"From the moment he entered the house there was nothing but trouble. Vrain became jealous, and, mad with drugs he took, often treated Lydia with cruelty and violence, and she came to me for protection. I spoke to Vrain, and he insulted me, wishing to turn me out of the house; but for Lydia's sake I remained. Then a Miss Tyler came to stay, and falling in love with Count Ferruci, grew jealous of Lydia, and made trouble with Vrain. The end of it was that after a succession of scenes, in which the old man behaved like the lunatic he was, he left the house, and not one of us knew where he went to. That was the last Lydia saw of her husband.

"After that trouble I insisted that Count Ferruci should leave the house; also Miss Tyler. They both did, but came back at times to pay Lydia a visit. We tried to find Vrain, but could not, as he had vanished altogether. Ferruci, I saw, was in love with Lydia, and she with him, but neither the one nor the other hinted at a future marriage should Vrain die. I do not say that Lydia was a fond wife to Vrain, but he treated her so badly that he could not expect her to be; and I dare say I am the one to blame all through, as I made Lydia marry Vrain when she loved Ferruci. But I did it all for the best, so as to get money for my dear girl; and if it has turned out for the worst, my inordinate affection for my child is to blame. All I have done has been for Lydia's sake; all Ferruci did was for Lydia's sake, as he truly loved her; but I swear by all that I hold most holy that Lydia knew not how either of us was working to secure her happiness. Well, Ferruci is dead, and I am in jail, so we have paid in full for our wickedness.

"I had no idea of getting rid of Vrain until one day Ferruci took me aside and told me that he had found Vrain at Salisbury. He stated that the man was still taking morphia, but in spite of his excesses had so strong a constitution that it appeared he would live for many years. The Count then said that he loved Lydia dearer than life, and wished to marry her if Vrain could be got out of the way. I cried out against murder being done, as I never entertained such an idea for a moment; but Ferruci denied that he wished to harm the man. He wanted him put away in a lunatic asylum, and when I asked him how even then he could marry Lydia, he suggested his scheme of substituting a sickly and dying man for Vrain. The scheme—which was entirely invented by the Count—was as follows:

"Ferruci said that in a minor London theatre he had seen an actor called Clear, who was wonderfully like Vrain, save that he had no scar on the cheek, and had a moustache, whereas Vrain was always clean-shaved. He had made the acquaintance of the actor—Michael Clear was his full name—and of his wife. They proved to be hard up and mercenary, so Ferruci had no difficulty in gaining over both for his purpose. For a certain sum of money (which was to be paid to Mrs. Clear when her husband was dead and the Count, married to Lydia, was possessed of the assurance money) Clear agreed to shave off his moustache and personate Vrain. Ferruci, who was something of a chemist, created by means of some acid a scar on Clear's cheek like that on Vrain's, so that he resembled my son-in-law in every way save that he had lost one little finger.

"Ferruci wanted me to join him in the conspiracy so that I could watch Clear impersonating Vrain, while he himself kept his eye on the real Vrain, who was to be received into Mrs. Clear's house at Bayswater and passed off as her husband. All Mrs. Clear wanted was the money, as—long since wearied of her drunken husband—she did not care if he lived or died. Clear, on his part, knowing that he could not live long, was quite willing to play the part of Vrain on condition that he had plenty to eat and drink, and could live in idleness and luxury. His wishes in this direction cost us a pretty penny, as he bought everything of the best.

"To this plot I refused consent until I saw how Vrain was: so when Ferruci brought him from Salisbury—where he was hiding—to London, I had an interview with him. He proved to be so stupefied with drugs that he hardly knew me, so, seeing that my Lydia would get no good out of her life by being tied to such a husband, I determined that I would assist Ferruci, on the understanding, of course, that Vrain was to be well looked after in every way. We agreed that when Clear died, and his body was identified as Vrain's, that the real man should be put in an asylum, which was—and I am sure every one will agree with me—the best place for him.

"All this being arranged, I went out to look for a house in a secluded part of the town, in which Clear—under the name of Berwin—should live until he died as Vrain. I did not wish to see about the house in my new character, lest I should be recognised, if there was any trouble over the assurance money; to complicate matters, I determined to disguise myself as the real Vrain. Of course, Clear personated Vrain as Lydia had last seen him, that is, clean-shaven, and neat in his dress. But the real Vrain, neglecting his personal appearance, had cultivated a long, white beard, and wore a black velvet skull-cap to conceal a baldness which had come upon him. I disguised myself in this fashion, therefore, and went to Pimlico under the name of Wrent."



CHAPTER XXXII

THE CONFESSION (Continued)

"In Geneva Square, Pimlico, I found the house I wanted. It was No. 13, and was said to be haunted, as cries had been heard in it at night, and lights had been seen flitting from window to window when no one was in the house. I looked at it without entering, or calling on the landlord, and then I went into Jersey Street to see the back. The house in the same section with it was kept by a Mrs. Bensusan, who took in lodgers. Her rooms were vacant, and as it suited me very well that I should be a neighbour to Clear, I took the rooms. They proved—as I shall explain—better for our purpose than I was aware of.

"When I told Ferruci of my discovery, he gave Clear money and made him hire the house and furnish two rooms for himself. I supplied the money. In this way Clear, calling himself Berwin, which was the name of Vrain's house in the country, came to live in Pimlico. We also removed the real Vrain to Mrs. Clear's at Bayswater, and he passed as her husband. So weak were his brains, and so cowed was his spirit, that there was no difficulty in keeping him in the house, and the neighbours were told merely that Clear was ill.

"For my part, I took up my abode in Jersey Street under the name of Wrent, and met Clear outside on occasions when it was necessary for me to see him; but I never entered the house—for obvious reasons.

"I was constantly afraid lest Clear, in his drunken fits—for he was always more or less drunk—should reveal our secret, and I took as my bedroom an apartment in Mrs. Bensusan's out of the window of which I could overlook the back of No. 13. One night, when I was watching, I saw a dark figure glide into Mrs. Bensusan's yard and climb over the fence, only to disappear. I was terribly alarmed, and wondering what was wrong, I put on my clothes and hurried downstairs into the yard. Also I climbed over the fence into the yard of No. 13. Here I could not see where the figure had disappeared to, as the doors and windows at the back of the house were all locked. I could not conjecture who the woman was—for it was a woman I saw—who had entered, or why she had done so, or in what way she had gained admission.

"While I was thus thinking I saw the woman again. She apparently rose out of the earth, and after closing what appeared to be a trap-door, she made for the fence. I stopped her before she got there, and found to my surprise that she was a red-headed servant of Mrs. Bensusan's—a kind of gypsy, very clever, and—I think—with much evil in her. She was alarmed at being discovered, and begged me not to tell on her. For my own sake, I promised not to do so, but made her explain how she got into the house, and why she entered it. Then she told me an extraordinary tale.

"For some years, she said, she had been with Mrs. Bensusan, who had taken her from the gypsies to civilise her, and hating the restraint of civilised life, she had been in the habit of roaming about at night. Knowing that the house at the back was unoccupied, this Rhoda—for that is her name—climbed over the fence and tried to get into it, but found the doors and windows bolted and barred.

"Then one night she saw a kind of grated window amid the grass, and as this proved not to be bolted, she pulled it open. Taking a candle with her, she went on a voyage of discovery, and dropped through this hole some distance into a disused cellar. Only a cat could have got in safely, for the height was considerable; and, indeed, Rhoda did not risk that mode of entrance again, for, finding a ladder in the cellar, which, I presume, had been used to get at the higher bins of wine, she placed this against the aperture, and thus was enabled to ascend and descend without difficulty. Frequently by this means she entered the empty house, and went from room to room with her candle, singing gypsy songs as she wandered. So here I had found the ghost of No. 13, although I don't suppose this impish gypsy girl knew as much. She haunted the house just to amuse herself, when fat Mrs. Bensusan thought she was safe in bed.

"I asked Rhoda why she had entered the house on that particular night when I had caught her. She confessed that she had seen some articles of silver in Clear's rooms which she wished to steal; but on this occasion he had locked the door—a thing which he did not always do in his drunken humours—and so Rhoda was returning disappointed. After this confession I made her go back to her own house and promised to keep her secret. I also told her that if she held her tongue I would give her a present. For this purpose I made Ferruci buy me a cloak lined with rabbit skins, as Rhoda on her night excursions wanted something to keep her warm. When Ferruci gave it to me, and it was lying in my room, Mrs. Clear came one night to see me, and finding it cold, she borrowed the cloak to wrap round her. She kept it for some time, and brought it back on Christmas Eve, when I gave it next day to Rhoda. It was Ferruci who bought the cloak, not I; and it was purchased for Rhoda, not for Mrs. Clear.

"The next night I entered No. 13 by the cellarway, and found it of great advantage, as I could visit Clear without exciting suspicion, and so keep an eye on him. At first he was alarmed by my unexpected appearance, but when I showed him the secret way, he made use of it also. We used it only on dark nights, and it was for this reason that we were not noticed by the neighbours. It would never have done for any one of us to be seen climbing over the fence. Mrs. Clear once visited her husband, and had a quarrel with him about his drinking. It was her shadow and Clear's which Denzil saw on the blind. As soon as they heard his ring they both went out the back way, and in climbing hurriedly over the fence Mrs. Clear tore her veil. It was a portion of this which Denzil found.

"On that night, Clear, after leaving his wife, entered the square by the front, and so met with Denzil, much to the latter's surprise. I was very angry when Clear showed Denzil over the house; but he said that the young man was very suspicious, and he only showed him the house to prove that there was no one in it, and that he must have been mistaken about the shadows on the blind. Notwithstanding this explanation, I did not approve of Clear's act, nor, indeed, of his acquaintance with Denzil.

"For some months matters went on in this way. Clear remained in the Silent House, drinking himself to death; Mrs. Clear looked after Vrain in her Bayswater house; and I, in my old-man disguise, remained in Jersey Street, although at times I left there and went to see my daughter. All this time Lydia had no idea of what we were preparing. Then I began to grow wearied of the position, for Clear proved tougher than we anticipated, and showed no signs of dying. In despair, I thought I would give him the means to kill himself.

"Mind, I did not wish to murder him myself; but the man, when in his drinking fits, thought he was attacked by enemies, and when in a melancholic frame of mind, on recovery, would frequently hint at suicide. I therefore thought that if a weapon were left within his reach he might kill himself. I don't defend my conduct in this case, but surely this drunken scoundrel was better dead than alive. In choosing a weapon, I wished to select one that would implicate Ferruci rather than myself, in case there was any trouble over the matter; so I chose for my purpose a stiletto which hung by a parti-coloured ribbon on the walls of the library at Berwin Manor. I fancied that the stiletto, having been bought in Florence, and Ferruci coming from Florence, he, if anyone—should any of these facts come to light—would be credited with giving it to Clear.

"I took this stiletto from Berwin Manor some time before Christmas, and, bringing it up to town, I left it, on the day before Christmas, on the table in Clear's sitting-room. That was at nine o'clock in the night, and that was when I last saw him alive. Who killed him I know no more than any one else.

"On Christmas Eve I was ill, and wrote to Lydia to come up. She met me at the Pegalls', but as I felt ill, I left there at six o'clock, and Lydia stayed with the family all night. At seven o'clock Mrs. Clear came to me with Ferruci, and brought back the cloak which I gave afterwards to Rhoda. She wanted to see her husband again, but I refused to let her risk the visit. Ferruci came to tell me that he was arranging to place Vrain—who was becoming too violent to be restrained—in the private asylum of Dr. Jorce, at Hampstead. Mrs. Clear was to go with him, and we conversed about the matter.

"Ferruci went away first, as he desired to see Clear, and for that purpose waited about until it was darker, and went into the back yard shortly after eight o'clock. There he was seen by Rhoda as he was about to climb the fence, and, not knowing it was the girl, he took fright and ran out of the yard into Jersey Street. Here he found Mrs. Clear, who had left me and was waiting for him, and the pair went off to see Dr. Jorce at Hampstead. I believe they remained there all night.

"Left alone, I climbed over the fence about nine o'clock, and saw Clear. He was celebrating Christmas Eve by drinking heavily, and I was unable to bring him to reason. I therefore left the stiletto which I had brought with me on the table, and returned to my house in Jersey Street. I never saw him alive again. I went to bed and slept all night, so I was aware of nothing in connection with the death until late on Christmas Day. Then Mrs. Bensusan was told by Miss Greeb, the landlady of Denzil, that the tenant of No. 13 had been murdered. I fancied that he had killed himself in a fit of melancholia, with the stiletto I had left on his table; but I did not dare to go near the house to find this out.

"Afterwards I learned that the doctor who examined the body was of the opinion that Clear had been murdered; and, being afraid about the police taking up the case, I paid Mrs. Bensusan a week's rent and left her house two days after Christmas. I returned to Berwin Manor, and shortly afterwards Ferruci joined me there, as he had successfully incarcerated Vrain in the asylum under the name of Michael Clear.

"When the advertisement came out, it was I who hinted to Lydia that the dead man—seeing that he was called Berwin—might be her husband. We went up to town: Lydia identified the body of Clear as her husband in all innocence—for after death the man looked more like Vrain than ever; and in due time the assurance money was obtained.

"I do not think there is anything more to tell, save that I did not know that Mrs. Clear had betrayed me. I could not pay her the money, as I could not get it from Lydia. I told Lydia I was going to Paris, but in reality I was hunting for Rhoda, who had run away from Jersey Street. I fancied she might betray us, and wished to make things safe with her. Before I found her, however, I saw in the papers that Ferruci had committed suicide; also that Lydia—who had gone to Dover to meet me, thinking I was returning from Paris—had been arrested. Then I saw Mrs. Clear's advertisement saying she would betray me if I did not pay the money. I consented to meet her in order to implore her silence, and so fell into the clutches of the law.

"I may state that I did not kill Clear, as I never saw him after nine o'clock, and then he was alive. In spite of what the doctor said, I am still inclined to think he killed himself. Now I have made a clean breast of it—I am willing to be punished; but I hope Lydia will be set free, for whosoever is guilty, she is innocent. I have been an unlucky man, and I remain one at this moment when I sign myself for the last time, JABEZ CLYNE."

* * * * *

Needless to say, both Link and Denzil were greatly surprised at this confession, which revealed all things save the one they wished to know.

"What do you think of this idea of suicide?" asked Lucian.

"It is quite out of the question," replied the detective decidedly. "The doctor who examined the body said that it was impossible the man could have committed suicide. The position of the wound shows that; also the power of the stroke. No man could drive a stiletto so dexterously and strongly into the heart. Also the room was in confusion, which points to a struggle, and the stiletto is missing. It was not suicide, but murder, and I believe either Clyne or Ferruci killed the man."

"But Ferruci was not——"

"He was not there after ten," interrupted Link, "but he was there about eight. I dare say when Rhoda saw him he was coming back after having committed the deed, and Clyne says the stiletto was not there at the time just to screen him."

"It is of little use to screen the dead," said Lucian. "I think only one person can tell the truth about this murder, and that is Rhoda."

"I'm looking for her, Mr. Denzil."

This was easy saying, but harder doing, for weeks passed away, and in spite of all the efforts of the police Rhoda could not be found. Then one morning the detective, much excited, burst into Lucian's rooms waving a paper over his head.

"A confession!" he cried. "Another confession!"

"Of whom?" asked Lucian, surprised.

"Of Rhoda!" replied Link excitedly. "She has confessed! It was Rhoda who killed Michael Clear!"



CHAPTER XXXIII

WHAT RHODA HAD TO SAY

Of all the news concerning the truth of Clear's death, this was the last which Lucian expected to hear. He stood staring at the excited face of the detective in wide-eyed surprise, and for the moment could not find his voice.

"It is true, I tell you!" cried Link, sitting down and smoothing out the paper which he carried. "Rhoda, and none other, killed the man!"

"Are you sure, Link?"

"Of course I am. This," flourishing the paper, "is her dying confession."

"Her dying confession?" repeated the barrister blankly. "Is she dead, also?"

"Yes. It is a long story, Mr. Denzil. Sit down, and I'll tell it to you. As you have had so much to do with the beginning of the case, it is only fair that you should know the end, and a strange end it is."

Without a word Lucian sat down, feeling quite confused, for in no way could he guess how Clear had come by his death at the hands of Rhoda. He had suspected Lydia as guilty of the crime; he had credited Ferruci with its commission, and he had been certain of the guilt of Clyne, alias Wrent; but to discover that the red-headed servant was the culprit entirely bewildered him. She had no motive to kill the man; she had given evidence freely in the matter, and in all respects had acted as an innocent person. So this was why she had left Jersey Street? It was a fear of being arrested for the crime which had driven her into the wilds. But, as Lucian privately thought, she need not have fled, for—so far as he could see—beyond the startling announcement of Link, there was no evidence to connect her with the matter. It was most extraordinary.

"I see you are astonished," said Link, with a nod; "so was I. Of all folk, I least suspected that imp of a girl. The truth would never have been known, had she not confessed at the last moment; for even now I cannot see, on the face of it, any evidence—save her own confession—to inculpate her in the matter. So you see, Mr. Denzil, the mystery of this man's death, which we have been so anxious to solve, has not been explained by you, or discovered by me, but has been brought to light by chance, which, after all, is the great detective. You may well look astonished," repeated the man slowly; "I am—immensely."

"Let me hear the confession, Link!"

"Wait one moment. I'll tell you how it came to be made, and then I'll relate the story in my own fashion, as the way in which the confession is written is too muddled for you to understand clearly. Still, it shows plainly enough that Clyne, for all our suspicions, is innocent."

"And Rhoda, the sharp servant girl, guilty," said Lucian, reflectively. "I never should have thought that she was involved in the matter. How the deuce did she come to confess?"

"Well," said Link, clearing his throat as a preliminary to his narrative, "it seems that Mr. Bensusan, in a fit of philanthropy, picked up this wretched girl in the country. She belonged to some gypsies, but as her parents were dead, and the child a burden, the tribe were glad to get rid of her. Rhoda Stanley—that is her full name—was taken to London by Mrs. Bensusan, who tried to civilise her."

"I don't think she succeeded very well, Link. Rhoda, with her cunning ways and roaming about at night, was always a savage at heart. In spite of what Clyne says in his confession, I believe she took a delight in turning No. 13 into a haunted house with her shrieking and her flitting candles. How she must have enjoyed herself when she heard the talk about the ghost!"

"I have no doubt she did, Mr. Denzil, but even those delights wearied her, and she longed to get back to the free gypsy life. When she found—through you, sir—that the police wanted to know too much about Clear's death, she left Mrs. Bensusan in the lurch, and tramped off down to the New Forest, where she picked up again with her tribe."

"How did her mistress take her desertion?"

"Very much to heart, as she had treated the young savage very kindly, and ought to have received more gratitude. Perhaps when she hears how her adopted child wandered about at night, and ended by killing Clear, she will be glad she is dead and buried. Yet, I don't know. Women are wonderfully soft-hearted, and certainly Rhoda is thought no end of by that fat woman."

"Well! well!" said Lucian, impatient of this digression. "So Rhoda went back to her tribe?"

"Yes, sir; and as she was sharp, clever, and, moreover, came with some money which she had stolen from Mrs. Bensusan—for she added theft to ingratitude—she was received with open arms. With her gypsy cousins she went about in the true gypsy style, but, not being hardened to the outdoor life in wet weather, she fell ill."

"Civilisation made her delicate, I suppose," said Denzil grimly.

"Exactly; she was not fit for the tent life after having lived for so long under a comfortable roof. She fell ill with inflammation of the lungs, and in a wonderfully short space of time she died."

"When did she confess her crime?"

"I'm coming to that, sir. When she was dying she sent two gypsies to the nearest magistrate—who happened to be the vicar of the parish in which the tribe were then encamped—and asked him to see her on a matter of life and death. The vicar came at once, and when he became aware that Rhoda was the girl wanted in the Vrain case—for he had read all about her in the papers—he became very interested. He took down the confession of the wretched girl, had it signed by two witnesses and Rhoda herself, and sent it up to Scotland Yard."

"And this confession——"

"Here it is," said Link, pointing to the manuscript on the table; "but it is too long to read, so I shall just tell you briefly what Rhoda confessed, and how she committed the crime."

"Go on! I am most anxious to hear, Link!"

"Well, Mr. Denzil, you know that Rhoda was in the habit of visiting No. 13 by night and amusing herself by wandering about the empty rooms, although I don't know what pleasure she found in doing so. It seems that when Clear became the tenant of the house, Rhoda was very angry, as his presence interfered with her midnight capers. However, on seeing his rooms—for Clear found her one night, and took her in to show them to her—she was filled with admiration, and with true gypsy instinct wanted to steal some of the ornaments. She tried to pocket a silver paper-knife on that very night Clear was so hospitable to her, but she was not sharp enough, and the man saw the theft. In a rage at her dishonesty he turned her out of the room, and swore that he would thrash her if she came into his presence again."

"Did the threat keep Rhoda away?"

"Not it. I am sure you saw enough of that wildcat to know nothing would frighten her. She certainly did not thrust herself personally on Clear, but whenever his back was turned she took to stealing things out of his room, when he was foolish enough to leave the door open. Clear was much enraged, and complained to Clyne—known to Rhoda as Wrent—who in his turn read the girl a sharp lecture.

"But having shown Clyne the cellarway into the house, Miss Rhoda knew too much, and laughed in Clyne's face. He did not dare to make her thefts public, or complain to Mrs. Bensusan, lest Rhoda should tell of the connection between him and the tenant of the Silent House, who passed under the name of Berwin. Therefore, he told Clear to keep his sitting-room door locked."

"A wise precaution, with that imp about," said Lucian. "I hope Clear was sensible enough to adopt it."

"Yes, and no. When he was sober he locked the door, and when drunk he left it open, and Rhoda looted at will. And now comes the more important part of the confession. You remember that Clyne left the stiletto from Berwin Manor on Clear's table?"

"Yes, with the amiable intention that the poor devil should kill himself. He left it on Christmas Eve, too—a pleasant time for a man to commit suicide!"

"Of course, the intention was horrible!" said Mr. Link, gravely. "Some people might think such an act incredible; but I have seen so much of the worst side of human nature that I am not surprised. Clyne was too cowardly to kill the man himself, so he thought to make Clear his own executioner by leaving the stiletto in his way. Well, sir, the weapon proved to be useful in the way it was intended by Clyne, for Clear was killed with that very weapon."

"And by Rhoda!" said Lucian, nodding. "I see! How did she get hold of it?"

"By accident. When Wrent—I mean Clyne—and Mrs. Bensusan went to bed on Christmas Eve, Rhoda thought she would have some of her devil dances in the haunted house; so she slipped out of bed and into the yard, and dropped down into the cellar, whence she went up to Clear's rooms."

"Was Clear in bed?"

"No; but he was in his bedroom, and, according to Rhoda, furiously drunk. You know that Clyne said the man had been drinking all day. On this night he had left his sitting-room door open, and the lamp burning. On the table was the silver-handled stiletto, with the ribbon; and when Rhoda peered into the room to see what she could pick up, she thought she would like this pretty toy. She stole forward softly and took the stiletto, but before she could get back to the door, Clear, who had been watching her, reeled out and rushed at her."

"Did she run away?"

"She couldn't. Clear was between her and the door. She ran round the room, upsetting everything, for she thought he would kill her in his drunken rage. Don't you remember, Mr. Denzil, how disorderly the room was? Well, Clear got Rhoda into a corner, and was going to strike her; she had the stiletto still in her hand, and held it point outward to save herself from the blow. She thought when he saw the weapon he would not dare to come nearer. However, either he did not see the stiletto, or was too drunk to feel fear, for he stumbled and fell forward, so that the dagger ran right into his heart. In a moment he fell dead, before he had time, as Rhoda says, to even utter a cry."

"So it was an accident, after all?" said Lucian.

"Oh, yes, quite an accident," replied Link, "and I can see very plainly how it took place. Of course, Rhoda was terrified at what she had done—although she really was not to blame—and leaving the dead man, ran away with the stiletto. She dropped the ribbon off it near the cellar door as she was running away, and there Mrs. Kebby found it."

"What did she do with the stiletto?"

"She had it in her room, and when she left Mrs. Bensusan she carried it with her down the country. In proof of the truth, she gave it to the vicar who wrote down her confession, and he sent it up with the papers to Scotland Yard. Queer case, isn't it?"

"Very queer, Link. I thought everybody was guilty but Rhoda."

"Ah!" said the detective, significantly, "it is always the least suspected person who is guilty. I could have sworn that Clyne was the man. Now it seems that he is innocent, so instead of hanging he will only be imprisoned for his share in the conspiracy."

"He may escape that way," said Lucian drily, "but, morally speaking, I regard him as more guilty than Rhoda."



CHAPTER XXXIV

THE END OF IT ALL

Two years after the discovery of Rhoda's guilt, Mr. and Mrs. Denzil were seated in the garden of Berwin Manor. It was a perfect summer evening, at the sunset hour, something like that evening when, in the same garden, almost at the same time, Lucian had asked Diana to be his wife. But between then and now twenty-four months had elapsed, and many things had taken place of more or less importance to the young couple.

The mystery of Clear's death had been solved; Lydia had been set free as innocent of crime; her father, found guilty of conspiracy to obtain the assurance money, had been condemned to a long term of imprisonment, and, what most concerned Lucian and Diana, Mark Vrain had really and truly gone the way of all flesh.

After the conclusion of the Vrain case Lucian had become formally engaged to Diana, but it was agreed between them that the marriage should not take place for some time on account of her father's health. After his discharge as cured from the asylum of Dr. Jorce, Miss Vrain had taken her father down to his own place in the country, and there tended him with the most affectionate solicitude, in the hope that he would recover his health. But the hope was vain, for by his over-indulgence in morphia, his worrying and wandering, and irregular mode of life, Vrain had completely shattered his health. He lapsed into a state of second childhood, and, being deprived of the drugs which formerly had excited him to a state of frenzy, sank into a pitiable condition. For days he would remain without speaking to any one, and even ceased to take a pleasure in his books. Finally his limbs became paralysed, and so he spent the last few months of his wretched life in a bath-chair, being wheeled round the garden.

Still, his constitution was so strong that he lived for quite twelve months after his return to his home, and died unexpectedly in his sleep. Diana was not sorry when he passed so easily away, for death was a merciful release of his tortured soul from his worn-out body. So Mark Vrain died, and was buried, and after the funeral Diana went abroad, with Miss Priscilla Barbar for a companion.

In the meantime, Lucian stayed in grimy, smoky London, and worked hard at his profession. He was beginning to be known, and in time actually received a brief or two, with which he did his best in court. Still, he was far from being the successful pleader he hoped to be, for law, of all professions, is one which demands time and industry for the attainment of any degree of excellence. It is rarely that a young lawyer can go to sleep and wake to find himself famous; he must crawl rather than run. With diligence and punctuality, and observance of every chance, in time the wished-for goal is reached, although that goal, in nine cases out of ten, is a very moderate distance off. Lucian did not sigh for a judgeship, or for a seat on the Woolsack; he was content to be a barrister with a good practice, and perhaps a Q.C.-ship in prospect. However, during the year of Diana's mourning he did so well that he felt justified in asking her to marry him when she returned. Diana, on her side, saw no obstacle to this course, so she consented.

"If you are not rich, my dear, I am," she said, when Lucian alleged his poverty as the only bar to their union, "and as money gives me no pleasure without you, I do not care to stay in Berwin Manor in lonely spinsterhood. I shall marry you whenever you choose."

And Lucian, taking advantage of this gracious permission, did choose to be married, and that speedily; so within two years after the final closing of the Vrain case they became man and wife. At the time they were seated in the garden, at the hour of sunset, they had only lately returned from their honeymoon, and were now talking over past experiences. Miss Priscilla, who had been left in charge of the Manor during their absence, had welcomed them back with much joy, as she looked upon the match as one of her own making. Now she had gone inside, on the understanding that two are company and three are none, and the young couple were left alone. Hand in hand, after the foolish fashion of lovers, they sat under a leafy oak tree, and the sunlight glowed redly on their happy faces. After a short silence Lucian looked at the face of his wife and laughed.

"What is amusing you, dear?" said Mrs. Denzil, with a sympathetic smile.

"My thoughts were rather pleasant than amusing," replied Lucian, giving the hand that lay in his a squeeze, "but I was thinking of Hans Andersen's tale of the Elder Mother Tree, and of the old couple who sat enjoying their golden wedding under the linden, with the red sunlight shining on their silver crowns."

"We are under an oak and wear no crowns," replied Diana in her turn, "but we are quite as happy, I think, although it is not our golden wedding."

"Perhaps that will come some day, Diana."

"Fifty years, my dear; it's a long way off yet," said Mrs. Denzil dubiously.

"I am glad it is, for I shall have (D.V.,) fifty years of happiness with you to look forward to. Upon my word, Diana, I think you deserve happiness, after all the trouble you have had."

"With you I am sure to be happy, Lucian, but other people, poor souls, are not so well off."

"What other people?"

"Jabez Clyne, for one."

"My dear," said Lucian, seriously, "I hope I am not a hard man, but I really cannot find it in my heart to pity Clyne. He was—and I dare say is—a scoundrel!"

"I don't deny that he acted badly," sighed Diana, "but it was for his daughter's sake, you know."

"There is a limit even to paternal affection, Diana. And putting aside the wickedness of the whole conspiracy, I cannot pardon a man who deliberately put a weapon in the way of a man almost insane with drink, in order that he might kill himself. The idea was diabolically wicked, my dear, and I think that Jabez Clyne, alias Wrent, quite deserves the long imprisonment he received."

"At all events, the Sirius Company got back their money, Lucian."

"So much as Lydia had not spent they got back, Diana; but when your father actually died they had to part with it very soon again, and some of it has gone into Lydia's pocket after all."

Diana blushed. "It was only right, dear," she said, apologetically. "When my father made his new will, leaving it all to me, I did not think that Lydia, however badly she treated him, should be left absolutely penniless. And you know, Lucian, you agreed that I should share the assurance money with her."

"I did," replied Denzil. "Of two evils I chose the least, for if Lydia had not got a portion of the money she would have been quite capable of trying to upset the second will on the ground that Mr. Vrain was insane."

"Papa was not insane," reproved Diana. "He was weak, I admit, but at the time he made that will he had all his senses. Besides, after all the scandal of the case, I don't think Lydia would have dared to go to law about it. Still, it was best to give her the money, and I hear from Miss Priscilla that Lydia is now in Italy, and proposes to marry an Italian prince."

"She has flown higher than a count, then. Poor Ferruci killed himself for her sake."

"For his own, rather," exclaimed Mrs. Denzil energetically. "He knew that if he lived he would be punished by imprisonment, so chose to kill himself rather than suffer such dishonour. I believe he truly loved Lydia, certainly, but as he wanted the assurance money, I fancy he sinned quite as much for his own sake as for Lydia's."

"No doubt; and I dare say Lydia loved him, after her own fashion; yet she seems to have forgotten him pretty soon, and—as you say—intends to marry a prince. I don't envy his highness."

"She has no heart, so I dare say she will be happy as such women ever are," said Diana contemptuously, "yet her happiness comes out of much evil. If she had not married my father, her own would not now be in prison, nor would Count Ferruci and Rhoda be dead."

"Ferruci, perhaps, might still be alive, and her husband," assented Lucian, "but I have my doubts about Rhoda. She was a wicked, precocious little imp, that girl, and sooner or later would have come to a bad end. The death of Clear was due to an accident, I admit; but Rhoda has still one person who laments over her, for, although Mrs. Bensusan knows the truth, she always thinks of that red-haired minx as a kind of martyr, who was led into wicked ways by Clyne, alias Wrent."

"I am sure Mrs. Clear doesn't think so."

"Mrs. Clear has got quite enough to think about in remembering how narrowly she escaped imprisonment for her share in that shameful conspiracy. If she had not turned Queen's evidence, she would have been punished as Clyne was; as it is, she just escaped by an accident. Still, if it had not been for her, we should never have discovered the truth. I would never have suspected Clyne, who was always so meek and mild. Even that visit he paid to me to lament over his daughter's probable marriage to Ferruci was a trick to find out how much I knew."

"Don't you think he hated Ferruci?"

"No; I am sure he did not. He acted a part to find out what I was doing. If Mrs. Clear had not betrayed him we should never have discovered the conspiracy."

"And if Rhoda had not spoken, the mystery of Clear's death would never have been solved," said Diana, "although she only confessed at the eleventh hour, and when she was dying."

"I think Link was pleased that the mystery was solved in so unexpected a way," said Lucian, laughing. "He never forgave my finding out so much without his aid. He ascribes the ending of the whole matter to chance, and I dare say he is right."

"H'm!" said Mrs. Denzil, who had no great love for the detective. "He certainly left everything to chance. Twice he gave up the case.".

"And twice I gave it up," said Denzil. "If it had not been for you, dear, I should never have gone on with what seemed to be a hopeless task. But when I first met you you induced me to continue the search for the culprit, and again when, by the evidence of the missing finger, you did not believe your father was dead."

"Well, you worked; I worked; Link worked," said Diana, philosophically, "and we all three did our best to discover the truth."

"Only to let chance discover it in the long run."

Diana laughed and nodded, but did not contradict her husband. "Well, my dear," she said, "I think we have discussed the subject pretty freely, but there is one thing I should like to know. What about the Silent House in Pimlico?"

"Oh, Miss Greeb told me the other day that Peacock is going to pull it down. You know, just before we were married I took leave of Miss Greeb, with whom I lodged for a long time. Well, she gave me a piece of news. She is going to be married, also, and to whom, do you think?"

"I don't know," said Diana, looking interested, as women always do in marriage news.

"To Peacock, who owns nearly all the property in and about Geneva Square. It will be a splendid match for her, and Mrs. Peacock, will be much richer than you or I, Diana."

"But not happier, my dear. I am glad she is to be married, as she seemed a nice woman, and made you very comfortable. But why is the Silent House to be pulled down?"

"Because no one will live in it."

"But it is not haunted now. You know it was discovered that Rhoda was the ghost, and the ghost, as Miss Greeb suggested, killed Clear."

"It is haunted now by the ghost of Clear," said Lucian gravely. "At all events, he was murdered there, and no one cares to live in the house. I confess I shouldn't care to live in it myself. So, Peacock, finding the house unprofitable, has determined to pull it down."

"So there is an end to the Silent House of Pimlico," said Diana, rising and taking her husband's arm. "Come inside, Lucian. It grows chilly."

"'Tho' winds be cold and nights be drear, Yet love makes warm our hearts, my dear,'"

quoted Lucian, as they went up to the house. "That is not very good poetry, but it is a beautiful truth, my love."

Diana laughed, and looked up proudly into the bright face of her husband.

So they went inside, and found that Miss Priscilla had made the tea, and all were very happy, and very thankful for their happiness. In this condition, which is sufficiently pleasant, I think we may leave them.



THE END