrel," she declared. "Never--never--never! I wonder, indeed, if I'll marry Eustace. I like him, but I don't love him. And one should love when--" here she blushed and sat down. Her thoughts wandered to the pleasant face of the young man in the theatre, and she recalled his persistent gaze. He had evidently been attracted by her, and she-- "No," said Mildred to herself, "I'll never believe that he murdered Walter!" after which remark she began regretting that she had made a bargain with Eustace. Decidedly her conduct was flighty, but late events had unsettled her mind. She was not usually so vacillating, but at the present moment she was too bewildered and upset to know her own mind, save that she would never marry Darrel. "And perhaps not Eustace," she concluded.

Meantime, Eustace was in the seventh heaven. For the last few days he had gone about singing, and Lancaster was rather exasperated. It seemed unfair that Jarman should have all the happiness, and he should have nothing but trouble. Then he blamed himself for being selfish. Jarman had been, and was, a good friend to him, and Jarman had known Mildred for many years. He, Frank, had not even spoken to her, so it was ridiculous and ungrateful of him to be jealous of his best friend on such slight grounds. He did all he knew to preserve a cheerful face, but at times grew gloomy. Eustace put his fit of the dismals down to a too vivid realisation of his danger. He would not allow Frank to speak more than was necessary about the murder, as he did not wish him to brood over it. But he was not idle, and one morning announced that he was going to to town.

"I'll be away for the day," he said, "so you can make yourself comfortable, Frank. Look out that Darrel doesn't see you."

"Darrel has gone back to town," said Lancaster, "so one of the young Arrows told me. He returns in a month."

"Mildred will be glad he has gone. He was always hanging round her."

"Why didn't you put a stop to that?"

"I have not the right as yet. You see, I am not formally engaged to Mildred, and will not be, until I have discovered the assassin."

"Why not denounce me, and bring about the engagement at once?" said Frank, with some bitterness.

Jarman stared. "Because in the first place you are innocent, and in the second I should not like to build up my life's happiness on your ruin. I thought you knew me better than that, my friend."

"Forgive me. I am a beast," said Lancaster, penitently. "But the fact is, I--I--"--he gulped down the truth--"I am not myself."

"Don't wonder at it, considering the fix you are in. Cheer up. I may learn something to-day likely to give me a clue to the truth."

"From whom?"

"From your friend, Fairy Fan."

Lancaster jumped up from the breakfast-table. "What?"

"You look surprised, but it is so. I am going to see her to-day--by appointment!" and he displayed a perfumed note.

Frank glanced over it, and discovered that Miss Berry would be pleased to see Mr. Leonard Grant at her rooms in Bloomsbury at one o'clock on that day.

"Why did you write to her?" asked Frank, handing this back.

"The use of my _nom de plume_ should tell you that," replied Jarman. "I want to have a quiet chat with that lady, so I wrote as Leonard Grant--under which name I produce my sketches--and asked her if I could do one for her. As I have a certain reputation, she seems inclined to entertain the idea."

"Why didn't you write under your own name?"

"What an ass you are, Frank! Firstly, the _nom de plume_ is required to intimate who will write the sketch, since Eustace Jarman is unknown as a dramatist. Secondly, did I write in my own name I might give myself into the hand of Berry. He must have learnt from Starth that I am your friend, and thus might seek to know too much."

"You could baffle his inquiries."

"Oh, yes. But if he chose to come down and see me, I could not baffle his spotting you. It's best to be on the safe side, and even in that disguise the man is clever enough to recognise you."

"That doesn't say much for my disguise," said Frank, grimly.

"Pooh! The make-up is good enough to baffle a casual observer, but Captain Berry is exceptionally clever. He might not recognise you, certainly; on the other hand, he might. No, Frank, as Leonard Grant I'll see Miss Berry and learn all I can."

"She won't discuss the matter with you."

"Perhaps not, but I'll try and get her on the subject. I may even meet with Berry, and then we'll see if I can't pump him. So you make yourself comfortable here, Frank, while I go to town. I think you might take the newspaper to Mrs. Perth, and meet Mildred."

"I don't know her," said Frank, flushing.

"Mrs. Perth will introduce you," said Jarman, "and I am sure you will get on well with her."

"Too well," thought Frank. But he said nothing, not even if he would go over to Rose Cottage.

Jarman bustled about, and finally set off across the heath, which was the nearest way to the railway station. His plan of action was to seek Berry and his niece as a complete stranger, and to learn, if he could, what they were about to do. He had a clever pair to deal with, but Jarman was smart himself, and not for nothing had rubbed shoulders with the astute citizens of the great republic. Moreover, apart from his wish to please Mildred and to save Frank, there was a certain element of exhilaration about this chase after an unknown criminal that appealed to his love of adventure.

"I've got detective fever," he thought, as he swung into a third-class smoking, "and the disease won't be cured till I run the true assassin to earth."

On arriving at Liverpool Street, shortly after twelve, he walked to the tube railway at the Mansion House Station, and thereby gained Oxford Street. From Tottenham Court Road he strolled to Bloomsbury Crescent, where Miss Berry dwelt with her uncle, and reached the door of the house a few minutes before one o'clock. A neatly-dressed maidservant admitted him into a cool drawing-room. While the maid informed her mistress of Jarman's arrival, or rather that Mr. Leonard Grant was at hand, Eustace looked curiously round the room. From its contents he hoped to learn something of the character of Fairy Fan.

But there was no need to read her character in this way. Almost before he commenced his examination she appeared at the door, and came forward with a smile. Suddenly she stopped, and the colour ebbed from her face. Jarman gasped and stared, as well he might.

"Mrs. Anchor!" he said, under his breath. "Mrs. Anchor I might have guessed."

[CHAPTER IX]

THE OLD ROMANCE

Mrs. Anchor, _alias_ Miss Fanny Berry, was a pretty little creature even when the searching morning sunlight was full on her face. She had no absolute need of paint and powder to make her attractive. In a tea gown of delicate blue, with a head of fluffy golden hair, and a piquant face, she looked--as the saying is--as pretty as a picture.

Jarman eyed her sternly, and wondered how he could ever have loved a woman possessed of such obviously meretricious charms. Her mouth was hard, and there was an unpleasant glitter in her blue eyes which did not bode well for Eustace. After her failure in San Francisco the lady was intensely suspicious of Jarman, deeming him too scrupulous. Eustace saw the inquiring light in her eyes, and, having his own game to play, he pretended to forget the past, and to be overjoyed at the meeting. Now that he knew who Fairy Fan was, he felt quite certain that Captain Berry would answer readily to the name of Sakers, and hoped to see him before the termination of the interview. Meanwhile, to abate the suspicions of the little lady, he made himself agreeable. And Eustace could be extremely pleasant when it suited his book.

"Mrs. Anchor," he said, advancing with outstretched hands, "this _is_ a surprise."

"An agreeable one, I hope?" replied the lady with an artificial laugh, but searching his face keenly.

"Very agreeable. I have often thought of you, Mrs. Anchor."

Womanlike her thoughts reverted to his love, and she strove to see if she yet had him in her toils. But Eustace did not flush, and the calm expression of his face baffled the reading of his thoughts. A puzzled look which meant, "I-wonder-why-you-called!" crept into her expressive eyes, but beyond this she governed her feelings excellently. But Eustace had interpreted the look, and to rearrange their friendship hastened to explain.

"I have never seen you at the theatre," he said, easily, taking a chair, "so it never struck me that Fairy Fan, who was delighting the British public, was the same as Mrs. Anchor of San Francisco."

"Nor is she," replied the little woman, seating herself on the sofa. "After the sad death of my husband, I took my maiden name again."

"Miss Berry?" inquired Eustace.

"Fanny Berry," she replied, nodding. "I am over here with my uncle." She glanced uneasily at the door, thinking he might come in. "His name is Banjo Berry. He is a merchant captain, but in 'Frisco you knew him as Edward Sakers."

"Oh I thought--"

"I know you did," she interrupted petulantly, "and so did everyone else. But he is my relative, and nothing more. Owing to some trouble connected with the casting away of a fruit schooner on a South Sea reef, he was obliged to call himself Sakers. As I told you, my husband's behaviour became so impossible that I had to leave."

"You never told me that," said Jarman, serenely; "but at our last interview you hinted that I might fight Anchor with revolvers."

"I don't deny it. The man treated me shamefully. I was a good wife to him." Miss Berry--as it is best to call her--squeezed out a tear. "But he--he--well, what's the use of going over the old ground. You know how jealous he was."

"And I know how he loved you," said Eustace, pointedly.

"What about yourself?" she responded flippantly.

"I never lost the right of calling myself your husband's friend."

"No," she taunted, "you hadn't the pluck to do that. You pretended to love me, yet when I would have given you myself and a fortune you drew back."

"The price was too high. And you got someone else to put him out of the way."

Fairy Fan rose indignantly. "I never did!" she declared vehemently. "I was in Chicago at the time. When Anchor's conduct became unbearable I went with my uncle to that city. It was there that we heard of his death."

"Shot and stabbed, wasn't he?"

"Yes. But not by me--not by my uncle, although he was angry at the way in which I had been treated. I left Anchor and intended to get a divorce--but circumstances made me his widow."

"Did it make you a rich woman also?" asked Eustace, remembering the last interview he had with her.

"No," she said quietly. "You never gave me time to tell you about the money. Anchor speculated, and lost his fortune. However, he knew, through some Indian, of a treasure--a Spanish treasure which was buried in a certain place. I wanted him to tell me the secret, but he would not. When he died he took the secret along with him. I am as poor now as I was then, and I shouldn't be acting at the Piccadilly Theatre if I wasn't."

"Why was the death of your husband necessary to your learning the secret?" demanded Jarman, quickly.

Fairy Fan arranged herself on the sofa and took out a case, which she opened, "It wasn't," she said, blandly, selecting a cigarette. "But I feared I wouldn't get a divorce, and so I wished him out of the way. You were too scrupulous, although all you had to do was to pick a quarrel with him. You were a better shot than he was."

"I don't commit murder even for love, Mrs. Anchor."

"Berry, if you please. Love!" she repeated, lighting the cigarette. "You don't know the meaning of the word. Had you really and truly loved me you would have rid me of the man who struck me."

"Did he strike you?"

"I was beaten black and blue. I told you so," she retorted. "Would any woman put up with that treatment? I hated the man!" She clenched her small fist, and her face grew angry. "I would have killed him myself had I been able."

"Perhaps, as you didn't, you got someone else to--"

"How dare you say that, Eustace!" Jarman winced as she called him by the old name. "I tell you I knew nothing of the matter. If you have come here to denounce me for the murder of my husband, you have wasted your time. There is no evidence which can connect me with that crime, or my uncle either. We are quite at our ease--quite!"

"I never thought of doing such a thing," said Jarman, drily. "My coming here is a pure accident. I live in Essex, and rarely come to town. I had not the slightest idea of your identity. It was simply and solely to write you a sketch and make money that I came."

"Why did you write under a false name?"

"Bah! You understand well enough. I am known as Leonard Grant in this line, as I'm not proud of the occupation of writing these drivelling things. You--so far as I knew--were a stranger to me. I wrote you under the name I was best known by, to do the sketch. Fan--"

"Don't call me Fan!" she said petulantly.

"Well, I treated you so badly that I don't deserve much at your hands, my dear," he said, with feigned penitence, "but for the sake of old times let me call you by the old name."

"My uncle will not like it. He will be here soon, and should he hear you call me by so intimate a name he will be angry. He is very, very particular."

Jarman privately thought that an ex-skipper, who had cast away a schooner and had to change his name for that reason, had no need to be so scrupulous. But he did not believe in the relationship, and suspected that Fairy Fan was telling glib lies. However, it suited him to accept the story she set forth, and he swallowed the scrupulous Captain Banjo Berry along with the other fiction.

"I'll call you Miss Berry when he comes, but till then--" He looked imploringly.

She gave him a coquettish smile. "Very well, till then, Eustace!"

Jarman knew perfectly well that she was calculating to make use of him, and wished her to think so. Should she accept him as a colleague in the swindle which she and her so-called uncle were perpetrating, he might more easily penetrate the secret of Starth's murder.

"Then tell me, Fan, was it ever discovered who killed Anchor?"

"How you harp on that, Eustace! Yes. An old partner of his, whom he cheated in connection with a mining claim, shot him."

"And who thrust the knife into his heart?"

"A Chinaman. He found the body, or rather, he found Anchor dying, and intended to rob him. When Anchor opened his eyes and tried to sing out for the police Lo Keong knifed him. The Chinaman has been hanged, but the man who fired the shot got away. And now don't let's talk any more about the matter; it gives me the horrors. I'm doing very well here, and I hope to make a lot of money. Then I shall retire."

"And marry again?"

Fairy Fan shot a second provocative glance. "Perhaps," she said.

"H'm!" Jarman resolved to startle her. "So Walter Starth was not to your taste?"

He woefully failed to bring about the desired result. Fan was too old a hand to be startled. "You've been reading the papers?" she said.

Jarman nodded. "I saw that both Starth and the man who is supposed to have killed him loved you."

"They did, and I refused both of them. Nice boys, but a couple of paupers. If I marry again, I marry money. But why do you use the word 'supposed.' Frank Lancaster murdered Starth, sure enough."

"So the jury say, but--"

"And so I say. I know exactly how it happened. Starth thought that I was going to marry Lancaster, and they had a row. Then Frank, who always carried a revolver, shot him."

"And knifed him afterwards like your friend, Lo Keong, did Anchor."

"That _was_ strange," admitted Fan, thoughtfully. "I don't think such a nice boy as Frank would act so brutally; and it's odd that my husband should have been treated in the same way."

"A coincidence, I suppose," said Eustace, indifferently, knowing that Fan was watching him closely. "What's become of Lancaster?"

"I don't know. I wish I did. He should hang."

"I thought you liked him, as a nice boy."

"So I did," she replied, "but I liked Starth better."

"Oh!" Jarman found it difficult to believe this. She eyed him suspiciously, and he would have explained himself further, but that Banjo Berry, followed by a young man, entered the room.

"Uncle," said Fan, rising and anticipating Eustace, "who do you think Leonard Grant, who wants to do the sketch, is?"

"Well, this is very curious," said Berry, shaking Eustace by the hand in the warmest and most friendly way. "Jarman, of 'Frisco."

"That's me," responded Eustace. "How are you, Sakers?"

Berry winked. "Don't need that name now," said he. "There's no chance of my getting run in for piling up that old schooner at Samoa. I'm Banjo Berry now. M'own name, and it's a hummer in the South Seas."

"I've been explaining all that to him," said Fan, impatiently. "I say, Mr. Jarman"--Eustace observed the punctiliousness--"do you know this boy, Natty Denham?"

The boy, so-called, was a callow young gentleman of twenty-five, dark-haired and brown-complexioned. He had a pleasant smile but rather a vacant expression, and in Jarman's mind was sized up, not exactly as a fool, but as a youth of rather weak will. He thrust forward a slim hand, and gave Eustace a nerveless handshake.

"How do you do?" he said, talking very fast. "I never met you in 'Frisco, but I saw you often. I'm Chicago m'self, and came to this old country along with the Captain and Miss Berry."

"You never met in 'Frisco?" asked Fan, addressing Jarman.

"No. I heard you talk of Mr. Denham, though."

It seemed to Eustace that both Fan and her uncle were rather relieved by this admission, and he wondered what connection this fool could have with the game the two were playing. He fancied that Denham was the pigeon, and Berry & Co. the hawks. It also struck him that if he could get Natty to himself he might find out something, always supposing that the young fellow knew anything. Later on, after a desultory and friendly conversation, Natty gave him an opening.

"I say," said he, "you live down in Essex?"

"Yes. At Wargrove."

Natty nodded to Fan and the Captain. "I knew," he said. "Can't understand how it slipped my memory."

"What slipped your memory, Bub?" asked Berry, sharply.

"Why, that he"--he nodded towards Eustace--"was in Essex. When Starth took me down to see that pretty sister of his, he said something about Jarman. I remember now."

"Why didn't you tell me, Natty," said Fan, in so cooing a voice that Eustace guessed she was thoroughly angry.

"I forgot. Can't remember anything," rattled on the youth. "I say"--suddenly turning to Eustace--"awful about poor Starth. Eh?"

"Oh, give it a rest," cried Berry, savagely. "You've done nothing but jaw of that since it happened. Jarman, wasn't it you who introduced him to Lancaster? Quite so. H'm! guess Lancaster's an almighty friend of yours. Eh?"

"Well, he was," drawled Jarman, seeing that his reply was awaited with much interest, "but now--" Eustace shrugged his shoulders. "I don't much care to consort with criminals."

"Right, sir. You don't happen to know where he's skipped to?"

"Certainly not. He legged it sharp to escape the police."

"He won't escape me," said Berry, grimly. "I'm goin' to get that young man lynched, you bet. I loved Starth just like a son."

Jarman laughed. "Yet Starth wasn't a lovable man," he said.

"Oh, there was no end of good in him when you got at it," replied the little skipper, solemnly. "Besides, we had a scheme on to make money."

"What sort of a scheme?"

"Never mind," said Berry. "He's dead now, and the scheme's up a tree."

"I suppose Miss Starth's cut up?" said Denham to Eustace.

"Naturally. Her only brother."

"I guess she needs a heap of consolation," went on the young man artlessly. "It's just in my mind to go down and see her."

Jarman was not at all pleased at this proposition, and was inclined to reply in the negative. But a bright thought struck him--a very daring thought of the nature of bluff. Denham was a fool, and not at all observant. It might be that if he came down and saw Mr. Desmond O'Neil he might be able to dispel any suspicions which might afterwards take shape in the minds of Fan and her uncle. With this idea he gave Natty an invitation.

"Come and stop with me," he said cordially. "There is no one with me but my secretary, an Irish chap called O'Neil. You'd get on well with him."

Natty seemed inclined to accept, but looked at Berry for instruction.

The skipper nodded. "Go by all means, and have a good time."

"You never ask me," said Fan, reproachfully, to her old lover.

"I'm afraid a bachelor establishment is not quite a paradise to ladies," said Eustace, laughing; "but if you will spend the day I'll be very pleased. When will you come down?" he asked Denham.

Berry answered. "He can come on Saturday," said he, "as I'm going to-morrow to see an old friend for a couple of days. I'll be back in the morning--Saturday morning, that is. I don't want Fan to be left."

"Is it Balkis you're going to see?" asked Denham.

Jarman nearly uttered an exclamation of surprise, for Balkis was the name of the negress in the portrait which Lancaster had seen in Starth's rooms. Berry didn't seem pleased at Natty's speech, and Fan frowned. But they both laughed indulgently.

"It isn't Balkis," said Berry, "but a marine officer I'm seeing in connection with Lancaster. He's left the country, and I think I know the ship he's skipped by."

"That's clever of you," said Jarman, rising to take his leave. "If you catch him, Captain, you'll do more than the police."

"Huh!" scoffed Berry. "Your police are fools. Most people in this old country are. I can squash the lot of them. Lancaster too, you bet!"

Eustace laughed when on his way home. He was pretty certain that, having already made a false start about Lancaster, Berry would _not_ squash him. Jarman hoped to gather a great deal from Natty's prattle.

[CHAPTER X]

A QUEER MARK

Frank was not at all pleased when he heard that Denham was coming down to the Shanty. The experiment was too risky, as there was every chance that the young man would recognise him, in which case he would at once put the revengeful Berry on the scent. But Jarman did not look at the matter in this light, and explained himself after sundry questions.

"Have you met Denham often?" he asked.

"Yes. He was always dodging round the Berry establishment."

"I thought he lived with them."

"No, he had diggings some way off. Berry, so he told me, is a kind of guardian to him."

"Does a man require a guardian at the age of twenty-three?"

"Denham's twenty-five. He's almost the same age as I am, although I look older," said Lancaster; "and I should think, seeing what a fool he is, that he will require a guardian all his life."

"Then you think he's more fool than knave?" asked Eustace, ruminating.

Frank nodded emphatically. "I don't think he's a rascal at all, whatever the Captain may be. Denham's just a silly, good-natured ass, who would give his head away. He has a weak will, and is quite under the thumb of Berry."

"Did you fraternise with Denham?"

"No. His cackle got on my nerves. But he knows me well enough to spot me should I betray myself."

"Then you must not betray yourself," said Eustace, decidedly. "So far as looks go, he won't know you. I would defy even a detective to penetrate your disguise."

"Denham may twig me by my voice."

"I don't think from what I saw of him that he is so observant. Besides, I shall give you something to roughen your voice. You can say you have a cold."

Frank stared at his friend. "You seem to be up to all the tricks."

Jarman nodded. "I thought of being a detective myself once, and I practised for a time. I have all the materials for disguise here. I told you so when I made you up as Desmond O'Neil. I can get into the skin of a character with ease, and that's what you have to do. You are not Frank Lancaster, remember, but Desmond O'Neil from County Kerry."

"But, I say, Eustace, why do you want Denham down here?"

"Well, I wish him to report to the Berry lot that there is no concealment about me. They may suspect that I know something of your whereabouts, and I don't want either one to drop down upon me. Denham is a fool, and what he sees he will report to them in his artless fashion. Consequently, Berry and Fan will trust me. I want to get in with them and learn what they are up to."

"Do you think Denham can tell you?"

"No," said Eustace, promptly, "I don't. Whatever the game is, that boy is in the dark. He has much too loose a tongue for Berry to trust him with his secrets."

"But what's Berry bothering about him for?"

"That's what I want to find out. Denham may know something. For instance, he mentioned the name of Balkis, as I told you."

"What's the use of that?" asked Frank, gloomily.

"This much. Starth had her portrait, and Berry is in touch with her. I want to learn why Berry calls at an opium shop at the docks. He's going there, I'm sure, to see Balkis."

The two were standing by the window chatting in this way. As Eustace repeated the name of Balkis there sounded a low moan, which made the speakers turn. Miss Cork, with the tablecloth over her arm, stood at the open door, her thin face as white as the linen she bore. Apparently she had entered silently, as was her wont, to lay the table for luncheon, and had overheard the name. Like a statue she stood, her vacant eyes fixed on Jarman.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

Miss Cork's lips moved. "Balkis!" she said in a whisper.

"What about Balkis. Do you know the name?"

"Balkis!" said Miss Cork again. Then she threw down the cloth and ran back to the kitchen. Eustace followed and found her moaning in a chair. Rather brutally he shook her.

"What's all this?" he asked.

Miss Cork went on moaning. "I had a child--" she began; then shut up, and not another word could he get out of her.

After many fruitless inquiries Eustace returned to the sitting-room to explain. "I told you I didn't trust her," said Frank, whose fears took shape at once. "She is a silent, secretive woman. I am sure she will get me into trouble. Why should she know that name?"

"I can't say. And now she talks of some child--her own, she says. But you needn't be afraid, Frank, she's as true as steel."

"I don't trust her," said Frank, doggedly. "Where did you pick her up?"

Jarman, driven into a corner, replied reluctantly: "In a London court."

"A police-court?" inquired Lancaster; then, when he received a nod, went on: "Then she's dangerous. What do you know of her past?"

"Nothing. She never speaks of it. The poor wretch was taken up for vagrancy, and afterwards was handed over to the missionary. I knew the chap, and he told me what a capital cook the woman was, and how she needed a good home to put her right. She came to me as Miss Cork, and I have had no reason to regret having played the part of a good Samaritan. But it's strange that the name of Balkis should upset her."

"Won't she explain?"

"No. She is a very obstinate woman when the fit takes her."

But the fit apparently did not seal Miss Cork's mouth on this occasion. A soft knock at the door told of her return, and she presented herself quietly. Picking up the cloth she proceeded to lay the table, and without looking at the men proceeded to exculpate herself.

"I ask your pardon," she said, in her whispering voice. "I ask your pardon, Mr. Jarman, and yours, sir, but the name Balkis--" Here she stopped, and laid her hand on her heart. "I had a child of that name."

"Ah!" said Jarman, sympathetically, while Frank still looked suspicious. "And the name brings sad memories to you?"

Miss Cork nodded. "I'm a married woman," she said softly, "but my husband left me to starve--with the child, and--and--"

"And the child died?"

"No?" she burst out fiercely. "The child was stolen!"

"By whom?"

Miss Cork stopped, and her fingers worked convulsively, as though they were clutching at a throat. "I wish I knew--I wish I knew!" she said, savagely, and the expression of her lean face surprised Jarman, who had always considered her an apathetic woman. Perhaps his looks warned her that she was betraying too much of her unknown past, for she pulled herself up with a faint titter.

"I'm a Billericay woman myself," she began, when Jarman cut her short.

"That's nonsense!" he said sternly. "You know you are not."

"I've said all I have to say," said Miss Cork, quite irrelevantly, "and if you aren't pleased, Mr. Jarman, I'll go."

"I don't want you to go, and I ask you nothing," he replied.

"My child was called Balkis," went on Miss Cork, "and she was stolen five years ago. I've been looking for her ever since. She will be seventeen years old by now, and I lost her five years ago--yes, five years ago," she kept on repeating. "I've been looking for her ever since."

"A strange name Balkis?" said Jarman, watching her.

"My husband was in the East. It came from the East, that name. I'm a Billericay woman myself, and--" She giggled, then shook her head and withdrew swiftly.

The two men looked at one another.

"She's quite mad, and harmless," said Eustace.

"Quite mad, and dangerous," replied Frank. "I don't trust her."

Confirmed in this opinion by the strange demeanour of Miss Cork, he watched her closely. She muttered to herself frequently, and kept counting on her fingers. Sometimes she would utter the name of Balkis and laugh. Her laughter was not pleasant. It did not seem to Frank that she retained any pleasant memories of the name--yet if it was that of her child she should have done so. Jarman did not trouble about Miss Cork's eccentricities. The meals were well cooked and well served, and there was no fault to be found with the woman's housekeeping. She was odd in her manner, and appeared to be labouring under suppressed excitement. Twice Frank caught her listening, but not in sufficiently open a way to admit of rebuke. As his position was a delicate one he became alarmed; but trusting in Jarman's influence over the woman, and his claim to her gratitude, he tried to dismiss his fears.

Denham duly arrived, and speedily made himself at home. Thanks to some herbal decoction given to him by Eustace, Lancaster welcomed the visitor in a hoarse voice--a regular nestling's note. Natty did not recognise in Mr. O'Neil, the dark secretary, the fair-haired Frank Lancaster, whom he had seen frequently in Bloomsbury. He was completely deceived, and Frank felt more at his ease, being now certain that his disguise was all that could be desired. And, luckily, Natty did not give him much of his frivolous company, as he was mostly with Jarman or hanging round Rose Cottage.

By this time Frank, introduced by Mrs. Perth, had made the acquaintance of his divinity. She likewise never suspected any disguise, and was quite at her ease with the new secretary. Frank's heart beat hard when she offered him her hand, and he could hardly see her face for a mist before his eyes. Now that he heard her voice, and saw her gracious manner, he fell more in love with her than ever. It was a strange feeling, and one that he had not experienced in his wooing of Fairy Fan. But, from the misery he suffered, there was no doubt that it was genuine passion.

Mildred was very amiable with him, and they were together a great deal. Mrs. Perth had taken a fancy to Frank, whose manners she pronounced perfect, and talked much to him. She even discussed the death of Walter Starth, and the probability of Lancaster being the assassin. But by this time Frank had schooled himself into hearing the case talked of without moving so much as an eyelid. In a couple of weeks he became quite an accepted fact in the life of Rose Cottage, and, indeed, of the village. Even Mrs. Baker had ceased to ask him questions. Several letters addressed to Desmond O'Neil, with the Dublin postmark, had arrived, so Mrs. Baker was quite satisfied that he came from the country whence she procured her butter. From being a nine days' wonder in that quiet Essex hamlet Frank became a comparative nonentity, which was exactly the state of things Jarman wished to bring about. Thus, when Denham arrived on his three days' visit, there was nothing likely to connect the secretary with the bedraggled man who had arrived so late at night. And Miss Cork, in spite of her odd ways and Lancaster's suspicions, kept her own counsel most faithfully.

One afternoon Frank, now quite at his ease in his disguise, strolled over to the cottage to ask for afternoon tea. He brought a book of poems in his pocket, for Mildred was fond of hearing him read. Frank could read admirably, which is a rare accomplishment, and often he would declaim poems to Mrs. Perth and Mildred. But on this occasion there was no chance of enjoying Browning, for Jenny Arrow from the Rectory was present. She was a kittenish damsel of eighteen, with a freckled face, a turn-up nose, and a gay, vivacious manner. Also she had a vein of romance, and cherished an unrequited affection for the dark secretary. She confided this to Mildred.

"Doesn't he look a romance, dear?" said Jenny, when gazing from the drawing-room window she saw Frank approach. "Don't you love him, Milly?"

Mildred laughed, "I have had quite enough of love," she said. "That Denham boy worries my life out. Then there's your brother Billy."

"Oh, Billy's an ass!" said Jenny, contemptuously. "He falls in love with everyone he sees. I suppose you will marry Mr. Darrel?"

"Certainly not," said Mildred, quickly. "What put such an idea into your head, Jenny?"

The young lady nodded sagaciously. "Oh, I know," said she; "it's not to see poor pa that Mr. Darrel comes down here. Ma saw that. Ma says he's in love with you, and, being rich, you're sure to marry him."

"I would never marry for money, Jenny," said Mildred, thinking of Eustace. "Mr. Darrel will never make me his wife."

"Oh, but he's so very rich."

"Then marry him yourself."

"I would rather marry Mr. O'Neil."

Mildred laughed again, but all the same, for some reason inexplicable to herself, felt annoyed. "Here _is_ Mr. O'Neil; you'd better propose."

"Mildred, if you reveal my love--oh! how I shall hate you."

But Mildred, watching the approaching figure of the man she knew merely as O'Neil, did not reply. She was wondering why she was so attracted towards him. He was not particularly good-looking, nor had he shown any marked preference for her society. Indeed, she had laughed with Mrs. Perth over the attentions which O'Neil paid the old lady. But there was something about the secretary which made Mildred's pulses beat as they never beat in the presence of Jarman. Perhaps, although she never knew, it was a case of telepathy, for Frank was always moved beyond his usual self when in her presence. But he never revealed it by his manner. Mildred, however, was not sufficiently a psychologist to analyse her feeling, so did not search too closely into the reason of her sensations. Still, she could not help wondering why she felt annoyed by Jenny's silly remark.

"I think you had better take that Denham boy," said Mildred to Jenny. "He bothers me greatly, and he's the kind of donkey who would fall in love with anyone."

"I don't regard myself as anyone," said Jenny, with dignity. "Besides, he's not half so nice as Mr. O'Neil."

Mildred acknowledged this with a sigh, and welcomed O'Neil with a blush, which he marked and wondered at. "Where is Mr. Jarman?" she asked.

"He has gone bathing with Billy and Denham," said Frank, standing outside and looking in at the window. "I have done my work, and came to be rewarded."

"With what--cakes and ale?" asked Jenny, languishing.

"Their modern equivalent in the shape of afternoon tea."

"Let's have it outside on the lawn. Oh, Mildred, do!"

Miss Starth assented. "Mrs. Perth is lying down," she said, "and as the room is rather hot, we may as well have a picnic on the lawn."

Forthwith she ordered the tea, which was brought out by the one servant of the establishment. But Jenny had to lay the cloth, and Frank was told to place the tables under the noble elm. In a few minutes they were all seated, Mildred and Frank in chairs, and Jenny lying gracefully on the lawn. Every now and then she looked up adoringly at the secretary, who took no notice. But Mildred did, and so strong became that absurd feeling of irritation that she could willingly have slapped Jenny.

After a desultory conversation, Jenny asked when Denham was returning to town. "Billy will be sorry when he goes. He's awfully fond of Mr. Denham. The adventures that man's had in America are extraordinary."

"He comes from America, doesn't he?" asked Mildred, idly.

Jenny nodded. "And Billy says he's been a sailor, he thinks."

"He doesn't look much like a sailor," said Frank, contemptuously. "He has been wrapped up in cotton-wool all his life."

"Oh, no, he hasn't indeed," said Miss Arrow, eagerly. "He has lived in Mexico, and among the Indians--not the Red Indians, you know, but amongst those Cortez found."

"The Aztecs," said Mildred. "My dear girl, there are none left."

"Oh, yes, there are, Mr. Denham says so. Billy calls him Natty, because that's his name, and he and Billy are going to explore for hidden treasure. There's lots of it in Mexico."

"Denham's been reading romances," said Frank, disbelievingly.

"No," insisted Jenny, "he's had all sorts of adventures. Why, when he was just a baby, he was carried off by these Indians."

"How do you know?"

"He says so, and they tattooed him on the left arm, Billy says."

Frank sat up suddenly. "On the left arm?" he asked. "With what?"

"With a Scarlet Bat--the queerest thing, Billy says-- Oh! what's the matter?" Frank, profoundly moved, had fallen back in his chair.

[CHAPTER XI]

FRANK'S STORY

Seeing Frank's disturbed face, Mildred also became alarmed, but he managed to pacify both her and Jenny in a few words. It was impossible to tell the truth, therefore he was obliged to romance. "I think the heat is too much for me," he said, smiling, "and your mention of tattooing, Miss Arrow, recalled a disagreeable story."

"Tell it to us," said Jenny, eagerly. "I love ghastly tales."

"I wouldn't shock you by repeating this one," said Lancaster, finding it difficult to improvise. "It's about a leper."

Mildred uttered an exclamation of disgust. "Ugh! how dreadful. I don't want to hear it."

"I do," cried Miss Arrow, with the avidity of a ghoul. "You must tell it to me on some other occasion, Mr. O'Neil."

"I will, if you will tell me more of Mr. Denham's tattooing."

Jenny shook her head. "I don't know any more. You must ask Billy. He has this Scarlet Bat on his left arm, that's all I know."

"Did he ever tell Billy how it came to be there?"

"I told you. The Indians marked him. I can't say the reason."

Frank was silent. He was particularly anxious to know why Denham was marked in this peculiar way, and resolved to find out before the young man returned to town. As it was, the tattooing was another link in the chain which, to his mind, connected Berry with the crime. However, he kept his ideas to himself, and would have taken his departure to think them out at leisure but that he had a purpose to achieve connected with the photograph of Balkis. He knew that Walter's effects had passed into the hands of Mildred, and wished to obtain the portrait, for reasons which he afterwards explained to Jarman. Mildred herself gave him a chance of introducing the subject without awakening suspicion.

"You have been working too hard," she said, in reference to Lancaster's late emotion, "and it is so very hot."

"Perhaps I have," he assented, glad of the excuse; "but Jarman is anxious to get a new story finished quickly. It's an Eastern tale."

"Tell it to us," said the bold Jenny, sitting up and hugging her knees.

"Jenny, how can you!" corrected Mildred. "Mr. O'Neil must keep all those sort of things quiet."

"I can tell you this much, Miss Arrow, that Jarman wants a few words of Arabic, and we can't find them."

"I never knew him to be at a loss before," said Mildred.

"Well, he is this time, so you can crow over him, Miss Starth. He is anxious to get some Arabic letters. You haven't such a thing, I suppose," he added, half jokingly.

"Good gracious! where could I-- Wait," she said, rising, "there's a portrait which belonged to poor Walter. There are some Arabic letters on it. Mrs. Perth told me they were Arabic. But she may be wrong."

"As a governess she ought not to be," put in Jenny. "Get it, Mildred."

While Miss Starth hastened into the house, Jenny stared up into Frank's face in quite an embarrassing way. "Are you going to stay long at the Shanty?" she asked.

"That depends upon Mr. Jarman."

"Oh, then you'll stay as long as you like. He's very fond of you."

"He is a very good friend to me," said Frank, quietly.

Jenny nodded. "He is to everyone, I think. Mildred's fond of him. He has helped her a lot with her poetry. I like him better than Mr. Darrel. Do you know Mr. Darrel?"

"I have heard of him," replied Frank, cautiously.

"I don't like him at all," said Jenny, shaking her head vigorously. "He's a great friend to pa and ma, and very rich. But he doesn't come down to see them," she tittered. "No, Mildred's the attraction."

"Does Miss Starth like him?" asked Frank, quickly.

"She says she doesn't; but, of course, he's so rich. But I would rather she married Mr. Jarman, wouldn't you?"

Frank was spared the pain of replying to this embarrassing query by the return of Mildred with the portrait, which she placed in his hands. "It's the picture of a negress," she said, "and the letters at the foot--"

"They are Arabic sure enough. Who is the woman!"

"I don't know. It is a fancy portrait, I suppose."

"Probably. Can I take this away with me for a few days to copy the letters, Miss Starth? I'll return it safe."

"Oh, take it by all means. Look, Jenny, there's beauty."

Jenny sat up, and looked at the face earnestly. "It's something like Mr. Darrel," she said at length.

"Nonsense!" said Mildred, looking in her turn at the picture. "But, really, I don't know. What do you think, Mr. O'Neil?"

There was a resemblance to Darrel. The same sulky expression, and thick lips, and arrogant air. "Perhaps she's a relative of his," giggled Jenny. "He was born in the West Indies, you know."

"This portrait was taken at some place in Rotherhithe," said Mildred, pointing out the photographer's name. "But it is like Mr. Darrel."

"Quite as ugly," said Jenny; "though it's mean of me saying that," she added, "for Mr. Darrel gave me a lovely brooch last time he was down. He's coming again in a month. Do you know, Mildred?"

"Yes, I know," replied Miss Starth, in no very pleased tone.

Frank slipped the portrait into his pocket, as Billy Arrow came on to the lawn followed by Jarman and Natty. Billy was nearly twenty-one, and a Sandhurst cadet, but a great deal of the schoolboy remained in him. "We've had a rippin' time," said the young gentleman, throwing himself on the lawn.

"Would you like some tea?" asked Mildred.

"Rather. Tea would be saucy. Let me get it," and Billy swept into the house like a whirlwind.

Frank saw that Jarman looked rather disturbed, and wondered what could be the reason. He guessed that he had learnt something relative to the Berrys from Natty, and was anxious to know what it was. But he could not question Eustace at the moment, therefore curbed his curiosity until a more seasonable time. Meantime Natty was paying compliments to Mildred.