"The Haven," as Jorce, with some humour, termed his private asylum, was a red brick house, large, handsome, and commodious, built in a wooded and secluded part of Hampstead. It was surrounded by a high brick wall, over which the trees of its park could be seen, and possessed a pair of elaborate iron gates, opening on to a quiet country lane. Externally, it looked merely the estate of a gentleman.

The grounds were large, and well laid out in flower gardens and orchards; and as it was Dr. Jorce's system to allow his least crazy patients as much liberty as possible, they roamed at will round the grounds, giving the place a cheerful and populated look. The more violent inmates were, of course, secluded; but these were well and kindly treated by the doctor. Indeed, Jorce was a very humane man, and had a theory that more cures of the unhappy beings under his charge could be effected by kindness than by severity.

His asylum was more like a private hotel with paying guests than an establishment for the retention of the insane, and even to an outside observer the eccentricities of the doctor's family—as he loved to call them—were not more marked than many of the oddities possessed by people at large. Indeed, Jorce was in the habit of saying that "There were more mad people in the world than were kept under lock and key," and in this he was doubtless right. However, the kindly and judicious little man was like a father to those under his charge, and very popular with them all. Anything more unlike the popular conception of an asylum than the establishment at Hampstead can scarcely be imagined.

When Lucian arrived at "The Haven," he found that Jorce had long since returned from his holiday, and was that day at home; so on sending in his card he was at once admitted into the presence of the local potentate. Jorce, looking smaller and more like a fairy changeling than ever, was evidently pleased to see Lucian, but a look on his dry, yellow face indicated that he was somewhat puzzled to account for the visit. However, preliminary greetings having passed, Lucian did not leave him long in doubt.

"Dr. Jorce," he said boldly, and without preamble, "I have called to see you about that alibi of Signor Ferruci's."

"Alibi is a nasty word, Mr. Denzil," said Jorce, looking sharply at his visitor.

"Perhaps, but it is the only word that can be used with propriety."

"But I thought that I was called on to decide a bet."

"Oh, that was Count Ferruci's clever way of putting it," responded Lucian, with a sneer. "He did not wish you to know too much about his business."

"H'm! Perhaps I know more than you think, Mr. Denzil."

"What do you mean, sir?" cried Lucian sharply.

"Softly, Mr. Denzil, softly," rejoined the doctor, waving his hand. "I shall explain everything to your satisfaction. Do you know why I went to Italy?"

"No; no more than I know why you went with Signor Ferruci," replied Lucian, recalling Link's communication.

"Ah!" said Jorce placidly, "you have been making inquiries, I see. But you are wrong in one particular. I did not go to Italy with Ferruci—I left him in Paris, and I went on myself to Florence to find out the true character of the man."

"Why did you wish to do that, doctor?"

"Because I had some business with our mutual friend, the Count, and I was not altogether pleased with the way in which it was conducted. Also, my last interview with you about that bet made me suspicious of the man. Over in Florence I learned sufficient about the Count to assure me that he is a bad man, with whom it is as well to have as little to do as possible. I intended to return at once with this information and call on you, Mr. Denzil. Unfortunately, I fell ill of an attack of typhoid fever in Florence, and had to stay there these two months."

"I am sorry," said Lucian, noting that the doctor did look ill, "but why did you not send on your information to me?"

"It was necessary to see you personally, Mr. Denzil. I arrived back a few days ago, and intended writing to you when I recovered from the fatigue of the journey. However, your arrival saves me the trouble. Now I can tell you all about Ferruci, if you like."

"Then tell me, Doctor, if you spoke truly about that alibi?"

"Yes, I did. Count Ferruci was with me that night, and stayed here until the next morning."

"What time did he arrive?"

"About ten o'clock, or, to be precise," said Jorce, "about ten-thirty."

"Ah!" cried Lucian exultantly, "then Ferruci must have been the man in the back yard!"

"What do you mean by that?" asked Jorce in a puzzled tone.

"Why, that Count Ferruci has had to do with a crime committed some months ago in Pimlico. A man called Mark Vrain was murdered, as you may have seen in the papers, Doctor, and I believe Ferruci murdered him."

"If I remember rightly," said Jorce with calmness, "the man in question was murdered shortly before midnight on Christmas Eve. If that is so, Ferruci could not have killed him, because, as I said before, he was here at half-past ten on that night."

"I don't say he actually killed the man," explained Lucian eagerly, "but he certainly employed some one to strike the blow, else what was he doing in the Jersey Street yard on that night? You can say what you like, Dr. Jorce, but that man is guilty of Mark Vrain's death."

"No," replied Jorce coolly, "he's not, for the simple reason that Vrain is not dead."

"Not dead?" repeated Lucian, recalling Diana's belief.

"No! For the last few months Mark Vrain, under the name of Michael Clear, has been in this asylum!"



CHAPTER XXV

A DARK PLOT

"So Vrain is alive, after all!" was Lucian's comment on the speech of Jorce, "and he is here under your charge? Jove! it's wonderful! Diana was right, after all!"

"Diana? Who is Diana?" queried Jorce, then held up his hand to stop his visitor from replying. "Wait! I know! Vrain mentioned his daughter Diana."

"Yes, she is the daughter of Vrain, and she believes her father to be alive."

"On what grounds?"

"Because the dead man, whom, until lately, she believed to be Mr. Vrain, had one of his little fingers missing. That fact came to her knowledge only a week ago. When it did, she declared that the deceased could not be her father."

"H'm!" said Jorce thoughtfully, "I am quite in the dark as to why Mr. Vrain was put under my charge."

"Because Ferruci wished to marry his widow."

"I see! Ferruci substituted another man for my patient and had him killed."

"Evidently," replied Lucian; "but I am almost as much in the dark as you are, Dr. Jorce. Tell me how Vrain came to be placed here, and, exchanging confidence for confidence, I'll let you know all I have discovered since the death of the man in Geneva Square who called himself Berwin."

"That is a fair offer," replied Jorce, clearing his throat, "and one which I willingly accept. I do not wish you to think that I am in league with Signor Ferruci. What I did was done honestly. I am not afraid of telling my story."

"I am sure of that," said Lucian heartily. "I guessed that Ferruci had not trusted you altogether, from the time he feigned that your evidence was needed only to decide a bet."

"Trust me!" echoed Jorce, with scorn. "He never trusted me at all. He is too cunning for that. However, you shall hear."

"I'm all attention, Doctor."

"A week before last Christmas, Signor Ferruci called to see me, and explained that he was interested in a gentleman called Michael Clear, whom he had met some years before in Italy. Clear, he said, had been most intimate with him, but later on had indulged so much in the morphia habit that their friendship had terminated with high words. Afterwards, Clear had returned to England, and Ferruci lost sight of him for some months. Then he visited England, and one day found Clear in the street, looking ill and wretched. The man had become a confirmed morphiamaniac, and the habit had weakened his brain. The Count pitied the poor creature, according to his own story, and took him to his home, the whereabouts of which Clear was happily able to remember."

"Where is the house?" asked Lucian, taking out his pocketbook.

"Number 30, St. Bertha's Road, Bayswater," replied Jorce; and when the barrister, for his private information, had made a note of the address, he continued: "It then appeared that Clear was married. The wife told Ferruci that she was afraid of her husband, who, in his fits of drink—for he drank likewise—often threatened to kill her. They had lost their money, and the poor woman was at her wit's end what to do. Ferruci explained to me that out of friendship he was most anxious to befriend Clear, and stated that Mrs. Clear wished to get her husband cured. He proposed, therefore, to put Clear into my asylum, and pay on behalf of the wife."

"A very ingenious and plausible plan," said Lucian. "Well, Doctor, and what did you say?"

"I agreed, of course, provided the man was certified insane in the usual way. Ferruci then departed, promising to bring Mrs. Clear to see me. He brought her late on Christmas Eve, at ten—"

"Ah!" interrupted Lucian, "did she wear a black gauze veil with velvet spots?"

"She did, Mr. Denzil. Have you met her?"

"No, but I have heard of her. She was the woman who visited Wrent in Jersey Street. No doubt Ferruci was waiting for her in the back yard."

"Who is Wrent?" asked Jorce, looking puzzled.

"Don't you know the name, Doctor?"

"No."

"Did Mrs. Clear never mention it?"

"Never."

"Nor Ferruci?"

"No. I never heard the name before," replied Jorce complacently.

"Strange!" said Denzil reflectively. "Yet Wrent seems to be at the bottom of the whole plot. Well, never mind, just now. Please continue, my dear Doctor. What did Mrs. Clear say?"

"Oh, she repeated Ferruci's story, amplified in a feminine fashion. She was afraid of Michael, who, when excited with morphia or drink, would snatch up a knife to attempt her life. Twice she had disarmed him, and now she was tired and frightened. She was willing for him to go into my asylum since Count Ferruci had so kindly consented to bear the expense, but she wished to give him one more chance. Then, as it was late, she stayed here all night. So did the Count, and on Christmas Day they went away."

"When did they come back?"

"About a fortnight later, and they brought with them the man they both called Michael Clear."

"What is he like?"

"An old man with a white beard."

"Is he mad?" asked Lucian bluntly.

"He is not mad now, only weak in the head," replied Jorce professionally, "but he was certainly mad when he arrived. The man's brain is wrecked by morphia."

"Not by drink?"

"No; although it suited Mrs. Clear and Ferruci to say so. But Clear, as I may call him, was very violent, and quite justified Mrs. Clear's desire to sequester him. She told me that he often imagined himself to be other people. Sometimes he would feign to be Napoleon; again the Pope; so when he, a week after he was in the asylum, insisted that he was Mark Vrain, I put it down to his delusion."

"But how could you think he had come by the name, Doctor?"

"My dear sir, at that time the papers were full of the case and its mystery, and as we have a reading-room in this asylum, I fancied that Clear had seen the accounts, and had, as a delusion, called himself Vrain. Afterwards he fell into a kind of comatose state, and for weeks said very little. He was most abject and frightened, and responded in a timid sort of way to the name of Clear. Naturally this confirmed me in my belief that his calling himself Vrain was a delusion. Then he grew better, and one day told me that his name was Vrain. Of course, I did not believe him. Still, he was so persistent about the matter that I thought there might be something in it, and spoke to Ferruci."

"What did he say?"

"He denied that the man's name was anything but Clear. That the wife and two doctors—for the poor soul had been duly certified as insane—had put him into the asylum; and altogether persisted so strongly in his original story that I thought it was absurd to put a crazy man's delusion against a sane man's tale. Besides, everything regarding the certificate and sequestrating of Clear had been quite legal. Two doctors—and very rightly, too—had certified to the insanity of the man; and his wife—as I then believed Mrs. Clear to be—had consented to his detention."

"What made you suspicious that there might be something wrong?" asked Lucian eagerly.

"My visit to meet you, at Ferruci's request, to prove the alibi," responded Jorce. "I thought it was strange, and afterwards, when a detective named Mr. Link, called, I thought it was stranger still."

"But you did not see Link?"

"No. I was in Italy then, but I heard of his visit. In Florence I heard from a most accomplished gossip the whole story of Mr. Vrain's marriage and the prior engagement of Mrs. Vrain to Ferruci. I guessed that there might be some plot, but I could not quite understand how it was carried out, save that Vrain—as I then began to believe Clear to be—had been placed in my asylum under a false name. On my return I intended to see you, when I was laid up in Florence with the fever. Now, however, that we have met, tell me so much of the story as you know. Afterwards we shall see Mr. Vrain."

Lucian was willing enough to show his confidence in Jorce, the more so as he needed his help. Forthwith he told him all he knew, from the time he had met Michael Clear, alias Mark Berwin, alias Mark Vrain, in Geneva Square, down to the moment he had presented himself for information at the gates of "The Haven." Doctor Jorce listened with the greatest attention, his little face puckered up into a grim smile, and shook his head when the barrister ended his recital.

"A bad world, Mr. Denzil, a bad world!" he said, rising. "Come with me, and I'll take you to see my patient."

"But what do you think of it all?" said Denzil, eager for some comment.

"I'll tell you that," rejoined Jorce, "when you have heard the story of Mr. Vrain."

In a few minutes Lucian was led by his guide into a pleasant room, with French windows opening on to a wide verandah, and a sunny lawn set round with flowers. Books were arranged on shelves round the walls, newspapers and magazines were on the table, and near the window, in a comfortable chair, sat an old man with a volume in his hand. As Jorce entered he stood up and shuffled forward with a senile smile of delight. Evidently—and with reason, poor soul—he considered the doctor his very good friend.

"Well, well!" said the cheery Jorce, "and how are you to-day, Mr. Vrain?"

"I feel very well," replied Vrain in a soft, weak voice. "Who is this, Doctor?"

"A young friend of mine, Mr. Vrain. He wishes to hear your story."

"Alas! alas!" sighed Vrain, his eyes filling with tears, "a sad story, sir."

The father of Diana was of middle height, with white hair, and a long white beard which swept his chest. On his cheek Lucian saw the cicatrice of which Diana had spoken, and mainly by which the dead man had been falsely identified as Vrain. He was very like Clear in figure and manner; but, of course, the resemblance in the face was not very close, as Clear had been clean shaven, whereas the real Vrain wore a beard. The eyes were dim and weak-looking, and altogether Lucian saw that Vrain was not fitted to battle with the world in any way, and quite weak enough to become the prey of villains, as had been his sad fate.

"My name is Mark Vrain, young sir," said he, beginning his story without further preamble. "I lived in Berwin Manor, Bath, with my wife Lydia, but she treated me badly by letting another man love her, and I left her. Oh, yes, sir, I left her. I went away to Salisbury, and was very happy there with my books, but, alas! I took morph——"

"Vrain!" said Jorce, holding up his finger, "no!"

"Of course, of course," said the old man, with a watery smile, "I mean I was very happy there. But Signor Ferruci, a black-hearted villain"—his face grew dark as he mentioned the name—"found me out and made me come with him to London. He kept me there for months, and then he brought me here."

"Kept you where, Mr. Vrain?" asked Lucian gently.

The old man looked at him with a vacant eye. "I don't know," he said in a dull voice.

"You came here from Bayswater," hinted Jorce.

"Yes, yes, Bayswater!" cried Vrain, growing excited. "I was there with a woman they called my wife. She was not my wife! My wife is fair, this woman was dark. Her name was Maud Clear: my wife's name is Lydia."

"Did Mrs. Clear say you were her husband, Michael?"

"Yes. She called me Michael Clear, and brought me to stay with the doctor. But I am not Michael Clear!"



CHAPTER XXVI

THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE

As soon as Lucian arrived back in his rooms he sat down at his desk and wrote a long letter to Diana, giving a full account of his extraordinary discovery of her father in Jorce's asylum, and advising her to come up at once to London.

When he posted this—which he did the same night—he sighed to think it was not a love letter. He could have covered reams of paper with words of passion and adoration; he could have poured out his whole soul at the feet of his divinity, telling her of his love, his aspirations, his hopes and fears. No doubt, from a common-sense view, the letter would have been silly enough, but it would have relieved his mind and completed his happiness of knowing that he loved and was beloved.

But in place of writing thus, he was compelled by his promise to Diana to pen a description of his late discovery, and interesting as the case was now growing, he found it irksome to detail the incident of the afternoon. He wished to be a lover, not a detective.

So absent-minded and distraught was Lucian, that Miss Greeb, who had long suspected something was wrong with him, spoke that very evening about himself. She declared that Lucian was working too hard, that he needed another rest, although he had just returned from the country, and recommended a sleeping draught. Finally she produced a letter which had just arrived, and as it was in a female hand, Miss Greeb watched its effect on her admired lodger with the keen eyes of a jealous woman. When she saw him flush and seize it eagerly, casting, meanwhile, an impatient look on her to leave the room, she knew the truth at once, and retired hurriedly to the kitchen, where she shed floods of tears.

"I might have guessed it," gasped Miss Greeb to a comfortable cat which lay selfishly before the fire. "He's far too good-looking not to be snapped up. He'll be leaving me and setting up house with that other woman. I only hope she'll do for him as well as I have done. I wonder if she's beautiful and rich. Oh, how dreadful it all is!" But the cat made no comment on this tearful address—not as much as a mew. It rolled over into a warmer place and went to sleep again. Cats are particularly selfish animals.

Two days afterwards Miss Greeb opened the door to a tall and beautiful lady, who asked for Mr. Denzil, and was shown into his sitting-room. With keen instinct, Miss Greeb decided that this was the woman who had taken possession of Lucian's heart, and being a just little creature, in spite of her jealousy, was obliged to admit that the visitor was as handsome as a picture. Then, seeing that there was no chance for her beside this splendid lady, she consoled herself with a dismal little proverb, and looked forward to the time when it would be necessary to put a ticket in the parlour window. Meanwhile, to have some one on whose bosom she could weep, Miss Greeb went round to see Mrs. Bensusan, leaving Diana in possession of Lucian, and the cat sole occupant of the kitchen.

In the drawing-room, on the front floor, Diana, with her eyes shining like two stars, was talking to Lucian. She had come up at once on receipt of his letter; she had been to Hampstead, she had seen her father, and now she was telling Lucian about the visit.

"He knew me at once, poor dear," she said rapidly, "and asked me if I had been out, just as if I'd left the house for a visit and come back. Ah!"—she shook her head and sighed—"I am afraid he'll never be quite himself again."

"What does Jorce think?"

"He says that father can be discharged as cured, and is going to see about it for me. Of course, he will never be quite sane, but he will never be violent so long as morphia and drugs of that sort are kept from him. As soon as he is discharged I shall take him back to Bath, and put him in charge of Miss Barbar; then I shall return to town, and we must expose the whole conspiracy!"

"Conspiracy?"

"What else do you call it, Lucian? That woman and Ferruci have planned and carried it out between them. They put my father into the asylum, and made another man pass as him, in order to get the assurance money. As their tool did not die quickly enough, they killed him."

"No, Diana. Both Lydia and Ferruci have proved beyond all doubt that they were not in Pimlico at the hour of the death. I believe they contrived this conspiracy, but I don't believe they murdered Clear."

"Well, we shall see what defence they make. But one thing is certain, Lucian—Lydia will have to disgorge the assurance money."

"Yes, she certainly will, and I've no doubt the Assurance Company will prosecute her for fraud in obtaining it. I shall see Ferruci to-morrow and force him to confess his putting your father in the asylum."

"No!" said Diana, shaking her head. "Don't do that until you have more evidence against him."

"I think the evidence of Jorce is strong enough. I suppose you mean the evidence of Mrs. Clear?"

"Yes; although for her own sake I don't suppose she will speak."

Lucian nodded. "I thought of that also," he said, "and yesterday I went to St. Bertha Street, Bayswater, to see her. But I found that she had moved, and no one knew where she was. I expect, having received her price for the conspiracy, she has left London. However, I put an advertisement in the papers, saying if she called on me here she would hear of something to her advantage. It is in the papers this morning."

"I doubt if she will call," said Diana seriously. "What about the promised revelation of Rhoda?"

"I believe that girl is deceiving me," cried Lucian angrily. "I went round to Jersey Street, as she asked me, and only saw Mrs. Bensusan, who said that Rhoda was out and would not be back for some time. Then I had to wait for you here and tell you all about your father, so the thing slipped my memory. I have not been near the place since, but I'll go round there to-night. Whatever is Miss Greeb thinking of?" cried Lucian, breaking off quickly. "That front door bell has been ringing for at least five minutes!"

To Diana's amusement, Lucian went and shouted down the stairs to Miss Greeb, but as no reply came, and the bell was still ringing furiously, he was obliged to open the door himself. On the step there stood a little woman in a tailor-made brown frock, a plainly trimmed brown straw hat with a black gauze velvet-spotted veil. At once Denzil guessed who she was.

"You are Mrs. Clear?" he said, delighted that she had replied so quickly to his advertisement, for it had only that morning appeared in the newspapers.

"Yes, I am," answered the woman, in a quick, sharp voice. "Are you the L. D. who advertised for me?"

"Yes. Come upstairs. I have much to say to you."

"Diana," said Lucian, on entering the room with his prize, "let me introduce you to Mrs. Clear."

"Mrs. Clear! Are you the wife of the man who was murdered in the house opposite?"

Mrs. Clear uttered a cry of astonishment, and turned as if to retreat. But Denzil was between her and the door, so she saw that there was nothing for it but to outface the situation. As though she found it difficult to breathe, she threw up her veil, and Diana beheld a thin white face with two brilliant black eyes.

"This is a trap," said Mrs. Clear, hoarsely, looking from the one to the other. "Who are you?"

"I," said Lucian, politely, "I am the man who met your husband before——"

"My husband! I have my husband in an asylum. You can't have met him!"

"You are telling a falsehood," said Diana fiercely. "The gentleman in the asylum of Dr. Jorce is not your husband, but my father!"

"Your father? And who are you?"

"I am Diana Vrain."

Mrs. Clear gave a screech, and dropped back on to the sofa, staring at Diana with wide-open and terrified eyes.

"And now, Mrs. Clear, I see you realise the situation," Lucian said coldly. "You must confess your share in this conspiracy."

"What conspiracy?" she interrupted furiously.

"The putting of Mr. Vrain into an asylum, and the passing off of your husband, Michael Clear, as him."

"I don't know anything about it."

"Come, now, you talk nonsense! If you refuse to speak I'll have you arrested at once."

"Arrest me!" She bounded off the sofa with flashing eyes.

"Yes, on a charge of conspiracy. It is no use your getting angry, Mrs. Clear, for it won't improve your position. We—that is, this lady and myself—wish to know, firstly, how your husband came to be masquerading as Mr. Vrain; secondly, where we can find the man called Wrent, who employed your husband; and thirdly, Mrs. Clear, we wish to know, and the law wishes to know, who killed your husband."

"I don't know who killed him," said the woman, looking rather afraid, "but I believe Wrent did."

"Who is Wrent?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know many things," said Diana, taking part in the conversation, "but you must tell us what you do know, otherwise I shall call in a policeman and have you arrested."

"You can't prove anything against me."

"I think I can," said Lucian in the most cheerful manner. "I can prove that you were in No. 13 of this Square, seeing your husband, for I found on the fence dividing the back yard of that house from one in Jersey Street a scrap of a veil such as you wear. Also the landlady and servant can prove that you called on Mr. Wrent several times, and were with him on the night of the murder. Then there is the evidence of your cloak, which you left behind, and which Wrent gave to the servant Rhoda. Also the evidence of Signor Ferruci——"

"Ferruci! What has he said about me?"

Lucian saw that revenge might make the woman speak, so he lied in the calmest manner to get at the truth. "Ferruci says that he contrived the whole conspiracy."

"So he did," said Mrs. Clear, with a nod.

"And took you to 'The Haven,' at Hampstead, on Christmas Eve."

"That's true. He took me from Wrent's house in Jersey Street. You need not go on, Mr. L. D. I admit the whole business."

"You do?" cried Lucian and Diana together.

"Yes, if only to spite that old villain Wrent, who has not paid me the money he promised."

Before Lucian and Miss Vrain could express their pleasure at Mrs. Clear coming to this sensible conclusion, the door opened suddenly, and little Miss Greeb, in a wonderful state of agitation, tripped in.

"Oh, Mr. Denzil! I've just been to Mrs. Bensusan's, and Rhoda's run away!"

"Run away!"

"Yes! She hasn't been back all day, and left a note for Mrs. Bensusan saying she was going to hide, because she was afraid."



CHAPTER XXVII

A CONFESSION

Now, indeed, Lucian had his hands full. Rhoda, the red-headed servant of Mrs. Bensusan, had run away on the plea that she was afraid of something—what she did not explain in the note she left behind her, and it was necessary that she should be discovered, and forced into confessing what she knew of the conspiracy and murder. Mrs. Clear, not having been paid her hush money, had betrayed the confidence and misdeeds of Ferruci, thereby revealing an extent of villainy for which neither Diana nor Lucian was prepared. Now the Count had to be seen and brought to book for his doings, Lydia informed that her husband was in the asylum, and Vrain himself had to be released in due form from his legal imprisonment. How Lucian, even with the assistance of Diana, could deal with all these matters, he did not know.

"Why not see Mr. Link?" suggested Diana, when Mrs. Clear had departed, after making a clean breast of the nefarious transactions in which she had been involved. "He may take the case in hand again."

"No doubt," responded Denzil drily, "but I am not very keen to hand it over to him, seeing that he has abandoned it twice. Again, if I call in the police, it is all over with Lydia and the Count. They will be arrested and punished."

"For the murder of Clear?"

"Perhaps, if it can be proved that they have anything to do with it; certainly for the conspiracy to get the assurance money by the feigned death of your father."

"Well," said Diana coldly, "and why should they not receive the reward of their deeds?"

"Quite so; but the question is, do you wish any scandal?"

Diana was silent. She had not looked at the matter from this point of view. It was true what Lucian said. If the police took up the case again, Lydia and her accomplice would be arrested, and the whole sordid story of their doings would be in the papers.

Diana was a proud woman, and winced at the idea of such publicity. It would be as well to avoid proceeding to such extremities. If the assurance money was returned by Lydia, she would be reduced to her former estate, and by timely flight might escape the vengeance of the defrauded company. After all, she was the wife of Vrain, and little as Diana liked her, she did not wish to see the woman who was so closely related to the wronged man put in prison; not for her own sake, but for the sake of the name she so unworthily bore.

"I leave it in your hands," said Diana to Lucian, who was watching her closely.

"Very good," replied Denzil. "Then I think it will be best for me to see Ferruci first, and hear his confession; afterwards call on Mrs. Vrain, and learn what she has to say. Then——"

"Well," said Diana, curiously, "what then?"

"I will be guided by circumstances. In the meantime, for the sake of your name, we had better keep the matter as quiet as possible."

"Mrs. Clear may speak out."

"Mrs. Clear won't speak," said Denzil grimly. "She will keep quiet for her own sake; and as Rhoda has left Jersey Street, there will be no danger of trouble from that quarter. First, I'll see Lydia and the Count, to get to the bottom of this conspiracy; then I'll set the police on Rhoda's track, that she may be arrested and made to confess her knowledge of the murder."

"Do you think she knows anything?"

"I think she knows everything," replied Lucian with emphasis. "That is why she has run away. If we capture her, and force her to speak, we may be able to arrest Wrent."

"Why Wrent?" asked Diana.

"Have you forgotten what Mrs. Clear said? I agree with her that he is the assassin, although we can't prove it as yet."

"But who is Wrent?"

"Ah!" said Lucian, significantly, "that is just what I wish to find out."

The upshot of this interview was that early the next morning Denzil went to the chambers of Ferruci, in Marquis Street, and informed the servant that he wanted particularly to see the Count.

At first the Italian, being still in bed—for he was a late riser—did not incline to grant his visitor an interview; but on second thoughts he ordered Lucian to be shown into the sitting-room, and shortly afterwards joined him there wrapped in a dressing-gown. He welcomed the barrister with a smiling nod, and having some instinct that Lucian came on an unpleasant errand, he did not offer him his hand. From the first the two men were on their guard against one another.

"Good-morning, sir," said Ferruci in his best English. "May I ask why you take me from my bed so early?"

"To tell you a story."

"About my friend Dr. Jorce saying I was with him on that night?" sneered the Count.

"Partly, and partly about a lady you know."

Ferruci frowned. "You speak of Mrs. Vrain?"

"No," replied Lucian coolly. "I speak of Mrs. Clear."

At the mention of this name, which was the last one he expected to hear his visitor pronounce, the Italian, in spite of his coolness and cunning, could not forbear a start.

"Mrs. Clear?" he repeated. "And what do you know of Mrs. Clear?"

"As much as Dr. Jorce could tell me, Count."

Ferruci's brow cleared. "Then you know I pay for keeping her miserable husband with my friend," he said composedly. "It is for her sake I am so kind."

"Rather it is for your own you are so cunning."

"Cunning! A most strange word for my goodness," said the Count coolly.

"The most fit word, you mean," replied Lucian, impatient of this fencing. "It is no use beating about the bush, Count. I know that the man you keep in the asylum is not Clear, but Mark Vrain."

"La! la! la! You talk great humbug. Mr. Vrain is dead and buried!"

"He is not dead," answered Lucian resolutely, "and the man who was buried under his name is Michael Clear, the husband of the woman who told me all."

Ferruci, who had been pacing impatiently up and down the room, stopped short, with a nervous laugh.

"This is most amusing," he said, with an emotion he could not conceal despite his self-control. "Mrs. Clear told you all, eh? She told you what, my friend?"

"That is the story I have come to tell you," replied Lucian sharply.

"Very good," said Ferruci, with a shrug. "I wait to hear this pretty story," and with a frown he threw himself into a chair near Lucian. Apparently he saw that he was found out, for it took him all his time to keep his voice from trembling and his hands from shaking. The man was not a coward, but being thus brought face to face with a peril he little expected, it was scarcely to be wondered at that he felt shaken and nervous. Moreover, he knew little about the English law, and hardly guessed how his misdeeds would be punished. Still, he did not surrender on the spot, but listened quietly to Lucian's story, in the hope of seeing some way of escape from his awkward position.

"The other day I went to Dr. Jorce's asylum," said Lucian slowly, "and there I discovered—it matters not how—that your friend Clear was Mr. Vrain; also I learned that he had been placed in the asylum by you and Mrs. Clear. Jorce gave me her address in Bayswater, but when I went there I could not find her; she had left. I then put an advertisement in all the papers, stating that if she called on me she would hear of something to her advantage. Now, Count, it appears that Mrs. Clear was in the habit of looking into the papers to see if there was any message from yourself, or your friend Wrent, so she saw my advertisement at once, and came in person to reply to it."

"One moment, Mr. Denzil," said Ferruci politely. "I know no one called Wrent, and he is not my friend."

"We'll come to that hereafter," answered Lucian, with a shrug. "In the meantime I'll proceed with my story, which I see interests you very much. Well, Count, it seems that Michael Clear was an actor, who bore a strong resemblance to Mr. Vrain, save that he had not a scar on his face. Vrain, at Bath, was always clean shaven; now he wears a long white beard, but that is neither here nor there. Clear had a moustache, but when that was shaved off he looked exactly like Vrain. For purposes of your own, which you can easily guess, you made the acquaintance of this man, a profligate and a drunkard, and proposed, for a certain sum of money to be paid to his wife, that he, Michael Clear, should personate Vrain and live in the Silent House in Geneva Square, under the name of Berwin. You knew that Clear was slowly dying of consumption and drink, so you trusted that he would die as Vrain; that Mrs. Vrain—who I believe is in the plot—would recognise the corpse by the description in the newspapers; and that, when Clear was buried as Vrain, she would get the assurance money and marry you."

"That is clever," said the Count, with a sneer.

"But is it true?"

"You know best," answered Lucian, coolly. "However, all turned out as you expected, for Clear died as Vrain—or rather was murdered at your command, as he did not die quickly enough—his body was recognised by Mrs. Vrain, buried as her husband, and she got the assurance money. The only thing that remains for your conspiracy to be entirely successful is that Mrs. Vrain should marry you; and—as I was told by Mr. Clyne—that has pretty well been arranged."

"Do you think, then, that Clyne would let his daughter marry a man who has done all this?" said Ferruci, who was now very pale.

"I don't believe Clyne knows anything about it," replied Lucian coldly. "You and Mrs. Vrain made up this pretty plot between you. Vrain himself told me how you decoyed him from Salisbury, and took him to Mrs. Clear's, in Bayswater, where he passed as her husband, although, as she confesses, she kept him as a kind of prisoner."

"But this is wrong," cried Ferruci, trying to laugh. "This is most foolish. How would a man, of his own will, pass as the husband of a woman he knew not?"

"A sane man would not; but none knew better than you, Count, that Vrain was not sane, and that you dosed him with drugs, and let Mrs. Clear keep him locked up in her house until you put him in the asylum. Vrain was a puppet in your hands, and you locked him up in an asylum a fortnight after the man who personated him was murdered. You intended to marry Mrs. Vrain and keep her wretched husband in that asylum all his life."

"The best place for a lunatic," said Ferruci.

"Ah!" cried Lucian. "Then you admit that that Vrain was mad?"

"I admit nothing, not even that he is alive. If what you say is true," said the Italian, cunningly, "how came it that the murdered man had the scar on his cheek? He might have been like Vrain, eh, but not so much."

"Mrs. Clear explained that," replied Lucian quickly. "You made that scar, Count, with vitriol, or some such stuff. You don't know chemistry for nothing, I see."

"I am quite ignorant of chemistry," said Ferruci sullenly.

"Jorce heard a different story in Florence."

"In Florence! Did Jorce ask about me there?" said the Count in alarm.

"He did, and heard some strange tales, Count. Come, now, it is no use your trying to evade this matter further. Jorce can prove that you put Vrain into his asylum under the name of Clear. Miss Vrain can prove that the so-called Clear is her father, and Mrs. Clear—who has turned Queen's evidence—has exposed the whole of your conspiracy. The game's up, Count."

Ferruci sprang from his seat and began to walk hastily up and down the room. He looked haggard and pale, and years older, as he recognised his position, for he saw very plainly that he was trapped, and that nothing remained to him but flight. But how to fly? He stopped opposite to Lucian.

"What do you intend to do?" he demanded in a hoarse voice.

"Have you arrested, along with Mrs. Vrain," replied Lucian, making this threat to force Ferruci into defending himself or confessing.

"Mrs. Vrain is innocent—she knows nothing about this conspiracy, as you call it. I planned the whole thing myself."

"You admit, then, that the so-called Vrain was really Michael Clear?"

"Yes. I got him to personate the man Vrain, so that I could get the assurance money when I married Lydia. I chose Clear because he was like Vrain. I made the scar on the cheek, and I thought he would die soon, being consumptive."

"And you killed him?"

"No! No! I swear I did not kill him!"

"Did you not take that stiletto from Berwin Manor?"

"No! I never did! I am telling the truth! I do not know who killed Clear."

"Did you not visit Wrent in Jersey Street?"

"Yes. I was the man Rhoda saw in the back yard. I was waiting for Mrs. Clear, to take her to Hampstead; and in the meantime I thought I would climb over the fence and see Clear. But the girl saw me, so I ran away, and joined Mrs. Clear up the road. I was not aware at the time that the woman who saw me was Rhoda. Afterwards I went to Hampstead with Mrs. Clear, to see Jorce."

"Did you buy the cloak?"

"I did. That girl in Baxter & Co.'s told a lie for me. I was warned by Mrs. Vrain that you had made questions about the cloak, so I went to the girl and told her you were a jealous husband, and paid her to say it was not I who bought the cloak. She did so, quite ignorant of the real reason I wished her to deny knowing me."

"Why did you buy the cloak?" asked Lucian, satisfied with this explanation.

"I bought it for Wrent. He asked me to buy it, but what he wanted it for I do not know. He had it some days before Christmas, and, I believe, gave it to Mrs. Clear, and afterwards to the girl Rhoda. But of this I am not sure."

"Who is Wrent?" asked Denzil, reserving the most important question for the last.

"Wrent?" said Ferruci, smiling in a sneering way. "Ah! you wish to know who Wrent is? Well, excuse me for a few minutes, and I'll bring you something to show who he is."

With a nod to Lucian he passed into his bedroom, leaving the barrister much astonished. He thought that Ferruci was Wrent himself, and had gone away to resume the disguise of wig and beard. While he pondered thus the Count reappeared, carrying a small bottle in his hand.

"Mr. Denzil," said he, with a ghastly smile, "I have played a bold game, and, thanks to a woman's treachery, I have lost. I hoped to get twenty thousand pounds and a charming wife; but I have gained nothing but poverty and a chance of imprisonment; but I am of noble birth, and I will not survive my dishonour. You wish to know who Wrent is—you shall never know."

He raised the bottle to his lips before Lucian, motionless with horror, could rush forward, and the next moment Count Ercole Ferruci was lying dead on the floor.



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE NAME OF THE ASSASSIN

That afternoon London was ringing with the news of Ferruci's suicide; but no paper could give any reason for the rash act. This inability was due to the police, who, anxious to capture those concerned in the conspiracy to obtain the assurance money of the Sirius Company, kept everything they could out of the papers, lest Lydia and Wrent should be put on their guard, and so escape.

Lucian had been forced to report the death of Ferruci to the authorities. Now the case was out of his hands again, and in those of Link, who blamed the young barrister severely for not having brought him into the matter before. The detective was always more prone to blame than to praise.

"But what could I do?" cried Lucian angrily. "You threw up the case twice! You said the assassin of Clear—or, as you thought, Vrain—would never be discovered!"

"I did my best, and failed," retorted Link, who did not like his position. "You have had better luck and have succeeded."

"My luck has been sheer hard work, Link. I was not so faint-hearted as you, to draw back at the first check."

"Well, well, the whole truth hasn't been discovered yet, Mr. Denzil. As you have found out this conspiracy, I may learn who the assassin is."

"We know that already. The assassin is Wrent."

"You have yet to prove that."

"I?" said Lucian, with disdain. "I prove nothing. I wash my hands of the whole affair. You are a detective; let me see what you will make of a case which has baffled you twice!" and Denzil, with rage in his heart, went off, laughing at the discomfiture of Link.

At that moment the detective hated his successful rival with his whole heart.

Lucian took a hansom to the Royal John Hotel in Kensington, where Diana, in a great state of alarm, was reading the evening papers, which contained short notices of Ferruci's death. On seeing her lover, she hurried forward anxiously and caught him by the hand.

"Lucian, I am so glad you have come!" she cried, leading him to a chair. "I sent messages both to Geneva Square and Sergeant's Inn, but you were neither at your lodgings nor in your office."

"I was better employed, my dear," said Lucian, with a weary sigh, for he was quite worn out with fatigue and anxiety. "I have been with Link, telling him about Ferruci's death, and being blamed as the cause of it."

"You blamed! And why?" said Diana, with just indignation.

"Because I forced Ferruci to confess the truth, and when he saw that there was every chance of his being put into jail for his villainy, he went to his bedroom and took poison. You know, Mrs. Clear said the man was something of a chemist, so I suppose he prepared the poison himself. It was very swift in its action, for he dropped dead before I could recover my presence of mind."

"Lucian! this is terrible!" cried Diana, wringing her hands.

"You may well say that," he replied gloomily. "Now the whole details of the case will be in the papers, and that unfortunate woman will be arrested."

"Lydia! And what will her father say? It will break his heart!"

"Perhaps; but he must take the consequences of having brought up his daughter so badly. Still," added Lucian, reflectively, "I do not believe that Lydia is so guilty as Wrent. That scoundrel seems to be at the bottom of the affair. Ferruci and he contrived and carried out the whole thing between them, and a precious pair of villains they are."

"Will Wrent be arrested?"

"If he can be found; but I fancy the scoundrel has made himself scarce out of fright. Since he left Jersey Street, after the murder, he has not been heard of. Even Mrs. Clear does not know where he is. You know she has put advertisements in the papers in the cypher he gave her—according to the arrangement between them—but Wrent has not turned up."

"And Rhoda?"

"Rhoda is still missing. The police are getting warrants out for the servant, for Wrent, for Mrs. Clear, and for Lydia Vrain. Ferruci, luckily for himself and his family, has escaped the law by his own act. It was the wisest thing the scoundrel could do to kill himself and avoid dishonour. I must admit the man had pluck."

"It is terrible! terrible! What will be the end of it?"

"Imprisonment for the lot, I expect, unless they can prove that Wrent murdered Clear; then they will hang him. But now that Ferruci is dead, I fancy Rhoda is the only witness who can prove Wrent's guilt. That is why she ran away. I don't wonder she was afraid to stay. But I feel quite worn out with all this, Diana. Please give me a biscuit and a glass of port; I have had nothing all day."

With a sigh, Diana touched the bell, and when the waiter made his appearance gave the order. She felt low-spirited and nervous, in spite of the discovery that her father was alive and well; and indeed the extraordinary events of the last few days were sufficient to upset the strongest mind.

Lucian was leaning back in his chair with closed eyes, for his head was aching with the excitement of the morning. Suddenly he opened them and jumped up. At the same time Diana threw open the door with an exclamation, and both of them heard the thin, high voice of a woman, who apparently was coming up the stairs.

"Never mind my name," said the voice, "I'll tell it to Miss Vrain myself. Take me to her at once."

"Lydia!" called Lucian, "and here? Great heavens! Why does she come here?"

Diana said nothing, but compressed her lips as Lydia, followed by the waiter with the biscuits and wine, came into the room. She was plainly and neatly dressed, and wore a heavy veil, but seemed greatly excited. She did not say a word, nor did Diana, until the waiter left the room and closed the door. Then she threw up her veil, revealing a haggard face and red eyes, swollen with weeping, and filled with an expression of terror.

"Sakes alive! isn't this awful?" she wailed, making a clutch at Miss Vrain's arm. "You've done it, this time, Diana. Ferruci's dead, and your father alive, and I'm not a widow, and my father away I don't know where! I was told that the police were after me, so I'm clearing out."

"Clearing out, Mrs. Vrain?" repeated Diana, stiffly.

"I should think so!" sobbed Lydia. "I don't want to stay and be put in gaol, though what I've done to be put in gaol for, I don't know."

"What?" cried Lucian indignantly. "You don't know—when this abominable conspiracy is——"

"I know nothing of the conspiracy," interrupted Lydia.

"Did you not get Ferruci to put your husband into an asylum?"

"I? I did nothing of the sort. I thought my husband was dead and buried until Ferruci told me the truth, and then I held my tongue until I could think of what to do. After Ercole died, his servant came round and told me all—he overheard the conversation you had with the Count, Mr. Denzil. I was never so astonished in my life as to hear about Mrs. Clear and her husband—and Mark alive—and—and—oh, Lord! isn't it dreadful? Give me a glass of wine, Diana, or I'll go right off in a dead faint!"

In silence Miss Vrain poured out a glass of port and handed it to her stepmother, who sipped it in a most tearful mood. Lucian looked at the wretched little woman without saying a word, and wondered if, indeed, she was as innocent as she made herself out to be. He thought that, after all, she might be ignorant of Ferruci's plots, although she had certainly benefited by them; but she was such a glib liar that he did not know how much to believe of her story. However, she had hitherto only given a general idea of her connection with the matter, so when she had finished her wine, and was somewhat calmer, Lucian begged her to be more explicit.

"Did you know—did you guess, or even suspect—that your husband was alive?"

"Mr. Denzil," said Lydia, with unusual solemnity, "as I'm a married woman, and not the widow I thought I was, I did not know that Mark was alive! I'm bad, I daresay, but I am not bad enough to shut a man up in a lunatic asylum and pretend he is dead, just to get money, much as I like it. What I did about identifying the corpse was done in good faith."

"You really thought it was my father's body?" questioned Diana doubtfully.

"I swear I did," responded Mrs. Vrain, emphatically. "Mark walked out of the house because he thought I was carrying on with Ferruci, which I wasn't. It was that Tyler cat who made the trouble between us, and Mark was so weak and silly—half crazy, I think, with his morphia and over-study—that he cleared right out, and I never knew where he had gone to. When I saw that notice about the murdered man in Geneva Square, who called himself Berwin, and was marked on the cheek, I thought he might be my husband. When the coffin was opened, I really believed I saw poor Mark's dead body. The face was just like his, and scarred in the same way."

"What about the missing finger, Mrs. Vrain? If I remember, you even gave a cause for its loss."

"Well, it was this way," replied Lydia, somewhat discomposed. "I knew that Mark hadn't lost a finger when he left, but Ferruci said that if I denied it the police might refuse to believe that the body was that of my husband. So, as I was sure it was Mark's corpse, I just said he had lost a finger out West. I didn't think there was any harm in saying so, as for all I knew he might have got it chopped off after leaving me. But the face of the dead man was—as I thought—Mark's, and he called himself Berwin, which, you know, Diana, is the name of the Manor, and the scar was on the cheek. I know now it was all contrived by Ercole; but then I was quite ignorant."

"When did you find out the truth?"

"After that cloak business. Ferruci came to me, and I told him what that girl at Baxter's had said, and insisted that he should tell me the truth. Well, he did, in order to force me to marry him, and then I told him to go and make it right with the girl, so that when Mr. Denzil went again she'd deny that Ercole had bought the cloak."

"She denied it, sure enough," said Lucian grimly. "Ferruci, before he died, told me he had bribed her to speak falsely. What more did the Count reveal to you, Mrs. Vrain?—the conspiracy?"

"Yes. He said he'd found Mark hiding at Salisbury, half mad with morphia, and had taken him up to Mrs. Clear's, where it seems he went mad altogether, so they locked him up as her husband in a lunatic asylum. Ferruci also told me that he had seen Michael Clear on the stage, and that as he was so like Mark, and was likely to die of drink and consumption, he got him to play the part of Mark in Geneva Square, under the name of Berwin. Mrs. Clear visited her husband there by climbing over a back fence, and getting down a cellar, somehow."

"I know that," said Lucian. "It was Mrs. Clear's shadow I saw on the blind. She was fighting with her husband, and when I rang the bell they were both so alarmed that they left the house by the back way and got into Jersey Street. Then Mrs. Clear went home, and the man himself came round into the Square by the front way. That was how I met him. I wondered how people were in the house during his absence. Mrs. Clear told me all."

"Did she say why her husband made you examine the house?" asked Diana.

"No. But I expect he made me do so that I should not have my suspicions about that back entrance. But, Mrs. Vrain, when Ferruci confessed that your husband was alive, why did you not tell it to the world?"

"Well, I'd got the assurance money, you see," said Lydia, with shrewd candour, "and I thought the company would make a fuss and take it back—as I suppose they will now. Ferruci wanted me to marry him, but I wasn't so bad as that. I did not want to commit bigamy. But I really held my tongue because Ferruci told me who killed Clear."

"He knew, then?" cried Lucian, "and denied it to me! Who killed the man?"

"Wrent did—the man who lived in Jersey Street."

"And who is at the bottom of the whole plot!" said Lucian furiously. "Do you know where he is to be found?"

"Yes," said Lydia boldly, "I do; but I'm not going to tell where he is!"

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want him punished."

"But I do," said Diana angrily. "He is a wretch who ought to suffer!"

"Very well," said Lydia, loudly and spitefully, "then make him suffer, for this Wrent is your own father! It was Mark who killed Michael Clear!"



CHAPTER XXIX

LINK SETS A TRAP

In the course of their acquaintance, Diana had put up with a great deal from the little American adventuress, owing to her position of stepmother, but when she heard her accusing the man she had ruined of murder, the patience of Miss Vrain gave way. She rose quickly, and walking over to where Lydia was shrinking in her chair, towered in righteous indignation above the shameless little woman.

"You lie, Mrs. Vrain!" she said in a low, distinct voice, with a flushed face and indignation in her eyes. "You know you lie!"

"I—I only repeat what Ferruci told me," whimpered Lydia, rather alarmed by the attitude of her stepdaughter. "I'm sure I hope Mark didn't kill the man, but Ercole said that he was in Jersey Street for that purpose."

"It is not true! My father was in the asylum at Hampstead!"

"Indeed he wasn't—not at the time Clear was killed!" protested Lydia. "He was not put into the asylum until at least two weeks after Christmas. Is that not so, Mr. Denzil?"

"It is so," assented Lucian gravely, "but even admitting so much, it is impossible to believe that Mr. Vrain was in Jersey Street. For many months before Christmas he was in charge of Mrs. Clear, at Bayswater."

"So Ercole said," replied Lydia, "but he used to get away from Mrs. Clear at times, and had to be brought back."

"He wandered when he got the chance," said Lucian, with hesitation. "I admit as much."

"Well, then, when he was not at Bayswater he used to live in Jersey Street as Wrent. Ferruci found him out there, and tried to get him to go back, and he took Mrs. Clear several times to the same place in order to persuade him to return to Bayswater. That was why Mrs. Clear visited Jersey Street. Oh, Mark played his part there as Mr. Wrent, I guess; there ain't no two questions about that," finished Lydia triumphantly. "He is the assassin, you bet!"

"I don't believe it!" cried Diana furiously. "Why, my father is too weak in the head to have the will, let alone the courage, to masquerade like that. He is like a child in leading-strings."

"That's his cunning, Diana. He's 'cute enough to pretend madness, so that he won't be hanged!"

"It is impossible that Vrain can be Wrent," said Lucian decidedly. "I agree with Miss Vrain; he is too weak and irresponsible to carry out such a deed. Besides, I don't see how you prove him guilty of the murder; you do not even know that he could enter the Silent House by the secret way."

"I don't know anything about it, except what Count Ferruci told me," said Lydia obstinately. "And he said that Vrain, as Wrent, killed Clear. But you can easily prove if it's true or not."

"How can we prove it?" asked Diana coldly.

"By laying a trap for Mark. You know—at least Ercole told me, and I suppose Mrs. Clear told you—that she corresponded with Mark—Wrent, I mean—in the agony column of the Daily Telegraph.

"By means of a cypher? Yes, I know that, but she hasn't received any answer yet."

"Of course not," replied Lydia, with triumph, "because Wrent—that's Mark, you know—is in the asylum, and can't answer her."

"This is all nonsense!" broke in Lucian, impatient of this cobweb spinning. "I don't believe a word of Ferruci's story. If Vrain lived in Jersey Street as Wrent, why should Mrs. Clear visit him?"

"To get him back to Bayswater."

"Nonsense! nonsense! And even admitting as much, why should Mrs. Clear, in the newspapers, correspond in cypher with a man whom she not only knows is in an asylum as her husband, but who can be seen by her at any time?"

"I quite agree with you, Lucian," cried Diana emphatically. "Count Ferruci told a pack of falsehoods to Mrs. Vrain! The thing is utterly absurd!"

"Oh, I guess I'm not so easily made a fool of as all that!" cried Lydia, firing up. "If you don't believe me, lay the trap I told you of. Let Mark go free out of the asylum; get Mrs. Clear, with her cypher and newspapers, to ask him to meet her in the house where Clear was murdered, and then you'll see if Mark won't turn up in his character of Wrent."

"He will not!" cried Diana vehemently. "He will not!"

"Mark, when he left me," went on the angry Lydia, "had plenty of hair, and was clean shaven. Now—as Ferruci told me, for I haven't seen him—he is bald, and wears a skull-cap of black velvet, and a white beard. After Ercole told me about Jersey Street I went there to ask that fat woman about Mark; she said he had gone away two days after Christmas, and described him as an old man with a skull-cap and a white beard."

"Oh!" cried Lucian, for he recollected that Rhoda gave the same description.

"Ah! you know I speak the truth!" said Lydia, rising, "but I've had enough of all this. I've lost my money, and I don't suppose I'll go back to Mark. I've been treated badly all round, and I don't know what poppa will say. But I'm going out of London to meet him."

"You said you did not know where your father was!" cried Diana scornfully.

"I don't tell you everything, Diana," retorted Lydia, looking very wicked, "but, if you must know, poppa went over to Paris last week, and I'm going over there to meet him. He'll raise Cain for the way I've been treated."

"Well," said Lucian, as she prepared to take her leave, "I hope you'll get away."

"Do you intend to stop me, Mr. Denzil?" flashed out Mrs. Vrain, furiously.

"Not I; but I'll give you a hint—the railway stations will be watched by the police."

"For me?" said Lydia, with a scared expression. "Oh, sakes! it's awful! and I've done nothing. It's not my fault if I got the assurance money. I really thought that Mark was dead. But I'll try and get away to poppa; he'll put things right. Good-bye, Mr. Denzil, and Diana; you've done me a heap of harm, but I don't bear malice," and Mrs. Vrain rushed out of the room in a great hurry to escape the chance of arrest hinted at by Lucian. She had a sharp eye to her own safety.

Diana waited until the cab which Lydia had kept waiting was driving away, and then turned with an anxious expression on her face to look at Lucian. "My dear," she said, taking his arm, "what do you think of Lydia's accusation?"

"Against your father?" said Lucian. "Why, I don't believe it!"

"Nor do I; but it will be as well to set the trap she suggests; for if my father does not fall into it—and as he is not Wrent, I don't believe he will—the real man may keep the appointment with Mrs. Clear."

"Whosoever Wrent is, I don't think he'll come again to the Silent House," replied the barrister, shaking his head. "It would be thrusting his head into the lion's jaws. If he is in London he'll see the death of Ferruci described in the papers, and no doubt will guess that the game is up; so he'll keep away."

"Nevertheless, we'll do as Lydia suggests," said Diana obstinately. "You see Mr. Link and Mrs. Clear, and arrange about the cypher. Then my father is to be discharged as cured to-morrow, and I'll let him go out if he pleases. Of course, I'll follow him; then I'll be able to see if he goes to Pimlico."

"But, Diana, suppose he does go to the Silent House, and proves to be Wrent?"

"He won't do that, my dear. My father is no more Wrent than you are. I believe Lydia speaks in the full belief that he is; but Ferruci, for his own ends, lied to her. However, to trap the real man, let us do as Lydia suggests. The idea is a good one."

"Well, we'll try," said Lucian, with a sigh. "But I do hope, Diana, that this case will end soon. Every week there is some fresh development in a new direction, and I am getting quite bewildered over it."

"It will end with the capture of Wrent, the assassin."

"I hope so; and God grant Wrent does not prove to be your father!"

"There is no fear of that," said Diana gravely. "My father is insane more or less, but he is not a murderer. I am quite content to risk the trap suggested by that woman."

Lucian did not at once adopt the plan to net Wrent—whosoever he might be—invented by Lydia, and approved of by Diana. On the whole, he could not bring himself to believe that a weak-headed, foolish old creature like Vrain had masqueraded in Jersey Street as Wrent. Still there were certain suspicious incidents which fitted in very neatly with Ferruci's story. Mrs. Clear had stated that Vrain, when under her charge, escaped several times, and had remained away for several days, until brought back again by the Count. Again, the appearance of Wrent, as described by Rhoda, was precisely the same as the looks of Vrain when Lucian saw him in the Hampstead asylum; so it seemed that there might be some truth in the story.

"But it's impossible!" said Lucian to himself. "Vrain is half mad and incapable of conducting his own life, or arranging so cleverly to commit a crime. Also he had no money, and, had he lived in Jersey Street, would not have been able to pay Mrs. Bensusan. There is something more in the coincidence of this similarity of looks than meets the eye. I'll see Link and hear what he has to say on the subject. It's time he found out something."

The next day Lucian paid a visit to Link, but was not received very amiably by that gentleman, who proved to be in a somewhat bad temper. He was not altogether pleased with Lucian finding out more about the case than he had discovered himself, and also—to further ruffle his temper—the clever Lydia had given him the slip. He had called at her Mayfair house with a warrant for her arrest, only to find out that—having received timely warning from Ferruci's servant—she had fled. In vain the railway stations had been watched. Lydia, taking the hint given to her by Lucian, had baffled that peril by taking the Dover train at a station outside London.

Lucian heard what Link had to say on the subject, but did not reveal the fact that Lydia had paid a visit to Diana, or had gone to meet her father at Dover. He did not want to give the little woman up to justice, as he was beginning to believe her innocent; and that, in all truth, she had known nothing of the Ferruci-Wrent conspiracy.

Therefore, giving no information to Link as to the little woman's whereabouts, Denzil told—as coming from himself—his idea that Wrent might fall into a trap set for him in the Pimlico House by means of Mrs. Clear's cypher. Link listened to the tale attentively, and decided to adopt the idea.

"It is a good one," he admitted generously, "and I'm not jealous enough to cut off my nose to spite my face. You have had the better of me all through this case, Mr. Denzil, and we have had words over it; but I'll show you that I can appreciate your cleverness by adopting your plan."

"I am greatly obliged to you for your good opinion," said Lucian drily, for he saw with some humour that Link was only too anxious to benefit by the very cleverness of which he pretended to be so jealous. "And you will see Mrs. Clear?"

"Yes; I'll see her at once, and get her to invite Wrent to Pimlico by that cypher, with a threat that she will betray the whole plot if he does not come."

"I daresay he knows already that Mrs. Clear is a traitress?"

"Impossible!" replied Link quickly. "I have kept Mrs. Clear's name out of the papers. It is known that Ferruci is dead, and that Mrs. Vrain is likely to be arrested in connection with her supposed husband's murder. But the fact of Mrs. Clear putting the real Vrain into the asylum is not known, nor, indeed, anything about the woman. If Wrent thinks she'll tell tales, he'll meet her in their own hunting grounds in Geneva Square, to make his terms. Hitherto he has not replied to her requests for money, but now he'll think she is driven into a corner, and will fix her up once and for all."

"Do you think that Wrent is Vrain?"

"Good Lord! no!" replied Link, staring. "What put that into your head?"

Lucian immediately told about the supposed connection between Vrain and Wrent, but, suppressing that it was Lydia's or Ferruci's idea, based his supposition on the fact of the resemblance between the two men. Link heard the theory with scorn, and scouted the idea that the two men could be one and the same.

"I've seen Vrain," said he. "The old man is as mad as a March hare and as silly as a child. He's in his dotage, and could not possibly carry out such a plan. But we can easily learn the truth."

"From whom?" asked Lucian.

"Ah, Mr. Denzil, you are not so clever as you think yourself," scoffed Link. "Why, from Mrs. Clear, to be sure. She visited at Jersey Street, and saw Wrent, and as Vrain was then with her in the character of her husband, she'll be able to tell us if they are two men or one person."

"You are right, Link. I never thought of that."

"He! he! Then I can still teach you something," replied Link, in high good humour at having for once scored off the too clever barrister, and forthwith went off to see Mrs. Clear.

How this interview with that lady sped, or what she told him, he refused to reveal to Lucian; but its result was that a cypher appeared in the agony column of the Daily Telegraph, calling upon Wrent to meet her in the Silent House in Pimlico, under the penalty of her telling the police all she knew if he did not come. In the same issue of the paper in which this message appeared there was a paragraph stating that Mrs. Vrain had been arrested at Dover.



CHAPTER XXX

WHO FELL INTO THE TRAP?

However closely one may study the fair sex, there is no understanding them in the least. No one can say how a woman will act in a given situation; for feminine actions are based less on logical foundations than on the emotion of the moment.

Diana had never liked Lydia; when the American girl became her stepmother she hated her, and not only said as much but showed in her every action that she believed what she said. She declared that she would be glad to see Lydia deprived of her money and put into jail! The punishment would be no more than she deserved.

Yet when these things came to pass; when, by the discovery that Vrain yet lived, Lydia lost her liberty; and when, as connected with the conspiracy, she was arrested on a criminal warrant and put into prison, Diana was the only friend she had. Miss Vrain declared that her stepmother was innocent, visited her in prison, and engaged a lawyer to defend her. Lucian could not forbear pointing out the discrepancy between Diana's past sentiments and her present actions; but Miss Vrain was quite ready with an excuse.

"I am only doing my duty," she said. "In herself I like Lydia as little as ever I did, but I think we have suspected her wrongly in being connected with this conspiracy, so I wish to help her if possible. And after all," added Diana, "she is my father's wife," as if that fact extenuated all.

"He has reason to know it," replied Lucian bitterly. "If it had not been for Lydia, your father would not have left his home for a lunatic asylum, nor would Clear have been murdered."

"I quite agree with you, Lucian; but some good has come out of this evil, for if things had not been as they are, you and I would never have met."

"Egad! that is true!" said Lucian, kissing her. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good."

So Diana played the part of a Good Samaritan towards her stepmother, and helped her to bear the evil of being thrust into prison. Lydia wrote to her father in Paris, but received no reply, and therefore was without a friend in the world save Diana. Later on she was admitted to bail, and Diana took her to the hotel in Kensington, there to wait for the arrival of Mr. Clyne. His absence and silence were both unaccountable.

"I hope nothing is wrong with poppa," wept Lydia. "As a rule, he is always smart in replying, and if he has seen about Ercole's death and my imprisonment in the papers, I'm sure he will be over soon."

While she was thus waiting for her father, and Link in every way was seeking evidence against her, Mrs. Clear received an answer to her message. In the same column of the Daily Telegraph, and in the same cypher, there appeared a message from Wrent that he would meet Mrs. Clear at No. 13 Geneva Square.

Link was delighted when Mrs. Clear showed him this, and rubbed his hands with much pleasure. Affairs were about to be brought to a crisis, and as Link was the moving spirit in the matter, his vanity was sufficiently gratified as to make him quite amiable.

"We've got him this time, Mr. Denzil," he said, with enthusiasm. "You and I and a couple of policemen will go down to that house in Geneva Square—by the front, sir, by the front."

"Mrs. Clear, also?" questioned Lucian, wishing to be enlightened on all points.

"No. She'll come in by the back, down the cellarway, as Wrent expects her to come. Then he'll follow in the same path and walk right into the trap."

"But won't the two be seen climbing over that fence in the daytime?" asked the barrister doubtfully.

"Who said anything about the daytime, Mr. Denzil? I did not, and Wrent knows too much to risk himself at a time that he can be seen from the windows of the adjacent houses. No! no! The meeting with Mrs. Clear is to take place in the front room at ten o'clock, when it will be quite dark. You, I, and the policemen will hide in what was the bedroom, and listen to what Wrent has to say to Mrs. Clear. We'll give him rope enough to hang himself, sir, and then pounce out and nab him."

"Well, he won't show much fight if he is Mr. Vrain."

"I don't believe he is Mr. Vrain," retorted the detective bluntly.

"I am doubtful of that, also," admitted Lucian, "but you know Vrain is now out of the asylum, and, for the time being, has been left to his own devices. The reply to the cypher did not appear until he was in that position. Supposing, after all, this mysterious Wrent proves to be this unhappy man?"

"In that case, he'll have to pay for his whistle, sir."

"You mean in connection with the conspiracy?"

"Yes, and perhaps with the murder of Clear; but we don't know if the so-called Wrent committed the crime. For such reason, Mr. Denzil, I wish to overhear what he says to Mrs. Clear. It is as well to give him enough rope to hang himself with."

"Can you trust Mrs. Clear?"

"Absolutely. She knows on which side her bread is buttered. Her only chance of getting free from her share of the matter is to turn Queen's evidence, and she intends to do so."

"What did she say about Vrain being Wrent?"

"Well, sir," said Link, putting his head on one side, and looking at Lucian with an odd expression, "you had better wait till the man's caught before I answer that question. Then, maybe, you won't require an answer."

"It is very probable I won't," replied Lucian drily. "What time am I to see you to-night?"

"I'll call for you at nine o'clock sharp, and we'll go across to the house at once. I have the key in my pocket now. Peacock gave it to me this morning. The scene will be quite dramatic."

"I hope it won't prove to be Vrain," said Lucian restlessly, for he thought how grieved Diana would be.

"I hope not," answered Link curtly, "but there's no knowing. However, if the old man does get into trouble he can plead insanity. His having been in the asylum of Jorce is a strong card for him to play. Good-day, Mr. Denzil. I'll see you to-night at nine o'clock sharp."

"Good-day," replied Lucian, and the pair parted for the time being.

Lucian did not go near Diana that day. In the first place, he did not wish to see Lydia, for whom he had no great love; and in the second, he was afraid to speak to Diana as to the possibility of her father being Wrent.

Diana, as a good daughter should, held firmly to the idea that her father could not behave in such a way; and as a sensible woman, she did not think that a man with so few of his senses about him could have acted the dual part with which he was credited without, in some measure, betraying himself.

Lucian was somewhat of this opinion himself, yet he had an uneasy feeling that Vrain might prove to be the culprit. The fact of Vrain's being often away from Mrs. Clear's house in Bayswater, and Wrent absent in the same way from Mrs. Bensusan's house in Jersey Street, appeared strange, and argued a connection between the two. Again, the resemblance between them was most extraordinary and unaccountable.

On the whole, Lucian was not satisfied in his mind as to what would be the end of the matter, and had he known Mrs. Clear's address he would have gone to question her about it. But only Link knew where the woman was to be found, and kept that information to himself—especially from Denzil. Now that he had the reins once more in his hands, he did not intend that the barrister should take them again.

Punctual to the minute, Link, in a state of subdued excitement, came to Lucian's rooms. Already he had sent his two policemen over to the house, into which he had instructed them to enter in the quietest and most unostentatious manner, and now came to escort the barrister across.

Lucian put on his hat at once, and the two walked out into the dark night, for dark it was, with no moon, few stars, and a great many clouds. A most satisfactory night for their purpose.

"All the better," said Link, casting a look round the deserted square; "all the better for our little game. I wish to secure this fellow as quietly as possible. Here's the door open—in with you, Mr. Denzil!"

According to instructions, a policeman had waited behind the closed door, and at the one sharp knock of his superior opened it at once so that the two slipped in as speedily as possible. Link had a dark-lantern, which he used carefully, so that no light could be seen from the window looking on to the square; and with his three companions he went into the back room which had formerly been used by Clear as a sleeping apartment. Here the two policemen stationed themselves in one corner; and Link, with Lucian, waited near the door leading into the sitting-room, so as to be ready for Mrs. Clear.

All was so dark and lonely and silent that Lucian's nerves became over-strained, and it was as much as he could do to prevent himself from trembling violently. In a whisper he conversed with Link.

"Have you heard anything of that girl Rhoda?" he asked.

"We have traced her to Berkshire," whispered Link. "She went back to her gypsy kinsfolk, you know. I dare say we'll manage to lay hands on her sooner or later."

"She is an accomplice of Wrent's, I believe."

"So do I, and I hope to make him confess as much to-night. Hush!"

Suddenly Link had laid his clasp on Lucian's wrist to command silence, and the next moment they heard the swish-swish of a woman's dress coming along the passage. She entered the sitting-room cautiously, moving slowly in the darkness, and stole up to the door behind which Lucian and the detective were hiding. The position of this she knew well, because it was opposite the window.

"Are you there?" whispered Mrs. Clear nervously.

"Yes," replied Link in the same tone. "Myself, Mr. Denzil, and two policemen. Keep the man in talk, and find out, if possible, if he committed the murder."

"I hope he won't kill me," muttered Mrs. Clear. "He will, if he knows I've betrayed him."

"That will be all right," said Link in a low, impatient voice. "We will rush out should he prove dangerous. Get over by the window, so that we can see a little of you and Wrent when you talk."

"No! no! Don't leave the door open! He'll see you!"

"He won't, Mrs. Clear. We'll keep back in the darkness. If he shows a light, we'll rush him before he can use a weapon or clear out. Get back to the window!"

"I hope I'll get through with this all right," said Mrs. Clear nervously. "It's an awful situation," and she moved stealthily across the floor to the window.

There was a faint gaslight outside, and the watchers could see her figure and profile black against the slight illumination. All was still and silent as the grave when they began their dreary watch.

The minutes passed slowly in the darkness, and there was an unbroken silence save for the breathing of the watchers and the restless movements of Mrs. Clear near the window. They saw her pass and repass the square of glass, when, unexpectedly, she paused, rigid and silent.

A stealthy step was ascending the distant stair, and pacing cat-like along the passage.

Lucian felt a tremor pass through his body as the steps of the murderer sounded nearer and clearer. They paused at the door, and then moved towards the window where Mrs. Clear was standing.

"Is that you?" said a low voice, which came weirdly out of the darkness.

"Yes. I have been waiting for the last half hour, Mr. Wrent," replied the woman in nervous tones. "I am glad you have come."

"I am glad, also," said the voice harshly, "as I wish to know why you propose to betray me."

"Because you won't pay me the money," said Mrs. Clear boldly. "And if you don't give it to me this very night I'll go straight and tell the police all about my husband."

"I'll kill you first!" cried the man with a snarl, and made a dash at the woman. With a cry for help she eluded him and sprang towards the bedroom door for protection. The next moment the four watchers were in the room wrestling with Wrent. When he felt the grip of their hands, and knew that he was betrayed, he cried out savagely, and fought with the strength of two men. However, he could do little against his four adversaries, and, worn out with the struggle, collapsed suddenly on to the dusty floor with a motion of despair.

"Lost! lost!" he muttered. "All lost!"

Breathing hard, Link slipped back the cover of the dark lantern and turned the light on to the face of the prisoner. Out of the darkness started a pale face with white hair and long white beard. Lucian uttered a cry.

"Mr. Vrain!" he said, shrinking back, "Mr. Vrain!"

"Look again," said Link, passing his hand rapidly over the face and head of the prostrate man. Denzil did look, and uttered a second cry more startling than the first. Wig and beard and venerable looks were all gone, and he recognised at once who Wrent was.

"Jabez Clyne!—Jabez Clyne!" he exclaimed in astonishment.

"Yes!" cried Link triumphantly, "Jabez Clyne, conspirator and assassin!"



CHAPTER XXXI

A STRANGE CONFESSION

"I, Jabez Clyne, write this confession in my prison cell, of my own free will, and without coercion from any one; partly because I know that the evidence concerning my share in the Vrain conspiracy is strong against me, and partly because I wish to exonerate my daughter Lydia.

"She is absolutely innocent of all knowledge concerning the feigned death of her husband and his actual existence in a private lunatic asylum; and on the strength of this confession of mine—which will fix the guilt of the matter on the right persons—I demand that she shall be set free. It is not fair that she should suffer, for I and Ferruci planned and carried out the whole conspiracy. Well, Ferruci has punished himself, and soon the law will punish me, so it is only justice that Lydia should be discharged from all blame. On this understanding I set out the whole story of the affair—how it was thought of, how it was contrived, and how it was carried out. Now that Count Ferruci is dead, this confession can harm no one but myself, and may be the means of setting Lydia free. So here I begin my recital.

"I was always an unlucky man, and the end of my life proves to be as unfortunate as the beginning. I was born in London some fifty and more years ago, in a Whitechapel slum, of drunken and profligate parents, so it is little to be wondered at that my career has been anything but virtuous or respectable. In my early childhood—if it may be called so—I was beaten and starved, set to beg, forced to thieve, and never had a kind word said to me or a kind deed done to me. No wonder I grew up a callous, hardened ruffian. As the twig is bent, so will the tree grow.

"Out of this depth of degradation I was rescued by a philanthropist, who had me fed and clothed and educated. I had at his hands every chance of leading a respectable life, but I did not want to become smug and honest. My early training was too strong for that, so after a year or two of enforced goodness I ran away to sea. The vessel I embarked on as a stowaway was bound for America. When I was discovered hiding among the cargo we were in mid-ocean, and there was nothing for it but to carry me to the States. Still, to earn my passage, I was made cabin-boy to a ruffianly captain, and once more tasted the early delights of childhood, viz., kicks, curses, and starvation. When the ship arrived in New York I was turned adrift in the city without a penny or a friend.

"It is not my purpose to describe my sufferings, as such description will do no good and interest nobody; particularly as the purpose of this confession is to declare the Vrain conspiracy and its failure; so I will pass over my early years as speedily as possible. To be brief: I became a newsboy, then a reporter; afterwards I went West and tried my luck in San Francisco, later on in Texas; but in every case I failed, and became poorer and more desperate than ever. In New Orleans I set up a newspaper and had a brief time of prosperity, when I married the daughter of a hotelkeeper, and for the time was happy.

"Then the Civil War broke out, and I was ruined. My wife died, leaving me with one child, whom I called Lydia, after her, but that child died also, and I was left alone. After the war I prospered again for a time, and married a woman with money. She also died, and left a daughter, and this child I again called Lydia, in memory of my first wife, who was the only woman I ever truly loved. I placed little Lydia in a convent for education, and devoted my second wife's money to that purpose; then I started out for the fifth or sixth time to make my fortune. Needless to say, I did not make it.

"I pass over a long period of distress and prosperity, hopes and fears. One day I was rich, the next poor; and Fate—or whatever malignant deity looked after my poor affairs—knocked me about most cruelly, tossed me up, threw me down, and at the end of a score of years left me comparatively prosperous, with an income, in English money, of L500 a year. With this I returned to Washington to seek Lydia, and found her grown up into a beautiful and clever girl. Her beauty gave me the idea that I might marry her well in Europe as an American heiress. So for Europe we started, and after many years of travel about the Continent we settled down in the Pension Donizetti in Florence. There Lydia was admired for her beauty and wit, and courted for her money! But save for my ten pounds a week, which we eked out in the most frugal manner, we had not a penny between us.

"It was in Florence that we met with Vrain and his daughter, who came to stay at the Pension. He was a quiet, harmless old gentleman, a trifle weak in the head, which his daughter said came from over-study, but which I discovered afterwards was due to habitual indulgence in morphia and other drugs. His daughter watched him closely, and—not having a will of his own by reason of his weak brain—he submitted passively to her guidance. I heard by a side wind that Vrain was rich, and had a splendid mansion in the country; so I hinted to Lydia that as it seemed difficult to get her a young husband, it would be better for her to marry a rich old one. At that time Lydia was in love with, and almost engaged to, Count Ercole Ferruci, a penniless Italian nobleman, who courted my pretty girl less for her beauty than for her supposed wealth. When I suggested that Lydia should marry Vrain, she refused at first to entertain the idea; but afterwards, seeing that the man was old and weak, she thought it would be a good thing as his wife to inherit his money, and then, as his widow, to marry Ferruci. I think, also, that the pointed dislike which Diana Vrain manifested for us both—although I am bound to say she hated Lydia more than she did me—had a great deal to do with my daughter marrying Vrain. However, the end of it was that Lydia broke off her engagement with Ferruci—and very mad he was at losing her—and married Mark Vrain in Florence.

"After the marriage the old man, who at that time was quite infatuated with Lydia, made a will leaving her his assurance money of L20,000, but the house near Bath, and the land, he left to Diana. I am bound to say that Lydia behaved very well in this matter, as she could have had all the money and land, but she was content with the assurance money, and did not rob Diana Vrain of her birthright. Yet Diana hated her, and still hates her; but I ask any one who reads this confession if my dear Lyddy is not the better woman of the two? Who dares to say that such a sweet girl is guilty of the crimes she is charged with?

"Well, the marriage took place, and we all journeyed home to Berwin Manor; but here things went from bad to worse. Old Vrain took again to his morphia, and nothing would restrain him; then Lydia and Diana fought constantly, and each wished the other out of the house. I tried to keep the peace, and blamed Lyddy—who is no saint, I admit—for the way in which she was treating Diana. With Miss Vrain I got on very well, and tried to make things easy for her; but in the end the ill-will between her and my Lydia became so strong that Diana left the house, and went out to Australia to live with some relatives.

"So Lydia and I and old Vrain were left alone, and I thought that everything would be right. So it would have been if Lydia had not put matters wrong again by inviting Ferruci over to stay. But she would insist upon doing so, and although I begged and prayed and commanded her not to have so dangerous a man in the house, she held her own; and in the face of my remonstrances, and those of her husband, Count Ferruci came to stay with us.