Cuthbert jumped up. "What has Juliet to do with this?" he asked.

"I went to see her," explained Jennings rapidly, "and was shown up to the attic of Rose Cottage by Mrs. Pill. Miss Saxon was standing on a chair with her hand on the cornice. I managed to place my hand in the same place—it matters not how—and there I found that."

"This knife?" Cuthbert, still bewildered, took up the formidable weapon. "But how did she become possessed of it?"

"You must ask her that."

"I? Why did you not ask her yourself?"

"She would have lied to me—for your sake."

"For my sake? Do you mean to say she thinks I am guilty?"

"Yes, I do," said Jennings decisively.

"It's an infernal lie! I don't believe Juliet would think me such a blackguard unless she did not love me—and she does love me."

"Of course," interposed Jennings swiftly, "so much so that she has concealed this knife so as to—as she thinks—save you. Now, can you not see why she asked you to proceed no further in the case for your—own sake. I thought she was shielding her brother. It is you she believes guilty—"

"And therefore will not marry me?"

"No. I don't think for one moment she cares about that. When a woman loves a man she will stick to him through thick and thin. If he is a regular Cain, she will marry him. Bless the whole sex, they are the staunchest of friends when they love. No, Mallow, in some way Mrs. Octagon has learned that you have killed her—"

"But I never did—I never did. I told you everything."

"What you told me may have been told to Mrs. Octagon with additions. She thinks you guilty, and therefore has threatened to denounce you unless Juliet gives you up. She has done so, therefore Mrs. Octagon holds her bitter tongue."

"But her reason for wishing to break off the marriage."

"We discussed that before. In the first place, you are Caranby's nephew and she hates him. In the second, she and Basil want the fingering of the six thousand a year left by Miss Loach. Should you marry Miss Saxon, they know well you will look after her interests, therefore they don't wish the match to take place. I am not quite sure if this is Basil's plan, or if he knows so much, but I am quite certain that the scheme is of Mrs. Octagon's concoction. But now you can see why Miss Saxon behaved so strangely."

"She has no right to take up such a position," cried Cuthbert, with a fierce look. "She should have been plain with me and have accused me to my face."

"Do you think a woman cares to accuse the man she loves? Besides, Mrs. Octagon may have forced her to keep silence, so as to make the matter more difficult for you. The only way in which you can clear up matters is to see Miss Saxon and insist on an explanation."

"And if she won't give it?"

"I think she will this time," said Jennings with a grim smile. "By now she must have discovered her loss, and she knows well enough that the knife is in my possession. Already she knows that I threatened to arrest you—"

"But you would never do that."

"I would if it meant the clearing of your character. I tell you, Mallow, you are in danger. There is a conspiracy against you, and the using of your knife to kill that old woman proves it. To prepare the ground for an accusation, someone stole it. You must fight, man, or your enemies may bring about your arrest, in spite of all I can do."

Mallow dropped into his seat, flushed and angry.

"I have no enemies," he muttered, trying to collect his wits.

"Yes, you have, and of the worst kind. Two women are against you."

"Two women? Mrs. Octagon, I know, hates me as Caranby's nephew and because she wants to handle this money. But the other?"

"Maraquito Gredos."

"Bosh! She loves me. I am sure she has worried me enough."

"Of course she loves," said Jennings satirically. "She loves you so deeply that she would see you on the scaffold rather than let you marry Miss Saxon. That is why Mrs. Octagon went the other night to see her. Mrs. Herne gave a different version, but—"

"How do you know Mrs. Octagon went to see Maraquito?"

"Your uncle saw her. Sit down, Mallow." Jennings gently pushed back the astonished man into his seat. "Listen while I tell you all I have discovered lately."

Mallow listened in silence, and saw very truly that Maraquito would stick at nothing to gain her ends. However, he made no remark. "Now," went on Jennings, "it may be that Maraquito hired someone to kill Miss Loach and is trying to put the blame on you so that she may entangle you in her net. It will be either the gallows or marriage with you. Of course she could not kill the woman herself, but her aunt, Mrs. Herne—"

"She was out of the house an hour before the blow was struck."

"Quite so," rejoined Jennings dryly, "but she may have come back again. However, the main point is, that Maraquito in some way is working with Mrs. Octagon on this basis to prevent your marriage. In this way they have impressed Miss Saxon that you are guilty, and they have shown her this knife. This evidence she retained in order to save you and at the price of her marriage."

"It might be so," said Mallow, dazed with this view of the case. "I certainly seem to be in a hole. If I could see Juliet—but her mother prevents me."

"I have a plan to bring you together. I am engaged to a girl called Miss Garthorne. She is the niece of an old dancing master who taught Maraquito—"

"Le Beau?"

"The same. Well, I learn from Peggy—that is Miss Garthorne's name—that she was at school for a few months with Miss Saxon. Peggy, in spite of her poverty, has had a good education, thanks to Le Beau, who loves her like a father. Hence, in spite of the difference in rank, she was brought into contact with Miss Saxon."

"Yes! Yes! I see. But the scheme?"

"Well, Peggy must write to Miss Saxon and ask her to come and see her at the Pimlico Academy. As Miss Saxon was great friends with Peggy, she will come. Then you can talk to her there and learn the truth. Find out who gave her the knife. She will answer, especially if you tell her that, owing to my finding the knife, I am inclined to have you arrested. You understand?"

"Yes," said Cuthbert, a new fire in his eyes, and drawing himself up firmly. "I'll get at the truth somehow, and Juliet will not leave that Academy until I learn it. I have had more than enough of this kind of thing. But how did the knife leave my rooms?"

"Who has called to see you within the last month?"

"Oh, dozens of people."

"Has Mrs. Octagon?"

"No. She never liked me enough to pay me a visit. But Basil—"

"Ha!" cried Jennings, slapping his knee. "I believe Basil may have taken it. He is working with his mother to stop the marriage, and—"

"Stop—stop!" interposed Mallow, coloring, "you are accusing Juliet's mother and brother of being accomplices to a crime. Basil is a fool and Mrs. Octagon is not a nice woman, but I don't think either would kill a woman in cold blood."

Jennings had his own opinion about this. Mrs. Octagon—as was proved by her early history—was capable of doing much, when number one was in question, and Basil was an irresponsible, hysterical fool. In a moment of rage he might have—"But no," said Jennings, breaking off this train of thought. "I can't see the truth. Miss Saxon knows it. You must ask her. Be careful, for your life may depend upon it."

"Bunkum!" said Mallow roughly, "I am not afraid."

"Then you ought to be," said Jennings quickly, "you were down at Rose Cottage on that night and the knife is yours. Certainly you have no motive, but Mrs. Octagon and Maraquito will soon find one, if you don't fall in with their wishes. However, you know what you have to do," and Jennings rose to take his leave, first slipping the knife into his pocket.

"Wait a bit," said Cuthbert, rising. "I'll do what you say. Just drop me a line when the meeting is to be. But I want to tell you—At the Metropolitan Hotel at Brighton I met with my bank manager."

"What of that?"

"He happens to be the manager of the bank where Miss Loach kept her money and where Juliet keeps it now."

"Well," said Jennings, becoming suddenly attentive.

"He didn't tell secrets," went on Mallow, "but we got talking of Basil, and the manager hinted that Basil had had a lucky escape."

"From what?"

"I can't say. The manager—French, his name is—refused to speak more openly, and of course he couldn't. But if Miss Loach had not died, Basil would have got into trouble. He didn't put the matter exactly in these words, but I gathered as much."

"Humph!" said Jennings, his eyes on the carpet, "that supplies a motive for Basil killing the old woman."

"Nonsense, Basil would not kill anything. He is a coward."

"When a rat is in the corner it fights," said the detective significantly. "Basil may have been between the devil, represented by Miss Loach, and the deep sea, which we may call Hale. He may have—"

"No! No! No!" said Mallow, "nothing will ever persuade me that Basil is guilty."

Jennings looked doubtful. He had his own opinion as to young Saxon's capability for crime. "However, the whole case is so perplexing that I fear to name any particular person," said he, taking his hat. "Now I shall see Miss Garthorne and get her to write to Miss Saxon."

Apparently there was no difficulty about this, for in three days he wrote to Mallow, telling him to come to Pimlico on Friday at four o'clock. Juliet was surprised when she received an invitation from an old schoolfellow of whom she had lost sight for years. However, owing to her troubles, she felt the need of some sympathetic soul in whom she could safely confide, and knowing Peggy was one of those rare friends who could keep her own counsel, Juliet readily agreed to pay the visit. She arrived at the Academy shortly before three o'clock, and the two girls had a long talk of their old days. Also Juliet told some of her difficulties—but not all—to Peggy. "And I don't know how things will turn out," said Miss Saxon disconsolately, "everything seems to be wrong."

"They will continue to be wrong unless you act wisely," said Peggy.

"In what way should I act?"

"Stick to Mr. Mallow. He loves you and you love him. I do not see why you should surrender your life's happiness for the sake of your family. Of course you have not told me all," and Peggy looked at her inquiringly.

Juliet shuddered. "I dare not tell you all," she said faintly. "I have to think of other people."

"Think of Mr. Mallow first."

"I am thinking of him."

"Then it is on his account you keep silence."

Juliet nodded. "I must hold my tongue. If you could advise me—"

"My dear," said clear-headed Miss Garthorne, rather impatiently, "I can't advise unless I know all, and you will not trust me."

"I have to consider others," repeated Juliet obstinately; "if Cuthbert knew what I feel—"

"Why don't you tell him? See here, Juliet, you are keeping something back from me. On my part, I have kept something back from you. But I see it is necessary to speak plainly. Juliet, I am engaged."

"Oh, I am so glad," cried Miss Saxon, embracing her friend. "Is he nice?"

"I think so; but I am not sure if you will be of that opinion."

"Do I know him?" asked Juliet, opening her eyes widely.

"You do. Not very well, perhaps, but you know him."

"What is his name?"

"I'll tell you that after you have seen Mr. Mallow."

Miss Saxon rose with rather an offended look. "I have no intention of seeing Mr. Mallow."

"Supposing he was here, would you consent to an interview?"

"I don't dare—I dare not! If he asked questions!—what do you mean?"

"Nothing," said Peggy briskly. "We have joined issue, as the lawyers say. I advise you to speak out and you refuse."

"I don't understand all this. Is Cuthbert here?"

"Yes. To be plain with you, Juliet, a person I know arranged that I should write to you and that Mr. Mallow should meet you here."

Juliet looked annoyed. "Who is interfering with my private business?"

"Someone who can help you."

"No one can help me," retorted Juliet.

"Oh, yes, and the advice of this person is that you should tell the truth to Mr. Mallow."

"Who is this person?"

"I'll tell you that after you have seen Mr. Mallow. He is in the room below."

"This interfering person you refer to?"

"No, Mr. Mallow. Will you come downstairs and see him?"

Juliet drew back as Peggy opened the door. "I dare not."

"In that case you will have to consent to the arrest of Mr. Mallow."

Juliet shrieked. "Cuthbert arrested! For what?"

"For the murder of Miss Loach."

"It is not true—it is not true," gasped Juliet. "Oh, Peggy, what does it all mean? How do you come to know—?"

"Because I'm engaged to Miles Jennings."

"The detective! The man who behaved so badly to me?"

"I don't know what you call behaving badly," said Miss Garthorne in an offended way. "Miles wishes to help you out of your difficulties, and you will not allow him. No! Don't ask questions. I refuse to answer. Miles told me all about the case and I know everything—"

"Then you know that he came the other day to Rose Cottage and—"

"I know everything," said Peggy, leaving the room; "and if you are wise you will come with me."

When Peggy disappeared, Juliet hesitated. She really could not speak to Cuthbert, and resolved to steal out of the trap into which she had been inveigled by the treacherous Peggy. On the other hand, things were becoming so serious that she knew she would have to speak out sooner or later, especially as Cuthbert was in danger of arrest. But even if she confessed all, could she save him? "I should only make matters worse," thought Juliet, descending the stairs, "he'll thank me some day for holding my tongue. I'll go."

So she arranged, but meantime Peggy had informed the waiting Mallow of Juliet's strange behavior. Determined to make her speak, and anxious to arrive at some understanding, Cuthbert waited at the foot of the stairs. Juliet, coming down, ran straight into his arms, and turned white.

"You!" she gasped, retreating, "you are here after all."

"Did you not hear Miss Garthorne tell you so?" asked Cuthbert.

"Peggy is behaving very wickedly."

"It is you who are behaving badly," said Mallow bluntly, "you know much about this case and you are keeping me in the dark."

"It is for your own good," murmured Juliet.

"You should allow me to be the best judge of that. Come in here," and Cuthbert drew her towards the open door of the dancing-room, "tell me what you know and how it affects me."

The room was large and bare and empty. At one end there was a kind of dais on which was placed a few chairs. The young man walked up to this and turned to beckon Juliet, for whom he placed a chair. She still lingered at the door and seemed disposed to fly.

"Juliet, if you go now, all is over," he said determinedly.

"Cuthbert, how can you?"

"Because I mean what I say. Things can't go on like this. You think of your brother—of your mother. You never give a thought to me."

Juliet came up the room hurriedly. "I am thinking of you all the time, Cuthbert," she said angrily, "I keep silence for your good."

"In what way?"

"This murder—" she began. Then her voice died away, "you know—"

"I know that Miss Loach was murdered, but who did it I don't know."

"Oh," Juliet dropped into a chair, "are you innocent?"

"Surely you never thought me guilty?"

"I—I—don't think you are, and yet—"

"You are going to accuse me of having been on the spot?"

Juliet could restrain herself no longer. "I saw you myself," she burst out; "I was there also."



CHAPTER XVII

JULIET'S STORY CONTINUED

Cuthbert was so surprised by this admission that astonishment held him silent for a moment. He never expected to hear that Juliet herself had been on the spot. Seeing this, she went on quickly. "Now you can understand why I held my tongue. You were at Rose Cottage on that night. You have enemies who know you were there. I have been threatened should I insist on our engagement being fulfilled that you will be arrested. Therefore I kept away and held my tongue."

"But if you had told me this long ago—"

"How could I?" she cried vehemently. "Could I come and say to you, I believe you are a murderer?"

"Did you believe that, Juliet?" he asked in a grieved tone.

"Yes and no," she faltered. "Oh, Cuthbert, you know how I love you. I could not bring myself to think you were guilty—and yet the proofs are so strong. You were at Rose Cottage at a quarter to eleven—"

"No. I was there at a quarter past ten."

"I tell you I saw you at a quarter to eleven. You were getting over the wall into the park. Then there was the knife—your knife."

"How did you know it was mine?"

"By the notches. You told me you always cut three notches on the handle of any weapon you possessed. One day when mother and I came to afternoon tea at your place you showed me some of your weapons—the knife amongst them. One knife is much like another, and I would not have noticed but for the notches and for the fact that I saw you on that night. I hid the knife and Mr. Jennings—"

"He found it," said Mallow. "Quite so. He told me he did. When you left the attic he contrived to—"

"Then the closing of the door was a trick," said Juliet in an agitated tone. "I might have guessed that. He took the knife. He has threatened to arrest you, so Miss Garthorne says."

"She says rightly," replied Mallow, thinking it best to make use of all he knew, so as to force her to speak freely. "But of course, if you can explain—"

"Explain!" she cried wildly and sinking into a chair. "What can I explain? That I saw you climbing that wall, running away apparently from the scene of your crime. That I found the knife by the body?"

"What!" Cuthbert started up and looked at her. "You saw the body?"

"Yes. I was in the house—in the room. I found my aunt dead in her chair, with the cards on her lap, exactly as the parlor-maid saw her. Near her on the floor was the knife. There was blood on the blade. I picked it up—I saw the handle was notched in three places, and then—"

"Then you suspected me."

"No. Not till I saw you outside."

Cuthbert took a turn up and down the dais much perplexed. "Juliet," he said. "I swear to you I never killed this woman."

Juliet flew to him and folded him in her arms. "I knew it—I knew it," she said, "in spite of the letter—"

"What letter?"

"That accusing you and threatening to tell the police about you if I did not break the engagement."

"Who wrote it?"

"I can't say, save that it must have been some enemy."

"Naturally," replied Mallow cynically. "A friend does not write in that way. Have you the letter with you."

"No. It is at home. I never thought of bringing it. But I will show it to you soon. I wish now I had spoken before."

"I wish to heaven you had!"

"I thought it best to be silent," said Juliet, trying to argue. "I feared lest if I spoke to you, this enemy, whosoever he is, might carry out the threat in the letter."

"Is the letter written by a man or a woman?"

"I can't say. Women write in so masculine a way nowadays. It might be either. But why were you at the cottage—"

"I was not. I went to explore the unfinished house on behalf of Lord Caranby. I was ghost-hunting. Do you remember how you asked me next day why I wore an overcoat and I explained that I had a cold—"

"Yes. You said you got it from sitting in a hot room."

"I got it from hunting round the unfinished house at Rexton. I did not think it necessary to explain further."

Juliet put her hand to her head. "Oh, how I suffered on that day," she said. "I was watching for you all the afternoon. When you came I thought you might voluntarily explain why you were at Rexton on the previous night. But you did not, and I believed your silence to be a guilty one. Then, when the letter arrived—"

"When did it arrive?"

"A week after the crime was committed."

"Well," said Cuthbert, rather pained, "I can hardly blame you. But if you loved me—"

"I do love you," she said with a passionate cry. "Have I not proved my love by bearing—as I thought—your burden? Could I do more? Would a woman who loves as I do accuse the man she loves of a horrible crime? I strove to shield you from your enemies."

"I thought you were shielding Basil. Jennings thought so also."

Juliet drew back, looking paler than ever. "What do you know of him."

"Very little," said Cuthbert quickly. "Was he at Rose Cottage on the night in question?"

"No. He was not there. I did not see him."

"Yet he was at the Marlow Theatre with you."

"Yes. He left the theatre before I did."

"Sit down, Juliet, and tell me exactly how you came to be at Rose Cottage on that night and why you went."

Miss Saxon seated herself and told all she knew. "It was this way," she said, with more calmness than she had hitherto shown. "Basil and I went to see this new melodrama written by Mr. Arkwright—"

"What? The man Mrs. Octagon wishes you to marry?"

"Yes. He has written a play to make money. My mother was angry, as she thought such a thing was not worthy of him. He sent her a box. She refused to go, so Basil and I went. But the play was so dull that Basil left early, saying he would come back for me."

"Do you know where he went?"

"No. He did not say. Well, the play became worse instead of better. I was weary to death, so I thought as the theatre was near Rexton, that I would go and see Aunt Selina. Then I hoped to return to the box and meet Basil. I was told the play, being a long one, would not be over till midnight. I left the theatre at a quarter past ten. It took fifteen minutes to drive to the cottage. Then I entered quietly to give aunt a surprise."

"Ah! It was you opening the door that Thomas heard."

"Yes! At half-past ten; I had a latch-key. Aunt Selina loved me very much and wanted me to come and see her whenever I could. So that I could come and go at pleasure without troubling the servants, she gave me a latch-key. I happened to have it in my pocket. I really wished to see her about this quarrel she had with Basil."

"What was this quarrel about?"

Juliet deliberated before replying. "It was a small thing," she said at length. "Aunt Selina was fond of Basil and often gave him money. Mr. Octagon doesn't allow Basil much, and mother has enough to do to make both ends meet. Basil is, I fear, extravagant. I know he gambles, though he never told me where he went—"

"To Maraquito's," said Cuthbert. "I have met him there."

"I know," said Juliet in rather a reproachful tone. "I wish you would not gamble, Cuthbert."

"I have given it up now. I only played for the excitement, but since our engagement I have hardly touched a card. I shall not play for money again. My visits to Maraquito's now are purely in the interests of this case."

"Does she know anything about it?" asked Juliet, astonished.

"Yes," replied Mallow, wondering if the girl knew that Mrs. Octagon had paid a visit to Senora Gredos. "Mrs. Herne, who was your aunt's friend, is the aunt of Senora Gredos."

"I never knew that. But about this quarrel. Basil spent more money than he could afford, poor boy—"

"Young scamp," murmured Cuthbert.

"Don't blame him. He means well," expostulated Juliet. "Well, aunt gave him a lot of money, but he always wanted more. Then she refused. About a week before Aunt Selina died, Basil wanted money, and she declined. They had words and she ordered Basil out of the house. It was to try and make it up between them that I called on that night."

"Are you sure Basil did not go also?"

"I don't think so," said Juliet doubtfully. "He was on bad terms with Aunt Selina and knew he would not be welcomed. Besides, he had not a latch-key. Well, Cuthbert, I reached Rose Cottage at half-past ten and let myself in. I went downstairs quietly. I found Aunt Selina seated in her chair near the fire with the cards on her lap, as though she had been playing 'Patience.' I saw that she was dead."

"Why did you not give the alarm?"

Juliet hesitated. "I thought it best not to," she said faintly.

It seemed to Mallow that she was keeping something back. However, she was very frank as it was, so he thought it best not to say anything. "Well, you saw she was dead?"

"Yes. She had been stabbed to the heart. There was a knife on the floor. I picked it up and saw it was yours. Then I thought—"

"That I had killed her. Thank you, Juliet."

"No, no!" she protested. "Really, I did not believe that at the time. I could not think why you should kill Aunt Selina. I was bewildered at the time and then—" here Juliet turned away her head, "I fancied someone else might have killed her."

"Who?"

"Don't ask me. I have no grounds on which to accuse anyone. Let me tell you what I can. Then you may think—but that's impossible. Cuthbert, ask me no more questions."

Mallow thought her demeanor strangely suspicious, and wondered if she was shielding her mother. Mrs. Octagon, who hated Selina Loach, might have struck the blow, but there was absolutely no proof of this. Mallow decided to ask nothing, as Juliet requested. "Tell me what you will, my dear," he said, "so long as you don't believe me guilty."

"I don't—I don't—really I don't. I picked up the knife and left the room after ten minutes. I stole up the stairs and shut the door so quietly that no one heard. You see, the first time I did not trouble to do that, but when I found that aunt was dead I was afraid lest the servants should come and find me there. I fancied, as I had the knife in my hand and had entered by means of the latch-key, that I might be suspected. Besides, it would have been difficult to account for my unexpected presence in the house at that hour."

"I quite comprehend!" said Mallow grimly. "We can't all keep our heads in these difficult situations. Well?"

"I came out into the garden. I heard the policeman coming down the lane, and knew I could not escape unobserved that way. Then if I took the path to the station I fancied he might see me in the moonlight. I ran across the garden by the wall and got over the fence amongst the corn, where I lay concealed. Then I saw you coming round the corner. You climbed the wall and went into the park. After that I waited till after eleven, when the policeman entered the house, summoned by the servants. I then ran round the field, sheltered from observation by the corn, which, as you know, was then high, and I got out at the further side. I walked to Keighley, the next place to Rexton, and took a cab home. I went straight to bed, and did not see Basil till the next morning. He told me he had come home later, but he did not say where he had been, nor did I ask him."

"But I am sure—unless my watch was wrong, that I climbed the wall at a quarter past ten," insisted Mallow.

"You might have climbed it again at a quarter to eleven."

"No! I climbed it only once. Which way did I come?"

"Along the path from the station. Then you walked beside the fence on the corn side, and jumping over, you climbed the wall."

"Certainly I did that," murmured Mallow, remembering what he had told Jennings. "Did you see my face?"

"No! But I knew you by your height and by the light overcoat you wore. That long, sporting overcoat which is down to your heels. Oh, Cuthbert, what is the matter?"

She might well ask this question, for Mallow had started and turned pale. "Nothing! nothing," he said irritably. "I certainly did wear such an overcoat. I was with Caranby before I went to Rexton, and knowing his room would be heated like a furnace, I took every precaution against cold."

Juliet doubted this, as she knew Mallow did not coddle himself in any way. However, she had seen the overcoat too often to mistake to whom it belonged. Moreover, Cuthbert did not deny that he had jumped the wall in the way she explained. "Well, now you know all, what will you do?" she asked.

"I really can't say," said Mallow, who was trying to conceal his agitation. "I can't think who took the knife out of my room. It was in a trophy of arms on the wall, and I never noticed that it was missing, till Jennings drew my attention to the loss. Certainly Miss Loach was killed with that knife."

"I am positive of that," said Juliet. "There is blood on the handle. But you understand why I kept silence?"

"Yes. But there was really no need. I shall call and see your mother and insist on her giving her consent to our marriage. She has no reason to refuse. Do you know why she objects?"

"No. She simply says she does not wish me to marry you."

"Did you not tell her what you have told me?"

"I did not. What was the use? It was because of my discovery of the knife and seeing you, and receiving that letter, that I refused to marry, and so fell in with my mother's plans."

"Juliet, you are not engaged to Arkwright?"

"No. I am engaged to you and you only. I mean I only pretended that I would not marry you. My mother thought I was obeying her, but I was really shielding you on account of that letter."

"Give me the letter, love, and I'll show it to Jennings."

"No," said Miss Saxon, shrinking back; "get him to drop the case."

"Why?" asked Cuthbert dryly. "I could understand that request when you thought me guilty, but now that you know I am innocent, and that Jennings is aware I was at Rose Cottage on that night, surely there is no bar to his proceeding with the case."

"I do not wish it," faltered Juliet.

Cuthbert looked at her steadily and turned away with a sigh. "You are keeping something from me," he said.

"And you from me," she retorted. "Why did you start when I spoke of the overcoat?"

"Juliet, my own," Cuthbert took her hands earnestly, "there are circumstances in this case which are very strange. Innocent persons may be sacrificed. It is best for you and me to have nothing more to do with the matter. Miss Loach is dead. Who killed her will never be known. Let us marry, dear heart, and leave the case alone."

"I am quite willing. But my mother?"

"I shall persuade her to consent."

"I hope so; but I fear she hates you because you are Lord Caranby's nephew. She hinted as much. I don't know the reason."

"I do," said Mallow calmly, "and I think I may be able to persuade her to see reason. I shall meddle no more with the case."

"What about Mr. Jennings?"

"I will tell him what I have told you, and what you have told me. Then I will point out the futility of looking for a needle in a haystack. He may be inclined to let the case drop. He ought to be weary of it by this time."

Juliet looked wistfully at him. "Can't we be plain with one another?"

"No," said Mallow, shaking his head, "you have your suspicions and I mine. Let us refrain from talking about the matter."

Miss Saxon drew a breath of relief. "I think that is best," she said, and her expression was reflected in the eyes of her lover. "When will you come and see mother?"

"Next week. If her objection is a question of money, you can hand over the whole of that income you have inherited."

"Aunt Selina's six thousand a year! Why?"

"Because I have enough money for us both, and when Caranby dies I shall be almost a millionaire. I don't like you having this money."

"But your reason?"

"I have none that I can tell you. Besides, if we can buy Mrs. Octagon's consent with even six thousand a year—"

"I do not mind," said Juliet. "But now that I know you are really innocent, and I take shame to myself for having doubted you, I am willing to marry you, even though my mother withholds her consent."

"My darling!" Cuthbert folded the girl in his arms and kissed her. "I now know that you truly love me. Indeed, I never doubted you."

"But I doubted myself," said Juliet tearfully. "I should never have suspected you, even though the evidence was so strong."

"You lost your head for the moment," said her lover, "but don't let us talk any more about the matter. I shall pacify Jennings and get him to drop the case. Then we will marry and take a tour round the world so as to forget these unpleasant matters."

"Yes, that is best," said Juliet, and the two walked towards the door.

They should have been completely happy now that all misunderstandings were cleared up, but each wore a gloomy expression. Apparently the shadow of Miss Loach's death still clouded the sunshine of their lives.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS

Jennings was at breakfast in his rooms, considering what he should do next in connection with the case. As yet he had not heard from Cuthbert with regard to the interview with Juliet. The detective waited upstairs in Le Beau's sitting-room for the conclusion of the meeting, but when Mallow never appeared he went down. Then he learned from Peggy, who was in the office, that the lovers had been gone for some time "I thought you knew," said Miss Garthorne.

"No," replied Jennings, "I did not know," and then, since he had no further reason to remain, he took his departure also, wondering why Mallow had not come to report the matter.

That same evening he sought out Mallow, but was unable to find him at his accustomed haunts. More perplexed than ever, Jennings, leaving a note at Mallow's rooms, had returned to his own. He could make no new move until he heard from Mallow, and the young man did not appear inclined to give any assistance. Next morning, while at breakfast, he expected his friend, but still there was no appearance of the visitor. A ring came to the door and Jennings thought that this was Cuthbert at last. He was distinctly disappointed when Drudge made his appearance.

"Well," said Jennings sharply, "what is it?"

"I followed the lady you saw, sir."

"Mrs. Herne? Yes."

"She left her house in Hampstead and walked down the hill. There she took a cab. I followed in another. Her cab stopped at the house of Maraquito in Soho. Since then I have been watching the house, but I have not seen Mrs. Herne again."

"She is Senora Gredos' aunt," explained Jennings, "so I expect she is stopping with her."

"No, sir, she isn't. I made friends with a boy called Gibber—"

"Yes. He is a page in the house. Well?"

"I gave him a drink or two," said Drudge, "and a few stamps, as he is a collector. He become friendly with me, and I asked him about the house. He was very frank, but he said nothing about the gambling."

"Humph! I expect he has been told to hold his tongue. Well, did you hear anything at all?"

"I heard that Gibber had never seen Mrs. Herne. He did not even know her name. Now, sir," went on Drudge, laying a finger in the palm of his hand, "if Mrs. Herne was stopping at the Soho house, Gibber would have seen her."

A flash of joy passed across the countenance of Jennings, but he turned away from his underling so that he might not betray the satisfaction he felt. "Mrs. Herne is Maraquito's aunt," he said again.

"No, sir, pardon me. Maraquito hasn't got an aunt. Leastways the aunt, if there is such a person, has never set foot in the house."

"Perhaps Maraquito sees her secretly."

"Well," said Drudge pensively, "she certainly went in by a side door, Mr. Jennings. Do you want me to watch further, sir?"

"Yes. Keep your eye on the Soho house, and should Mrs. Herne reappear, follow her. Anything else?"

"Yes, sir. Mrs. Herne when walking down the hill dropped a small bag."

"Ah! Have you got it?"

"No. She was too sharp for me. I was picking it up when she missed it and came to claim it. But before she reached me I had opened it. Only her handkerchief was inside. I gave it back, and she gave me a shilling. But the queer thing, sir, is the scent."

"What scent?" asked Jennings, looking keenly at the man.

"Oh, a strange strong scent, fit to knock you down, sir."

"Well, and why shouldn't a lady use scent. It is customary."

"It is, sir. My wife uses scent. But this was a queer smell. And then a man shouldn't use scent," burst out Drudge.

"Some men are effeminate enough to do so," said Jennings drily. "But I don't quite understand all this."

"I can tell you what puzzled me at once," said the underling, "after watching Maraquito's house for some time, I put another fellow on, and went to the office. I had to go to see the police about some matter, and I spoke to Inspector Twining of the Rexton district. He had on his desk a handkerchief and a few articles which had just been taken from a man who had been arrested for passing false coins."

"Oh!" Jennings looked very interested, "go on."

"This man was in one of the cells, and he is to be brought before the magistrate this morning. They searched him and took his handkerchief from him."

"It is not customary to do that?"

"No, Sir. But this man—I don't know his name—had two handkerchiefs. The searcher thought that was one too many," said Drudge, with the glimmer of a smile, "and took one."

"Why do you tell me all this?" asked Jennings impatiently.

"Because the handkerchief was scented with the same perfume as the handkerchief of Mrs. Herne I picked up. The moment I smelt it I thought of her coming back for the bag. The scent is so strange and strong that I thought it just as well to mention it to you. You are interested in Mrs. Herne, sir, so if this man uses the same scent—"

"Quite so. You have acted very wisely. Where was the man arrested?"

"At a place near Rexton. He was trying to get a drink and gave a shilling—it was false. The inspector will show it to you, sir. And another queer thing, Mr. Jennings, this man had some rags and a bottle of petroleum on him."

"Humph! Perhaps he intended to set fire to some place. Have you heard of any fire?"

"No, sir, not near Rexton."

"At what time was the man arrested?"

"At nine last night. He is in jail now, and will be brought up this morning on a charge of passing false money."

"I'll look into it, Drudge. It is strange about the scent: but there may be nothing in the matter. The man could easily buy scent of the kind Mrs. Herne uses. Go back to Soho and watch the house. Let me know if Mrs. Herne comes out, and where she goes."

"Yes, sir," said Drudge, and bowed himself out.

When the man was gone Jennings walked up and down his room in a great state of excitement. He was beginning to see the end of the matter. That the scent should be used by a man who was passing false coins confirmed his idea that it was some peculiar sign whereby the members of the gang recognized one another. If Mrs. Herne really was the aunt of Maraquito, this matter implicated her as well as the niece. And Mrs. Herne had been accustomed to go to Rose Cottage, which hinted that Miss Loach had perhaps learned of the existence of the gang and had suffered for her indiscreet curiosity.

"I believe Miss Loach threatened to disclose what she knew. She may have learned that the gang worked in that house from the fact of the ghosts, in which so strongminded an old lady would not believe. I daresay she threatened exposure, and someone killed her. Perhaps Mrs. Herne herself. No, confound it, she was out of the house. Well, I'll see this man now in jail. I may be able to force him to tell. And I'll call on Lord Caranby to-day, and get permission to search the unfinished house. I am quite sure there is a factory there. I wish Mallow would come and tell me if he has learned anything."

Again there was a ring at the door, and this time Jennings, expecting no one else, certainly hoped to see Cuthbert. But, to his surprise, the servant showed in Lord Caranby. The old gentleman was calm and composed as usual, but Jennings thought he looked ill and frail. The dark circles round his eyes were more pronounced than ever, and he leaned heavily on his cane. He was perfectly dressed as usual, and seemed disposed to be friendly.

"I am glad to see you, Lord Caranby," said the detective, when the old gentleman was accommodated with the chair, "have you had breakfast?"

"Thank you, yes. But I could not eat any," said Caranby, breathing heavily. "Those stairs of, yours are trying, Mr. Jennings. I am not so young or so strong as I was."

"You don't look the picture of health, my lord."

"Can you expect a dying man to?"

"Dying—oh, no, you—"

"Dying," insisted Caranby, rapping his stick on the ground. "I know that I have not many months to live, and I sha'n't be sorry when the end comes. I have had a hard time. Cuthbert will soon be standing in my shoes. I suffer from an incurable complaint, Mr. Jennings, and my doctor tells me I shall die soon."

"I am sure Mallow will be sorry," said Jennings, wondering why Caranby, ordinarily the most reticent of men, should tell him all this.

"Yes—yes, Cuthbert is a good fellow. I should like to see him happy and settled with Miss Saxon before I die. But Maraquito will do her best to hinder the match."

"She may soon have enough to do to look after herself," said Jennings grimly. "I shall see that she gets her deserts."

"What do you suspect her of?" asked Caranby hastily.

"I can't tell you yet. I have no proofs. But I am suspicious."

"She is a bad woman," said the old man. "I am certain of that. And she will stop at nothing to marry Cuthbert. But this is not what I came to see you about, Mr. Jennings. You asked my permission to go over my house at Rexton?"

"I did. And I was coming to-day to get the permission confirmed."

"Then I am sorry to say you cannot go over it."

"Why not?" asked Jennings, wondering why Lord Caranby had changed his mind—a thing he rarely did. "I only want to—"

"Yes! Yes!" Caranby waved his hand impatiently, "but the fact is, the house has been burnt down."

"Burnt down—at Rexton!" cried Jennings, jumping from his seat.

"Yes. It caught fire in some way last night, about eight o'clock. There was a high wind blowing, and the house has been burnt to the ground. Not only that, but, as the weather has been dry, the whole of the trees and shrubs and undergrowth in the park have gone likewise. I am informed that everything within the circle of that wall is a heap of ashes. Quite a burning of Rome," chuckled Caranby.

"Do you suspect the house was set on fire?"

"Of course I do. Even though the weather is hot, I don't think this can be a case of spontaneous combustion. Probably some tramp—"

"No," said Jennings decisively, "it is strange you should come to me with this news. One of my men has lately been here, and he tells me that a man was arrested near Rexton last night for passing false money. He had on him a bottle of petroleum and some rags."

"Ah!" said Caranby, quite serene, "so you think—"

"There can be no doubt about it, my lord. This man set fire to the house. People don't carry bottles of petroleum about for nothing."

"But why should he set fire deliberately to my house?"

"At the instance of the Saul family?"

Lord Caranby sat bolt upright. "What do you mean?"

"Humph! It is rather a long story. But this man who was caught used a particular kind of scent called Hikui. Maraquito uses it also, and her aunt, Mrs. Herne."

"Mrs. Herne? She is not Maraquito's aunt."

"She told me herself that she was."

"And I tell you that Emilia, who is dead, was the only aunt Maraquito ever had. Why does Mrs. Herne say this?"

"That is what I am trying to find out. She said that you did not know the whole history of the Saul family."

"I know quite enough," said Caranby gloomily, "the members were abominably wicked. Maraquito's father died after he was discharged from jail for coining; and the mother also."

"Well, my lord, this man, who apparently fired your house, was trying to pass false coins. He uses the same scent as Maraquito does, leaving mysterious Mrs. Herne out of the question."

"Well, and what do you deduce from that?"

"I believe that there is a gang of coiners in existence, of which this man, Clancy, Hale, Maraquito and Mrs. Herne are members. All use the scent Hikui, which probably is a sign amongst them. In what way it is utilized I cannot say, unless they meet one another in the dark, and recognize their confreres by the scent."

"I see. It might be so. But why should this man burn my house?"

Jennings shrugged his shoulders. "I can hardly say. I think the coiners used that house as a factory. But since it is burnt down, that seems impossible. This man may have fired it out of revenge, on account of some row with the gang."

"Or else," said Caranby deliberately, "knowing that you were going to search the house, perhaps it was fired to destroy all traces of the factory. Do you connect this with Selina's death?"

"I do. I believe that she learned of the existence of the factory, and that she threatened to denounce Clancy, Hale and Mrs. Herne. Then, to silence her, she was stabbed."

"But the three you mention were out of the house before the death."

"I know that, and they gave their evidence freely enough at the inquest. I have not yet fitted the pieces of the puzzle into one another, but I am certain the lot are connected from their use of the perfume. Also, as this man who has been caught was passing false money, and as Maraquito and probably Mrs. Herne are surviving members of the Saul family who practised coining, I should not be surprised to find that my theories are correct. But how could anyone know that I intended to go, over your house?"

"You asked me in Maraquito's salon. Clancy and Hale were about."

"Humph!" said Jennings, "you see the various parts of the puzzle are fitting together excellently. Probably one of those two overheard."

"Probably. That Hale looks a sly creature and capable of much. I wonder if he is related to the Saul family. He has the same nose."

"And the same eyebrows meeting over the nose," said Jennings. "Mrs. Herne has a similar mark. I am sure she is a relative of Maraquito's."

"If she is her aunt, I give you leave to call me a fool," said Caranby, rising. "I know that Emilia told me she had no sister. What will you do next, Jennings?"

"I shall see this man who fired the house and try to get at the truth. Then I am having Mrs. Herne watched—"

"And Maraquito?"

"She can't move from her couch, so there is no danger of her escaping. But now that the coining factory is destroyed, I shall find it difficult to bring home the crime to anyone. I wish Cuthbert would come."

"Do you expect him?"

"Yes. Listen, Lord Caranby," and Jennings related the episode of the knife, and how he had brought Mallow and Juliet together. "And it seems to me," went on the detective, "that Cuthbert learned something from Miss Saxon which he does not wish to tell me."

"Something to do with Mrs. Octagon."

"Why with her?" demanded Jennings suddenly.

"Oh, because I think Isabella capable of much. She is a fatal woman!"

"What do you mean by that phrase?"

"Isabella exercised a bad influence on my life. But for her I should have married Selina and should not have fallen in with Emilia Saul. I should have been happy, and probably Selina would not have met with her tragic death."

"Do you think the sister has anything to do with it?"

"I can't say. All I know is that whomsoever Isabella came into contact with had trouble. I do well to call her a fatal woman."

"Humph!" said Jennings, "I would rather call Maraquito a fatal woman, as I believe she brought about the death in some way for the double purpose of silencing Miss Loach regarding the factory of coins and of stopping the marriage of her rival with Cuthbert."

Curiously enough, Cuthbert was shown into the room at this moment. So interested had Caranby and Jennings been in their conversation that they had not heard the bell. Mallow looked in good health, but his face wore a worried expression. Without preamble, and after greeting his uncle, he walked up to his friend.

"Jennings," he said calmly, "I have seen Juliet, and she agrees with me that this case should not be gone on with."

"Ah! does she, and on what grounds?"

"Because she has consented to marry me. She intends, at my request, to make over Miss Loach's money to her mother. We have had quite enough dabbling in crime, and we are both sick of it."

"I think you are very wise," said Caranby unexpectedly, "let the case be, Mr. Jennings."

"What did Miss Saxon tell you?" asked the detective irrelevantly.

Mallow sat down and in a calm voice detailed all that he had learned from Juliet. "So you see it throws no light on the subject." Had Mallow mentioned the time at which Juliet asserted she saw him climb over the wall a new light would certainly have been thrown. But he purposely omitted this, and simply said that Juliet had seen him. "I told you I was there, Jennings," he added. "Quite so," said the detective. "Certainly, nothing new has come out."

"Well, then leave the case alone."

"I fear I shall have to, now that the Rexton house has been burnt down," and Jennings related in his turn what had taken place.

Cuthbert listened moodily. "You see," he said, "everything is against us. I only wanted the mystery cleared up so that Juliet might marry me, but now that she wishes to do so, without searching further, I am not going to do anything else."

"Nor I," said Jennings sadly, "nothing is to be learned. The case will remain a mystery to the end of time."

Caranby rose and took Cuthbert's arm. "You young men are faint-hearted," he said, with a shrug.

"If you want my opinion, Mrs. Octagon killed her sister. A fatal woman, I tell you both—a fatal woman."

"And a clever one," said Jennings gloomily, "she has baffled me."



CHAPTER XIX

SUSAN'S DISCOVERY

Although Jennings appeared to acquiesce in Mallow's suggestion that the case should be abandoned, he had not the slightest intention of leaving the matter alone. His professional pride was irritated by the difficulties, and he swore that he would in some way learn the truth. Moreover, the matter did not only deal with the death of Miss Loach, but with the discovery of a coining gang. From various obvious facts connected with the Crooked Lane crime, Jennings made sure that such a gang was in existence, and that the factory had been in the unfinished house. Now that the house was burnt down, it would seem that the coiners had lost their city of refuge, and would probably give up their nefarious trade. As the gang—judging from the number of false coins circulated during the past five years—had been in existence for a long time, it was probable that the members had made sufficient money to retire from so dangerous a business.

"I wonder if the house was set on fire by this arrested man, out of revenge," thought Jennings, as he dressed to go out, "or whether the gang, finding things were growing dangerous since the death of Miss Loach, ordered him to destroy the factory? I can hardly think that, as to preserve the secret, Miss Loach was assassinated. It is not likely that after paying so terrible a price, such destruction would be agreed upon. Certainly the factory may be removed to another place. Humph! I wonder if I can trace it. The best thing for me to do will be to go to Rexton and look at the ruins."

So to Rexton the detective went, and found a large crowd round the wall of the park. This had been broken down in several places so as to admit the fire engines, and Jennings found a policeman on duty who had been one of the first to see the fire, and who had indeed summoned the brigade. On telling his name and position, the man was willing to state all he knew.

"I was on duty about eight o'clock," he said officially. "There was a high wind blowing, but the night was fine and dry. While walking down Crooked Lane, intending to take the path to the station, I saw a light behind the wall of the park. Then a tongue of flame shot up, and it didn't need much cleverness to see that the old house was on fire. Almost before I could collect my wits, sir, the place was in a blaze. You see the dry weather, the heat and the high wind, made everything blaze finely. I signalled for the brigade, and it came up as soon as possible. But as there is no gate in the wall, we had to break it down to get the engines in. There was a large crowd by this time, and we had all the help we needed. By this time the whole house was flaming like a bonfire. When we got the wall down the most part of the house was gone, and the fire had caught the surrounding shrubs, so all we could do was to halt on the edge of the mass and squirt water, in the hope of putting out the flames. But, Lord bless you!" said the officer with good-humored contempt, "you might as well have tried with a child's squirt. As you see, sir, everything is gone within the wall. Leastways, all but that big oak near the wall."

It was as the man said. House, trees, shrubs, even the grass had been swept away by the fierce flames. Within the walls which had secluded the place from the world was a blackened space covered with debris. Where the house had stood was a mound of twisted iron girders, charred beams and broken slates. And everywhere the wind was lifting the fine gray ashes and scattering them abroad, as though in sorrow for the destruction of the previous night. Jennings took all this in at a glance. Policemen were on guard at the various gaps in the wall, as no one was allowed to enter. But the detective, by virtue of his office, walked across the bare expanse with the inspector, and trod under foot the black ashes. There was nothing to be gained, however, by this inspection. All that could be seen were the destroyed park and the mound where the house had been. "What of the cellars?" asked Jennings.

"Well," said Inspector Twining genially, "I suppose there are cellars, but there's nothing in them. The house was shut up for years by a queer nobleman."

"By Lord Caranby," replied the detective. "I know. I suppose the cellars are under that heap. I must get Lord Caranby to allow me to clear it away."

"I expect that will be done, whether or no. Lord Caranby came down and told one of our men that he intended to throw down the wall and let the place as a building site. So when the building begins the heap will soon be cleared away and the cellars laid bare. But there's nothing there," said the inspector again.

"I am not so sure of that."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing. I have an idea," answered the detective, who did not wish to tell the man how he now began to fancy that the factory for safety had been placed in the cellars. "By the way, did this man who was arrested give his name?"

"No. He refuses to answer any questions. He was, as you know, Mr. Jennings, arrested for trying to pass a bad shilling, but there is no doubt he fired the place. The bottle of petroleum he had in his possession was empty, and—"

"Yes! I heard all that. Where is he now?"

The inspector named a place near Rexton where the man had been incarcerated, pending being brought before the magistrate. "I am going that way," said the inspector. "If you like to come—"

"I'll come," said Jennings. "I intended to see this man. There has been a lot of talk about false coins being passed lately."

Mr. Twining nodded, and began to tell of various cases which had taken place in the district. The two took the train to the place where the police station to which the inspector belonged was situated. It was now after twelve o'clock, and Jennings thought he would have some luncheon before going to the station. But, unexpectedly, a constable seeing the inspector, came hurriedly towards him, saluting as he spoke.

"Please, sir, you're wanted at the station," he said. "A message was sent to Rexton."

"I have just come from Rexton. What is it?"

"That man who was arrested for coining, sir?"

"What about him?" asked the inspector, while Jennings listened with all his ears. He was far from expecting to hear the reply.

"He is dead, sir," said the policeman.

"Dead! What do you mean? He was well enough this morning."

"Well, sir, he's dead now—poisoned!"

"Poisoned!" echoed Jennings, and thought—"Ha! here's an undesirable witness got out of the way." Then he followed in the wake of the inspector, who on hearing the news, hurriedly walked towards the police station. Here they found that the news was true. The constable left in charge of the office was greatly agitated, as it seemed he had been lax in doing his duty. But he made a faithful report.

"It was this way, sir," he said, trying to speak calmly. "A boy of fifteen, very poorly dressed—in rags almost—came crying and asking for the prisoner. He said the prisoner was his father."

"How did he know that, when the prisoner gave no name and was arrested only last night?"

"The boy—Billy Tyke his name is, so I suppose the father is called Tyke also—says his father went out last night. He was always a drunkard, and left the boy to starve. The boy followed him later, and knowing he would be on the burst, went to the public-house, where the man was arrested for passing the bad shilling. There, he was told that his father was in jail, and came here to ask us to let him see him."

"You should have refused and have detained the boy. Well?"

"I was moved by the little chap's tears," said the constable, abashed, "so I let him go into the cell."

"Were you with him?" asked the inspector sharply.

"No, sir. We left them alone for a few minutes. As the boy was so sad and cut up, I thought there would be no harm in doing that. Well, sir, the boy came out again in ten minutes, still crying, and said he would get a lawyer to defend his father. He did not believe his father had passed the money. Then he went away. Later—about half an hour later, we went into the cell and found the man lying groaning, with an empty bottle of whisky beside him. The doctor came and said he thought the man had been poisoned. The man groaned and said the young shaver had done for him. Then he became unconscious and died."

Jennings listened to this statement calmly. He saw again the hand of the coiners. The person who controlled the members evidently thought that the man would blab, and accordingly took precautionary measures to silence him. Without doubt, the man had been poisoned, and the boy had been sent to do it. "What is the boy like?" he asked.

"Billy Tyke, sir?" said the constable, replying on a nod from his chief, to whom he looked for instructions, "a thin boy, fair and with red rims round his eyes—looks half starved, sir, and has a scarred mouth, as though he had been cut on the upper lip with a knife."

Jennings started, but suppressed his emotion under the keen eyes of the observant Twining. He had an idea that he knew who the boy was, but as yet could not be sure. "I'll cut along to the public-house where this man was arrested," said Jennings, "I suppose you'll hold an inquest."

"Certainly, seeing the man has been poisoned." Then the inspector proceeded to rebuke the constable who had performed his duty so ill, and threatened him with dismissal. Jennings left in the midst of the trouble, after getting the inspector to promise that, he would report the result of the inquest.

At the public-house—it was the "White Horse," Keighley, an adjoining suburb—Jennings learned that the man who called himself—or rather who was called by his presumed son—Tyke, was not an habitue of the place. Therefore, the boy could not have known that his supposed father was there. Apparently some information had reached the lad, whereby he was able to trace Tyke to the prison, and had carried to him there the bottle of poisoned whisky. Jennings returned to town quite satisfied that he had another clue to the existence of the coiners. Also, he determined to satisfy himself on a point concerning Maraquito, about which he had long been in doubt.

For the next few days Jennings did nothing. He kept away from Mallow, as he did not wish that young man to know that he was still going on with the case. Sometimes he went to Maraquito's place, and learned incidentally that, as there was a chance of her being cured, she was about to give up the gambling salon. Jennings quite expected this information, and assured Hale, who gave it to him, that it was the best thing Maraquito could do. "Sooner or later the police will pounce down on this place," he said.

"As you are a detective, I wonder you haven't stopped it before," said Hale, with an unpleasant smile.

"I had my reasons," said Jennings calmly, "besides, Maraquito has conducted the place quite respectably. I suppose," he added idly, "you will go abroad also?"

"What do you mean by that?" demanded Hale in silky tones.

"Mrs. Herne has gone to the Continent," said Jennings quietly, "and if Senora Gredos gives up this very dangerous business, she may go also. As you will be deprived of two of your friends, Mr. Hale, doubtless you will go also."

"I might. One never knows," replied Hale coolly.

"By the way?" asked Jennings, looking round, "I was admitted by a parlor-maid this evening. Where is Gibber?"

"I believe Senora Gredos has dismissed him for dishonesty."

"Ah, really," replied the detective, who had his own opinion. "So it seems Senora Gredos is getting rid of her household already."

Hale winced under the eye of Jennings and turned away with a shrug. He was apparently glad to get away. Jennings looked after him with a smile. "I'll catch the whole gang," he murmured, and took his departure, having learned what he wished to know—to wit, that Gibber had disappeared.

"Without doubt he was the boy who poisoned Tyke," said Jennings, as he walked home with a cigar for company. "I believe Maraquito is the head of the gang, and the fatal woman that Caranby talks about. She heard that Tyke had been arrested, and sent the boy to poison him lest he should blab. I wonder if it was by her direction that the house was fired. Well, I'll wait. As yet I cannot get a warrant, having nothing but theory to go on. But the nets are being spread, and unless Maraquito and her friends clear out with Mrs. Herne, they will be caught. When they are all in jail there may be some chance of learning who murdered that unfortunate woman in Rose Cottage."

Later on, Jennings received the report of the inquest, which appeared also that evening in the newspapers. It seemed that Tyke had been poisoned with arsenic, administered in the whisky bottle. From his appearance he was a hard drinker, and doubtless the boy had no difficulty in inducing him to drink. Tyke had drank freely—indeed the doctor said he had taken enough to kill three men,—and therefore he had died almost immediately the boy left, and before he had time to speak. The inspector, who wrote to Jennings, stated that the constable who had admitted the boy had been dismissed the force, but the boy himself could not be traced. "I shouldn't be surprised if he had taken refuge in the cellars of the house," said Jennings, "that is, if the factory is there. I must see Caranby and get his permission to remove the rubbish. Only when I have searched the foundation of that house, will my suspicions be set at rest."

Unexpected aid came to help him in this quarter, as Caranby sent a note, stating that the rubbish and debris of the fire would be removed next week, and inviting Jennings to be present. Caranby added that Mallow had resumed his visits to the "Shrine of the Muses," but that Mrs. Octagon still continued hostile. Basil, however, was more friendly. "I daresay," commented Jennings, on reading this last sentence, "he has his own axe to grind over that money."

It was about this time that the detective received a visit from Susan Grant. She looked as neat and timid as usual, and appeared at his rooms one morning with a request for an interview. "I said I would help Mr. Mallow if I could," she said when seated.

"Oh, and have you anything likely to help him,-"

"Not exactly," said Susan, "but I found some old papers of father's."

"I don't quite understand," said the detective, who did not see what the girl's father had to do in the matter.

"Well, it's this way, sir. Father was poisoned five years ago."

"Who poisoned him?"

"That we never knew," explained Susan. "Father's name was Maxwell, but when mother married Mr. Grant she made me take that name. It was supposed that father committed suicide, and mother felt the disgrace dreadful. That was why she married and changed the name. But I don't believe father, when on the point of making us rich, would swallow so much arsenic as he did."

"What's that—arsenic?" said Jennings, recalling the death of Tyke.

"Yes, sir. It was this way. Father was working at Rexton—"

"At Rexton?" said Jennings impatiently, "yes, yes, go on."

"At a house near the railway station which I can point out, mother having seen it when she went to inquire."

"Inquire about what?"

"About father's secret job. He had one he used to go to for three hours every day by agreement with the foreman. Father was very clever and could do all sorts of things. Mother never knew what the job was, but father said it would make us all rich."

"Yes, go on." Jennings looked at her, nursing his chin.

"The other day I came across some papers," said Susan, taking a roll out of her pocket. "And it proved to be plans of father's secret job. And you might have knocked me down with a feather, Mr. Jennings, when I saw on the plans the name of Rose Cottage."

The detective jumped up, greatly excited. "Rose Cottage!" he cried, holding out his hands. "The plans—the plans!"

"I brought them, as I know Miss Saxon who now has Rose Cottage, is engaged to Mr. Mallow—"

"Haven't you got over that nonsense yet?" said Jennings, who was looking eagerly at the plans.

"Yes, I have," replied Miss Grant, confidentially. "I am engaged to a rising young baker who is just a foreman just now, but we hope to save and start a shop. Still, I promised to help Mr. Mallow, and I thought he would like to see those plans. You see, sir, they have to do with Rose Cottage."

"Yes, I do see," almost shouted Jennings, "and I'll bag the whole lot."

"What are you talking about, sir?"

"Ah, I forgot you don't know," said the detective subsiding, "I'll tell you later. But you have made a discovery, Susan. This plan shows a secret entrance into Rose Cottage."

"I know it does, sir, and I thought Miss Saxon would like to see it. I don't know what Miss Loach wanted with a secret entrance, though."

"I fancy I do," said Jennings, rolling up the plans. "Your father was a very clever man, Susan. Too clever for some people. He made this secret entrance when the new wing of the cottage was built five years ago, and those who employed him gave him arsenic by way of a reward. Tyke died of arsenic also, so they are carrying on the same game."

"Oh dear, oh dear!" wept Susan, not hearing the latter part of the sentence. "So father was poisoned after all. Who did it, sir?"

"I can't tell you that," said Jennings, becoming cautious. "You had better say nothing about this, Susan, till I give you leave. You have done Mr. Mallow a great service. These plans may lead to a discovery of the murderer."

"And then Miss Saxon will marry Mr. Mallow."

"Yes. Will you be sorry?"

"No, Mr. Jennings. I am quite satisfied with my baker."

"Then I tell you what, Susan. Lord Caranby has offered a reward for the detection of the murderer. If these plans lead to his detection, you will receive a sufficient sum to set up in business."



CHAPTER XX

BASIL

While Jennings was thus working at the case, and hoping to bring it to a successful issue, Cuthbert was resting in the happy belief that no further steps were being taken. The detective had appeared so despondent when Mallow called with Caranby that the former thought with some show of reason that he meant what he said. Had he known that Jennings was still active he would have been much disturbed.

Agreeably to Cuthbert's suggestion, Juliet had offered the money of Miss Loach to her mother. But Mrs. Octagon refused to be bribed—as she put it—into consenting to the match. In the presence of Mallow himself, she expressed the greatest detestation for him and for his uncle, and told Juliet she would never acknowledge her as a daughter if she married the young man. The poor girl was thus between two fires—that of her love for Cuthbert, and that of her mother's hearty hatred for the Earl and his nephew. Under the circumstances Cuthbert thought it best to remain away from the "Shrine of the Muses" for a time until Mrs. Octagon could be brought to see reason. But she was so obstinate a woman that it was doubtful if she would ever behave in, an agreeable manner. Cuthbert returned to his rooms in a rather low state of mind. He knew that Juliet, whatever happened, would remain true to him, and had quite hoped to bribe Mrs. Octagon into consenting by means of the inherited money. But now things seemed more hopeless than ever. Juliet, although not very fond of her mother, was a devoted daughter from a sense of duty, and it would be difficult to bring her to consent to a match against which the elder woman so obstinately set her face.

Certainly Juliet had said she would marry with or without her mother's consent, but now that the consent was withheld with violent words, she seemed inclined to wait. However, if she did not marry Mallow, he knew well that she would marry no one else, least of all the objectionable Arkwright, Cuthbert derived some degree of comfort from this small fact. He wondered if there was any chance of forcing Mrs. Octagon into giving her consent, but after surveying the situation could see no opportunity.

After dinner that night, Cuthbert was thinking of going to see his uncle, who still stopped at the Avon Hotel when Hale was announced. Mallow was surprised. The lawyer was not a friend of his, and he had no liking for his company. However, he felt a certain curiosity as to the reason of this unexpected visit and welcomed the man with civility. But he did not ask him to have any coffee though it was on the table. Cuthbert held to the traditions of the East regarding bread and salt, and he wished to leave himself free to deal with Hale as an enemy, should occasion arise, as it might. Hale was far too intimate with Maraquito to please the young man. And Maraquito's attentions were far too pressing to make Cuthbert feel comfortable in her presence.

"Well, Mr. Hale," said Mallow coldly, "why have you come?"

The lawyer, who was in an evening suit and dressed with taste and care, took a seat, although not invited to do so. He looked cold and calm, but there was an excited gleam in his large eyes which showed that his calmness masked some emotion, the cause of which Cuthbert could not fathom. "I have come to see you about young Saxon," he said.

"Really," answered Mallow coolly, although surprised, "what can you have to say to me about him."

"He is your friend—"

"Pardon me. I can hardly call him so. We are acquaintances only."

"But you are engaged to his sister," persisted Hale.

Mallow threw away the cigarette he was lighting and jumped up. "I see no reason why Miss Saxon's name should be mentioned, Mr. Hale."

"Don't you, Mr. Mallow? I do."

"Then I object to your mentioning it. State your business and go, Mr. Hale. I have no acquaintance with you."

"I can't state my business unless I mention Miss Saxon's name."

"Then you will please to take yourself off," said Mallow.

Hale smiled coldly, though evidently annoyed. "I think it is to your interest to hear me," he said deliberately, "and to the interest of the lady whom you hope to call your wife."

"Does this business concern Miss Saxon?"

"Indirectly it does. But it rather has to do with her brother."

Mallow frowned. The conversation was taking a turn of which he did not approve. However, he knew well the dangerous ground upon which he stood with regard to the case, and thought it best to hear what his unexpected visitor had to say. "State your business," he said curtly.

"Very good," replied Hale, nursing his silk hat on his knee. "I see you don't offer me coffee or a cigarette."

"We are not friends, sir. And let me remind you that you thrust yourself uninvited on me."

"To do you a service," said Hale quickly. "I think, therefore, that I deserve a better reception."

"Will you please come to the point?" said Mallow coldly, "whatever the service may be, I am quite sure it is two for you if one for me. You are not the man to go out of your way, Mr. Hale, to help anyone."

Hale nodded and smiled grimly. "You are quite right. Now, then, Mr. Mallow, do you know that Basil Saxon was to have inherited the money of my late client, Miss Loach?"

"No, I never knew that. I understood that Miss Loach always intended to leave the money to Miss Saxon."

Hale shook his well-oiled head. "On the contrary, Mr. Saxon was her favorite. In spite of his wild ways she liked him. However, she was also fond of Miss Saxon, and you may thank Miss Loach, Mr. Mallow, for having been the means of forwarding your engagement."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Cuthbert angrily.

"Mrs. Octagon," went on the lawyer deliberately, "would never have consented to Miss Saxon becoming engaged to you had not Miss Loach insisted that she should agree."

"Seeing that Mrs. Octagon hated her sister and was not likely, to be influenced by her, I do not see how that can be."

"Perhaps not. Nevertheless, such is the case. You saw how, when Miss Loach died, Mrs. Octagon seized the first opportunity to place obstacles in the way of your marriage."

"I believe she did that on Maraquito's account, Mr. Hale. I know perfectly well that Mrs. Octagon called on Maraquito."

"Quite so—to ask Maraquito not to let Basil Saxon play beyond his means. Certainly, Maraquito having a strange fancy for you, agreed, on condition that Mrs. Octagon refuse to let Miss Saxon marry you. But, in any case, Mrs. Octagon hates your uncle too much to allow her daughter to become your wife. You will never get Mrs. Octagon's consent unless I help you."

"You!" echoed Mallow, astonished and annoyed. "What possible influence can you have with Mrs. Octagon. I have certainly seen you at her house, but I scarcely think you know her well enough—"

"Oh, yes, I do." Hale rose in his earnestness. "See here, sir; I love Maraquito and I wish to marry her."

"You can, so far as I am concerned,"

"So you say," said Hale bitterly, "but you cannot be ignorant that Maraquito loves you."

"I don't see what that has to do with our conversation," replied Mallow, growing red and restless.

"It has everything to do with the matter. I want to marry Maraquito, as I am rich and deeply in love with her. She would have become my wife long ago but that you crossed her path. Lord knows why she should love a commonplace man like you, but she does."

"Isn't that rather personal?" said Mallow dryly.

"I beg your pardon. But what I wish to say is this. If you marry Miss Saxon and place yourself beyond Maraquito's reach, I will be able to induce her to marry me. Our interests are bound up together. Now, to do this you must have Mrs. Octagon's consent. I can get it."

"In what way?"

"She loves Basil, her son, more than she does herself," went on Hale, paying no attention to the remark. "To save him she would do much."

"To save him from what?"

"Basil;" continued the lawyer, still not noticing the interruption, "is a young fool. He thought himself sure of Miss Loach's money—and he was until a week before she died. Then he came to Rose Cottage and insulted her—"

"I have heard that. She ordered him out of the house."

"She did. Miss Loach was a bitter, acrid old woman when the fit took her. However, Basil insulted her so grossly that she made a new will and left all the money to Miss Saxon. Now it happens that Basil, to supply himself with funds, when his aunt refused to aid his extravagance further, forged her name to a bill—What's the matter?"

"Nothing," said Mallow, who had started from his chair, "only your intelligence is sufficiently unpleasant."

"I can understand that," sneered the lawyer, "since you wish to marry his sister. You don't want a forger for a brother-in-law."

"Who does?" said Cuthbert, not telling that he was thinking of Basil in connection with a still darker crime. "Go on, Mr. Hale."

"The bill fell into my hands. When Miss Saxon got the money she transferred the business to her own lawyer. I had to give the bill up."

"Ah!" said Mallow meaningly, "I see now the hold you had over Basil."

"Yes, that was my hold. I did not want to give up the bill. But it had been met, and as Miss Loach is dead, there was a difficulty in proving the signature to be a forgery. I therefore gave the bill to Miss Saxon. She knew of her brother's guilt—"

"I see—I see," murmured Cuthbert, wondering if she had been shielding Basil as well as him. "My poor girl!"

"She is a brave girl," said Hale, in a voice of reluctant admiration. "She met me and fought for her brother. I gave way, as I did not wish to make trouble. Why, it doesn't matter. However, you see how things stand. Basil is a forger. If his mother knew that he was in danger of being arrested she would consent to your marriage, and then I might marry Maraquito. I have come here to tell you this."

"But if Miss Saxon has the bill, and there is a difficulty of proving the signature, owing to Miss Loach's death, I don't see—"

"Ah, not in this case. But Basil Saxon forged my name also. I hold a forged check. I met it and said nothing about it. Basil, thinking because his sister held the bill that he was out of my power, was most insolent. But I said nothing of the check which he thought I never detected. The more fool he. He must have a fine opinion of my business capacity. However, as the check is only for fifty hounds, he probably thought that it would escape my notice. Well, you see how I can force Mrs. Octagon's hand. What do you say?"

Mallow put his hands to his head quite bewildered by the information.

"You must give me time to think," he said, "but if I consent—"

"You marry Miss Saxon. I ask no reward for my services. All I want is to get you out of my way as regards Maraquito. I will give you the forged check on the day you wed Miss Saxon. I can see," added Hale, rising, "that you are somewhat upset with this news, and no wonder. You never thought Basil was such a scoundrel."

"I thought him a fool, never a knave."

"My dear sir, he is a thoroughly bad man," said Hale cynically, "though I daresay other people are just as bad. However, I will give you a week to think over the matter. Good-night."

"Good-night," said Mallow, touching the bell, but without meeting the gaze of Hale, "I will think over what you have said."

"You will find it to your advantage to do so," replied Hale, and went out of the room at the heels of the servant.

Mallow remained where he was in deep thought. It was terrible to think that the brother of Juliet should be such a scamp. A forger and perhaps something else. Here, indeed, was a motive for Miss Loach to meet with her death at her nephew's hand. Probably on the night in question she threatened to let the law take its course, and then Basil—but at this point of his meditations a ring came at the door. In a few moments Cuthbert heard a step he knew and rose with an agitated air. Basil entered the room.

The young man was carefully dressed as usual in his rather affected way, but his face was pale and he seemed uneasy. "I see you have had a visit from Hale," he said, trying to appear at his ease.

"How do you know that?" asked Mallow abruptly, and declining to see the proffered hand.

"I saw Hale enter a cab as I came up the stairs," said Basil, drawing back; "and even had I not seen him I would know that he has been telling you a lot of lies because you refuse to shake hands."

"Are they lies?"

"Ah, then, he has been talking. He is my enemy. He comes here to do me harm," said Basil, his eyes flashing.

"He came here as your friend," replied Mallow abruptly, "Hale wishes me to marry your sister. He offers to hand over to me a certain check if I marry her."

"I don't know what you are talking about," cried Basil petulantly, and threw himself into a chair, very pale.

"I think you know very well. Why have you come here?"

Basil looked sullen. "I want you to marry Juliet also. And I came to say that I thought I could get my mother to take that money and to withdraw her opposition."

"So that you may have the fingering of the money?"

"Oh, I suppose she will give me some," said Basil airily, and began to roll a cigarette with deft fingers.

Mallow was enraged at this coolness. "Basil, you are a scoundrel!"

"Am I, indeed? Nice words to use to your future relative."

"How do you know I will ever be your relative. Suppose I refuse Hale's demand, and let him proceed on this check?"

Basil's cigarette dropped our of his hand. "I don't know what check you mean," he declared with alarm, "there was a bill—I couldn't help myself. My aunt—"

"Gave you a lot of money and you repaid her by forging her name. But you also forged Hale's name."

"Ah, I know what you mean now. It was only for fifty pounds."

"Had it been for fifty pence the crime is the same," said Mallow vehemently, "why did you not let me help you? I offered to. But you preferred to commit a crime."

"Such a fuss to make," muttered the youth discontentedly, "the bill is in the possession of Juliet, and no steps can be taken on that. If mother accepts this six thousand a year, she will buy the check back from Hale. He's a scoundrel and will do anything for money. Then you can marry Juliet, and I can go abroad for a few years on an income of three thousand. Mother will allow me that."

The coolness of this speech almost took Mallow's breath away. The man did not seem to be at all affected by his crime. So long as he was not found out he appeared to think nothing about the matter. "And I know you will marry Juliet," proceeded Basil, "you love her too well to give her up."

"That is true enough," said Cuthbert, who, having already spared him too long, now determined to punish him, "but I may love her so well that I may not wish to buy her."

"What do you mean by buying her?" demanded Basil sulkily.

"What I say. Is it only to save you that I am to marry Juliet? My marriage must be one of love—"

"She does love you. And I don't see," added Basil complainingly, "why you should jump on a chap for wishing for your happiness—"

"And your own safety."

"Oh, bosh! The bill is destroyed. Juliet put it into the fire, and Hale will sell the check at his own price."

"His price is that I am to marry Juliet."

"So that he can marry Maraquito, I suppose. I know that she loves you and that Hale is crazy about her. It's very hard on me," whined the egotistical youth, "for I want to marry her myself, only mother put her spoke in my wheel."

"Dare you offer yourself to Maraquito, bad as she is, knowing what you are?" cried Mallow, fairly disgusted.

"Oh, the forgeries. What of them? It's nothing." Basil snapped his fingers. "Maraquito won't mind. But I suppose I'll have to give her up on account of that infernal check. Such a small one as it was too. I wish I had made it one hundred and fifty. I could have done so."

In the face of this callous behavior it was sheer wrongdoing to spare the man. "I do not allude to the forgery, though that is bad enough," said Cuthbert, glancing round to see that the door was closed, "but to the murder of your aunt. You killed her."

Basil leaped from his chair with great indignation. "I did not. How dare you accuse me?" he panted.

"Because I have proofs."

"Proofs?" Basil dropped back as though he had been shot.

"Yes. I learned from my man that you took the bowie knife which used to hang on the wall yonder. He saw you take it, and thought you had received my permission. You went to the Marlow Theatre with your sister. You left her in the box and went out after eight o'clock. You went to Rexton to Rose Cottage. After Clancy left the house your aunt admitted you and you killed her—"

"I swear I did not!" said Basil, perfectly white and trembling.

"You did, you liar! Juliet followed you to the cottage."

"Juliet? She did not know I had gone."

"Ah! you see, you were there. Yes, she said she went in order to try and make it up between your aunt and you. But I believe now she went to see if you were committing a crime. I am not aware how much Juliet knows of your wickedness, Basil, but—"

"She knows only about the forgery. I was not at the cottage."

Mallow made a weary gesture. "Why do you tell these falsehoods?" he said with scorn. "Juliet entered the cottage by means of her latch-key. She found Miss Loach dead and the knife on the floor. You dropped it there. She came out and saw a man of my height—which you are, and of my appearance (you are not unlike me at a distance) climbing the wall into the park. He had on alight overcoat—my overcoat. Juliet thought I was the man. I did not say no. But the moment she mentioned the coat I knew it was you. You borrowed the coat from me, and returned it the other day. Now then—"

"Stop! stop!" cried Basil, rising with pale lips and shaking hands, "I admit that I went to Rexton on that night, but I swear I am innocent."

"Pah!" cried Mallow, thinking this was another lie, and a weak one too.

Basil seized him by the arm. "Mallow, I swear by all that I hold most sacred that I did not kill Aunt Selina. I own I took the knife. I wished to frighten her into giving me money. I left the theatre in order to go to Rexton. I thought I might be spotted if I came by the lane. I climbed the wall of the park on the other side after nine, some time after nine. I was crossing when a man chased me. I don't know who it was. I could not see in the bushes, and the night was rather dark at the moment, though clear later. I dropped the knife, it fell out of my pocket, and I scrambled over the wall and bolted."

"Then how did Juliet see you shortly before eleven?"

"I came back for the knife. I thought it might be traced to you and that you might get into trouble. Really I did," said Basil, seeing Mallow make a gesture of dissent. "I came back by the railway path, and along by the corn. Where Juliet could have been, I don't know. I climbed the wall and crossed the park. I could not find the knife where I thought I had dropped it, near the house. I then climbed the opposite wall and got away home. Next day I heard of the death and went down to look for the knife again. I never thought she had been killed with that knife, as no weapon was found. Juliet said nothing to me about the matter—"

"No. Because she thought the knife was mine, as it is, and that I was the man who climbed the wall. I was on the spot. I remember telling you that, when we met in the street, and you were afraid. I see now why you asked me if I had been in the park at night."

"I thought you might have spotted me. When were you there?"

"About twenty minutes past ten."

"Well, then, I was there at ten or a few minutes later. I got away from the man who chased me some time before you came. It was, as you say, at a quarter to eleven when I came back, and by that time I suppose you had gone."