THE SECRET PASSAGE

by

Fergus Hume

CONTENTS

THE SECRET PASSAGE

CHAPTER I

THE COTTAGE

"What IS your name?"

"Susan Grant, Miss Loach."

"Call me ma'am. I am Miss Loach only to my equals. Your age?"

"Twenty-five, ma'am."

"Do you know your work as parlor-maid thoroughly?"

"Yes, ma'am. I was two years in one place and six months in another, ma'am. Here are my characters from both places, ma'am."

As the girl spoke she laid two papers before the sharp old lady who questioned her. But Miss Loach did not look at them immediately. She examined the applicant with such close attention that a faint color tinted the girl's cheeks and she dropped her eyes. But, in her turn, by stealthy glances, Susan Grant tactfully managed to acquaint herself with the looks of her possible mistress. The thoughts of each woman ran as follows,—

Miss Loach to herself. "Humph! Plain-looking, sallow skin, rather fine eyes and a slack mouth. Not badly dressed for a servant, and displays some taste. She might turn my old dresses at a pinch. Sad expression, as though she had something on her mind. Honest-looking, but I think a trifle inquisitive, seeing how she examined the room and is stealing glances at me. Talks sufficiently, but in a low voice. Fairly intelligent, but not too much so. Might be secretive. Humph!"

The thoughts of Susan Grant. "Handsome old lady, probably nearly sixty. Funny dress for ten o'clock in the morning. She must be rich, to wear purple silk and old lace and lovely rings at this hour. A hard mouth, thin nose, very white hair and very black eyebrows. Got a temper I should say, and is likely to prove an exacting mistress. But I want a quiet home, and the salary is good. I'll try it, if she'll take me."

Had either mistress or maid known of each other's thoughts, a conclusion to do business might not have been arrived at. As it was, Miss Loach, after a few more questions, appeared satisfied. All the time she kept a pair of very black eyes piercingly fixed on the girl's face, as though she would read her very soul. But Susan had nothing to conceal, so far as Miss Loach could gather, so in the end she resolved to engage her.

"I think you'll do," she said nodding, and poking up the fire, with a shiver, although the month was June. "The situation is a quiet one. I hope you have no followers."

"No, ma'am," said Susan and flushed crimson.

"Ha!" thought Miss Loach, "she has been in love—jilted probably. All the better, as she won't bring any young men about my quiet house."

"Will you not read my characters, ma'am?"

Miss Loach pushed the two papers towards the applicant. "I judge for myself," said she calmly. "Most characters I read are full of lies. Your looks are enough for me. Where were you last?"

"With a Spanish lady, ma'am!"

"A Spanish lady!" Miss Loach dropped the poker she was holding, with a clatter, and frowned so deeply that her black eyebrows met over her high nose. "And her name?"

"Senora Gredos, ma'am!"

The eyes of the old maid glittered, and she made a clutch at her breast as though the reply had taken away her breath. "Why did you leave?" she asked, regaining her composure.

Susan looked uncomfortable. "I thought the house was too gay, ma'am."

"What do you mean by that? Can any house be too gay for a girl of your years?"

"I have been well brought up, ma'am," said Susan quietly; "and my religious principles are dear to me. Although she is an invalid, ma'am, Senora Gredos was very gay. Many people came to her house and played cards, even on Sunday," added Susan under her breath. But low as she spoke, Miss Loach heard.

"I have whist parties here frequently," she said drily; "nearly every evening four friends of mine call to play. Have you any objection to enter my service on that account?"

"Oh, no, ma'am. I don't mind a game of cards. I play 'Patience' myself when alone. I mean gambling—there was a lot of money lost and won at Senora Gredos' house!"

"Yet she is an invalid I think you said?"

"Yes, ma'am. She was a dancer, I believe, and fell in some way, so as to break her leg or hurt her back. She has been lying on a couch for two years unable to move. Yet she has herself wheeled into the drawing-room and watches the gentlemen play cards. She plays herself sometimes!"

Miss Loach again directed one of her piercing looks at the pale face of the girl. "You are too inquisitive and too talkative," she said suddenly, "therefore you won't suit me. Good-day."

Susan was quite taken aback. "Oh, ma'am, I hope I've said nothing wrong. I only answered your questions."

"You evidently take note of everything you see, and talk about it."

"No, ma'am," said the girl earnestly. "I really hold my tongue."

"When it suits you," retorted Miss Loach. "Hold it now and let me think!"

While Miss Loach, staring frowningly into the fire, debated inwardly as to the advisability of engaging the girl, Susan looked timidly round the room. Curiously enough, it was placed in the basement of the cottage, and was therefore below the level of the garden. Two fairly large windows looked on to the area, which had been roofed with glass and turned into a conservatory. Here appeared scarlet geraniums and other bright-hued flowers, interspersed with ferns and delicate grasses. Owing to the position of the room and the presence of the glass roof, only a subdued light filtered into the place, but, as the day was brilliant with sunshine, the apartment was fairly well illuminated. Still, on a cloudy day, Susan could imagine how dull it would be. In winter time the room must be perfectly dark.

It was luxuriously furnished, in red and gold. The carpet and curtains were of bright scarlet, threaded with gold. The furniture, strangely enough, was of white polished wood upholstered in crimson satin fringed with gold. There were many pictures in large gilded frames and many mirrors similarly encircled with gilded wood. The grate, fender and fire-irons were of polished brass, and round the walls were numerous electric lamps with yellow shades. The whole room represented a bizarre appearance, flamboyant and rather tropical in looks. Apparently Miss Loach was fond of vivid colors. There was no piano, nor were there books or papers, and the only evidence as to how Miss Loach passed her time revealed itself in a work-basket and a pack of cards. Yet, at her age, Susan thought that needlework would be rather trying, even though she wore no glasses and her eyes seemed bright and keen. She was an odd old lady and appeared to be rich. "I'll engage you," said Miss Loach abruptly; "get your box and be here before five o'clock this afternoon. I am expecting some friends at eight o'clock. You must be ready to admit them. Now go!"

"But, ma'am, I—"

"In this house," interrupted Miss Loach imperiously, "no one speaks to me, unless spoken to by me. You understand!"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Susan timidly, and obeyed the finger which pointed to the door. Miss Loach listened to the girl's footsteps on the stairs, and sat down when she heard the front door close. But she was up again almost in a moment and pacing the room. Apparently the conversation with Susan Grant afforded her food for reflection. And not very palatable food either, judging from her expression.

The newly-engaged servant returned that same afternoon to the suburban station, which tapped the district of Rexton. A trunk, a bandbox and a bag formed her humble belongings, and she arranged with a porter that these should be wheeled in a barrow to Rose Cottage, as Miss Loach's abode was primly called. Having come to terms, Susan left the station and set out to walk to the place. Apart from the fact that she saved a cab fare, she wished to obtain some idea of her surroundings, and therefore did not hurry herself.

It was a bright June day with a warm green earth basking under a blue and cloudless sky. But even the sunshine could not render Rexton beautiful. It stretched out on all sides from the station new and raw. The roads were finished, with asphalt footpaths and stone curbing, the lamp-posts had apparently only been lately erected, and lines of white fences divided the roads from gardens yet in their infancy. Fronting these were damp-looking red brick villas, belonging to small clerks and petty tradesmen. Down one street was a row of shops filled with the necessaries of civilization; and round the corner, an aggressively new church of yellow brick with a tin roof and a wooden steeple stood in the middle of an untilled space. At the end of one street a glimpse could be caught of the waste country beyond, not yet claimed by the ferry-builder. A railway embankment bulked against the horizon, and closed the view in an unsightly manner. Rexton was as ugly as it was new.

Losing her way, Susan came to the ragged fringe of country environing the new suburb, and paused there, to take in her surroundings. Across the fields to the left she saw an unfinished mansion, large and stately, rising amidst a forest of pines. This was girdled by a high brick wall which looked older than the suburb itself. Remembering that she had seen this house behind the cottage of Miss Loach, the girl used it as a landmark, and turning down a side street managed to find the top of a crooked lane at the bottom of which Rose Cottage was situated. This lane showed by its very crookedness that it belonged to the ancient civilization of the district. Here were no paths, no lamps, no aggressively new fences and raw brick houses. Susan, stepping down the slight incline, passed into quite an old world, smacking of the Georgian times, leisurely and quaint. On either side of the lane, old-fashioned cottages, with whitewash walls and thatched roofs, stood amidst gardens filled with unclipped greenery and homely flowers. Quickset hedges, ragged and untrimmed, divided these from the roadway, and to add to the rural look one garden possessed straw bee-hives. Here and there rose ancient elm-trees and grass grew in the roadway. It was a blind lane and terminated in a hedge, which bordered a field of corn. To the left was a narrow path running between hedges past the cottages and into the country.

Miss Loach's house was a mixture of old and new. Formerly it had been an unpretentious cottage like the others, but she had added a new wing of red brick built in the most approved style of the jerry-builder, and looking like the villas in the more modern parts of Rexton. The crabbed age and the uncultured youth of the old and new portions, planted together cheek by jowl, appeared like ill-coupled clogs and quite out of harmony. The thatched and tiled roofs did not seem meet neighbors, and the whitewash walls of the old-world cottage looked dingy beside the glaring redness of the new villa. The front door in the new part was reached by a flight of dazzling white steps. From this, a veranda ran across the front of the cottage, its rustic posts supporting rose-trees and ivy. On the cottage side appeared an old garden, but the new wing was surrounded by lawns and decorated with carpet bedding. A gravel walk divided the old from the new, and intersected the garden. At the back, Susan noted again the high brick wall surrounding the half-completed mansion. Above this rose tall trees, and the wall itself was overgrown with ivy. It apparently was old and concealed an unfinished palace of the sleeping beauty, so ragged and wild appeared the growth which peeped over the guardian wall.

With a quickness of perception unusual in her class, Susan took all this in, then rang the bell. There was no back door, so far as she could see, and she thought it best to enter as she had done in the morning. But the large fat woman who opened the door gave her to understand that she had taken a liberty.

"Of course this morning and before engaging, you were a lady," said the cook, hustling the girl into the hall, "but now being the housemaid, Miss Loach won't be pleased at your touching the front bell."

"I did not see any other entrance," protested Susan.

"Ah," said the cook, leading the way down a few steps into the thatched cottage, which, it appeared was the servants' quarters, "you looked down the area as is natural-like. But there ain't none, it being a conservitery!"

"Why does Miss Loach live in the basement?" asked Susan, on being shown into a comfortable room which answered the purpose of a servants' hall.

The cook resented this question. "Ah!" said she with a snort, "and why does a miller wear a white 'at, Miss Grant, that being your name I take it. Don't you ask no questions but if you must know, Miss Loach have weak eyes and don't like glare. She lives like a rabbit in a burrow, and though the rooms on the ground floor are sich as the King might in'abit, she don't come up often save to eat. She lives in the basement room where you saw her, Miss Grant, and she sleeps in the room orf. When she eats, the dining-room above is at her service. An' I don't see why she shouldn't," snorted the cook.

"I don't mean any—"

"No offence being given none is taken," interrupted cook, who seemed fond of hearing her own wheezy voice. "Emily Pill's my name, and I ain't ashamed of it, me having been cook to Miss Loach for years an' years and years. But if you had wished to behave like a servant, as you are," added she with emphasis, "why didn't you run round by the veranda and so get to the back where the kitchen is. But you're one of the new class of servants, Miss Grant, 'aughty and upsetting."

"I know my place," said Susan, taking off her hat.

"And I know mine," said Emily Pill, "me being cook and consequently the mistress of this servants' 'all. An' I'm an old-fashioned servant myself, plain in my 'abits and dress." This with a disparaging look at the rather smart costume of the newly-arrived housemaid. "I don't 'old with cockes feathers and fal-de-dals on 'umble folk myself, not but what I could afford 'em if I liked, being of saving 'abits and a receiver of good wages. But I'm a friendly pusson and not 'ard on a good-lookin' gal, not that you are what I call 'andsome."

Susan seated beside the table, looked weary and forlorn, and the good-natured heart of the cook was touched, especially when Susan requested her to refrain from the stiff name of Miss Grant.

"You an' me will be good friends, I've no doubt," said Emily, "an' you can call me Mrs. Pill, that being the name of my late 'usband, who died of gin in excess. The other servants is housemaid and page, though to be sure he's more of a man-of-all-work, being forty if he's a day, and likewise coachman, when he drives out Miss Loach in her donkey carriage. Thomas is his name, my love." The cook was rapidly becoming more and more friendly, "and the housemaid is called Geraldine, for which 'eaven forgives her parents, she bein' spotty and un'ealthy and by no means a Bow-Bell's 'eroine, which 'er name makes you think of. But there's a dear, I'm talking brilliant, when you're dying for a cup of tea, and need to get your box unpacked, by which I mean that I sees the porter with the barrer."

The newly-arrived parlor-maid was pleased by this friendly if ungrammatical reception, and thought she would like the cook in spite of her somewhat tiresome tongue. For the next hour she was unpacking her box and arranging a pleasant little room at the back. She shared this with the spotty Geraldine, who seemed to be a good-natured girl. Apparently Miss Loach looked after her servants and made them comfortable. Thomas proved to be amiable if somewhat stupid, and welcomed Susan to tea affably but with sheepish looks. As the servants seemed pleasant, the house comfortable, and as the salary was excellent, Susan concluded that she had—as the saying is—fallen on her feet.

The quartette had tea in the servants' hall, and there was plenty of well-cooked if plain victuals. Miss Loach dined at half-past six and Susan assumed her dress and cap. She laid the table in a handsome dining-room, equally as garish in color as the apartment below. The table appointments were elegant, and Mrs. Pill served a nice little meal to which Miss Loach did full justice. She wore the same purple dress, but with the addition of more jewellery. Her sharp eyes followed Susan about the room as she waited, and at the end of the dinner she made her first observation. "You know your work I see," she said. "I hope you will be happy here!"

"I think I will, ma'am," said Susan, with a faint sigh.

"You have had trouble?" asked Miss Loach quickly.

"Yes, ma'am!"

"You must tell me about it to-morrow," said the old lady rising. "I like to gain the confidence of my servants. Now bring my coffee to the room below. At eight, three people will arrive—a lady and two gentlemen. You will show them into the sitting-room and put out the card-table. Then you can go to the kitchen and wait till I ring. Be sure you don't come till I do ring," and Miss Loach emphasized this last order with a flash of her brilliant eyes.

Susan took the coffee to the sitting-room in the basement and then cleared the table. Shortly before eight o'clock there was a ring at the front door. She opened it to a tall lady, with gray hair, who leaned on an ebony cane. With her were two men, one a rather rough foolish-looking fellow, and the other tall, dark, and well-dressed in an evening suit. A carriage was just driving away from the gate. As the tall lady entered, a breath of strong perfume saluted Susan's nostrils. The girl started and peered into the visitor's face. When she returned to the kitchen her own was as white as chalk.

CHAPTER II

THE CRIME

The kitchen was rather spacious, and as neat and clean as the busy hands of Mrs. Pill could make it. An excellent range polished to excess occupied one end of the room; a dresser with blue and white china adorned the other. On the outside wall copper pots and pans, glittering redly in the firelight, were ranged in a shining row. Opposite this wall, a door led into the interior of the house, and in it was the outer entrance. A large deal table stood in the center of the room, and at this with their chairs drawn up, Geraldine and the cook worked. The former was trimming a picture-hat of the cheapest and most flamboyant style, and the latter darned a coarse white stocking intended for her own use. By the fire sat Thomas, fair-haired and stupid in looks, who read tit-bits from the Daily Mail for the delectation of Mrs. Pill and Geraldine.

"Gracious 'eavens, Susan," cried the cook, when Susan returned, after admitting the visitors, "whatever's come to you?"

"I've had a turn," said Susan faintly, sitting by the fire and rubbing her white cheeks.

At once Mrs. Pill was alive with curiosity. She questioned the new parlor-maid closely, but was unable to extract information. Susan simply said that she had a weak heart, and set down her wan appearance to the heat. "An' on that accounts you sits by the fire," said Mrs. Pill scathingly. "You're one of the secret ones you are. Well, it ain't no business of mine, thank 'eaven, me being above board in everythink. I 'spose the usual lot arrived, Susan?"

"Two gentlemen and a lady," replied Susan, glad to see that the cooks thoughts were turning in another direction.

"Gentlemen!" snorted Mrs. Pill, "that Clancy one ain't. Why the missus should hobnob with sich as he, I don't know nohow."

"Ah, but the other's a real masher," chimed in Geraldine, looking up from her millinery; "such black eyes, that go through you like a gimlet, and such a lovely moustache. He dresses elegant too."

"Being Miss Loach's lawyer, he have a right to dress well," said Mrs. Pill, rubbing her nose with the stocking, "and Mr. Clancy, I thinks, is someone Mr. Jarvey Hale's helpin', he being good and kind."

Here Geraldine gave unexpected information.

"He's a client of Mr. Hale's," she said indistinctly, with her mouth full of pins, "and has come in for a lot of money. Mr. Hale's introducing him into good society, to make a gent of him."

"Silk purses can't be made out of sows' ears," growled the cook, "an' who told you all this Geraldine?"

"Miss Loach herself, at different times."

Susan thought it was strange that a lady should gossip to this extent with her housemaid, but she did not take much interest in the conversation, being occupied with her own sad thoughts. But the next remark of Geraldine made her start. "Mr. Clancy's father was a carpenter," said the girl.

"My father was a carpenter," remarked Susan, sadly.

"Ah," cried Mrs. Pill with alacrity, "now you're speaking sense. Ain't he alive?"

"No. He was poisoned!"

The three servants, having the love of horrors peculiar to the lower classes, looked up with interest. "Lor!" said Thomas, speaking for the first time and in a thick voice, "who poisoned him?"

"No one knows. He died five years ago, and left mother with me and four little brothers to bring up. They're all doing well now, though, and I help mother, as they do. They didn't want me to go out to service, you know," added Susan, warming on finding sympathetic listeners. "I could have stopped at home with mother in Stepney, but I did not want to be idle, and took a situation with a widow lady at Hampstead. I stopped there a year. Then she died and I went as parlor-maid to a Senora Gredos. I was only there six months," and she sighed.

"Why did you leave?" asked Geraldine.

Susan grew red. "I wished for a change," she said curtly.

But the housemaid did not believe her. She was a sharp girl and her feelings were not refined. "It's just like these men—"

"I said nothing about men," interrupted Susan, sharply.

"Well, then, a man. You've been in love, Susan, and—"

"No. I am not in love," and Susan colored more than ever.

"Why, it's as plain as cook that you are, now," tittered Geraldine.

"Hold your noise and leave the gal be," said Mrs. Pill, offended by the allusion to her looks, "if she's in love she ain't married, and no more she ought to be; if she'd had a husband like mine, who drank every day in the week and lived on my earnings. He's dead now, an' I gave 'im a 'andsome tombstone with the text: 'Go thou and do likewise' on it, being a short remark, lead letterin' being expensive. Ah well, as I allays say, 'Flesh is grass with us all.'"

While the cook maundered on Thomas sat with his dull eyes fixed on the flushed face of Susan. "What about the poisoning?" he demanded.

"It was this way," said Susan. "Father was working at some house in these parts—"

"What! Down here?"

"Yes, at Rexton, which was then just rising into notice as a place for gentlefolks. He had just finished with a house when he came home one day with his wages. He was taken ill and died. The doctor said he had taken poison, and he died of it. Arsenic it was," explained Susan to her horrified audience.

"But why did he poison himself?" asked Geraldine.

"I don't know: no one knew. He was gettin' good wages, and said he would make us all rich."

"Ah," chimed in Thomas suddenly, "in what way, Susan?"

"He had a scheme to make our fortunes. What it was, I don't know. But he said he would soon be worth plenty of money. Mother thought someone must have poisoned him, but she could not find out. As we had a lot of trouble then, it was thought father had killed himself to escape it, but I know better. If he had lived, we should have been rich. He was on an extra job down here," she ended.

"What was the extra job?" asked Thomas curiously.

Susan shook her head. "Mother never found out. She went to the house he worked on, which is near the station. They said father always went away for three hours every afternoon by an arrangement with the foreman. Where he went, no one knew. He came straight from this extra job home and died of poison. Mother thought," added Susan, looking round cautiously, "that someone must have had a wish to get rid of father, he knowing too much."

"Too much of what, my gal?" asked Mrs. Pill, with open mouth.

"Ah! That's what I'd like to find out," said Susan garrulously, "but nothing was ever known, and father was buried as a suicide. Then mother, having me and my four brothers, married again, and I took the name of her new husband."

"Then your name ain't really Grant?" asked Geraldine.

"No! It's Maxwell, father being Scotch and a clever workman. Susan Maxwell is my name, but after the suicide—if it was one—mother felt the disgrace so, that she made us all call ourselves Grant. So Susan Grant I am, and my brothers of the old family are Grant also."

"What do you mean by the old family?"

"Mother has three children by her second husband, and that's the new family," explained Susan, "but we are all Grants, though me and my four brothers are really Maxwells. But there," she said, looking round quietly and rather pleased at the interest with which she was regarded, "I've told you a lot. Tell me something!"

Mrs. Pill was unwilling to leave the fascinating subject of suicide, but her desire to talk got the better of her, and she launched into a long account of her married life. It seemed she had buried the late Mr. Pill ten years before, and since that time had been with Miss Loach as cook. She had saved money and could leave service at once, if she so chose. "But I should never be happy out of my kitchen, my love," said Mrs. Pill, biting a piece of darning-cotton, "so here I stay till missus goes under."

"And she won't do that for a long time," said Thomas. "Missus is strong. A good, kind, healthy lady."

Geraldine followed with an account of herself, which related chiefly to her good looks and many lovers, and the tyranny of mistresses. "I will say, however, that after being here a year, I have nothing to complain of."

"I should think not," grunted Thomas. "I've been twenty years with Miss Loach, and a good 'un she is. I entered her service when I was fifteen, and she could have married an earl—Lord Caranby wanted to marry her—but she wouldn't."

"Lor," said Mrs. Pill, "and ain't that his lordship's nephew who comes here at times?"

"Mr. Mallow? Yes! That's him. He's fond of the old lady."

"And fond of her niece, too," giggled Geraldine; "not but what Miss Saxon is rather sweet."

"Rather sweet," growled the cook, "why, she's a lovely gal, sich as you'll never be, in spite of your fine name. An' her brother, Mr. Basil, is near as 'andsome as she."

"He ain't got the go about him Miss Juliet have," said Thomas.

"A lot you know," was the cook's retort. "Why Mr. Basil quarrelled with missus a week ago and gave her proper, and missus ain't no easy person to fight with, as I knows. Mr. Basil left the house and ain't been near since."

"He's a fool, then," said Thomas. "Missus won't leave him a penny."

"She'll leave it to Miss Juliet Saxon, which is just the same. I never did see brother and sister so fond of one another as those two. I believe she'd put the 'air of 'er head—and lovely 'air it is, too—under his blessed feet to show him she loves him."

"She'd do the same by Mr. Mallow," said Geraldine, tittering.

Here Susan interrupted. "Who is the old lady who comes here?"

"Oh, she's Mrs. Herne," said the cook. "A cross, 'aughty old thing, who fights always. She's been coming here with Mr. Jarvey Hale and Mr. Clancy for the last three years. They play whist every evening and go away regular about ten. Missus let's 'em out themselves or else rings for me. Why, there's the bell now," and Mrs. Pill rose.

"No! I go," said Susan, rising also. "Miss Loach told me to come when she rang."

Mrs. Pill nodded and resumed her seat and her darning. "Lor bless you, my love, I ain't jealous," she said. "My legs ain't as young as they was. 'Urry, my dear, missus is a bad 'un to be kept waitin'."

Thus urged, Susan hastened to the front part of the house and down the stairs. The door of the sitting-room was open. She knocked and entered, to find Mr. Clancy, who looked rougher and more foolish than ever, standing by the table. Miss Loach, with a pack of cards on her lap, was talking, and Susan heard the concluding sentence as she entered the room.

"You're a fool, Clancy," said Miss Loach, emphatically. "You know Mrs. Herne doesn't like to be contradicted. You've sent her away in a fine rage, and she's taken Hale with her. Quite spoilt our game of—ah, here's Susan. Off with you, Clancy. I wish to be alone."

The man would have spoken, but Miss Loach silenced him with a sharp gesture and pointed to the door. In silence he went upstairs with Susan, and in silence left the house. It was a fine night, and Susan stopped for a moment at the door to drink in the fresh air. She heard the heavy footsteps of a policeman draw near and he passed the house, to disappear into the path on the opposite side of the road. When Susan returned to the kitchen she found supper ready. Soon the servants were seated at the table and talking brightly.

"Who does that house at the back belong to?" asked Susan.

"To Lord Caranby," said Thomas, although not directly addressed. "It's unfinished."

"Yes and shut up. Lord Caranby was in love with a lady and built that house for her. Before it was ready the lady died and Lord Caranby left the house as it was and built a high wall round it. He then went travelling and has been travelling ever since. He never married either, and his nephew, Mr. Cuthbert Mallow, is heir to the title."

"I thought you said Lord Caranby loved Miss Loach?"

"No, I didn't. I said she could have married him had she played her cards properly. But she didn't, and Lord Caranby went away. The lady who died was a friend of missus, and they were always together. I think missus and she were jealous of Lord Caranby, both loving him. But Miss Saul—that was the other lady—died, and Lord Caranby left the house as it stands, to go away."

"He won't allow anyone to set a foot in the house or grounds," said Mrs. Pill, "there ain't no gate in the wall—"

"No gate," echoed Susan astonished.

"Not a single 'ole as you could get a cat through. Round and round the place that fifteen-feet wall is built, and the park, as they calls it, is running as wild as a cow. Not a soul has set foot in that place for the last fifteen years. But I expect when Mr. Mallow comes in for the title he'll pull it down and build 'ouses. I'm sure he ought to: it's a shame seeing land wasted like that."

"Where is Lord Caranby now?"

"He lives in London and never comes near this place," said Thomas.

"Is Miss Loach friendly with him now?" "No, she ain't. He treated her badly. She'd have been a better Lady Caranby than Miss Saul"—here Thomas started and raised a finger. "Eh! wasn't that the front door closing?"

All listened, but no sound could be heard. "Perhaps missus has gone to walk in the garding," said cook, "she do that at times."

"Did you show 'ern out?" asked Thomas, looking at Susan.

"Only Mr. Clancy," she answered, "the others had gone before. I heard what Miss Loach was saying. Mr. Clancy had quarrelled with Mrs. Herne and she had gone away with Mr. Hale. Then Miss Loach gave it to him hot and sent him away. She's all alone."

"I must have been mistaken about the door then," said he.

"Not at all," chimed in Mrs. Pill. "Missus is walking as she do do in the garding, singing and adornin' self with flowers."

After this poetic flight of fancy on the part of the cook, the supper ended. Thomas smoked a pipe and the housemaid cleared away. Mrs. Pill occupied her time in putting her few straggling locks in curl-papers.

While Susan was assisting Geraldine, the bell rang. All started. "I thought missus had gone to bed," cried the cook, getting up hurriedly. "She'll be in a fine rage if she finds us up. Go to bed, Geraldine, and you, Thomas. Susan, answer the bell. She don't like us not to be gettin' our beauty sleep. Bless me it's eleving."

The clock had just struck as Susan left the kitchen, and the three servants were bustling about so as to get to bed before their sharp-eyed old mistress found them. Susan went down the stairs. The door of the sitting-room was closed. She knocked but no voice told her to enter. Wondering if the bell had been rung by mistake, Susan knocked again, and again received no answer. She had a mind to retreat rather than face the anger of Miss Loach. But remembering that the bell had rung, she opened the door, determined to explain. Miss Loach was seated in her usual chair, but leaning back with a ghastly face. The glare of the electric lamp fixed in the ceiling, shone full on her white countenance, and also on something else. The bosom of her purple gown was disarranged, and the lace which adorned it was stained with blood. Startled by her looks Susan hurried forward and gazed searchingly into the face. There was no sign of recognition in the wide, staring eyes. Susan, quivering with dread, touched Miss Loach's shoulder. Her touch upset the body and it rolled on the floor. The woman was dead. With a shriek Susan recoiled and fell on her knees. Her cry speedily brought the other servants.

"Look!" cried Susan pointing, "she is dead—murdered!"

Geraldine and Mrs. Pill shrieked with horror. Thomas preserved his stolid look of composure.

CHAPTER III

A MYSTERIOUS DEATH

To be the husband of a celebrated woman is not an unmixed blessing. Mr. Peter Octagon found it to be so, when he married Mrs. Saxon, the widow of an eminent Q.C. She was a fine Junoesque tragic woman, who modelled herself on the portraits of the late Mrs. Siddons. Peter, on the contrary, was a small, meek, light-haired, short-sighted man, who had never done anything in his unromantic life, save accumulate a fortune as a law-stationer. For many years he lived in single blessedness, but when he retired with an assured income of three thousand a year, he thought he would marry. He had no relatives, having been brought up in a Foundling Hospital, and consequently, found life rather lonely in his fine Kensington house. He really did not care about living in such a mansion, and had purchased the property as a speculation, intending to sell it at a profit. But having fallen in with Mrs. Saxon, then a hard-up widow, she not only induced him to marry her, but, when married, she insisted that the house should be retained, so that she could dispense hospitality to a literary circle.

Mrs. Octagon was very literary. She had published several novels under the nom-de-plume of "Rowena." She had produced a volume of poems; she had written a play which had been produced at a matinee; and finally her pamphlets on political questions stamped her, in the opinion of her immediate circle, as a William Pitt in petticoats. She looked upon herself as the George Eliot of the twentieth century, and dated events from the time of her first success. "That happened before I became famous," she would say. "No, it was after I took the public by storm." And her immediate circle, who appreciated her cakes and ale, would agree with everything she said. The Kensington house was called "The Shrine of the Muses!" and this title was stamped on her envelopes and writing-paper, to the bewilderment of illiterate postmen. It sounded like the name of a public-house to them.

Peter was quite lost in the blaze of his wife's literary glory. He was a plain, homely, small man, as meek as a rabbit, fond of his garden and fireside, and nervous in society. Had he not committed the fatal mistake of wedding Mrs. Saxon, he would have taken a cottage in the country and cultivated flowers. As it was, he dwelt in town and was ordered to escort Mrs. Octagon when she chose to "blaze," as she put it, in her friends' houses. Also there was a reception every Friday when literary London gathered round "Rowena," and lamented the decline of Art. These people had never done anything to speak of, none of them were famous in any wide sense, but they talked of art with a big "A," though what they meant was not clear even to themselves. So far as could be ascertained Art, with a big "A," was concerned with something which did not sell, save to a select circle. Mrs. Octagon's circle would have shuddered collectively and individually at the idea of writing anything interesting, likely to be enjoyed by the toilers of modern days. Whatever pictures, songs, books or plays were written by anyone who did not belong to "The Circle," these were considered "pretty, but not Tart!" Anything successful was pronounced "Vulgar!" To be artistic in Mrs. Octagon's sense, a work had to possess obscurity, it had to be printed on the finest paper with selected type, and it had to be sold at a prohibitive price. In this way "Rowena" had produced her works, and her name was not known beyond her small coterie. All the same, she intimated that her renown was world-wide and that her fame would be commensurate with the existence of the Anglo-Saxon race. Mrs. Lee Hunter in the Pickwick Papers, also labored under the same delusion.

With Peter lived Mrs. Saxon's children by the eminent Q.C. Basil, who was twenty-five, and Juliet age twenty-two. They were both handsome and clever, but Juliet was the more sensible of the two. She detested the sham enthusiasm of The Circle, and appreciated Peter more than her mother did. Basil had been spoilt by his mother, who considered him a genius, and had produced a book of weak verse. Juliet was fond of her brother, but she saw his faults and tried to correct them. She wished to make him more of a man and less of an artistic fraud, for the young man really did possess talents. But the hothouse atmosphere of "The Shrine of the Muses!" would have ruined anyone possessed of genius, unless he had a strong enough nature to withstand the sickly adulation and false judgments of those who came there. Basil was not strong. He was pleasant, idle, rather vain, and a little inclined to be dissipated. Mrs. Octagon did not know that Basil was fond of dissipation. She thought him a model young Oxford man, and hoped he would one day be Laureate of England.

Afternoon tea was just ended, and several of Mrs. Octagon's friends had departed. Basil and Mr. Octagon were out, but the latter entered with a paper in his hand shortly after the last visitor took her leave. Mrs. Octagon, in a ruby-colored velvet, looking majestic and self-satisfied, was enthroned—the word is not too strong—in an arm-chair, and Juliet was seated opposite to her turning over the leaves of a new novel produced by one of The Circle. It was beautifully printed and bound, and beautifully written in "precious" English, but its perusal did not seem to afford her any satisfaction. Her attention wandered, and every now and then she looked at the door as though expecting someone to enter. Mrs. Octagon disapproved of Juliet's pale cheeks and want of attention to her own fascinating conversation, so, when alone, she took the opportunity to correct her.

"My child," said Mrs. Octagon, who always spoke in a tragic manner, and in a kind of blank-verse way, "to me it seems your cheeks are somewhat pale."

"I had no sleep last night," said Juliet, throwing down the book.

"Your thoughts concerned themselves with Cuthbert's face, no doubt, my love," said her mother fondly.

"No, I was not thinking of him. I was worried about—about—my new dress," she finished, after vainly casting about for some more sensible reason.

"How foolish children are. You trouble about your dress when you should have been thinking of the man who loves you."

"Does Cuthbert love me?" asked Juliet, flushing.

"As Romeo loved your namesake, sweetest child. And a very good match it is too," added Mrs. Octagon, relapsing into prose. "He is Lord Caranby's heir, and will have a title and a fortune some day. But I would not force you to wed against your will, my dear."

"I love Cuthbert and Cuthbert loves me," said Juliet quickly, "we quite understand one another. I wonder why he did not come to-day."

"Ah," said her mother playfully, "I saw that your thoughts were otherwhere. Your eyes wandered constantly to the door. He may come late. By the way, where is my dearest son?"

"Basil? He went out this morning. I believe he intended to call on Aunt Selina."

Mrs. Octagon lost a trifle of her suave manner, and became decidedly more human. "Then I wish he would not call there," she said sharply. "Selina Loach is my own sister, but I do not approve of her."

"She is a poor, lonely dear, mother."

"Poor, my child, she is not, as I have every reason to believe she is well endowed with this world's goods. Lonely she may be, but that is her own fault. Had she behaved as she should have done, Lady Caranby would have been her proud title. As to dear," Mrs. Octagon shrugged her fine shoulders, "she is not a woman to win or retain love. Look at the company she keeps. Mr. Hale, her lawyer, is not a nice man. I have espied something evil in his eye. That Clancy creature is said to be rich. He needs to be, if only to compensate for his rough way. They visit her constantly."

"You have forgotten Mrs. Herne," said Juliet, rising, and beginning to pace the room restlessly and watch out of the window.

"I have never met Mrs. Herne. And, indeed, you know, that for private reasons I have never visited Selina at that ridiculous house of hers. When were you there last, Juliet, my child?"

The girl started and appeared embarrassed. "Oh, a week ago," she said hurriedly, then added restlessly, "I wonder why Basil does not come back. He has been away all day."

"Do you know why he has called on your aunt, my dear?"

"No," said Juliet, in a hesitating manner, and turned again to look out of the window. Then she added, as though to escape further questioning, "I have seen Mrs. Herne only once, but she seemed to me a very nice, clever old woman."

"Clever," said Mrs. Octagon, raising her eyebrows, which were as strongly marked as those of her sister, "no. She does not belong to The Circle."

"A person can be clever without that," said Juliet impatiently.

"No. All the clever people in London come here, Juliet. If Mrs. Herne had been brilliant, she would have found her way to our Shrine."

Juliet shrugged her shoulders and curled her pretty lip. She did not appreciate her privileges in that house. In fact, a word distinctly resembling "Bother!" escaped from her mouth. However, she went on talking of Mrs. Herne, as though to keep her mother from questioning her further.

"There is a mystery about Mrs. Herne," she said, coming to the fire; "for I asked Aunt Selina who she was, and she could not tell me."

"That is so like Selina," rejoined Mrs. Octagon tartly, "receiving a person of whom she knows nothing."

"Oh, she does know a little. Mrs. Herne is the widow of a Spanish merchant, and she struck me as being foreign herself. Aunt Selina has known her for three years, and she has come almost every week to play whist at Rose Cottage. I believe she lives at Hampstead!"

"It seems to me, Juliet, that your aunt told you a great deal about this person. Why did you ask?"

Juliet stared into the fire. "There is something so strange about Mrs. Herne," she murmured. "In spite of her gray hair she looks quite young. She does not walk as an old woman. She confessed to being over fifty. To be sure, I saw her only once."

Mrs. Octagon grew rather cross. "I am over fifty, and I'm sure I don't look old, you undutiful child. When the soul is young, what matters the house of clay. But, as I was saying," she added hastily, not choosing to talk of her age, which was a tender point with her, "Selina Loach likes low company. I know nothing of Mrs. Herne, but what you say of her does not sound refined."

"Oh, she is quite a lady."

"And as to Mr. Clancy and Mr. Jarvey Hale," added Mrs. Octagon, taking no notice, "I mistrust them. That Hale man looked as though he would do a deed of darkness on the slightest provocation."

So tragic was her mother's manner, that Juliet turned even paler than she was. "Whatever do you mean?" she asked quickly.

"I mean murder, if I must use so vulgar and melodramatic a word."

"But I don't understand—"

"Bless me," cried Mrs. Octagon, becoming more prosaic than ever, "there is nothing to understand. But Selina lives in quite a lonely house, and has a lot of money. I never open the papers but what I expect to read of her death by violence."

"Oh," murmured Juliet, again crossing to the window, "you should not talk like that, mother!"

Mrs. Octagon laughed good-naturedly. "Nonsense, child. I am only telling you my thoughts. Selina is such a strange woman and keeps such strange company that she won't end in the usual way. You may be sure of that. But, after all, if she does die, you will come in for her money and then, can marry Cuthbert Mallow."

Juliet shuddered. "I hope Aunt Selina will live for many a long day, if that is what you think," she said sharply. "I want none of her money. Cuthbert has money of his own, and his uncle is rich also."

"I really hope Cuthbert has enough to justify him gambling."

"He does not gamble," said Juliet quickly.

"Yes he does," insisted Mrs. Octagon. "I have heard rumors; it is but right you should hear about—"

"I want to hear nothing. I thought you liked Cuthbert."

"I do, and he is a good match. But I should like to see you accept the Poet Arkwright, who will yet be the Shakespeare of England."

"England has quite enough glory with the Shakespeare she has," rejoined Juliet tartly, "and as to Mr. Arkwright, I wouldn't marry him if he had a million. A silly, ugly, weak—"

"Stop!" cried Mrs. Octagon, rising majestically from her throne. "Do not malign genius, lest the gods strike you dumb. Child—"

What Mrs. Octagon was about to say further must remain ever a mystery, for it was at this moment that her husband hurried into the room with an evening paper in his hand. "My dear," he said, his scanty hair almost standing on end with horror, "such dreadful news. Your aunt, Juliet, my dear—"

"Selina," said Mrs. Octagon quietly, "go on. There is nothing bad I don't expect to hear about Selina. What is it?"

"She is dead!"

"Dead!" cried Juliet, clasping her hands nervously. "No!"

"Not only dead, but murdered!" cried Mr. Octagon. His wife suddenly dropped into her throne and, being a large fleshly woman, her fall shook the room. Then she burst into tears. "I never liked Selina," she sniffed, "even though she was my own sister, but I am sorry—I am dreadfully—oh, dear me! Poor Selina!"

By this time all the dramatic posing of Mrs. Octagon had gone by the wall, and she showed herself in her true colors as a kind-hearted woman. Juliet hurried to her mother and took one of her hands. The elder woman started, even in the midst of her tears. "My child, your hand is as cold as ice," she said anxiously. "Are you ill."

"No," said the girl hurriedly and evidently trying to suppress her emotion, "but this dreadful news! Do you remember what you said?"

"Yes—but I never expected I would be a true prophetess," sobbed Mrs. Octagon. "Peter," with sudden tartness, "why don't you give me the details. Poor Selina dead, and here am I in ruby velvet!"

"There are not many details to give," said Peter, reading from the newspaper, "the police are keeping quiet about the matter."

"Who killed her?"

Juliet rose suddenly and turned on the electric light, so that her step-father could see to read more clearly. "Yes," she said in a firm voice, belied by the ghastly whiteness of her face, "who killed her?"

"It is not known," said Mr. Octagon. "Last night she entertained a few friends—to be precise, three, and she was found by her new parlor-maid dead in her chair, stabbed to the heart. The weapon has not been found, nor has any trace of the murderer been discovered."

"Entertained friends," muttered Mrs. Octagon weeping, "the usual lot. Mr. Hale, Mrs. Herne and Mr. Clancy—"

"Yes," said Peter, somewhat surprised, "how do you know?"

"My soul, whispered me," said Mrs. Octagon tragically, and becoming melodramatic again, now that the first shock was over. "One of those three killed her. Who struck the fatal blow?—the villain Hale I doubt not."

"No," cried Juliet, "it was not Mr. Hale. He would not harm a fly."

"Probably not," said her mother tartly, "a fly has no property—your Aunt Selina had. Oh, my dear," she added, darting away at a tangent, "to think that last night you and Basil should have been witnesses of a melodrama at the Marlow Theatre, at the very time this real tragedy was taking place in the rural country."

"It's a most dreadful affair," murmured Peter, laying aside the paper. "Had I not better go down to Rose Cottage and offer my services?"

"No," said Mrs. Octagon sharply, "don't mix yourself up in this dreadful affair. Few people know that Selina was my sister, and I don't want everyone to be condoling with me on this tragedy."

"But we must do something," said Juliet quickly.

"We will wait, my dear. But I don't want more publicity than is necessary."

"But I have told some of our friends that Aunt Selina is a relative."

"Then you should not have done so," replied her mother, annoyed. "However, people soon forget names, and the thing may not be noticed."

"My dear," said Octagon, seriously, "you should not be ashamed of your sister. She may not have your renown nor rank, still—"

"I know my own knowing," interrupted the lady rather violently, and crushing her meek husband with a look. "Selina and I are strangers, and have been for years. What are the circumstances of the case? I have not seen Selina for over fifteen years. I hear nothing about her. She suddenly writes to me, asking if my dear children may call and see her—that was a year ago. You insisted that they should go, Peter, because relatives should be friendly. I consented, as I heard from Mr. Hale that Selina was rich, and fancied she might leave her money to my children. Juliet has called several times—"

"More than that," interrupted Juliet in her turn, "both Basil and I have called nearly every month. We sometimes went and did not tell you, mother, as you seemed so annoyed that we should visit her."

"I consented only that you might retain her goodwill and get what money she might leave," said Mrs. Octagon obstinately. "There is nothing in common between Selina and me."

"There was nothing in common," put in Octagon softly.

"I know she is dead. You need not remind me of that unpleasant fact, sir. And her death is worthy of her strange, and I fear not altogether reputable life."

"Oh, mother, how can you? Aunt Selina was the most particular—"

"There—there," said her mother who was much agitated, "I know more than you do. And between ourselves, I believe I know who killed her. Yes! You may look. And this death, Juliet, ends your engagement with Cuthbert."

CHAPTER IV

DETAILS

What Mrs. Octagon meant by her last enigmatic remark it is impossible to say. After delivering it in her usual dramatic manner, she swept from the room, leaving Juliet and her step-father staring at one another. Peter was the first to break the silence.

"Your mother appears to be very positive," said he.

"About my giving up Cuthbert?" asked Juliet sharply.

"About the crime. She hinted that she guessed who killed the poor lady. I never knew Miss Loach myself," added Mr. Octagon, seating himself and ruffling his scanty locks, a habit with him when perplexed, "but you said you liked her."

"Yes, Aunt Selina was always very nice to me. She had strange ways, and, to tell you the truth, father," Juliet always addressed Peter thus, to his great delight, "she was not so refined as mother—"

"Few people are so refined as my wife, my dear."

"As to mother knowing who killed her," pursued Juliet, taking no notice of this interpolation, "it's nonsense. She said she believed Mr. Hale or Mr. Clancy—"

"Surely not," interposed Mr. Octagon anxiously, "both these gentlemen have participated in the delights of our literary Circle, and I should be loath to credit them with violence."

"I don't believe either has anything to do with the matter. Mother doesn't like them because they were such good friends to Aunt Selina. Can you guess why mother quarrelled with aunt, father?"

"No, my dear. Your mother has some grudge against her. What it is I do not know. She never told me. But for over fifteen years your mother spoke little of your aunt and never called to see her. I was quite astonished when she consented that you and Basil should call. Did your aunt ever speak of your mother?"

"Very little, and then she was cautious—what she said. But this is not the question," continued the girl, leaning her chin on her hand and staring into the fire; "why does mother say I must break my engagement with Cuthbert on account of this death?"

"Perhaps she will explain."

"No; she left the room to avoid an explanation. Cuthbert certainly saw Aunt Selina once or twice, but he did not care for her. But he can have nothing to do with the matter. Then again, mother, up till now, was always pleased that I should marry Cuthbert."

"Yes," said Octagon, twiddling his thumbs; "she has known Mr. Mallow ever since he was a child. Both your aunt and your mother were great friends of Lord Caranby's in their youth, over twenty years ago. I believe at one time Selina was engaged to him, but he was in love with a young lady called Miss Saul, who died unexpectedly."

"I know," said Juliet; "and then Lord Caranby abandoned the house he was building at Rexton, and it has been shut up all these years. Aunt Selina told me the story. When I asked mother for details, she refused to speak."

"Your mother is very firm when she likes."

"Very obstinate, you mean," said Juliet, undutifully. "However, I am not going to give up Cuthbert. I love him and he loves me. I intend to marry him whatever mother may say."

"But if your mother refuses her consent?"

"I am over age."

As she spoke her brother entered the room hurriedly. Basil Saxon was as fair and weak-looking as his sister was dark and strong in appearance. He was smartly dressed, and in a rather affected way. His hair was long, he wore a moustache and a short imperial, and talked in a languid way in a somewhat obscure manner. These were the traits Juliet disliked in Basil. She would rather have seen him a spruce well-groomed man about town like Cuthbert. But at the present moment Basil's face was flushed, and he spoke hurriedly, evidently laboring under great stress of emotion.

"Have you heard the news?" he said, dropping into a chair and casting a side look at the evening paper which Peter still held.

"If you mean about the death—"

"Yes; Aunt Selina has been murdered. I called to see her this morning, and found the house in the possession of the police. All day I have been down there with Mallow."

"With Cuthbert," said Juliet, starting and growing red. "What was he doing there?"

"He came down to Rexton to see about the unfinished house. Lord Caranby has returned to England, and he has thoughts of pulling it down. Mallow came to have a look at the place."

"But he can't get in. There is a wall round the grounds."

"He climbed over the wall," said Basil, quickly, "and after looking through the house he came out. Then he saw me, and I told him what had happened. He appeared dreadfully shocked."

Juliet shivered in spite of the heat of the day and the fire, near which she was seated. "It is strange he should have been there."

Her brother threw a keen glance at her. "I don't see that!" he exclaimed. "He gave his reason for being in the neighborhood. He came up with me, and is coming on here in a few moments. This is why he did not turn up this afternoon."

Juliet nodded and appeared satisfied with this explanation. But she kept her eyes on her brother when he entered into details about the crime. Her emotions during the recital betrayed themselves markedly.

"I saw the detective," said Basil, with quicker speech than usual. "He is a first-rate chap called Jennings, and when he heard I was Miss Loach's nephew he didn't mind speaking freely."

"What did you learn?" asked Mr. Octagon.

"Enough to make the mystery surrounding the death deeper than ever."

"What do you mean?" asked his sister, restlessly. "Can't the murderer be found?"

"Not a trace of him can be discovered."

"Why do you say 'him.' It might have been a woman."

"No," rejoined Basil positively, "no woman could have struck so hard a blow. Aunt Selina was stabbed to the heart. She must have been killed as she was rising from her chair, and death, so the doctor says, must have been instantaneous."

"Has the weapon been found?" asked Juliet in a low voice.

Basil turned quickly in his chair, and looked at her sharply. "No!" he said, "not a sign of any weapon can be found, nor can it be discovered how anyone got into the house. Though to be sure, she might have admitted her visitor."

"Explain! explain," cried Mr. Octagon, ruffling his hair.

"Well, to tell the story in detail," said his step-son, "the way it happened is this. Aunt Selina had Mr. Hale and Mr. Clancy and Mrs. Herne to their usual game of whist. Clancy, as it appears from the report of what the new parlor-maid overheard, quarrelled with Hale and Mrs. Herne. They left before ten o'clock. At all events, when she entered the room in answer to my aunt's summons, she found only Mr. Clancy, and aunt was scolding him for having provoked Mrs. Herne by contradicting her. Apparently Mrs. Herne had gone away under the wing of Hale. Then aunt sent Clancy away at ten o'clock. The parlor-maid returned to the kitchen and there had supper. She heard the bell ring at eleven, and found aunt dead in the sitting-room, stabbed to the heart."

"Heard the bell ring?" echoed Juliet. "But how could aunt ring if she had been killed?"

"She might have rung as she was dying," said Basil, after a pause. "It seems she was seated near the button of the bell and could have touched it without rising. She might have rung with a last effort, and then have died before the parlor-maid could get to the room."

"Or else," said Mr. Octagon, anxious to prove his perspicuity, "the assassin may have stabbed her and then have touched the bell."

"What!" cried his step-son derisively, "to summon a witness. I don't think the assassin would be such a fool. However, that's all that can be discovered. Aunt Selina is dead, and no one knows who killed her."

"Was the house locked up?" "The front door was closed, and the windows were bolted and barred. Besides, a policeman was walking down Crooked Lane a few minutes before eleven, and would have seen anyone leaving the house. He reported that all was quiet."

"Then the assassin might have rung the bell at eleven," said Peter.

"Certainly not, for he could never have escaped immediately afterwards, without the policeman seeing him."

"He might have got out by the back," suggested Juliet.

"My dear girl, what are you thinking of. That wall round Lord Caranby's mansion blocks any exit at the back. Anyone leaving the house must go up the lane or through that part at the bottom. The policeman was near there shortly before eleven and saw no one leaving the house."

"But, look here," said Mr. Octagon, who had been ruminating; "if, as the doctor says, death was instantaneous, how could your aunt have rung the bell?"

"Yes," added Juliet. "And even had death not taken place at once, it could not have been more than a few minutes before eleven when the blow was struck. Aunt might have had strength to crawl to the bell and touch it, but the assassin could not have escaped from the house, seeing—as you say—the policeman was on guard."

"Aunt died instantaneously," insisted Basil.

"Then she could not have sounded the bell," said Juliet triumphantly.

"The assassin did that," said Peter.

"And thus called a witness," cried Basil. "Ridiculous!"

"Then how do you explain the matter?"

"I can't explain. Neither can the detective Jennings. It's a mystery."

"Could any of the servants—" began Peter.

"No," interrupted Saxon. "The four servants were having supper in the kitchen. They are innocent. Well, we'll see what the inquest reveals. Something may be found before then likely to elucidate the mystery. But here comes Mallow. He questioned Jennings also, so you can question him if you like. Does mother know?"

"Yes. And she doesn't want the fact of her relationship to your aunt talked about."

Basil understood at once. "No wonder," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "It is not a pleasant affair for a woman of mother's celebrity to be mixed up with."

Meantime, Juliet having heard the ring at the front door, escaped from the room to see her lover. She met him divesting himself of his overcoat in the hall, and ran to him with outstretched hands. "But why have you got on an overcoat this warm day?" she asked.

"I have a cold. I caught one last night," said Cuthbert, kissing her.

"Where were you last night?" asked Juliet, drawing him into a side room. "I thought you were coming to the Marlow Theatre with Basil and me."

"Yes. But my uncle arrived unexpectedly in England and sent for me to his hotel in Guelph street—the Avon Hotel, you know. He will insist on a fire even in June, and the room was so hot that I caught cold when I came out. I had to go down to Rexton to-day on his business, and put on a coat so as to avoid catching further cold. But why this room, Juliet?"

"Father and Basil are in the drawing-room. They are talking of the murder, and I don't want to hear any more about it."

"There are pleasanter things to talk about," said Mallow. "I knew Basil would come crammed with news. Has he told you—"

"He told us everything he could gather from the detective. It seems that the crime is quite a mystery."

"Quite. Why your aunt should be killed, or how the assassin escaped, after killing her, cannot be discovered. Jennings is in high glee about it. He loves a puzzle of this sort."

"Do you know him?" asked Juliet anxiously.

"Oh, yes. Jennings is a gentleman. He was at Eton with me. But he ran through his money and took up the detective business. He is very clever, and if anyone will learn the truth, he will. Now, my theory—"

Juliet put her hand over his mouth. "Don't," she said. "I have had enough horrors for this afternoon. Let us talk of ourselves."

"I would rather do this," said Mallow, and kissed her.

Mallow was a handsome fellow, tall and slim, with a rather military carriage. His face was clean-shaven save for a small straw-colored moustache, which showed up almost white against the bronze of his face. He was more of an athlete than a student, and this was one reason why Juliet was fond of him. She had seen so much of literary circles that she always vowed she would marry a man who never opened a book. Cuthbert nearly fulfilled this requirement, as he read little, save novels and newspapers. He was well known in sporting circles, and having a good private income, owned race-horses. He was always irreproachably dressed, good-humored and cheerful. Consequently he was popular, and if not overburdened with brains, managed to make himself agreeable to the world, and to have what the Americans call "a good time." He had travelled much and was fond of big-game shooting. To complete his characterization, it is necessary to mention that he had served in the Boer War, and had gained a D.S.O. But that was in the days before he met Juliet or he might not have risked a life so precious to her.

Juliet was dark and rather little, not at all like her Junoesque mother. She was extremely pretty and dressed to perfection. Having more brains and a stronger will than Mallow, she guided him in every way, and had already succeeded in improving his morals. With so gentle and charming a mentor, Cuthbert was quite willing to be led into the paths of virtue. He adored Juliet and she loved him, so it appeared that the marriage would be quite ideal.

"Much as we love one another," said Cuthbert when the lovers were seated on the sofa. "I wonder you can talk of anything but this horrid murder."

"Because there is nothing to talk of," rejoined the girl impatiently; "according to Basil, the case is most mysterious, so it is useless for us to worry over it until something tangible is discovered. But I want to speak to you seriously—" here Juliet hesitated.

"Well, go on," said Cuthbert, taking her hand.

"Mother says—" began Juliet, then hesitated again. "Promise me you will keep to yourself what I am about to tell you."

"Certainly. I never was a fellow to chatter."

"Then mother says that this murder will put a stop to our marriage."

Mallow stared, then flushed up to his ears. "What on earth does she mean by that?" he asked aghast.

Juliet looked searchingly at him. "Do you know of any impediment?"

"I? Of course I don't. I am sorry for the death of your aunt, but I really don't see what it has to do with you and me."

Juliet drew a breath of relief. "Mother hints that she knows who committed the crime, and—"

"What! She knows. How does she know?"

"I can't say. She refuses to speak. She was not on good terms with Aunt Selina and they never saw one another for over fifteen years. But mother is much disturbed about the murder—"

"That is natural. A sister is a sister however much one may have quarrelled. But why should this death stop our marriage?"

"I know no more than you do. Here is mother. Ask her yourself."

It was indeed Mrs. Octagon who entered the room. She looked very pale, but otherwise was perfectly composed. In silence she gave her hand to Cuthbert, and kept her black eyes fixed steadily on his face. The young man flushed and turned away, whereat Mrs. Octagon sighed. Juliet broke an embarrassed silence.

"Mother," she said, "I have told Cuthbert what you said."

"Then you had no right to," said Mrs. Octagon sternly.

"Oh, I think she had," said Mallow, rather annoyed. "Seeing you hint that this crime will stop our marriage."

Mrs. Octagon did not answer. "Is your uncle in town?" she asked.

"Yes. He arrived from the continent a day or two ago."

"I thought so," she said, half to herself, and strove to repress her agitation. "Mr. Mallow, my daughter can't marry you."

"Why not? Give your reason."

"I have no reason to give."

"But you must. Is it on account of this murder?"

"It is. I told Juliet so. But I cannot explain."

The lovers looked at one another in a dazed fashion. The woman's objection seemed to be senseless. "Surely you don't think Cuthbert killed Aunt Selina?" said Juliet, laughing in a forced manner.

"No. I don't suspect him."

"Then whom do you suspect?" demanded Mallow.

"That I decline to say."

"Will you decline to say it to the police?"

Mrs. Octagon stepped back a pace. "Yes, I should," she faltered.

Cuthbert Mallow looked at her, wondering why she was so agitated, and Juliet stole her hand into his. Then he addressed her seriously.

"Mrs. Octagon," he said, "your remark about my uncle leads me to think you suspect him."

"No I don't. But you can't marry Juliet on account of this crime."

"Then you hear me," said Mallow, driven into a corner, "from this moment I devote myself to finding out who killed your unfortunate sister. When the assassin is discovered you may consent to our marriage."

But he spoke to empty air. Mrs. Octagon had left the room, almost before the first words left his mouth.

CHAPTER V

LORD CARANBY'S ROMANCE

Cuthbert was considerably perplexed by the attitude of Juliet's mother. She had always been more than kind to him. On the announcement that he wished to marry her daughter, she had expressed herself well pleased, and during the engagement, which had lasted some six months, she had received him as Juliet's intended husband, with almost ostentatious delight. Now, for some inexplicable reason, she suddenly changed her mind and declined to explain. But rack his brains as he might, Cuthbert could not see how the death of a sister she had quarrelled with, and to whom she had been a stranger for so long, could affect the engagement.

However, there was no doubt in his mind that the refusal of Mrs. Octagon to approve of the marriage lay in the fact that her sister had met with a violent end. Therefore Mallow was determined to see Jennings, and help him to the best of his ability to discover the assassin. When the criminal was brought to justice, either Mrs. Octagon's opposition would be at an end, or the true reason for its existence would be revealed. Meantime, he was sure that she would keep Juliet out of his way, and that in future he would be refused admittance to the "Shrine of the Muses." This was annoying, but so long as Juliet remained true, Cuthbert thought he could bear the exclusion. His betrothed—as he still regarded the girl—could meet him in the Park, at the houses of mutual friends, and in a thousand and one places which a clever woman like her could think of. And although Cuthbert knew that Mrs. Octagon had frequently regretted the refusal of her daughter to marry Arkwright, and would probably try and induce her to do so now that matters stood thus, yet he was not afraid in his own heart. Juliet was as staunch as steel, and he was certain that Mr. Octagon would be on his side. Basil probably would agree with his mother, whose lead he slavishly followed. But Mallow had rather a contempt for Basil, and did not count his opposition as dangerous.

On leaving the "Shrine of the Muses," the young man's first intention was to seek out Jennings and see what progress he was making in the matter. But on reflection he thought he would call again on his uncle and question him regarding his knowledge of Mrs. Octagon. It seemed to Cuthbert that, from the woman's question as to whether Lord Caranby had returned from abroad, and her remark on hearing that he had, some suspicion was in her mind as to his being concerned in the crime. Yet, beyond the fact that the unfinished house stood behind the cottage where the crime had been committed and belonged to Lord Caranby who had known the dead woman in the past, Cuthbert could not see how Mrs. Octagon could constitute a latter-day connection between her dead sister and her old friend. But Lord Caranby might be induced to talk—no easy matter—and from what he said, the mystery of Mrs. Octagon's attitude might be elucidated. Only in the past—so far as the perplexed young man could conjecture—could be found the reason for her sudden change of front.

Cuthbert therefore sent a wire to his uncle, stating that he wished to see him after eight o'clock on special business, and then went home to dress.

While thus employed, he thought over means and ways to make Caranby open his mouth. The old lord was a silent, grave man, who never uttered an unnecessary word, and it was difficult to induce him to be confidential. But invariably he had approved of his nephew's engagement, although he had never seen Juliet, so it might be that he would speak out—if there was anything to say—in order to remove any impediment to the match. It depended upon what information he received as to how Mallow would act.

At half-past eight he drove to the Avon Hotel and was shown up at once to his uncle's sitting-room. That he should live in an hotel was another of Caranby's eccentricities. He had a house in town and three in the country, yet for years he had lived—as the saying is—on his portmanteau. Even the villa at Nice he owned was unoccupied by this strange nobleman, and was usually let to rich Americans. When in England he stopped at the Avon Hotel and when in the country remained at any inn of the neighborhood in which he might chance to find himself wandering. And wandering is an excellent word to apply to Lord Caranby's peregrinations. He was as restless as a gipsy and far more aimless. He never appeared to take an interest in anything: he was always moving here, there and everywhere, and had—so far as Cuthbert knew—no object in life. His reason for this Cainlike behavior, Caranby never condescended to explain.

When his nephew entered the room, looking smart and handsome in his accurate evening suit, Caranby, who was seated near the fire, stood up courteously to welcome him, leaning on his cane. He suffered from sciatica, and could not walk save with the assistance of his stick. And on this account also, he always insisted on the room being heated to an extraordinary degree. Like a salamander he basked in the heat, and would not allow either door or window to be opened, even in the midst of summer, when a large fire made the apartment almost unendurable. Cuthbert felt as though he were walking into a Turkish bath, and sat as far away from the fire as he could. After saluting him, his uncle sank back into his seat and looked at him inquiringly.

Lord Caranby was tall and thin—almost emaciated—with a lean, sallow, clean-shaven face, and a scanty crop of fair hair mixed with gray. His eyes were sunken but full of vitality, although usually they were grave and somewhat sad. His hands were deformed with gout, but for all that he wore several costly rings. He was perfectly dressed, and as quiet and composed as an artist's model. When he spoke it was in an unemotional way, as though he had exhausted all expression of his feelings early in life. Perhaps he had, for from what Cuthbert had heard from his uncle, the past of that nobleman was not without excitement. But Caranby's name was rarely mentioned in London. He remained so much abroad that he had quite dropped out of the circle to the entry of which his rank entitled him. His age was sixty-five.

"You are surprised at seeing me again to-night," said Cuthbert.

"I am never surprised at anything," replied his uncle dryly, "but we exhausted all we had to say to one another before eight o'clock last night, at which time you left. I therefore don't know why you have come this evening. Our conversation is bound to be dull, and—excuse me—I can't afford to be bored at my age."

"I cannot say that our conversation was particularly agreeable last night," rejoined Mallow, equally dryly, "we talked business and money matters, and about your will."

"And about your engagement also," said Caranby without a vestige of a smile. "That should interest a young man of your ardent temperament. I certainly thought the subject amused you."

"Would you be surprised to learn that my engagement has been broken off since our conversation," said Cuthbert, crossing his legs.

"No! Who can account for the whims of a woman. After all, perhaps you are to be congratulated on not marrying a weathercock."

"Juliet has nothing to do with the breaking of our engagement. Her mother objects."

"I understood for the last six months that her mother not only approved, but was delighted."

"That is the strange part, sir. On hearing of the death of her sister, Mrs. Octagon suddenly changed her mind, and told me that the marriage could not take place."

"Did she give any reason?"

"She declined to do so."

"The same woman," muttered Caranby, "always mysterious and unsatisfactory. You say her sister is dead?"

Cuthbert cast a look at the Globe, which lay on a small table near Caranby's elbow. "If you have read the papers, sir—" "Yes! I have read that Miss Loach has been murdered. You went down to Rexton to-day. I presume you heard something more than the details set forth by the press."

Cuthbert nodded. "It appears to be a mystery."

Caranby did not reply, but looked into the fire. "Poor Selina!" he said half to himself. "A sad end for such a charming woman."

"I should hardly apply that word to Miss Loach, sir. She did not appear to be a lady, and was by no means refined."

"She must have changed then. In her young days she and her sister were the handsomest women in London."

"I believe you were engaged to one of them," said Mallow politely.

"Yes," replied his uncle grimly. "But I escaped."

"Escaped?"

"A strange word is it not, but a suitable one."

Cuthbert did not know what to make of this speech. "Have I your permission to smoke?" he asked, taking out his case.

"Yes! Will you have some coffee?"

"Thank you. I had some before I came here. Will you—" he extended the case of cigarettes, which Caranby declined.

"Ring for Fletcher to get me my chibouque."

"It is in the corner. We will dispense with Fletcher with your permission." And Cuthbert brought the chibouque to his uncle's side. In another minute the old man was smoking as gravely as any Turk. This method of consuming tobacco was another eccentricity. For a few moments neither spoke. Then Caranby broke the silence.

"So you want me to help you to find out Mrs. Octagon's reason?"

"I do," said Mallow, rather surprised by Caranby's perspicuity.

"What makes you think I can explain?"

Cuthbert looked at his cigarette. "I asked you on the chance that you may be able to do so," he said gravely. "The fact is, to be frank, Mrs. Octagon appears to think you might have something to do with the crime."

Caranby did not seem surprised, but smoked imperturbably. "I don't quite understand."

The young man related how Mrs. Octagon had inquired if the Earl was back from the Continent, and her subsequent remark. "Of course I may be unduly suspicious," said he. "But it suggested—"

"Quite so," interrupted the old gentleman gravely. "You are quick at putting two and two together. Isabella Octagon hates me so much that she would gladly see me on the scaffold. I am not astonished that she suspects me."

"But what motive can she impute—"

Caranby laid aside the long coil he was holding and laughed quietly to himself. "Oh, she'll find a motive if it suits her. But what I cannot understand is, why she should accuse me now. She has had ample opportunity during the past twenty years, since the death of Miss Saul, for instance."

"She did not exactly accuse you."

"No, a woman like that would not. And then of course, her sister dying only last night affords her the opportunity of getting me into trouble. But I am afraid Mrs. Octagon will be disappointed of her revenge, long though she has waited."

"Revenge! remember, sir, she is the mother of Juliet."

"I sincerely hope Juliet does not take after her, then," said Lord Caranby, tartly. "To be perfectly plain with you, Cuthbert, I could never understand why Mrs. Octagon sanctioned your engagement with her daughter, considering you are my nephew."

"I don't understand," said Mallow, staring and uneasily.

Caranby did not answer immediately. He rose and walked painfully up and down the room leaning heavily on his cane. Mallow offered his arm but was impatiently waved aside. When the old man sat down again he turned a serious face to his nephew. "Do you love this girl?"

"With all my heart and soul."

"And she loves you?"

"Of course. We were made for one another."

"But Mrs. Octagon—"

"I don't like Mrs. Octagon—I never did," said Mallow, impetuously, "but I don't care two straws for her opposition. I shall marry Juliet in spite of this revenge she seems to be practising on you. Though why she should hope to vex you by meddling with my marriage, I cannot understand."

"I can put the matter in a nutshell," said Caranby, and quoted Congreve—

"'Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned
Nor Hell a fury like a woman scorned.'"

"Oh," said Mallow, dropping his cigarette, and a whole story was revealed to him in the quotation.

"A gentleman doesn't talk of these things," said Caranby abruptly, "and for years I have held my tongue. Still, as Mrs. Octagon does not hesitate to strike at me through you, and as your happiness is at stake, and the happiness of the girl you love, I shall tell you—so far as I can guess—why the woman behaves in this way."

"If you please, sir," and Cuthbert settled himself to listen.

"About twenty years ago," said Caranby, plunging headfirst into his subject, "Isabella and Selina Loach were well-known in society. They were the daughters of a country squire—Kent, I remember—and created a sensation with their beauty when they came to town. I fell in love with Selina, and Isabella—if you will pardon my vanity—fell in love with me. She hated her sister on my account. I would have married Selina, but her father, who was hard up, wished her to marry a wealthy American. Isabella, to part Selina from me, helped her father. What arguments they used I do not know, but Selina suddenly changed in her manner towards me. Out of pique—you may think this weak of me, Cuthbert, but I was a fool in those days—I became engaged to a girl who was a singer. Her name was Emilia Saul, and I believe she was of Jewish extraction. I liked her in a way, and she had a wonderful power over me. I proposed and was accepted."

"But if you had really loved Miss Loach—"

"I should have worn the willow. I told you I was foolish, and, moreover, Miss Saul fascinated me. Selina was cold, Emilia was charming, and I was weak. Therefore, I became engaged to Emilia, and Selina—as I heard, arranged to marry her wealthy American. I believe she was angry at my apparently forgetting her so soon. But she was in fault, not I."

Cuthbert looked at his smart shoes. "Had I loved Selina," said he slowly, "I should have remained true to her, and have married her in spite of the objection of her father—"

"And of her sister Isabella—Mrs. Octagon that is; don't forget that, Cuthbert. And I could scarcely run away with a girl who believed stories about me."

"What sort of stories?" asked Mallow, remembering certain rumors.

"The sort that one always does tell of an unmarried man," retorted Caranby. "Scandalous stories, which Isabella picked up and retailed to Selina. But I never pretended to be a saint, and had Selina really loved me she would have overlooked certain faults. I did love her, Cuthbert. I did all in my power to prove my love. For a time I was engaged to her, and when she expressed a wish that I should build her a house after her own design, I consented."

"The house at Rexton!" exclaimed the young man.

"Exactly. I got an architect to build it according to designs suggested by Selina. When our engagement was broken and I became—out of pique, remember—engaged to Miss Saul, I still went on building the house. Selina, I believe, was very angry. One week when I was out of London she went down with her sister to see the house, and there met Emilia."

"Ah! then there was trouble?"

"No; there was no time for a quarrel, if that is what you mean. When the three met, Emilia was walking across a plank on the unfinished second story. On seeing the Loach girls—this is Isabella's tale—Emilia lost her footing and fell thirty feet. She was killed almost instantaneously, and her face was much disfigured. This took place during the dinner hour when the workmen were absent. When they returned, the body was found and recognized by the clothes."

"Did not the girls remain?"

"No. They took fright at the accident and returned home. But here a fresh disaster awaited them. Mr. Loach was dead. He died suddenly of heart disease. Selina at once broke her engagement with the American, and—"

"And returned to you?"

"Strangely enough she did not. I never saw her again. After the death of the father the girls went to the Continent, and only came back after two years abroad. Then Isabella, after vainly trying to get me to marry her, became the wife of Saxon, then a rising barrister. Selina went to Rexton and shut herself up in the house she now has."

"The house she did have," corrected Cuthbert, "you forget she is dead."

"Yes. I tried to see her, but she refused to look on my face again, alleging that I had treated her badly by becoming engaged to Miss Saul. That poor soul was buried, and then I shut up the house and left it as it is now. I travelled, as you know, for years, and I am travelling still, for the matter of that," added Caranby with a sigh, "all Selina's fault. She was the only woman I ever loved."

"But was there not an inquest held on Emilia's body?"

"Oh yes, and Isabella gave evidence as to the accident. Selina was too ill to appear. But there was no need. The cause of the death was plain enough. Moreover, Emilia had no relatives who cared to make inquiries. She left very little money, so those she had, did not trouble themselves."

"It is a strange story," said Cuthbert, looking puzzled. "Had you an idea that Emilia may have been pushed off the plank by Selina?"

"Certainly not," rejoined Caranby indignantly. "She was a good and kind girl. She would not do such a thing."

"Humph!" said Mallow, remembering the eagle nose and thin lips of Miss Loach. "I'm not so sure of that."

"Isabella, who was passionate, might have done it," resumed Caranby, "often did I wish to speak to her on the subject, but I never did. And after all, the jury brought in a verdict of accidental death, so there was no use making trouble."

"Had Emilia no relatives who might have made inquiries?"

"I believe she had a brother who was a clerk in an office, but, as I said, she left no money, so he did not bother himself. I saw him after the death, and the sight of him made me glad I had not married his sister. He looked a thorough blackguard, sly and dangerous. But, as I said, Emilia came of low people. It was only her fine voice and great talents that brought her into the society where I met her. I have never heard of her brother since. I expect he is dead by this time. It is over twenty years ago. But you can now understand why Mrs. Octagon objects to the marriage. She has never forgiven me for not making her my wife."

Cuthbert nodded again. "But I can't understand why she should have consented at all, only to alter her mind when Selina died."

"I can't understand that myself. But I decline to mix myself up in the matter. You will have to learn the reason yourself."

"I intend to," said Mallow rising, "and the reason I am certain is connected with the violent death of her sister!" A speech to which Caranby replied by shaking his head. He did not agree with the idea.

"And you see, in spite of Mrs. Octagon's hint, I had no reason to kill Selina," said Caranby gravely. "I cannot understand why Isabella should accuse me—"

CHAPTER VI

A PERPLEXING CASE

The morning after his visit to Lord Caranby, Mallow was unexpectedly called to Devonshire on account of his mother's illness. Mrs. Mallow was a fretful hypochondriac, who always imagined herself worse than she really was. Cuthbert had often been summoned to her dying bed, only to find that she was alive and well. He expected that this summons would be another false alarm, but being a dutiful son, he tore himself away from town and took the mid-day express to Exeter. As he expected, Mrs. Mallow was by no means so bad as she hinted in her wire, and Cuthbert was vexed that she should have called him down, but she insisted that he should remain, and, unwilling to cause her pain, he did so. It was four days before he returned to London. But his visit to Exeter was not without results, for he asked his mother about Caranby's romance. Mrs. Mallow knew all about it, and highly disapproved of her brother-in-law.

"He's crazy," she said vigorously, when the subject was brought up one evening. "All his life he has been queer. Your father should have had the title, Cuthbert!"

"Well, I shall have it some day," said her son soothingly. "Caranby is not likely to marry."

"Yes, but I'll never be Lady Caranby," lamented Mrs. Mallow, who was intensely selfish and egotistical. "And I should have adorned the title. Such an old one as it is, too. But I'm glad that horrid Selina Loach never became his wife. Even that Saul girl would have been better."

"Don't speak evil of the dead, mother."

"I don't see why we should praise the bad dead," snapped Mrs. Mallow. "I never liked either Isabella nor Selina. They were both horrid girls and constantly quarrelling. They hardly ever spoke to one another, and how you can contemplate marrying the daughter of Isabella, I really don't know. Such a slight to me. But there, I've said all I had to say on the subject."

To do her justice, Mrs. Mallow certainly had, and never ceased nagging at Cuthbert to break the engagement. Had she known that Mrs. Octagon had forbidden the marriage she would have rejoiced, but to save making awkward explanations to a woman who would not hold her tongue, Cuthbert said nothing about the breach.

"Did you like Miss Saul, mother?" he asked.

"I only saw her on the concert platform," said Mrs. Mallow, opening her eyes, "gracious, Cuthbert, I never associated myself with those sort of people. Caranby was infatuated with her. To be sure, he got engaged to spite Selina, and she really did treat him badly, but I believe Miss Saul—such a horrid Hebrew name, isn't it—hypnotized him. He forgot her almost as soon as she died, in spite of his ridiculous idea of shutting up that house. And such valuable land as there is at Rexton too. Well, I hope this violent death of Selina will be a warning to Caranby. Not that I wish him any harm, in spite of your being next heir to the title, and we do need money."

While Mrs. Mallow rambled on in this diffusive manner, Cuthbert was thinking. When she ended, "Why should this death be a warning to Caranby?" he asked quickly.

"Good gracious, Cuthbert, don't get on my nerves. Why?—because I believe that Selina pushed Miss Saul off that plank and killed her. She was just the kind of violent girl who would do a thing like that. And Miss Saul's relatives have waited all these years to kill Selina, and now she's dead, they will kill Caranby because he did not marry the wretched girl."

Cuthbert stared. "Mother, what are you talking about? Caranby told me that Miss Saul had only one brother, and that probably he was dead."

"Ah," said Mrs. Mallow, "he didn't tell you that Miss Saul's father was arrested for coining or passing false money, I forget which. I believe the brother was involved also, but I can't be sure. But I only know the girl was dead then, and the Saul family did not move in the matter, as the police knew too much about them.

"Good gracious!" shuddered the lady, "to think if she had lived, Caranby would have married into that family and have cheated you of the title."

"Are you sure of what you say, mother?"

"Of course I am. Look up any old file of newspapers and you'll read all about the matter. It's old history now. But I really won't talk any more of these things, Cuthbert. If I do, there will be no sleep for me to-night. Oh dear me, such nerves as I have."

"Did you ever see Miss Saul, mother?"

"I told you I did on the platform. She was a fine, large, big girl, with a hook nose and big black eyes. Rather like Selina and Isabella, for I'm sure they have Jewish blood in their veins. Miss Saul—if that was her real name—might have passed as a relative of those horrid Loach girls."

"Mrs. Octagon and her sister who died are certainly much alike."

"Of course they are, and if Miss Saul had lived they would have been a kind of triplets. I hate that style of beauty myself," said Mrs. Mallow, who was slim and fair, "so coarse. Everyone called those Loach girls pretty, but I never did myself. I never liked them, and I won't call on Mrs. Octagon—such a vulgar name—if you marry fifty of her wretched daughters, Cuthbert."

"Don't say that, mother. Juliet is an angel!"

"Then she can't be her mother's daughter," said Mrs. Mallow obscurely, and finished the discussion in what she considered to be a triumphant manner. Nor would she renew it, though her son tried to learn more about the Loach and Saul families. However, he was satisfied with the knowledge he had acquired.

While returning next day to London, he had ample time to think over what he had been told. Miss Selina Loach had certainly shut herself up for many years in Rose Cottage, and it seemed as though she was afraid of being hurt in some way. Perhaps she even anticipated a violent death. And then Mrs. Octagon hinted that she knew who had killed her sister. It might not have been Caranby after all, whom she meant, but one of the Saul family, as Mrs. Mallow suggested.

"I wonder if it is as my mother thinks," mused Cuthbert, staring out of the window at the panorama of the landscape moving swiftly past. "Perhaps Selina did kill Miss Saul, and shut herself up to avoid being murdered by one of the relatives. Caranby said that Selina did not go to the inquest, but pretended she was ill. Then she and her sister went to the continent for two years, and finally, when they returned, Selina instead of taking her proper place in society as Isabella did, shut herself up as a recluse in Rose Cottage. The Saul family appear to have been a bad lot. I should like to look up that coining case. I wonder if I dare tell Jennings."

He was doubtful of the wisdom of doing this. If he told what he knew, and set Jennings on the track, it might be that a scandal would arise implicating Mrs. Octagon. Not that Cuthbert cared much for her, but she was Juliet's mother, and he wanted to avert any trouble likely to cause the girl pain. A dozen times on the journey Cuthbert altered his mind. First he thought he would tell Jennings, then he decided to hold his peace. This indecision was not like him, but the case was so perplexing, and such serious issues were involved, that the young man felt thoroughly worried.

Hitherto he had seen nothing new about the case in the papers, but on reaching Swindon he bought a few and looked through them. His search was rewarded by finding an article on the crime. The inquest had been held, and the jury had brought in a verdict of "Murder against some person or persons unknown!" But it was plainly stated that the police could not find a clue to the assassin. The article in question did not pretend to solve the mystery, but collocated the facts so as to put the case in a nutshell.

"The facts are these," said the journal, after a preliminary introduction. "A quiet maiden lady living at Rose Cottage, Rexton, received three friends to a card-party. Difference arising—and such things will arise amongst the best when cards are in question—two of the friends, Mrs. Herne, an old lady and life-long friend of the deceased, and Mr. Hale, a lawyer of repute and the legal adviser of Miss Loach, depart before ten o'clock. In her evidence Mrs. Herne stated that she and Mr. Hale left at half-past nine, and her assertion was corroborated by Mr. Hale himself. Mr. Clancy, the third friend, left at ten, being shown out by the maid Susan Grant, who then returned to the kitchen. She left Miss Loach seated in her usual chair near the fire, and with a pack of cards on her lap. Probably the deceased lady intended to play a game of 'Patience'!

"The four servants, three women and a man, had their supper. During the supper the man asserted that he heard the front door open, but as Miss Loach was in the habit of walking in the garden before retiring, it was thought that she had gone out to take her usual stroll. Whether the man heard the door open or shut he was not quite sure. However, thinking his mistress was walking in the garden as usual, the man paid no further attention to the incident. At eleven (precisely at eleven, for the kitchen clock struck), the sitting-room bell rang. Susan Grant entered the room, and found Miss Loach seated in her chair exactly as she had left her, even to the fact that the cards were in her lap. But she had been stabbed to the heart with some sharp instrument and was quite dead. The front door was closed and the windows barred.

"Now it is certain that Miss Loach met her death between the hours of ten and eleven. Susan Grant saw her alive at ten, seated in her usual chair with the cards on her lap, and at eleven, she there found her dead, still with the cards. It would seem as though immediately after the servants left the room someone had stabbed the deceased to the heart, before she had time to rise or even alter her position. But Susan Grant asserts that no one was in the room. There was only one door, out of which she departed. The bedroom of Miss Loach on the basement floor had a door which opened into the passage, as did the sitting-room door. No one could have entered until the servant departed. The passage was lighted with electricity, but she did not observe anyone about, nor did she hear a sound. She showed out Mr. Clancy and then returned to the kitchen. Certainly the assassin may have been concealed in the bedroom and have stolen into the sitting-room when Susan Grant was showing out Mr. Clancy. Perhaps then he killed the deceased suddenly, as we said before. He could have then come up the stairs and have escaped while the servants were at supper. It might have been the murderer who opened the door, and was overheard by Thomas.

"The policeman was on duty about ten, as he was seen by Susan Grant when she showed Mr. Clancy to the door. The policeman also asserted that he was again on the spot—i.e., in the roadway opposite the cottage—at eleven. At these times the assassin could not have escaped without being seen. There is no exit at the back, as a high wall running round an unfinished house belonging to the eccentric Lord Caranby blocks the way. Therefore the assassin must have ventured into the roadway. He could then have walked up the lane into the main streets of Rexton, or have taken a path opposite to the gate of Rose Cottage, which leads to the railway station. Probably, after executing the crime, he took this latter way. The path runs between quickset hedges, rather high, for a long distance, past houses, and ends within fifty yards of the railway station. The criminal could take the first train and get to town, there to lose himself in the wilderness of London.

"So far so good. But the strangest thing about this most mysterious affair is that the bell in the sitting-room rang two minutes before Susan Grant entered the room to find her mistress dead. This was some time after the closing of the door overheard by Thomas; therefore the assassin could not have escaped that way. Moreover, by this time the policeman was standing blocking the pathway to the station. Again, the alarm was given immediately by the other servants, who rushed to the sitting-room on hearing Susan's scream, and the policeman at once searched the house. No one was found.

"Now what are we to make of all this? The doctor declares that Miss Loach when discovered had been dead half an hour, which corresponds with the time the door was heard to open or shut by Thomas. So far, it would seem that the assassin had escaped then, having committed the crime and found the coast inside and outside the house clear for his flight. But who rang the bell? That is the question we ask. The deceased could not have done so, as, according to the doctor, the poor lady must have died immediately. Again, the assassin would not have been so foolish as to ring and thus draw attention to his crime, letting alone the question that he could not have escaped at that late hour. We can only offer this solution.

"The assassin must have been concealed in the bedroom, and after Susan ascended the stairs to let Mr. Clancy out, he must have stolen into the sitting-room and have killed the old lady before she could even rise. She might have touched the bell, and the button (the bell is an electric one) may have got fixed. Later on, the heat of the room, warping the wood round the ivory button, may have caused it to slip out, and thus the bell would have rung. Of course our readers may say that when pressed down the bell would have rung continuously, but an examination has revealed that the wires were out of order. It is not improbable that the sudden release of the button may have touched the wires and have set them ringing. The peal is described as being short and sharp. This theory is a weak one, we are aware, but the whole case is so mysterious that, weak as it is, we can offer no other solution.

"Mrs. Herne, the servants, and Messrs. Hale and Clancy were examined. All insist that Miss Loach was in her usual health and spirits, and had no idea of committing suicide, or of being in any danger of sudden death. The weapon cannot be discovered, nor the means—save as we suggest above—whereby the assassin can have made his escape. The whole affair is one of the most mysterious of late years, and will doubtless be relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes. The police have no clue, and apparently despair of finding one. But the discovery of the mystery lies in the bell. Who rang it? or did it ring of itself, as we suggest above."

Cuthbert laid down the paper with a shrug. The article did not commend itself to him, save as the means of making a precis of the case. The theory of the bell appeared excessively weak, and he could not understand a man being so foolish as to put it forward.

"If the button was pressed down by Miss Loach, the bell would have rung at once," argued Cuthbert; "and when it slipped up, even with the heat, the ringing would have stopped. But the bell rang at eleven, and the girl was in the room two minutes later. Someone must have rung it. But why did someone do this, and how did someone escape after ringing in so fool-hardy a manner?"

He could not find an answer to this question. The whole case was indeed most perplexing. There seemed absolutely no answer to the riddle. Even supposing Miss Loach had been murdered out of a long-delayed revenge by a member of the Saul family—and that theory appeared ridiculous to Mallow—the question was how did the assassin escape? Certainly, having regard to the cards still being on the lap of the deceased, and the closing of the door at a time when the policeman was not in the vicinity, the assassin may have escaped in that way. But how did he come to be hidden in the bedroom, and how did he kill the old lady before she had time to call out or even rise, seeing that he had the whole length of the room to cross before reaching her? And again, the escape of the assassin at this hour did not explain the ringing of the bell. Cuthbert was deeply interested, and wondered if the mystery would ever be solved. "I must see Jennings after all," he thought as the train steamed into Paddington.

And see Jennings he did, sooner than he expected. That same evening when he was dressing to go out, a card was brought. It was inscribed "Miles Jennings." Rather surprised that the detective should seek him out so promptly, Cuthbert entered his sitting-room. Jennings, who was standing with his back to the window, saluted him with a pleasant smile, and spoke to him as to an equal. Of course he had every right to do so since he had been at school with Mallow, but somehow the familiarity irritated Cuthbert.

"Well, Jennings, what is it?"

"I came to ask you a few questions, Mallow."

"About what?"

"About the murder at Rose Cottage."

"But, my dear fellow, I know nothing about it."

"You knew Miss Loach?"

"Yes. I saw her once or twice. But I did not like her."

"She is the aunt of the young lady you are engaged to marry?"

Mallow drew himself up stiffly. "As a matter of fact she is," he said with marked coldness. "But I don't see—"

"You will in a minute," said Jennings briskly. "Pardon me, but are you in love with another woman?"

Mallow grew red. "What the devil do you mean by coming here to ask me such a question?" he demanded.

"Gently, Mallow, I am your friend, and you may need one."

"What do you mean. Do you accuse me of—"

"I accuse you of nothing," said Jennings quickly, "but I ask you, why did you give this photograph, with an inscription, to the servant of the murdered woman."

"I recognize my photograph, but the servant—"

"Susan Grant. The picture was found in her possession. She refuses to speak," here the detective spoke lower, "in case you get into trouble with the police."

CHAPTER VII

THE DETECTIVE

The two men looked at one another, Jennings searchingly, and Cuthbert with a look of mingled amazement and indignation. They were rather like in looks, both being tall, slim and fair-haired. But Mallow wore a mustache, whereas the detective, possibly for the sake of disguising himself on occasions, was clean-shaven. But although Jennings' profession was scarcely that of a gentleman, he looked well-bred, and was dressed with the same quiet taste and refinement as characterized Mallow. The public-school stamp was on both, and they might have been a couple of young men about town discussing sport rather than an officer of the law and a man who (it seemed from Jennings' hints) was suspected of complicity in a crime.

"Do you mean this for a jest?" said Cuthbert at length.

"I never jest on matters connected with my profession, Mallow. It is too serious a one."

"Naturally. It so often involves the issues of life and death."

"In this case I hope it does not," said Jennings, significantly.

Cuthbert, who was recovering his composure, sat down with a shrug. "I assure you, you have found a mare's nest this time. Whatever my follies may have been, I am not a criminal."

"I never thought you were," rejoined the other, also taking a seat, "but you may have become involved with people who are criminals."

"I dare say half of those one meets in society are worthy of jail, did one know what is done under the rose," returned Cuthbert; "by the way, how did you come so opportunely?"

"I knew you had gone out of town, as I came a few days ago to see you about this matter, and inquired. Your servant said you were in Devonshire—"

"I went to see my mother who was ill," said Mallow quickly.

"I guessed as much. You said something about your mother living in Exeter when we met last. Well, I had Paddington watch for your return, and my messenger—"

"Your spy, you mean," said Mallow angrily.

"Certainly, if you prefer the term. Well, your spy—I mean my spy, reported that you were back, so I came on here. Are you going out?"

"I was, but if you wish to arrest me—"

"Nonsense, man. I have only come to have a quiet chat with you. Believe me, I wish you well. I have not forgotten the old Eton days."

"I tell you what, Jennings, I won't stand this talk from any man. Are you here as a gentleman or as a detective?"

"As both, I hope," replied the other dryly, "but are we not wasting valuable time? If you wish to go out this evening, the sooner we get to business the better. Will you answer my questions?"

"I must know what they are first," said Cuthbert defiantly.

Jennings looked irritated. "If you won't treat me properly, I may as well leave the matter alone," he said coldly. "My position is quite unpleasant enough as it is. I came here to an old schoolfellow as a friend—"

"To try and implicate him in a crime. Thanks for nothing."

Jennings, whose patience appeared to be exhausted, rose. "Very well, then, Mallow. I shall go away and hand over the matter to someone else. I assure you the questions must be answered."

Cuthbert made a sign to the other to be seated, which Jennings seemed by no means inclined to obey. He stood stiffly by his chair as Mallow paced the room reflectively. "After all, I don't see why we should quarrel," said the latter at length.

"That's just what I've been driving at for the last ten minutes."

"Very good," said Mallow soothingly, "let us sit down and smoke. I have no particular engagement, and if you will have some coffee—"

"I will have both cigarette and coffee if you will help me to unravel this case," said Jennings, sitting down with a smoother brow.

"But I don't see what I can—"

"You'll see shortly. Will you be open with me?"

"That requires reflection."

"Reflect as long as you like. But if you decline, I will hand the case over to the next man on the Scotland Yard list. He may not deal with you so gently."

"I don't care how he deals with me," returned Mallow, haughtily; "having done no wrong, I am not afraid. And, what is more, Jennings, I was coming to see you as soon as I returned. You have only forestalled our interview."

"What did you wish to see me about?"

"This case," said Cuthbert, getting out a box of cigarettes and touching the bell. "The deuce!" said Jennings briskly, "then you do know something?"

Cuthbert handed him the box and gave an order for coffee. "Any liqueur?" he asked in friendly tones.

"No. I never drink when on—ah—er—pleasure," said the other, substituting another word since the servant was in the room. "Well," he asked when the door closed, "why did you wish to see me?"

"To ask if you remember a coining case that took place some twenty years ago?"

"No. That was before my time. What case is it?"

"Some people called Saul were mixed up in it."

"Humph! Never heard of them," said Jennings, lighting his cigarette, "but it is strange you should talk of coining. I and several other fellows are looking for a set of coiners now. There are a lot of false coins circulating, and they are marvellously made. If I can only lay my hands on the coiners and their factory, there will be a sensation."

"And your reputation will be enhanced."

"I hope so," replied the detective, reddening. "I want a rise in my salary, as I wish to marry. By the way, how is Miss Saxon?"

"Very well. You met her, did you not?"

"Yes! You took me to that queer house. What do they call it? the—'Shrine of the Muses'—where all the sham art exists. Why do you look so grave, old boy?"

The two men, getting more confidential, were dropping into the language of school-days and speaking more familiarly. Mallow did not reply at once, as his servant had just brought in the coffee. But when each gentleman was supplied with a cup and they were again alone, he looked gravely at Miles. "I want to ask your advice," he said, "and if you are my friend—"

"I am, of course I am."

"Well, then, I am as interested in finding out who killed Miss Loach as you are."

"Why is that?" demanded Jennings, puzzled.

"Before I answer and make a clean breast of it, I should like you to promise that you will get no one I know into trouble."

Jennings hesitated. "That is a difficult matter. Of course, if I find the assassin, even if he or she is one of your friends, I must do my duty."

"Oh, I don't expect anything of that sort," said Mallow easily, "but why do you say 'he' or 'she'?"

"Well, the person who killed Miss Loach might be a woman."

"I don't see how you make that out," said Cuthbert reflectively. "I read the case coming up in the train to-day, and it seems to me from what The Planet says that the whole thing is a mystery."

"One which I mean to dive into and discover," replied Miles. "I do not care for an ordinary murder case, but this is one after my own heart. It is a criminal problem which I should like to work out."

"Do you see your way as yet?" asked Cuthbert.

"No," confessed Jennings, "I do not. I saw the report you speak of. The writer theorizes without having facts to go on. What he says about the bell is absurd. All the same, the bell did ring and the assassin could not have escaped at the time it sounded. Nor could the deceased have rung it. Therein lies the mystery, and I can't guess how the business was managed."

"Do you believe the assassin rang the bell?"

Miles shrugged his shoulders and sipped his coffee. "It is impossible to say. I will wait until I have more facts before me before I venture an opinion. It is only in detective novels that the heaven-born Vidocq can guess the truth on a few stray clues. But what were you going to tell me?"

"Will you keep what I say to yourself?"

"Yes," said Jennings, readily enough, "so long as it doesn't mean the escape of the person who is guilty."

"I don't ask you to betray the confidence placed in you by the authorities to that extent," said Mallow, "just wait a moment."

He leaned his chin on his hand and thought. If he wished to gain the hand of Juliet, it was necessary he should clear up the mystery of the death. Unaided, he could not do so, but with the assistance of his old schoolfellow—following his lead in fact—he might get at the truth. Then, when the name of the assassin of her sister was known, the reason of Mrs. Octagon's strange behavior might be learned, and, moreover, the discovery might remove her objection. On the other hand, Cuthbert could not help feeling uneasy, lest Mrs. Octagon had some secret connected with the death which made her refuse her consent to the match, and which, if he explained to Jennings what he knew, might become known in a quarter which she might not approve of. However, Mallow was certain that, in spite of Mrs. Octagon's hint, his uncle had nothing to do with the matter, and he had already warned her—although she refused to listen—that he intended to trace the assassin. Under these circumstances, and also because Jennings was his friend and more likely to aid him, than get anyone he knew and respected into trouble, the young man made up his mind to tell everything.

"The fact is, I am engaged to Juliet Saxon," he began, hesitatingly.

"I know that. She is the daughter of that absurd Mrs. Octagon, with the meek husband and the fine opinion of herself."

"Yes. But Juliet is the niece of Miss Loach."

"What!" Jennings sprang from his chair with a look of surprise; "do you mean to tell me that Mrs. Octagon is Miss Loach's sister."

"I do. They quarrelled many years ago, and have not been friendly for years. Mrs. Octagon would never go and see her sister, but she did not forbid her children being friendly. As you may guess, Mrs. Octagon is much distressed about the murder, but the strange thing is that she declares this death renders it impossible for me to marry her daughter."

Jennings looked searchingly at his friend. "That is strange. Does she give no reason?"

"No. But knowing my uncle knew her when she was a girl, I thought I would ask him what he thought. He told me that he had once been engaged to Miss Loach, and—"

"Well, go on," said Miles, seeing Cuthbert hesitating.

"There was another lady in the case."

"There usually is," said Jennings dryly. "Well?"

"The other lady's name was Saul—Emilia Saul."

"Oh," Miles sat down again. He had remained standing for a few moments. "Saul was the name you mentioned in connection with the coining case of twenty years ago."

Cuthbert nodded, and now, being fully convinced that he badly needed Jennings' aid, he told all that he had heard from Caranby, and detailed what his mother had said. Also, he touched on the speech of Mrs. Octagon, and repeated the warning he had given her. Miles listened quietly, but made no remark till his friend finished.

"You have told me all you know?" he asked.

"Yes. I want you to help me. Not that I think what I have learned has anything to do with the case."

"I'm not so sure of that," said Jennings musingly, his eyes on the carpet. "Mrs. Octagon bases her refusal to allow the marriage on the fact of the death. However, you have warned her, and she must take the consequence."

"But, my dear Jennings, you don't think she has anything to do with the matter. I assure you she is a good, kind woman—"

"With a violent temper, according to your mother," finished Jennings dryly. "However, don't alarm yourself. I don't think she is guilty."

"I should think not," cried Mallow, indignantly. "Juliet's mother!"

"But she may have something to do with the matter all the same. However, you have been plain with me, and I will do all I can to help you. The first thing is for us to follow up the clue of the portrait."

"Ah, yes! I had quite forgotten that," said Mallow, casting a look on the photograph which lay near at hand. "Just pass it, will you."

Miles did so. "You say you recognize it," he said.

"I recognize my own face. I had several portraits done like this. I think this one—" Mallow looked at the inscription which he read for the first time, and his face grew pale.

"What is it?" asked Miles eagerly.

"I don't know," faltered the other uneasily.

"You recognize the inscription?"

"Yes, I certainly wrote that."

"It is quite a tender inscription," said Miles, his eyes on the disturbed face of the other. "'With my dear love,' it reads."

Cuthbert laid down the portrait and nodded. "Yes! That is the inscription," he said in low tones, and his eyes sought the carpet.

"You wrote that to a servant."

"What servant?"

"The new parlor-maid engaged by Miss Loach on the day of her death—Susan Grant."

"I remember the name. I saw it in the papers."

"Do you know the girl well?" asked Jennings.

"I don't know her at all."

"Come now. A man doesn't give a portrait with such an inscription to any unknown girl, nor to one he is not in love with."

"Jennings," cried Mallow indignantly, "how can you think—" his voice died away and he clenched his hands.

"What am I to think then?" demanded the detective.

"What you like."

"That you love this Susan Grant?"

"I tell you I never set eyes on her," said Cuthbert violently.

"Then how does she come into possession of your portrait?" asked the other. Then seeing that Mallow refused to speak, he laid a persuasive hand on his shoulder. "You must speak out," he said quickly, "you have told me so much you must tell me all. Matters can't stand as they are. No," here Jennings looked straight into Mallow's eyes, "you did not give that portrait to Susan Grant."

"I never said so."

"Don't be an ass, Mallow. You say you don't know the girl, therefore you can hardly have given her the photograph. Now the inscription shows that it was given to a woman you are in love with. You told me when you introduced me to Miss Saxon that she was the only woman you ever loved. Therefore you gave this portrait with its tender inscription to her."

"I—I can't say."

"You mean you won't trust me," said Jennings.

Cuthbert rose quickly and flung off his friend's arm. "I wish to Heaven I had never opened my mouth to you," he said.

"My dear fellow, you should show more confidence in me. I know quite well why you won't acknowledge that you gave this photograph to Miss Saxon. You think it will implicate her in the matter."

"Jennings!" cried Cuthbert, his face growing red and fierce.

"Wait a moment," resumed the other calmly and without flinching. "I can explain. You gave the photograph to Miss Saxon. She gave it to Miss Loach, and Susan Grant falling in love with your face, took possession of it. It was found in her trunk."

"Yes—yes, that's it!" cried Mallow, catching at a straw. "I did give the photograph to Juliet, and no doubt she gave it to her aunt. It would be easy for this girl to take it. Though why she should steal it," said Cuthbert perplexed, "I really can't say!"

"You don't know her?" asked Jennings.

"No. Really, I don't. The name is quite unknown to me. What is the girl like in appearance?" Jennings described Susan to the best of his ability, but Cuthbert shook his head. "No, I never saw her. You say she had this photograph in her trunk?" Then, on receiving an affirmative reply, "She may have found it lying about and have taken it, though why she should I can't say."

"So you said before," said Jennings dryly. "But strange as it may appear, Mallow, this girl is in love with you."

"How do you know that?"

"Well, you see," said Miles, slowly. "After the murder I searched the boxes of the servants in the house for the weapon."

"But there was no danger of them being accused?"

"No. Nor would I have searched their boxes had they not insisted. But they were all so afraid of being accused, that they wished to exonerate themselves as much as possible. The fact that the whole four were in the kitchen together at the time the crime was committed quite clears them. However, they insisted, so I looked into their boxes. I found this photograph in the box of the new housemaid. She refused to state how it came into her possession, and became so red, and wept so much, that I soon saw that she loved you."

"But I tell you it's ridiculous. I don't know the girl—and a servant, too. Pshaw!"

"Well, then, I must get her to see you, and possibly some explanation may be made. I took possession of the photograph—"

"Why? On what grounds should my photograph interest you, Jennings?"

"On the grounds that you are a friend of mine, and that I knew your face the moment I saw it. I naturally asked the girl how it came into her possession, as I know your tastes don't lie in the way of pretty parlor-maids, however attractive. It was her reply which made me take the portrait and come to ask you for an explanation."

"What reply did she make?" demanded Cuthbert, exasperated by the false position he was placed in.

"She said that she would explain nothing in case you should get into trouble with the police. Can you explain that?"

"No," said Mallow, perplexed. "I really cannot be responsible for the vagaries of a parlor-maid. I don't know the name Susan Grant, and from your description of her appearance, I never set eyes on her. I am quite sure your explanation is the correct one. Juliet gave it to her aunt, and for some ridiculous reason this girl stole it."

"But her remark about the police."

Mallow made a gesture of helplessness, and leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece. "I can't guess what she means. Well, what will you do now, Jennings?"

"First, I shall get the girl to come here and see you. Then I shall ask Miss Saxon why she gave the photograph to Miss Loach. You were not a favorite with the old lady, I gather."

"On the contrary, she liked me much more than I did her."

"You see. She liked you so much that she insisted on having your photograph. I must ask Miss Saxon when she gave it. Will you let me bring this girl to see you to-morrow?"

"Certainly. But it's all very unpleasant."

The detective rose to go. "Most matters connected with a crime are, my dear fellow," said he calmly. "I only hope there will not be any more unpleasantness."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't say what I mean—yet."

"You are mysterious, Jennings."

"I am perplexed. I don't seem to advance. However, I intend to follow up the clue of your photograph, though if the explanation I suggest is the true one, there's nothing more to be said. But the girl, Susan Grant, has not the look of a thief."

"That means, I gave her the photograph," said Cuthbert haughtily.

"Not necessarily," rejoined Jennings, putting on his overcoat. "But I will not theorize any more. Wait till I confront the girl with you in a few days. Then we may force her to speak."

Cuthbert shrugged his shoulders. "As you please. But I really am at a loss to think what she will say."

"So am I," said Jennings, as they walked to the door. "That is why I am anxious to see her and you together. And, after all, I may have found only a mare's nest."

"You certainly have so far as I am concerned. By the way, when is the body to be buried?"

"The day after to-morrow. Then the will has to be read. I hope the old lady will leave you some money, Mallow. She was reported to be rich. Oh, by the way, I'll look up that Saul coining case you speak of."

"Why?" asked Mallow, bluntly and uneasily.

"It may have some bearing on this matter. Only in the past will we find the truth. And Miss Selina Loach certainly knew Miss Saul."

As Jennings departed the postman came up the stairs with the late letters. Cuthbert found one from Juliet and opened it at once. It contained one line—

"Don't see the police about aunt's death—JULIET."

Cuthbert Mallow slept very badly that night.

CHAPTER VIII

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE

The most obvious thing for Cuthbert to do was to seek Juliet and ask for an explanation of her mysterious note. He went to the "Shrine of the Muses" the very next day, but was informed that Miss Saxon and her mother had gone out of town and would not be back for a few days. He could not learn where they were, and was leaving the house somewhat disconsolately when he met Basil.

"You here, Mallow," said that young gentleman, stopping short, "have you been to see my mother?"

"I went to see Juliet," replied Cuthbert, not sorry that the meeting had taken place, "but I hear she is out of town."

"Well, not exactly. The fact is, she and my mother have gone down to Rose Cottage and intend to stop there until the funeral is over and the will is read."

"The will?" echoed Mallow.

"Yes. Aunt Selina is likely to leave a great deal of money. I expect it will all go to Juliet. She never liked me."

"Yet you were frequently at her house."

"I was," confessed Basil candidly. "I tried to make myself as civil as possible, so that she might remember me. Between ourselves, Mallow, I am deuced hard up. My mother hasn't much money, I have none of my own, and old Octagon is as stingy as he well can be."

This sounded well coming from an idler who never did a stroke of work, and who lived on the charity of his step-father. But Basil had peculiar views as to money. He considered himself a genius, and that Peter should be proud to support him until, as he phrased it, he had "stamped his name on the age"! But the stamping took a long time, and Basil troubled himself very little about the matter. He remarked that genius should not be forced, and loafed away the greater portion of his days. His mother kept him in pocket-money and clothes, Peter supplied board and lodging, and Basil got through life very pleasantly. He wished to be famous, to have his name in every mouth and his portrait in every paper; but the work that was necessary to obtain these desirable things he was unwilling to do. Cuthbert knew that the young fellow had been "born tired"! and although something of an idler himself, liked Basil none the more for his laziness. Had Mallow been poor he would certainly have earned his bread, but he had a good income and did not work. And, after all, he only pursued the way of life in which he had been brought up. But Basil was poor and had his career to make, therefore he certainly should have labored. However, for Juliet's sake, Cuthbert was as polite as possible.

"If I were you, Saxon, I should leave cards alone," said Mallow.

"Nonsense! I don't play high. Besides, I have seen you at Maraquito's also losing a lot."

"I can afford to lose," said Cuthbert dryly, "you can't."

"No, by Jove, you're right there. But don't preach, Mallow, you ain't such a saint yourself."

"Can I help you with a cheque?"

Basil had good breeding enough to color.

"No! I didn't explain myself for that," he said coldly, "and besides, if Juliet comes in for Aunt Selina's money, I'll get some. Juliet and I always share."

This meant that Juliet was to give the money and Basil to spend it. Mallow was disgusted with this candid selfishness. However, he did not wish to quarrel with Basil, as he knew Juliet was fond of him, and moreover, in the present state of affairs, he was anxious to have another friend besides Mr. Octagon in the house. "Perhaps Miss Loach may have left you some money after all," he remarked.

"By Jove, I hope so. I'll be in a hole if she has not. There's a bill—" here he stopped, as though conscious of having said too much. "But that will come into Juliet's possession," he murmured.

"What's that?" asked Cuthbert sharply.

"Nothing—nothing—only a tailor's bill. As to getting money by the will, don't you know I quarrelled with Aunt Selina a week before her death. Yes, she turned me out of the house." Here Basil's face assumed what may be described as an ugly look. "I should like to have got even with the old cat. She insulted me."

"Gently, old fellow," said Mallow, seeing that Basil was losing his temper, and having occasionally seen him in fits of uncontrollable passion, "we're in the public street."

Basil's brow cleared. "All right," he said, "don't bother, I'll be all right when Juliet gets the money. By the way, mother tells me you are not going to marry her."

"Your mother is mistaken," rejoined Mallow gravely. "Juliet and I are still engaged. I do not intend to give her up."

"I told mother you would not give in easily," said Basil, frowning, "but you can't marry Juliet."

"Why not?" asked Cuthbert sharply; "do you know the reason?"

Basil appeared about to say something, then suddenly closed his mouth and shook his head.

Cuthbert pressed him. "If you know the reason, tell me," he said, "and I'll help you out of your difficulties. You know I love Juliet, and your mother does not seem to have any excuse to forbid the marriage."

"I would help you if I could, but I can't. You had better ask Juliet herself. She may tell you the reason."

"How can I find her?"

"Go down to Rose Cottage and ask to see her," suggested Basil.

"Your mother will not admit me."

"That's true enough. Well, I'll tell you what, Mallow, I'll speak to Juliet and get her to make an appointment to see you."

"I could write and ask her for one myself."

"Oh, no, you couldn't. Mother will intercept all letters."

"Upon my word—" began Mallow angrily, then stopped. It was useless to show his wrath before this silly boy, who could do no good and might do a deal of harm. "Very well, then," he said more mildly, "ask Juliet to meet me on the other side of Rexton, under the wall which runs round the unfinished house."

Basil started. "Why that place?" he asked nervously.

"It is as good as any other."

"You can't get inside."

"That's true enough. But we can meet outside. I have been inside though, and I made a mess of myself climbing the wall."

"You were inside," began Basil, then suddenly appeared relieved. "I remember; you were there on the day after Aunt Selina was killed."

"I have been there before that," said Cuthbert, wondering why the young man avoided his eye in so nervous a manner.

"Not at—at night?" murmured Saxon, looking away.

"Once I was there at night. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, nothing—nothing. I was just thinking it's a wild place in which to find one's self at night. By the way," added Basil, as though anxious to change a disagreeable subject, "do you think Jarvey Hale a nice fellow?"

"No, I don't. I have met him at Maraquito's, and I don't like him. He's a bounder. Moreover, a respectable lawyer has no right to gamble to the extent he does. I wonder Miss Loach trusted him."

"Perhaps she didn't know of his gambling," said Basil, his eyes wandering everywhere but to the face of his companion; "but, should you think Hale would be hard on a fellow?"

"Yes, I should. Do you owe him money?"

"A few pounds. He won't give me time to pay. And I say, Mallow, I suppose all Aunt Selina's affairs will be left in Hale's hands?"

"I can't say. It depends upon the will. If everything is left to Juliet, unconditionally, she may take her affairs out of Hale's hands. I should certainly advise her to do so. He's too intimate with Maraquito and her gambling salon to be a decent lawyer."

"You do seem down on gambling," said Basil, "yet you gamble yourself a lot. But I expect Juliet will change her lawyer. I hope she will."

"Why?" asked Cuthbert sharply.

"Oh," replied Basil, confused, "because I agree with you. A gambler will not make a good lawyer—or a good husband either," he added in an abrupt tone. "Good-day. I'll tell Juliet," and he was off before Mallow could find words to answer his last remark.

Cuthbert, walking back to his rooms, wondered if it was on account of the gambling that Mrs. Octagon objected to the marriage. He really did not gamble much, but occasionally he dropped into Maraquito's house, and there lost or won a few pounds. Here he had often met Basil, and without doubt the young man had told his mother. But he could hardly do this without incriminating himself. All the same, Basil was a thorough liar, and a confirmed tattler. He might have blackened Mallow's character, and yet have told a story to exonerate himself. His friendship appeared feigned, and Cuthbert doubted if he would really tell Juliet of the appointment.

"That young man's in trouble," thought Mallow, "he is anxious about Hale, and I shouldn't wonder if that respectable person had lent him a large sum of money. Probably he counts on getting the money from Juliet, should she inherit the fortune of Miss Loach. Also he seems annoyed that I should have been in Caranby's unfinished house at night. I wonder what he would say if he knew my reason for going there. Humph! I must keep that quiet. The only person I dare tell is Juliet; but I can't speak to her about the matter just yet. And after all, there is no need to mention my visit. It does not concern her in the least. I wonder," here Cuthbert stopped, struck with an idea. "By George! can it be that Basil was near Rose Cottage on the night the crime was committed? Juliet may know that, and so, fearful lest he should be accused of the murder, asked me to stop proceedings. Can Basil Saxon be guilty? No," Mallow shook his head and resumed his walk, "he has not pluck enough to kill a fly."

After this he dismissed the matter from his thoughts and waited expectant of a letter from Juliet. None came, and he was convinced that Basil had not delivered the message. This being the case, Cuthbert determined to act for himself, and one afternoon went down to Rexton. That same evening he had an appointment with Jennings, who was to bring Susan Grant to Mallow's rooms. But the young man quite expected to be back in time to keep the appointment, and meantime he spent an hour wandering round Rexton in the vicinity of Rose Cottage. But afraid lest Mrs. Octagon should see him and keep Juliet within doors, he abstained from passing in front of the house and waited on the path which led to the station.

While watching the cottage, a young woman came along the path. She was neatly dressed and looked like a servant. Cuthbert pressed himself against the quickset hedge to allow her to pass, as there was very little room. The girl started as she murmured her thanks, and grew crimson on seeing his face. Cuthbert, not thinking, gave a passing thought to her looks and wondered why she had blushed. But when he saw her enter the gate of Rose Cottage—she looked back twice—he recalled the description of Jennings.

"By George!" he thought, "that was Susan Grant. I wish I had spoken to her. I wonder why she blushed. She can't be in love with me, as I never saw her before. All the same, it is strange about the portrait."

It was now about four o'clock, and Cuthbert fancied that after all it would be best to boldly ring at the door and ask admission, in spite of Mrs. Octagon.

But while hesitating to risk all his chances of seeing Juliet on one throw of fortune's dice, the matter was decided for him by the appearance of Juliet herself. She came out of the gate and walked directly towards the path. It would seem as though she expected to find Cuthbert, for she walked straight up to him and caught his hand. There was no one about to see their meeting, but Juliet was not disposed to behave tenderly.

"Why are you here?" she asked. "Susan Grant told me you—"

"Susan Grant!" echoed Cuthbert, resolved not to know too much in the presence of Juliet. "I saw her name in the papers. How does she know me?"

"I can't say," said Juliet quickly; "come along this way." She hurried along the narrow path, talking all the time. "She came in just now and said you were waiting in the by-path. I came out at once. I don't want my mother to see you."

"Really!" cried Cuthbert, rather nettled. "I don't see that I have any reason to avoid Mrs. Octagon."

"She will not allow me to see you. If she knew I was meeting you she would be very angry. We are here only till to-morrow. Now that Aunt Selina is buried and the will read, we return to Kensington at once. Come this way. Let us get into the open. I don't wish my mother to follow and find me speaking to you."

They emerged into a waste piece of land, distant a stone-throw from the railway station, but secluded by reason of many trees and shrubs. These, belonging to the old Rexton estate, had not yet been rooted up by the builder, and there ran a path through the heart of the miniature wood leading to the station. When quite screened from observation by the friendly leafage, Juliet turned quickly. She was pale and ill in looks, and there were dark circles under her eyes which told of sleepless nights. But she was dressed with her usual care and behaved in a composed manner.

"I wish you had not come, Cuthbert," she said, again taking his hand, "at least not at present. Later on—"

"I wanted to see you at once," said Mallow, determinedly. "Did not Basil tell you so?"

Juliet shook her head. "He said he met you the other day, but gave me no message."

"Then he is not the friend I took him to be," said Mallow angrily.

"Don't be angry with Basil," said Juliet, gently. "The poor boy has quite enough trouble."

"Of his own making," finished Cuthbert, thoroughly annoyed. "See here, Juliet, this sort of thing can't go on. I have done nothing to warrant my being treated like this. Your mother is mad to behave as she is doing. I insist on an explanation."

Juliet did not pay attention to this hasty speech. "How do you know Basil has troubles?" she asked hurriedly.

"Because I know he's a dissipated young ass," returned Mallow roughly; "and I daresay you know it also."

"Do you allude to his playing cards?" she asked quickly.

"Yes. He has no right to tell you these things. But I know he is in debt to Hale—he hinted as much the other day. I would say nothing of this to you, but that I know he counts on your paying his debts. I tell you, Juliet, it is wrong for you to do so."

"How do you know I can?" she asked.

"I know nothing," said Cuthbert doggedly, "not even if you have inherited the money of Miss Loach."

"I have inherited it. She left everything to me, save legacies to Thomas her servant, and to Emily Pill, the cook. It is a large fortune. The will was read on the day of the funeral. I have now six thousand a year."

"So much as that? How did your aunt make such a lot of money?"

"Mr. Hale speculated a great deal on her account, and, he is very lucky. At least so he told me. But the money is well invested and there are no restrictions. I can easily pay the few debts Basil owes, poor boy. You are too hard on him."

"Perhaps I am. But he is so foolish, and he doesn't like me. I believe he puts you against me, Juliet."

The girl threw her arms round his neck. "Nothing in the world would ever put me against you, Cuthbert," she whispered vehemently. "I love you—I love you—with all my heart and soul, with every fibre of my being do I love you. I don't care what mother says, I love you."

"Well, then," said Cuthbert, between kisses, "since you are now rich and your own mistress—not that I care about the money—why not marry me at once?"

Juliet drew back, and her eyes dilated with fear. "I dare not—I dare not," she whispered. "You don't know what you ask."

"Yes I do. Juliet, what is all this mystery about? I could not understand the meaning of your letter."

"Did you do what I asked?" she panted.

"It was too late. I had told Jennings the detective all I knew."

"You were not afraid?"

"Afraid!" echoed Cuthbert, opening his eyes. "What do you mean?"

She looked into his eyes. "No," she said to herself, "he is not afraid."

Cuthbert lost his temper. "I don't understand all this," he declared, "if you would only speak out. But I can guess why you wish me to stop the proceedings—you fear for Basil!"

She stepped back a pace. "For Basil?"

"Yes. From what he hinted the other day I believe he was about this place on the night of the—"

"Where are your proofs?" she gasped, recoiling.

"I have none. I am only speaking on chance. But Basil is in monetary difficulties—he is in debt to Hale—he counted on you inheriting the money of Miss Loach to pay his debts. He—"

"Stop! stop!" cried Juliet, the blood rising to her face, "this is only supposition. You can prove nothing."

"Then why do you wish me to hold my tongue?"

"There is nothing for you to hold your tongue about," she answered evasively. "You know nothing."

Cuthbert caught her hands and looked into her troubled eyes. "Do you, Juliet—do you? Put an end to this mystery and speak out."

She broke from him and fled. "No," she cried, "for your sake I keep silent. For your own sake stop the action of the detective."

CHAPTER IX

ANOTHER MYSTERY

When Jennings arrived that evening according to appointment, he found Mallow in a state of desperation. Juliet's conduct perplexed the young man to such an extent that he felt as though on the point of losing his reason. He was quite delighted when he saw Jennings and thus had someone with a clear head in whom to confide.

"What's the matter?" asked Jennings, who at once saw that something was wrong from Cuthbert's anxious face.

"Nothing, save that I am being driven out of my senses. I am glad you have come, Jennings. Things are getting more mysterious every day. I am determined to get to the bottom of this murder case if only for my own peace of mind. I am with you heart and soul. I have the detective fever with a vengeance. You can count on my assistance in every way."

"All right, my dear chap," said the other soothingly, "sit down and let us have a quiet talk before this girl arrives."

"Susan Grant. I saw her to-day."

"Did you speak to her?"

"No. I only guessed that she was the girl you talked about from your description and from the fact that she entered Rose Cottage."

"Ah," said Jennings, taking a seat, "so you have been down there?"

"Yes. I'll tell you all about it. I don't know if I'm sane or insane, Jennings. When does this girl arrive?"

The detective glanced at his watch. "At half-past eight. She'll be here in half an hour. Go on. What's up?"

"Read this," said Cuthbert, and passed along the note from Juliet. "I received that immediately after you went the other night."

Jennings read the note with a thoughtful look, then laid it aside and stared at his friend. "It is strange that she should write in that way," said he. "I should have thought she would wish to learn who killed her aunt. What does she mean?"

"I can't tell you. I met her to-day," and Cuthbert gave details of his visit to Rexton and the interview with Juliet. "Now what does she mean," he added in his turn, "talking as though I had something to do with the matter?"

"Someone's been poisoning her mind. That brother of hers, perhaps."

"What do you know of him?" asked Cuthbert quickly.

"Nothing good. He's an hysterical idiot. Gambles a lot and falls into rages when he loses. At times I don't think he's responsible for his actions."

Mallow threw himself back in his chair biting his moustache. Every word Jennings spoke made him more confident that Basil had something to do with the crime. But why Juliet should hint at his own guilt Cuthbert could not imagine. Had he been calmer he might have hesitated to tell Jennings about Basil. But, exasperated by Juliet's half confidence, and anxious to learn the truth, he gave the detective a full account of his meeting with the young man. "What do you make of that?" he asked.

"Well," said Jennings doubtfully, "there's nothing much to go upon in what he said. He's in difficulties with Hale certainly—"

"And he seemed anxious about my having been in Caranby's grounds at night." "Were you there?"

"Yes. I did not intend to say anything about it, but I must tell you everything so that you can put things straight between me and Juliet. I can't understand her. But I am sure her mother and Basil are trying to influence her against me. I should not be surprised to learn that they accused me of this murder."

"But on what grounds?" asked Jennings quickly.

"We'll come to that presently. But I now see why neither Basil nor his mother want the marriage to take place. By the will of Miss Loach Juliet comes in for six thousand a year, which is completely at her own disposal. Mrs. Octagon and her pet boy want to have the handling of that. They know if Juliet becomes my wife I won't let them prey on her, so immediately Miss Loach died the mother withdrew her consent to the marriage, and now she is being backed up by Basil."

"But I thought Mrs. Octagon was well off?"

"No. Saxon, her late husband, left her very little, and Octagon, for all his meekness, knows how to keep his money. Both mother and son are extravagant, so they hope to make poor Juliet their banker. In some way they have implicated me in the crime, and Juliet thinks that I am in danger of the gallows. That is why she wrote that mysterious note, Jennings. To-day she asked me to stop proceedings for my own sake, which shows that she thinks me guilty. I could not get a further explanation from her, as she ran away. Hang it!" Cuthbert jumped up angrily, "if she'd only tell me the truth and speak straight out. I can't understand this silence on her part."

"I can," said Jennings promptly, "in some way Basil is mixed up in the matter, and his accusing you means his acknowledging that he was near Rose Cottage on the night of the crime. He funks making so damaging an admission."

"Ah, I daresay," said Cuthbert, "particularly as he quarrelled with his aunt a week before the death."

"Did he quarrel with her?"

"Of course. Didn't I tell you what he said to-day. He's in a fine rage with the dead woman. And you know what an uncontrollable temper he has. I've seen him rage at Maraquito's when he lost at baccarat. Silly ass! He can't play decently and lose his money like a gentleman. How Juliet ever came to have such a bounder for a brother I can't imagine. She's the soul of honor, and Basil—bah!"

"He quarrelled with his aunt," murmured Jennings, "and he has a violent temper, as we both knew. Humph! He may have something to do with the matter. Do you know where he was on that night?"

"Yes. Juliet and he went to the Marlow Theatre to see a melodrama by a new playwright."

"Ha!" said Jennings half to himself, "and the Marlow Theatre is not far from Rexton. I'll make a note of that. Had they a box?"

"I believe so. It was sent by the man who wrote the play."

"Who is he?"

"I can't say. One of that lot who play at being poets in Octagon House. A set of idiots. But what do you make of all this, Jennings?"

"I think with you that Mrs. Octagon and her cub of a son are trying to stop the marriage by bringing you into the matter of the crime. Were you down there on that night?"

"Yes," said Cuthbert with hesitation, and to Jennings' surprise, "I did not intend to say anything about it, as my uncle asked me to hold my tongue. But since things have come to this pass, you may as well know that I was there—and about the time of the murder too."

Jennings sat up and stared. "Great heavens! Mallow, why didn't you tell me this the other night?"

"You might have arrested me then and there," retorted Cuthbert. "I promised my uncle to hold my tongue. But now—"

"You will tell me all. My dear fellow, make a clean breast of it."

"Rest easy, you shall learn everything. You know that the house at the back of Rose Cottage has been deserted for something like twenty years more or less."

"Yes. You told me about it the other night."

"Caranby ran a fifteen-feet wall round it and the inside is a regular jungle. Well, the house is supposed to be haunted. Lights have been seen moving about and strange noises have been heard."

"What kind of noises?"

"Oh, moans and clanking chains and all that sort of thing. I heard indirectly about this, through Juliet."

"Where did she hear the report?"

"From Miss Loach's cook. A woman called Pill. The cook asserted that the house was haunted, and described the noises and the lights. I don't believe in spooks myself, and thought some tricks were being played, so one day I went down and had a look."

"That day I was there?" asked Jennings, recalling Cuthbert's presence.

"Before that—a week or two. I saw nothing. The house is rotting and nothing appeared to be disturbed. I examined the park and found no footmarks. In fact, there wasn't a sign of anyone about."

"You should have gone at night when the ghost was larking."

"That's what Caranby said. I told him when he came back to London. He was very annoyed. You know his romance about that house—an absurd thing it is. All the same, Caranby is tender on the point. I advised him to pull the house down and let the land out for building leases. He thought he would, but asked me to go at night and stir up the ghost. I went on the night of the murder, and got into the grounds by climbing the wall. There's no gate, you know."

"At what time?"

"Some time between ten and eleven. I'm not quite sure."

"Good heavens! man, that is the very hour the woman was killed!"

"Yes. And for that reason I held my tongue; particularly as I got over the wall near the cottage."

"Where do you mean?"

"Well, there's a field of corn nearly ready to be cut near the cottage. It's divided from the garden by a fence. I came along the foot-path that leads from the station and jumped the fence."

"Did you enter Miss Loach's grounds?"

"No. I had no right to. I saw a light in the basement, but I did not take much notice. I was too anxious to find the ghost. Well, I ran along the fence—on the field-of-corn side, remember, and got over the wall. Then I dodged through the park, scratching myself a lot. I could find nothing. The house seemed quiet enough, so after a quarter of an hour I had enough of it. I got out over the wall on the other side and came home. I caught a cold which necessitated my wearing a great-coat the next day. So there you have my ghost-hunting, and a fine fool I was to go."

"I wish you had told me this before, Mallow."

"If I had, you would have thought I'd killed the old woman. But I tell you now, as I want this matter sifted to the bottom. I refused to speak before, as I didn't wish to be dragged into the case."

"Did you see anything in the cottage?"

"Not a thing. I saw no one—I heard no sound."

"Not even a scream?"

"Not even a scream," said Mallow; "had I heard anything I should have gone to see what was the matter."

"Strange!" murmured Jennings, "can't you tell the exact time?"

"Not to a minute. It was shortly after ten. I can't say how many minutes. Perhaps a quarter of an hour. But not suspecting anything was going to happen, I didn't look at my watch."

Jennings looked thoughtfully at the carpet. "I wonder if the assassin escaped that way," he murmured.

"Which way?"

"Over the wall and through the park. You see, he could not have gone up the lane or through the railway path without stumbling against that policeman. But he might have slipped out of the front door at half-past ten and climbed as you did over the wall to cross the park and drop over the other. In this way he would elude the police."

"Perhaps," said Cuthbert disbelievingly; "but it was nearly eleven when I left the park. If anyone had been at my heels I would have noticed."

"I am not so sure of that. The park, as you say, is a kind of jungle. The man might have seen you and have taken his precautions. Moreover," added the detective, sitting up alertly, "he might have written to Miss Saxon saying he saw you on that night. And she—"

"Bosh!" interrupted Mallow roughly, "he would give himself away."

"Not if the letter was anonymous."

"Perhaps," said the other again; "but Basil may have been about the place and have accused me."

"In that case he must explain his reason for being in the neighborhood at that hour. But he won't, and you may be sure Miss Saxon, for his sake, will hold her tongue. No, Mallow. Someone accuses you to Miss Saxon—Basil or another. If we could only make her speak—"

Cuthbert shook his head. "I fear it's impossible."

"Why not let me arrest you," suggested Jennings, "and then, if at anytime, she would speak."

"Hang it, no!" cried Mallow in dismay, "that would be too realistic, Jennings. I don't want it known that I was hanging about the place on that night. My explanation might not be believed. In any case, people would throw mud at me, considering I am engaged to the niece of the dead woman."

"Yes! I can see that. Well," Jennings rose and stretched himself. "I must see what Susan has to say"; he glanced at his watch; "she should be here in a few minutes."

A silence ensued which was broken by Jennings. "Oh, by the way," he said, taking some papers out of his pocket, "I looked up the Saul case."

"Well, what about it?" asked Cuthbert indolently

Jennings referred to his notes. "The Saul family" he said, "seem to have been a bad lot. There was a mother, a brother and a daughter—"

"Emilia!"

"Just so. They were all coiners. Somewhere in Hampstead they had a regular factory. Others were mixed up in the matter also, but Mrs. Saul was the head of the gang. Then Emilia grew tired of the life—I expect it told on her nerves. She went on the concert platform and met Caranby. Then she died, as you know. Afterwards the mother and brother were caught. They bolted. The mother, I believe, died—it was believed she was poisoned for having betrayed secrets. The brother went to jail, got out years afterwards on ticket-of-leave, and then died also. The rest of the gang were put in jail, but I can't say what became of them."

Cuthbert shrugged his shoulders. "This does not help us much."

"No. But it shows you what an escape your uncle had from marrying the woman. I can't understand—"

"No more can Caranby," said Mallow, smiling; "he loved Miss Loach, but Emilia exercised a kind of hypnotic influence over him. However, she is dead, and I can see no connection between her and this crime."

"Well," said Jennings soberly, "it appears that some other person besides the mother gave a clue to the breaking up of the gang and the whereabouts of the factory. Supposing that person was Selina Loach, who hated Emilia for having taken Caranby from her. One of the gang released lately from prison may have killed the old lady out of revenge."

"What! after all these years?"

"Revenge is a passion that grows with years," said Jennings grimly; "at all events, I intend to go on ferreting out evidence about this old coining case, particularly as there are many false coins circulating now. I should not be surprised to learn that the factory had been set up again; Miss Loach may have known and—"

"This is all supposition," cried Mallow. "I can't see the slightest connection between the coiners and this murder. Besides, it does not explain why Juliet hints at my being implicated."

Jennings did not reply. "There's the bell, too," he murmured, his eyes on the ground, "that might be explained." He looked up briskly. "I tell you what, Mallow, this case may turn out to be a bigger thing than either of us suspect."

"It's quite big enough for me as it is," retorted Cuthbert, "although I don't know what you mean. All I desire is to get to the root of the matter and marry Juliet. Find Miss Loach's assassin, Jennings, and don't bother about this dead-and-gone coining case."

"There's a connection between the two," said Jennings, obstinately; "it's impossible to say how the connection comes about, but I feel that a discovery in one case entails a discovery in the other. If I can prove that Miss Loach was killed by one of the old coiners—"

"What will happen then?"

"I may stumble on the factory that is in existence now."

He would have gone on to explain himself more fully, but that Mallow's man entered with the information that a young person was waiting and asked for Mr. Jennings. Mallow ordered the servant to admit her, and shortly Susan Grant, nervous and blushing, entered the room.

"I am glad to see you," said Jennings, placing a chair for her. "This is Mr. Mallow. We wish to ask you a few questions."

"I have seen Mr. Mallow before," said Susan, gasping and flushing.

"At Rose Cottage?" said Mallow inquiringly.

"No. When I was with Senora Gredos as parlor-maid."

"Senora Gredos?" said Jennings, before Cuthbert could speak. "Do you mean Maraquito?"

"I have heard that her name was Maraquito, sir," said Susan calmly. "A lame lady and fond of cards. She lives in—"

"I know where she lives," said Cuthbert, flushing in his turn. "I went there occasionally to play cards. I never saw you."

"But I saw you, sir," said the girl fervently. "Often I have watched you when you thought I wasn't, and—"

"One moment," said Jennings, interrupting. "Let's us get to the pith of the matter at once. Where did you get Mr. Mallow's portrait?"

"I don't want to say," murmured the girl.

"But you must say," said Mallow angrily. "I order you to confess."

"I kept silent for your sake, sir," she said, her eyes filled with tears, "but if you must know, I took the portrait from Senora Gredos' dressing-room when I left her house. And I left it on your account, sir," she finished defiantly.

CHAPTER X

THE PARLOR-MAID'S STORY

On hearing the confession of the girl, both men looked at one another in amazement. How could Cuthbert's photograph have come into the possession of Senora Gredos, and why had Susan Grant stolen it? And again, why did she hint that she had held her tongue about the matter for the sake of Mallow? Jennings at once proceeded to get at the truth. While being examined Susan wept, with an occasional glance at the bewildered Cuthbert.

"You were with Maraquito as parlor-maid?"

"With Senora Gredos? Yes, sir, for six months."

"Do you know what went on in that house?"

Susan ceased her sobs and stared. "I don't know what you mean," she said, looking puzzled. "It was a gay house, I know; but there was nothing wrong that I ever saw, save that I don't hold with cards being played on Sunday."

"And on every other night of the week," muttered Jennings. "Did you ever hear Senora Gredos called Maraquito?"

"Sometimes the gentlemen who came to play cards called her by that name. But she told her maid, who was my friend, that they were old friends of hers. And I think they were sorry for poor Senora Gredos, sir," added Miss Grant, naively, "as she suffered so much with her back. You know, she rarely moved from her couch. It was always wheeled into the room where the gambling took place."

"Ah. You knew that gambling went on," said Jennings, snapping her up sharply. "Don't you know that is against the law?"

"No, sir. Do you know?"

Cuthbert could not restrain a laugh. "That's one for you, Jennings," said he, nodding, "you often went to the Soho house."

"I had my reasons for saying nothing," replied the detective hastily. "You may be sure I could have ended the matter at once had I spoken to my chief about it. As it was, I judged it best to let matters remain as they were, so long as the house was respectably conducted."

"I'm sure it was conducted well, sir," said Susan, who appeared rather indignant. "Senora Gredos was a most respectable lady."

"She lived alone always, I believe?"

"Yes, sir." Then Susan hesitated. "I wonder if she had a mother?"

"Why do you wonder?"

"Well, sir, the lady who came to see Miss Loach—"

"Mrs. Herne?"

"I heard her name was Mrs. Herne, but she was as like Senora Gredos as two peas, save that she was older and had gray hair."

"Hum!" said Jennings, pondering. "Did you ever hear Senora Gredos speak of Mrs. Herne?"

"Never, sir. But Mrs. Pill—the cook of Miss Loach—said that Mrs. Herne lived at Hampstead. But she was like my old mistress. When I opened the door to her I thought she was Senora Gredos. But then the scent may have made me think that."

Jennings looked up sharply. "The scent? What do you mean?"

"Senora Gredos," explained Susan quietly, "used a very nice scent—a Japanese scent called Hikui. She used no other, and I never met any lady who did, save Mrs. Herne."

"Oh, so Mrs. Herne used it."

"She did, sir. When I opened the door on that night," Susan shuddered, "the first thing I knew was the smell of Hikui making the passage like a hairdresser's shop. I leaned forward to see if the lady was Senora Gredos, and she turned her face away. But I caught sight of it, and if she isn't some relative of my last mistress, may I never eat bread again."

"Did Mrs. Herne seem offended when you examined her face?"

"She gave a kind of start—"

"At the sight of you," said Jennings quickly.

"La, no, sir. She never saw me before."

"I'm not so sure of that," muttered the detective. "Did you also recognize Mr. Clancy and Mr. Hale as having visited the Soho house?"

"No, sir. I never set eyes on them before."

"But as parlor-maid, you must have opened the door to—"

"Just a moment, sir," said Susan quickly. "I opened the door in the day when few people came. After eight the page, Gibber, took my place. And I hardly ever went upstairs, as Senora Gredos told me to keep below. One evening I did come up and saw—" here her eyes rested on Cuthbert with a look which made him turn crimson. "I wish I had never come up on that night."

"See here, my girl," said Mallow irritably, "do you mean to say—"

"Hold on, Mallow," interposed Jennings, "let me ask a question." He turned to Susan, now weeping again with downcast eyes. "Mr. Mallow's face made an impression on you?"

"Yes, sir. But then I knew every line of it before."

"How was that?"

Susan looked up surprised. "The photograph in Senora Gredos' dressing-room. I often looked at it, and when I left I could not bear to leave it behind. It was stealing, I know," cried Miss Grant tearfully, "and I have been brought up respectably, but I couldn't help myself."

By this time Cuthbert was the color of an autumn sunset. He was a modest young man, and these barefaced confessions made him wince. He was about to interpose irritably when Jennings turned on him with a leading question. "Why did you give that photograph to—"

"Confound it!" cried Mallow, jumping up, "I did no such thing. I knew Maraquito only as the keeper of the gambling house. There was nothing between—"

"Don't, sir," said Susan, rising in her turn with a flush of jealousy. "I saw her kissing the photograph."

"Then she must be crazy," cried Mallow: "I never gave her any occasion to behave so foolishly. For months I have been engaged, and—" he here became aware that he was acting foolishly in talking like this to a love-sick servant, and turned on his heel abruptly. "I'll go in the next room," said he, "call me when you wish for my presence, Jennings. I can't possibly stay and listen to this rubbish," and going out, he banged the door, thereby bringing a fresh burst of tears from Susan Grant. Every word he said pierced her heart.

"Now I've made him cross," she wailed, "and I would lay down my life for him—that I would."

"See here, my girl," said Jennings, soothingly and fully prepared to make use of the girl's infatuation, "it is absurd your being in love with a gentleman of Mr. Mallow's position."

Miss Grant tossed her head. "I've read Bow-Bells and the Family Herald, sir," she said positively, "and many a time have I read of a governess, which is no more than a servant, marrying an earl. And that Mr. Mallow isn't, sir."

"He will be when Lord Caranby dies," said Jennings, hardly knowing what to say, "and fiction isn't truth. Besides, Mr. Mallow is engaged."

"I know, sir—to Miss Saxon. Well," poor Susan sighed, "she is a sweet young lady. I suppose he loves her."

"Devotedly. He will be married soon."

"And she's got Miss Loach's money too," sighed Susan again, "what a lucky young lady. Handsome looks in a husband and gold galore. A poor servant like me has to look on and keep her heart up with the Church Service. But I tell you what, sir," she added, drying her eyes and apparently becoming resigned, "if I ain't a lady, Senora Gredos is, and she won't let Mr. Mallow marry Miss Saxon."

"But Mr. Mallow is not in love with Senora Gredos."

"Perhaps not, sir, but she's in love with him. Yes. You may look and look, Mr. Jennings, but lame as she is and weak in the back and unable to move from that couch, she loves him. She had that photograph in her room and kissed it, as it I saw with my own eyes. I took it the last thing before I went, as I loved Mr. Mallow too, and I was not going to let that Spanish lady kiss him even in a picture."

"Upon my word," murmured Jennings, taken aback by this vehemence, "it is very strange all this."

"Oh, yes, you gentlemen don't think a poor girl has a heart. I couldn't help falling in love, though he never looked my way. But that Miss Saxon is a sweet, kind, young lady put upon by her mother, I wouldn't give him up even to her. But I can see there's no chance for me," wept Susan, "seeing the way he has gone out, banging the door in a temper, so I'll give him up. And I'll go now. My heart's broken."

But Jennings made her sit down again. "Not yet, my girl," he said firmly, "if you wish to do Mr. Mallow a good turn—"

"Oh, I'll do that," she interrupted with sparkling eyes, "after all, he can't help giving his heart elsewhere. It's just my foolishness to think otherwise. But how can I help him, sir?"

"He wants to find out who killed Miss Loach."

"I can't help him there, sir. I don't know who killed her. Mrs. Herne and Mr. Clancy and Mr. Hale were all gone, and when the bell rang she was alone, dead in her chair with them cards on her lap. Oh," Susan's voice became shrill and hysterical, "what a horrible sight!"

"Yes, yes," said Jennings soothingly, "we'll come to that shortly, my girl. But about this photograph. Was it in Senora Gredos' dressing-room long?"

"For about three months, sir. I saw it one morning when I took up her breakfast and fell in love with the handsome face. Then Gibber told me the gentleman came to the house sometimes, and I went up the stairs against orders after eight to watch. I saw him and found him more good-looking than the photograph. Often did I watch him and envy Senora Gredos the picture with them loving words. Sir," said Susan, sitting up stiffly, "if Mr. Mallow is engaged to Miss Saxon and doesn't love Senora Gredos, why did he write those words?"

"He did not write them for her," said Jennings doubtfully, "at least I don't think so. It is impossible to say how the photograph came into the possession of that lady."

"Will you ask him, sir?"

"Yes, when you are gone. But he won't speak while you are in the room."

Susan drooped her head and rose dolefully. "My dream is gone," she said mournfully, "though I was improving myself in spelling and figures so that I might go out as a governess and perhaps meet him in high circles."

"Ah, that's all Family Herald fiction," said Jennings, not unkindly.

"Yes! I know now, sir. My delusions are gone. But I will do anything I can to help Mr. Mallow and I hope he'll always think kindly of me."

"I'm sure he will. By the way, what are you doing now?"

"I go home to help mother at Stepney, sir, me having no call to go out to service. I have a happy home, though not fashionable. And after my heart being crushed I can't go out again," sighed Susan sadly.

"Are you sorry to leave Rose Cottage?"

"No, sir," Susan shuddered, "that dead body with the blood and the cards will haunt me always. Mrs. Pill, as is going to marry Thomas Barnes and rent the cottage, wanted me to stay, but I couldn't."

Jennings pricked up his ears. "What's that? How can Mrs. Pill rent so expensive a place."

"It's by arrangement with Miss Saxon, sir. Mrs. Pill told me all about it. Miss Saxon wished to sell the place, but Thomas Barnes spoke to her and said he had saved money while in Miss Loach's service for twenty years—"

"Ah," said Jennings thoughtfully, "he was that time in Miss Loach's service, was he?"

"Yes, sir. And got good wages. Well, sir, Miss Saxon hearing he wished to marry the cook and take the cottage and keep boarders, let him rent it with furniture as it stands. She and Mrs. Octagon are going back to town, and Mrs. Pill is going to have the cottage cleaned from cellar to attic before she marries Thomas and receives the boarder."

"Oh. So she has a boarder?"

"Yes, sir. She wouldn't agree to Thomas taking the cottage as her husband, unless she had a boarder to start with, being afraid she and Thomas could not pay the rent. So Thomas saw Mr. Clancy and he is coming to stop. He has taken all the part where Miss Loach lived, and doesn't want anyone else in the house, being a quiet man and retired."

"Ah! Ah! Ah!" said Jennings in three different tones of voice. "I think Mrs. Pill is very wise. I hope she and Thomas will do well. By the way, what do you think of Mr. Barnes?"

Susan did not leave him long in doubt as to her opinion. "I think he is a stupid fool," she said, "and it's a good thing Mrs. Pill is going to marry him. He was guided by Miss Loach all his life, and now she's dead, he goes about like a gaby. One of those men, sir," explained Susan, "as needs a woman to look after them. Not like that gentleman," she cast a tender glance at the door, "who can protect the weakest of my sex."

Jennings having learned all he could, rose. "Well, Miss Grant," he said quietly, "I am obliged to you for your frank speaking. My advice to you is to go home and think no more of Mr. Mallow. You might as well love the moon. But you know my address, and should you hear of anything likely to lead you to suspect who killed Miss Loach, Mr. Mallow will make it worth your while to come to me with the information."

"I'll do all I can," said Susan resolutely, "but I won't take a penny piece, me having my feelings as other and higher ladies."

"Just as you please. But Mr. Mallow is about to offer a reward on behalf of his uncle, Lord Caranby."

"He that was in love with Miss Loach, sir?"

"Yes. On account of that old love, Lord Caranby desires to learn who killed her. And Mr. Mallow also wishes to know, for a private reason. I expect you will be calling to see Mrs. Pill?"

"When she's Mrs. Barnes, I think so, sir. I go to the wedding, and me and Geraldine are going to be bridesmaids."

"Then if you hear or see anything likely to lead to a revelation of the truth, you will remember. By the way, you don't know how Senora Gredos got that photograph?"

"No, sir, I do not."

"And you think Mrs. Herne is Senora Gredos' mother?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Thank you, that will do for the present. Keep your eyes open and your mouth closed, and when you hear of anything likely to interest me, call at the address I gave you."

"Yes, sir," said Susan, and took her leave, not without another lingering glance at the door behind which Mallow waited impatiently.

When she was gone, Jennings went into the next room to find Cuthbert smoking. He jumped up when he saw the detective. "Well, has that silly girl gone?" he asked angrily.

"Yes, poor soul. You needn't get in a wax, Mallow. The girl can't help falling in love with you. Poor people have feelings as well as rich."

"I know that, but it's ridiculous: especially as I never saw the girl before, and then I love only Juliet."

"You are sure of that?"

"Jennings"

"There—there, don't get angry. We must get to the bottom of this affair which is getting more complicated every day. Did you give that photograph to Senora Gredos?"

"To Maraquito. No, I didn't. I gave it to Juliet."

"You are certain?"

"Positive! I can't make out how it came into Maraquito's house."

Jennings pondered. "Perhaps Basil may have given it to her. It is to his interest on behalf of his mother to make trouble between you and Miss Saxon. Moreover, if it is as I surmise, it shows that Mrs. Octagon intended to stop the marriage, if she could, even before her sister died."

"Ah! And it shows that the death of Miss Loach gave her a chance of asserting herself and stopping the marriage."

"Well, she might have hesitated to do that before, as Miss Loach might not have left her fortune to Juliet if the marriage did not take place."

Cuthbert nodded and spoke musingly: "After all, the old woman liked me, and I was the nephew of the man who loved her in her youth. Her heart may have been set on the match, and she might have threatened to leave her fortune elsewhere if Mrs. Octagon did not agree. Failing this, Mrs. Octagon, through Basil, gave that photograph to Maraquito in the hope that Juliet would ask questions of me—"

"And if she had asked questions?" asked Jennings quickly.

Cuthbert looked uncomfortable. "Don't think me a conceited ass," he said, trying to laugh, "but Maraquito is in love with me. I stayed away from her house because she became too attentive. I never told you this, as no man has a right to reveal a woman's weakness. But, as matters are so serious, it is right you should know."

"I am glad I do know. By the way, Cuthbert, what between Miss Saxon, Susan Grant and Maraquito, you will have a hard time."

"How absurd!" said Mallow angrily. "Juliet is the only woman I love and Juliet I intend to marry."

"Maraquito will prevent your marriage."

"If she can," scoffed Cuthbert.

Jennings looked grave. "I am not so sure but what she can make mischief. There's Mrs. Herne who may or may not be the mother of this Spanish demon—"

"Perhaps the demon herself," ventured Mallow.

"No!" said the detective positively. "Maraquito can't move from her couch. You know that. However, I shall call on Mrs. Herne at Hampstead. She was a witness, you know? Keep quiet, Mallow, and let me make inquiries. Meantime, ask Miss Saxon when she missed that photograph."

"Can you see your way now?"

"I have a slight clue. But it will be a long time before I learn the truth. There is a lot at the back of that murder, Mallow."

CHAPTER XI

ON THE TRACK

Professor Le Beau kept a school of dancing in Pimlico, and incessantly trained pupils for the stage. Many of them had appeared with more or less success in the ballets at the Empire and Alhambra, and he was widely known amongst stage-struck aspirants as charging moderately and teaching in a most painstaking manner. He thus made an income which, if not large, was at least secure, and was assisted in the school by his niece, Peggy Garthorne. She was the manager of his house and looked after the money, otherwise the little professor would never have been able to lay aside for the future. But when the brother of the late Madame Le Beau—an Englishwoman—died, his sister took charge of the orphan. Now that Madame herself was dead, Peggy looked after the professor out of gratitude and love. She was fond of the excitable little Frenchman, and knew how to manage him to a nicety.

It was to the Dancing Academy that Jennings turned his steps a few days after the interview with Susan. He had been a constant visitor there for eighteen months and was deeply in love with Peggy. On a Bank Holiday he had been fortunate enough to rescue her from a noisy crowd, half-drunk and indulging in horse-play, and had escorted her home to receive the profuse thanks of the Professor. The detective was attracted by the quaint little man, and he called again to inquire for Peggy. A friendship thus inaugurated ripened into a deeper feeling, and within nine months Jennings proposed for the hand of the humble girl. She consented and so did Le Beau, although he was rather rueful at the thought of losing his mainstay. But Peggy promised him that she would still look after him until he retired, and with this promise Le Beau was content. He was now close on seventy, and could not hope to teach much longer. But, thanks to Peggy's clever head and saving habits, he had—as the French say—"plenty of bread baked" to eat during days of dearth.

The Academy was situated down a narrow street far removed from the main thoroughfares. Quiet houses belonging to poor people stood on either side of this lane—for that it was—and at the end appeared the Academy, blocking the exit from that quarter. It stood right in the middle of the street and turned the lane into a blind alley, but a narrow right-of-way passed along the side and round to the back where the street began again under a new name. The position of the place was quaint, and often it had been intended to remove the obstruction, but the owner, an eccentric person of great wealth, had hitherto refused to allow it to be pulled down. But the owner was now old, and it was expected his heirs would take away the building and allow the lane to run freely through to the other street. Still it would last Professor Le Beau's time, for his heart would have broken had he been compelled to move. He had taught here for the last thirty years, and had become part and parcel of the neighborhood.

Jennings, quietly dressed in blue serge with brown boots and a bowler hat, turned down the lane and advanced towards the double door of the Academy, which was surmounted by an allegorical group of plaster figures designed by Le Beau himself, and representing Orpheus teaching trees and animals to dance. The allusion was not complimentary to his pupils, for if Le Beau figured as Orpheus, what were the animals? However, the hot-tempered little man refused to change his allegory and the group remained. Jennings passed under it and into the building with a smile which the sight of those figures always evoked. Within, the building on the ground floor was divided into two rooms—a large hall for the dancing lessons and a small apartment used indifferently as a reception-room and an office. Above, on the first story, were the sitting-room, the dining-room and the kitchen; and on the third, under a high conical roof, the two bedrooms of the Professor and Peggy, with an extra one for any stranger who might remain. Where Margot, the French cook and maid-of-all-work, slept, was a mystery. So it will be seen that the accommodation of the house was extremely limited. However, Le Beau, looked after by Peggy and Margot, who was devoted to him, was extremely well pleased, and extremely happy in his light airy French way.

In the office was Peggy, making up some accounts. She was a pretty, small maiden of twenty-five, neatly dressed in a clean print gown, and looking like a dewy daisy. Her eyes were blue, her hair the color of ripe corn, and her cheeks were of a delicate rose. There was something pastoral about Peggy, smacking of meadow lands and milking time. She should have been a shepherdess looking after her flock rather than a girl toiling in a dingy office. How such a rural flower ever sprung up amongst London houses was a mystery Jennings could not make out. And according to her own tale, Peggy had never lived in the country. What with the noise of fiddling which came from the large hall, and the fact of being absorbed in her work, Peggy never heard the entrance of her lover. Jennings stole quietly towards her, admiring the pretty picture she made with a ray of dusky sunlight making glory of her hair.

"Who is it?" he asked, putting his hands over her eyes.

"Oh," cried Peggy, dropping her pen and removing his hands, "the only man who would dare to take such a liberty with me. Miles, my darling pig!" and she kissed him, laughing.

"I don't like the last word, Peggy!"

"It's Papa Le Beau's favorite word with his pupils," said Peggy, who always spoke of the dancing-master thus.

"With the addition of darling?"

"No, that is an addition of my own. But I can remove it if you like."

"I don't like," said Miles, sitting down and pulling her towards him, "come and talk to me, Pegtop."

"I won't be called Pegtop, and as to talking, I have far too much work to do. The lesson will soon be over, and some of the pupils have to take these accounts home. Then dejeuner will soon be ready, and you know how Margot hates having her well-cooked dishes spoilt by waiting. But why are you here instead of at work?"

"Hush!" said Miles, laying a finger on her lips. "Papa will hear you."

"Not he. Hear the noise his fiddle is making, and he is scolding the poor little wretches like a game-cock."

"Does a game-cock scold?" asked Jennings gravely. "I hope he is not in a bad temper, Peggy. I have come to ask him a few questions."

"About your own business?" asked she in a lower tone.