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.

Jennings nodded. Peggy knew his occupation, but as yet he had not been able to tell Le Beau.

The Frenchman cherished all the traditional hatred of his race for the profession of "mouchard," and would not be able to understand that a detective was of a higher standing. Miles was therefore supposed to be a gentleman of independent fortune, and both he and Peggy decided to inform Le Beau of the truth when he had retired from business. Meanwhile, Miles often talked over his business with Peggy, and usually found her clear way of looking at things of infinite assistance to him in the sometimes difficult cases which he dealt with. Peggy knew all about the murder in Crooked Lane, and how Miles was dealing with the matter. But even she had not been able to suggest a clue to the assassin, although she was in full possession of the facts. "It's about this new case I wish to speak," said Jennings. "By the way, Peggy, you know that woman Maraquito I have talked of?"

"Yes. The gambling-house. What of her?"

"Well, she seems to be implicated in the matter."

"In what way?"

Jennings related the episode of the photograph, and the incident of the same perfume being used by Mrs. Herne and Maraquito. Peggy nodded.

"I don't see how the photograph connects her with the case," she said at length, "but the same perfume certainly is strange. All the same, the scent maybe fashionable. Hikui! Hikui! I never heard of it."

"It is a Japanese perfume, and Maraquito got it from some foreign admirer. It is strange, as you say."

"Have you seen Mrs. Herne?"

"I saw her at the inquest. She gave evidence. But I had no conversation with her myself."

"Why don't you look her up? You mentioned you had her address."

"I haven't it now," said Jennings gloomily. "I called at the Hampstead house, and learned that Mrs. Herne had received such a shock from the death of her friend, Miss Loach, that she had gone abroad and would not return for an indefinite time. So I can do nothing in that quarter just now. It is for this reason that I have come here to ask about Maraquito."

"From Papa Le Beau," said Peggy, wrinkling her pretty brows. "What can he know of this woman?"

"She was a dancer until she had an accident. Le Beau may have had her through his hands."

"Maraquito, Maraquito," murmured Peggy, and shook her head. "No, I do not remember her. How old is she?"

"About thirty, I think; a fine, handsome woman like a tropical flower for coloring."

"Spanish. The name is Spanish."

"I think that is all the Spanish about her. She talks English without the least accent. Hush! here is papa."

It was indeed the little Professor, who rushed into the room and threw himself, blowing and panting, on the dingy sofa. He was small and dry, with black eyes and a wrinkled face. He wore a blonde wig which did not match his yellow complexion, and was neatly dressed in black, with an old-fashioned swallow-tail coat of blue. He carried a small fiddle and spoke volubly without regarding the presence of Miles.

"Oh, these cochons of English, my dear," he exclaimed to Peggy, "so steef—so wood-steef in the limbs. Wis 'em I kin do noozzn', no, not a leetle bit. Zey would make ze angils swear. Ah, mon Dieu, quel dommage I haf to teach zem."

"I must see about these accounts," said Peggy, picking up a sheaf of papers and running out. "Stay to dejeuner, Miles."

"Eh, mon ami," cried papa, rising. "My excuses, but ze pigs make me to be mooch enrage. Zey are ze steef dolls on the Strasburg clock. You are veil—ah, yis—quite veil cheerup."

The Professor had picked up a number of English slang words with which he interlarded his conversation. He meant to be kind, and indeed liked Miles greatly. In proof of his recovered temper, he offered the young man a pinch of snuff. Jennings hated snuff, but to keep Papa Le Beau in a good temper he accepted the offer and sneezed violently.

"Professor," he said, when somewhat better, "I have come to ask you about a lady. A friend of mine has fallen in love with her, and he thought you might know of her."

"Eh, wha-a-at, mon cher? I understands nozzin'. Ze lady, quel nom?"

"Maraquito Gredos."

"Espagnole," murmured Le Beau, shaking his wig. "Non. I do not know ze name. Dancers of Spain. Ah, yis—I haf had miny—zey are not steef like ze cochon Englees. Describe ze looks, mon ami."

Jennings did so, to the best of his ability, but the old man still appeared undecided. "But she has been ill for three years," added Jennings. "She fell and hurt her back, and—"

"Eh—wha-a-at Celestine!" cried Le Beau excitedly. "She did fall and hurt hersilf—eh, yis—mos' dredfil. Conceive to yoursilf, my frien', she slip on orange peels in ze streets and whacks comes she down. Tree year back—yis—tree year. Celestine Durand, mon fil."

Jennings wondered. "But she says she is Spanish."

Le Beau flipped a pinch of snuff in the air. "Ah, bah! She no Spain."

"So she is French," murmured Jennings to himself.

"Ah, non; by no means," cried the Frenchman unexpectedly. "She no French. She Englees—yis—I remembers. A ver' fine and big demoiselle. She wish to come out at de opera. But she too large—mooch too large. Englees—yis—La Juive."

"A Jewess?" cried Jennings in his turn.

"I swear to you, mon ami. Englees Jewess, mais oui! For ten months she dance here, tree year gone. Zen zee orange peels and pouf! I see her no mores. But never dance—no—too large, une grande demoiselle."

"Do you know where she came from?"

"No. I know nozzin' but what I tell you."

"Did you like her?"

Le Beau shrugged his shoulders. "I am too old, mon ami. Les femmes like me not. I haf had mes affairs—ah, yis. Conceive—" and he rattled out an adventure of his youth which was more amusing than moral.

But Jennings paid very little attention to him. He was thinking that Maraquito-Celestine was a more mysterious woman than he had thought her. While Jennings was wondering what use he could make of the information he had received, Le Beau suddenly flushed crimson. A new thought had occurred to him. "Do you know zis one—zis Celestine Durand? Tell her I vish money—"

"Did she not pay you?"

Le Beau seized Jennings' arm and shook it violently. "Yis. Tree pound; quite raight; oh, certainly. But ze four piece of gold, a louis—non—ze Englees sufferin—"

"The English sovereign. Yes."

"It was bad money—ver bad."

"Have you got it?" asked Jennings, feeling that he was on the brink of a discovery.

"Non. I pitch him far off in rages. I know now, Celestine Durand. I admire her; oh, yis. Fine womans—a viecked eye. Mais une—no, not zat. Bad, I tell you. If your frien' love, haf nozzin' wis her. She gif ze bad money, one piece—" he held up a lean finger, and then, "Aha! ze bell for ze tables. Allons, marchons. We dine—we eat," and he dashed out of the room as rapidly as he had entered it.

But Jennings did not follow him. He scribbled a note to Peggy, stating that he had to go away on business, and left the Academy. He felt that it would be impossible to sit down and talk of trivial things—as he would have to do in the presence of Le Beau—when he had made such a discovery. The case was beginning to take shape. "Can Maraquito have anything to do with the coiners?" he asked himself. "She is English—a Jewess—Saul is a Jewish name. Can she be of that family? It seems to me that this case is a bigger one than I imagine. I wonder what I had better do?"

It was not easy to say. However, by the time Jennings reached his home—he had chambers in Duke Street, St. James'—he decided to see Maraquito. For this purpose he arrayed himself in accurate evening dress. Senora Gredos thought he was a mere idler, a man-about-town. Had she known of his real profession she might not have welcomed him so freely to her house. Maraquito, for obvious reasons, had no desire to come into touch with the authorities.

But it must not be thought that she violated the law in any very flagrant way. She was too clever for that. Her house was conducted in a most respectable manner. It was situated in Golden Square, and was a fine old mansion of the days when that locality was fashionable. Her servants were all neat and demure. Maraquito received a few friends every evening for a quiet game of cards, so on the surface no one could object to that. But when the doors were closed, high play went on and well-known people ventured large sums on the chances of baccarat. Also, people not quite so respectable came, and it was for that reason Scotland Yard left the house alone. When any member of the detective staff wished to see anyone of a shady description, the person could be found at Maraquito's. Certainly, only the aristocracy of crime came here, and never a woman. Maraquito did not appear to love her own sex. She received only gentlemen, and as she was an invalid and attended constantly by a duenna in the form of a nurse, no one could say anything. The police knew in an underhand way that the Soho house was a gambling saloon, but the knowledge had not come officially, therefore no notice was taken. But Maraquito's servants suspected nothing, neither did the gossips of the neighborhood. Senora Gredos was simply looked upon as an invalid fond of entertaining because of her weariness in being confined to her couch.

Jennings had appointed a meeting with Mallow in this semi-respectable establishment, and looked round when he entered the room. It was a large apartment, decorated in the Adams style and furnished as a luxurious drawing-room. At the side near the window there was a long table covered with green baize. Round this several gentlemen in evening dress were standing. Others played games of their own at separate small tables, but most of them devoted themselves to baccarat. Maraquito held the bank. Her couch was drawn up against the wall, and the red silk curtains of the window made a vivid background to her dark beauty.

She was, indeed, a handsome woman—so much of her as could be seen. Half-sitting, half-reclining on her couch, the lower part of her frame was swathed in eastern stuffs sparkling with gold threads. She wore a yellow silk dress trimmed about the shoulders with black lace and glittering with valuable jewels. Her neck and arms were finely moulded and of a dazzling whiteness. Her small head was proudly set on her shoulders, and her magnificent black hair smoothly coiled in lustrous tresses above her white forehead. Her lips were full and rich, her eyes large and black, and her nose was thin and high. The most marked feature of her face were the eyebrows, which almost met over her nose. She had delicate hands and beautiful arms which showed themselves to advantage as she manipulated the cards. From the gorgeous coverlet her bust rose like a splendid flower, and for an invalid she had a surprising color. She was indeed, as Jennings had remarked, like a tropical flower. But there was something sensual and evil about her exuberance. But not a whisper had been heard against her reputation. Everyone, sorry for the misfortune which condemned this lovely woman to a sickbed, treated her with respect. Maraquito, as some people said, may have been wicked, but no anchorite could have led, on the face of it, a more austere life. Her smile was alluring, and she looked like the Lurline drawing men to destruction. Fortunes had been lost in that quiet room.

When Jennings entered, Maraquito was opening a fresh pack of cards, while the players counted their losses or winnings and fiddled with the red chips used in the game. On seeing the newcomer, Senora Gredos gave him a gracious smile, and said something to the pale, thin woman in black who stood at the head of her couch. The nurse, or duenna—she served for both—crossed to Jennings as he advanced towards the buffet, on which stood glasses and decanters of wine.

"Madame wishes to know why you have not brought Mr. Mallow."

"Tell madame that he will be here soon. I have to meet him in this place," said the detective to the duenna, and watched the effect of the message on Maraquito.

Her face flushed, her eyes brightened, but she did not look again in Jennings' direction. On the contrary, she gave all her attention to the game which was now in progress, but Jennings guessed that her thoughts were with Mallow, and occasionally he caught her looking for his appearance at the door. "How that woman loves him," he thought, "I wonder I never noticed it before. Quite an infatuation." For a time he watched the players staking large amounts, and saw the pile of gold at Maraquito's elbow steadily increasing. She seemed to have all the luck. The bank was winning and its opponents losing, but the play went on steadily for at least half an hour. At the end of that time a newcomer entered the room. Jennings, who had glanced at his watch, quite expected to see Cuthbert. But, to his surprise, he came face to face with Lord Caranby.

"I did not expect to see you here," said the detective.

"I come in place of my nephew. He is unwell," said Caranby; "present me to Senora Gredos, if you please, Mr. Jennings."



CHAPTER XII

JENNINGS ASKS QUESTIONS

"Will you play, Lord Caranby?" asked Maraquito, when the introduction had been accomplished.

"Pardon me, not at present: in a little time," said the old nobleman, with a polite bow and his eyes on the beautiful face.

"As you like," she answered carelessly; "everyone who comes here does just as he pleases. Is your nephew coming?"

"I fear not. He is unwell."

Maraquito started. "Unwell. Nothing serious, I hope?"

"A slight cold."

"Ah! Everyone has colds just now. Well, Lord Caranby, I hope to have a conversation with you later when someone else takes the bank."

Caranby bowed and moved away slowly, leaning on his cane. Jennings, who was beside him, threw a glance over his shoulder at Senora Gredos.

Maraquito's face was pale, and there was a frightened look in her eyes. Catching Jennings' inquisitive look she frowned and again addressed herself to the game. Wondering why Lord Caranby should produce such an effect, Jennings rejoined him at the end of the room, where they sat on a sofa and smoked. "Have you been here before?" asked the detective.

"No," answered the other, lighting his cigar, "and it is improbable that I shall come again. My reason for coming—" he broke off—"I can tell you that later. It is sufficient to say that it has to do with your conduct of this case."

"Hush!" whispered Jennings quickly, "my profession is not known here."

"I fear it will be if these two have tongues in their heads."

The detective glanced towards the door and saw Hale enter with Clancy at his heels. Jennings had not seen them since the inquest on the body of Miss Loach, when they had given their evidence with great grief and frankness. He was annoyed at meeting them here, for although he had seen them in Maraquito's salon before, yet at that time they had not known his profession. But since the inquest the knowledge was common property, and doubtless they would tell Senora Gredos if they had not done so already. Jennings' chances of learning what he wished would therefore be slight, as everyone is not willing to speak freely before an officer of the law.

"It can't be helped," said Jennings with a shrug; "and, in any case, Maraquito is too anxious to stand well with the police to make any trouble about my coming here."

Caranby did not reply, but looked steadily at the two men who were walking slowly up the room. Hale was slender, tall, and dark in color, with a nose like the beak of an eagle. He was perfectly dressed and had even an elegant appearance. His age might have been forty, but in the artificial light he looked even younger. Clancy, on the other hand, wore his clothes with the air of a man unaccustomed to evening dress. He was light in color, with weak blue eyes and a foolish expression about his slack mouth. Jennings wondered why a man like Hale should connect himself with such a creature. The men nodded to Senora Gredos, who took little notice of them, and then repaired to the buffet. Owing to the position of the detective and Caranby, the new arrivals did not see them. Nor for the present was the detective anxious to attract their notice. Indeed, he would have stolen away unperceived, but that he wished to question Hale as to the whereabouts of Mrs. Herne.

"It is a long time since I have seen you," said Caranby, removing his eyes from the newcomers, and addressing the detective; "you were not an—er—an official when we last met."

"It is three years ago," said Jennings; "no. I had money then, but circumstances over which I had no control soon reduced me to the necessity of earning my living. As all professions were crowded, I thought I would turn my talents of observation and deduction to this business."

"Do you find it lucrative?"

Jennings smiled and shrugged his shoulders again. "I do very well," he said, "but I have not yet made a fortune."

"Ah! And Cuthbert told me you wished to marry."

"I do. But when my fortune will allow me to marry, I don't know."

Caranby, without raising his voice or looking at his companion, supplied the information. "I can tell you that," said he, "when you learn who killed Miss Loach."

"How is that?"

"On the day you lay your hand on the assassin of that poor woman I shall give you five thousand pounds."

Jennings' breath was taken away. "A large sum," he murmured.

"She was very dear to me at one time," said Caranby with emotion. "I would have married her but for the machinations of her sister."

"Mrs. Octagon?"

"Yes! She wanted to become my wife. The story is a long one."

"Cuthbert told it to me."

"Quite right," said Caranby, nodding, "I asked him to. It seems to me that in my romance may be found the motive for the death of Selina Loach."

The detective thought over the story. "I don't quite see—"

"Nor do I. All the same—" Caranby waved his hand and abruptly changed the subject. "Do you know why I came here to-night?"

"No. I did not know you ever came to such places."

"Nor do I. My life is a quiet one now. I came to see this woman you call Maraquito."

"What do you call her?" asked Jennings alertly.

"Ah, that I can't tell you. But she is no Spaniard."

"Is she a Jewess by any chance?"

Caranby turned to look directly at his companion. "You ought to be able to tell that from her face," he said, "can you not see the seal of Jacob impressed there—that strange look which stamps a Hebrew?"

"No," confessed Jennings, "that is, I can see it now, but I came here for many a long day before I did guess she was a Jewess. And then it was only because I learned the truth."

"How did you learn it?"

The detective related details of his visit to Monsieur Le Beau and the discovery that Maraquito Gredos was one and the same as Celestine Durand. Caranby listened attentively. "Yes, that is all right," he said, "but her name is Bathsheba Saul."

"What?" said Jennings, so loud that several people turned to look.

"Hush!" said Caranby, sinking his voice, "you attract notice. Yes, I made Cuthbert describe the appearance of this woman. His description vaguely suggested Emilia Saul. I came here to-night to satisfy myself, and I have no doubt but what she is the niece of Emilia—the daughter of Emilia's brother."

"Who was connected with the coining gang?"

"Ah, you heard of that, did you? Exactly. Her father is dead, I believe, but there sits his daughter. You see in her the image of Emilia as I loved her twenty years ago."

"Loved her?" echoed Jennings, significantly.

"You are right," responded Caranby with a keen look. "I see Cuthbert has told you all. I never did love Emilia. But she hypnotized me in some way. She was one of those women who could make a man do what pleased her. And this Bathsheba—Maraquito—Celestine, can do the same. It is a pity she is an invalid, but on the whole, as she looks rather wicked, mankind is to be congratulated. Were she able to move about like an ordinary woman, she would set the world on fire after the fashion of Cleopatra. You need not mention this."

"I know how to hold my tongue," said Jennings, rather offended by the imputation that he was a chatterer, "can I come and see you to talk over this matter?"

"By all means. I am at the Avon Hotel."

"Oh, and by the way, will you allow me to go over that house of yours at Rexton?"

"If you like. Are you a ghost-hunter also?"

"I am a detective!" whispered Jennings quietly, and with such a look that Caranby became suddenly attentive.

"Ah! You think you may discover something in that house likely to lead to the discovery of the assassin."

"Yes I do. I can't explain my reasons now. The explanation would take too long. However, I see Senora Gredos is beckoning to you. I will speak to Hale and Clancy. Would you mind telling me what she says to you?"

"A difficult question to answer," said Caranby, rising, "as a gentleman, I am not in the habit of repeating conversations, especially with women. Besides, she can have no connection with this case."

"On the face of it—no," replied Jennings doubtfully, "but there is a link—"

"Ah, you mean that she is Emilia's niece."

"Not exactly that," answered Jennings, thinking of the photograph. "I will tell you what I mean when we next meet."

At this moment, in response to the imperative beckoning of Maraquito's fan, Caranby was compelled to go to her. The couch had been wheeled away from the green table, and a gentleman had taken charge of the bank. Maraquito with her couch retreated to a quiet corner of the room, and had a small table placed beside her. Here were served champagne and cakes, while Lord Caranby, after bowing in his old-fashioned way, took a seat near the beautiful woman. She gazed smilingly at Lord Caranby, yet there was a nervous look in her eyes.

"I have heard of you from Mr. Mallow," she said flushing.

"My nephew. He comes here at times. Indeed," said Caranby gallantly, "it was his report of your beauty that brought me here to-night."

Maraquito sighed. "The wreck of a beauty," said she bitterly, "three years ago indeed—but I met with an accident."

"So I heard. A piece of orange peel."

The woman started. "Who told you that?"

"I heard it indirectly from a professor of dancing. You were a dancer, I believe?"

"Scarcely that," said Senora Gredos, nervously playing with her fan; "I was learning. It was Le Beau who told you?"

"Indirectly," responded Caranby.

"I should like to know," said Maraquito deliberately, "who has taken the trouble to tell you this. My life—the life of a shattered invalid—can scarcely interest anyone."

"I really forget to whom I am indebted for the information," said Lord Caranby mendaciously, "and a lady of your beauty must always interest men while they have eyes to see. I have seen ladies like you in Andalusia, but no one so lovely. Let me see, was it in Andalusia or Jerusalem?" mused Lord Caranby.

"I am a Spanish Jewess," said Maraquito, quickly and uneasily, "I have only been in London five years."

"And met with an accident a year or two after you arrived," murmured Caranby; "how very sad."

Maraquito did not know what to make of the ironical old gentleman. It seemed to her that he was hostile, but she could take no offence at what he said. Moreover, as he was Mallow's uncle, she did not wish to quarrel with him. With a graceful gesture she indicated a glass of champagne. "Will you not drink to our better acquaintance?"

"Certainly," said Caranby without emotion, and sipped a few drops of the golden-colored wine. "I hope to see much of you."

"I reciprocate the hope," said Maraquito radiantly, "and I'll tell you a secret. I have been consulting specialists, and I find that in a few months I shall be able to walk as well as ever I did."

"Excellent news," said Caranby, "I hope you will."

"And, moreover," added Maraquito, looking at him from behind her fan; "I shall then give up this place. I have plenty of money, and—"

"You will go back to Spain?"

"That depends. Should I leave my heart in England—"

"How I envy the man you leave it with."

Maraquito looked down moodily. "He doesn't care for my heart."

"What a stone he must be. Now I—upon my word I feel inclined to marry and cut my nephew out of the title."

"Your nephew," stammered Maraquito, with a flash of her big eyes.

"You know him well, he tells me," chatted Caranby garrulously, "a handsome fellow is Cuthbert. I am sure the lady he is engaged to thinks as much, and very rightly too."

"Miss Saxon!" cried Maraquito, breaking her fan and looking furious.

"Ah!" said Caranby coolly, "you know her?"

"I know of her," said Maraquito bitterly. "Her brother Basil comes here sometimes, and said his sister was engaged to—but they will never marry—never!" she said vehemently.

"How can you tell that?"

"Because the mother objects to the match."

"Ah! And who told you so? Mr. Basil Saxon?"

"Yes. He does not approve of it either."

"I fear that will make little difference. Mallow is set on the marriage. He loves Miss Saxon with all his heart."

Maraquito uttered a low cry of rage, but managed to control herself with an effort. "Do you?" she asked.

Caranby shrugged his thin shoulders. "I am neutral. So long as Cuthbert marries the woman he loves, I do not mind."

"And what about the woman who loves him?"

"Miss Saxon? Oh, I am sure—"

"I don't mean Miss Saxon, and he will never marry her—never. You know that Mr. Mallow is poor. Miss Saxon has no money—"

"Pardon me. I hear her aunt, Miss Loach, who was unfortunately murdered at Rexton, has left her six thousand a year."

Senora Gredos turned quite pale and clenched her hands, but she managed to control herself again with a powerful effort and masked the rage she felt under a bland, false smile.

"Oh, that makes a difference," she said calmly. "I hope they will be happy—if they marry," she added significantly.

"Oh, that is quite settled," said Caranby.

"There's many a slip between the cup and the lip," said Maraquito viciously. "Yonder is Mr. Saxon. Tell him to come to me."

Caranby bowed and crossed the room to where Basil was talking with a frowning face to Hale. "Don't bother me," he was saying, "it will be all right now that the will has been read."

"For your own sake I hope it will be all right," replied Hale, and Caranby caught the words as he came up. After giving his message, he sauntered round, watching the play, and seemingly listened to no one. But all the time he kept his ears open to hear what Hale and Clancy were talking about.

The two men were in a corner of the room, and Clancy was expostulating angrily with Hale. They held their peace when Caranby drifted near them, he saw that they were on their guard. Looking round, he espied Jennings playing at a side table, and crossed to him.

"Permit me to take your place," said Caranby, and added in a low tone, "watch Hale and Clancy!"

Jennings seized the idea at once and surrendered the chair to the old nobleman. Then he lighted a cigarette and by degrees strolled across the room to where the two were again talking vigorously. "I tell you if Basil is pressed too hard he will—" Clancy was saying, but shut his mouth as he saw Jennings at his elbow. The detective came forward with a smile, inwardly vexed that he had not been able to hear more. As he advanced he saw Clancy touch Hale on the arm.

"How are you?" said Jennings, taking the initiative, "we met at that inquest, I believe."

"Yes," said Hale, polite and smiling, "I remember, Mr. Jennings! I had seen you here before, but I never knew your calling."

"I don't tell it to everyone," said Jennings, "How do you do, Mr. Clancy? I hope you are well. An amusing place this."

"I need amusement," said Clancy, again assuming his silly smile, "since the death of my dear friend. By the way, have you found out who killed her, Mr. Jennings?"

"No. I fear the assassin will never be discovered." Here the two men exchanged a glance. "I am engaged on other cases. There was only one point I wished to learn in connection with Miss Loach's death."

"What is that?" asked Hale calmly.

"Was Mrs. Herne in Miss Loach's bedroom on that night?"

"I forget," said Clancy before Hale could speak.

"That's a pity," resumed Jennings. "You see from the fact of the bell having been sounded, it struck me that the assassin may have been concealed in the bedroom. Now if Mrs. Herne was in that room, she might have noticed something."

"I don't think she did," said Hale hastily. "Mrs. Herne and I left early, owing to Clancy here having offended her. Besides, Mrs. Herne told all she knew at the inquest."

"All save that point."

"The question was not asked," said Clancy.

"No. I should like to ask Mrs. Herne now, but it seems she has gone away from Hampstead."

"I don't care if she has," grumbled Clancy, "I hated Mrs. Herne. She was always quarrelling. Did you call to see her?"

"Yes, but I could not learn where she was. Now, as you are her lawyer, Mr. Hale, you may know."

"She is at Brighton," replied Hale readily, "at the Metropolitan Hotel, but she returns to Hampstead in a week."

Jennings was secretly astonished at his question being thus answered, as he was inclined to suspect the men. However, he took a note of the address, and said he would attend to the matter. "But, to tell you the truth, it is useless," he said. "The assassin will never be discovered. Moreover, there is no reward, and I should only work for no wages. You stay at Rose Cottage now, I believe, Mr. Clancy?"

"I do. Mrs. Pill has taken the place. Who told you?"

"I heard from Susan Grant. She was witness, if you remember. And has Mrs. Pill married Barnes yet?"

"I can't say," said Clancy, looking keenly at the detective. "I am not yet a boarder. I move in after a fortnight. I expect the marriage will take place before then. Susan Grant told you that also?"

"She did. But I don't expect I'll see her again. Well, gentlemen, I must go away. I hope you will be lucky."

Jennings moved away and saw from the eager manner in which the two men began to converse that he was the subject of the conversation. He looked round for Caranby, but could not see him. When he was out of the house, however, and on the pavement lighting a cigarette, he felt a touch on his arm and found Caranby waiting for him. The old gentleman pointed with his cane to a brougham! "Get in," he said, "I have been waiting to see you. There is much to talk about."

"Maraquito?" asked Jennings eagerly.

"She has something to do with the matter. Love for Cuthbert has made her involve herself. How far or in what way I do not know. And what of Clancy and Hale?"

"Oh, I have put them off the scent. They think I have given up the case. But they and Maraquito are connected with the matter somehow. I can't for the life of me see in what way though."

"There is another woman connected with the matter—Mrs. Octagon."

"What do you mean?" asked Jennings quickly.

"I saw her enter Maraquito's house a few moments before you came down."



CHAPTER XIII

JULIET AT BAY

Caranby's reply took away Jennings' breath. The case was one of surprises, but he was not quite prepared for such an announcement. He was in the brougham and driving towards the Avon Hotel with the old nobleman before he found his tongue.

"What can Mrs. Octagon have to do with Maraquito?" he asked amazed.

"Ah! that is the question," replied Caranby, affording no clue.

"I did not even know she was acquainted with her."

"Perhaps she gambles."

"Even if she did, Maraquito's salon would hardly be the place she would choose for her amusement. Moreover, Maraquito does not receive ladies. She has no love for her own sex."

"What woman has?" murmured Caranby, ironically. Then he added after a pause, "You know that Mrs. Octagon was present when Emilia fell from the plank in the Rexton house?"

"Yes. She gave evidence at the inquest I understand. But Selina did not, if Cuthbert informed me rightly."

"Selina was ill in bed. She could not come. Afterwards she went abroad. I have often wondered," added Caranby, "why Selina didn't seek me out when death broke my engagement to Emilia. She loved me, and her father being dead, there would have been no bar to our marriage. As it was, she threw over her American and dedicated herself to a hermit's life at Rexton."

"You never saw her again?"

"Never. I started to travel, and came to London only at rare intervals. I did write to Selina, asking her to see me, but she always refused, so I became philosophic and took to celibacy also."

"Very strange," murmured Jennings, his thoughts elsewhere, "but this does not explain Mrs. Octagon's visit to the house."

"I am not so sure of that, if you mean Maraquito's house. Mrs. Octagon may know, as I do, that Maraquito is the niece of Emilia."

"Are you sure of that?" asked the detective eagerly.

"As sure as I am that she is no Spaniard, nor even a Spanish Jewess, as she claims to be. She doesn't even know the language. Her name, to fit a woman, should terminate in a feminine manner. She should be called Maraquita, not Maraquito. That little grammatical error doubtless escaped her notice. But as I was saying, Maraquito—we will still call her so—may have sent for Mrs. Octagon."

"Mrs. Octagon, so far as I have seen, is not the woman to obey such a call," said Jennings grimly.

"Maraquito may have compelled her to come."

"For what reason?"

"Well, you see, Emilia was said by Isabella Loach—Mrs. Octagon that is—to have fallen from the plank. But Mrs. Octagon may have pushed her off."

"May have murdered her in fact."

"Quite so. Isabella loved me, and was, and is, a very violent woman. It may be that she pushed Emilia off the plank, and Maraquito, through her dead father, may have learned the truth. This would give her a hold over Mrs. Octagon."

"But Selina may have killed Emilia. That would explain her hermit life, inexplicable in any other way."

"No," said Caranby in a shaking voice, "I am sure the woman I loved would never have behaved in that way. Isabella killed Emilia—if it was a murder—and then threatened to denounce Selina unless she gave up the idea of marrying me. And that," added Caranby, as though struck with a new idea, "may be the cause why Selina never answered my letter, and always refused to see or marry me. She may have been—no, I am sure she was—under the thumb of Isabella. Now that Selina is dead, Isabella is under the thumb of Maraquito."

"This is all theory," said Jennings impatiently.

"We can only theorize in our present state of uncertainty," was the reply of the nobleman. "But my explanation is a reasonable one."

"I do not deny that. But why should Maraquito send for Mrs. Octagon?"

"Why?" echoed Caranby in surprise, "in order to stop the marriage with Cuthbert. Maraquito loves Cuthbert and hates Juliet. I daresay this is the solution of Mrs. Octagon's strange behavior since the death. It is Maraquito who is stopping the marriage by threatening to denounce Mrs. Octagon for the murder of her aunt. Juliet knows this, and hence her reticence."

"It might be so," murmured Jennings, more and more perplexed. "But Miss Saxon won't be reticent with me. I'll see her to-morrow."

"What means will you use to make her speak?"

"I'll tell her that Cuthbert may be arrested for the crime. You know he was about the place on the night of the murder."

"Yes. He went down to look after a possible ghost. But I hope you will not bring Cuthbert into the matter unless it is absolutely necessary. I don't want a scandal."

"Rest easy, Lord Caranby. I have the complete control of this affair, and I'll only use Cuthbert's presence at Rexton to make Miss Saxon speak out. But then, she may not be keeping silence for Cuthbert's sake, as she can't possibly know he was at Rexton on that night. My own opinion is that she is shielding her brother."

"Do you suspect him?" asked Caranby quickly.

"He may not be guilty of the crime, but he knows something about it, I am sure." Here Jennings related how Clancy had said Basil would speak out if pressed too hard. "Now Basil, for some reason, is in difficulties with Hale, who is a scoundrel. But Basil knows something which Hale and Clancy wish to be kept silent. Hale has been using threats to Basil, and the young man has turned restive. Clancy, who is by no means such a fool as he looks, warned Hale to-night. Therefore I take it, that Basil has some information about the murder. Miss Saxon knows he has, and she is shielding him."

"But Clancy, Hale and Mrs. Herne were all out of the house when the woman was stabbed," said Caranby, "they cannot have anything to do with it."

"Quite so, on the face of it. But that bell—" Jennings broke off. "I don't think those three are so innocent as appears. However, Mrs. Herne is coming back to her Hampstead house next week; I'll see her and put questions."

"Which she will not answer," said Caranby drily. "Besides, you should have put them at the inquest."

"The case had not developed so far. I had not so much information as I have now," argued Jennings.

"Did you examine Mrs. Herne at the inquest?"

"No; she gave her evidence." Jennings hesitated. "She also wore a veil when she spoke, and refused to raise it on account of weak eyes. By the way, do you notice that Maraquito uses a strong scent?"

"Yes. Clancy and Hale also use it."

"Ha!" said Jennings, surprised. "I never knew that. Decidedly, I am growing stupid. Well, Mrs. Herne uses that scent also. It is a rare scent." Then Jennings told what Susan Grant had said. "Now I think there is some significance in this scent which is connected with the association of Clancy, Hale, Maraquito and Mrs. Herne."

"But Mrs. Herne doesn't know Maraquito."

"I am not so sure of that. Susan Grant thinks she may be Maraquito's mother, she is so like her in an elderly way. Did you know this Mrs. Saul?"

"No. I knew the brother who came to speak to me after the death of his sister, and who afterwards was put in jail for coining. His wife I never met. I never even heard of her. But Maraquito takes after her father in looks and he was like Emilia."

"It is a difficult matter to unravel," said Jennings. "I think Mrs. Herne refused to raise her veil at the inquest so that the likeness between her and Maraquito might not be observed. I was there, and if Mrs. Herne is what I say, she would have been put on her guard by Maraquito. Though to be sure," added Jennings in a vexed tone, "Maraquito did not know then, and perhaps does not know now, that I am a detective."

"Clancy and Hale will enlighten her," said Caranby, as the vehicle stopped, "will you not come in?"

"Not to-night. I will do myself the honor of calling on you later, when I have more to say. At present I am going to sort out what evidence I have. To-morrow I'll call on Miss Saxon."

"Call on Mrs. Octagon," were Caranby's parting words, "believe me, she knows the truth, but I'll tell you one thing. Maraquito did not kill Miss Loach, for the death of Selina has given Juliet enough money to marry Cuthbert, independent of Mrs. Octagon's wishes, and Maraquito would never have brought that about."

"Yet all the same Miss Saxon will not marry."

Caranby made a gesture to show that the matter was beyond his comprehension, and ascended the steps of the hotel. Jennings, deep in thought, walked away, wondering how he was to disentangle the skein which Fate had placed in his hand to unravel.

That night the detective surveyed the situation. So far as he could see, he seemed no further advanced than he had been at the inquest. Certainly he had accumulated a mass of evidence, but it threw no light on the case. From Caranby's romance, it seemed that the dead woman had been connected with the Saul family. That seemed to link her with Maraquito, who appeared to be the sole surviving member. In her turn, Maraquito was connected in some underhand way with Mrs. Octagon, seeing that the elder woman came by stealth to the Soho house. Mrs. Octagon was connected with the late Emilia Saul by a crime, if what Caranby surmised was correct, and her daughter was forbidden to marry Mallow, who was the nephew of the man who had been the lover both of Miss Loach and Emilia Saul. Hale and Clancy were playing some game with Basil Saxon, who was the son of Mrs. Octagon, and he was associated with Maraquito. Thus it would seem that all these people were connected in various ways with the dead woman. But the questions were: Had one of them struck the fatal blow, and if so, who had been daring enough to do so?

"Again," murmured Jennings, "who touched that bell? Not the assassin, who would scarcely have been fool enough to call anyone to examine his work before he had time to escape. Certainly it may have been a woman! Yes! I believe a man killed Miss Loach, for some reason I have yet to learn, and a woman, out of jealousy, wishing to get him into the grip of the law, touched the bell so that witnesses might appear before the assassin could escape. But who struck the blow?"

This was a difficult question. It could not have been Basil Saxon, for he was at the Marlow Theatre on that night with his sister. Cuthbert had no motive, and Jennings quite believed his explanation as to his exploration of the park between the hours of ten and eleven. Hale, Clancy and Mrs. Herne were all out of the house before the blow had been struck, and, moreover, there was no reason why they should murder a harmless old lady. Maraquito confined to her couch could not possibly have anything to do with the crime. Mrs. Octagon did hate her sister, but she certainly would not risk killing her. In fact, Jennings examining into the motives and movements of those mentioned, could find no clue to the right person. He began to believe that the crime had been committed by someone who had not yet appeared—someone whose motive might be found in the past of the dead woman. Say a member of the Saul family.

But Maraquito was the sole surviving member, and on the face of it was innocent. As yet Jennings did not know whether Mrs. Herne was her mother, in spite of the resemblance which Susan claimed to have seen. Also, Caranby said that Maraquito resembled her father, and the features of the Saul family were so strongly marked that it was impossible the elder Saul could have married a woman resembling him. "Though, to be sure, he might have married a relative," said Jennings, and went to bed more perplexed than ever.

Next day, before calling at the "Shrine of the Muses," he went to Scotland Yard, and there made inquiries about the rumor of false coins being in circulation. These appeared to be numerous and were admirably made. Also from France and Russia and Italy came reports that false money was being scattered about. The chief of the detective staff possessed these coins of all sorts, and Jennings was forced to own that they were admirable imitations. He went away, wondering if this crime could be connected in any way with the circulation of false money. "Maraquito is a member of the Saul family, who appear to have been expert coiners," said Jennings, on his way to Kensington, "and, according to Le Beau, she gave him a false sovereign. I wonder if she keeps up the business, and if Clancy and Hale, together with Mrs. Herne, this supposititious mother, have to do with the matter. That unfinished house would make an admirable factory, and the presence of the ghosts would be accounted for if a gang of coiners was discovered there. But there is a fifteen-feet wall round the house, and the park is a regular jungle. Cuthbert examined the place by day and night and could see nothing suspicious. I wonder if Miss Loach, living near the place, learned that a gang was there. If so, it is quite conceivable that she might have been murdered by one of them. But how the deuce did anyone enter the house? The door certainly opened at half-past ten o'clock, either to let someone in or someone out. But the bell did not sound for half an hour later. Can there be any outlet to that house, and is it connected with the unfinished mansion of Lord Caranby, used as a factory?"

This was all theory, but Jennings could deduce no other explanation from the evidence he had collected. He determined to search the unfinished house, since Caranby had given him permission, and also to make an inspection of Rose Cottage, though how he was to enter on a plausible excuse he did not know. But Fate gave him a chance which he was far from expecting. On arriving at the "Shrine of the Muses" he was informed that Miss Saxon had gone to Rexton. This was natural enough, since she owned the cottage, but Jennings was inclined to suspect Juliet from her refusal to marry Cuthbert or to explain her reason, and saw something suspicious in all she did. He therefore took the underground railway at once to Rexton, and, alighting at the station, went to Crooked Lane through the by-path, which ran through the small wood of pines. On looking at the cottage he saw that the windows were open, that carpets were spread on the lawn, and that the door was ajar. It seemed that Mrs. Pill was indulging in the spring cleaning alluded to by Susan Grant.

At the door Jennings met Mrs. Pill herself, with her arms bare and a large coarse apron protecting her dress. She was dusty and untidy and cross. Nor did her temper grow better when she saw the detective, whom she recognized as having been present at the inquest.

"Whyever 'ave you come 'ere, sir?" asked she. "I'm sure there ain't no more corpses for you to discover."

"I wish to see Miss Saxon. I was told she was here."

"Well, she is," admitted Mrs. Pill, placing her red arms akimbo, "not as I feel bound to tell it, me not being in the witness-box. She 'ave come to see me about my rent. An' you, sir?"

"I wish to speak to Miss Saxon," said Jennings patiently.

Mrs. Pill rubbed her nose and grumbled. "She's up in the attics," said she, "lookin' at some dresses left by pore Miss Loach, and there ain't a room in the 'ouse fit to let you sit down in, by reason of no chairs being about. 'Ave you come to tell me who killed mistress?"

"No! I don't think the assassin will ever be discovered."

"Ah, well. We're all grass," wailed Mrs. Pill; "but if you wish to see Miss Saxon, see her you will. Come this way to the lower room, an' I'll go up to the attics."

"Let me go, too, and it will save Miss Saxon coming down," said Jennings, wishing to take Juliet unawares.

"Ah, now you speaks sense. Legs is legs when stairs are about, whatever you may say," said Mrs. Pill, leading the way, "an' you'll excuse me, Mr. Policeman, if I don't stop, me 'avin' a lot of work to do, as Susan's gone and Geraldine with 'er, not to speak of my 'usbin' that is to be, he havin' gone to see Mrs. Herne, drat her!"

"Why has he gone to see Mrs. Herne?" asked Jennings quickly.

"Arsk me another," said the cook querulously, "he's a secret one is Thomas Barnes, whatever you may say. He comes and he goes and makes money by 'is doin's, whatever they may be. For not a word do I 'ear of 'is pranks. I've a good mind to remain Pill to the end of my days, seein' as he keeps secrets."

Jennings said no more, but secretly wondered why Thomas had gone to visit Mrs. Herne. He determined to call on that lady at once and see if he could learn what message Thomas had taken her and from whom. But he had not much time for thought as Mrs. Pill opened a door to the right of a narrow passage and pushed him in. "An' now I'll go back to my dustin'," said the cook, hurrying away.

Jennings found himself face to face with Juliet. She was standing on a chair with her hand up on the cornice. As soon as she saw him she came down with rather a white face. The room was filled with trunks and large deal boxes, and some were open, revealing clothes. Dust lay thick on others apparently locked, and untouched for many years. The light filtered into the dusty attic through a dirty window, and the floor was strewn with straw and other rubbish. Miss Saxon did not know the detective and her face resumed its normal color and expression.

"Who are you and what do you want?" she asked, casting a nervous look at the cornice.

Jennings removed his hat. "I beg your pardon," he said politely. "Mrs. Pill showed me up here when I asked to see you."

"She had no right," said Juliet, looking at her dress, which was rather dusty, "come downstairs and tell me who you are."

She appeared anxious to get him out of the room, and walked before him out of the door. As she passed through Jennings contrived to shut it as though her dress had caught the lower part. Then he lightly turned the key. He could hear Juliet fumbling at the lock. "What is the matter?" she called through.

"The lock has got hampered in some way," said Jennings, rattling the key, "one moment, I'll look at it carefully."

As he said this he made one bound to the chair upon which she had been standing and reached his hand to the cornice at which she had looked. Passing his hand rapidly along it came into contact with an object long and sharp. He drew it down. It was a brand-new knife of the sort called bowie. Jennings started on seeing this object, but having no time to think (for he did not wish to rouse her suspicions), he slipped the knife in his vest and ran again to the door. After a lot of ostentatious fumbling he managed to turn the key again and open the door. Juliet was flushed and looked at him angrily. But she cast no second look at the cornice, which showed Jennings that she did not suspect his ruse.

"Your dress caught the door and shut it," he explained, "the lock seems to be out of order."

"I never knew it was," said Juliet, examining it; "it always locked easy enough before."

"Hum," thought Jennings, "so you have been here before and you have kept the door locked on account of the knife probably," but he looked smilingly at the girl all the time.

"I am sorry," he said, when she desisted from her examination.

"It's my fault," said Juliet unsuspiciously, and closed the door. She led the way along the passage and down the stairs. "Who are you?" she asked, turning round half way down.

"I am a friend of Mallow's," said the detective.

"I have never met you?"

"Yet I have been to your house, Miss Saxon. Perhaps my name, Miles Jennings, may—"

The girl started with a cry. "You are a detective!" she gasped.



CHAPTER XIV

MRS. OCTAGON EXPLAINS

The young girl leaned against the wall, white, and with closed eyes. Alarmed by her appearance, Jennings would have assisted her, but she waved him off and staggered down the stairs. By a powerful effort she managed to subdue her feelings, and when in the hall turned to him with a sickly smile. "I am glad to see you," she said. "Mr. Mallow has often spoken to you of me. You are his friend, I know."

"His best friend, in spite of the difference in our position."

"Oh," Juliet waved that objection aside, "I know you are a gentleman and took up this work merely as a hobby."

"I fear not," smiled Jennings. "To make money."

"Not in a very pleasant way. However, as you are Mr. Mallow's friend, I am glad you have this case in hand," she fixed her eyes on the detective. "Have you discovered anything?" she asked anxiously.

"Nothing much," replied Jennings, who rapidly decided to say nothing about his discovery of the knife. "I fear the truth will never be found out, Miss Saxon. I suppose you have no idea?"

"I," she said, coloring, "what put such a thing into your head? I am absolutely ignorant of the truth. Did you come to ask me about—"

"That amongst other things," interrupted Jennings, seeing Mrs. Pill's bulky figure at the door. "Can we not talk in some quieter place?"

"Come downstairs," said Juliet, moving, "but the rooms are unfurnished as Mrs. Pill is cleaning them. The house is quiet enough."

"So I see," said the detective, following his companion down to the basement, "only yourself and Mrs. Pill."

"And my mother," she answered. "We came here to see about some business connected with the letting of the cottage. My mother is lying down in the old part of the house. Do you wish to see her?"

"No. I wish to see you."

By this time they had entered the sitting-room in which the crime had been committed. The carpets were up, the furniture had been removed, the walls were bare. Jennings could have had no better opportunity of seeking for any secret entrance, the existence of which he suspected by reason of the untimely sounding of the bell. But everything seemed to be in order. The floor was of oak, and there was—strangely enough—no hearth-stone. The French windows opened into the conservatory, now denuded of its flowers, and stepping into this Jennings found that the glass roof was entirely closed, save for a space for ventilation. The assassin could not have entered or escaped in that way, and there was no exit from the room save by the door.

"Would you like to see the bedroom?" asked Juliet sarcastically. "I see you are examining the place, though I should have thought you would have done so before."

"I did at the time," replied Jennings calmly, "but the place was then full of furniture and the carpets were down. Let me see the bedroom by all means."

Juliet led the way into the next room, which was also bare. There was one window hermetically sealed and with iron shutters. This looked out on to a kind of well, and light was reflected from above by means of a sheet of silvered tin. No one could have got out by the window, and even then, it would have been difficult to have climbed up the well which led to the surface of the ground. The floor and walls had no marks of entrances, and Jennings returned to the sitting-room completely baffled. Then Juliet spoke again. "I cannot help wondering what you expect to find," she observed.

"I thought there might be a secret entrance," said Jennings, looking at her keenly, "but there seems to be none."

Miss Saxon appeared genuinely astonished and looked round. "I never heard of such a thing," she said, puzzled. "And what would a quiet old lady like my aunt need with a secret entrance?"

"Well, you see, the assassin could not have sounded that bell and have escaped by the front door. Had he done so, he would have met Susan Grant answering the call. Therefore, he must have escaped in some other way. The windows of both rooms are out of the question."

"Yes. But I understood that the assassin escaped at half-past ten."

"According to the evidence it looks like that. But who then sounded the bell?"

Juliet shook her head. "I can't say," she said with a sigh. "The whole case is a mystery to me."

"You don't know who killed Miss Loach? Please do not look so indignant, Miss Saxon. I am only doing my duty."

The girl forced a smile. "I really do not know, nor can I think what motive the assassin can have had. He must have had some reason, you know, Mr. Jennings."

"You say 'he.' Was the assassin then a man?"

"I suppose so. At the inquest the doctor said that no woman could have struck such a blow. But I am really ignorant of all, save what appeared in the papers. I am the worst person in the world to apply to for information, sir."

"Perhaps you are, so far as the crime is concerned. But there is one question I should like to ask you. An impertinent one."

"What is it?" demanded the girl, visibly nervous.

"Why do you refuse to marry Mallow?"

"That is very impertinent," said Juliet, controlling herself; "so much so that I refuse to reply."

"As a gentleman, I take that answer," said Jennings mildly, "but as a detective I ask again for your reason."

"I fail to see what my private affairs have to do with the law."

Jennings smiled at this answer and thought of the knife which he had found. A less cautious man would have produced it at once and have insisted on an explanation. But Jennings wished to learn to whom the knife belonged before he ventured. He was sure that it was not the property of Juliet, who had no need for such a dangerous article, and he was equally sure that as she was shielding someone, she would acknowledge that she had bought the weapon. He was treading on egg-shells, and it behooved him to be cautious. "Very good," he said at length, "we will pass that question for the present, though as Mallow's friend I am sorry. Will you tell me to whom you gave the photograph of Mallow which he presented to you?"

"How do you know about that?" asked Miss Saxon quickly. "And why do you ask?"

"Because I have seen the photograph."

"That is impossible," she answered coldly; "unless you were in this house before the death of my aunt."

"Ah! then it was to Miss Loach you gave it," said Jennings, wondering how Maraquito had become possessed of it.

"It was; though I do not recognize your right to ask such a question, Mr. Jennings. My late aunt was very devoted to Mr. Mallow and anxious that our marriage should take place. He gave me the photograph—"

"With an inscription," put in the detective.

"Certainly," she rejoined, flushing, "with an inscription intended for me alone. I was unwilling to part with the photograph, but my aunt begged so eagerly for it that I could not refuse it."

"How did she see it in the first instance?"

"I brought it to show her after Mr. Mallow gave it to me. May I ask where you saw it?"

Jennings looked at her with marked significance. "I saw it in the house of a woman called Maraquito."

"And how did it get there?"

"I can't tell you. Do you know this woman?"

"I don't even know her name. Who is she?"

"Her real name is Senora Gredos and she claims to be a Spanish Jewess. She keeps a kind of gambling salon. To be plain with you, Miss Saxon, I really did not see the photograph in her house. But a girl called Susan Grant—"

"I know. My late aunt's parlor-maid."

"Well, the photograph was in her box. I found it when the servants insisted on their boxes being searched. She confessed that she had taken it from her last mistress, who was Senora Gredos. As you gave it to Miss Loach, I should be glad to know how it came into the possession of this woman."

"I really can't tell you, no more than I can say why Susan took it. What was her reason?"

"Mr. Mallow is a handsome man—" began Jennings, when she stopped him with a gesture.

"Do you mean to say—no, I'll never believe it."

"I was not going to say anything against Mallow's character. But this foolish girl cherished a foolish infatuation for Mallow. She saw him at Senora Gredos' house—"

"Ah!" said Juliet, turning pale. "I remember now. Basil mentioned that Cuthbert gambled, but he did not say where."

"Mallow gambled a little at Maraquito's, as did your brother. The only difference is that Mallow could afford to lose and your brother could not. Are you sure you never heard the name of Maraquito?"

"Quite sure," said Juliet, meeting his gaze so calmly that he saw she was speaking the truth. "Well, I understand how you got the photograph, but how did this woman get it? I never heard my aunt mention her, either as Maraquito or as Senora Gredos."

"Was your aunt open with you?"

"Perfectly open. She had nothing in her life to conceal."

"I am not so sure of that," murmured the detective. "Well, I cannot say how Maraquito became possessed of this photograph."

Juliet shrugged her shoulders. "In that case we may dismiss the matter," she said, wiping her dry lips; "and I can't see what the photograph has to do with this crime."

"I can't see it myself, but one never knows."

"Do you accuse Mr. Mallow?"

"Supposing I did. I know Mr. Mallow was near this place on the night of the murder and about the hour."

Juliet leaned against the wall and turned away her face. "It is not true. What should bring him there?"

"He had business connected with the unfinished house at the back owned by Lord Caranby. But I don't suppose anyone saw him."

"How do you know he was here then?" asked Juliet, gray and agitated.

"He confessed to me that he had been here. But we can talk of that later—"

Juliet interposed. "One moment," she cried, "do you accuse him?"

"As yet I accuse no one. I must get more facts together. By the way, Miss Saxon, will you tell the where you were on that night?"

"Certainly," she replied in a muffled voice, "at the Marlow Theatre with my brother Basil."

"Quite so. But I don't think the play was to your liking."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well," said Jennings slowly, and watching the changing color of her face, "in your house you do not favor melodrama. I wonder you went to see this one at the Marlow Theatre."

"The writer is a friend of ours," said Juliet defiantly.

"In that case, you might have paid him the compliment of remaining till the fall of the curtain."

Juliet trembled violently and clung to the wall. "Go on," she said faintly.

"You had a box, as I learned from the business manager. But shortly after eight your brother left the theatre: you departed after nine."

"I went to see an old friend in the neighborhood," stammered Juliet.

"Ah, and was that neighborhood this one, by any chance? In a hansom—which I believe you drove away in—one can reach this place from the Marlow Theatre in a quarter of an hour."

"I—I—did not come here."

"Then where did you go?"

"I decline to say."

"Where did your brother go?"

"He did not tell me. Did the manager inform you of anything else?"

"He merely told me that you and your brother left the theatre as I stated. You decline to reveal your movements."

"I do," said Juliet, clenching her hands and looking pale but defiant. "My private business can have nothing to do with you. As you seek to connect me with this case, it is your business to prove what you say. I refuse to speak."

"Will your brother refuse?"

"You had better ask him," said Miss Saxon carelessly, but with an effort to appear light-hearted. "I don't inquire into my brother's doings, Mr. Jennings."

"Yet you heard about his gambling."

"I don't see what that has to do with the matter in hand. Do you accuse me and Basil of having killed my aunt?"

"I accuse no one, as yet," said Jennings, chagrined at her reticence, "I said that before. Did you not speak with your aunt on that night?"

"No," said Juliet positively. "I certainly did not."

Jennings changed his tactics, and became apparently friendly. "Well, Miss Saxon, I won't bother you any more. I am sure you have told me all you know." Juliet winced. "Have you any idea if the weapon with which the crime was committed has been discovered?"

"That is a strange question for a detective to ask."

"A very necessary one. Well?"

"I know nothing about it," she said in an almost inaudible voice.

"Do you know Mrs. Herne?"

"I have met her once or twice here."

"Did you like her?"

"I can hardly say. I did not take much notice of her. She appeared to be agreeable, but she was over-dressed and used a perfume which I disliked."

"Had you ever met anyone using such a perfume before?"

"No. It was strong and heavy. Quite a new scent to me. The odor gave me a headache!"

"Was Mrs. Herne a great friend of your aunt's?"

"I believe so. She came here with Mr. Hale and Mr. Clancy to play."

"Hale," said Jennings, "I forgot Hale. Does he still retain your business, Miss Saxon?"

"No. I have given over the management of my property to our own lawyer. Mr. Hale was quite willing."

"Does your brother Basil still make a friend of Mr. Hale?"

"I don't know," said Juliet, changing color again. "I do not ask about Basil's doings. I said that before. Hark," she added, anxious to put an end to the conversation, "my mother is coming."

"I should like to see Mrs. Octagon," said Jennings.

"She will be here in a few minutes. I shall tell her," and Juliet, without a look, left the room, evidently glad to get away.

Jennings frowned and took out the knife at which he looked. "She knows a good deal about this affair," he murmured. "Who is she shielding? I suspect her brother. Otherwise she would not have hidden the knife. I wonder to whom it belongs. Here are three notches cut in the handle—there is a stain on the blade—blood, I suppose."

He got no further in his soliloquy, for Mrs. Octagon swept into the room in her most impressive manner. She was calm and cool, and her face wore a smile as she advanced to the detective. "My dear Mr. Jennings," she said, shaking him warmly by the hand, "I am so glad to see you, though I really ought to be angry, seeing you came to my house so often and never told me what you did."

"You mightn't have welcomed me had you known," said he dryly.

"I am above such vulgar prejudices," said Mrs. Octagon, waving her hand airily, "and I am sure your profession is an arduous one. When Juliet told me that you were looking into this tragic death of my poor sister I was delighted. So consoling to have to do with a gentleman in an unpleasant matter like this. Why have you come?"

This last question was put sharply, and Mrs. Octagon fastened her big black eyes on the calm face of the detective. "Just to have a look at the house," he said readily, for he was certain Juliet would not report their conversation to her mother.

Mrs. Octagon shrugged her shoulders. "A very nice little house, though rather commonplace in its decoration; but my poor sister never did have much taste. Have you discovered anything likely to lead to the discovery of her assassin?"

"I am ashamed to say I am quite in the dark," replied Jennings. "I don't suppose the truth will ever be discovered."

The woman appeared relieved, but tried to assume a sad expression. "Oh, how very dreadful," she said, "she will lie in her untimely grave, unavenged. Alas! Alas!"

But Jennings was not mystified by her tragic airs.

He was certain she knew something and feared lest it should come to his knowledge. Therefore he resolved to startle her by a blunt question. "I never knew you were acquainted with Maraquito!"

Mrs. Octagon was not at all taken aback. "I don't know such creatures as a rule," she said calmly. "What makes you think I do?"

"I saw you enter her house one night."

"Last night," said Mrs. Octagon coolly. "Yes. Maraquito, or Senora Gredos, or whatever she calls herself, told me you had just gone. I saw her in a little room off the salon where the play went on."

The detective was surprised by this ready admission, and at once became suspicious. It would seem that Mrs. Octagon, expecting such a question, was uncommonly ready to answer it. "May I ask why you went to see this woman?" he demanded.

An innocent woman would have resented this question, but Mrs. Octagon ostentatiously seized the opportunity to clear herself, and thereby increased Jennings' suspicions. "Certainly," she said in an open manner and with a rather theatrical air, "I went to beg my son's life from this fair siren."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Basil," said Mrs. Octagon, in her deep, rich voice, "is too fond of this fair stranger—Spanish, is she not?"

"She says she is," said the cautious Jennings.

Mrs. Octagon shot a glance of suspicion at him, but at once resumed her engaging manner. "The foolish boy loves her," she went on, clasping her hands and becoming poetical, "his heart is captured by her starry eyes and he would wed her for her loveliness. But I can't have that sort of thing," she added, becoming prosaic, "so I went and told her I would denounce her gambling salon to the police if she did not surrender my son. She has done so, and I am happy. Ah, Mr. Jennings, had you a mother's heart," she laid her hand on her own, "you would know to what lengths it will lead a woman!"

"I am glad your son is safe," said Jennings, with apparent cordiality, though he wondered how much of this was true. "Maraquito is not a good wife for him. Besides, she is a cripple."

"Yes," said Mrs. Octagon tragically, "she is a cripple."

Something in the tone of her voice made Jennings look up and created a new suspicion in his heart. However, he said no more, having learned as much as was possible from this tricky woman. "I must go now," he said, "I have examined the house."

Mrs. Octagon led the way upstairs. "And have you any clue?"

"None! None! I wish you could assist me."

"I?" she exclaimed indignantly, "no, my sister and I were not friends, and I will have nothing to do with the matter. Good-day," and Mrs. Octagon sailed away, after ushering the detective out of the door.

Jennings departed, wondering at this change of front. As he passed through the gate a fair, stupid-looking man entered. He nodded to Jennings, touching his hat, and at the same time a strong perfume saluted the detective's nostrils. "Thomas Barnes uses Hikui also," murmured Jennings, walking away. "Humph! Is he a member of the gang?"



CHAPTER XV

A DANGEROUS ADMISSION

Jennings had once witnessed a drama by Victorien Sardou, entitled—in the English version—Diplomacy. Therein a woman was unmasked by means of a scent. It seemed to him that perfume also played a part in this case. Why should Clancy, Mrs. Herne, Hale, Maraquito and Thomas use a special odor? "I wonder if they meet in the dark?" thought the detective, "and recognize each other by the scent. It seems very improbable, yet I can't see why they use it otherwise. That women should use perfumes, even the same perfume, is right enough. They love that sort of thing, but why should men do so, especially a man in the position of Thomas? I'll follow up this clue, if clue it is!"

The conversation with Juliet convinced Jennings that she knew of something connected with the matter, but was determined to hold her tongue. The fact that this knife was in her possession showed that she was aware of some fact likely to lead to the detection of the assassin. She might have found it when she came after the death to Rose Cottage, but in that case, had she nothing to conceal, she would have shown it to the police. Instead of this, she hid it in the attic. Jennings congratulated himself on his dexterity in securing this piece of evidence. There was no doubt in his mind that this was the very knife with which Miss Loach had been stabbed.

"And by a man," thought Jennings. "No woman would have such a weapon in her possession; and if she bought one to accomplish a crime, she would purchase a stiletto or a pistol. It would take a considerable exercise of muscle to drive this heavy knife home."

Jennings considered that the only person who could make Juliet speak was Cuthbert. It was true that she already had declined to make a confidant of him, but now, when there was a chance of his being arrested—as Jennings had hinted—she might be inclined to confess all, especially if it was Cuthbert she was shielding. But the detective fancied her brother might be the culprit. On the night of the murder, both had left the Marlow Theatre, which was near Rexton, and Juliet declined to say where they went. It might be that both had been on the spot about the time of the commission of the crime. Again, unless Miss Loach had admitted her assailant, he must have had a latch-key to let himself in. From the fact that the poor woman had been found with the cards on her lap in the same position in which Susan had left her, Jennings was inclined to think that the assassin had struck the blow at once, and then had left the house at the half hour. But how had he entered? There did not appear to be any secret entrance, and no one could enter by the windows; nor by the door either without a latch-key. The further Jennings examined into the matter, the more he was puzzled. Never had he undertaken so difficult a case. But the very difficulty made him the more resolute to unravel the mystery.

For two or three days he went about, asking for information concerning the coining, and reading up details in old newspapers about the exploits of the Saul family. Also, he went occasionally to the salon of Senora Gredos. There he constantly met Hale and Clancy. Also Basil came at times. That young man now adopted a somewhat insolent demeanor towards the pair, which showed that he was now out of their clutches and no longer had cause to fear them. Jennings felt sure that Basil could explain much, and he half determined to get a warrant out for his arrest in the hope that fear might make him confess. But, unfortunately, he had not sufficient information to procure such a thing, and was obliged to content himself with keeping a watch on young Saxon. But the man sent to spy reported nothing suspicious about Basil's doings.

In this perplexity of mind Jennings thought he would see Cuthbert and relate what he had discovered. Also he hoped that Mallow might interview Juliet and learn the truth from her. But an inquiry at Mallow's rooms showed that he had gone out of town for a few days with his uncle, and would not be back for another two. Pending this return, Jennings sorted his evidence.

Then he was surprised to receive a letter from Mrs. Herne, stating that she had returned to her place at Hampstead, and asking him to call. "I understand from Mr. Clancy," wrote Mrs. Herne, "that you wish to see me in connection with the death of my poor friend. I shall beat home to-morrow at four." Then followed the signature, and Jennings put away the note with a rather disappointed feeling. If he was right in suspecting Mrs. Herne, she certainly felt little fear, else she would have declined to see him. After all, his supposition that the two women and the four men formed a gang of coiners, who worked in the unfinished house, might turn out to be wrong. "But I'll see Mrs. Herne and have a long talk with her," said Jennings to himself. "And then I'll show the knife to Cuthbert Mallow. Also I may examine the unfinished house. If coiners have been there, or are there, I'll soon find out. Mallow hunting for ghosts, probably, made only a cursory examination. And I'll take Drudge to Hampstead with me."

Drudge was a detective who adored Jennings and thought him the very greatest man in England. He was usually employed in watching those whom his superior suspected, and Jennings could always rely on his orders being honestly executed. In this instance Drudge was to wait some distance from the house of Mrs. Herne until Jennings came out again. Then on the conversation which had taken place would depend further orders. The man was silent and lean, with a pair of sad eyes. He followed Jennings like a dog and never spoke unless he was required to answer a question.

Mrs. Herne did not possess a house of her own, which struck the detective as strange, considering she appeared to be a wealthy woman. She always wore costly dresses and much jewellery, yet she was content with two rooms, one to sit in and the other to sleep in. Certainly the sitting-room (which was all Jennings saw) was well furnished, and she apparently thoroughly appreciated the luxuries of life. There was a bow-window which commanded a fine prospect of the Heath, and here Mrs. Herne was seated. The blinds were half-way down, so that the brilliant sunlight could not penetrate into the somewhat dusky room. When the detective entered Mrs. Herne excused the semi-darkness. "But my eyes are somewhat weak," she said, motioning him to a seat. "However, if you wish for more light—" she laid her hand on the blind-cord.

"Not on my account," said Jennings, who did not wish to appear unduly suspicious. "I am quite satisfied."

"Very well, then," replied Mrs. Herne, resuming her seat and crossing her delicate hands on her lap. "We can talk. I am at your orders."

She was arrayed in a blue silk dress of a somewhat vivid hue, but softened with black lace. She had a brooch of diamonds at her throat, a diamond necklace round it, bracelets set with the same gems and many costly rings. Such a mass of jewelry looked rather out of place in the daylight, but the twilight of the room made the glitter less pronounced. Jennings thought that Mrs. Herne must have Jewish blood in her veins, seeing she was so fond of gems. Certainly she was very like Maraquito, even to having eyebrows almost meeting over her thin high nose. But these, as was her hair, were gray, and her skin lacked the rich coloring of the younger woman. Jennings rapidly took in the resemblance, and commenced the conversation, more convinced than ever that there was some bond of blood between Mrs. Herne and Senora Gredos. This belief helped him not a little.

"I daresay Mr. Clancy told you why I wished to see you?"

Mrs. Herne nodded in a stately way. "Yes. You wish to know if I was in the bedroom of my friend on that evening. Well, I was. I went in for a few minutes to take off my cloak and hat, and then I went in again to resume them."

"Did you see anyone in the room?"

"No. Had there been anyone I should certainly have seen the person. But there is no place where anyone could hide."

"Not even a cupboard?"

"There was a wardrobe, for Miss Loach disliked cupboards, as she thought clothes did not get sufficiently aired in them. A wardrobe, and of course anyone might have hid under the bed, but I did not look. And I don't think," added Mrs. Herne, examining her rings, "that anyone was about. Miss Loach was always very suspicious, and searched the house regularly."

"Did she, then, anticipate anyone hiding—a burglar, for instance?"

"Yes, I think she did. Her nature was warped from certain events which happened in her early life, and she suspected everyone."

"Was she on bad terms with anyone?"

"No. She never quarrelled. I am the quarrelsome person," said the lady, smiling. "I quarrelled with Mr. Clancy, who is a rude man. But we have made it up since, as he has apologized. It was Mr. Clancy who told me of your wish to see me. Do you want to ask anything else?"

"If you do not mind."

"On the contrary, I am anxious to afford you all the information in my power. Nothing would give me more satisfaction than to see the murderer of my dear friend brought to justice."

She spoke with great feeling, and there was an unmistakable ring of truth about her speech. Jennings began to think he must be wrong in suspecting her to have anything to do with the death. All the same, he was on his guard. It would not do to let Mrs. Herne, clever as she was, pull wool over his eyes. "Have you any idea who killed Miss Loach?" he asked.

"No. She was quite well on that evening, and did not anticipate death in any way—least of all in a violent form. Mr. Hale, Mr. Clancy and myself would have been with her till nearly midnight had I not quarrelled with Mr. Clancy. As it was, Mr. Hale escorted me home about half-past nine, and I understand Mr. Clancy left about ten. When Miss Loach was not playing whist or bridge she never cared about having anyone in her house. She was rather a misanthrope."

"Did she expect anyone that evening?"

"No. At all events, she said nothing about expecting anyone."

"Did she expect her nephew?"

"Mr. Basil Saxon?" said Mrs. Herne, looking surprised. "Not that I am aware of. She did not mention his name. To be sure, they were on bad terms, and she had forbidden him the house. No, I do not think she expected him."

"Do you know the cause of the quarrel?"

"It had something to do with money. I believe Miss Loach helped Mr. Saxon, who was rather extravagant, but she grew weary of his demands and refused to help him further. He lost his temper and said things which forced her to order him out of the house."

"Did he utter any threats?"

"Miss Loach never said that he did. Mr. Jennings," remarked the old lady, bending her brows, "is it possible you suspect that young man?"

"No. I suspect no one at present. But I am bound to make inquiries in every direction, and of course, if Mr. Saxon is of a passionate temper, he might wish to avenge himself for being forbidden the house."

"He has a temper," said Mrs. Herne, thoughtfully, "but I never saw it exhibited, though I met him once at Miss Loach's. She said he had a lot of bad blood in him, but that may have been because she hated her sister, Isabella Octagon."

"Did she hate her?"

"Yes. And I think she had cause. Mrs. Octagon behaved very badly in connection with some romantic episode of the past."

"I fancy I know about that," said Jennings quickly, then added, "You are fond of perfumes?"

"What a strange question," laughed Mrs. Herne. "Yes, I am. Do you like this scent. It is called Hikui, and was given to me by a dear friend who received it from a Japanese attache."

"From a friend or relative?"

Mrs. Herne frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

Jennings shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, nothing. Only you are very like a lady called Senora Gredos."

"Maraquito," said Mrs. Herne unexpectedly. "Of course I am. Her father was my brother."

"You are then her aunt?"

"Naturally. But the fact is, I do not proclaim the relationship, as I do not approve of Maraquito's gambling. Of course the poor thing is confined to her couch and must have something to amuse her. All the same, gambling on a large scale is against my principles. But, if asked, I do not disown the relationship. Now you understand why I am like Maraquito."

"I understand," hesitated Jennings, "you belong to a Spanish family?"

"Spanish Jews. I am a Jewess, so is Maraquito."

"Do you speak Spanish?"

"Yes. Do you wish to speak it with me?"

"Unfortunately I do not know the language," said Jennings, profoundly regretting the fact. "And your niece?"

"She does not speak it. She was brought up in England."

"In that case she should ask you if her name is masculine or feminine, Mrs. Herne?"

The old lady started. "I should like to know what you mean?"

"Senora Gredos' Christian name should be Maraquita, not Maraquito!"

"Really. I never gave the matter a thought. I will tell her about it if you like. I said she did not speak Spanish! She has led a strange life. At one time she wished to dance and took the name of Celestine Durand. She was taught by a professor of dancing called Le Beau, who lives in Pimlico, but while learning she slipped in the street and became the wreck you see her."

Certainly Mrs. Herne was very frank, and spoke the truth, as all this bore out the statements of Le Beau and Lord Caranby. "Her maiden name was Saul, I believe," said Jennings, thinking Mrs. Herne would deny this promptly.

To his astonishment she did nothing of the sort. "My maiden name is Saul," she said gravely. "But as Maraquito is the daughter of my unfortunate brother, her true name is the same—not her maiden name, you understand. I do not know how you learned this, but—"

"Lord Caranby paid a visit to Maraquito's salon and recognized that she was a Saul from her likeness to Emilia, with whom—"

"With whom he was in love," finished Mrs. Herne, crossing her hands; "that painful story is well known to me. Emilia was my sister."

"Lord Caranby never told me she had one," said Jennings.

"Lord Caranby does not know the history of our family."

"Save what appeared in the papers," put in the detective.

Mrs. Herne flushed through her sallow skin. "It is not well bred of you to refer to the misfortunes of my family," she said; "my mother and brother were unlucky. They were innocent of this charge of coining, brought against them by an enemy."

"The evidence was very plain, Mrs. Herne."

"Ah!" she flashed out, "you have been looking up the case. Why?"

"From what Lord Caranby said—"

"He has no right to say anything," cried Mrs. Herne, rising and speaking vehemently; "he loved my sister, and she lost her life at that dreadful house. I was abroad at the time, and had only just married. My husband was a jeweller. We cut ourselves off from the family when the misfortune came. Only of late years did I recognize Maraquito when she came to me for assistance. Her father died and she had no money. I helped her to pay for her dancing—"

"Oh," said Jennings, recalling the false money, "you paid."

"Have you anything to say on that point?" she asked haughtily.

"No! No! I merely congratulate you on your generosity."

"I could not allow my own niece to starve. I helped her, and then she met with the accident. After that—"

"You assisted her to start this gambling-house."

"By no means. Mr. Hale found the money for that. He is in love with Maraquito. But you can understand why I do not proclaim my relationship with her. The past of our family is too painful. I became acquainted with Miss Loach through Mrs. Octagon—she was then the wife of Mr. Saxon—when I went to inquire into my sister's death. I liked Miss Loach and frequently went to see her. Now that she is dead I shall leave England. I have arranged to do so next week, and you will not see me here again. That is why I gave you this chance of making inquiries."

"I am much obliged," said Jennings quite believing her story, since she told it so earnestly: "but does Maraquito love Hale?"

"No. She loves Mr. Mallow, Lord Caranby's nephew."

"She has a rival in Miss Saxon," said the detective.

Mrs. Herne turned red. "My niece fears no rival," she said haughtily. "Miss Saxon shall never be the wife of Mr. Mallow."

Jennings shrugged his shoulders. "I do not see how she can stop the affair."

"Oh yes, she can. The mother is on her side."

"Ah! I thought there was some work of that kind."

"Hear me!" cried Mrs. Herne, imposing silence with a gesture. "Basil Saxon is in love with Maraquito and she can twist the poor fool round her finger. She agrees to send him away if Mrs. Octagon stops this most absurd marriage."

"Which she has done."

"And which she will continue to do," said Mrs. Herne decisively; "the mother does not wish Basil to marry my niece, though she is quite as good as they if not better."

"Well," drawled Jennings, rising, "I now know why Mrs. Octagon has acted in this way. There's no more to be said."

"Are there any further questions you wish to ask me? Remember I go abroad forever next week. You will never see me again."

"I think I have asked you everything. By the why," Jennings balanced his hat between two forefingers, "I suppose your niece's complaint is incurable?"

"She thought so until lately. But she has consulted a specialist, who tells her she will walk again in a few months."

"Then I suppose since she has made money through Hale's gambling-house she will marry him out of gratitude."

"She will marry Mallow," said Mrs. Herne, closing her mouth firmly.

"Lord Caranby may object."

"His objections will be overcome," she replied, with a crafty smile.

"In what way? I am not curious, but—"

"I have my own opinion of that, Mr. Jennings."

"Well, I should like to know how the obstinate objections of a firm old man like Caranby are to be overcome."

"Ah, now you wish to know too much," said Mrs. Herne, laughing and moving towards the center of the room. "I refuse to tell you that. But if you are friendly with Miss Saxon, tell her to give up Mr. Mallow. Otherwise—"

"Otherwise," echoed Jennings, curious to know why she paused.

"She will lose what is dearest to her."

"Humph! I wonder what that can be. Had you not better threaten Miss Saxon personally, Mrs. Herne?"

"I have no need to, Maraquito will do that. With my niece as an enemy, Miss Saxon has no chance of gaining the prize she desires."

"But you reckon without the feelings of Mr. Mallow. He loves—"

"He does not—he does not!" cried Mrs. Herne, pressing one hand to her heart and speaking fiercely; "he loves Maraquito. And is she not worthy to be loved? Is she—go—go." Mrs. Herne waved her hand. "I have told you everything you asked, and more. Should you require further information about Maraquito's love, I refer you to herself."

"Oh, I am not interested enough in the matter to ask her," said the detective, and bowing to the lady who had sunk on the sofa, took his departure. A strange idea occurred to him, suggested by the agitation of Mrs. Herne.

When he met Drudge, who was partaking of a glass of gin, he gave him instructions to watch the Hampstead house and follow Mrs. Herne when she came out. Then having posted his spy—for Drudge was nothing else—Jennings hurried back to town. That same evening he sent a wire to Cuthbert to the address given by the servant, asking him to come up to town next morning.

At eleven Jennings presented himself and found Cuthbert waiting for him, rather surprised and agitated. "Why did you wire me in so peremptory a manner?" asked Mallow; "have you discovered anything?"

"Yes! I am sorry to break your holiday. By the way, you have been at Brighton. Did you stop at the Metropolitan?"

"Yes. I and Uncle Caranby have been there for a few days."

"Did you see Mrs. Herne there?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"For a reason I'll tell you later." Jennings glanced round the room and his eyes became fixed on a trophy of arms. "You are fond of these sort of things?" he demanded.

"Yes, in a way. Yonder are war-spears, revolvers, swords, and—"

"I see—I see. Here is an empty space. What was here?"

"By Jove, I never noticed that before. I forget!"

"Perhaps this will supply the gap," said Jennings, and held out the knife. "Do you recognize this?"

"Certainly. There are three notches in the handle. It is my knife. Did you take it off the wall?"



CHAPTER XVI

JULIET'S STORY

Instead of answering, Jennings looked at Mallow. "It was the merest chance I glanced at the wall and saw that one of the arms which form that trophy was missing. It was also a chance that I suggested the blank space might be filled up with this knife. Are you sure it is your property?"

Mallow with a puzzled expression took the weapon in his hand and examined it closely. "It is mine," he admitted, "on the butts of my revolvers you will find I carve these notches. I also did so on this bowie, which I bought in New York when I went on my last big-game shoot to the Rockies. I marked my things in this way so that the other fellows should not use them by mistake. I brought back this knife, and although it is not a pretty ornament, I fixed it up on the wall yonder. I used it to cut up game. But if you did not take it off the wall—and I confess I never missed it until you drew my attention to the fact that it was missing—where did you get it?"

Jennings scarcely knew what to say. Cuthbert talked of the matter in so easy a manner that it was impossible to think he had killed Miss Loach. Also he was not the sort of man to murder an inoffensive old woman, the more especially as he—on the face of it—had no motive to commit so brutal an act, or to jeopardize his neck. Struck by his friend's silence, Mallow looked up suddenly. Whether he read the truth in Jennings' eyes or the recollection of Jennings' profession brought the Crooked Lane crime into his mind, it is impossible to say. But he suddenly grew pale and dropped the knife with a look of abhorrence.

"Yes," said Jennings, in reply to his mute inquiry, "that is the knife that was used to stab Miss Loach."

"This knife?" said Mallow, with a gasp, "but how the dickens," he used a stronger word, "did my knife come to be used in that way?"

"I should like you to explain that," said the detective icily.

"Good heavens, Jennings, you don't think—"

"What am I to think," said Jennings coldly, "I swear I never suspected you, Mallow. To own the truth, I don't suspect you now, but for your own sake—for your own safety, explain how that knife came to be in Miss Loach's house."

"I can't say," cried Cuthbert, vehemently, "really I can't. I swear I never missed it until you drew my attention to the blank left in the trophy of arms yonder." He flung himself into a seat, and passed his hand through his hair with a bewildered air. "Surely, Jennings, you do not think me guilty of killing that poor wretch?"

Jennings stretched out his hand, which Mallow grasped. "There is my answer," said the detective, "of course I don't suspect you. The mere fact that you own the knife is yours shows me that you are innocent. But the fact that this particular weapon was used reveals to me the strange behavior of Miss Saxon—her motive, I mean."