* * * * *

In his bare sitting-room he sat with his face between his hands. A girl knelt on the floor beside him.

She was a remarkable girl. Wild, wayward, with all the passions—brimful with untamed vitality—incapable of the common restraints. Her face was neither beautiful, nor, perhaps, even pretty—but Diana herself might have envied the full, lithe figure, the free grace of her movements. She was the creature of her desires—knowing no laws that opposed them. A Primitive Woman, from the dawn of the world.

"Jim," she pleaded. "Jim...."

He made no movement.

"Be a man," she whispered. "Pull yourself together."

He put her away from him roughly.

"I wish you'd go," he said dully. "I don't want you here."

Her face grew whiter. Her hands crept to him again. The light of a great love was in her eyes.

"Oh, Jim," she whispered, "I know I'm not like she was. I'm not beautiful. I'm not wonderful. I haven't anything that she had. Oh, I know all that ... so well."

He uncovered his face—it was haggard and bloodless, the face of a man in the throes of a mental hell—and looked at her, almost with revulsion.

"You?" he cried harshly. "You...? You dare to name yourself to me in the same breath with her? Get up, and look at yourself!" He pointed to a cracked mirror on the mantel-piece. "Look!" he said hoarsely, thrusting her away from him again. "Do you see how coarse and heavy and rough you are? She was light and delicate—like a snowflake. She never seemed to touch the ground. Your hair is like string—your hands are large—your voice is harsh. Her hair was like silk—gold silk in the sunshine. I could see through her hands. Her voice was music. I want you to go. You are in my way."

She sprang up, raging.

"She never loved you!" she cried. "She never cared for you—or even thought of you! She wasn't fit to touch you—to look at you!"

His face was aflame.

"Stop!" he shouted.

"I hate her!" she declared fiercely. "I hate her memory! I'm glad she's dead!"

He lunged forward from his chair, and seized her. In his fury he nearly struck her.

"As God's above us," he panted, "one more word...." His rage choked him. The words jammed in his throat.

She wrenched herself free. His arms dropped to his sides. He reeled dizzily.

"You may do what you like to me," she cried passionately. "I tell you—I'm glad she's dead! She deserved to die. She was wicked and cruel. I think God Himself destroyed her."

He sank back into his chair weakly. A sob shook him.

"God did not destroy her," he said slowly. "God never destroys. He only builds. It is men and women who destroy."

There was a long silence. She came close to him again, all her anger swallowed up in a great sympathy.

"Jim," she asked softly ... "was she so much to you?"

He became suddenly rigid.

"How did you come to know her? She wasn't your sort. She couldn't have had anything in common with you. What have you to do with women like that?"

His eyes narrowed threateningly. Her questions had struck him into a new alertness. She noticed that his knees were pressed together.

"The papers said she only came to England two months ago—for the first time. It hasn't all happened since then. I know it hasn't. There must have been something else. Something before. What was it?"

He sat glaring at her—locking and unlocking his hands.

"It all happened since then," he said jerkily. "I had never seen her before. There was nothing else."

"I don't believe it, Jim," she declared. "You are hiding something."

He avoided her steady gaze.

"Believe it or not, as you like," he retorted.

"People say there is some secret in your life," she said. "I believe there is. And I believe it was her secret too."

He lunged forward again, in a fresh paroxysm of fury.

"What is it to you?" he cried shrilly—"or to any one? Why do you pry? Suppose I have my secrets. They are no concern of yours. I give away my money—my life. Isn't it enough? What would you be—what would any of them be now—but for me? I work day and night for others. Can't I keep my soul to myself?"

"Jim," she said gently, "I'm not prying. I don't want to know your secrets. I only wanted to make it lighter for you, if you'd let me."

"You can't make it lighter for me," he returned. "No one can make it lighter. I don't want to be interfered with. I want to be left alone. What right have you to try to judge me?"

"Judge you?" she echoed. "Who could want to judge you? Why, you are the noblest man in all the world. No one could do more good than you do. Every man, woman, and child here worships you, and would die for you."

His anger instantly subsided.

"Ah, yes!" he said greedily—"tell me that. That's what I want to hear. Tell me they worship me—that no one could do more good than I do—that men and women would die for me. Go on telling me that!"

Her voice thrilled with her love for him.

"You brought us light and life. You have raised hundreds—as you raised me—out of misery and filth. Think of all the children you have sent away from this poison into the green fields and the sunshine—who would have died."

"Yes! yes!" he cried. "Go on! Go on! All the children...."

"You are building them," she said—her whole being transformed with tenderness. "You are making them fit to be men and women. They wouldn't have been fit without you. You are teaching them how to be clean and happy. You are showing them that they needn't be the dregs of humanity—that these hovels needn't be their world. You are giving them new interests, new thoughts, new hopes. Oh, what could be more wonderful—more splendid? It is God's own work."

"Yes! yes!" he cried again. "God's work! I am doing God's work!"

He paced up and down the room eagerly—feasting on her words—drinking her praises as an exhausted man might drink an invigorating draught. He was in the grip of a feverish energy. His blood was racing.

His quick steps shook the wretched room. The floor creaked under his tread. A lamp on the table rattled. The girl watched him nervously. She put out a hand to check him, but he brushed it aside. His looks, his movements, frightened her. He seemed to be gazing out beyond the narrow walls into a space of surging memories, that sported with his reason. He muttered incoherently, oblivious of her presence. She grew frightened.

"Jim!" she cried sharply.

He started, and stopped, looking at her vacantly.

"My work," he said restlessly. "I must get on with my work. I haven't done enough ... nearly enough. I must go on building ... go on giving light."

He let her put a hand on his arm and move him gently back to his chair. He sat down, and stared at her in a dazed fashion, as one returning to consciousness.

"Why haven't you gone?" he said heavily. "I asked you to go."

"I'm not going, Jim," she returned. "I can't leave you like this. You're not fit to be left."

His face darkened again.

"I am perfectly fit to be left," he said hardly. "And I wish to be alone."

"When you are better, I'll go," she said quietly—"if you want me to."

He made a gesture of impatience.

"I am better now," he said wearily. "I am quite well. I want you to go. Why do you persist in staying when I want you to go?"

The girl's self-control deserted her. She burst into a storm of weeping.

"I won't go," she sobbed. "I won't go—because you are in trouble—and I love you. I don't care whether you want me or not. I love you."

He heard her indifferently. Neither her tears nor her passion moved him.

"Don't talk nonsense," he snapped. "Love is nothing to me. I hate the word. You might as well talk of loving the Monument as me."

"You lifted me up," she cried. "You saved my soul and body. I was lower than any of the others before you came. You taught me—and I've tried to learn your lessons. But, oh, if you didn't mean me to love you, you should have left me where I was."

"You were a good girl," he said, with tired tolerance. "You learnt well. But I didn't mean you to love me. I don't want you to love me. What I have done for you was only part of my work—like the others. I don't want any woman to love me. I tell you, I hate the word. It means nothing to me. I only want to go on...."

Her sobs ceased. She stood very still. Her face was torn, but he was not looking at her. She turned, and went slowly towards the door, her head bowed. She seemed to be shrunken and small. All her vitality had gone. She moved like an old woman, weakly.

The door opened before she reached it. Two men stood in the passage. She started back. One of them came a few paces into the room, looking at the man in the chair.

"Mr. James Layton?"

He rose unsteadily.

"Yes," he said, "I am James Layton. What do you want?"

"We are police officers, investigating the murder of Miss Christine Manderson."

The girl uttered a cry, and sprang between them.

"What do you want with him?" she demanded fiercely. "He knows nothing about it. How should he? What is it to do with him?"

The men looked at her with quick interest. But Layton silenced her with an imperative gesture.

"I am at your service," he said quietly. "What can I do for you?"

"We are instructed to ask you to be kind enough to return with us to Scotland Yard to answer a few questions that may assist the investigation of the crime."

"Certainly," Layton returned, without hesitation.

His face was perfectly calm. He showed no fear or agitation.

"We have a taxi waiting," the man said. He spoke to Layton—but he was looking at the girl.

"I will come with you at once," Layton replied.

He took up his hat and stick. The girl leant against the wall panting, a hand pressed to her heart.

"Jim," she gasped faintly. "Jim...."

He turned, with the first sign of kindness he had yet shown to her.

"Don't be frightened," he said gently. "I shall be back in an hour or so."

She clutched him desperately.

"You sha'n't go!" she cried wildly. "You sha'n't go!"

He put her aside firmly.

"Why shouldn't I go? There is nothing to be afraid of. I must help if I can."

The door closed behind them. The girl moved from the wall, and staggered to the table, leaning on it heavily. She was ashen. Her lips were gray. She heard them leave the house—heard the car start, and listened until the sound of it died away in the length of the street. Her strength failed. She sank to her knees. A moan of agony escaped her.

"For nothing...." she whispered. "Oh, God ... for nothing...."

She heard a quiet tap at the door, but could not answer. She saw the door open slowly. An enormous figure stood on the threshold.

She struggled to her feet.

"What do you want?" she murmured fearfully. "Have you come ... for me?"

The figure squeezed its way through the narrow doorway, and closed the door.

"Mademoiselle, you are a friend of Mr. James Layton, who was taken, a few minutes ago, to Scotland Yard?"

"Yes," she cried, "yes. I am his friend. What is it?"

"Before the end of the day, Mr. Layton will be detained on the charge of murder."

She screamed.

"He didn't do it! He didn't do it!"

"The evidence is strong," said the stranger. "He threatened her. He was in the garden when the crime was committed——"

She raised her hand, as if to ward off a blow.

"In the garden?" she shivered. "He was in the garden ... then?"

"He will require much assistance," continued the huge unknown—"and there is no time to lose. Will you help him?"

"I would die for him," she choked. "What can I do?"

The stranger re-opened the door.

"Come with me, mademoiselle," he said softly—"and I will tell you."



CHAPTER XVI

A TRIPLE ALLIANCE

He led the girl out of the house. At the corner of the street a taxi was waiting. He opened the door.

"Where are we going?" she demanded suspiciously.

"To the Hotel Savoy, mademoiselle," he answered.

She hung back.

"Why should I go with you?" she asked defiantly. "I have never seen you before. I don't know who you are."

"Mademoiselle," he replied, "your friend is in great danger. He will not be able to help himself. If you do not come with me, you will not be able to help him. And I assure you that he needs your help."

She got in without another word. He placed himself beside her, and the car started.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"My name," he told her, "is Dupont—Victorien Dupont. I arrived in London from Paris a few days ago."

"What have you to do with this?" she said doubtfully.

"That," he replied, "I cannot at the moment explain to you. I am concerned in this case for reasons of my own, which must remain my own for the present. I was in the garden when Christine Manderson was killed."

She started, staring at him.

"You were in the garden too?" she cried.

"I was," he affirmed. "And I know that Monsieur Layton did not kill her."

"He didn't!" she declared. "He couldn't kill anything. He spends his time giving life—not taking it."

"The police will be satisfied that he did, and they will have a strong case. Unless we can help him by discovering the truth in time, he will not be able to clear himself. Are you prepared to work for him?"

"I told you," she repeated passionately, "I would die for him."

"It is well," he said. "There will be three people on his side. You—my friend, Mr. Tranter, who was also in the garden—and myself. Together we will save him. There will be separate tasks for us all. Mr. Tranter will be waiting at the hotel when we arrive, and we will settle our plan of campaign. Until then, mademoiselle, let us not refer to the subject again. Do me the favor thoroughly to compose yourself. In these matters coolness is of the utmost importance."

He compressed himself further into his corner, and closed his eyes. The girl said nothing more. The rapidity of the whole catastrophe, and the sudden appearance of this new adventure bewildered her. The huge mysterious stranger almost frightened her. Though his eyes were shut and he made neither sound nor movement, she felt that he was searching her, that he was straining all his mental forces to steal the thoughts that were throbbing through her mind. As they drew near to their destination, she fiercely exerted the self-control that was one of her least developed virtues, and by the time they reached the Savoy, and Monsieur Dupont opened his eyes, she was steady and watchful.

"Mademoiselle," said Monsieur Dupont softly, "you will be of the greatest assistance. Already you know the value of silence."

In his private sitting-room they found Tranter awaiting them.

"My friend," said Monsieur Dupont, "this lady will work with us. She is much attached to James Layton, and her assistance will be most valuable." He turned to her. "Mademoiselle, I have not the honor...."

"My name's Jenny West," she said, comprehending the request.

"Where is Layton?" Tranter asked, as Monsieur Dupont placed a chair for the girl, and sat down himself.

"By this time," Monsieur Dupont replied, "he will have arrived at Scotland Yard. Our friend Inspector Fay will question him, and he will certainly be detained. As I have just explained to mademoiselle, he is in great danger. Unless we succeed in our object, his position is without hope."

Tears welled up in the girl's eyes, but she checked them with an effort.

"I wish," Monsieur Dupont continued, with careful emphasis, "that my own position also should be clearly understood, in so far as I am at liberty to explain it. I cannot yet tell you how I come to be interested in this affair. Soon I may do so—but until then you must be content to take me on trust, and to accept my assurance that I am fully qualified to direct you. Are you willing to follow my instructions without question—to save this innocent man, who will be accused of a horrible crime which he did not commit?"

"Yes, yes," the girl cried. "I am ready. I will do anything."

"And I," said Tranter.

"The directions I give may seem to be strange," Monsieur Dupont went on impressively—"but they must be followed. The errands on which I send you may seem to be unimportant and even foolish—but they must be carried out. Do not look for explanations, until I make them. I give account to no one. Those who work with me work much in the dark—but they reach the light. There must be no hesitation. Is that understood?"

Again the others agreed.

"Then," said Monsieur Dupont confidently, "we shall succeed. Layton will be saved—but it will be a hard and difficult task. The first law I have to impose on you is—silence. Complete silence, to every one except myself."

He turned to the girl.

"At three o'clock this afternoon, mademoiselle, unless you hear from me to the contrary, you will go to Scotland Yard, where Mr. Layton will be detained. That I shall verify by telephone. You will see him, and you will tell him this: You will say that I, Dupont, know how and why Christine Manderson died—that I, and those with me, will not allow the innocent to suffer—and that he shall be delivered from this charge. And say to him, also, anything from yourself that you may wish to say."

They were both gazing at him blankly.

"You know?" the girl gasped. "You know who killed her?"

The great Frenchman seemed to develop before their eyes into a figure of tremendous menace, every inch of him alive with implacable, relentless purpose.

"I know," he declared slowly, "just what I have told you—how and why she died. Ask me no more. Remember our conditions. There must be no questions until the time comes."

He rose, and took an envelope from his pocket.

"Certain things that I shall ask you to do, mademoiselle, may involve expense. In this envelope you will find a sufficient sum. Do not hesitate to accept it. Ample funds are at our command. When you return from Scotland Yard, report to me here. If I am not in, wait for me. And, above all, remember—silence."

He opened the door, and bowed her out. Then he turned to Tranter with a faint smile.

"Well, my friend?" he asked quietly.

"Do you really mean," Tranter exclaimed, "that you know the truth of the crime?"

Monsieur Dupont offered him a cigar, and lit one himself with great composure.

"I know just as much about the crime, my friend, as I have said. I repeat—I know how and why that unfortunate woman died. Who, or what, caused her to die is another matter, which we are setting ourselves to solve."

"You are certain that Layton is innocent?"

"James Layton did not commit the crime," Monsieur Dupont returned firmly. "But he will be hanged for it—if we are not in time."

"Well," said Tranter, "what is there for me to do?"

"For you," replied Monsieur Dupont, "there is the most important task in the case, so far. And the most dangerous. Within twenty-four hours you must discover, and bring to me here, the secret of the Crooked House."

"Good Lord!" Tranter exclaimed, taken aback, "how on earth am I to do that?"

"I do not know," Monsieur Dupont admitted. "Nor have I any helpful suggestions to make. The method of procedure I leave to you."

"Housebreaking is entirely out of my province," Tranter objected. "And the secret of that house, if there is one, is likely to be very well guarded."

"Probably," agreed Monsieur Dupont. "But the fact remains that before the end of the next twenty-four hours I must have that secret—and you are the person who must bring it to me."

Tranter took up his hat and stick, without further protest.

"Very well," he said stoutly. "I will do my best."

Monsieur Dupont looked at his watch.

"It is one o'clock," he said, opening the door. "At one o'clock to-morrow I shall be waiting for you in this room."



CHAPTER XVII

MR. GLUCKSTEIN IN CONFIDENCE

Mrs. Astley-Rolfe invariably received her creditors in pink deshabille.

The financier, Mr. Solomon Gluckstein, original and senior representative of John Brown & Co., Jermyn Street, was particularly fond of pink, and extremely susceptible to deshabille. Whiskey-and-soda, personally prepared for him in sufficient strength by his charming debtor, increased the fondness and the susceptibility.

"Ma tear lady," said Mr. Gluckstein, with desperate firmness, "I have come on an unplethant errand."

Mrs. Astley-Rolfe pouted petulantly.

"Am I to have no peace?" she complained, from an alluring attitude on a couch. "Isn't it enough to have gone through the last two days? Look at me. I am a nervous wreck."

"Then all women wouldth with to be nervouth wrecks," said Mr. Gluckstein gallantly.

"I believe that odious detective actually imagined at the beginning that I might have murdered the poor girl."

"Nonthenth," the financier assured her.

"I have scarcely had any sleep," she went on reproachfully. "It is a wonder I am not thoroughly ill. And now you—from whom I should have expected consideration—come here with a face like a rock, and announce your intention to be unpleasant. If I didn't know you so well, I might have believed you."

Mr. Gluckstein glanced towards the door, and drew his chair closer to her.

"Let us understand each other," he said deliberately. "At the present time you owe me a large thum of money."

"Gospel truth," she admitted.

"Very much more than you could pothibly pay, if I came down on you."

She uttered a sigh of relief.

"At last you realize that!" she exclaimed thankfully.

"Also," continued Mr. Gluckstein, "you owe money to various other people."

"Your veracity," she confessed, "is beyond question."

"Almosth ath much ath you owe to me."

"Quite as much," she said cheerfully.

"And you owe me," he continued—"twelve thousand poundth."

"The first time I have looked the evil fully in the face," she shuddered.

His small eyes regarded her intently.

"The last half of that—I lent to you on a certain understanding."

"Understanding?" she echoed languidly.

"Yeth."

"What did you understand?"

"That you intended to become engaged to George Copplesthone, who would pay your debths when you married him."

A quick change swept over her. She became hard and calculating.

"Well?" she returned.

"You have not become engaged to him."

"No."

"Some one elth became engaged to him."

"Yes," she said calmly.

"That doth not look," he concluded, "like fulfillment of the understanding."

"Doesn't it?" she retorted.

He glanced again at the door, and came still closer.

"Lithen," he said slowly. "I have been your friendth. I have done for you what I would not have done for any one elth. I have treated you fairly, and I have never prethed you."

She softened immediately.

"You have been very kind to me," she said gratefully.

"You muth be my friendth too. I muth tell you my thecret. Promith me faithfully that you will keep it."

She looked at him in astonishment.

"Certainly I will keep it," she agreed.

"Five days ago," Mr. Gluckstein informed her painfully, "my partner abthconded, and left me almosth a ruined man."

Her face expressed genuine sympathy.

"I am very sorry," she said feelingly. "What a dreadful blow for you."

"It ith unnethecessary to explain bithness details to you," the financier proceeded. "My working capital hath gone, and the fact thimply is that I cannot carry on—unleth——" he paused to give his words additional emphasis, "unleth you repay me my twelve thousand poundth in full within two months."

"Two months?" she exclaimed blankly.

"Two months," he repeatedly firmly. "That ith the utmost time I can give you. Have you any other means of raithing the money?"

"Not a ghost of one," she replied frankly. "I might as well try to push over the Marble Arch as raise a single thousand."

"Then," he said steadily, "if you do not marry Copplesthone I am a bankrupt—and a bankrupt I will not be."

"I shall marry him," she said. "I told you I should—and I shall. You will have your money."

"I believed you," he returned. "But another woman beat you."

She looked away from him.

"Did she?" she replied evenly.

There was silence for a moment.

"When Copplesthone announthed his engagement to Mith Manderthon," the financier went on, "I stood ruined. I admit it. I stood ruined by your defeat. That ith the thecret that you muth keep. I was sure that you had no other means of paying me back. Nothing could save me but a miraculouth removal of the obstacle."

"The obstacle was removed," she said, in the same even tone.

He shuddered.

"It wath. The obstacle that stood between you and Copplesthone, and me and ruination, wath removed. It was a ghastly thing, and we are very thorry. But let uth be candid. It wath to our advantage."

"Yes," she agreed slowly—"it was to our advantage."

"There must not be another obstacle," he said.

"There will not be another," she replied. "George Copplestone will marry me—and you shall have your twelve thousand pounds, as I promised. You need not be anxious."

He looked round the luxurious room, and sighed deeply. It surprised her that she had not noticed before how much he had aged.

"I must begin again," he said. "I am getting old—but I will rebuild my fortune. I will not be the only poor Jew in London."

"You have been a good friend to me," she said gently. "I am very sorry."

He paused to finish his drink, but his crafty eyes never left her face. She did not meet them.

"I wonder," he said, in a slightly lower tone, replacing his empty glass on the table, "what the police will discover."

"I should imagine that there is very little to be discovered," she returned. "There seems no doubt that it was James Layton, the Mad Millionaire, as he is called. He will probably be arrested within the next twenty-four hours. It appears to be a clear case. He threatened her—in front of us all. And he was in the garden."

"It ought to be enough," he admitted, more easily. "What more could they want?"

"The evidence is very strong," she said, lazily settling her deshabille. "Many people have been hanged on less. Apparently the police are satisfied. At least, they have not arrested either of us."

The financier started violently.

"Either of uth?" he cried, aghast. "What do you mean, either of uth?"

Her smile was enigmatical.

"As you said just now—the removal of the obstacle was to the advantage of both of us."

"But they don't know," he shivered. "They can't know."

"I hope not," she said shortly.

Perspiration began to stand out on his forehead. He had lost color considerably.

"You promised to keep my thecret," he exclaimed nervously. "Noth a word to any one."

"I shall keep my promise," she replied.

"There is no cause for alarm. I don't think Inspector Fay will trouble us."

There was a tap at the door. They turned as the butler entered.

"Inspector Fay would like to see you for a few minutes, madam."

They looked at each other. The financier was agitated. The woman was perfectly calm.

"Talk of the devil!" she smiled.

Mr. Gluckstein gripped his hat, stick, and gloves, and rose hurriedly.

"He must not see me here," he said jerkily. "Let me out another way."

"Go through there," she said, pointing to a door at the opposite end of the room, "and when he has come in, Parker will let you out. Bring the inspector in, Parker."

The financier did not wait to shake hands.

"Remember," he whispered passing her—"both your promises."

"They will be kept," she said.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE WIT OF THE PINK LADY

Inspector Fay entered the room at one end a few seconds after Mr. Gluckstein left it at the other.

Mrs. Astley-Rolfe greeted him in a friendly fashion. She showed considerable strain—but, otherwise, was looking her best. And her best was delightful.

"Good morning, inspector," she said languidly.

"Good morning, madam." He glanced back to make certain that the door was closed. "I trust you have recovered from the shock of the crime."

"I still feel it very much," she replied, shuddering. "It was the most horrible experience I have ever had. To think of seeing that poor girl alive and well one minute, and the next—like that. It's too dreadful to think of."

"It was certainly a most disgusting crime," the inspector agreed.

"I suppose it was James Layton?"

"I am afraid I cannot make any statement at present," he replied. "Our investigations are proceeding as quickly as possible. I hope we shall clear it up in a few days."

"I hope you will," she declared fervently. "Such a brutal criminal can expect no mercy."

"In the meantime," continued the inspector, "I should be much obliged if you would kindly give me a little information."

"Certainly," she said readily. "Sit down."

He sat down, facing her. She made a charming picture. But Inspector Fay had been taken in by charming women several times during the early part of his career, and at this stage of it was as impervious as an oyster.

"Please understand," he began, "that in asking these questions I am making no insinuations or suggestions of any kind. It is necessary to establish certain facts."

"I quite understand," she assured him. "What do you want to know?"

"I want to know what you were saying to Mr. Copplestone in the garden, before Mr. Tranter came to tell him that Miss Manderson had gone into the house."

She started.

"I?" she exclaimed. "I was not with Mr. Copplestone."

He remained silent.

"I told you, I was not with any one. I did not feel quite myself, and strolled about alone."

The inspector's face was quite impassive.

"You wish me to accept that answer?" he asked quietly.

She stiffened haughtily.

"What do you mean?" she said sharply.

"I mean that you wish that answer to be accepted as the truth?"

"Of course. Are you suggesting that it is not?"

"I am suggesting nothing," he returned, with unruffled composure. "But I must tell you that if I am to accept that answer, it may have serious consequences."

"Serious consequences?" she echoed, startled.

"Yes."

"For whom?"

"Possibly for Mr. Copplestone himself."

Signs of uneasiness began to appear, in spite of her wonderful self-control.

"For Mr. Copplestone...?"

"For Mr. Copplestone," the inspector affirmed steadily.

"I don't understand," she said. "Will you kindly explain?"

"Certainly." His voice dropped slightly. "Mr. Copplestone lied to me."

"Lied to you?"

"Lied to me," he repeated. "In accounting for himself, from the time he came out into the garden after dinner until Mr. Tranter found him to deliver Miss Manderson's message, he lied to me deliberately. I want to know why."

"You had better ask him," she retorted. "I do not know."

"Mr. Bolsover, the theatrical manager, told me that he found James Layton lurking by the house, and called to Mr. Copplestone before following him. Mr. Copplestone stated that the reason he did not hear that call was that he had gone into the house to refill his cigarette-case, and did not come out again until just before Mr. Tranter found him after leaving Miss Manderson. That statement was false."

"How do you know?" she asked quickly.

"He did not go into the house to refill his cigarette-case. He had had no opportunity to smoke afterwards, and when I questioned him his case was almost empty. He may have gone in for another reason——or he may not have gone in at all."

"Is it not very trivial?" she said.

"If you had been dealing with crimes and criminals as long as I have," the inspector returned, "you would know that nothing is trivial. At present, Mr. Copplestone's time while the crime was being committed is unaccounted for—and he is detected in a lie. It is not a pleasant position to be in."

She was silent. Her hands moved nervously.

"What is the use of telling me this?" she asked.

"It occurred to me," he replied, "that you might be able to extricate him from that position."

"Why?" she demanded resentfully.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Can you?" he insisted, watching her closely.

For a moment she paused. There was malevolence in her gaze.

"I do not know what he was doing," she said obstinately.

"Madam," said the inspector impressively, "if George Copplestone stood in the dock in front of you, and his life depended on the truth of your answer—would it still be the same answer?"

She turned on him.

"In the dock? What do you mean?"

"Would it still be the same answer?" he repeated sternly.

"Do you suggest that he may have committed the crime?" she exclaimed contemptuously. "Its absurd!"

"I told you," he said, "I suggest nothing. My case must be complete. I want to know the truth."

Silence followed. She plucked angrily at the lace edge of her gown. Inspector Fay waited imperturbably.

"He was with me," she said, at last, sullenly.

"Thank you," said the inspector.

There was another pause.

"Please go on," he pressed her.

She did not attempt to conceal her resentment at his insistence. But the inspector's attitude was compelling.

"We had a private conversation," she said viciously. "What passed between us concerned only ourselves."

"I have no wish to pry into that," he told her. "But I should like to know why both you and Mr. Copplestone preferred to tell me a falsehood rather than admit that you were talking together in the garden."

"We had our reasons," she snapped, "for not wishing it to be known that we had been together. We had no time to speak privately after the crime was discovered, and it evidently seemed best to both of us, rather than risk conflicting statements, not to admit that we had spoken to each other at all. I hope you have nothing more to ask me."

The inspector rose.

"I have nothing more to ask you, madam," he said politely. "I trust it will not be necessary for me to trouble you again in this case. But if it should be—you will find that in such serious matters it is always better to speak the truth. Good morning."

He walked quickly out of the room, leaving a lady in pink deshabille quivering with an emotion that was not anger, but a new triumph.



CHAPTER XIX

DETAINED ON SUSPICION

Inspector Fay left the house of the lady in pink with a satisfied expression on his face. At the corner of the street he hailed a taxi, and drove to Scotland Yard.

Under the watchful eyes of his escort, James Layton awaited him. The millionaire was perfectly composed, and appeared to be under no apprehension as to the outcome of his visit. He accompanied the inspector to a private room, and sat down in a comfortable chair without the smallest sign of alarm.

"Mr. James Layton?" the inspector began, seating himself at a table.

"Yes."

"Mr. Layton, I am Inspector Fay—in charge of the investigations of the death of Miss Christine Manderson, at Richmond, on Tuesday night. I want you to be good enough to answer the questions I have to ask you as clearly as possible."

"Certainly," the young man replied, unhesitatingly.

"To begin with—did you go to Richmond on that night?"

"I did."

"Were you alone?"

"I was."

"Did you call at Mr. Copplestone's house at half-past eight?"

"Yes."

"You asked to see Mr. Copplestone?"

"Yes."

"And he refused to see you?"

"He did."

"What was your object in calling on him, in that manner, at such an inconvenient time?"

"I had just ascertained that Miss Manderson had, or was about to, become engaged to marry him. My object was to tell him that he was not a fit person to be her husband, and that I would prevent the marriage at all costs."

"That you would prevent the marriage?"

"Yes."

"Because, in your opinion, he was unworthy of her?"

"Totally."

"Had you any right to take upon yourself the control of Miss Manderson's choice of a husband?"

"No right, perhaps—as you use the term."

"As any one would use it?"

"To my mind, yes."

"To your mind you had a right to interfere in that engagement?"

"Yes."

"We will come back to that presently," the inspector proceeded. "What did you do when Mr. Copplestone refused to see you?"

"I am afraid my excitement got the better of me. I forced my way past the servant, and went into a room from which I heard voices, thinking that he was there with her."

"You knew, then, that she was in the house at the time?"

"Yes. I had previously telephoned to her hotel, and her maid had told me that she was spending the evening at Copplestone's house."

"I am told you burst into the room uttering her name."

"Possibly."

"But you found only some guests of Mr. Copplestone's, who had been invited to dinner?"

"Yes."

"Was there anything strange about the room?"

"It was decorated in an extraordinary manner."

"I think you made some remark about the decorations?"

"Perhaps I did. I had been told something of Mr. Copplestone's eccentricities, and I inferred that the engagement was an accomplished fact, and that the decorations had been put up in celebration of it."

"Do you remember saying anything else in the room?"

"I said that rather than allow Miss Manderson to be engaged to George Copplestone, I would tear her to pieces with my own hands."

"And utterly destroy her?"

"Yes."

"A somewhat violent announcement," the inspector observed.

"I am afraid it was."

"You were in a state of great excitement, were you not?"

"I was very excited."

"Almost beside yourself?"

"I cannot say that."

"Were you responsible for your words and actions at the time?"

"Perfectly."

"You really meant what you said?"

"I meant what I said," the young man declared calmly.

The inspector was writing rapidly.

"You were then requested to leave the house, and I think you left quite quietly?"

"Yes."

"What did you do then?"

"I climbed over the wall into the garden and waited for an opportunity to get into the house again and speak to Copplestone or Miss Manderson."

"You were behaving rather strangely, were you not, Mr. Layton?" the inspector asked.

"I suppose I was."

"If you had heard of any one else acting in the same way, you would have thought that he could hardly have been in a normal state of mind?"

"I expect I should."

"Yet you say you were quite yourself?"

"I was quite myself."

"And prepared to carry out your threat?"

"I do not know what I was prepared to do. I did not carry it out."

"Later on, one of the guests, Mr. Bolsover, found you creeping round the house towards an open window?"

"Yes."

"Before he ran after you, do you remember hearing him call to Mr. Copplestone?"

"Yes, he did."

"Was there any answer?"

"I did not hear one."

"Mr. Bolsover then followed you out in the direction in which the crime was committed?"

"I do not know where the crime was committed," Layton replied firmly. "I know nothing of the crime."

"Whoever committed it managed to fulfill your own threat fairly fully."

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Have you any suggestion to make as to who that person may have been?"

"No."

"What, then, did you do when Mr. Bolsover ran after you?"

"I eluded him in the darkness, climbed over the wall again, and went away."

"Without having fulfilled your object?"

"Yes."

"Had you seen anything at all of Miss Manderson, or Mr. Copplestone?"

"Nothing."

There was a pause. James Layton waited quietly while the inspector finished off his notes. His face was a trifle paler than before, but he betrayed no sign of agitation.

"Now," resumed the inspector, "let us go back. You said that to your mind you had a right to interfere in Miss Manderson's engagement?"

"I did."

"What had given you that right?"

"I am sorry," the young man returned courteously—"but I decline to answer that question."

"When and where did you first meet her?"

"I cannot tell you."

"You would be wiser to do so."

"Possibly."

The inspector's face darkened.

"Mr. Layton," he said, with unmistakable emphasis, "you had better not decline to answer any question. I must warn you that your position may become extremely serious."

"I am afraid," Layton remarked quietly, "that you have already made up your mind that I am guilty of the crime."

"That is as it may be," replied the inspector. "I am advising you for your own good. To refuse to answer questions is not the way to allay suspicion—but to increase it."

"I realize that," the young man said. "But I still refuse."

Inspector Fay leant back in his chair patiently.

"Come, Mr. Layton, you will only put us to the trouble and delay of proving what you might as well tell us at once. And it will do you no good."

"I should be sorry to cause you any additional trouble," Layton replied. "But I have my reasons."

"Let me help you," continued the inspector. "I have had inquiries made at Miss Manderson's hotel, at the theater at which she was to have appeared, of her maid, and various other sources. We have got her time pretty well accounted for. It seems that you have not seen her at all since she arrived in this country two months ago. Is that so?"

There was no answer.

"Anyway, if you did see her once or twice, there were certainly no opportunities for anything to develop between you to account for your behavior, or justify to the right to which you considered yourself entitled. You must have known her before."

Layton was still silent. The inspector continued easily.

"I am wondering whether a cable across the Atlantic would bring me a description of a certain Michael Cranbourne, once well known in the United States—particularly in Chicago—son of a multi-millionaire."

James Layton stiffened in his chair. He had become white and tense.

"A large part in the career of Michael Cranbourne was played by an adventuress named Thea Colville—said, at one time, to have been the most beautiful woman in America—and known later, on the stage in New York, as Christine Manderson."

The young man rose. On his face there was a wonderful new dignity and calm—a relief, as if some heavy burden had dropped from him and left him free.

"Yes," he said quietly, "I am Michael Cranbourne. I might have admitted it at first. What do you want now?"

"The whole story," the inspector replied, motioning him back to his chair.

"I will tell you," he said.

He sat down again. A great contentment seemed to rest upon him, as on one who reaches the end of a difficult and tiring journey. There was a long pause.

"I first met Thea Colville," he began, at last, "in Chicago, when I was twenty-five—seven years ago. She was twenty. It would be no use attempting to give you an idea of what she was like. You never saw her alive. No description could convey an impression of her beauty—of her awful fascination. From the moment I first saw her there was no other woman in my world. I was engaged to be married, but I put an end to it. People said I behaved badly, but I didn't care. I couldn't look at, or think of, another woman after I had seen her. She enslaved me. I was hers, body and soul. She held me helpless. I was only one of many, but I was a favored one—at least, I thought so."

He told his story slowly, in a low voice, without emotion. He was staring out straight in front of him, forgetful of his surroundings and his listener. The past held him.

"My family warned me, and threatened me. I knew they were telling me the truth—but I wouldn't listen. I hadn't been brought up to care what results my actions brought on other people. I thought only of myself—of the indulgence of my own desires. I lived a useless, contemptible life—entirely without scruples or restraints. There was scarcely a vice that I was not steeped in—hardly a sin that I had not explored. I had enough money to gratify all my senses. Nothing was beneath me. I plunged into every depravity. I made new depths for myself." He clenched his hands. "And I led others after me."

There was another pause. He sat rigid. The inspector waited patiently.

"I need not trouble you with unnecessary details," the low voice went on. "It is enough that for her sake I sacrificed all my prospects—I threw away my heritage. To keep her for myself I squandered every cent I could lay my hands on. I robbed my own brother. I forged my father's name. I did ... other things. It was only the generosity of my family that kept me from gaol. And Thea threw me over."

"Apparently," the inspector remarked, not unsympathetically, "her standard of morality was on a somewhat similar level."

"She is dead," said the young man gently. "'De mortuis nil nisi bonum.'"

The inspector shrugged his shoulders.

"As you please," he said. "Go on."

"She refused to see me—to have anything more to do with me. She cut me out of her life with one stroke. For the first time I knew she hadn't cared. That broke me. I was very ill. For a year I knew no one. I couldn't hear or speak. They fed me like a child. They thought I was mad"—his eyes began to gleam unnaturally, his words quickened—"but in reality I was in the presence of God. I was in the image I had brought upon my soul—black, hideous, distorted, reeking with the filth of my sins. I saw myself—in all the degradation I had brought upon the Shape of God. I saw my own page in the Book of Life. All the entries were on the debit side. The credit side was bare. I waited for damnation—but there is no damnation. There is only Building. I went out from the presence of God—a Builder."

His face was transformed. His voice rang with triumph—with the pride of victory.

"I came to myself. It was like waking from the dead. It was a long time before I recovered even a little of my strength. Every hand was against me—except my mother's. She stood by me. When she died, a year later, I inherited the whole of her fortune. The others tried to take it away from me, but I fought them. I had new uses for the money. I came over to this country, and began my work. For four years I have given myself and all I have. Go and see for yourself what I have done. Go and see the men, women, and children who would die for me. Go and hear them bless my name. Hear of the lives I have built—the light I have brought. I have filled up my credit side. I have a balance in hand in the Book of Life."

Inspector Fay remained silent. He was a severely practical man. Before his mind there was only the outcome of the interview. The young man controlled himself with an effort. His excitement passed. He was again quiet and composed.

"None of my old passions or inclinations remained—except my love for Thea. I couldn't crush it. I fought against it with all my strength. I struggled to stamp it out, but it was unconquerable. Her face was always in front of me, day and night. Her voice was always in my ears. I couldn't escape. I heard nothing more of her until about six weeks ago, when I saw a photograph of her in one of the papers under the name of Christine Manderson, with a statement that she had arrived in London to play at the Imperial Theater. The longing to see her again was too strong for me. Day after day I waited outside the stage-door of the theater—until she came, in all her fatal, maddening beauty. We stood facing each other ... and she passed me by without a word."

His voice broke. He pressed his thin hands together.

"The madness came over me again. The sight of her fanned all the old flames. I was on fire. I tried to follow her, but they kept me out. I wrote to her that night, telling her what I had done, how I had suffered, and begging, imploring her to let me see her. The answer was a curt note, in the third person, saying that she declined to receive any communication from me whatsoever."

Again he paused. The inspector made no comment.

"I found out where she was staying, what her plans were, and who were her friends. I discovered that she had come under the influence of George Copplestone, who is little better than I was once. The thought that she was to be the sport of his depravity drove me to frenzy. I neglected my work. I could do nothing. Then I heard that they were on the point of becoming engaged. The rest you know. I followed her to Copplestone's house. She had evidently warned him against me. I forced my way into the room, calling her by the name of Christine——"

"Why?" the inspector asked

"Because it was obvious that she would not wish the name of Thea Colville to be known to London. That is all I have to tell you."

The inspector rose.

"Mr. Cranbourne," he said formally, "after hearing your story, I am afraid I have no option but to detain you on suspicion of having caused the death of Christine Manderson, otherwise Thea Colville, and to warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you."

The young man heard him without a tremor.

"I did not kill her," he said firmly. "God's will be done."



CHAPTER XX

THE BIRTH OF THE KILLER

Monsieur Dupont was one of those fortunate individuals who can sleep in a train.

He left Paddington at one o'clock, and slept for an hour, a sleep of childlike ease and innocence. When he woke the train was within five minutes of his destination. He alighted at a small country station, and instituted inquiries for a conveyance.

Twenty minutes later, an unimpressionable horse, attached to a hybrid vehicle, was jogging him along country lanes which would have delighted a man with less serious purposes. But Monsieur Dupont was too much occupied with the uglinesses of humanity to heed the beauties of nature. It was not until they arrived at the outskirts of a small village that he began to look about him with interest.

It was a lovely spot, nestling in primeval innocence under the shelter of protecting hills. Monsieur Dupont uttered a heavy sigh, and spoke, for the first time during the drive, to the stout, sunburnt lad who conducted the equipage.

"My friend," he said sorrowfully, "who could imagine that such a corner of heaven could have been the cradle of one of the most terrible tragedies of the world? I feel like a purveyor of sins, creeping into the preserves of God."

The startled stare that confronted him was not helpful to further conversation. The disconcerted youth vigorously obtained fresh impetus from their source of progress, and drew up at length, with obvious relief, before a low, creeper-covered house, lying in a nest of flowers.

Monsieur Dupont's gentle knock produced a rubicund housekeeper, of about eighty, who blended in perfect harmony with the house, the creeper, and the flowers.

"Doctor Lessing, if you please, madame," said Monsieur Dupont.

He was shown into a small library, opening on to the garden. The room was flooded with sunshine. There were flowers everywhere.

"Mon Dieu," said Monsieur Dupont, aloud, "that I should come to ask such questions here."

He turned as the door opened, and bowed before a sturdy, white-haired old man, bronzed with the health of the country.

"Monsieur Dupont?" said the doctor. "What can I do for you?"

Monsieur Dupont took a letter from his pocket, and unfolded it.

"Monsieur, I beg you to read this letter. It is from the French Embassy, and begs assistance to me in an investigation that I am making."

Doctor Lessing read the letter, and returned it.

"I shall be happy to assist you in any way I can," he said, courteously. "Please sit down."

Monsieur Dupont sat down by the open windows and drank in the fragrance of the garden.

"Doctor Lessing," he began, "I believe it is for a long time that you have lived in this beautiful place?"

"For forty-five years," the old doctor smiled contentedly. "But I am by no means one of its oldest inhabitants. Lives are long in the country. To what period do you wish to refer?"

"A period," Monsieur Dupont replied, "nearly forty years ago. I do not know exactly."

"A long stretch," said Doctor Lessing ruefully. "But my memory shall do its best for you. That is all I can promise."

"I am engaged," said Monsieur Dupont, "on an extraordinary quest. I do not think that any human being has ever been engaged on a more extraordinary quest."

"A pleasant one, I trust," said the doctor.

"As much to the contrary as it is possible to imagine."

The doctor murmured a regret and waited for his huge visitor to continue.

"Do you," Monsieur Dupont inquired, "recollect the name of Winslowe?"

Doctor Lessing started slightly.

"Winslowe?"

"Oscar Winslowe."

A keen glance flashed from the doctor's eyes.

"Yes," he said quickly, "I recollect the name."

"He lived, I think in this village at the time I have said?"

"Yes." The reply was a trifle curt.

"Perhaps," Monsieur Dupont proceeded evenly, "there were circumstances in connection with that name which helped to fix it in your memory?"

"There were certain circumstances," the doctor admitted, "which made it a name that I am unlikely to forget."

"Unpleasant circumstances?" queried Monsieur Dupont.

"The most unpleasant that have ever occurred to me in the whole length of my practice."

"It is for that story," said Monsieur Dupont, "that I have come to ask. May I beg all the details that you can recall?"

"Perhaps you will first tell me," the doctor returned, "for what purpose you require this information?"

"I require it," Monsieur Dupont replied impressively, "to save the life of an innocent man, who is wrongly accused of the crime of murder. I require it also prove three deaths, and possibly to prevent another three."

Again the doctor started. His hands gripped the arms of his chair.

"Three deaths?" he exclaimed sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Three deaths," repeated Monsieur Dupont. "Of three very beautiful women."

The doctor sprang to his feet.

"My God!" he cried hoarsely.

"Will you tell me the story?" said Monsieur Dupont.

Doctor Lessing sat down again in his chair. He was considerably shaken. He leant back and closed his eyes, remaining silent for a few moments.

"I think," he began at last, "that I can, at all events, remember the chief facts of the case. It was such a remarkable and distressing one that it stands out in the annals of such a peaceful spot as this, and it has therefore remained in my memory, though so much else has faded. But you must make allowances for the flight of time. Look out of the window to the left, and you will see a large red house, on the slope of the hill."

"I see it," said Monsieur Dupont, following the direction.

"That was Oscar Winslowe's house, forty years ago. Winslowe was an unprincipled and dissolute man. He was only about twenty-five or six at that time, but already he was sodden with drink, drugs, and vice of every description. He was the worst kind of blackguard. But his wife was the exact opposite to him, a gentle, delicate girl. She was not beautiful, but her nature more than compensated for lack of beauty. He had married her for her money, and treated her abominably. I became friendly with her, partly because of the pity I felt for her on account of his treatment, and partly because I sincerely admired the beauty of her character. In consequence of that friendship, I undertook to watch over her entry into motherhood."

"That is what I want," said Monsieur Dupont. "Her entry into motherhood."

"The more I saw of her," continued the doctor, "the greater grew my pity. There have been wonderful women in the world who have made history by their patience and endurance—but this woman was one of those, equally brave and equally patient, of whom history knows nothing. She worshipped her husband, blindly, dumbly—as an animal will still love the man or woman who ill-treats it. She never uttered a word of complaint or blame. Her greatest hope was that the advent of the child would induce from him something of the consideration and tenderness that he had never given her. She believed it was some fault, some shortcoming, of hers that had kept it from her. It didn't occur to her that it might be the beauty of another woman."

"Ah!" said Monsieur Dupont eagerly.

"She discovered that about three months before the child was born. I can't remember how the discovery came about. She followed him to London—and found him, even that short time before the birth of his child, lavishing on a beautiful society woman all that should have been hers."

In spite of the years that had passed the doctor's voice still rose in anger. He paused, checking himself.

"Before that supreme insult, that shattering of her hopes, the poor girl lost her reason. In the state of her health, it was not surprising. She, who would never have harmed a fly, who had never wished ill to any one in her life, became possessed with an awful fury to stamp out the beauty that had robbed her—to destroy the face and body that were more to the man she loved than her own. The other woman, undeserving of consideration as she was, narrowly escaped a horrible punishment. The unfortunate girl was brought back here, and I was sent for to attend her. She grew worse hour after hour. Her mind was completely unhinged. From a furious hatred of the beauty of the woman who had wronged her, the mania increased into a furious hatred of beauty in any shape or form, and a savage lust to destroy it. In the house there were many portraits of the beautiful women of the Winslowe family. She tore the pictures to shreds. There were statues and valuable works of art. She smashed them all to pulp. Her madness was the most terrible thing I have ever seen. She had to be forcibly restrained."

Monsieur Dupont listened intently. There was an expression of triumph on his face.

"A pitiful story," he said softly.

"She partially recovered in a few weeks," the doctor went on, "and before the three months were up her reason, if not actually sound again, was at least restored. But she was a wreck of a woman. There was darkness all round her. She heard nothing more of Winslowe. He never came back to the house. The madness returned when she gave birth to her child, and she died in an asylum a fortnight afterwards."

A longer pause followed. The recitation of his memories moved the good old doctor as the actual experience must have moved the young man of forty years before. He rose, and walked to the window, sniffing the scent of the flowers with relief.

"She left the care of the child to the nurse who was devoted to her, with ample funds for its future. When the affairs were settled up, the nurse took the child away with her, and I have not seen her since."

He made a relieved gesture.

"That is the whole story," he said.

"The nurse," inquired Monsieur Dupont, "what was her name?"

"Masters. Miss Elizabeth Masters."

"Is she still alive?"

"So far as I know she is," the doctor replied. "But I should not have been likely to have heard of her death, if it had taken place."

"Can you assist me to discover her address?"

"She wrote to me periodically," Doctor Lessing returned. "She was an excellent nurse, and I got her some cases in town. But it is a long time since I last heard from her. There may be one or two old letters of hers in my desk. If you will excuse me for a moment, I will see if I can find them for you."

He left the room. Monsieur Dupont turned to the window, and gazed dreamily out into the sunshine.

"And so," he muttered—"in this corner of paradise the Destroyer was born."



CHAPTER XXI

A HASTY FLIGHT

Doctor Lessing re-entered the room with a letter in his hand.

"The last address I can find," he said, "is 35, De Vere Terrace, Streatham. That is sixteen years old, but as it tells me that she had only just moved in, you might find her still there."

Monsieur Dupont made a note of the address.

"There remains only one question," he said, replacing his pocket-book. "Can you tell me the name of the child?"

The doctor shook his head.

"I'm afraid I can't. The child was christened in the church here, but I was away at the time, and when I returned Miss Masters had gone to London."

"It is very important," said Monsieur Dupont. "Perhaps I can discover it at the church?"

"You will not find any one to tell you at this time," the doctor replied. "But, if you will leave me your address, I will send over to the parsonage this evening and ask Mr. Wickham to turn it up in the register, and let you know."

Monsieur Dupont delivered himself of profuse thanks. Five minutes later he had taken leave of the old doctor, and was returning to the station under the guidance of the sunburnt youth, who was obviously relieved when the expedition terminated.

He slept peacefully until the train reached Paddington.

It was five o'clock when he returned to the Savoy. The girl, Jenny West, was waiting for him. She was as white as death.

"They have charged him," she sobbed. "He is remanded for a week."

He laid a hand gently on her shoulder.

"Do not be afraid," he said. "He will be saved. I have given my word—the word of Dupont—that he will be saved."

He sat down at his writing table, and wrote rapidly for several minutes. He covered four or five sheets of paper, and placed them in an envelope.

"Here, mademoiselle," he said, rising, "are your instructions for to-morrow morning. Do not read them until you are alone. A car will be waiting for you here at ten o'clock in the morning. In the afternoon you will be at liberty to visit Monsieur Layton. I shall expect to see you here at one o'clock."

He bowed her out of the room. Half an hour later, he was on his way to Streatham.

* * * * *

A grim expression settled on his face as the journey proceeded, yet it was not altogether unmixed with pity. He was a man of ready sympathy. The doctor's story had evidently moved him to view his task with a new compassion.

As his car turned into De Vere Terrace, he became alert, and scrutinized the houses closely. They were small semi-detached villas. He alighted in front of number 35, passed up the carefully kept front garden, and knocked at the door.

There was no response. He knocked again, several times, but the silence of the house remained undisturbed. He left the door, and glanced in at the front windows, but the room was so dark that he could discern nothing. He walked round to the back. Through the uncurtained kitchen windows he saw a fire in the range. It had almost burnt itself out. There were cooking utensils on the table. Some pastry was rolled out on a board. Apparently the household operations had been somewhat rudely interrupted, and very hastily abandoned. The back door and windows were securely fastened. Returning to the front, he carefully closed the gate, and knocked at the door of the adjoining house.

The name of the house was "Sans Souci," and the door was opened by a lady in rich purple, with a string of pearls.

Monsieur Dupont swept off his hat.

"Madame, I make a thousand apologies! Can you tell me when I shall find Miss Masters at home."

His extreme bulk and the fact that he was not an Englishman seemed to cause the lady considerable amusement.

"I'm sure I don't know," she said engagingly. "I think she's gone away."

"Away?" Monsieur Dupont echoed.

"She left in a great hurry two hours ago," the lady informed him. "In a motor."

Monsieur Dupont appeared somewhat staggered.

"Two hours ago...." he muttered.

"I heard a noise going on in the house," continued the lady, "as if she was packing quickly. She went off with a couple of boxes, and seemed very impatient."

"It is most unfortunate," said Monsieur Dupont mildly. "I have come all the way from the Strand to see her."

The lady laughed freely.

"I'm very sorry," she said good-naturedly. "Won't you come in and rest a bit?"

"Madame," he said, "you are very good, but I must return to the Strand. Would you allow me to ask you some questions, without finding me impertinent?"

"What are they?" she asked.

"Will you tell me if any particular person was in the habit of visiting Miss Masters?"

The lady stiffened slightly.

"Are you a friend of Miss Masters?" she inquired, shortly.

"I am not," Monsieur Dupont admitted frankly. "I have never seen her. It is a few hours ago that I heard her name for the first time."

"I really cannot answer any questions to a stranger," said the lady stiffly. "I don't know you."

Monsieur Dupont bowed.

"If you did, madame," he said, "I should be the proudest of men. Do me the favor to read this letter."

He produced the letter from the French Embassy, and handed it to her. She read it, and was duly impressed.

"Of course I'll do anything for the French Embassy," she said, returning the letter with dignity. "Miss Masters wasn't what you might call a friend of mine. I used to speak to her because she lived in the next house, but it didn't go beyond that. She kept very much to herself. I don't want to say anything at all unkind, but very few ladies in our set knew her. Of course it wasn't her fault, but she was not exactly classy. And when one lives in a neighborhood like this, it's class that tells."

Monsieur Dupont bowed again.

"Obviously, madame," he said.

"The only person that used to visit her," continued the gratified lady, "was a man who often used to arrive in the evening and stay the night. We understood she was an old nurse of his, or something of the kind, and that he more or less provided for her."

"And this man, madame—what was he like?"

"He was rather tall," she said, "and had a dark moustache. He was always well dressed, and looked quite a gentleman."

"You heard his name?"

"No—we never heard his name. I did tell my house-parlor-maid to try to find out once, but she couldn't. Miss Masters actually accused me of prying."

"Mon Dieu," said Monsieur Dupont.

"We had a bit of a row," said the lady candidly.

"Does she live alone, madame?"

"Yes, quite alone. She does everything for herself."

"My last question," said Monsieur Dupont, "may seem remarkable. It is this. Have strange things appeared to be happening in the house during the visits of the tall gentleman with the dark moustache?"

She started, looking at him curiously.

"Strange things?" she repeated slowly.

"Perhaps—violent things."

"Well, that's queer," she exclaimed. "As a matter of fact, we once heard the most extraordinary noises going on when he was there. My husband thought of sending in to ask if anything was the matter."

"What kind of noises, madame?"

"Like as it might be heavy things being thrown about and smashed," said the lady elegantly.

Monsieur Dupont swept off his hat again.

"Thank you, madame," he said—and went back to his car.



CHAPTER XXII

TRANTER ATTACKS THE CROOKED HOUSE

In the evening, Tranter set off to the Crooked House.

It was dark when he reached it, and the roads were empty. Through the open lodge gates he slipped into the garden unseen. The place seemed deserted. The front of the house showed not a glimmer of light. The whole ugly shape of it stood out gauntly against the sky of the summer night. In the shadow of the trees, he stood watching it, alert to detect a sign of life. But no such sign appeared. The Crooked House was as dark and silent as a tomb.

He crept nearer, keeping under cover of the trees, and skirted the lawns to the back of the house. There, also, darkness reigned. No sound disturbed the stillness. Facing him were the dark shapes of the trees surrounding the wing of the house which extended from the opposite corner. The foliage was so dense that no part of the wing itself was visible. He moved quickly across the back of the house, and reached the trees. As he passed under them, it seemed that he was feeling his way among monstrous sentinels of a dark mystery.

A thick hedge loomed up in front of him. It appeared to surround the entire wing. He walked round, trying to find a place thin enough to allow him to push his way through—but the hedge was evidently there for the express purpose of defeating such an intention. It was impossible to penetrate it, to creep under it, or to climb over it. At the extremity of the wing, about which the trees were thickest, he saw a faint light, escaping round the edge of a blind.

He stopped beneath it. It was a meager, unpleasant light, too dim to be of any greater use in the room than to afford the barest relief from complete darkness. The window was half overgrown with ivy, and he could see that it was filthily dirty. The light continually flickered, and once or twice it seemed to have died out altogether. An eerie sensation began to possess him. He felt very strongly the evil influence of the house. Curiosity to discover what sinister secret it really harbored increased and nerved him.

Again he tried to force a way through the hedge, but everywhere it was an impassable barrier. Slowly and noiselessly he worked his way round the wing, only to find it completely enclosed on all sides. He returned, and stood looking up at the window. Either the light was brighter, or the gap at the edge of the blind had widened. He thought he saw a faint shadow pass and re-pass.

It was not until, in moving to one side, he struck his head against a massive bough of one of the great trees that the possibility of utilizing them as a means of access to the forbidden enclosure occurred to him. He examined the bough. It extended well over the hedge, and would form a perfectly secure bridge. By creeping a few feet along it, he would be able to drop down on the other side of the hedge. Finding the main trunk, he tested his weight on a smaller bough, and swung himself up into the tree.

A few minutes later he stood within the barrier. The window was some twelve or fifteen feet above him. But the walls were thickly clad with ivy, and ivy is an excellent ladder. Carefully he began to climb.

He reached the window, found himself a secure footing, and peered round the edge of the blind. But the light was so poor, and the panes were so dirty, on both sides, that had there been anything to see he could have been very little the wiser. As it was, the small area of the room into which he could dimly peer seemed to be carpetless and unfurnished. There was no movement, no sound. The light itself apparently came from the further end of the room, from the level of a table. He clung on, undecided how to proceed. It appeared that the only thing to do was to wait and listen for some indication of the purpose of the dismal illumination.

He looked at his watch. It was ten-thirty. After a wait of what seemed at least half an hour, he looked again. Ten minutes only had passed. No discernible movement had taken place in the room. Yet he felt perfectly, and very unpleasantly, certain that it was occupied—that something was proceeding within it which, had the blind not intervened, would have revealed the secret of the house. Of what it might be he could form no idea—but, for the first time in his life, he was experiencing, in his mental tenseness and the sinister silence of the surroundings, that sensation which attests a proximity to evil. He was daunted. Fear was a condition to which he was a stranger, but a vivid nervousness was beginning to seize upon him. A sense of personal danger, an element which, so far, he had scarcely considered, was attacking him, and gaining ground. The perspiration was standing out on his face. He found that his hands were cold and wet. The pulses of his body were throbbing; he felt his strength growing less. Muttering a curse, he braced himself with a strong effort. He was accustomed to consider his nerves impregnable. Many times in his life he had known himself to be in far greater danger than he could attribute to the present situation, and such weakness had never assailed him. On four occasions he had been aware that his life was hanging by a thread, and had gloried in his own coolness. And now ... without a doubt the Crooked House was evil.

Still he waited. Another twenty minutes slowly passed.

He started. His hands closed tightly on the trunk of the ivy to which he was clinging. The door of the room had been closed with a slam. He could hear heavy footsteps on the uncarpeted floor. A shadow blotted out the light.

A moment later, a voice—a man's voice, horribly strained and unnatural—rose in a shout of fury.

"Damn you!" it screamed. "Look at your work! Look at it again! Open your rotten eyes and look! Look! Look!"

Tranter was so startled that he almost lost his footing on the ivy. There was no mistaking the voice—it was the scream of madness. He listened for an answer, but there was no sound in response. Then the same voice laughed—a laugh of awful bitterness.

"Are you satisfied? The thing is creeping on. I am getting nearer to you hour by hour. I am more like you to-night. One more grain went yesterday—another to-day. Another will go to-morrow...." Again the voice rose to a shriek of rage and hatred. "Oh, God! There is no hope! No hope! Only on—and on—to that!"

The words trailed off into a sob of agony. Still Tranter could hear no reply.

Silence followed. The shadow again blotted out the light; then sprang aside, and the voice burst out into a fresh paroxysm of madness, yelling a stream of curses at the object of its fury. The madman's frenzy was utterly revolting to listen to, but Tranter searched it closely for some clue to the identity of the person, or thing, to whom it was addressed. The voice rose again to a shriek; then subsided as before into a feeble wail of misery.

"Oh God!" it moaned—"is there no way ... no way? No road but that road? No end but that end? Oh God, have mercy ... have mercy...."

It was a cry of unspeakable anguish—the prayer of a soul in torment. It seemed to Tranter that the speaker had thrown himself down, and was beating the floor with his hands.

There was silence again. Then, for the first time, Tranter became aware of another presence in the room. Though he could neither see nor hear anything, he was conscious of a new, indefinable movement. For a moment horror almost overcame him. He trembled. His nerves failed. The support of the ivy seemed to be giving way under him. He clutched at the framework of the window itself.

The shadow of a figure leapt up from the floor and bounded to the window. The blind was wrenched aside, the window thrown open, and before Tranter had time to recover himself or attempt to escape, the livid, distorted face of George Copplestone was almost touching his own.

A hand closed on his throat in a murderous grip, another seized his wrist. In spite of his frantic struggles, he was dragged with superhuman strength through the window into the room.



CHAPTER XXIII

A DUEL

On the afternoon of the same day, an hour after the departure of Inspector Fay, Mrs. Astley-Rolfe had sped herself to Richmond, in a luxurious motor car, which was her's through the instrumentality of Mr. Gluckstein.

She had found the house of George Copplestone plunged into the darkness of a house of mourning. Every blind was drawn. Every particle of color had been removed or draped. Black reigned supreme.

Copplestone was not pleased to see her, and made no attempt to assume the contrary. He was sitting in his library, moody and melancholy, still in the half-dazed condition into which the death of Christine Manderson had cast him. His face was drawn, haggard, and sickly; his eyes were bloodshot. He looked up at her with a forbidding frown, and did not move from his chair.

"Well?" he said curtly.

She waved a hand round the black room.

"Isn't this ... a trifle theatrical?" she asked coolly.

He said nothing. She sat down opposite to him uninvited. She was perfectly self-possessed.

"Inspector Fay was kind enough to call on me this morning," she remarked pleasantly.

Again there was no reply.

"He may not be an example of dagger-like intelligence," she continued, looking at him steadily—"but he is just a little too sharp to play with."

He scowled at her.

"Have you come to tell me that?" he asked rudely.

"That—and other things," she returned unruffled.

"I don't want to hear them," he retorted.

"They concern you," she said—"rather closely."

"I don't want to hear them," he repeated.

Her lips tightened.

"It is scarcely pleasant to be such an obviously unwelcome visitor," she said evenly. "But I am afraid you must listen."

"I am not in the humor to talk to you," he declared roughly. "I don't want to talk to any one. I want to be left alone. Isn't it enough to be pestered by the police and the papers, and all the damnable business for the inquest? Don't you see that my house is in mourning? Can't you let me be—even for a few days?"

"If I had let you be," she replied easily, "Inspector Fay would probably be here in my place—with much less pleasant intentions."

His glance sharpened.

"What do you mean?" he growled.

"You were not wise," she proceeded tranquilly, "to treat his mental capabilities with quite so much contempt. They are possibly not startlingly brilliant, and he is perfectly easy to deceive. But even an official detective can see through a clumsy lie."

Uneasiness flashed across his face. She smiled slightly.

"And I am afraid, my friend, that you are a clumsy liar."

"I don't know what you are talking about," he snapped.

"Come," she said quietly—"however freely we may trifle with the very much overrated Arm of the Law, at least let us be honest with each other. For some reason or other, you did not tell Inspector Fay the truth."

He sat upright with a jerk, flamed with passion.

"What the devil is it to do with you?" he demanded fiercely.

"I will tell you in a moment," she returned smoothly. "When you accounted for your time to the inspector, you told him that you went into the house to refill your cigarette case?"

His lethargy had disappeared. He leant forward, staring at her, his hands clutching the arms of his chair.

"But, unfortunately, you did not take the elementary precaution of having a full case to support the story. In nine times out of ten you would have got away with it. This was the tenth."

There was silence for a moment. She sat in an easy attitude, meeting his gaze with complete confidence. No trace of his previous dullness remained. He was alert and taut.

She went on, with delightful smoothness.

"With an unpardonable lack of respect for the statement of a gentleman, it occurred to the inspector to test the truth of that account. He did not want to smoke—but he asked you for a cigarette. It was a gentle trap. There were only two in your case."

He ground out an oath under his breath.

"Obviously you had not gone into the house to refill your case. Perhaps you went in for some other reason. Perhaps you didn't go in at all. Anyway, you lied—and when people deliberately lie in such serious cases as these, it may safely be imagined that they have some object to serve in doing so. The inspector was concerned to discover what your object was. So he came to me."

"To you...." he muttered.

"I told you," she returned, "that he is a little too sharp to play with—clumsily. He suspected, from what had been told him, that we might have had a stormy scene together, and had wished to keep it to ourselves. He was quite ready to believe that the time you had failed so lamentably to account for had really been passed with me in 'une petite scene de jalousie.' Fortunately, I had given him a true account of myself, which was that I had been alone. So after the necessary hesitation, and with just the right amount of annoyance, I was able to confess that we had both lied, and that we had in fact been together—and he went away satisfied. I am a better liar than you."

She regarded him serenely. His expression was ugly. There was that in the look of him that might have daunted any woman, but Phyllis Astley-Rolfe had lived chiefly by her wits for a sufficient time to be quite impervious where another would have been silenced. She was as completely without fear as she was without scruple. Her objects were objects to be gained, by the most convenient and speedy means, and quite irrespective of considerations which might have withheld another from attempting to fulfill them. In furtherance of her present object, she gave Copplestone look for look.

"I return good for evil," she said. "It is not a habit of mine. It is really quite contrary to my usual practice. I told a lie to save you from further suspicion. Considering the circumstances, you must admit that it was exceedingly generous of me. And I expect you to be grateful."

Anything but an expression of gratitude confronted her. He remained silent, making a strong effort to mask his agitation. But his fingers twitched spasmodically, and there was unmistakable fear in his eyes. She watched him intently, losing no point of the effect she had created.

"Well...?" she said steadily.

There was no answer. She bent towards him.

"I said you were with me. You were not with me. Where were you?"

The man breathed heavily, his baleful gaze fixed on her. She met it with unassailable composure.

"Listen," she said slowly—"there are strange things in this house. I know it. I've known it for some time. Things that the light of day never shines on. What are they?"

He sprang up, and stood over her with clenched hands, his face torn with fury.

"Damn you!" he cried hoarsely. "What is my house, or what happens in it, to you?"

"Sit down," she said firmly. "You are not frightening me. To threaten a woman is merely to increase her tenacity, and mine requires no fortification. Please move away from me."

He obeyed, muttering. Her calmness disarmed him.

"I am not sure," she continued, "that I wanted you to answer my question—anyway at present. Perhaps your secrets might be too much, even for my conscience—and that is saying a great deal."

He had resumed his chair. There was a moment's pause.

"You were foolish to mock me," she went on.

"Mockery is the one thing a woman cannot accept, or forgive. She can stand any amount of ill-treatment and cruelty, in a sufficient cause. But she cannot be mocked in any cause whatever. You made me certain promises, which honor bound you to fulfil—and then flung your renunciation of them in my face, before strangers who understood. It was a very mean and low-down thing to do."

A faint, sneering smile passed over his face. Her voice hardened.

"I am not a woman to defy—and I am still less a woman to mock. You are going to keep your promises."

"I'll see you in hell first!" he retorted brutally.

She laughed. "You will not see me in hell first," she said calmly. "You may quite possibly see me in hell after—because if there is a hell we shall certainly meet there. But in the meantime—you are going to redeem your word."

He made a slow gesture round the black room.

"You come to me now ... within a few hours...."

"Why not?" she returned hardly.

"Almost before her body is cold...."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Christine Manderson was an incident," she said indifferently. "A disagreeable episode. She merely infatuated you, as she might have infatuated any man. She has passed."

"Passed," he muttered. "Passed...."

"I do not profess to equal her in appearance," she admitted. "But I am not repulsive. I am considered to be extremely good-looking, and I am much more interesting to talk to than she was. Also, I am well-bred. Most people would find the balance in my favor. But, even if you do not, the difference can only be very small. You will have to make the best of it."

"Or else?" he snarled.

"Or else, if you prefer it, I will exchange your promises for the secrets of this house—with no undertaking to keep them."

He sat biting his nails in the suppression of his rage. She languidly corrected the folds of her dress, leant back in a charming attitude, and waited with unassailable self-possession. The silence was long.

"How much do you want?" he demanded, at last.

"I am not asking you for money," she replied coldly.

"I am offering it unasked," he retorted. "How much do you want?"

"If you had offered to buy back your promises a week ago," she said, "I might have sold them to you. I do not know that I particularly looked forward to their fulfilment. But you flaunted another woman in my face."