It was now known that the deceased had been of a good county family, who had left his pretty young wife in a fit of groundless suspicion; that he had no enemies; and had withdrawn to the Silent House to save himself from the machinations of purely imaginary beings. The general opinion was that Vrain had been insane; but even this did not explain the reason of his tragic and unforeseen death.

Since the murder the Silent House had acquired a tenfold interest in the eyes of all. The crime, added to its reputation for being haunted, invested it with horror; and its commonplace looks assumed to fanciful onlookers a grim and menacing aspect, in keeping with its blood-stained floor and ghostly rooms.

Disheartened by the late catastrophe, which had so greatly enhanced the already evil reputation of the house, the landlord did not attempt to relet it, as he knew very well that no tenant would be bold enough to take it, even at a nominal rent. Mrs. Vrain had sold off the furniture of the two apartments which her unfortunate husband had inhabited, and now these were as bare and lonely as the rest of the rooms.

The landlord made no effort to furbish up or renovate the mansion, deeming that such expense would be useless; so No. 13, deserted by man, and cursed by God, remained vacant and avoided. People came from far and near to look at it, but no one entered its doors lest some evil fate should befall them. Yet, in strange contradiction to the horror it created in every breast, the houses on either side continued to be occupied.

Miss Greeb frequently took a peep across the way at the empty house, with its curtainless, dusty windows and smokeless chimneys. She had theorised often on the murder of Vrain, and being unable to come to any reasonable conclusion, finally decided that a ghost—the ghost which haunted the mansion—had committed the crime. In support of this fantastic opinion she related to Lucian at least a score of stories in which people foolishly sleeping in haunted rooms had been found dead in the morning.

"With black finger-marks on their throats," said Miss Greeb dramatically, "and looks of horror in their eyes, and everything locked up, just like it was in No. 13, to show that nothing but a ghost could have killed them."

"You forget, Miss Greeb," said Lucian flippantly, "poor Vrain was stabbed with a stiletto. Ghosts don't use material weapons."

"How do you know the dagger was a real one?" replied Miss Greeb, sinking her voice to a horrified whisper. "Was it ever seen? No! Was it ever found? No! The ghost took it away. Depend upon it, Mr. Denzil, it wasn't flesh and blood as made a spirit of that crazy Berwin."

"In that case, the ghostly criminal can't be hanged," said Denzil, with a laugh. "But it's all nonsense, Miss Greeb. I am astonished that a woman of your sense should believe in such rubbish."

"Wiser people than I have faith in ghosts," retorted the landlady obstinately. "Haven't you heard of the haunted house in a West End square, where a man and a dog were found dead in the morning, with a valet as gibbered awful ever afterwards?"

"Pooh! Pooh! That's a story of Bulwer Lytton's."

"It is not, Mr. Denzil—it's a fact. You can see the very house in the square for yourself, and No. 13 is just such another."

"Nonsense! Why, I'd sleep in No. 13 to-morrow night, just to prove that your ghostly fears are all moonshine."

Miss Greeb uttered a screech of alarm. "Mr. Denzil!" she cried, with great energy, "sooner than you should do that, I'd—I'd—well, I don't know what I'd do!"

"Accuse me of stealing your silver spoons and have me locked up," said Lucian, laughing. "Make yourself easy, Miss Greeb. I have no intention of tempting Providence. All the same, I don't believe for one minute that No. 13 is haunted."

"Lights were seen flitting from room to room."

"No doubt. Poor Vrain showed me over the house before he died. His candle explains the lights."

"They have been seen since his death," said Miss Greeb solemnly.

"Then, as a ghost, Vrain must be walking about with the old woman phantom who wears brocade and high-heeled shoes."

Miss Greeb, seeing that she had a sceptic to deal with, retreated with great dignity from the argument, but nevertheless to other people maintained her opinion, with many facts drawn from her imagination and from books on the supernatural compiled from the imagination—or, as the various writers called it—the experience of others. Some agreed with her, others laughed at her; but one and all acknowledged that, however it came about, whether by ghostly or mortal means, the murder of Vrain was a riddle never likely to be solved; and, with other events of a like nature and mystery, it was relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes.

After several interviews with Link, the barrister was also inclined to take this view of the matter. He found the detective quite discouraged in his efforts to find the assassin.

"I have been to Bath," said Link dismally. "I have examined, so far as I was able, into the past life of Vrain, but I can find nothing likely to throw light on the subject. He did not get on well with his wife, and left Bath ten months before the murder. I tried to trace where he went to, but could not. He vanished from Bath quite unexpectedly, and four months later turned up in Geneva Square, as we know, but who killed him, or why he was killed, I can't say. I'm afraid I'll have to give it up as a bad job, Mr. Denzil."

"What! and lose a reward of five hundred pounds!" said Lucian.

"If it was five thousand, I must lose it," returned the dejected Link. "This case beats me. I don't believe the murderer will ever be run down."

"Upon my word, I am inclined to agree with you," said Denzil, and barrister and detective departed, each convinced that the Vrain case was ended, and that in the face of the insuperable obstacles presented by it there was not the slightest chance of avenging the murder of the unfortunate man. The reading of the mystery was beyond mortal powers to accomplish.

* * * * *

About the middle of April, nearly four months after the tragedy, Lucian received a letter containing an invitation which caused him no little astonishment. The note was signed Diana Vrain, and, having intimated that the writer had returned only that week from Australia, requested that Mr. Denzil would be kind enough to call the next day at the Royal John Hotel in Kensington. Miss Vrain ended by stating that she had a particular desire to converse with Mr. Denzil, and hoped that he would not fail to keep the appointment.

Wondering greatly how the lady—who was no doubt the stepdaughter referred to by Mrs. Vrain—had obtained his address, and why she desired to see him so particularly, Lucian, out of sheer curiosity, obeyed the summons. Next day, at four o'clock—the appointed hour—he presented himself as requested, and, on giving his name, was shown immediately into the presence of his correspondent, who occupied a small private sitting-room.

When Miss Vrain rose to greet him, Lucian was amazed to see how beautiful and stately she was. With dark hair and eyes, oval face, and firm mouth, majestic figure and imperial gait, she moved towards him an apparent queen. A greater contrast to Mrs. Vrain than her stepdaughter can scarcely be imagined: the one was a frivolous, volatile fairy, the other a dignified and reserved woman. She also was arrayed in black garments, but these were made in the plainest manner, and showed none of the coquetry of woe such as had characterised Mrs. Vrain's elaborate costume. The look of sorrow on the face of Diana was in keeping with her mourning apparel, and she welcomed Lucian with a subdued courtesy which prepossessed him greatly in her favour.

Quick in his likes and dislikes, the young man was as drawn towards this beautiful, sad woman as formerly he had been repulsed by the feigned grief and ensnaring glances of silly Mrs. Vrain.

"I am much obliged to you for calling, Mr. Denzil," said Miss Vrain in a deep voice, rather melancholy in its tone. "No doubt you wondered how I obtained your address."

"It did strike me as peculiar, I confess," said Lucian, taking a chair to which she pointed, "but on considering the matter I fancied that Mrs. Vrain had——"

"Mrs. Vrain!" echoed Diana in a tone of contempt. "No! I have not seen Mrs. Vrain since I returned, a week ago, to London. I got your address from the detective who examined into the death of my most unhappy father."

"You have seen Link?"

"Yes, and I know all that Link could tell me. He mentioned your name frequently in his narrative, and gave me to understand that on two occasions you had spoken with my father; therefore, I asked him to give me your address, so that I might speak with you personally on the matter."

"I am quite at your service, Miss Vrain. I suppose you wish to learn all that I know of the tragedy?"

"I wish for more than that, Mr. Denzil," said Diana quietly. "I wish you to help me in hunting down the assassin of my father."

"What! Do you intend to reopen the case?"

"Certainly; but I did not know that the case—as you call it—had been closed. I have come home from Australia especially to devote myself to this matter. I should have been in London long ago, but that out in Australia I was with some friends in a part of the country where it is difficult to get letters. As soon as Mrs. Vrain's letter about the terrible end of my father came to hand I arranged my affairs and left at once for England. Since my arrival I have seen Mr. Saker, our family lawyer, and Mr. Link, the detective. They have told me all they know, and now I wish to hear what you have to say."

"I am afraid I cannot help you, Miss Vrain," said Lucian dubiously.

"Ah! You refuse to help me?"

"Oh, no! no! I shall only be too glad to do what I can," protested Lucian, shocked that she should think him so hard-hearted, "but I know of nothing likely to solve the mystery. Both myself and Link have done our best to discover the truth, but without success."

"Well, Mr. Denzil," said Diana, after a pause, "they often say that a woman's wit can do more than a man's logic, so you and I must put our heads together and discover the guilty person. Have you no suspicion?"

"No. I have no suspicion," replied Lucian frankly. "Have you?"

"I have. I suspect—a lady."

"Mrs. Vrain?"

"Yes. How do you know I meant her?"

"Because at one time I suspected her myself."

"You suspected rightly," replied Diana. "I believe that Mrs. Vrain killed her husband."



CHAPTER IX

A MARRIAGE THAT WAS A FAILURE

Denzil did not reply at once to the accusation levelled by Diana at Mrs. Vrain, as he was too astonished at her vehemence to find his voice readily. When he did speak, it was to argue on the side of the pretty widow.

"I think you must be mistaken," he said at length.

"But, Mr. Denzil, you declared that you suspected her yourself!"

"At one time, but not now," replied Lucian decisively, "because at the time of the murder Mrs. Vrain was keeping Christmas in Berwin Manor."

"Like Nero fiddling when Rome was burning," retorted Diana sharply; "but you mistake my meaning. I do not say that Mrs. Vrain committed the crime personally, but she inspired and guided the assassin."

"And who is the assassin, in your opinion?"

"Count Hercule Ferruci."

"An Italian?"

"As you may guess from the name."

"Now, that is strange," cried Lucian, with some excitement, "for, from the nature of the wound, I believe that your father was stabbed by an Italian stiletto."

"Aha!" said Diana, with satisfaction. "That strengthens the accusation I bring against Ferruci."

"And, again," continued Denzil, hardly listening to what she was saying, "when I mentioned my suspicion about the stiletto in the hearing of Mrs. Vrain, she fainted."

"Which showed that her guilty conscience pricked her. Oh, I am sure of it, Mr. Denzil! My stepmother and the count are the criminals!"

"Our evidence, as yet, is only circumstantial," said Lucian cautiously. "We must not jump to conclusions. At present I am completely in the dark regarding this foreigner."

"I can enlighten you, but it is a long story."

"The longer the better," said Denzil, thinking he could hear Diana speak and watch her face for hours without weariness. "I wish for all details, then I shall be in a better position to judge."

"What you say is only reasonable, Mr. Denzil. I shall tell you my father's history from the time he went to Italy some three years ago. It was in Italy—to be precise, in Florence—that he met with Lydia Clyne and her father."

"One moment," said Denzil. "Before you begin, will you tell me what you think of the couple?"

"Think!" cried Diana disdainfully. "I think they are a couple of adventurers; but she is the worst of the two. The old man, Jabez Clyne, I think moderately well of; he is a weak fool under the thumb of his daughter. If you only knew what I have suffered at the hands of that golden-haired doll!"

"I should think you could hold your own, Miss Vrain."

"Not against treachery and lies!" retorted Diana fiercely. "It is not my habit to employ such weapons, but my stepmother used no others. It was she who drove me out of the house and made me exile myself to the Antipodes to escape her falseness. And it was she," added Miss Vrain solemnly, "who treated my father so ill as to drive him out of his own home. Lydia Vrain is not the doll you think her to be; she is a false, cruel, clever adventuress, and I hate her—I hate her with all my heart and soul!"

This feminine outburst of anger rather bewildered Denzil, who saw very plainly that Diana was by no means the lofty angel he had taken her to be in the first appreciation of her beauty. But her passion of the moment suited so well with her stately looks that she seemed rather a Margaret of Anjou defying York and his faction than an injured woman concerned with so slight a thing as the rebuke of one of her own sex for whom she had little love. Diana saw the surprise expressed on Lucian's face, and her own flushed a little with annoyance that she should have betrayed her feelings so openly. With a vexed laugh, she recovered her temper and composed demeanour.

"You see I am no saint, Mr. Denzil," she said, resuming her seat, for in her anger she had risen to her feet. "But even if I were one, I could not have restrained myself from speaking as I did. When you know my stepmother as well as I do—but I must talk calmly about her, or you will not understand my reasons for thinking her concerned in the terrible fate of my poor father."

"I am all attention, Miss Vrain."

"I'll tell you all I know, as concisely as possible," she replied, "and you can judge for yourself if I am right or wrong. Three years ago my father's health was very bad. Since the death of my mother—now some ten years—he had devoted himself to hard study, and had lived more or less the life of a recluse in Berwin Manor. He was writing a history of the Elizabethan dramatists, and became so engrossed with the work that he neglected his health, and consequently there was danger that he might suffer from brain fever. The doctors ordered him to leave his books and to travel, in order that his attention might be distracted by new scenes and new people. I was to go with him, to see that he did not resume his studies, so, in an evil hour for us both, we went to Italy."

"Your father was not mad?" said Lucian, thinking of the extraordinary behaviour of Vrain in the square.

"Oh, no!" cried Diana indignantly. "He was a trifle weak in the head from overwork but quite capable of looking after himself."

"Did he indulge in strong drink?"

Miss Vrain looked scandalised. "My father was singularly abstemious in eating and drinking," she said stiffly. "Why do you ask such a question?"

"I beg your pardon," replied Lucian, with all humility, "but it was reported in Geneva Square that Berwin—the name by which your father was known—drank too much; and when I met him he was certainly not—not quite himself," finished the barrister delicately.

"No doubt his troubles drove him to take more than was good for him," said Diana in a low voice. "Yet I wonder at it, for his health was none of the best. Sometimes, I admit, he took sleeping draughts and—and—drugs."

"He was consumptive," said Lucian, noticing Diana's hesitation to speak plainly.

"His chest was weak, and consumption may have developed itself, but when I left England, almost two years back, he was certainly not suffering from that disease. But I see how it is," said Diana, wringing her hands. "During my short absence, and under the tyranny of his wife, his physical health and moral principles gave way. Drink and consumption! Ah! God! were not these ills enough but what the woman must add murder to cap them both?"

"We do not know yet if she is guilty," said Lucian quietly. "Will you go on with your story, Miss Vrain? Later on we can discuss these matters, when I am in possession of the facts. You say it was an evil hour when you went to Italy."

"It was indeed," said Diana sorrowfully, "for in Florence, at the Pension Donizetti, on the Lung Arno, we met with Lydia Clyne and her father. They had only lately arrived in Italy—from New York, I suppose—but already she was said to be engaged to a needy Italian nobleman named Hercule Ferruci."

"Then I suppose the Clynes were rich," said Lucian, "for I know those Italian nobles too well to suspect that this Count Ferruci would pay attention to any one but an heiress."

"She was supposed to be rich, Mr. Denzil. All Americans, for some reason, are supposed to be millionaires; but after she married my father I learned that Mr. Clyne had a very moderate fortune indeed, and his daughter nothing. It was for that reason that Lydia threw over the count, to whom she was almost engaged, and began to pay attention to my father. She heard talk of his estates in the gossip of the Pension, and believing him to be rich, she decided to marry him instead of throwing herself away in a romantic fit on Ferruci."

"Did she love this Italian?"

"Yes, I am sure she did; and, what is more, she loves him still!"

"What! Is Count Ferruci still acquainted with Mrs. Vrain?"

"He is, as you shall hear. Miss Clyne, as I said, determined to make a rich marriage by becoming the second Mrs. Vrain. I never liked her, knowing that she was false and frivolous; but though I did my best to stop the marriage, my father would not be controlled. You know that this woman is pretty and fascinating."

"She is certainly the first, but not the last," interposed Lucian.

"At all events," resumed Diana disconsolately, "she was sufficiently fascinating to snare my poor foolish old father. We remained four months in Florence, and before we left it Lydia Clyne became Mrs. Vrain. I could do nothing with my father, as he was possessed of the headstrong passion of an old man, and, moreover, Lydia had learned to know his weak points so well that she could twist him round her finger. But, angered as I was at my father's folly, I loved him too well to leave him at the time, therefore I returned to Berwin Manor with the pair.

"There, Mr. Denzil," continued Miss Vrain, her face growing dark, "Lydia made my life so wretched, and insulted me so openly, that I was forced, out of self-respect, to leave the house. I had some relatives in Australia, to whom I went out on a visit. Alas! I wish I had not done so; yet remain with my colonial cousins I did, until recalled to England by the terrible intelligence of my father's untimely end."

"So the marriage was a failure?"

"Yes; even before I left, Lydia openly neglected my father. I am bound to say that Mr. Clyne, who is much the better of the two, tried to make her conduct herself in a more becoming manner. But she defied him and every one else. After my departure I received letters from a friend of mine, who told me that Lydia had invited Count Ferruci over on a visit. My father, finding that he could do nothing, and seeing what a mistake he had made, returned to his books, and soon became ill again. Instead of looking after him, Lydia—as I heard—encouraged him to study hard, hoping, no doubt, that he would die, and that she would be free to marry Count Ferruci. Then my father left the house."

"Why? That is a very necessary detail."

Diana thought for a moment, then shook her head despondingly. "That I cannot explain," she said, with a sigh, "as I was in Australia at the time. But I expect that his brain grew weaker with study, and perhaps with the strong drink and drugs which this woman drove him to take. No doubt the poor man grew jealous of Ferruci; and, unable to assert himself, seeing how ill he was, left the house and retired to Geneva Square to meet his death, as we know."

"But all this is supposition," remonstrated Lucian. "We really do not know why Mr. Vrain left the house."

"What does Lydia say?"

"She gives no feasible explanation."

"Nor will she. Oh!" cried Diana, "is there no way of getting at the truth of this matter? I feel certain that Lydia and the Count are guilty!"

"You have no proofs," said Denzil, shaking his head.

"No proofs! Why, you said yourself that a stiletto——"

"That is a supposition on my part," interrupted Lucian quickly. "I cannot say for certain that the deed was committed with such a weapon. Besides, if it was, how can you connect the Italian with the deed?"

"Can we not find a proof?"

"I fear not."

"But if we search the house?"

"There is little use in doing that," rejoined Lucian. "However, if it will give you any satisfaction, Miss Vrain, I will take you over the house to-morrow morning."

"Do!" cried Diana, "and we may find proof of Lydia's guilt in a way she little dreams of. Good-bye, Mr. Denzil—till to-morrow."



CHAPTER X

THE PARTI-COLOURED RIBBON

The beauty and high spirit of Diana made so deep an impression on Lucian that he determined to aid her by every means in his power in searching for the assassin of her father. As yet Denzil had reached the age of twenty-five without having been attracted in any marked degree towards woman-kind; or, to put it more precisely, he had not yet been in love. But now it seemed that the hour which comes to all of Adam's sons had come to him; for on leaving Diana he thought of nothing else but her lovely face and charming smile, and, until he met her again, her image was never absent from his mind.

He took but a languid interest in his daily business or social pursuits, and, wrapped up in inwardly contemplating the beauties of Diana, he appeared to move amongst his fellow-men like one in a dream. And dreamer he was, for there was no substantial basis for his passion.

Many people—particularly those without imagination—scoff at the idea that love can be born in a moment, but such is often the case, for all their ill-advised jibes. A man may be brought into contact with the loveliest and most brilliant of women, yet remain heart-whole; yet unexpectedly a face—not always the most beautiful—will fire him with sudden fervour, even against his better judgment. Love is not an affair of reason, to be clipped and measured by logic and calculation; but a devouring, destroying passion, impatient of restraint, and utterly regardless of common sense. It is born of a look, of a smile, of a sigh, of a word; it springs up and fructifies more speedily than did Jonah's gourd, and none can say how it begins or how it will end. It is the ever old, ever new riddle of creation, and the more narrowly its mystery is looked into the more impossible does it become of solution. The lover of to-day, with centuries of examples at his back, is no wiser in knowledge than was his father Adam.

Although Lucian was thus stricken mad after the irrational methods of Cupid, he had sufficient sense not to examine too minutely into the reasons for this sudden passion. He was in love, and admitting as much to himself, there was an end of all argument. The long lane of his youthful and loveless life had turned in another direction at the signpost of a woman's face, and down the new vista the lover saw flowering meadows, silver streams, bowers of roses, and all the landscape of Arcadia. He was a piping swain and Diana a complaisant shepherdess; but they had not yet entered into the promised Arcadia, and might never do so unless Diana was as kindly as he wished her to be.

Lucian was in love with Diana, but as yet he could not flatter himself that she was in love with him, so he resolved to win her affection—if it was free to be bestowed—by doing her will, and her will was to revenge the death of her father. This was hardly a pleasant task to Lucian in his then peace-with-all-the-world frame of mind; but seeing no other way to gain a closer intimacy with the lady of his love, he took the bitter with the sweet, and set his shoulder to the wheel.

The next morning, therefore, Lucian called on the landlord of No. 13 and requested the keys of the house. But it appeared that these were not in the landlord's keeping at the moment.

"I gave them to Mrs. Kebby, the charwoman," said Mr. Peacock, a retired grocer, who owned the greater part of the square. "The house is in such a state that I thought I'd have it cleaned up a bit."

"With a view to a possible tenant, I suppose?"

"I don't know," replied Peacock, with a rueful shake of his bald head, "although I'm hoping against hope. But what with the murder and the ghost, there don't seem much chance of letting it. What might you be wanting in No. 13, Mr. Denzil?"

"I wish to examine every room, to find, if possible, a clue to this crime," explained Lucian, suppressing the fact that he was to have a companion.

"You'll find nothing, sir. I've looked into every room myself. However, you'll find Mrs. Kebby cleaning up, and she'll let you in if you ring the bell. You aren't thinking of taking the house yourself, I suppose?" added Peacock wishfully.

"No, thank you. My nerves are in good order just now; I don't want to upset them by inhabiting a house with so evil a reputation."

"Ah! that's what every one says," sighed the grocer. "I wish that Berwin, or Vrain, or whatever he called himself, had chosen some other place to be killed in."

"I'm afraid people who meet with unexpected deaths can't arrange these little matters beforehand," said Lucian drily, and walked away, leaving the unfortunate landlord still lamenting over his unlucky possession of a haunted and blood-stained mansion.

Before going to No. 13, Lucian walked down the street leading into Geneva Square, in order to meet Diana, who was due at eleven o'clock. Punctual as the barrister was, he found that Miss Vrain, in her impatience, was before him; for he arrived to see her dismiss her cab at the end of the street, and met her half way down.

His heart gave a bound as he saw her graceful figure, and he felt the hot blood rise to his cheeks as he advanced to meet her.

Diana, quite unconscious of having, like her namesake, the moon, caused this springtide of the heart, could not forbear a glance of surprise, but greeted her coadjutor without embarrassment and with all friendliness. Her thoughts were too taken up with her immediate task of exploring the scene of the crime to waste time in conjecturing the reason of the young man's blushes. Yet the instinct of her sex might have told her the truth, and probably it would have but that it was blunted, or rather not exercised, by reason of her preoccupation.

"Have you the key, Mr. Denzil?" said she eagerly.

"No; but I have seen the landlord, and he has given us permission to go over the house. A charwoman who is cleaning up the place will let us in."

"A charwoman," repeated Miss Vrain, stopping short, "and cleaning up the house! Is it, then, about to receive a new tenant?"

"Oh, no; but the landlord wishes it to be aired and swept; to keep it in some degree of order, I presume."

"What is the name of this woman?"

"Mrs. Kebby."

"The same mentioned in the newspaper reports as having waited on my unhappy father?"

"The same," replied Lucian, with some hesitation; "but I would advise you, Miss Vrain, not to question her too closely about your father."

"Why not? Ah! I see; you think her answers about his drinking habits will give me pain. No matter; I am prepared for all that. I don't blame him so much as those who drove him to intemperance. Is this the house?" she said, looking earnestly at the neglected building before which they were standing.

"Yes," replied Lucian, ringing the bell, "it was in this house that your father came to his untimely end. And here is Mrs. Kebby."

That amiable crone had opened the door while the young man was speaking, and now stood eyeing her visitors with a blear-eyed look of dark suspicion.

"What is't ye want?" she demanded, with a raven-like croak.

"Mr. Peacock has given this lady and myself permission to go over the house," responded Lucian, trying to pass.

"And how do I know if he did?" grumbled Mrs. Kebby, blocking the way.

"Because I tell you so."

"And because I am the daughter of Mr. Vrain," said Diana, stepping forward.

"Lord love ye, miss! are ye?" croaked Mrs. Kebby, stepping aside. "And ye've come to look at your pa's blood, I'll be bound."

Diana turned pale and shuddered, but controlling herself by an effort of will, she swept past the old woman and entered the sitting-room. "Is this the place?" she asked Lucian, who was holding the door open.

"That it is, miss," cried the charwoman, who had hobbled after them, "and yonder is the poor gentleman's blood; it soaked right through the carpet," added Mrs. Kebby, with ghoulish relish. "Lor! 'ow it must 'ave poured out!"

"Hold your tongue, woman!" said Lucian roughly, seeing that Diana looked as though about to faint. "Get on with your work!"

"I'm going; it's upstairs I'm sweeping," growled the crone, retreating. "You'll bring me to you if ye give a holler. I'll show ye round for a shilling."

"You shall have double if you leave us alone," said Lucian, pointing to the door.

Mrs. Kebby's blear eyes lighted up, and she leered amiably at the couple.

"I dessay it's worth two shillings," she said, chuckling hoarsely. "Oh, I'm not so old but what I don't know two turtle doves. He! he! To kiss over yer father's blood! Lawks! what a match 'twill be! He! he!"

Still laughing hoarsely, Mrs. Kebby, in the midst of her unholy joy, was pushed out of the door by Lucian, who immediately afterwards turned to see if Diana had overheard her ill-chosen and ominous words. But Miss Vrain, with a hard, white face, was leaning against the wall, and gave no sign of such knowledge. Her eyes were fixed on a dull-looking red stain of a dark hue, irregular in shape, and her hands the while were pressed closely against her bosom, as though she felt a cruel pain in her heart. With bloodless cheek and trembling lip the daughter looked upon the evidence of her father's death. Lucian was alarmed by her unnatural pallor.

"Miss Vrain!" he exclaimed, starting forward, "you are ill! Let me lead you out of this house."

"No!" said Diana, waving him back. "Not till we examine every inch of it; don't speak to me, please. I wish to use my eyes rather than my tongue."

Denzil, both as a lover and a friend, respected this emotion of the poor young lady, so natural under the circumstances; and in silence conducted her from room to room. All were empty and still dusty, for Mrs. Kebby's broom swept sufficiently light, and the footfalls of the pair echoed hollowly in the vast spaces.

Diana looked into every corner, examined every fireplace, attempted every window, but in no place could she find any extraneous object likely to afford a clue to the crime. They went down into the basement and explored the kitchen, the servant's parlour, the scullery, and the pantry, but with the same unsatisfactory result. The kitchen door, which led out into the back yard, showed signs of having been lately opened; but when Diana drew Lucian's attention to this fact, as the murderer having possibly entered thereby, he assured her that it had only lately been opened by the detective, Link, when he was searching for clues.

"I saw this door," added Lucian, striking it with his cane, "a week before your father was killed. He showed it to me himself, to prove that no one could have entered the house during his absence; and I was satisfied then, from the rusty condition of the bolts, and the absence of the key in the lock, that the door had not been opened—at all events, during his tenancy."

"Then how could those who killed him have entered?"

"That is what I wish to learn, Miss Vrain. But why do you speak in the plural?"

"Because I believe that Lydia and Ferruci killed my father."

"But I have proved to you that Mrs. Vrain remained at Bath."

"I know it," replied Diana quickly, "but she sent Ferruci up to kill my father, and I speak in the plural because I think—in a moral sense—she is as guilty as the Italian."

"That may be, Miss Vrain, but as yet we have not proved their guilt."

Diana made no answer, but, followed by Lucian, ascended to the upper part of the house, where they found Mrs. Kebby sweeping so vigorously that she had raised a kind of dust storm. As soon as she saw the couple she hobbled towards them to cajole them, if possible, into giving her money.

For a few moments Diana looked at her haughtily, not relishing the familiarity of the old dame, but unexpectedly she stepped forward with a look of excitement.

"Where did you get that ribbon?" she asked Mrs Kebby, pointing to a scrap of personal adornment on the neck of the rusty old creature.

"This?" croaked Mrs. Kebby. "I picked it up in the kitchen downstairs. It's a pretty red and yaller thing, but of no value, miss, so I don't s'pose you'll take it orf me."

Paying no attention to this whimpering, Diana twitched the ribbon out of the old woman's hands and examined it. It was a broad yellow ribbon of rich silk, spotted with red—very noticeably and evidently of foreign manufacture.

"It is the same!" cried Diana, greatly excited. "Mr. Denzil, I bought this ribbon myself in Florence!"

"Well," said Lucian, wondering at her excitement, "and what does that prove?"

"This: that a stiletto which my father bought in Florence, at the same time, has been used to kill him! I tied this ribbon myself round the handle of the stiletto!"



CHAPTER XI

FURTHER DISCOVERIES

The silence which followed Diana's announcement regarding the ribbon and stiletto—for Lucian kept silence out of sheer astonishment—was broken by the hoarse voice of Mrs. Kebby:

"If ye want the ribbon, miss, I'll not say no to a shilling. With what your good gentleman promised, that will be three as I'm ready to take," and Mrs. Kebby held out a dirty claw for the silver.

"You'll sell it, will you!" cried out Diana indignantly, pouncing down on the harridan. "How dare you keep what isn't yours? If you had shown the detective this," shaking the ribbon in Mrs. Kebby's face, "he might have caught the criminal!"

"Pardon me," interposed Lucian, finding his voice, "I hardly think so, Miss Vrain; for no one but yourself could have told that the ribbon adorned the stiletto. Where did you see the weapon last?"

"In the library at Berwin Manor. I hung it up on the wall myself, by this ribbon."

"Are you sure it is the same ribbon?"

"I am certain," replied Diana emphatically. "I cannot be mistaken; the colour and pattern are both peculiar. Where did you find it?" she added, turning to Mrs. Kebby.

"In the kitchen, I tell ye," growled the old woman sullenly. "I only found it this blessed morning. 'Twas in a dark corner, near the door as leads down to the woodshed. How was I to know 'twas any good?"

"Did you find anything else?" asked Lucian mildly.

"No, I didn't, sir."

"Not a stiletto?" demanded Diana, putting the ribbon in her pocket.

"I don't know what's a stiletter, miss; but I didn't find nothing; and I ain't a thief, though some people as sets themselves above others by taking ribbons as doesn't belong to 'em mayn't be much good."

"The ribbon is not yours," said Diana haughtily.

"Yes it are! Findings is keepings with me!" answered Mrs. Kebby.

"Don't anger her," whispered Denzil, touching Miss Vrain's arm. "We may find her useful."

Diana looked from him to the old woman, and opened her purse, at the sight of which Mrs. Kebby's sour face relaxed. When Miss Vrain gave her half a sovereign she quite beamed with joy. "The blessing of heaven on you, my dear," she said, with a curtsey. "Gold! good gold! Ah! this is a brave day's work for me—thirteen blessed shillings!"

"Ten, you mean, Mrs. Kebby!"

"Oh, no, sir," cried Mrs. Kebby obsequiously, "the lady gave me ten, bless her heart, but you've quite forgot your three."

"I said two."

"Ah! so you did, sir. I'm a poor schollard at 'rithmetic."

"You're clever enough to get money out of people," said Diana, who was disgusted at the avarice of the hag. "However, for the present you must be content with what I have given you. If, in cleaning this house, you find any other article, whatever it may be, you shall have another ten shillings, on consideration that you take it at once to Mr. Denzil."

Mrs. Kebby, who was tying up the piece of gold in the corner of her handkerchief, nodded her old head with much complacency. "I'll do it, miss; that is, if the gentleman will pay on delivery. I like cash."

"You shall have cash," said Lucian, laughing; and then, as Diana intimated her intention of leaving the house, he descended the stairs in her company.

Miss Vrain kept silence until they were outside in the sunshine, when she cast an upward glance at the warm blue sky, dappled with light clouds.

"I am glad to be out of that house," she said, with a shudder. "There is something in its dark and freezing atmosphere which chills my spirits."

"It is said to be haunted, you know," said Lucian carelessly; then, after a pause, he spoke on the subject which was uppermost in his mind. "Now that you have this piece of evidence, Miss Vrain, what do you intend to do?"

"Make sure that I have made no mistake, Mr. Denzil. I shall go down to Berwin Manor this afternoon. If the stiletto is still hanging on the library wall by its ribbon, I shall admit my mistake; if it is absent, why then I shall return to town and consult with you as to what is best to be done. You know I rely on you."

"I shall do whatever you wish, Miss Vrain," said Lucian fervently.

"It is very good of you," replied the lady gratefully, "For I have no right to take up your time in this manner."

"You have every right—that is, I mean—I mean," stammered Denzil, thinking from the surprised look of Miss Vrain that he had gone too far at so early a stage of their acquaintance. "I mean that as a briefless barrister I have ample time at my command, and I shall only be too happy to place it and myself at your service. And moreover," he added in a lighter tone, "I have some selfish interest in the matter, also, for it is not every one who finds so difficult a riddle as this to solve. I shall never rest easy in my mind until I unravel the whole of this tangled skein."

"How good you are!" cried Diana, impulsively extending her hand. "It is as impossible for me to thank you sufficiently now for your kindness as it will be to reward you hereafter, should we succeed."

"As to my reward," said Lucian, retaining her hand longer than was necessary, "we can decide what I merit when your father's death is avenged."

Diana coloured and turned away her eyes, withdrawing her hand in the meantime from the too warm clasp of the young man. A sense of his meaning was suddenly borne in upon her by look and clasp, and she felt a maidenly confusion at the momentary boldness of this undeclared lover. However, with feminine tact she laughed off the hint, and shortly afterwards took her leave, promising to communicate as speedily as possible with Lucian regarding the circumstances of her visit to Bath.

The barrister wished to escort her back to the Royal John Hotel in Kensington, but Miss Vrain, guessing his feelings, would not permit this; so Lucian, hat in hand, was left standing in Geneva Square, while his divinity drove off in a prosaic hansom. With her went the glory of the sunlight, the sweetness of the spring; and Denzil, more in love than ever, sighed hugely as he walked slowly back to his lodgings.

For doleful moods, hard work and other interests are the sole cure; therefore, that same afternoon Lucian returned to explore the Silent House on his own account. It had struck him as suggestive that the parti-coloured ribbon to which Diana attached such importance should have been found in so out-of-the-way a corner as the threshold of the door which conducted to what Mrs. Kebby, with characteristic misrepresentation, called the woodshed. In reality the place in question was a cellar, which extended under the soil of the back yard, and was lighted from the top by a skylight placed on a level with the ground.

On being admitted again by Mrs. Kebby, and sending that ancient female to her Augean task of cleansing the house, Lucian descended to the basement in order to examine kitchen and cellar more particularly. If, as Diana stated, the ribbon had been knotted loosely about the hilt of the stiletto, it must have fallen off unnoticed by the assassin when, weapon in hand, he was retreating from the scene of crime.

"He must have come down here from the sitting-room," mused Denzil, as he stood in the cool, damp kitchen. "And—as the ribbon was found by Mrs. Kebby near yonder door—it is most probable that he left the kitchen by that passage for the cellar. Now it remains for me to find out how he made his exit from the cellar; and also I must look for the stiletto, which he possibly dropped in his flight, as he did the ribbon."

While thus soliloquising, Denzil lighted a candle which he had taken the precaution to bring with him for the purpose of making his underground explorations. Having thus provided himself with means to dispel the darkness, he stepped into the door and descended the stone stairs which led to the cellars.

At the foot of the steps he found himself in a passage running from the front to the back of the house, and forthwith turned to the right in order to reach the particular cellar, which was dug out in the manner of a cave under the back yard.

This, as Lucian ascertained by walking round, was faced with stone and had bins on all four sides for the storage of wine. Overhead there was a glass skylight, of which the glass was so dusty and dirty that only a few rays of light could struggle into the murky depths below. But what particularly attracted the attention of Denzil was a short wooden ladder lying on the stone pavement, and which probably was used to reach the wine in the upper bins.

"And I should not be surprised if it had been used for another purpose," murmured Lucian, glancing upward at the square aperture of the skylight.

It struck him as possible that a stranger could enter thereby and descend by the ladder. To test the truth of this he reared the ladder in the middle of the cellar so that its top rung rested against the lower edge of the square overhead. Ascending carefully—for the ladder was by no means stout—he pushed the glass frame upward and found that it yielded easily to a moderate amount of strength. Climbing up, step after step, Lucian arose through the aperture like a genie out of the earth, and soon found that he could jump easily out of the cellar into the yard.

"Good!" he exclaimed, much gratified by this discovery. "I now see how the assassin entered. No wonder the kitchen door was bolted and barred, and that no one was seen to visit Vrain by the front door. Any one who knew the position of that skylight could obtain admission easily, at any hour, by descending the ladder and passing through cellar and kitchen to the upper part of the house. So much is clear, but I must next discover how those who entered got into this yard."

And, indeed, there seemed no outlet, for the yard was enclosed on three sides by a fence of palings the height of a man, and rendered impervious to damp by a coating of tar; on the fourth side by the house itself. Only over the fence—which was no insuperable obstacle—could a stranger have gained access to the yard; and towards the fence opposite to the house Lucian walked. In it there was no gate, or opening of any kind, so it would appear that to come into the yard a stranger would need to climb over, a feat easily achieved by a moderately active man.

As Denzil examined this frail barrier his eye was caught by a fluttering object on the left—that is, the side in a line with the skylight. This he found was the scrap of a woman's veil of thin black gauze spotted with velvet. At once his thoughts reverted to the shadow of the woman on the blind, and the suspicions of Diana Vrain.

"Great heavens!" he thought, "can that doll of a Lydia be guilty, after all?"



CHAPTER XII

THE VEIL AND ITS OWNER

As may be surmised, Lucian was considerably startled by the discovery of this important evidence so confirmative of Diana's suspicions. Yet the knowledge which Link had gained relative to Mrs. Vrain's remaining at Berwin Manor to keep Christmas seemed to contradict the fact; and he could by no means reconcile her absence with the presence on the fence of the fragment of gauze; still less with the supposition that she must have climbed over a tolerably difficult obstacle to enter the yard, let alone the necessity—by no means easy to a woman—of descending into the disused cellar by means of a shaky and fragile ladder.

"After all," thought Lucian, when he was seated that same evening at his dinner, "I am no more certain that the veil is the property of Mrs. Vrain than I am that she was the woman whose shadow I saw on the blind. Whosoever it was that gained entrance by passing over fence and through cellar, must have come across the yard belonging to the house facing the other road. Therefore, the person must be known to the owner of that house, and I must discover who the owner is. Miss Greeb will know."

Lucian made this last remark with the greatest confidence, as he was satisfied, from a long acquaintance with his landlady, that there was very little concerning her own neighbourhood of which she was ignorant. The result verified his belief, for when Miss Greeb came in to clear the table—a duty she invariably undertook so as to have a chance of conversing with her admired lodger—she was able to afford him the fullest information on the subject. The position of the house in question; the name of its owner; the character of its tenants; she was thoroughly well posted up in every item, and willingly imparted her knowledge with much detail and comment.

"No. 9 Jersey Street," said she, unhesitatingly; "that is the number of the house at the back of the haunted mansion, Mr. Denzil. I know it as well as I know my ten fingers."

"To whom does it belong?" asked Lucian.

"Mr. Peacock; he owns most of the property round about here, having bought up the land when the place was first built on. He's seventy years of age, you know, Mr. Denzil," continued Miss Greeb conversationally, "and rich!—Lord! I don't know how rich he is! Building houses cheap and letting them dear; he has made more out of that than in sanding his sugar and chicorying his coffee. He——"

"What is the name of the tenant?" interrupted Lucian, cutting short this rapid sketch of Peacock's life.

"Mrs. Bensusan, one of the largest women hereabouts."

"I don't quite understand."

"Fat, Mr. Denzil. She turns the scale at eighteen stone, and has pretty well broke every weighing machine in the place."

"What reputation has she, Miss Greeb?"

"Oh, pretty good," said the little woman, shrugging her shoulders, "though they do say she overcharges and underfeeds her lodgers."

"She keeps a boarding-house, then?"

"Well, she lets rooms," explained Miss Greeb in a very definite manner, "and those who live in them supply their own food, and pay for service and kitchen fire."

"Who is with her now?"

"No one," replied the landlady promptly. "She's had her bill up these three months. Her last lodger left about Christmas."

"What is his name—or her name?"

"Oh, it was a 'he,'" said Miss Greeb, smiling.

"Mrs. Bensusan prefers gentlemen, who are out of doors all day, to ladies muddling and meddling all day about the house. I must say I do, too, Mr. Denzil," ended the lady, with a fascinating glance.

"What is his name, Miss Greeb?" repeated Lucian, quite impervious to the hint.

"Let me see," said Miss Greeb, discomfited at the result of her failure. "A queer name that had to do with payments. Bill as the short for William. No, it wasn't that, although it does suggest an account. Quarterday? No. But it had something to do with quarter-days. Rent!" finished Miss Greeb triumphantly. "Rent, with a 'W' before it."

"W-r-e-n-t!" spelled Lucian.

"Yes. Wrent! Mr. Wrent. A strange name, Mr. Denzil—a kind of charade, as I may say. He was with Mrs. Bensusan six months; came to her house about the time Mr. Berwin hired No. 13."

"Very strange!" assented Lucian, to stop further comment. "What kind of a man was this Mr. Wrent?"

"I don't know. I never heard much about him," replied Miss Greeb regretfully. "May I ask why you want to know all this, Mr. Denzil?"

Lucian hesitated, as he rather dreaded the chattering tongue of his landlady, and did not wish his connection with the Vrain case to become public property in Geneva Square. Still, Miss Greeb was a valuable ally, if only for her wide acquaintance with the neighbourhood, its inhabitants, and their doings. Therefore, after a moment's reflection, he resolved to secure Miss Greeb as a coadjutor, and risk her excessive garrulity.

"Can you keep a secret, Miss Greeb?" he asked, with impressive solemnity.

Struck by his serious air, and at once on fire with curiosity to learn its reason, Miss Greeb loudly protested that she should sooner die than breathe a word of what her lodger was about to divulge. She hinted, with many a mysterious look and nod, that secrets endangering the domestic happiness of every family in the square were known to her, and appealed to the fact that such families still lived in harmony as a proof that she was to be trusted.

"Wild horses wouldn't drag out of me what I know!" cried Miss Greeb earnestly. "You can confide in me as you would in a"—she was about to say mother, but recollecting her juvenile looks, substituted the word "sister."

"Very good," said Lucian, explaining just as much as would serve his purpose. "Then I may tell you, Miss Greeb, that I suspect the assassin of Mr. Vrain entered through Mrs. Bensusan's house, and so got into the yard of No. 13."

"Lord!" cried Miss Greeb, taken by surprise. "You don't say, sir, that Mr. Wrent is a murdering villain, steeped in gore?"

"No! No!" replied Lucian, smiling at this highly-coloured description. "Do not jump to conclusions, Miss Greeb. So far as I am aware, this Mr. Wrent you speak of is innocent. Do you know Mrs. Bensusan and her house well?"

"I've visited both several times, Mr. Denzil."

"Well, then, tell me," continued the barrister, "is the house built with a full frontage like those in this square? I mean, to gain Mrs. Bensusan's back yard is it necessary to go through Mrs. Bensusan's house?"

"No," replied Miss Greeb, shutting her eyes to conjure up the image of her friend's premises. "You can go round the back through the side passage which leads in from Jersey Road."

"H'm!" said Lucian in a dissatisfied tone. "That complicates matters."

"How so, sir?" demanded the curious landlady.

"Never mind just now, Miss Greeb. Do you think you could draw me a plan of this passage of Mrs. Bensusan's house, and of No. 13, with the yards between?"

"I never could sketch," said Miss Greeb regretfully, "and I am no artist, Mr. Denzil, but I think I can do what you want."

"Here is a sheet of paper and a pencil. Will you sketch me the houses as clearly as you can?"

With much reflection and nibbling of the pencil, and casting of her eyes up to the ceiling to aid her memory, Miss Greeb in ten minutes produced the required sketch.

"There you are, Mr. Denzil," said Miss Greeb, placing this work of art before the barrister, "that's as good as I can draw."

"It is excellent, Miss Greeb," replied Lucian, examining the plan. "I see that anyone can get into Mrs. Bensusan's yard through the side passage."

"Oh, yes; but I don't think a person could without being seen by Mrs. Bensusan or Rhoda."

"Who is Rhoda?"

"The servant. She's as sharp as a needle, but an idle slut, for all that, Mr. Denzil. They say she's a gypsy of some kind."

"Is the gate of this passage locked at night?"

"Not that I know of."

"Then what is to prevent any one coming in under cover of darkness and climbing the fence? He would escape then being seen by the landlady and her servant."

"I daresay; but he'd be seen climbing over the fence from the back windows of the houses on each side of No. 13."

"Not if he chose a dark night for the climbing."

"Well, even if he did, how could he get into No. 13?" argued Miss Greeb. "You know I've read the report of the case, Mr. Denzil, and it couldn't be found out (as the kitchen door was locked, and no stranger entered the square) how the murdering assassin got in."

"I may discover even that," replied Lucian, not choosing to tell Miss Greeb that he had already discovered the entrance. "With time and inquiry and observation we can do much. Thank you, Miss Greeb," he continued, slipping the drawing of the plan into his breast coat pocket. "I am much obliged for your information. Of course you'll repeat our conversation to no one?"

"I swear to breathe no word," said Miss Greeb dramatically, and left the room greatly pleased with this secret understanding, which had quite the air of an innocent intrigue such as was detailed in journals designed for the use of the family circle.

For the next day or two Lucian mused over the information he had obtained, and made a fresh drawing of the plan for his own satisfaction; but he took no steps on this new evidence, as he was anxious to submit his discoveries to Miss Vrain before doing so. At the present time Diana was at Bath, taking possession of her ancestral acres, and consulting the family lawyer on various matters connected with the property.

Once she wrote to Lucian, advising him that she had heard several pieces of news likely to be useful in clearing up the mystery; but these she refused to communicate save at a personal interview. Denzil was thus kept in suspense, and unable to rest until he knew precisely the value of Miss Vrain's newly acquired information; therefore it was with a feeling of relief that he received a note from her asking him to call at three o'clock on Sunday at the Royal John Hotel.

Since her going and coming a week had elapsed.

Now that his divinity had returned, and he was about to see her again, the sun shone once more in the heavens for Lucian, and he arrayed himself for his visit with the utmost care. His heart beat violently and his colour rose as he was ushered into the little sitting-room, and he thought less of the case at the moment than of the joy in seeing Miss Vrain once more, in hearing her speak, and watching her lovely face.

On her part, Diana, recollecting their last meeting, or more particularly their parting, blushed in her turn, and gave her hand to the barrister with a new-born timidity. She also was inclined to like Lucian more than was reasonable for the peace of her heart; so these two people, each drawn to the other, should have come together as lovers even at this second meeting.

But, alas! for the prosaicness of this workaday world, they had to assume the attitudes of lawyer and client; and discourse of crime instead of love. The situation was a trifle ironical, and must have provoked the laughter of the gods.

"Well?" asked Miss Vrain, getting to business as soon as Lucian was seated, "and what have you found out?"

"A great deal likely to be of service to us. And you?"

"I!" replied Miss Vrain in a satisfied tone. "I have discovered that the stiletto with the ribbon is gone from the library."

"Who took it away?"

"No one knows. I can't find out, although I asked all the servants; but it has been missing from its place for some months."

"Do you think Mrs. Vrain took it?"

"I can't say," replied Diana, "but I have made one discovery about Mrs. Vrain which implicates her still more in the crime. She was not in Berwin Manor on Christmas Eve, but in town."

"Really!" said Lucian much amazed. "But Link was told that she spent Christmas in the Manor at Bath."

"So she did. Link asked generally, and was answered generally. Mrs. Vrain went up to town on Christmas Eve and returned on Christmas Day; but," said Diana, with emphasis, "she spent the night in town, and on that night the murder was committed."

Lucian produced his pocketbook and took therefrom the fragment of gauze, which he handed to Diana.

"I found this on the fence at the back of No. 13," he said. "It is a veil—a portion of a velvet-spotted veil."

"A velvet-spotted veil!" cried Diana, looking at it. "Then it belongs to Lydia Vrain. She usually wears velvet-spotted veils. Mr. Denzil, the evidence is complete—that woman is guilty!"



CHAPTER XIII

GOSSIP

Going by circumstantial evidence, Diana certainly had good grounds to accuse Mrs. Vrain of committing the crime, for there were four points at least which could be proved past all doubt as incriminating her strongly in the matter.

In the first place, the female shadow on the blind seen by Lucian, showed that a woman had been in the habit of entering the house by the secret way of the cellar, and during the absence of Vrain.

Secondly, the finding of the parti-coloured ribbon in the Silent House, which had been knotted round the handle of the stiletto by Diana, and the absence of the stiletto itself from its usual place on the wall of the Berwin Manor library, proved that the weapon had been removed therefrom to London, and, presumably, used to commit the deed, seeing that otherwise there was no necessity for its presence in the Geneva Square mansion.

Thirdly, Diana had discovered that Lydia had spent the night of the murder in town; and, lastly, she also declared that the fragment of gauze found by Lucian on the dividing fence was the property of Mrs. Vrain.

This quartette of charges was recapitulated by Diana in support of her accusation of her stepmother.

"I always suspected Lydia as indirectly guilty," she declared in concluding her speech for the prosecution, "but I was not certain until now that she had actually struck the blow herself."

"But did she?" said Denzil, by no means convinced.

"I do not know what further evidence you require to prove it," retorted Diana indignantly. "She was in town on Christmas Eve; she took the stiletto from the library, and——"

"You can't prove that," interrupted Lucian decidedly. Then, seeing the look of anger on Diana's face, he hastened to apologise. "Excuse me, Miss Vrain," he said nervously. "I am not the less your friend because I combat your arguments; but in this case it is necessary to look on both sides of the question. Is it possible to prove that Mrs. Vrain removed this dagger?"

"Nobody actually saw it in her possession," replied Diana, who was more amenable to reason than the majority of her sex, "but I can prove that the stiletto, with its ribbon, remained in the library after the departure of my father. If Lydia did not take it, who else had occasion to bring it up to London?"

"Let us say Count Ferruci," suggested Denzil.

Diana pointed to the fragment of the veil lying on the table. "On the evidence of that piece of gauze," she said, "it was Lydia who entered the house. Again, you saw her shadow on the window blind."

"I saw two shadows," corrected Lucian hastily, "those of a man and a woman."

"In plain English, Mr. Denzil, those of Mrs. Vrain and Count Ferruci."

"We cannot be certain of that."

"But circumstantial evidence——"

"Is not always conclusive, Miss Vrain."

"Upon my word, sir, you seem inclined to defend this woman!"

"Miss Vrain," said Lucian seriously, "if we don't give her the benefit of every doubt the jury will, should she be tried on this charge. I admit that the evidence against this woman is strong, but it is not certain; and I argue the case looking at it from her point of view—the only view which is likely to be taken by her counsel. If Mrs. Vrain killed her husband she must have had a strong motive to do so."

"Well," said Diana impatiently, "there is the assurance money."

"I don't know if that motive is quite strong enough to justify this woman in risking her neck," responded the barrister. "As Mrs. Vrain of Berwin Manor she had an ample income, for your father seems to have left all the rents to her, and spent but little on himself; also she had an assured position, and, on the whole, a happy life. Why should she risk losing these advantages to gain more money?"

"She wanted to marry Ferruci," said Diana, driven to another point of defence. "She was almost engaged to him before she married my foolish father; she invited him to Berwin Manor against the wish of her husband, and showed plainly that she loved him sufficiently to commit a crime for his sake. With my father dead, and she in possession of L20,000, she could hope to marry this Italian."

"Can you prove that she was so reckless?"

"Yes, I can," replied Miss Vrain defiantly. "The same person who told me that Lydia was not at Berwin Manor on Christmas Eve can tell you that her behaviour with Count Ferruci was the talk of Bath."

"Who is this person?" asked Lucian, looking up.

"A friend of mine—Miss Tyler. I brought her up with me, so that you should get her information at first hand. You can see her at once," and Diana rose to ring the bell.

"One moment," interposed Lucian, before she could touch the button. "Tell me if Miss Tyler knows your reason for bringing her up."

"I have not told her directly," said Diana, with some bluntness, "but as she is no fool, I fancy she suspects. Why do you ask?"

"Because I have something to tell you which I do not wish your friend to hear, unless," added Lucian significantly, "you desire to take her into our confidence."

"No," said Diana promptly. "I do not think it is wise to take her into our confidence. She is rather—well, to put it plainly, Mr. Denzil—rather a gossip."

"H'm! As such, do you consider her evidence reliable?"

"We can pick the grains of wheat out of the chaff. No doubt she exaggerates and garbles, after the fashion of a scandal-loving woman, but her evidence is valuable, especially as showing that Lydia was not at Bath on Christmas Eve. We will tell her nothing, so she can suspect as much as she likes; if we do speak freely she will spread the gossip, and if we don't, she will invent worse facts; so in either case it doesn't matter. What is it you have to tell me?"

Lucian could scarcely forbear smiling at Diana's candidly expressed estimate of her ally's character, but, fearful of giving offence to his companion, he speedily composed his features. With much explanation and an exhibition of Miss Greeb's plan, he gave an account of his discoveries, beginning with his visit to the cellar, and ending with the important conversation with his landlady. Diana listened attentively, and when he concluded gave it as her opinion that Lydia had entered the first yard by the side passage and had climbed over the fence into the second, "as is clearly proved by the veil," she concluded decisively.

"But why should she take all that trouble, and run the risk of being seen, when it is plain that your father expected her?"

"Expected her!" cried Diana, thunderstruck. "Impossible!"

"I don't know so much about that," replied Lucian drily, "although I admit that on the face of it my assertion appears improbable. But when I met your father the second time, he was so anxious to prove, by letting me examine the house, that no one had entered it during his absence, that I am certain he was well aware the shadows I saw were those of people he knew were in the room. Now, if the woman was Mrs. Vrain, she must have been in the habit of visiting your father by the back way."

"And Ferruci also?"

"I am not sure if the male shadow was Ferruci, no more than I am certain the other was Mrs. Vrain."

"But the veil?"

Lucian shrugged his shoulders in despair. "That seems to prove it was she," he said dubiously, "but I can't explain your father's conduct in receiving her in so secretive a way. The whole thing is beyond me."

"Well, what is to be done?" said Diana, after a pause, during which they looked blankly at one another.

"I must think. My head is too confused just now with this conflicting evidence to plan any line of action. As a relief, let us examine your friend and hear what she has to say."

Diana assented, and touched the bell. Shortly, Miss Tyler appeared, ushered in by a nervous waiter, to whom it would seem she had addressed a sharp admonition on his want of deference. Immediately on entering she pounced down on Miss Vrain like a hawk on a dove, pecked her on both cheeks, addressed her as "my dearest Di," and finally permitted herself, with downcast eyes and a modest demeanour, to be introduced to Lucian.

It might be inferred from the foregoing description that Miss Tyler was a young and ardent damsel in her teens; whereas she was considerably nearer forty than thirty, and possessed an uncomely aspect unpleasing to male eyes. Her own were of a cold grey, her lips were thin, her waist pinched in, and—as the natural consequence of tight lacing—her nose was red. Her scanty hair was drawn off her high forehead very tightly, and screwed into a cast-iron knob at the nape of her long neck; and she smiled occasionally in an acid manner, with many teeth. She wore a plainly-made green dress, with a toby frill; and a large silver cross dangled on her flat bosom. Altogether, she was about as venomous a specimen of an unappropriated blessing as can well be imagined.

"Bella," said Miss Vrain to this unattractive female, "for certain reasons, which I may tell you hereafter, Mr. Denzil wishes to know if Mrs. Vrain was at Berwin Manor on Christmas Eve."

"Of course she was not, dearest Di," said Bella, drooping her elderly head on one scraggy shoulder, with an acid smile. "Didn't I tell you so? I was asked by Lydia—alas! I wish I could say my dearest Lydia—to spend Christmas at Berwin Manor. She invited me for my singing and playing, you know: and as we all have to make ourselves agreeable, I came to see her. On the day before Christmas she received a letter by the early post which seemed to upset her a great deal, and told me she would have to run up to town on business. She did, and stayed all night, and came down next morning to keep Christmas. I thought it very strange."

"What was her business in town, Miss Tyler?" asked Lucian.

"Oh, she didn't tell me," said Bella, tossing her head, "at least not directly, but I gathered from what she said that something was wrong with poor dear Mr. Clyne—her father, you know, dearest Di."

"Was the letter from him?"

"Oh, I couldn't say that, Mr. Denzil, as I don't know, and I never speak by hearsay. So much mischief is done in the world by people repeating idle tales of which they are not sure."

"Was Count Ferruci at Berwin Manor at the time?"

"Oh, dear me, no, Di! I told you that he was up in London the whole of Christmas week. I only hope," added Miss Tyler, with a venomous smile, "that Lydia did not go up to meet him."

"Why should she?" demanded Lucian bluntly.

"Oh, I'm not blind!" cried Bella, shrilly laughing. "No, indeed. The Count—a most amiable man—was very attentive to me at one time; and Lydia—a married woman—I regret to say, did not like him being so. I am indeed sorry to repeat scandal, Mr. Denzil, but the way in which Mrs. Vrain behaved towards me and carried on with the Count was not creditable. I am a gentlewoman, Mr. Denzil, and a churchwoman, and as such cannot countenance such conduct as his."

"You infer, then, that Mrs. Vrain was in love with the Italian?"

"I shouldn't be at all surprised to hear it," cried Bella again. "But he did not care for her! Oh, dear, no! It is my belief, Mr. Denzil, that Mrs. Vrain knows more about the death of her husband than she chooses to admit. Oh, I've read all the papers; I know all about the death."

"Miss Tyler!" said Lucian, alarmed.

"Bella!" cried Miss Vrain. "I——"

"Oh, I'm not blind, dearest," interrupted Bella, speaking very fast. "I know you ask me these questions to find out if Lydia killed her husband. Well, she did!"

"How do you know, Miss Tyler?"

"Because I'm sure of it, Mr. Denzil. Wasn't Mr. Vrain stabbed with a dagger? Very well, then. There was a dagger hanging in the library of the Manor, and I saw it there four days before Christmas. When I looked for it on Christmas Day it was gone."

"Gone! Who took it?"

"Mrs. Vrain!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am!" snapped Miss Tyler. "I didn't see her take it, but it was there before she went, and it wasn't there on Christmas Day. If Lydia did not take it, who did?"

"Count Ferruci, perhaps."

"He wasn't there! No!" cried Bella, raising her head, "I'm sure Mrs. Vrain stole it and killed her husband, and I don't care who hears me say so!"

Diana and Lucian looked at one another in silence.



CHAPTER XIV

THE HOUSE IN JERSEY STREET

As her listeners made no comment on Miss Tyler's accusation of Mrs. Vrain, she paused only for a moment to recover her breath, and was off again in full cry with a budget of ancient gossip drawn from a very retentive memory.

"Of the way in which Lydia treated her poor dear husband I know little," cried the fair Bella. "Only this, that she drove him out of the house by her scandalous conduct. Yes, indeed; although you may not believe me, Di. You were away in Australia at the time, but I kept a watch on Lydia in your interest, dear, and our housemaid heard from your housemaid the most dreadful things. Why, Mr. Vrain remonstrated with Lydia, and ordered Count Ferruci out of the house, but Lydia would not let him go; and Mr. Vrain left the house himself."

"Where did he go to, Miss Tyler?"

"I don't know; nobody knows. But it is my opinion," said the spinster, with a significant look, "that he went to London to see about a divorce. But he was weak in the head, poor man, and I suppose let things go on. When next I heard of him he was a corpse in Geneva Square."

"But did my father tell his wife that he was in Geneva Square?"

"Dearest Di, I can't say; but I don't believe he had anything to do with her after he left the house."

"Then if she did not know his whereabouts, how could she kill him?" asked Denzil pertinently.

Brought to a point which she could not evade, Bella declined to answer this question, but tossed her head and bit her lip, with a fine colour. All her accusations of Mrs. Vrain had been made generally, and, as Lucian noted, were unsupported by fact. From a legal point of view this spiteful gossip of a jealous woman was worth nothing, but in a broad sense it was certainly useful in showing the discord which had existed between Vrain and his wife. Lucian saw that little good was to be gained from this prejudiced witness, so thanking Miss Tyler courteously for her information, he arose to go.

"Wait for a moment, Mr. Denzil," said Diana hurriedly. "I want to ask you something. Bella, would you mind——"

"Leaving the room? Oh, dear, no!" burst out Miss Tyler, annoyed at being excluded. "I've said all I have to say, and anything I can do, dearest Di, to assist you and Mr. Denzil in hanging that woman, I——"

"Miss Tyler," interrupted Lucian sternly, "you must not speak so wildly, for as yet there is nothing to prove that Mrs. Vrain is guilty."

"She is guilty enough for me, Mr. Denzil; but like all men, I suppose you take her side, because she is supposed to be pretty. Pretty!" reflected Bella scornfully, "I never could see it myself; a painted up minx, dragged up from the gutter. I wonder at your taste, Mr. Denzil, indeed I do. Pretty, the idea! What fools men are! I'm glad I never married one! Indeed no! He! he!"

And with a shrill laugh to point this sour-grape sentiment, and mark her disdain for Lucian, the fair Bella took herself and her lean form out of the room.

Diana and the barrister were too deeply interested in their business to take much notice of Bella's hysterical outburst, but looked at one another gravely as she departed.

"Well, Mr. Denzil," said the former, repeating her earlier question, "what is to be done now? Shall we see Mrs. Vrain?"

"Not yet," replied Lucian quickly. "We must secure proofs of Mrs. Vrain's being in that yard before we can get any confession out of her. If you will leave it in my hands, Miss Vrain, I shall call on Mrs. Bensusan."

"Who is Mrs. Bensusan?"

"She is the tenant of the house in Jersey Street. It is possible that she or her servant may know something about the illegal use made of the right of way."

"Yes, I think that is the next step to take. But what am I to do in the meantime?"

"Nothing. If I were you I would not even see Mrs. Vrain."

"I will not seek her voluntarily," replied Diana, "but as I have been to Berwin Manor she is certain to hear that I am in England, and may perhaps find out my address, and call. But if she does, you may be sure that I will be most judicious in my remarks."

"I leave all that to your discretion," said Denzil, rising. "Good-bye, Miss Vrain. As soon as I am in possession of any new evidence I shall call again."

"Good-bye, Mr. Denzil, and thank you for all your kindness."

Diana made this remark with so kindly a look, so becoming a blush, and so warm a pressure of the hand, that Lucian felt quite overcome, and not trusting himself to speak, walked swiftly out of the room.

In spite of the gravity of the task in which he was concerned, at that moment he thought more of Diana's looks and speech than of the detective business which he had taken up for love's sake. But on reaching his rooms in Geneva Square he made a mighty effort to waken from these day dreams, and with a stern determination addressed himself resolutely to the work in hand.

In this case the bitter came before the sweet. But by accomplishing the desire of Diana, and solving the mystery of her father's death, Lucian hoped to win not only her smiles but the more substantial reward of her heart and hand.

Before calling on Mrs. Bensusan the barrister debated within himself as to whether it would not be judicious to call in again the assistance of Link, and by telling him of the new evidence which had been found place him thereby in possession of new material to prosecute the case. But Link lately had taken so pessimistic a view of the matter that Lucian fancied he would scoff at his late discoveries, and discourage him in prosecuting what seemed to be a fruitless quest.

Denzil was anxious, as Diana's knight, to do as much of the work as possible in order to gain the reward of her smiles. It is true that he had no legal authority to make these inquiries, and it was possible that Mrs. Bensusan might refuse to answer questions concerning her own business, unsanctioned by law; but on recalling the description of Miss Greeb, Lucian fancied that Mrs. Bensusan, as a fat woman, might only be good-natured and timid.

He therefore dismissed all ideas of asking Link to intervene, and resolved to risk a personal interview with the tenant of the Jersey Street house. It would be time enough to invite Link's assistance, he thought, when Mrs. Bensusan—as yet an unknown quantity in the case—proved obstinate in replying to his questions.

Mrs. Bensusan proved to be quite as stout as Miss Greeb had reported. A gigantically fat woman, she made up in breadth what she lacked in length. Yet she seemed to have some activity about her, too, for she opened the door personally to Lucian, who was quite amazed when he beheld her monstrous bulk blocking up the doorway. Her face was white and round like a pale moon; she had staring eyes of a china blue, resembling the vacant optics of a wax doll; and, on the whole, appeared to be a timid, lymphatic woman, likely to answer any questions put to her in a sufficiently peremptory tone. Lucian foresaw that he was not likely to have much trouble with this mountain of flesh.

"What might you be pleased to want, sir?" she asked Lucian, in the meekest of voices. "Is it about the lodgings?"

"Yes," answered the barrister boldly, for he guessed that Mrs. Bensusan would scuttle back into the house like a rabbit to its burrow, did he speak too plainly at the outset, "that is—I wish to inquire about a friend of mine."

"Did he lodge here, sir?"

"Yes. A Mr. Wrent."

"Deary me!" said the fat woman, with mild surprise. "Mr. Wrent left me shortly after Christmas. A kind gentleman, but timid; he——"

"Excuse me," interrupted Lucian, who wanted to get into the house, "but don't you think you could tell me about my friend in a more convenient situation?"

"Oh, yes, sir—certainly, sir," wheezed Mrs. Bensusan, rolling back up the narrow passage. "I beg your pardon, sir, for my forgetfulness, but my head ain't what it ought to be. I'm a lone widow, sir, and not over strong."

Denzil could have laughed at this description, as the lady's bulk gave the lie to her assertion. However, on diplomatic grounds he suppressed his mirth, and followed his ponderous guide into a sitting-room so small that she almost filled it herself.

As he left the passage he saw a brilliant red head pop down the staircase leading to the basement; but whether it was that of a man or a woman he could not say. Still, on recalling Miss Greeb's description of the Bensusan household, he concluded that the red head was the property of Rhoda, the sharp servant, and argued from her appearance in the background, and rapid disappearance, that she was in the habit of listening to conversations she was not meant to hear.

Mrs. Bensusan sat down on the sofa, as being most accommodating to her bulk, and cast a watery look around the small apartment, which was furnished in that extraordinary fashion which seems to be the peculiar characteristic of boarding houses. The walls and carpet were patterned with glowing bunches of red roses; the furniture was covered with stamped red velvet; the ornaments consisted of shells, wax fruit under glass shades, mats of Berlin wool, vases with dangling pendants of glass, and such like elegant survivals of the early Victorian epoch.

Hideous as the apartment was, it seemed to afford Mrs. Bensusan—also a survival—great pleasure; and she cast a complacent look around as Lucian seated himself on an uncomfortable chair covered with an antimacassar of crochet work.

"My rooms are most comfortable, an' much liked," said Mrs. Bensusan, sighing, "but I have not had many lodgers lately. Rhoda thinks it must be on account of that horrible murder."

"The murder of Vrain in No. 13?"

"Ah!" groaned the fat woman, looking tearfully over her double chin, "I see you have heard of it."

"Everybody has heard of it," replied Lucian, "and I was one of the first to hear, since I live in Miss Greeb's house, opposite No. 13."

"Indeed, sir!" grunted Mrs. Bensusan, stiffening a little at the sound of a rival lodging-house keeper's name. "Then you are Mr. Denzil, the gentleman who occupies Miss Greeb's first floor front."

"Yes. And I have come to ask you a few questions."

"About what, sir?" said Mrs. Bensusan, visibly alarmed.

"Concerning Mr. Wrent."

"You are a friend of his?"

"I said so, Mrs. Bensusan, but as a matter of fact I never set eyes on the gentleman in my life."

Mrs. Bensusan gasped like a fish out of water, and patted her fat breast with her fat hand, as though to give herself courage. "It is not like a gentleman to say that another gentleman's his friend when he ain't," she said, with an attempt at dignity.

"Very true," answered Lucian, with great composure, "but you know the saying, 'All is fair in love and war.' I will be plain with you, Mrs. Bensusan," he added, "I am here to seek possible evidence in connection with the murder of Mr. Vrain, in No. 13, on Christmas Eve."

Mrs. Bensusan gave a kind of hoarse screech, and stared at Lucian in a horrified manner.

"Murder!" she repeated. "Lord! what mur—that murder! Mr. Vrain! Mr. Vrain—that murder!" she repeated over and over again.

"Yes, the murder of Mr. Vrain in No. 13 Geneva Square on Christmas Eve. Now do you understand?"

With another gasp Mrs. Bensusan threw up her fat hands and raised her eyes to the ceiling.

"As I am a Christian woman, sir," she cried, "I am as innocent as a babe unborn!"

"Of what?" asked Lucian sharply.

"Of the murder!" wept Mrs. Bensusan, now dissolved in tears. "Rhoda said——"

"I don't want to hear what Rhoda said," interrupted Lucian impatiently, "and I am not accusing you of the murder. But—your house is at the back of No. 13."

"Yes," replied Mrs. Bensusan, weeping like a Niobe.

"And a fence divides your yard from that of No. 13?"

"I won't contradict you, sir—it do."

"And there is a passage leading from Jersey Street into your yard?"

"There is, Mr. Denzil; it's useful for the trades-people."

"And I daresay useful to others," said Lucian drily. "Now, Mrs. Bensusan, do you know if any lady was in the habit of passing through that passage at night?"

Before Mrs. Bensusan could answer the door was dashed open, and Rhoda, the red-headed, darted into the room.

"Don't answer, missus!" she cried shortly. "As you love me, mum, don't!"



CHAPTER XV

RHODA AND THE CLOAK

The one servant of Mrs. Bensusan was a girl of seventeen, who had a local fame in the neighbourhood on account of her sharp tongue and many precocious qualities. No one knew who her parents were, or where the fat landlady had picked her up; but she had been in the Jersey Street house some ten years, and had been educated and—in a manner—adopted by its mistress, although Mrs. Bensusan always gave her cronies to understand that Rhoda was simply and solely the domestic of the establishment.

Nevertheless, for one of her humble position, she had a wonderful power over her stout employer, the power of a strong mind over a weak one, and in spite of her youth it was well known that Rhoda managed the domestic economy of the house. Mrs. Bensusan was the sovereign, Rhoda the prime minister.

This position she had earned by dint of her own sharpness in dealing with the world. And the local tradesmen were afraid of Rhoda. "Mrs. Bensusan's devil," they called her, and never dared to give short weight, or charge extra prices, or pass off damaged goods as new, when Rhoda was the purchaser. On the contrary, No. 9 Jersey Street was supplied with everything of the best, promptly and civilly, at ordinary market rates; for neither butcher, nor baker, nor candlestick maker, was daring enough to risk Rhoda's tongue raging like a prairie fire over their shortcomings. Several landladies, knowing Rhoda's value, had tried to entice her from Mrs. Bensusan by offers of higher wages and better quarters, but the girl refused to leave her stout mistress, and so continued quite a fixture of the lodgings. Even in the city, Rhoda had been spoken of by clerks who had lived in Jersey Street, and so had more than a local reputation for originality.

This celebrated handmaid was as lean as her mistress was stout. Her hair was magnificent in quality and quantity, but, alas! was of the unpopular tint called red; not auburn, or copper hued, or the famous Titian color, but a blazing, fiery red, which made it look like a comic wig. Her face was pale and freckled, her eyes black—in strange contrast to her hair, and her mouth large, but garnished with an excellent set of white teeth.

Rhoda was not neat in her attire, perhaps not having arrived at the age of coquetry, for she wore a dingy grey dress much too short for her, a pair of carpet slippers which had been left by a departed lodger, and usually went about with her sleeves tucked up, and a resolute look on her sharp face. Such was the appearance of Mrs. Bensusan's devil, who entered to forbid her mistress confiding in Lucian.

"Oh, Rhoda!" groaned Mrs. Bensusan. "You bad gal! I believe as you've 'ad your ear to the keyhole."

"I 'ave!" retorted Rhoda defiantly. "It's been there for five minutes, and good it is for you, mum, as I ain't above listening. What do you mean, sir," she cried, turning on Lucian like a fierce sparrow, "by coming 'ere to frighten two lone females, and her as innocent as a spring chicken?"

"Oh!" said Lucian, looking at her composedly, "so you are the celebrated Rhoda? I've heard of you."

"Not much good, then, sir, if Miss Greeb was talking," rejoined the red-haired girl, with a sniff. "Oh, I know her."

"Rhoda! Rhoda!" bleated her mistress, "do 'old your tongue! I tell you this gentleman's a police."

"He ain't!" said the undaunted Rhoda. "He's in the law. Oh, I knows him!'

"Ain't the law the police, you foolish gal?"

"Of course it—" began Rhoda, when Lucian, who thought that she had displayed quite sufficient eccentricity, cut her short with a quick gesture.

"See here, my girl," he said sharply, "you must not behave in this fashion. I have reason to believe that the assassin of Mr. Vrain entered the house through the premises of your mistress."

"Lawks, what a 'orrible idear!" shrieked Mrs. Bensusan. "Good 'eavens, Rhoda, did you see the murdering villain?"

"Me? No! I never sawr nothing, mum," replied Rhoda doggedly.

Lucian, watching the girl's face, and the uneasy expression in her eyes, felt convinced she was not telling the truth. It was no use forcing her to speak, as he saw very plainly that Rhoda was one of those obstinate people whom severity only hardened. Much more could be done with her by kindness, and Denzil adopted this—to him—more congenial course.

"If Rhoda is bound by any promise, Mrs. Bensusan, I do not wish her to speak," he said indifferently, "but in the interests of justice I am sure you will not refuse to answer my questions."

"Lord, sir! I know nothing!" whimpered the terrified landlady.

"Will you answer a few questions?" asked Denzil persuasively.

Mrs. Bensusan glanced in a scared manner at Rhoda, who, meanwhile, had been standing in a sullen and hesitating attitude. When she thought herself unobserved, she stole swift glances at the visitor, trying evidently to read his character by observation of his face and manner. It would seem that her scrutiny was favourable, for before Mrs. Bensusan could answer Lucian's question she asked him one herself.

"What do you want to know, sir?"

"I want to know all about Mr. Wrent."

"Why?"

"Because I fancy he has something to do with this crime."

"Lord!" groaned Mrs. Bensusan. "'Ave I waited on a murderer?"

"I don't say he is a murderer, Mrs. Bensusan, but he knows something likely to put us on the track of the criminal."

"What makes ye take up the case?" demanded Rhoda sharply.

"Because I know that Mr. Wrent came to board in this house shortly after Mr. Vrain occupied No. 13," replied Denzil.

"Who says he did?"

"Miss Greeb, my landlady, and she also told me that he left here two days after the murder."

"That's as true as true!" cried Mrs. Bensusan, "ain't it, Rhoda? We lost him 'cause he said he couldn't abide living near a house where a crime had been committed."

"Well, then," continued Lucian, seeing that Rhoda, without speaking, continued to watch him, "the coincidence of Mr. Wrent's stay with that of Mr. Vrain's strikes me as peculiar."

"You are a sharp one, you are!" said Rhoda, with an approving nod. "Look here, Mr. Denzil, would you break a promise?"

"That depends upon what the promise was."

"It was one I made to hold my tongue."

"About what?"

"Several things," said the girl shortly.

"Have they to do with this crime?" asked Lucian eagerly.

"I don't know. I can't say," said Rhoda; then suddenly her face grew black. "I tell you what, sir, I hate Mr. Wrent!" she declared.

"Oh, Rhoda!" cried Mrs. Bensusan. "After the lovely cloak he gave you!"

The red-haired girl looked contemptuously at her mistress; then, without a word, darted out of the room. Before Lucian could conjecture the reason of her strange conduct, or Mrs. Bensusan could get her breath again—a very difficult operation for her—Rhoda was back with a blue cloth cloak, lined with rabbit skins, hanging over her arm. This she threw down at the feet of Lucian, and stamped on it savagely with the carpet slippers.

"There's his present!" she cried angrily, "but I wish I could dance on him the same way! I wish—I wish I could hang him!"

"Can you?" demanded Lucian swiftly, taking her in the moment of wrath, when she seemed disposed to speak.

"No!" said Rhoda shortly. "I can't!"

"Do you think he killed Mr. Vrain?"

"No, I don't!"

"Do you know who did?"

"Blest if I do!"

"Does Mr. Wrent?" asked Denzil meaningly.

The girl wet her finger and went through a childish game. "That's wet," she said; then wiping the finger on her dingy skirt, "that's dry. Cut my throat if I tell a lie. Ask me something easier, Mr. Denzil."

"I don't understand you," said Lucian, quite puzzled.

"Rhoda! Rhoda! 'Ave you gone crazy?" wailed Mrs. Bensusan.

"Look here," said the girl, taking no notice of her mistress, "do you want to know about Mr. Wrent?"

"Yes, I do."

"And about that side passage as you talked of to the missis?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll answer yer questions, sir. You'll know all I know."

"Very good," said Lucian, with an approving smile, "now you are talking like a sensible girl."

"Rhoda! You ain't going to talk bad of Mr. Wrent?"

"It ain't bad, and it ain't good," replied Rhoda. "It's betwixt and between."

"Well, I must 'ear all. I don't want the character of the 'ouse took away," said Mrs. Bensusan, with an attempt at firmness.

"That's all right," rejoined Rhoda reassuringly, "you can jine in yerself when y' like. Fire away, Mr. Denzil."

"Who is Mr. Wrent?" asked Lucian, going straight to the point.

"I don't know," replied Rhoda; and henceforth the examination proceeded as though the girl were in the witness-box and Lucian counsel for the prosecution.

Q. When did he come to Jersey Street?

A. At the end of July, last year.

Q. When did he go away?

A. The morning after Boxing Day.

Q. Can you describe his appearance?

A. He was of the middle height, with a fresh complexion, white hair, and a white beard growing all over his face. He was untidy about his clothes, and kept a good deal to his own room among a lot of books. I don't think he was quite right in his head.

Q. Did he pay his rent regularly?

A. Yes, except when he was away. He would go away for a week at a time.

Q. Was he in this house on Christmas Eve?

A. Yes, sir. He came back two days before Christmas.

Q. Where had he been?

A. I don't know; he did not say.

Q. Did he have any visitors?

A. He did. A tall, dark man and a lady.

Q. What was the lady like?

A. A little woman; I never saw her face, as she always kept her veil down.

Q. What kind of a veil did she wear?

A. A black gauze veil with velvet spots.

Q. Did she come often to see Mr. Wrent?

A. Yes. Four or five times.

Q. When did she call last?

A. On Christmas Eve.

Q. At what hour?

A. She came at seven, and went away at eight. I know that because she had supper with Mr. Wrent.

Q. Did she leave the house?

A. Yes. I let her out myself.

Q. Did you ever hear any conversation between them?

A. No. Mr. Wrent took care of that. I never got any chance of listening at keyholes with him. He was a sharp one, for all his craziness.

Q. What was the male visitor like?

A. He was tall and dark, with a black moustache.

Q. Do you think he was a foreigner?

A. I don't know. I never heard him speak. Mr. Wrent let him out, as usual.

Q. When did he visit Mr. Wrent last?

A. On Christmas Eve. He came with the lady.

Q. Did he stay to supper also?

A. No. He went away at half-past seven. Mr. Wrent let him out, as usual.

Q. Did he go away altogether?

A. I—I—I am not sure! (here the witness hesitated).

Q. Why did Mr. Wrent give you the cloak?

A. To make me hold my tongue about the dark man.

Q. Why?

A. Because I saw him in the back yard.

Q. On what night?

A. On the night of Christmas Eve, about half-past eight.



CHAPTER XVI

MRS. VRAIN AT BAY

"You saw the dark man in the back yard on Christmas Eve?" repeated Lucian, much surprised by this discovery.

"Yes, I did," replied Rhoda decisively, "at half-past eight o'clock. I went out into the yard to put some empty bottles into the shed, and I saw the man standing near the fence, looking at the back of No. 13. When he heard me coming out he rushed past me and out by the side passage. The moon was shining, and I saw him as plain as plain."

"Did he seem afraid?"

"Yes, he did; and didn't want to be seen, neither. I told Mr. Wrent, and he promised me a cloak if I held my tongue. He said the dark man was waiting in the yard until the lady had gone, when he was coming in again."

"But the lady, you say, went at eight, and you saw the man half an hour later?"

"That's it, sir. He told me a lie, for he never came in again to see Mr. Wrent."

"But already the dark man had seen the lady?"

"Yes. He came in with her at seven, and went away at half-past."

Lucian mechanically stooped down and picked up the fur cloak. He was puzzled by the information given by Rhoda, and did not exactly see what use to make of it. Going by the complexion of the man who had lurked in the back yard, it would appear that he was Count Ferruci; while the small stature of the woman, and the fact that she wore a velvet-spotted veil, indicated that she was Lydia Vrain; also the pair had been in the vicinity of the haunted house on the night of the murder; and, although it was true both were out of the place by half-past eight, yet they might not have gone far, but had probably returned later—when Rhoda and Mrs. Bensusan were asleep—to murder Vrain, between the hours of eleven and twelve on the same night.

This was all plain enough, but Lucian was puzzled by the account of Mr. Wrent. Who, he asked himself repeatedly, who was this grey-haired, white-bearded man who had so often received Lydia, who had on Christmas Eve silenced Rhoda regarding Ferruci's presence in the yard, by means of the cloak, and who—it would seem—possessed the key to the whole mystery?

Rhoda could tell no more but that he had stayed six months with Mrs. Bensusan, and had departed two days after the murder; whereby it would seem that his task having been completed, he had no reason to remain longer in so dangerous a neighbourhood. Yet four months had elapsed since his departure, and Denzil, after some reflection, asked Mrs. Bensusan a question or two regarding this interval.

"Has Mr. Wrent returned here since his departure?" he demanded.

"Lawks! no, sir!" wheezed Mrs. Bensusan, shaking her head. "I've never set eyes on him since he went. 'Ave you, Rhoda?" Whereat the girl shook her head also, and watched Lucian with an intensity of gaze which somewhat discomposed him.

"Did he owe you any money when he went, Mrs. Bensusan?"

"No, sir. He paid up like a gentleman. I always thought well of Mr. Wrent."

"Rhoda doesn't seem to share your sentiments," said Denzil drily.

"No, I don't!" cried the servant, frowning. "I hated Mr. Wrent!"

"Why did you hate him?"

"Never you mind, sir," retorted Rhoda grimly. "I hated him."

"Yet he bought you this cloak."

"No, he didn't!" contradicted the girl. "He got it from the lady!"

"What!" cried Lucian sharply. "Are you sure of that?"

"I can't exactly swear to it," replied Rhoda, hesitating, "but it was this way: The lady wore a cloak like that, and I admired it awful. She had it on when she came, Christmas Eve, and she didn't wear it when I let her out, and the next day Mr. Wrent gave it to me. So I suppose it is the same cloak."