The 'Phone Booth Mystery

+-------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber’s note: | | | |Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+

The ’Phone Booth Mystery

By John Ironside

Author Of “The Red Symbol,” “Forged In Strong Fires,” Etc.

[Illustration: Logo]

New York Henry Holt And Company 1924

Authorized Edition

_First Printing, August, 1924_ _Second Printing, October, 1924_

Printed In United States Of America

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE I. LADY RAWSON 1 II. “MURDER MOST FOUL!” 8 III. THE TAXICAB 16 IV. A BELATED BRIDEGROOM 21 V. RETURNED! 34 VI. “NO. 5339” 45 VII. THE CIGARETTE CASE 54 VIII. AT CACCIOLA’S 64 IX. BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM 79 X. GRACE LEARNS THE NEWS 88 XI. HALCYON DAYS 98 XII. ALONE 109 XIII. AUSTIN’S THEORY 121 XIV. THE GIRL AT THE GRAVE 128 XV. AUSTIN’S SILENCE 138 XVI. MADDELENA 150 XVII. THE PSYCHOLOGICAL PROBLEM 161 XVIII. HARMONY--AND DISCORD 174 XIX. DARK HOURS 188 XX. AN OLD ROMANCE 197 XXI. THE CHINESE ROOM 208 XXII. A PEACEMAKER 220 XXIII. WHAT GIULIA SAW 231 XXIV. THE SHADOW OF DOOM 244 XXV. THE LAST HOPE 252 XXVI. THE NINTH HOUR 262 XXVII. INTO THE LIGHT 275

The ’Phone Booth Mystery

Chapter I

Lady Rawson

“I’m extremely sorry, Carling. It’s too bad to keep you to-night, but----”

“That’s all right, sir. Lucky they came in to-night and not to-morrow. I shall soon be through with them.”

“It’s most awfully good of you,” rejoined Sir Robert Rawson heartily. “I would deal with them myself, but we are dining with Lord Warrington, as you know.”

“Yes, sir; but it’s of no consequence really. I can spare the time perfectly well.”

Already Carling’s sleek head was bent over the special dispatches which had just been delivered at the private residence of Sir Robert Rawson. There were two sets, written in different languages, but both referring to one subject--secret intelligence concerning the strained relations between two foreign countries: a matter that at present was suspected rather than known, but that might at any moment develop on serious lines, and even occasion a war involving Great Powers.

These particular papers were probably of immense importance. That remained to be seen; and Carling’s duty was to translate and prepare a précis of them for his chief.

They certainly had arrived at rather an awkward moment for the young secretary--on the eve of his six weeks’ holiday, which would include a honeymoon, for he was to be married on the morrow.

“I don’t know what on earth I shall do without you, Roger,” Sir Robert remarked, casting a glance of mingled affection and compunction at the young man, whom he had learnt to regard as his right hand, and to whom he was sincerely attached, wishing with all his heart that he had a son like him; but he had married late in life and he and his wife were childless.

She entered the room at this moment, and he advanced to meet her with courtly apology.

“Have I kept you waiting, Paula? Forgive me.”

“It is no matter, we are in good time,” she answered in a voice so rich and soft that the words sounded like a caress, accompanied as they were by a smiling glance at her husband. “Why, is that poor Mr. Carling still at work? It is too bad of you, Robert, to detain him on this night of all others.”

She spoke as though she had but just caught sight of the industrious secretary, yet as she entered the room she had seen him at once, and noted his occupation.

She crossed to his side now in a graceful, leisurely manner that, to her husband’s admiring eyes, seemed perfectly natural. He did not perceive the keen glance she directed, not at the secretary, but at the papers over which he was poring.

“It is too bad!” she repeated in her caressing voice. “You should--what is the word?--ah, yes, you should _strike_, Mr. Carling.”

Roger looked up and stumbled to his feet, thereby interposing himself as a screen between her and his writing-table.

“Not at all, though it’s awfully kind of you to say so, Lady Rawson,” he murmured confusedly. “As I told Sir Robert, I had nothing particular to do this evening; Grace doesn’t expect me, and I’d rather finish up everything to the last moment.”

“Is the work important?” She directed the question to her husband.

“Yes, and we really must not hinder him. Good night, my boy. We shall see you to-morrow. You’ll put those papers in the safe as usual, of course. I’ll attend to them in the morning--or to-night, perhaps.”

“Yes, sir. Good night. Good-bye, Lady Rawson.”

“Not good-bye; you forget that I also will come to the marriage,” she said graciously, giving him her hand.

“We shall be honoured,” he murmured, as he bowed over the small gloved hand, with outward deference and inward aversion.

He disliked and distrusted his chief’s lovely young wife--why he did not know, for her manner towards him had always been charming. It was a purely instinctive feeling which, naturally, he had carefully concealed, and of which he was not a little ashamed; but there it was.

She was of foreign birth, but of what nationality no one seemed to know; a strikingly handsome young woman, whose marriage to the elderly financier had created a considerable sensation, for Sir Robert had long been considered a confirmed bachelor. Malicious tongues had predicted a speedy and scandalous dissolution of this union of May and December, but those predictions were as yet unfulfilled, for Lady Rawson’s conduct was irreproachable. She appeared as absolutely devoted to her husband as he was to her, and even the most inveterate and malignant gossip found no opportunity of assailing her fair fame. Yet, although immensely admired she was not popular. There was something of the sphinx about her--a serene but impenetrable mystery. Roger Carling was by no means the only person who felt that strong aversion from her.

He watched her now as, by her husband’s side, she recrossed the large room, moving with the languid, sinuous grace peculiar to her. She looked royally beautiful to-night, in a diaphanous robe of vivid green and gold tissue, an emerald tiara poised proudly on her splendid, simply dressed black hair, a magnificent emerald collar scintillating on her white neck.

She turned at the door and flashed a farewell smile at the young man, to which, as to Sir Robert’s genial nod, he responded with a bow.

“What is there about her that always makes me think of a snake?” he asked himself as, with a sigh of genuine relief, he reseated himself at the writing-table. “And Grace feels just the same, though she has always been jolly nice to her. I wish she wasn’t coming to-morrow, but of course it can’t be helped. Wonder what took her to that unlikely place yesterday, for I’ll swear it was she, though I’ve never seen her in that get-up before, but I’d know her walk anywhere. However, it’s none of my business where she goes or what she does.”

He addressed himself to his task again--an absorbing one, for the papers contained startling and most valuable information, which should be communicated to the Government with as little delay as possible. That was Sir Robert’s duty, of course.

He finished at last, folded and arranged the papers in order, with his translation and notes on top, tied them with red tape, stuffed them into a blue, canvas-lined official envelope printed with Sir Robert’s address, sealed the package--quite a bulky one--and bestowed it in a small safe in the wall, cunningly concealed behind one of the oak panels. Only he and his chief knew the secret of the panel or possessed keys of the safe.

“Thank goodness, that’s done,” he ejaculated, as he closed the panel, which slid noiselessly into place. “Ten o’clock, by Jove! Those fellows will think I’m never coming.”

He was to spend the last night of his bachelor existence at Austin Starr’s chambers in Westminster, where a convivial supper-party awaited him. He had already telephoned that he would not arrive till late.

In the hall he encountered Thomson, Sir Robert’s confidential man--a short, spare, reticent individual, who had grown grey in his master’s service.

“Won’t you have some coffee, sir, or a whisky-and-soda,” he asked, as he helped Roger into his coat.

“No, thanks. Good night, Thomson, and good-bye. I shan’t be back for some weeks, you know.”

“Good-bye, sir, and the best of good luck to you and the young lady.”

The last words were an astonishing concession, for Thomson seldom uttered an unnecessary syllable--not even to his master. Roger was surprised and touched.

“Good old Thomson!” he thought, as he hailed a passing taxi. “I suppose he actually approves of me after all, though I should never have guessed it! What a queer old stick he is.”

He was greeted uproariously by the small assemblage that awaited him at Austin Starr’s snug flat in Great Smith Street: Starr himself, a smart young American journalist, whom he had met when he was on service during the war, and with whom he had formed a friendship that seemed likely to prove permanent; George Winston, a Foreign Office clerk, who was to be his “best man” to-morrow; and some half-dozen others.

Already he had dismissed from his mind everything connected with the task that had detained him, and never gave it another thought. But it was abruptly recalled to him the next morning when he was awakened by his host.

“Real sorry to disturb you, Roger. Late? No, it’s quite bright and early, but they’ve rung you up from Grosvenor Gardens--Sir Robert himself.”

“Sir Robert! What on earth can he want at this hour!” he exclaimed, springing out of bed and hurrying to the telephone.

“Is that you, sir?... Those papers? They’re in the safe.... _Not there!_ But they must be. Sealed up in one of the blue envelopes. They can’t have been stolen--it’s impossible.... Yes, of course, sir, I’ll come up at once.”

Chapter II

“Murder Most Foul!”

“I want to telephone.”

“Yes, madam. What number?”

“I---- Can’t I ring up for myself?”

The momentary hesitation in speech caused the busy little postmistress to glance up at her customer--a lady of medium height and slender figure, well but quietly dressed. She wore a motor hat with a dark-blue veil which fell loosely over her face, shrouding her features; but Mrs. Cave judged her to be handsome, and guessed her elderly, for she saw the gleam of white hair. A nervous old lady, probably unused to telephoning.

“No, madam. If you will just give me the number I will tell you when you are connected. The booth is at the end of the shop.”

The lady glanced in the direction indicated and again hesitated, standing at the railed-in post office counter and resting a fairly large morocco bag on it--a dressing or jewel bag--though she retained her grip of the handle with both hands. The right hand was ungloved and several valuable rings sparkled on the delicate white fingers.

“Oh, very well! No. 5339 Granton. How much?” she said at last, speaking in a low voice, with a slight but perceptible foreign accent. Removing her bejewelled hand from the bag, she fumbled in a châtelaine purse and produced a shilling.

Mrs. Cave entered and applied for the call before she took the coin and dealt out the change.

The bell tinkled, and at the same instant two other customers came into the shop.

“Your number, madam,” said Mrs. Cave, indicating the ’phone booth. “Your change.”

But the lady was already on her way to the box, and, setting the change aside on the counter, the postmistress turned to serve the new-comers--a woman who wanted to draw ten shillings from the savings bank, a man and a child demanding stamps. As she attended to them briskly in turn, two more people entered and went to the stationery counter opposite.

Mrs. Cave glanced at them apologetically; fortunately she knew them both, but it really was trying that a rush should come just at this moment when she was single-handed. Her husband was out, her niece at dinner upstairs.

“That’s your parcel, Mr. Laidlaw,” she called from behind her grating. “There, on the right. Jessie will be down to serve you in half a minute, Miss Ellis.”

As she spoke she rang the bell to summon her niece, and also, as the telephone sounded the end of the call, she mechanically rang off. Other customers came in, and for a few minutes she and Jessie were as busy as they could be, and only when the shop was clear again did she notice the change set aside for the telephone customer.

“There, that lady never asked for her change after all, and I didn’t see her go out either. I dare say she’ll be back for it directly. Did you finish your dinner, Jessie? No? Then you’d better run up and have it while there’s time.”

Jessie Jackson, a nice-looking, fresh-complexioned girl, very like her capable little aunt, came from behind the news counter, and passed along to the door at the back leading to the house, close by and at right angles to that of the telephone booth; a dark corner on this dull, foggy November day.

“There’s something wet here!” she exclaimed. “Somebody must have been spilling some water.”

She reached for an electric switch and turned on the light.

An instant later Mrs. Cave heard a shriek that brought her rushing out of the post office, to find the girl leaning back against the doorpost, her face blanched, her dilated eyes staring at the horrible pool in which she was standing--a pool of blood, forming from a stream that trickled over the sill of the telephone booth, the door of which was partly open.

“My God! What’s happened?” cried Mrs. Cave. “Here, pull yourself together, girl, and get out of the way.”

Clutching Jessie’s arm she hauled her aside and pulled open the door. Something lurched forward--a heap surmounted by a blue veil.

“It’s her, the lady herself; she--she must have broken a blood vessel--or something,” she gasped, bending down and trying to lift the huddled figure, for she was a clever and resourceful little woman, and as yet no suspicion of the ghastly truth had flashed to her mind. “Run, Jessie--run and call someone--anyone.”

But Jessie had collapsed on a chair by the counter, sobbing and shaking, half-fainting, and it was her aunt whose screams summoned the neighbours and passers-by. The greengrocer from the opposite corner shop was first on the scene, wiping his mouth as he ran, for he too had been disturbed at dinner. In less than a minute the shop was filled to overflowing, and a crowd had gathered outside, through which a belated policeman shouldered his way.

“’Ere, make way there! Stand back, will you? What’s up ’ere?” he began with pompous authority. “Good Lord! Why, it’s murder!”

“It can’t be--how can it?” sobbed poor Mrs. Cave, whose nerve had given way at last. “Why, there wasn’t a soul anywhere near her!”

“Do you know who she is?” demanded the officer, bending over the corpse, but not touching it. The woman was dead, not a doubt of that. It was best to leave her as she was till the doctor arrived.

A ghastly object she looked lying huddled there, her head still shrouded in the blue motor veil, now horribly drenched and bedabbled. It had been flung back from her face--probably she had raised it herself when she entered the booth a few short minutes before--and her naturally handsome features were distorted to an expression of fear and horror, the dark eyes half open, the lips drawn back showing the white, even teeth. There was no doubt as to the cause of death, for under her left ear was plainly visible the still-welling wound--a clean stab less than half an inch broad that had completely severed the jugular vein.

“I never saw her before,” cried Mrs. Cave, wringing her hands helplessly. “She just came in to telephone, and when she went into the booth several people came in and we were busy for a few minutes, and I never thought a word about her till we found her--Jessie and I--like that! She _must_ have done it herself--and in our shop, too! Oh, whatever shall we do!”

At the moment the obvious thing to be done was to clear the shop and summon the local doctor and the district police inspector, who arrived simultaneously a few minutes later.

The woman had been murdered, not a doubt of that, for it was impossible that such a wound could have been self-inflicted. It was extraordinarily deep, penetrating nearly three inches, and causing practically instantaneous death; while no weapon whatever was discovered nor anything that, at the moment, disclosed the identity of the victim.

One fact was established at once: that she had been partially disguised, for the white hair which Mrs. Cave had noticed proved to be a wig--what hairdressers describe as a “transformation”--adjusted over the natural hair, silky, luxuriant dark tresses closely coiled about the shapely head. Her age was judged by the doctor to be about five-and-twenty, and she was a fine and handsome young woman, presumably wealthy also. Certainly her white, well-shaped, beautifully kept hands had had no acquaintance with work of any kind, and the rings on the slender fingers were extremely valuable, among them a wedding ring. On the floor of the booth was found her gold purse, containing a sum of four pounds odd in notes and silver.

But of the murderer there was no trace whatever, except, indeed, a wet and bloodstained dishcloth lying in the sink of a little scullery place behind the shop. The house was originally a private one, and the whole of the ground floor had been converted into business premises. The Cave’s kitchen and living-room were on the first floor, the stairs going up just inside the door leading into the shop at the back, beside the telephone booth. At the foot of the staircase was a private door opening on to a side street, and beyond it the scullery and a fairly long garden, with a door at the end through which also the side street could be gained. This door had bolts top and bottom, but they were now drawn back, though the door itself was closed.

“Is this door always kept open like this?” asked the inspector of little Mrs. Cave, who, though still piteously agitated, followed him and managed to answer his many questions promptly and intelligibly.

“No, it’s never unbolted except when the dustmen come, and I bolted it myself after them yesterday.”

The inspector nodded, and jotted a line in his notebook. Stepping out into the street, he glanced up and down. It was a particularly quiet and respectable little street, the upper end flanked by the walls of the gardens belonging to the two corner houses, the lower by small suburban villas, each with its tiny garden in front: a street where usually at this time of day the only passers-by were children returning to school, but where already a big and increasing crowd was assembled at the corner by the Cave’s shop and house.

“There’s the inspector; you just come along and tell him what you saw, Margie,” cried a woman, who thereupon ran towards him, dragging a pretty little girl by the hand. “Please, sir, my Margie saw a man come out of the side door and run away just before the screaming began.”

“What’s that? Come, tell me all about it, my dear. Quick, where did he come from? This door?”

“No, sir--that,” said the child promptly, pointing to the house door. “Mother sent me for a lemon, and----”

“What was he like?”

“One of them shovers, sir, that drives the taxis. He was saying swear words, and run ever so fast down the street.” Again she pointed.

“Did you see his cab--a taxicab?”

“No, there wasn’t only me and the man.”

“Should you know him again?”

“Yes, sir, I think so.”

“Good girl! What’s your name? Margery Davies--at number six? That’s right.”

With a kindly nod, leaving Margie and her mother to be surrounded and questioned by the excited crowd that had followed them and listened to the brief colloquy--he entered the garden, just in time to encounter Jessie Jackson, who stumbled against him, and would have fallen if he had not shot out a ready arm to support her.

“Hallo! Who’s this young woman, and what’s the matter with her?” he demanded, lowering her to the ground, gently enough, and scrutinizing her face--a pretty, innocent-looking young face, deadly pale at this moment, for the girl had fainted.

“It’s Jessie, my niece, that found the poor thing, as I told you. It’s upset her--no wonder. Why, Jessie, dear,” cried Mrs. Cave, incoherently, kneeling beside her and frantically chafing her limp hands.

“I must see her presently, when you’ve got her round,” said the inspector, and returned to the house.

Chapter III

The Taxicab

A curious hush brooded over the shop, closed by order of the inspector. Even the post office business must be suspended for the present.

On the floor between the counters was a long object covered by a coloured tablecloth--the corpse of the murdered woman, with limbs decently straightened now. Beside it, on a shop chair, sat the doctor, grave and silent, awaiting the arrival of the ambulance which would convey the body to the mortuary, there to await identification.

Outside the glass doors two constables were stationed, monotonously requesting the crowd to “pass along there”; and behind the post office counter was a third, who turned to his superior.

“I’ve rung up 5339 Granton, sir, and----”

“Half a minute,” said the inspector, going to the telephone and giving instructions to the station, that instituted an immediate search for a fugitive taxicab driver--one who presumably belonged to and was familiar with the neighbourhood.

“Well, what about 5339?”

“They say that they were rung up, sir, just about the time--one thirty-five--but nobody spoke, and they supposed it must have been a wrong call as they were rung off again immediately.”

“Who are they?”

“A flat in Lely Mansions, Chelsea, sir, name of Winston; it was a maid servant spoke, but the name’s all right--Mr. George Winston. I’ve looked it up in the Directory.”

A slight commotion was heard from the back, Mrs. Cave was helping her niece up the stairs, and Inspector Evans promptly followed to the kitchen over the back shop, which was also the living-room, with the remains of dinner on the table, including a plate with a mutton chop and potatoes, untouched.

The girl had only partially recovered, and was trembling and sobbing. As the inspector appeared in the doorway she uttered a moan as of fear, and really looked as if she was about to faint again.

“Come, come, this won’t do,” he said, cheeringly and encouragingly. “Pull yourself together, missie. Have you got a drop of brandy to give her, Mrs. Cave? It’s what she wants.”

“There’s some in my cupboard upstairs, in case of illness. There, sit down, dearie, while I run and fetch it.”

Little Mrs. Cave hurried away, and the girl eyed her companion shrinkingly, but to her momentary relief he said nothing--merely glanced round the room in a seemingly casual manner. In half a minute her aunt fluttered back, bringing a small flat bottle half filled with brandy.

“Give it her neat, ma’am. There, that’s better; it’s been an upsetting time for you both, eh?”

“That it has!” Mrs. Cave assented vehemently. “I can’t believe it even now, and never shall I forget it. I don’t wonder the child nearly died of fright. And--why, Jessie, dear, why ever hadn’t you eaten your dinner?”

“I was just going to--when you rang--and--and----”

The mumbling words broke off and Jessie hid her face in her hands.

“You didn’t feel to want your dinner then?”

The inspector’s voice was mild but insistent.

“Or you hadn’t time to begin--was that it?”

“But you came up ever so long before. I left it all ready for you; we haven’t got a servant just now, you see, only a girl that comes in mornings,” Mrs. Cave interposed flustered, perplexed, and explanatory.

“Who was here talking to you, so that you forgot to eat your dinner?”

That question was blunt and sharp enough, and Mrs. Cave stared in incredulous astonishment and dismay from the inspector to Jessie.

“Come, answer me, missie!”

The girl looked up at that, and the wild fear in her eyes rendered his suspicion a certainty.

“There wasn’t anyone here,” she muttered.

“Then what’s this?” It was a half-smoked cigarette, that he picked up from a used plate at the other side of the table--the plate from which Mrs. Cave had eaten her pudding an hour before. “Do either of you ladies smoke Woodbines?”

“Smoke? I should think not!” cried Mrs. Cave. “Jessie, Jessie--oh, what does it all mean?”

The girl started to her feet, her eyes glaring, a spot of colour flashing into each pallid cheek.

“I don’t know. I tell you there wasn’t anyone here. I’ll swear it! What do you want to goad me like this for? I won’t answer another question--so there!” she vociferated hysterically. “I never murdered her. I never knew or thought a thing about it all till I saw--I saw----”

Her fictitious strength departed, and she sank down again, wailing like a distraught creature.

“You’ll have to answer questions at the inquest to-morrow, my girl, and you’ll be on your oath then,” said Evans, stowing the cigarette in the pocket of his notebook as he retreated. He knew she was concealing something, but recognized that it was impossible to get any information out of her at the moment, while there were many other matters that claimed his immediate attention.

The ambulance had arrived, together with several more police constables, and a taxicab had drawn up by the curb. From it an alert-looking, clean-shaved young man alighted, and, pushing his way authoritatively through the crowd, began interrogating the men on guard at the door.

Evans saw him through the glass, recognized an acquaintance, and himself opened the door.

“Come in, Mr. Starr; might have known you’d be turning up, though how you got wind of it so soon beats me. Vultures aren’t in it with you newspaper gents!”

“Pure chance this time. I was on my way to a wedding and saw the crowd,” said Austin Starr. “You’ll give me the facts as far as they go? Is that--it?”

Evans nodded.

“A lady; we don’t know yet who she is.”

At a sign from him the doctor bent, and with a quiet reverent touch uncovered the face. Starr looked down at it, and started uncontrollably.

“Great Scott!” he ejaculated, in an awestruck whisper.

“You know her?”

“I’ve seen her a good few times. She’s Lady Rawson--Sir Robert Rawson’s wife.”

“Lady Rawson!”

“That’s so; and I’m plumb certain she was to have been at this very wedding to-day, and Sir Ralph, too!”

“What wedding’s that?”

“Sir Robert’s secretary, Roger Carling. We’re old friends; he slept at my place last night, and he’s marrying Miss Armitage at St. Paul’s Church near here. But that’s no matter. Give me the story right now, please.”

A story that, a few minutes later, was augmented by the startling news that the taxicab for which the police were on the look out had already been traced, and under singular circumstances. Recklessly driven, it had come to grief at the Broadway, a mile or so distant, by colliding with a motor van; with the result that the cab was smashed, the driver--identified as Charles Sadler, No. C417--badly injured, while within the vehicle was found Lady Rawson’s bag, which had been cut open by some sharp instrument and was quite empty.

Chapter IV

A Belated Bridegroom

While the tragic commotion in the High Road was at its height a very different scene was being enacted at the fine old riverside church three-quarters of a mile away. A smart wedding is a rare event in the suburbs, and, despite the gloomy weather conditions--for a thick fog hung over the river and was now rapidly extending inland--an interested crowd assembled outside, watching the arrival of the many guests, dimly seen through the thickening murk, while along the Mall was a line of carriages and motors, looking like a file of fiery-eyed monsters, when the rapidly increasing darkness necessitated the lighting of their head-lamps.

The bevy of bridesmaids waited in the porch, chief among them Winnie Winston, a tall, handsome girl, with frank, laughing blue eyes. She alone of the little group appeared undaunted by the sinister gloom.

“For goodness’ sake, don’t look so lugubrious, girls!” she counselled, in a laughing undertone. “It’s too bad of the fog to come just now--after such a lovely morning too!--but it can’t be helped, and----”

She turned as someone touched her arm--her brother George, who was “best man” to-day, and even her high spirits were checked by his worried expression.

“I say, Win, Roger hasn’t turned up yet. What on earth’s to be done?”

“Not turned up! Why, where is he? Haven’t you been with him?”

“No. When I got to Starr’s rooms he wasn’t there. He left a message that Sir Robert had ’phoned for him, and if he didn’t get back by one o’clock he’d come straight on to the church, but he’s not here.”

“Perhaps there’s a fog in Town too,” she suggested, with a backward glance at the Rembrandtesque scene outside, where the shaft of light from the open door shone weirdly on the watching faces. “He’ll come directly--he must! Where’s Mr. Starr?”

“Haven’t seen him.”

“Then they’re probably together, or he may be coming on with Sir Robert and Lady Rawson. They’re not here yet, are they? What on earth can Sir Robert have wanted him for this morning? Horribly inconsiderate of him! Goodness, here’s Grace! Have you told the vicar that Roger hasn’t come? Then you’d better do so.”

She resumed her place as the bride advanced on her father’s arm, looking like a white ghost in her gleaming satin robe, with the filmy veil shrouding her bent head and her fair face.

“What’s the matter?” whispered the second bridesmaid.

“Nothing. S--sh!” answered Winnie, and breathed a silent thanksgiving as the choir struck up the hymn and began slowly to advance up the aisle, the bridal procession following. But her heart sank as she saw her brother hurry along the south aisle and out at the side door, evidently in the hope of meeting the tardy bridegroom.

Where could he be? And why hadn’t Austin Starr arrived? Not that Starr’s absence was anything extraordinary, for his exacting profession rendered him a socially erratic being. It was for that very reason that he had refused to fill the office of best man.

The hymn came to an end, the choir stood in their stalls, the bridal party halted at the chancel and there was a horrible pause, punctuated by the uneasy whispers exchanged by the guests.

The vicar came forward at length and proposed an adjournment to the vestry. He was no ordinary cleric, but a man with a fine, forceful, and magnetic personality, endowed, moreover, with consummate tact and good feeling; in brief, the Reverend Joseph Iverson was--and is--a Christian and gentleman in every sense of those often misused words.

“We can wait more comfortably in here,” he announced cheerily, as he brought forward a rush-bottomed chair for the bride, and in fatherly fashion, with a compelling hand on her shoulder, placed her in it.

“There, sit you down, and don’t be distressed, my dear child. I’m quite sure there’s no cause for alarm. Anyone--even a bridegroom--may be excused for losing his way in such a fog as this that has descended upon us. That’s the explanation of his absence, depend upon it. And he will arrive in another minute or two--in a considerable fluster, I’ll be bound, poor lad!”

His genial laugh reassured the others, who stood round, awkward, anxious, and embarrassed, as people naturally are at such a moment; but Grace looked up at him with a glance so tragic that it startled and distressed him.

He had known her ever since she was a little child, and never had he thought to see such an expression in her gentle grey eyes.

“It’s not that--not the fog,” she whispered, so low that he had to bend his head to catch the words. “Something terrible has happened; I feel it--I’m certain of it!”

Winnie Winston, standing close beside her, overheard the whisper. Her eyes met the vicar’s in mutual interrogation, perplexity, and dismay, and the same thought flashed through both their minds. Grace knew something, feared something; but what?

“Nonsense!” he responded. “You are nervous and upset--that’s only natural; but you mustn’t start imagining all sorts of things, for----”

“Here he is!” exclaimed Winnie in accents of fervent relief, as Roger, attended by George Winston, hurried into the vestry, hot and agitated, looking very unlike a bridegroom, especially as he was still wearing his ordinary morning suit.

He had eyes and speech only for his bride.

“Grace! Forgive me, darling! I couldn’t help it really. Sir Robert kept me, and then I couldn’t get a cab, and had to walk from--from the station.” She did not notice the momentary hesitation that marked the last words, though she remembered it afterwards. “I lost my way in the fog and thought I should never get here in time!”

“Just as I said!” remarked the vicar triumphantly. “Come along now, we’ve no time to lose.”

He led the way, a stately self-possessed figure, and the delayed service proceeded.

“Oh, Roger, I was so frightened!” Grace confided to her bridegroom as they drove slowly back through the gloom to her father’s house. “I felt sure something dreadful had happened to you; and the fog coming on like this too! It--it seems so unlucky, so sinister!”

She shivered, and he clasped her more closely, with masculine indifference to the danger of crumpling her finery.

“Cheer up, darling, it’s all right. We shall soon be out of the fog and into the sunshine,” he laughed. “And the fog wasn’t the chief cause of delay, after all. I should have got to the church before it came on if I hadn’t had to go to Sir Robert. I was awfully upset about it, but it couldn’t be helped.”

“Why, is anything wrong?”

“Afraid so. Some important papers have disappeared. I put them in the safe myself last night; the Rawsons were dining out and I stayed rather late, over these very papers. When Sir Robert went to get them this morning they were gone, though there was nothing to show that the safe had been tampered with; in fact, it hadn’t. It’s a most mysterious thing!”

He tried to speak lightly, but her sensitive ears caught the note of anxiety in his voice, and that queer sense of foreboding assailed her afresh.

“Oh, Roger, have they been found?”

“They hadn’t when I came away soon after twelve.”

“Then--then what will happen? Were they very important?”

“Very,” he replied, ignoring the first question, which was really unanswerable. “However, it’s no use worrying about them, darling; if they should have turned up Sir Robert is sure to come or telephone. Here we are!”

There was no time to spare for further thought or conjecture concerning the mystery of the missing papers until, an hour and a half later, they were on their way to Victoria, whirling rapidly along in a taxi, for the fog had lifted.

They had none too much time to get the train to Dover, where they intended to stay the night at the “Lord Warden” and cross to Calais next day, _en route_ for Paris and the Riviera.

“The Rawsons didn’t come after all,” Grace remarked. “Mother was so disappointed, poor dear, for she had been telling every one about them, and then they never turned up! I’m not sorry though--at least about Lady Rawson. I don’t know what there is about her that always makes me think of a snake. That sounds very ungrateful when she gave me these lovely furs”--she glanced down at the costly chinchilla wrap and muff she wore, which had been Lady Rawson’s wedding gift--“but really I can’t help it.”

“Same here! And it really is curious considering she’s always been so jolly decent to us both. I wonder----”

He broke off, knitting his brows perplexedly, and as if in response to his unspoken thought Grace exclaimed:

“Roger, do you think she could have had anything to do with those missing papers?”

He glanced at her in astonishment.

“What makes you ask that, darling?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. It just flashed into my mind. But do you think so? Sir Robert didn’t ’phone to you, did he?”

“No. And I don’t know what to think about Lady Rawson. Oh, bother the papers; let’s forget all about them--for to-day, anyhow! I say, beloved, it doesn’t seem possible that we’re really married and off on our honeymoon, does it?”

She laughed, softly and shyly, and again the shadow fled for a time. What did anything matter save the fact that they were together, with all the world before them?

“Why don’t you smoke?” she asked presently. “I’m sure you’re dying for a cigarette, you poor boy; and I don’t believe you had anything to eat at the house--it was all such a fluster. We’ll have tea in the train, if George Winston has the sense to order a tea-basket for us.”

“Trust old George for that,” laughed Roger, feeling in one pocket after the other. “He never forgets anything. Now, where on earth is that cigarette case?”

“Did you have it this morning?”

“Of course I did. It’s the one you gave me at Christmas; I’ve never been without it since.”

“Perhaps it’s in your other suit,” she suggested; “the clothes you were to have worn.”

“No, it’s not, for I had it all right this morning; but I haven’t got it now, that’s certain!”

His face and manner expressed more concern than mere loss of a cigarette case would seem to warrant, even though it was one of her gifts to him.

“Never mind. I dare say it will turn up; and perhaps you’ll have time to get some at Victoria. We’re nearly there. Why, Roger, what’s the matter?”

The cab had halted by the station entrance in Wilton Road, waiting its turn to enter, and Roger, still fumbling in his pockets in the futile search for the cigarette case, suddenly leaned forward and stared out of the window, uttering a quick exclamation as of surprise and horror.

There was the usual bustling throng passing in and out of the station, and on the curb stood a newsboy vociferating monotonously,

“’Orrible murder of a Society lady; pyper--speshul.”

“What is it, Roger? Oh, what is it?” cried Grace, leaning forward in her turn and craning her pretty neck. The newsboy turned aside at that instant, and she did not see the placard he was exhibiting, but Roger had seen it:

Lady Rawson Murdered!

The great black letters seemed to hit him in the face. He felt for a moment as if he had received a physical and stunning blow.

“What is it?” Grace repeated, as the cab glided on.

“What? Oh, nothing at all, dear. I thought I saw someone I knew,” he muttered confusedly. But his face was ghastly, and little beads of sweat started out on his forehead.

“Here’s George!” he added, and Winston, who had gone on with the luggage, opened the door of the taxi. He also looked worried and flustered, though perhaps that was only natural since he greeted them with:

“Here you are at last! I thought you were going to miss the train. We’ve only a bare minute, but the luggage is in all right, and I’ve reserved a compartment. Come on.”

He hustled them on to the platform, and as Grace, bewildered and disturbed, entered the carriage, he detained Roger, ostensibly for the purpose of handing him the tickets.

“I say, have you heard the news--about Lady Rawson?”

“I saw a placard a moment ago, and I can’t credit it.”

“It’s true enough, I’m afraid. Awful, isn’t it? So mysterious too, and within a mile of the church where you were married--that makes it all the more horrible. Here’s a paper; don’t let Grace see it though; keep the whole thing from her as long as you can. It will upset----”

“Going on, sir? Step in, please.”

At the guard’s admonition Roger sprang in, the door was slammed, the whistle sounded, and as the train glided away George Winston ran alongside, waving his hat and shouting with an excellent assumption of gaiety.

“Good-bye, Grace--good-bye, old man. Good luck to you both.”

Roger leaned out of the window and nodded as if in responsive farewell, an action that gave him a few seconds in which to regain his self-possession and marshal his distracted thoughts.

George was right. The knowledge of the tragedy that necessarily would affect them both so strongly must be kept from Grace as long as possible. That it should have occurred on their wedding day, and that the victim should have been the woman who was to have been the principal wedding guest seemed monstrous, incredible. Yet it was true! Hastily he stuffed the evening paper Winston had given him into his pocket. If he had kept it in his hand he could not have resisted the impulse to read the fatal news, and he dare not trust himself to do that at present. Grace’s voice, with a new, nervous note in it, roused him to the necessity of facing the situation.

“Roger! Do take care, dear. You’ll lose your hat or----”

“Or my head? Mustn’t lose that, or it will be all up with me, considering that I lost my heart ages ago!”

He laughed as he settled himself in the seat opposite her, but he did not meet her eyes, dark with trouble and perplexity. She loved him with all the strength of her nature--a nature essentially sweet and pure and steadfast. She thought she understood his every mood; but now, on this supreme day that linked her life to his once and for all, his manner was so strange that her heart failed her.

His restless gaze lighted on a tea-basket and a pile of periodicals ranged on the cushions beside her.

“Hallo! So he thought of the tea after all. Good old George! Let’s have it, shall we, darling?”

He talked gaily, irresponsibly, as they drank their tea but she was not deceived--was more than ever certain that he was concealing something from her, though what it might be she could not imagine.

Presently she leant back in her corner and closed her eyes, but after an interval of silence she glanced up. Roger’s face was concealed behind a newspaper, which he appeared to be studying intently.

“Any news?” she asked. “I don’t believe I’ve looked at a paper for days.”

He did not lower the sheet immediately, and she noticed, half mechanically, that his grip on it tightened. She recalled later, as one does recall such trifles when circumstances have invested them with special significance, the little convulsive movement of his hands--fine, characteristic hands they were, strong and nervous.

“Nothing of any consequence; these rags are all alike,” he answered, as he tossed the paper out of the open window and moved impetuously to her side. “Grace! My own--my very own at last, there’s nothing in the world matters to you and me to-day except ourselves!”

He caught and held her in his embrace with a passion that increased her vague fears, for hitherto he had never been a demonstrative lover, devoted though they were to each other.

He kissed her lips, her eyes, her soft white throat, fiercely, hungrily.

“Roger, Roger, don’t; you--you frighten me!” she gasped, weak and breathless. “Oh----”

Her head drooped limply on to his shoulder. For a moment he thought she had actually fainted, and the shock restored his self-control.

“Forgive me, sweetheart!” he cried with quick compunction. “I must have been mad to upset you so. It’s been an upsetting sort of day, hasn’t it? But it’s all right now, really!”

He was holding her now firmly, tenderly, protectively, master of himself once more; and she nestled against him, revived and reassured. He was her own Roger again--the man whom she loved and trusted.

“It was silly of me,” she confessed, smiling up at him--an April smile, for the tears had risen to her sweet grey eyes. “And you’re right, dear; it has been an upsetting day, with the fog, and Sir Robert detaining you, and--and everything else. And you’re still worrying about those missing papers. I know you are, though you’re trying to pretend you’re not! Perhaps you think I might be--oh, I don’t know how to put it--jealous. No, that’s not the word I want. That you’re afraid I might be vexed because you could think of anything in the world except me, on this day, of all the days in our life! But it’s not so, Roger--really it isn’t! I want to share your troubles--I mean to share them. I--I’m your wife.”

Too deeply moved for words he held her to his heart, and again their lips met, though this time the kiss was reverent as a sacrament.

Chapter V

Returned!

“You are certain no one but yourself and Mr. Carling possesses a key to the safe, Sir Robert?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you think it impossible that anyone may have obtained either of the keys and had a duplicate made.”

“No copy has been made,” Sir Robert answered. “The pattern is unique, it could not be reproduced except by the makers, and I telephoned to them this morning. In any case they would not have made another key except from my personal instructions.”

“H’m.”

Snell, the detective, who had been summoned to Grosvenor Gardens on that eventful afternoon, stood thoughtfully sliding the secret panel to and fro.

“You are sure no one could have access to either of the existing keys--in the course of the night, or early this morning?”

“Quite sure. Carling declares that his was never out at his possession for an instant till he handed it to me just now, and I put it on the ring with my own.”

Sir Robert pulled the keys, attached to a strong steel chain, out of his trousers pocket, and slipped them back again.

“Just so. I’d like to have seen Mr. Carling, but of course he had to go; a man doesn’t get married every day. Where do you keep your own keys at night, Sir Robert?”

“Under my pillow. It is quite impossible that anyone can have obtained possession of them without my knowledge.”

“Yet the papers disappeared,” remarked the detective dryly. “Well, will you give me a description of them, Sir Robert? You say they were secret dispatches; were they in cipher?”

“One was; it was in French, and would be quite unintelligible to anyone who did not possess the key to the code used. Mr. Carling’s report on them both was also written in our private cipher, which only he and I understand.”

“Have you a key to that cipher?”

“Only in our heads; Carling invented it, and we memorized it.”

“How about the French code? Was that memorized also?”

“By ourselves, yes; at least we are so familiar with it that we never need to consult the code. It’s in the drawer of the safe.”

“That has not been stolen, then?”

“No. The theft of the French paper and of Carling’s report really does not matter much, for practically it would be impossible for any outside person to decipher them; but the other, which is by far the most important, was not in cipher, unfortunately.”

“What language was it in?”

“Russian.”

Snell glanced up quickly, as the thought flashed to his mind that Lady Rawson was herself said to be Russian by birth. Sir Robert did not meet his eyes. He appeared to be regarding an ivory paper-knife that he was fingering. His face was drawn and haggard; he seemed to have aged by ten years in the course of the last few hours, yet he was perfectly self-possessed.

“Whom do you suspect, Sir Robert?”

The blunt, point-blank question would have startled any ordinary man into an admission--even by an unguarded gesture--that he was concealing something. But Sir Robert Rawson’s face betrayed nothing, and he continued to play with the paper-knife as he replied:

“If I had any reason to suspect anyone, I should have told you at once, Mr. Snell. The whole affair is a mystery to me.”

“They were in the safe last night?”

“I cannot say. As a matter of fact, I meant to have dealt with them last night, but when we returned--Lady Rawson and I were at a dinner party--I felt extremely tired and went straight to bed. When I found the papers were missing this morning I was not especially alarmed at the moment; I imagined they had proved to be of little consequence, and that perhaps Carling had taken them with him to finish later. It was only when I rang him up on the telephone, and he came round, that I realized how serious the matter was, and even then I thought it possible that he might have merely mislaid them.”

“Who besides yourself and Mr. Carling knew of the existence and importance of the papers, and that they were in the house?”

“Not a soul!” Sir Robert’s tone was absolutely emphatic.

“Not to your knowledge perhaps, Sir Robert; but someone must certainly have known. Did anyone come into the room while Mr. Carling was engaged on them last night?”

“No one at all after I left.”

“He told you so?”

“Yes, and Thomson, my confidential servant, confirmed that.”

“Does Thomson know of the loss of the papers?”

“Yes. He is the only one of the servants who does know at present, though the others were questioned--all who were in and out of the room either last night or this morning. Although Carling was positive he placed the papers in the safe, I thought it possible he might have been mistaken, and that he left them on the table.”

“Has he ever made such a mistake before?”

The ghost of a smile flitted across Sir Robert’s stern face.

“No, but there would have been considerable excuse if he had been guilty of such carelessness last night. However, he declares that he did put them away, in the same envelope in which they were sent to me--an official one, printed with my name and address. He sealed it.”

“About the servants. Are there any foreigners among them?”

“Two only, I believe, both French: the _chef_ and Lady Rawson’s maid.”

“I will see them all in turn, beginning with Thomson. May I ring?”

He put one or two questions to the footman who answered the summons before sending him in search of the valet.

“Who was on duty in the hall last night?”

“I was, sir--till ten, when I went to supper.”

“Were there any callers?”

“No, sir.”

“Mr. Carling was in this room the whole time?”

“I suppose so, sir. I never saw him come out.”

“Did anyone enter the room while Mr. Carling was there?”

“No, sir, only Sir Robert and my lady.”

“Who relieved you when you went off duty?”

“Mr. Thomson was in the hall, sir; he was going to wait up for Sir Robert and my lady. Mr. Jenkins, the butler, and some of the others had the evening off, as the family dined out.”

“Just so. Will you send Mr. Thomson here?”

In the interval Snell turned to Sir Robert, who had evinced no special interest in the brief colloquy; doubtless he had questioned the man to the same purpose already.

“I suppose Lady Rawson is already aware of the loss of these papers, Sir Robert?”

The query was uttered lightly, as if it was of no importance or significance, but was accompanied by a keen glance at Sir Robert’s harassed yet inscrutable face--a glance which again the financier did not meet. He laid down the paper-knife before he answered, in a tone as apparently careless as the detective’s had been.

“No. I should have told her, of course, when we came to the conclusion that they were really lost, but she had already gone out. I was to have joined her after lunch, and gone on to Carling’s wedding. She will be there now,” he added, glancing at the clock on his writing-table.

Snell’s eyes glistened. (“Lady Rawson’s in this, right enough,” he told himself confidently. “And he knows it. He only sent for me as a bit of bluff!”)

Thomson entered, and advanced towards his master, ignoring the presence of a second person. At that moment the telephone on the writing-table tinkled, and Thomson stood still, silent and deferential as usual, as, mechanically, Sir Robert took down the receiver.

“Yes? Yes, I am Sir Robert Rawson. Who is speaking?... Oh!... What’s that?... What?”

The two who were watching him, more or less furtively, were startled, for he dropped the receiver, stumbled to his feet, and glared round helplessly, a dusky flush rising to his face, which was horribly distorted.

Thomson was by his side in an instant, thrusting a supporting arm around him, but Snell sprang forward, seized the receiver and spoke imperatively into the telephone.

“Who is there?... Yes, Sir Robert Rawson was speaking a moment ago, but he has been taken ill.”

He glanced at the group close by. Sir Robert had fallen, or been lowered by Thomson to the floor, and the valet was rapidly unloosening his collar.

“Who are you?... Oh, it’s you, Evans. Western Division. Yes, I’m John Snell of Scotland Yard.... Well, what is it? Lady Rawson murdered! Had she any papers in her possession?... What? Right. I’ll be with you as soon as possible. Ring off.”

“Master, master!” Thomson was stammering. “He’s dying!”

Snell pressed the electric bell, and hurried to meet the footman.

“Sir Robert is taken ill; he’s had bad news. Lady Rawson has been murdered. Better telephone for a doctor and fetch the housekeeper.”

Two minutes later he was speeding westward in a taxi, eager to investigate this sudden and tragic development of the case, for he assumed instantly that the murder was the outcome of the theft of the papers.

At the house in Grosvenor Gardens confusion reigned for a time. The only one among the flurried servants who kept a clear head at this crisis was the imperturbable Thomson, who, after the unwonted outburst of emotion that escaped him as he knelt beside his stricken master, resumed his habitual composure, and promptly took charge of the situation as it affected Sir Robert himself. For the time being he practically ignored the news of the murder, which the others, naturally enough, began discussing with awestruck excitement. Now, as ever, his one thought was his master, and with deft tenderness he did what he thought best--loosening the sufferer’s clothes and raising his head. When the doctor arrived Thomson proved an invaluable assistant in every way.

“Will he recover, sir?” he asked, with poignant anxiety, when at length they quitted the room to which Sir Robert had been carried, leaving him still unconscious, but breathing more naturally, and with a trained nurse already in attendance.

“Yes, yes, I hope so; but it was an overwhelming shock, of course. Is this terrible news about Lady Rawson true? It seems incredible.”

Thomson passed his hand over his forehead dazedly.

“I suppose it is, sir. I haven’t seemed to have time to think about it. It’s a terrible upset, and Mr. Carling away and all. There’s Lord Warrington. Excuse me, sir. I’d better speak to him.”

There were several people in the hall, including a couple of energetic reporters who had managed to enter and were endeavouring to interrogate the worried butler and anyone else whom they could buttonhole, for the news had spread like wildfire, and outside a crowd had assembled, watching and waiting for the grim homecoming of the woman who had left that house but a few hours before in the full vigour of youth and beauty.

Thomson approached a short, spare, but authoritative-looking man, who had just been admitted, and before whom the others gave way respectfully--Lord Warrington of the Foreign Office.

“Will you come in here, my lord?” he said, and ushered him into the library.

The same young footman whom Snell had questioned hurried forward and detained Thomson for a moment, extending a salver with a heap of letters.

“These have just come by post, Mr. Thomson. Hadn’t you better take them?”

Thomson did so mechanically, and followed Lord Warrington, who turned to him the instant the door was closed.

“This is an awful business, Thomson! Where’s Sir Robert?”

“In bed, and at death’s door, my lord. They telephoned the news to him about my lady, and he had a kind of stroke.”

“Good Heavens! But what does it all mean, man? What was Lady Rawson doing out there in the suburbs--and murdered in a post office telephone booth, of all places in the world!”

He waved an evening paper he was carrying, and Thomson glanced at it dully.

“I don’t know anything about it, my lord, except just that my lady was murdered. The Scotland Yard detective told me that, but I didn’t seem to grasp it at the time; I was too distressed about my master, and I’ve been with him ever since.”

“A detective? Did he bring the news?”

“Oh, no, my lord, it was through the telephone. He was here about those papers that are missing----”

“Papers? What papers?”

“Some that arrived by special messenger yesterday, my lord.”

Warrington stared aghast.

“Those! He told me about them at dinner. Missing! D’you mean they’re lost? Stolen?”

“I thought perhaps you knew, my lord. Mr. Carling put them in the safe last night--or said he did--and this morning they were gone. Sir Robert was very put out, and so was Mr. Carling.”

“Gone! Good Lord! I wonder what was in them and who’s got hold of them?” muttered Lord Warrington in utter consternation. His glance lighted on the letters that Thomson held.

“What have you got there?”

Thomson looked at them with a preoccupied air.

“Only some letters, my lord, just come. I don’t know what to do with them, as Mr. Carling’s away.”

“Here, give ’em to me--that one anyhow.”

“That one” was a big, bulky, blue envelope, printed with Sir Robert’s name and address, and showing also the district postmark and a big official stamp indicative of the surcharge for an unpaid letter.

“Where the dickens is Broadway?” Warrington muttered, as he scrutinized it. “Look here, Thomson, I’m going to open this. Why the seal’s broken already!”

“Very good, my lord,” Thomson murmured deferentially but abstractedly. Yet he looked up with quickened interest as Lord Warrington uttered an involuntary exclamation.

“My lord! They--they’re not those very papers?”

“They are! By Jove, that’s the queerest thing I’ve ever known! Now, who the deuce has found and returned them?”

Chapter VI

“No. 5339”

“Thank goodness for some peace and quietness at last! What a day it has been, with everything going wrong from beginning to end; and then this awful affair about poor Lady Rawson coming on the top of all the other happenings. I shall hate the very thought of a wedding in future!”

Winnie Winston shivered and spread her hands to the cheerful blaze in the cosy drawing-room of the flat in Chelsea which she shared with her brother George, who sprawled luxuriously in the easy chair opposite her, while between them was Austin Starr, also very much at his ease. He had found time to come round to apologize for his absence at the wedding, and to discuss the startling and mysterious tragedy of Lady Rawson’s death. There were very few days when he did not manage to see or converse with Winnie Winston, even if their intercourse was limited to a few sentences hurriedly exchanged over the telephone. He loved her; from the first moment that he met her he had decided that she was the one woman in the world for him. But he would not ask her to marry, or even to become engaged to him, until he had an assured position to offer her. Meanwhile, though he secretly hoped that she loved him, he could not be certain of that, for her attitude towards him was one of frank camaraderie that reminded him of his own countrywomen. In many ways she was much more like an American than an English girl.

“Don’t say that, Miss Winnie. I guess the next wedding will be all right,” he responded cheerfully.

“This one wasn’t,” she declared. “I’m not a bit superstitious--not as a rule--but really I’ve never known such a succession of misfortunes. First, the fog, and then Roger being so late, and the Rawsons not turning up. Mrs. Armitage was so sniffy about that; and of course she never imagined what the reason was. Who _could_ imagine anything so horrible? And everything seemed so forlorn after Roger and Grace had gone; it always does somehow, but it was worse than usual to-day. Some of the people were staying--Mrs. Armitage had arranged a theatre party for us all to-night--I wonder if they’ve gone. I expect so! And she made me sing--you know how fussy she is--and I broke down utterly. Awfully silly of me, I know, but really I couldn’t help it. I can’t think what ‘the _maestro_’ would say if he knew it! So I came away: I simply felt I couldn’t stay in the house another minute; and there wasn’t a cab to be had, so I had to walk to the train; and the rain came on and ruined my new frock, which I meant to wear to-morrow--I’m singing at Æolian Hall in the afternoon.”

“Never mind, wear that one you’ve got on now. You look just lovely in it!” counselled Austin, regarding her with tender admiration.

“That’s just like a man!” she laughed, glancing down at her gown; but the laugh had an uncertain ring, with a suggestion of tears in it. “Why, this is ever such an old thing that I only wear at home. But it’s not the frock really that I mind. I--I can’t help thinking about the horror of it all; poor Lady Rawson being murdered like that, so near to the church, too; she must have been actually on her way to the wedding!”

“I don’t think she was,” said Austin reflectively, remembering how the murdered woman had been attired when he saw and identified her. “It’s a big mystery that will take a lot of unravelling.”

“But they’ve got the chap already,” interposed George Winston, reaching for a late edition of an evening paper that he had just thrown aside--“that taxicab driver. It’s as clear as daylight so far. He must have seen Lady Rawson’s bag, thought she had something valuable in it, followed and stabbed her, and then made off through the back door, bag and all.”

“Queer sort of impulse to seize a highly respectable ex-service man,” remarked Starr dryly. “And what was in the bag anyhow, for the contents haven’t been found up to now.”

“You don’t believe he did it?”

Before he could answer, the hall door-bell sounded imperatively, and Winnie started nervously.

“Now, who can that be at this hour!”

An elderly maidservant entered, Martha Stenning, who had grown grey in the Winstons’ service.

“It’s the same gentleman that called before, Mr. George, and asked to see you or Miss Winnie. He says you wouldn’t know his name, but his business is important.”

“All right, I’ll come, Martha,” said George, rising and following her from the room.

“I wonder who it is?” Winnie exclaimed anxiously. “Martha says someone has been ringing up on the telephone several times while we were out, and asking all sorts of questions about----”

They both looked round as George re-entered, followed by Snell, the detective, at sight of whom Starr rose, exclaiming:

“Why, it’s you, Mr. Snell! Anything fresh?”

“Not much at present, and I didn’t expect to see _you_ here, Mr. Starr. Miss Winston? I must ask you to excuse my intrusion.”

“This is Mr. Snell of Scotland Yard, Winnie,” George explained hurriedly. “He says Lady Rawson rang up our number--5339--just before she was murdered. They’ve got it down in the post office book, and she must have been speaking at the very moment----”

“Lady Rawson! Our number!” gasped Winnie, in utter surprise and perplexity.

“Did you expect to receive a message from her, Miss Winston?” Snell inquired.

“I? Certainly not; why, I’ve never spoken to her in my life, though I expected to meet her to-day at my friend’s wedding. You don’t know her either, do you, George?” she added, turning to her brother.

“I’ve been to her receptions once or twice, but I’ve never exchanged a dozen words with her,” George asserted truthfully. “And I can’t imagine why she should have rung us up. I doubt if she even knew that my sister and I were to be at the wedding to-day or that we’re old friends of Carling and Miss Armitage--Mrs. Carling I mean, of course.”

“Yet Mr. Carling has been on intimate terms--like a member of the family--with Sir Robert and Lady Rawson,” Snell remarked.

“With Sir Robert,” Winston corrected. “Lady Rawson was always quite kind, I believe; and I know she asked Miss Armitage to her house once or twice; but she never showed any real interest in either of them--no personal friendship, don’t you know! At least so I’ve gathered from Carling,” he added, wondering the while what the detective was driving at.

“Then you think it unlikely that, assuming that she wished to speak to Mr. Carling on the telephone, she would expect to find him here?”

“I’m quite sure she wouldn’t,” said George, and Winnie, nodding a confirmatory assent, added:

“Besides, she wouldn’t expect him to be anywhere just then except at the church or on his way there. Not if the time is given rightly in the paper. It said she went into the office about half-past one.”

“Just so,” Snell agreed, and after a brief pause looked up with a query that at the moment sounded startlingly irrelevant.

“Do you know Signor Cacciola, Miss Winston?”

She stared in astonishment, scarcely grasping the question, especially as he mispronounced the name.

“He’s a music master or something of the sort; lives at Rivercourt Mansions West,” Snell added.

“Signor Cacciola? Why, of course I know him; he’s my singing master--‘the _maestro_’ we always call him,” she answered, knitting her pretty brows in bewilderment, while Austin Starr, watching Snell, screwed his lips in the form of whistling, and listened intently for what might follow.

“He comes here often?”

“Yes. At least he does when he is coaching me for a special concert or anything like that. He has been here every morning this week except to-day.”

“You did not expect him to-day?”

“No. I was going to the wedding; and besides, he has an engagement every Thursday--at Blackheath, I think.”

“You know him well? Have you known him long?”

“For several years--ever since he came to London. He is a dear old man.”

“An Italian?”

“Yes, though he has not been in Italy for many years.”

“He took a keen interest in Russian affairs,” Snell asserted.

“Did he? I’m sure I don’t know. He certainly never talked about such things to me.”

“Did he ever speak to you of Lady Rawson?”

“Never!”

It was impossible to doubt Winnie’s emphatic negative.

Again he shifted his point, or appeared to do so.

“Then you can’t give me any reason why Lady Rawson should have rung you up to-day?”

“None at all, unless she gave a wrong number and it happened by chance to be ours.”

“That’s just what I think,” exclaimed George.

“It might have been so,” Snell assented. “I’ve known a good many coincidences as queer. Well, I’m very sorry to have troubled you so late, Miss Winston, and I must thank you for answering me so clearly. Some folks beat about the bush and are scared out of their senses at the very sight of a detective--when they know him as such,” he added, with a smile. “But we’re bound to get whatever information we can, even at the risk of worrying people who really haven’t anything to do with the case. And now I’ll take myself off.”

“Have a whisky-and-soda first,” urged George Winston hospitably. “Of course we know you have to look up every point, and if we’d guessed the reason why we’ve been rung up so often to-day we should have been expecting you--or someone else on the same errand.”

Snell declined the proffered refreshment, but accepted a cigarette, and lingered for a minute or two, chatting in a casual manner on the subject that was uppermost in all their minds.

George questioned him about the suspected man, Sadler, the taxicab driver.

“He’s doing all right; not as much hurt as was thought at first, and he’ll probably be able to attend the opening of the inquest to-morrow. But we haven’t been able to interrogate him yet; in fact he doesn’t know he’s under arrest.”

“Do you believe he did it?” demanded George.

“I never form an opinion on slight evidence,” Snell replied guardedly. “Good night, Miss Winston, good night, sir. Many thanks. Are you coming with me, Mr. Starr?”

Starr shook his head.

“I guess I shan’t get anything out of you if I do, Mr. Snell.”

Snell smiled enigmatically.

“Yet I’ve given you a lot just now, Mr. Starr, though I doubt if you’ll be able to make much of it in time for to-morrow’s ‘Courier.’”

“What did he mean by that?” whispered Winnie, as her brother accompanied the unexpected guest to the door.

“I’ll tell you to-morrow. I’m going to follow it up, right now, as he surmises. There are no flies on Mr. Snell! Good night, Miss Winnie.”

In a minute or so George returned to the room.

“My hat! This is queer experience, isn’t it, Win? I say, let’s try and get on to the ‘Lord Warden’ and speak to Roger. He’ll be awfully anxious to know about everything; there’s a lot in the late editions too that he won’t be able to see down there to-night.”

“Oh, you can’t ring him up at this hour,” Winnie protested, glancing at the clock. “Besides, it would frighten Grace if she knew. You said Roger was going to keep it from her.”

“I’m going to ring him up,” George insisted. “It’s not really late--not for Roger anyhow. It’s only just on eleven.”

Winnie let him have his way, not choosing to urge the various reasons against it that occurred at once to her quick feminine mind, but escaped her brother’s obtuse one.

In a surprisingly short time for a “call” the telephone bell tinkled its summons, and George went out into the little hall to answer it.

The colloquy was very brief, and as George hurriedly re-entered she looked up with a whimsical “I told you so” expression on her pretty face, which fled as she saw his agitated aspect.

“I say, Win, they’re not there!”

“Not there!” she ejaculated, starting up.

“Haven’t been there at all. They must be crossing by the night boat after all; such a beastly night too--half a gale and raining cats and dogs. It’s worse there than it is here. I asked.”

“Crossing _to-night_! And Grace is the worst sailor imaginable. What on earth possessed Roger to take her?”

“He must be mad--mad as a hatter!” cried George, but the same thought and explanation occurred to him as to Winnie, and their eyes met in a glance of mutual horror and consternation.

Chapter VII

The Cigarette Case

From Chelsea, Austin Starr went direct to Rivercourt Mansions, a quadrangular block of flats, standing back from the high road and fronting a square of grass and trees.

He dismissed his cab at the entrance to the square, which he noted was nearly opposite to the post office where Lady Rawson had been done to death a few hours before. He stood for a minute, regardless of the drizzling rain, staring across the thoroughfare, almost deserted on this dreary night. He imagined the illfated woman crossing it, with the assassin dogging her footsteps. Who was that assassin, and what was his motive? He was already certain in his own mind that the taxi-driver was as innocent of the crime as he was himself, although he had undoubtedly been close at hand at the time. And why had Lady Rawson visited Cacciola at his flat, and failing to find him there tried to ring him up at the Winstons’? He meant to discover that right now, if possible, feeling instinctively that here was the clue to the mystery. He guessed that Snell was already in possession of that clue, and had racked his brains in conjecture concerning it as he drove hither. But, though he had been with Snell all the afternoon, that astute individual had maintained silence concerning the stolen dispatches. He did not intend Starr or any other reporter to know of them at present. There were cases when he was glad to avail himself of the assistance of the Press, but this was not one of them. Already, thanks to a lucky accident--lucky from his point of view--he was in possession of evidence which he considered of the utmost importance, and on which he was building up a certain theory, which so far appeared to have very few flaws in it.

A tram came clanking along the road and Austin Starr turned away along the side-walk, glancing up at the Mansions. Most of the windows were dark, but there were lights here and there. One shone cheerily from a window high up in the block he wanted. As he reached the entrance the lights in the hall and on the staircase went out, and in the sudden darkness he collided with a man in the doorway who accosted him with facetious apology.

“Sorry, Mr. ‘Catch-’old-o’-you.’ If I’d seen you coming I’d have waited till you got up. Half a minute, and I’ll switch on again.”

He suited the action to the word, and Austin saw he was the porter, a small, spare man with a sharp-featured, whimsical face.

“It’s all right,” Starr assured him, “I’m going up to Mr. Cacciola’s. The top flat, isn’t it? I guess he’s home, for there’s a light in the window.”

“I don’t think he is, sir, he’s mostly later than this; but old Julia will be sitting up for him. Are you Mr. Roger Carling, by any chance, sir?”

Austin Starr was considerably startled, though he made no sign beyond a penetrating glance at his interrogator, and answered quietly:

“No, but I’m his intimate friend. What made you take me for him?”

“Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure. I don’t know the gentleman, but I saw the name on the cigarette case he dropped outside Mr. ‘Catch-’old-o’-you’s’ door this morning. I always call the old gentleman that--nearest I can get to his name--and he don’t mind a bit, not he! Julia’s got the case all right--she’s Mr. ‘Catch-’old-o’-you’s’ house-keeper; Italian same as him, and a good old sort. I thought perhaps you were Mr. Carling come after it.”

Austin saw and interpreted aright a slight and significant crook of the little man’s fingers and produced a coin.

“So you found the case?” he remarked pleasantly. “Mr. Carling will be glad to know it. I guess he hadn’t a notion where he dropped it. He’s left town to-day--on his honeymoon.”

“Thank you, sir, though I’m sure I didn’t expect anything,” responded the little man, promptly pocketing the tip. “Gone on his honeymoon, has he? Why, he’s never the gentleman that was married at St. Paul’s to-day--the wedding that poor lady was on her way to when she was murdered? They didn’t give his name in the paper, I saw. Terrible thing, isn’t it, sir? And will you believe me, I never heard a word about it till nigh on teatime! It must have ’appened just after I went to my dinner: I was a bit late to-day; had to take a parcel up to No. 20--that’s when I found the cigarette case; and if only I’d been about I might ’ave seen it all. And to think of young Charlie Sadler doing such an awful thing. He must ’ave gone clean off his nut!”

“You know him?” asked Starr quickly, thankful that the garrulous little man had strayed from the subject of Roger Carling’s presence so near the scene of the tragedy, though at the moment he was unable to analyse his thought sufficiently to know why he should feel thankful.

“Know Charlie Sadler? Why, I’ve known him ever since he was a little nipper so high. Lives with his mother--a decent old soul--down in Milsom Cottages, and he’s courting little Jessie Jackson over at the post office, on the sly, for her aunt, Mrs. Cave, don’t think him good enough for her; and it seems she’s right after all. But whoever would ’ave thought of ’im going and doing a murder like that?”

“We don’t know yet that he did it,” said Starr.

“Well, of course it’ll ’ave to be proved against him; but if he didn’t, then who did? That’s the question. And he was there right enough. Slipped in by the side door to see Jessie while her aunt was safe in the shop, and when the girl was called down he must ’ave seen the lady and been taken with one of these ’ere sudden temptations; and then when he found what he’d done he ’ooked it, and smashed up the cab and himself in his ’urry. There it is in a nutshell, sir!” Withers concluded triumphantly. Evidently he had been gossiping pretty freely during the evening, but as evidently he as yet knew nothing of Lady Rawson’s visit to Cacciola’s flat--if, indeed, she had been there--and attached no significance to Roger Carling’s visit. How should he?

“Perhaps you’re right,” Starr conceded. “We’ll all have just to ‘wait and see’ anyhow. Well, I’ll go up----”

“I’m sure Mr. ‘Catch-’old-o’-you’s’ not in yet, sir; but I’ll give him any message for you in the morning,” suggested Withers officiously.

“No, thanks, I’ll leave it with Julia if necessary. Good night.”

“Good night, sir, and thank you. I’ll keep the lights on till you’ve got to the top.”

Starr thanked him again and went upstairs--eight flights of them--outwardly composed, inwardly more perturbed than he had ever been in his life before. His mind was in a dark tumult of suspicion and perplexity, which would have been increased if he could have known the news George Winston had just learnt from Dover--that Roger and Grace were not at the “Lord Warden.”

“It’s impossible! He can’t have had anything to do with it!” he told himself impatiently, refusing even to formulate the suspicion that had arisen in his mind. Yet the suspicion was there.

The lights below went out as he pressed the bell button at No. 19, but an instant later one flashed up within the hall of the flat and he heard a soft shuffle of slippered feet. But the door was not opened to him. The letter slit moved and through the aperture a woman’s voice demanded, in good enough English, though with a strong foreign accent:

“Who is zere?”

He responded with a counter-question:

“Is Mr. Cacciola at home?”

“He is not. He vill perhaps not return to-night. Who are you?”

“I reckon you won’t know my name. You’re Julia, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am Giulia. Vat ees it?”

“Open the door, there’s a good soul, and I’ll tell you. I can’t shout it through. It’s important.”

“I do not know you,” she protested nervously after a pause. “You are from the police again?”

So, as he guessed, Snell had already been here. He wondered that the loquacious porter had not seen him and scented the errand.

“Yes,” he lied boldly. “So you’d better open the door right now. You’ve nothing to fear from me, and I shan’t keep you many minutes.”

She muttered something that he could not catch, but a chain clanked, and a moment later she opened the door a few inches and peered out--a short, plump old woman, whose comely brown face and lustrous black eyes wore a strained, anxious expression, that relaxed a little as she eyed her visitor.

His appearance seemed to reassure her, for she drew back and motioned him to enter the little square hall.

He smiled at her, and there were few women, young or old, who could resist Austin Starr’s smile. He had what some folk term “a way with him,” all the more effective since it was exerted unconsciously.

“It’s real good of you, signora, to admit me at this unholy hour, and I’ll not keep you any time,” he began diplomatically. “First, I want that cigarette case that Mr. Roger Carling lost on your lobby this morning. The porter says he gave it to you.”

“The leetle case? But I have it not! I gave it to the officer of police--he who came to-day, saying he was of the police, though he wore no uniform; he was like yourself, signor,” she stammered.

Starr’s heart sank. The moment he had heard of that cigarette case he determined to get possession of it, and if possible prevent any knowledge of it reaching the police, though again he did not attempt to analyse his motive.

“I have done wrong in giving it him?” Giulia continued uneasily.

“Not a bit of it, signora--that’s all right,” Starr answered, with a cheerfulness he was very far from feeling. “I haven’t seen Mr. Snell since or he’d have told me you had it. I guess you’ve told him about everything else too, but I’ll have to trouble you to tell me also. The _maestro_ left home as usual to go to his class at Blackheath. What time did he go out?”

“At a leetle after nine, signor.”

“You’re sure he was going to Blackheath?”

“Ah, yes, signor. Vere else would he go?”

“When did Lady Rawson come?”

“In a ver’ leetle time after the _maestro_ go. He could scarce have reach the stazione.”

“So early! Then she knew he would not be back. Why did she return?”

Giulia hesitated.

“I do not comprehend,” she muttered.

“When did she go away?”

“I do not remember.”

“Come, that’s nonsense, signora. You must know; try to think. She was here after one o’clock, we know that; in fact, she went straight from here to the post office where she was murdered.”

Giulia stood speechless, plucking nervously at her white apron, and as he saw her embarrassment an idea flashed to his mind.

“Great Scot! She was here the whole morning: she came in and waited. That’s so?”

She nodded a reluctant assent.

“She was here when Mr. Carling called just after one. Did he ask for her?”

Again Giulia nodded.

“Did he see her?”

She shook her head.

“She did not vish it. I said she vas not here. It vas a lie, and I do not like lies; but she vould have it so; and he go away. She look from the vindow, and vatch till he pass the corner, and then she go away also.”

Starr stood musing for a space, and, master of his emotions though he was, Giulia’s keen old eyes detected a certain expression of relief on his face.

He was inwardly reproaching himself also for part at least of the suspicion that had assailed him the instant he learnt that Carling had been there. He thought he knew Roger Carling as thoroughly as one man can know another, believed him to be the soul of honour and rectitude. But he also knew that in every human being there are depths that none other can plumb; and, remembering the circumstances, the thought had occurred involuntarily that some shameful secret might be the cause and explanation of the mysterious tragedy.

It was such an obvious solution. Lady Rawson, young, beautiful, extraordinarily attractive, married to a man almost old enough to be her grandfather and meeting every day one of her own age, handsome and debonair as was Carling. Dangerous conditions enough, human nature being what it is! And Carling would not be the first man to be fascinated and entangled by an unscrupulous woman, even while he loved another woman--as Roger loved Grace--with all the strength of his better nature.

But that idea might be dismissed, so far as Carling was concerned as a principal in the matter anyhow. Lady Rawson had not come here to meet him, had not expected or wished to see him when he followed her there.

Yet if Lady Rawson did not come here to meet Carling, whom did she come to see--whom did she wait for all those hours? Not old Cacciola, certainly, for she learnt at once that he was out for the day. He turned to Giulia and put the question point blank.

“Who was here this morning with you and Lady Rawson?”

“No one; nevare any person at all!” she cried emphatically.

“But you expected someone; that was why Lady Rawson waited.”

She shook her head, but her eyes did not meet his, and her hands were trembling as she still fidgeted with her apron.

“Zere vas no one, zere nevare has been no one; I have told all, signor.”

He found it was useless to question her further, and decided that he would not wait on the chance of learning anything from Cacciola. He gathered that the old man seldom returned till long after midnight.

Groping his way down the dark staircase, he reached the high road just in time to board a tram going eastwards, which set him down at the terminus within a few hundred yards from the hospital to which Sadler had been taken. He might as well call and inquire as to the man’s condition. If there was anything to report there was still time to telephone to the office.

A minute later he pushed back the swing-door and entered the lobby of the hospital, to find himself face to face with Snell.

Chapter VIII

At Cacciola’S

Snell greeted Austin with a smile and a significant cock of his left eyebrow.

“You haven’t lost any time, Mr. Starr. But there’s nothing fresh here. Sadler’s just the same, and the doctor says it will be impossible for him to attend the inquest to-morrow, so we shall ask for a week’s adjournment. And he won’t be allowed to be ‘interviewed’ by anyone,” he added pointedly.

“I guessed that, of course. I only meant to inquire how he was. I take it he’s practically under arrest?”

“Not at all. Under surveillance perhaps, which is a very different matter. And the less said about that or _anything else_ the better for the present, Mr. Starr. No ‘stunts’ in this case, please. Well, did you find Cacciola at home? Or old Julia amiable?”

“How did you know I’d been there?”

“Guessed it, knowing you. That’s meant as a compliment.”

“Cacciola hadn’t returned. I know him fairly well, having seen him a good few times at Miss Winston’s. And Giulia was civil enough, though she seemed a bit scared. She told me some yarn about a cigarette case she had found.”

As they spoke in guarded tones, they had reissued from the hospital and now stood on the steps, where the lamp-light fell full on Snell’s face. Starr’s keen eyes were fixed on it, but it revealed nothing.

“A cigarette case? Whose was it?” asked Snell.

“Don’t you know? You’ve got it, haven’t you?”

Starr strove to speak in a casual tone, but it was difficult to control his voice. Of all the many sensational cases he had come across this was the first that had touched him personally, and the horrible fear that Roger Carling might in some way be mixed up in it, and that Snell knew it, was still strong upon him.

“Are you trying to cross-examine me?” asked the detective dryly.

Possibly for the first time in his life under such circumstances Austin lost his self-possession.

“See here, Snell, what’s the use of fencing?” he asked hotly. “You’ve got that case right enough. It’s Rog----”

“Stop!” interrupted Snell imperatively, though without raising his voice. “I’ve mentioned no name. Take my advice, Mr. Starr, and don’t you mention one either. I’ve told you already that the less said the better, and if you can’t take the hint--well, that’s your affair.”

Austin bit his lip, inwardly cursing himself for his indiscretion. If he had held his tongue about his knowledge of Roger Carling’s movements he might, sooner or later, have got some hint of what was in the detective’s mind. Now, in all probability he would get no further information at all.

“Sorry,” he muttered somewhat ungraciously. “You’re right, of course. But----”

“But there’s nothing to add to your story to-night. Take my word for it,” said Snell, with restored good humour. “Which way are you going? Tube? I’m for the tram. What a beastly night! I shan’t be sorry to get indoors.”

“Nor I,” Austin confessed with a shiver.

Almost in silence they walked side by side through the chill drizzle to the station, and there parted, Snell crossing to the tram terminus.

But he was not yet bound for home, as he had allowed and wished Starr to infer. Tireless and relentless as a sleuth-hound, he believed he was already fairly on the track of Lady Rawson’s murderer, but there were certain preliminary points he wished to clear up, and till he succeeded in that there would be no rest for him.

The tram was crowded with returning theatre-goers, most of whom were discussing the grim crime and the reports in the late editions of the evening papers. None guessed how intimately the wiry little man in the drenched Burberry, meekly strap-hanging among them, was concerned with it, and quite a number alighted from the tram when he did, opposite the post office, and lingered in the rain staring at the house of tragedy, now dark and silent as a grave, with a solitary policeman standing guard, and in a subdued, monotonous voice requesting the whispering crowd to “Pass along, please.”

Snell did not even glance at the house or the sentinel, but disappeared into the darkness of the square nearly opposite, three sides of which were occupied by the tall blocks of flats known as “Rivercourt Mansions,” fronted by shrubberies, and with more shrubs and trees in the centre: a pleasant place enough in daylight, but gloomy and mysterious on this miserable wet midnight. Treading as lightly as a cat in his “silent-soled” shoes, Snell walked swiftly to the end of the square, and paused, to be joined immediately by a man in a dark mackintosh, who emerged from the shadow of the shrubs.

“Anything to report, Evans?” Snell asked softly.

“He hasn’t returned yet, sir. Mr. Starr went in and stayed a good few minutes, just after ten-thirty.”

“I know. Did he see you?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“A good many have come and gone--people living in the block; but none that I could spot as on this business.”

Together they withdrew into deeper gloom again, and in dead silence waited and watched. Not for long.

Another tram clanked westward, halted, went on, and a minute later footsteps approached--heavy, weary, dragging footsteps; and the figures of two men passed into the radius of light from the street lamp nearest the watchers.

“That’s the Signor--the fat one,” Snell’s subordinate whispered. “The other’s the Russian.”

“Come on,” said Snell, and silently they followed the two men, overtaking them as Cacciola was inserting a latchkey into the outer door of the block where he lived.

He turned with a start as Snell courteously accosted him.

“Signor Cacciola? I have been waiting your return, and must have a few words with you to-night concerning the late Lady Rawson. If you will look at my card you will know who I am and that my business is urgent.”

As he spoke he switched on his electric torch, handed the card to Cacciola, and watched the old man’s face as he read it--a plump, olive-complexioned, usually jolly face that now looked drawn and grief-stricken.

“By all means; enter, signor,” said Cacciola with grave dignity. “I--we--will give you all the assistance possible. You are not alone?” he added, narrowing his dark eyes in an endeavour to pierce the gloom beyond the circle of light.

“No. But perhaps you will permit my man to wait in your hall for me,” returned Snell blandly.

He did not anticipate danger, but anything might happen in that top flat, and, though he was courageous enough he never took unnecessary risks.

“But certainly. Lead the way, Boris. Will you continue the light, Signor? The stairs are very dark--and long.”

With hushed footsteps, and no sound beyond Cacciola’s heavy breathing, they stole in procession up the staircase, Evans bringing up the rear just behind Snell.

As they reached the top landing the door of Cacciola’s flat opened, and Giulia appeared on the threshold, a dark figure against the lighted hall, began to speak volubly in Italian, and then, seeing her master’s companions, and recognizing Snell, stopped short and retreated a pace or two, glancing nervously from one to the other.

“It’s all right, ma’am. No cause for alarm,” said Snell reassuringly. “I’ve been here before to-day, sir, in your absence, as I expect she was trying to tell you. Let her tell her story now, it will help us. And in English, please, as I don’t understand your language.”

“She shall do so. Come with us, Giulia. Take off your wet coats, my friends.”

Cacciola led the way into a large, comfortable room where a gas fire glowed cosily--a musician’s room, with the place of honour occupied by a magnificent grand piano.

The Russian, who had not spoken a word, and moved like a man in a dream, allowed Cacciola to remove his dripping overcoat and push him into an easy chair. He was a delicate-looking, handsome-featured young man, who seemed, and was, dazed with grief and horror.

Rapidly, but quite coherently, Giulia poured out her story in broken English, frequently lapsing into Italian, to be as frequently, though gently, checked by her master. Much of it was already known to Snell, but there were one or two fresh and illuminative points.

“La Donna Paula,” the name by which the old woman designated Lady Rawson, had come quite early, soon after the _maestro’s_ departure, demanding to see Signor Boris, who was away, Giulia did not know where. Then she telephoned to Blackheath, in the hope of speaking to the _maestro_, and learnt he was not expected there to-day, and presently she tried to telephone again, but lo! the instrument would not serve--it was out of order!

(“So that’s why she went to the call office,” Snell mentally commented, having already noticed the telephone on a table beside the piano.)

Donna Paula appeared very impatient, also agitated, and when the bell rang bade Giulia deny that she was or had been there, if one should ask for her, and, of a verity, the young signor who came did so, and ask oh, very many questions.

“Did he tell you his name?” interposed Snell.

“But no, signor. Yet I learnt it later, for soon after Donna Paula had gone, the _portaire_ ring and give me a little silver case he find, with a name on it that I forget, for then the signor there come, and I give him the case, and he have it now, and he tell me Donna Paula have been murdered, and I know not what to do or to say, but I wait and wait for you or Signor Boris, and no one come till late, so late, when yet another signor arrive, and say he also is of the police and ask for the little silver case, and I tell him I have it not. That is the truth--you have the case still, signor?”

She whirled round towards Snell, who spoke soothingly.

“Yes, yes, that’s all right, signora. Nobody’s blaming you for anything, and you’ve told your story admirably. Thank you very much. And now, sir, if you please, we’ll have our chat.”

“Go, my good Giulia,” said Cacciola, “and be not so distressed, though, indeed, we are all cut to the heart. Now, signor?”

“I want you to tell everything you know about Lady Rawson--you and this gentleman, who, I think, were on terms of intimate friendship with the unfortunate lady.”

It was no chance shot. Hours ago he had searched Lady Rawson’s rooms, and in her boudoir, hidden in the secret drawer of a costly antique writing-table, had found a big packet of letters, some of quite recent date, written in Russian. They were all signed merely with the initial “B,” and those which he had got translated at once gave him a fair inkling of the relations between the writer and the dead woman. The translation of the others would be in his hands to-morrow morning.

If the Russian heard and understood the words he made no sign. He sat huddled in the chair where Cacciola had placed him, with one hand over his eyes. He might have been asleep for any movement that he made.

“It is but very little I can tell,” said Cacciola. “It is true that she came here from time to time--not to see me, to see her cousin, my dear pupil Boris Melikoff here, who has been in the North since three days, and returned to-night only, to hear of this deed of horror. It has overwhelmed him, as you see. He is utterly exhausted. One moment----”

Rising, he opened a corner cupboard, brought out a decanter half filled with wine, and some glasses, placed them on a table at Snell’s elbow, and filled one glass.

“This may revive him, and I think we all need it. I pray you help yourself and your friend, signor.

“It is good wine, I give you my word,” he added with a courteous gesture.

Crossing to Melikoff, he touched him, speaking caressingly as one would speak to a sick child.

“Rouse yourself, _caro_, and drink. It is I, _maestro_, who implore you. The signor is here to learn the truth, and you must aid him.”

Melikoff obeyed, and, after an instant’s hesitation, Snell accepted Cacciola’s invitation, poured out a glass of wine for himself and passed one to Evans with an affirmative nod.

The old man was right. It was jolly good wine, and jolly well they all needed it!

“That is better, eh?” said Cacciola, emptying and setting down his own glass, and looking with anxious affection at Boris, who sat upright and turned his brilliant, haggard eyes on Snell.

“You want to know--what?” he asked in perfect English, and in a low, singularly musical voice, tense with repressed emotion.

“Everything you can tell me concerning Lady Rawson, whom the Signor here says was your cousin. Is that so?”

“That is so. But I can tell you nothing more.”

“Come, come, Mr. Melikoff. That won’t do!” Snell retorted, more sternly than he had yet spoken. “I am in possession of many of your recent letters to her, and am aware of their contents. Do you understand me?”

“No,” said Melikoff curtly.

“Then I must try to make you.”

“You think I murdered her!” cried the Russian, with more vehemence than a moment before he had seemed capable of. “I, who would have given my life, my soul, to save her!”

“Nothing of the kind. I might have done so if I hadn’t happened to know that your friend here spoke the truth when he said you were away--miles away from here--at the time. But it’s my duty to discover who _did_ murder the unfortunate lady, and if you don’t choose to give me any information you can that may assist me, here and now, you’ll only have it wrung from you later in cross-examination. So please yourself!”

“He is right--you must tell him all you know, my son,” interposed Cacciola. “I myself know so little,” he added plaintively to Snell. “They have always kept me--how do you call it?--in the dark, these two unhappy ones.”

“Well, while Mr. Melikoff makes up his mind as to whether he’s going to say anything or nothing to-night, Signor Cacciola, perhaps you’ll explain just what your association with them both was, and why her ladyship came here, more or less disguised, so often?”

The old man flung out his hands with a deprecating gesture.

“I know so little,” he repeated distressfully. “At least of Milady Rawson--Donna Paula as we call her. I love him--Boris--as if he were my son. I learn to know him first, oh, many years since, in Russia, when he was a little boy, with the voice of an angel. Though quite untrain, Signor, he sing like the birds of the air! And I say to him then, and to his mother, the countess, ‘He shall come to me in good time, and I make him the greatest singer in the whole world.’ And at last he came----”

“When?”

“But two years since, signor; and the good saints guided him to me, for he did not mean to come. He had escaped with the bare life from his unhappy country, having fought in the Great War, and then against the Red Terror, till all was lost--all, all swept away. He was at the gate of death when I find him and bring him home here so joyfully, and Giulia and I nurse him back to health, and I begin to train him, or I try, for the voice is there, signor, beautiful as ever, but the desire to sing--alas!”

He shrugged his shoulders, and again threw up his hands with an expressive gesture.

“He doesn’t want to go in for singing now?” asked Snell, with a swift glance at the Russian, who had relapsed into his former attitude. Yet the detective believed he was listening to the colloquy.

“That is so, Signor. It is my great grief. I tell him it is wrong to waste the gift of God; I tell him music is a great and a jealous mistress that demands all devotion--that the singer should have no country, no other love, no other mistress than his art!”

“H’m! And where does Lady Rawson come in?” asked Snell dryly, mindful of those letters.

Cacciola hesitated and glanced uneasily at Melikoff. Hitherto his manner had been engagingly frank; now it changed, became guarded, even furtive.

“It is so--so difficult,” he said slowly. “They are cousins--yes. They had not met for years; he thought she had perished, like so many--so many, until he found she was here in England, married to the great Sir Rawson.”

“When did he find that out? Before or after he came to you?”

“After--many weeks after he recover. I was glad--and sorry: glad that one whom he loved still lived, sorry----”

“Go on, sir--sorry because?”

“It is so difficult,” Cacciola murmured, with another appealing glance at Boris.

“Did Sir Robert know of their connection?”

Cacciola shook his head.

“Did he ever go to see her in her own house?”

Again the mute negative.

“So they used to meet here, in your flat, in secret?”

“It was not my wish,” Cacciola muttered, his distress increasing under interrogation.

“And they were engaged in some Russian plot. Were there any others in it? Who made this their meeting place?”

“I do not----”

Cacciola’s faltering denial was cut short, for Melikoff sprang to his feet and confronted Snell, who also rose.

“Enough!” cried the Russian. “The _maestro_ is right--he does not know! And there was--there is--no plot as you call it, save that she and I, like many others of our race, were always waiting and watching, and hoping for some means of serving our unhappy country. Also, we loved each other--yes! But I swear to you it was love without one taint of dishonour to her, to me, to that old man, her husband!”

Was he speaking the truth in this respect? Snell, with his wide knowledge of poor human nature, and mentally comparing this handsome, passionate, emotional youth with Sir Robert--old, formal, pompous!--greatly doubted it.

But the point did not interest him except as it might afford some clue to the mystery. It was not his job to make inquisition into anyone’s morals.

“Did you expect Lady Rawson to visit you to-day?” he asked.

“No. How could I? It is two weeks--more--since I have even seen her. I had to go to Birmingham----”

“On my affairs--there is no secret about that,” interposed Cacciola, but neither heeded him.

“I did not send word to her of my journey--you know that, if you have--her--letters, as you say,” Boris continued. “I do not know why she came to-day--to meet her death!”

“She came to give or show you some important and secret papers which she stole from her husband’s safe this morning,” said Snell bluntly.

“So? I know nothing of that.”

“But someone knew. Those papers were in her hand-bag, which was snatched from her by the person who followed and stabbed her, and has since been found empty. Now, do you know of anyone whatsoever, man or woman, who would be likely to know or guess that she had those papers in her possession?”

“Of our people? None! Was she not one of us--the most trusted, the most beloved? Not one of _us_ would have harmed a hair of her head! Wait--let me think. They were her husband’s papers----”

For some seconds he stood knitting his dark brows, then, very slowly:

“There is one man. Her husband’s secretary----”

“Do you know him?”

“I have never seen him, but his name is Car--Carling!”

“Were they enemies?”

“No, not openly; but she feared him. She thought he--watched her. _Mon Dieu!_ The man who came here to-day, as Giulia said, and asked for her. That was the man! I will find him! I will kill him!”

His haggard young face was terrible to see in the frenzy of hatred that distorted it; his slender hands moved convulsively as though he already felt his fingers clutching Roger Carling’s throat. Cacciola seized one arm, Snell the other, and he collapsed under their grasp, and fell into the chair, sobbing like a woman or like a man who has been shot.

“It is too much for him!” cried Cacciola. “Boris, Boris. Courage, my child!”

“Poor chap!” said Snell. “I won’t worry him any more, nor you either to-night, sir. And I must ask you to keep silence for the present. You’ll be worried by a horde of inquirers--journalists especially--for the next few days, but you tell your old Julia to lock the door. Don’t you see anyone, and take care he doesn’t.”

“You may trust us, signor,” said the old man.

“Then, good night, sir. Come on, Evans.”

Chapter IX

Bride And Bridegroom

Even a short railway journey often has the effect of creating an interval that means far longer than the actual lapse of time--a honeymoon journey perhaps most of all, marking, as it does, the turning point, the beginning of a new epoch in two young lives.

Therefore, by the time Roger and his bride arrived at Dover he had not only recovered his equanimity, but the extraordinary events of the morning, and even the grim and startling news he had learned at the moment of departure had receded far away, like the remembrance of an evil dream. The only thing that really mattered was the great and wonderful fact that he and Grace were together, and would be henceforth not only, as the beautiful words in which they had so lately plighted their solemn troth declared, “till death us do part,” but, as all true lovers hope and believe, together in spirit for all eternity--“out beyond into the dream to come.”

The proud, tender, protective air with which he assisted Grace to alight, the radiant happiness of their young faces, were instantly “spotted” by the nearest porter, who bustled up in cheery anticipation of a noble tip.

“Two cabin trunks, kit-bag, and two hat-boxes in the van--very good, sir,” said he, taking possession of Grace’s dressing case and travelling rugs. “What are they like? New?”

“Oh, no! quite old. We’ll point them out,” said Grace with demure dignity, and shot an adorable glance at Roger as they followed the man, threading their way through the crowd on the platform.

They had decided to avoid any brand-new appearance, fondly imagining thereby that they would pass as an “old married couple”--as though any such device could conceal their blissful state from even the least observant of onlookers!

They halted behind an opulent-looking couple, the man smoking a huge cigar, the lady shrilly claiming a whole pile of trunks as they were bundled out of the van, and Grace, with a little gasp of dismay, clutched Roger’s sleeve and drew him aside.

“Oh, look, Roger!” she whispered, “there are the Fosters, and they’re putting up at the ‘Lord Warden’!”

“Well, what about it, darling?”

“We’re bound to meet them, and I do dislike them so and wouldn’t let mother ask them to the wedding; we had quite a scene about it, and Daddy backed me up. They _are_ such impossible people. It _will_ be so awkward. Can’t we dodge them?”

“Of course we can--nothing easier. We’ll lie low till they clear off and then go to the Grand.”

So they did, and once safe in the taxi laughed gaily over the narrow escape, little imagining what a sinister significance would soon be attached to their impulsive change of plan.

He waited in the lounge while Grace was upstairs unpacking and dinner was being laid in the private sitting-room he had secured. As it happened there were very few people staying in the hotel, and for the moment he had the place to himself.

He ordered a whisky-and-soda, and with it the attendant brought an evening paper.

“Just come down, sir. There’s been a horrible murder of a lady in London.”

So it was impossible to escape from the tragedy that haunted him on this, his wedding day.

He took the paper without comment, glanced at it, and laid it aside. It was the same edition that George Winston had thrust into his hands at Victoria. For a minute or more he sat in painful thought, then, leaving his glass untouched, went through to the office and gave the Grosvenor Gardens telephone number for a long-distance call.

“I’ll call you, sir; it may be some time getting through.”

“All right. I’ll be in the lounge.”

But within a couple of minutes the summons came, and, hastily finishing his drink, he hurried to the booth.

Thomson’s voice sounded, civil, precise, distinct, as usual. At the telephone as in most other respects Sir Robert’s trusted attendant was admirable, unimpeachable.

“Hullo, Thomson! Carling speaking. I’ve just arrived at Dover and seen the awful news. Where is Sir Robert?”

“In bed, sir, and still unconscious, though the doctors say that is all the better under the circumstances. In fact, I believe he is under an opiate. He had a sort of stroke, sir, when he heard--by telephone--of her ladyship’s death.”

“How on earth did it happen--the--the murder I mean? I’ve only seen the bare announcement.”

“In a ’phone booth, sir. If I may be permitted to state an opinion” (agitated though he was, Roger smiled at the formal phraseology, so entirely characteristic of old Thomson), “her ladyship was followed by someone who imagined she had valuables in her bag--a large and very handsome one--struck her down, and then finding those papers in it, and not knowing how to get rid of them, just put them into a post box, so then they came back to Sir Robert----”

“What! What papers?” Roger shouted into the transmitter, scarcely able to believe he had heard aright. “Not those we were searching for this morning?”

“The same, I understand, sir. They were delivered, surcharged, by the five o’clock post, and as Lord Warrington happened to be here, inquiring for Sir Robert, I made bold to give them to his lordship, who has taken charge of them.”

“What wonderful, what incredible luck!” exclaimed Roger, forgetting for the moment the grim central circumstance, and was ashamed next instant, especially as Thomson’s voice sounded distinctly severe and shocked:

“I fear it cost her ladyship her life, sir.”

“You’re right, Thomson. The whole thing is too terrible, and I oughn’t to have spoken like that. But it _is_ a relief to know that the papers, at least, are safe. They are tremendously important. But, look here, Thomson, is there anything I can do? I am terribly concerned and anxious about Sir Robert. Do you think I ought to come back to town to-morrow, or--or even to-night? I don’t _want_ to, of course, and, if possible, I shall keep the news from--Mrs. Carling--till the morning----”

There was a little pause--only a few seconds, though it seemed longer--before Thomson replied:

“I don’t think it should be at all necessary, sir. I’m sure you can do nothing for Sir Robert at present; the doctors do not anticipate any immediate danger.”

“Well, I’ll ring you up in the morning then.”

“Very good, sir. I hope you will not consider it presumptuous of me to express my deep regret that these terrible occurrences should have marred your wedding day, and to convey my respectful wishes to you and your good lady?”

“Presumptuous! Good Lord, no! It’s very kind of you, Thomson. Many thanks,” said Roger, again smiling involuntarily. “Well, if Sir Robert should ask for me, tell him you’re in touch with me.”

“I will, sir. Good night, sir.”

“Good night.”

Only after he had replaced the receiver did he remember that he had not told Thomson where he was speaking from, but decided it wasn’t worth while putting another call through. For to-night at least he would not be wanted, and he would strive to dismiss the whole tragedy from his mind. What a queer old stick Thomson was, but a good sort too! And that astounding news of the recovery of the papers was very reassuring.

Now for Grace--his own, his beloved! He went up in the lift, and tapped softly at the bedroom door. It opened instantly, and there she stood, fresh and fair, in a simple evening gown of some filmy grey stuff, a shy smile on her dear lips.

“Oh, what a tired and grubby boy!” she laughed. “He wants his dinner very badly, he does, and I b’lieve I do too! As the king and queen are travelling without attendants on this interesting occasion, the queen (that’s me) has laid out your things, sir--your majesty, I mean--and quite correctly I’m sure. I’ve done it so often for daddy. Now, don’t be long!”

“I shan’t be ten minutes, darling,” Roger assured her, and was almost as good as his word.

As charming a pair of lovers as could be found in the whole, wide world they looked, as they sat facing each other at the daintily appointed dinner-table, with the head waiter--a little apple-cheeked, grey-haired, blue-eyed old man with an expansive smile--gliding in and out and ministering to their wants with paternal solicitude. _He_ knew well enough what was due to the occasion; those travel-worn trunks hadn’t deceived him, any more than they had deceived the railway porter or anyone else! And the flourish with which he presented the wine list was mere pretence, for when, after a short discussion, they decided on champagne, he didn’t even have to go to fetch it, but instantly produced a magnum of the best, placed there, all ready, on the sideboard.

Dinner over, they moved to the big chesterfield drawn up before the blazing fire, and sat down in discreet silence till the table was cleared and the beneficent waiter finally departed.

“At last!” said Roger, throwing his half-smoked cigarette into the fire, and drawing his wife to him. “Isn’t this cosy and jolly, darling?”

“Lovely,” Grace murmured, snuggling happily in his arm. “Almost as good as our own home’s going to be. Don’t you wish we were there already, Roger, sitting in front of our very own fire?”

“I don’t wish for anything better in the world than to have you beside me, sweetheart,” he responded.

The little silence that followed, of sheer peace and content, was disturbed by a fierce onslaught of hail on the window-panes, and a blast of wind that swept and shrieked round the building like a legion of lost souls.

“My word, hark at that! It’s going to be a wild night,” said Roger. “No crossing for us to-morrow if it’s like this. Why, you’re shivering, dearest. Cold?”

“No, it’s only that dreadful wail of the wind. When I was a little girl my nurse used to tell me it was the souls of drowned sailors shrieking, and I believed her, for years and years.... God guard all who are on the sea to-night!”

The words, uttered in a fervent whisper, were a real and fervent prayer. He knew that as he looked down lovingly at her sweet, thoughtful face.

“D’you know, Roger,” she resumed presently, “I’m not sure that I want to go to Nice, or anywhere else abroad, after all.”

“Why, then, we won’t! The queen shall do exactly as she likes. I’m not a bit keen on a smart place either, only----”

Grace looked up with a little whimsical smile in which there was a touch of pathos.

“Only mother said we were to--that it was ‘the proper thing’--and it was less trouble to agree with her than to argue the point. That’s the real trouble, isn’t it? And, after all, we haven’t had a quiet moment to discuss anything between ourselves for weeks and weeks, what with mother and dressmakers on my side, and Sir Robert keeping you so hard at work on yours, right up to the last moment too, upsetting us all so, and nearly making you too late to be married! Tiresome old gentleman!”

“It wasn’t his fault,” said Roger hastily. “But don’t let us think any more of that. We’re free to please ourselves now--go where we like and do what we like. So what shall we do? Stay here?”

“No. I’ve been thinking. Really it flashed into my mind while I was dressing and waiting for you before dinner. There’s such a dear little place quite close here--St. Margaret’s--where daddy and I stayed when he was getting over influenza, just after Armistice--this very same time of year, when you were still in France, you poor boy! We had the loveliest time, all by ourselves. Mother wouldn’t come; she said it would be too deadly in the winter, but it wasn’t--not for us, anyhow! And we had the cosiest rooms imaginable in a dinky cottage on the cliff, a regular sun-trap, with a dear old landlady, Miss Culpepper, who reminded us of ‘Cranford’ and cherished us both no end. Let’s go over and see if she’s still there and can put us up. I expect she can, for I remember we seemed to have the whole place to ourselves.”

“Topping!” Roger agreed heartily, as he would have done if she had proposed to start on an expedition to Timbuctoo. “And, I say, darling, I’ll try to get a car just for the time we’re down here, and we’ll have some jolly runs.”

“Splendid! But won’t that cost a lot?”

“Why, bless your careful little heart, think of all the money we shall save by scrapping that continental trip! It’s a simply ripping idea!”

“I wonder what mother will say when she knows?” laughed Grace. “I shan’t say a word to her about it when I write to her to-morrow; she’ll think we’re travelling; so will every one else for a week or two, for we won’t own up till they might be getting anxious, except perhaps to daddy and Winnie, and they’ll keep counsel all right. What fun it will be!”

Chapter X

Grace Learns The News

“To think that it should have been on our wedding day--almost at the very moment! Oh, the poor, poor soul! Who _can_ have done the awful thing?”

Grace Carling’s sweet face was pale and tear-stained. At last she had learned the grim news that Roger had successfully suppressed until now, just after breakfast in their sitting-room at the hotel. It would have been impossible to keep the secret from her longer; all the morning papers were full of the murder, though the mystery appeared deeper than ever. As he hastily scanned the columns while he waited for Grace, Roger noted that none of the reports so much as mentioned the stolen papers that had been returned in so extraordinary a manner and that almost certainly were the pivot of the tragedy. The police knew of these, for he himself had rung up Scotland Yard, and Sir Robert was awaiting the arrival of a detective when he, Roger, had been obliged to leave him. But evidently the information had been withheld from the Press.

The theory advanced, and considerably elaborated, was that which Thomson had propounded over the ’phone, and much stress was laid on the fact that the murderer had missed some at least of his anticipated spoil--the gold purse--with much conjecture as to whether the bag had contained any other valuables.

Naturally, Grace was terribly distressed; also, her quick mind instantly divined that this was the cause of Roger’s strange emotion yesterday, that, for the moment, had so startled and alarmed her.

“It was a shock,” he confessed. “Honestly, darling, when I saw that poster, and George gave me the paper, I was more upset than I’ve ever been in my life before; what with the horror of the thing itself, and wanting to keep it from you. I couldn’t bear to let you know, just then, the great day of our lives! Though even now I don’t know how I managed it.”

His voice was husky with emotion, and she looked up at him, smiling through her tears.

“It was dear of you, Roger! I never suspected--how could I?... But what in the world can she have been doing there, so near us, and in disguise, as they say?”

“Heaven knows, dear, except that I’m pretty certain she had been to a flat in a square nearly opposite; not for the first time, though why she went there, I know no more than you do.”

“The square opposite? Why, that must be Rivercourt Mansions. What makes you think she had been there?”

“Because I saw her, a few days ago. By George! it was only last Tuesday, though it seems more like a year. You remember I came to dinner----”

“Of course, and turned up very early.”

He nodded.

“It was because I got away so much earlier than I expected that I walked from the station, and presently I saw her walking rapidly a few yards in front of me. I shouldn’t have known her but for her gait: you know that curious way of hers--graceful I suppose, but----”

“I know, like a snake; we always said so!”

“Yes, and she was very plainly dressed, in a long, dark cloak and floating veil, almost like a nurse’s uniform; but I was quite sure it was she; and it _was_, for she evidently wore the same get-up yesterday,” he added, picking up one of the newspapers and pointing to the detailed description.

“What did you do?” breathed Grace.

“Well, it wasn’t my business, of course, and I had no right to spy on her, so I loitered a bit, increasing the distance between us. I saw her turn the corner, and when I reached the square I really couldn’t resist just glancing down, and I caught sight of her blue veil disappearing through the entrance of the north block. That’s all; I scarcely gave another thought to it.”

“And you believe she went there again yesterday, but that’s very important, isn’t it, Roger? Oughtn’t you to tell the police?”

“I don’t know,” he said slowly, and, hands in pockets, he paced up and down the room, paused and stared out of the window, frowning perplexedly.

Grace watched him with anxious, puzzled eyes. It seemed a long time before he turned to her again, and spoke with curious hesitation.

“You see, it’s this way, darling. I’m thinking of Sir Robert, and of him alone. I fear there is a great deal more behind this--this crime than appears on the surface. The Press don’t know of it yet, that’s evident; the police may suspect, but I doubt if they _know_--in fact they can’t know everything unless they’ve seen those papers that were lost, and that’s unlikely, if it’s true, as Thomson said, they’ve been returned, and are in Lord Warrington’s hands. _He_ will keep them safe enough!”

“But I don’t understand,” protested Grace. “Surely, Roger, the most important thing is to trace Lady Rawson’s murderer?”

“No,” said Roger decisively. “The most important thing is to keep all knowledge of those papers secret for the present. No disclosures can bring that poor, unhappy woman back to life; while if the secret information contained in those papers were prematurely divulged God knows what would happen--war, almost to a certainty, and thousands of lives would be sacrificed.”

Grace drew a little sobbing breath, her eyes still intent on his face. She had a curious feeling that he was not speaking to her, but was arguing with some invisible person.

“I don’t believe her visit to Rivercourt Mansions had any connection at all with the murder,” he continued, “except, indeed, that it brought her into the neighbourhood. She was robbed and killed by some loitering ruffian who had watched her--an old hand, doubtless, who, when he found he’d got nothing, got rid of the evidence instantly, very cleverly too--chucked the bag through the window of the cab, and slipped the envelope into the nearest post box.”

“You are sure she had those papers?”

“Absolutely, though I’ve no actual evidence. But I was certain of it from the first, and so, I am convinced, was Sir Robert, though of course he gave no hint of that. But she was the only person except ourselves who could possibly have had access to the keys of the safe.”

“But why should she steal them?”

“That I don’t know; I can only conjecture. You see, I’ve suspected her more or less vaguely for months. She was always coming in and out of the room--the only person who was allowed to do so when I was at work; but Sir Robert adored her, never crossed her in anything, and of course it was impossible for me to raise any objection! She used to come and go as softly as a cat--or a snake. Time after time I’ve been startled to find her close beside me, looking over my shoulder. On Wednesday night, the last time I saw her, she tried to get a look at those very papers, and I was just in time to prevent her. It all sounds very trivial perhaps, but there it is; and of course there was always the feeling that she was an alien. But I really couldn’t define my suspicions--at any rate, not till yesterday, and then not clearly.”

“How did you know she had gone to that place again?”

Again he hesitated, and resumed his restless pacing. Should he tell his wife everything? Yes. She was part of himself now--the better, purer, nobler part. He would have no secrets from her, except such secrets of State as were entrusted to him by his chief; and this was not one of those.

“I’ll tell you the whole thing from first to last, darling,” he said, seating himself beside her. “The moment I knew the papers were stolen I thought of her instinctively, and when I learned she was out I thought of the queer incident of Tuesday night. While Sir Robert was questioning the servants I turned up the Directory. There’s only one foreign name among all the list at Rivercourt Mansions: ‘G. Cacciola, Professor of Voice-Production.’”

“Cacciola! Good gracious!” gasped Grace. “Why, I know him quite well. He’s Winnie’s _maestro_, the dearest, kindest, funniest old thing imaginable. You must have heard me speak of him!”

“Don’t remember it. But anyhow I thought I’d go there on spec. and ask for her. It couldn’t do any harm and might be of immense service. As it was so near the church I’d just time, if I didn’t go to Starr’s to change, and I knew you’d forgive me for not turning up in glad rags, darling, if I told you all about it afterwards. So I said good-bye to Sir Robert, jumped into a taxi, and drove straight there. I saw an old Italian woman, and asked boldly for Lady Rawson. I’d guessed rightly--she was there, I’m convinced from the woman’s manner, though she swore she wasn’t, but she knew the name well enough, and I’d take my oath she was lying. I couldn’t very well force my way in and search the place; and as time was running short there was nothing to be done but push off. Like an ass I had paid the taxi and never told the man to wait, and there wasn’t another in sight.”

“There never is thereabouts.”

“That’s why I was so late--that and the fog. I jumped on a tram, got down at the Avenue, and plunged right into the fog. My hat! how thick it was--you couldn’t see your hand before your face! Pretty position for a bridegroom, eh? I thought I never should get through in time; I kept barging into trees and palings till--well, you know the rest, darling.”

“You poor boy! No wonder you looked half dead,” Grace commented. Somehow his vivacious narrative had relieved the tension, diverted her mind from the main tragedy. “But how very queer about the _maestro_--Signor Cacciola, I mean. I wonder if Winnie knows that poor Lady Rawson knew him? I don’t think she can, or she would certainly have said something about it.”

“Well, she was there. But you see now, don’t you, darling, why I am so reluctant to put the police on this? If her visits were innocent, why did she disguise herself? If they were not innocent--may I be forgiven if I wrong her--goodness knows what might come out, to add to poor Sir Robert’s distress. So I’m sure it’s best to do and say nothing, for the moment anyhow, except to ring up as I said I would.”

He returned in about twenty minutes, and found her at the writing-table.

“Thomson again. Sir Robert is going on fairly well, but is not allowed to see anyone but him, and the nurse, of course. He says he gave him my message, and he seemed very touched, and begged me not to dream of coming back, as I could do nothing; I offered to, you know----”

“Of course, dear,” Grace assented.

“And our plan holds? We’ll be off to St. Margaret’s?”

“Yes, oh, yes! let’s get away from here,” said Grace, with a quick little shiver, glancing round the room, where last night they had been so happy, but that had now become distasteful to her.

“All right, sweetheart. I’ll be off to see about a car.”

His quest was speedily successful, and within an hour they were on their way in a trim little two-seater.

They were still grave and subdued when they set forth, as was inevitable, but the shadow lifted from them, and their spirits rose as they sped on their way.

It was a glorious morning, more like April than November, for the gale had blown itself out during the night: the sun shone in a cloudless sky, the blue sea was flecked with dancing white wavelets, the keen, clear air exhilarating as champagne, and overhead larks soared to sing in heavenly chorus.

“Isn’t it a dear, quaint, up-and-down little place?” said Grace, as they neared the village and slowed down. “Oh, there’s the church! It’s very, very old, and so beautiful. Roger, I’d like to go in just for a few minutes.”

“Now?” he asked, in some surprise.

“Yes, if you don’t mind. We’ve lots of time.”

Of course he didn’t mind, though he did wonder; and, after he had lovingly watched her slender figure mount the steps and disappear through the churchyard, he backed the car into a by-way, hailed a village lad and bade him keep an eye on it, and then followed her.

She was kneeling, her face bowed on her hands in prayer.

He stood still, there at the back of the church, his own head bowed, his eyes fixed on that kneeling figure that was all the world to him; and as slow minutes passed the sacred peace of the hushed and holy place stole into his own soul.

Presently she rose and joined him, and hand in hand they went out silently into the sunshine. Her eyes were misty with tears, but her face was serene and beautiful as that of an angel.

“I felt I must go, Roger, just for the little while,” she whispered. “It was for _her_--for poor Lady Rawson. Some people say we should not pray for the dead, but--but if it is true, and it _is_, that souls live for ever, they may know--I believe they do--when we who are still here, think of them gently and lovingly, and it may comfort them! And I’m sure God loves us all, His poor erring human children, however sinful we are, and--and that He _wants_ us to think lovingly of each other.”

Too moved for words, Roger could only look down at her with an almost adoring gaze. Dearly as he loved her, he had not realized as yet the spiritual strength and sweetness of her nature, so simple, so straightforward, and so steadfast.

He felt strangely humble, yet strangely happy, and from his own heart there went up a little silent prayer: “God make me worthy of her!”

“And now for dear old Miss Culpepper,” she announced almost gaily as they settled themselves in the car once more, and Roger dismissed the attendant lad with a generous tip. “Oh, I do hope we shall find her at home, and that she can put us up. Down the hill, Roger, and the first turning. I’ll tell you where to stop.”

Chapter XI

Halcyon Days

It was the prettiest white cottage imaginable, approached from the road by a flight of irregular steps and a steep little garden, now gay with chrysanthemums.

“It’s like one of those toy ‘weather houses,’” said Roger as they mounted the steps. “Does a little lady come out on fine days and a little man on wet ones?”

“I don’t know anything about a little man, but you’ll see the little lady directly--at least, I hope so. She’s just like the cottage; you couldn’t imagine anyone else owning it! Oh! did I warn you that she’s a regular Mrs. Malaprop, bless her? She loves using long words, French for preference, and they’re invariably the wrong ones, but she does it with an ineffable air of gentility, and is dreadfully offended if anyone laughs, so be careful! Oh! and be _sure_ you wipe your shoes as you go in, and she’ll love you for ever. S-sh!”

The green door, adorned with brilliantly polished brass handle, knocker, and letter box, was opened by a small, spare, trim little woman, who might have stepped out of the pages of “Punch” some forty years ago. She wore her white hair in a closely curled “fringe,” neatly held in place by a fine net, with an absurd little butterfly bow of black lace perched on the crown of her head, presumably as a sort of apology for a cap. The skirt of her long, skimpy gown of black merino was trimmed with a series of tiny frills of the same stuff, and had quillings of snowy net at the neck and wrists, and her black silk apron was artfully adjusted to accentuate the slimness of her tiny waist. Through a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez her mild blue eyes scanned her visitors inquiringly.

“How are you, Miss Culpepper?” said Grace, extending her hand. “I wonder if you remember me?”

“I ought to do, I’m sure,” said the little old lady graciously. “But at the moment--why, of course, it’s Miss Armitage! How often I have thought of you and your dear father. I trust Mr. Armitage is in good health.” She glanced at Roger, and Grace blushed and smiled.

“Quite, thanks. But I’m not ‘Miss Armitage’ now. May I introduce my husband, Mr. Roger Carling? You see, we are taking a--a little holiday, and made up our minds all in a hurry to come over and ask whether you could put us up for a week or two.”

“Dear me--married--how romantic!” Miss Culpepper chirruped. “Permit me to tender my congratulations, my dear, to you both. And pray step in.”

She led the way into the parlour on the right--a cosy and charming little room, spotlessly clean and bright.

“I shall be delighted to accommodate you, to the extent of my very humble _menace_. As you may remember, my dear Miss--I mean, Mrs. Carling--I retain no domestic during the winter months, when I so seldom have any guests, though I am very glad when they do come, like you and Mr. Armitage. And, do you know, I still think of that delicious _jambon_ he sent me for Christmas, just after you left. As I wrote to him at the time, a more delicious bird was never brought to table! Now perhaps you would like to see the sleeping apartment--the large one over this; it is not quite ready, of course, as I did not expect you, but can be _dérangered_ in a very few minutes.”

“We don’t want to put you about in the very least,” Grace explained. “We can go and get lunch somewhere in the village--we shall have to find a garage for the motor-car anyhow; it’s waiting there in the road--and we can come back at any time you like. Oh, you darling! Why, is this Cæsar?”

A magnificent black Persian cat stalked into the room, and stared gravely at Grace with its inscrutable amber eyes.

The question seemed to embarrass little Miss Culpepper, who, after a deprecating glance at Roger’s back--he was looking out of the window--mysteriously beckoned Grace out of the room.

She followed, cuddling the cat, which she had picked up, and which lay quite quietly in her arms without evincing any emotion whatever.

“It’s the same animal, my dear, whom you were so fond of as a kitten,” Miss Culpepper explained in a discreet whisper; “but unfortunately she proved to be a--a female; very embarrassing! So she is now _inconnu_ as ‘Cleopatra.’ Perhaps I should not have said unfortunate though, for a lady near possesses a most beautiful Persian with whom Cleopatra--er--mates; and the provender are exquisite, and provide quite a nice little source of additional income. She has two now, that I expect to dispose of for quite a large sum, though I _do_ hate parting with them; it seems so sordid.”

“Oh, do let me see them,” Grace pleaded, and was graciously invited into the kitchen, where the two kittens, an adorable pair, pranced to meet them. Cleopatra jumped down and crooned over her offspring, and Grace promptly sat on the floor and gathered all three of them into her lap.

“Most extraordinary,” murmured Miss Culpepper, “Cleopatra evidently remembers you, after all this time. As a rule she never allows anyone but myself to caress her or the kittens; in fact, she usually swears at and attempts to bite any stranger who has the timidity to approach her. So unladylike!”

“I feel quite honoured,” laughed Grace. “Of course you remember me and love me, don’t you, Cleopatra, darling? And you’ll let me have one of your babies. We must take one home with us, Miss Culpepper, if it’s old enough.”

“Oh, yes, quite old enough, just three months to-day; indeed one has already gone--Cæsarion--to the clergyman who was staying here when they were tiny, and bespoke him at once. It was he who named them. This is the other--er--male, ‘Dear Brutus.’ Why ‘Dear’ I really don’t know, though naturally he is very dear to me. And his sister is Semiramis, because she is so _melligerent_. The Rev. Smithson--such a learned man, my dear Mrs. Carling--said she would certainly grow up into a warrior queen. They are beautiful names, I consider--pathological, of course.”

“Historical,” Grace suggested, and instantly repented. For Miss Culpepper drew herself up and spoke, gently indeed, but in a tone that conveyed a subtle reproof.

“I consider ‘pathological’ the more correct. It is as well to be accurate even in the smallest matters, and I believe it is very doubtful if the originals of the names ever really lived.”

“She’s priceless!” Grace declared, when she repeated this to Roger, as she accompanied him back to the car, with a perfect imitation of the old lady’s manner. “And the dearest, kindest old soul in the world. Aren’t you glad we came? She’s going to give me all sorts of household tips, as she did when I was here with daddy. She’s a wonderful cook. So hurry back when you’ve garaged the car, and we shall have lunch ready.”

“Good!” said Roger heartily. “I’m as hungry as a hunter. So long, darling.”

When he returned he found Grace, enveloped in one of Miss Culpepper’s big cooking aprons, and with Dear Brutus perched on her shoulder, busily putting the finishing touches to the table, while a delicious fragrance of omelette was wafted from the kitchen.

A very dainty meal the resourceful old lady managed to serve at such short notice, and how they enjoyed it!

For the time the shadow had passed from them. London and the Rawsons, all the tragedy and trouble, had receded into the far distance, and life seemed very fair, very joyous. They were not callous--far from it; they were only a pair of lovers, rejoicing in each other, in the sunshine, in “the delight of simple things, and mirth that hath no bitter stings!”

It was a wonderful week-end, halcyon days of sheer, unalloyed happiness; an abiding memory to dwell on in the time to come, when the world was dark indeed, and even hope seemed dead.

It was amazing how swiftly the hours sped. There was a shopping expedition down the village in the afternoon to order supplies, when the crowning glory of the purchases was a noble dish of big pink prawns, caught that very morning, and still steaming hot from the pot. They carried them back and had them for tea--a real square-meal tea, and ate them all, except such as were demolished by Cleopatra, Semiramis, and Dear Brutus, who attended the feast and exhibited an appreciative appetite for fresh prawns nicely peeled and proffered.

And how snug it was, how peaceful in the little parlour, with the lamp lighted and the curtains drawn, when Roger lounged happily in the easy chair beside the fire, and Grace sat at the little mellow-toned old Broadwood piano, and sang old songs, played snatches of old melodies, grave and gay, finishing up with Sullivan’s tender and wistful love duet:

None shall part us from each other, One in life and death are we,

and Roger came to her side and sang Strephon’s part, quite softly, for her ears alone, though if he could have sung with like expression on the stage, and to order, he would have made his fortune!

After that there was such a silence that little Miss Culpepper considered it advisable to be seized with a fit of coughing and to make quite a business of opening the door when she brought the supper-tray.

A chill breath from the world they had left behind swept over them indeed for a few brief minutes next morning, when Roger went down to the garage to fetch the car, and brought back three London papers--all he could get in the village.

“Very little about it at all,” he said. “And nothing fresh.... The inquest was merely opened and adjourned for a week; and they say, ‘The police are following up a clue’; but they always say that.”

“How is Sir Robert?” asked Grace.

“Improving steadily. I heard that from Thomson. I rang him up from the hotel. He says the funeral is fixed for Tuesday, at noon, and I really think I ought to go up for it, darling. I’m sure Sir Robert would like to see me, if he’s allowed to see anyone by then, and I could get back at night.”

“Of course,” Grace assented gravely. “It’s right that you should go. Poor Sir Robert! My heart aches for him; and I--I feel almost ashamed of our happiness, Roger, when I think of his crushing sorrow.”

“I know. But, after all, it wouldn’t do him any good--or her either, poor soul!--if we were to try to be as miserable as anything. Come along, sweetheart, let’s get out into the sunshine. The car’s a regular peach, isn’t she? And what weather! Perfect ‘Indian summer,’ by Jove! Might have been made on purpose for us.”

So they set forth for another glorious day in the open, over the downs and through the weald, splendid with the gracious, wistful beauty of late autumn; and back by the coast, to arrive as dusk was falling at their peaceful retreat. How invitingly homelike the little room was with its cheerful fire, and Miss Culpepper and the cats coming out to the porch to welcome them.

“And what’s the programme for to-morrow?” asked Roger after supper, as they sat together in lazy content on the couch drawn up by the fire, Cleopatra and Semiramis ensconced on Grace’s lap, Dear Brutus snuggling on Roger’s shoulder.

“I want to go to the early Celebration in the morning,” said Grace. “I nearly always do, you know, and to-morrow----”

“Me too, beloved,” he answered softly; and she slipped her hand in his.

There was no need for further speech; on this great point there had long been perfect understanding, perfect sympathy between them.

And so, in the fresh, sweet dawn of an exquisite morning, they went up the hill together to the little church, and with full hearts made their “sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving.” As they knelt before the altar, I am sure they silently renewed those solemn vows they had made three short days before; as I am very sure also that Grace’s gentle soul sent up a fervent prayer for that of Paula Rawson, the beautiful woman whose fate had been so strange and sudden and terrible.

The glory of the risen sun shone on their happy faces when they came forth, and life was beautiful beyond words. They would have liked to share their happiness with the whole world. As that was impossible they shared it with little Miss Culpepper, and took her, snugly sandwiched between them, in the car to Canterbury. It was Roger’s idea, joyfully acclaimed by Grace.

“She’d love it; she told me yesterday she had never been in a motor-car in her life, and I thought then we must take her for some runs. She may think Sunday excursions wicked; but we’ll ask her.”

Never was an old lady more gratified by an invitation.

“Oh, my dear Mrs. Carling and Mr. Carling, there is nothing, I assure you _nothing_, would give me greater pleasure!” she cried; “but”--Grace glanced at Roger as one who would say “I told you so”--“but I am torn between inclination and duty. The cathedral! It is so many, many years since I visited that beautiful vane; it would indeed be a privilege to do so once more, and in such a positively uxorious manner. But your dinner--there will be no one to prepare it!”

So that was the only objection, easily disposed of.

“We’re going to dine at Canterbury, of course,” said Roger; and Grace reminded her that the pheasant would keep till to-morrow and there was plenty in the house for supper.

Her housewifely scruples set at rest, in what a delightful flutter of excitement she retired to “dress,” reappearing enveloped in quite an assortment of ancient shawls and a long ostrich feather “boa,” the floating ends of which, with those of the gauze scarf adjusted around her “toque,” flapped across Roger’s eyes horribly when they started, till Grace twined them snugly round the old lady’s neck and tucked the ends in securely.

Good it was to see Miss Culpepper, proudly erect, beaming with benevolent condescension on such pedestrians as they met; good to hear the ecstatic comments she chirped into their sympathetic ears; to note, when they reached the cathedral just in time for the service, the superb dignity with which she advanced up the aisle, visibly fortified with the consciousness that she had “come in a motor-car.”

Verily she had the time of her life that sunny Sunday, as she told Grace, with tears in her kind old eyes, after dinner at the hotel, when Roger had gone to bring round the car for the homeward run.

“I’ve never had such a treat in all my long life before!” she cried. “And nobody has ever been so good to me as you two dear young people. I don’t know how to begin to thank you, only--God bless you both and send you the rich happiness you deserve all your lives!” Grace hugged her, and between smiles and tears Miss Culpepper continued: “Do you know there’s only one little thing in this happy, happy day I’d have wished different, and you’ll think it silly of me. But, though the lovely music in the cathedral thrilled me, I _did_ wish they had chosen another anthem. ‘Hear my prayer, O Lord, incline Thine ear, consider my complaint,’ is most beautiful, but I couldn’t really echo it to-day, for I hadn’t any ‘complaint’ to make to Him. I’d have liked them to sing the Hallelujah Chorus, and I believe I should not only have stood up, but have joined in!”

Happy, happy day, with never a cloud to mar it!

Next morning the storm broke.

Roger went down the village to fetch the papers, and on returning saw, with some surprise, a taxi-cab standing in the road below the cottage.

In the tiny hall, almost blocking it up, stood a big, burly man, whom he instantly discerned as a policeman in plain clothes, and who greeted him with a civil “Good morning.”

He had the impression that Miss Culpepper was fluttering nervously in the background, by the kitchen door, with Cleopatra beside her, staring with her big, luminous eyes at the intruder.

“Do you wish to speak to me?” he asked.

The man merely motioned towards the half-open parlour door, and, with a curious sense of impending disaster upon him, Roger entered.

Grace was standing there, her fair face as white as the big cooking apron she had donned, and with her was a little, wiry man, a stranger.

“This is my husband, Mr. Carling,” said Grace quietly. “Roger, this gentleman wishes to speak to you.”

“Just so--and alone, if you please, ma’am,” said Snell.

Chapter XII

Alone

“Roger has been arrested for the murder of Lady Rawson.”

The words repeated themselves over and over in Grace Carling’s brain with maddening persistence, as she sat perfectly still and silent, her hands grasping the arms of the chair, her lips firmly set, her eyes gazing straight in front of her. But for those wide, tragic eyes she might have been a stone figure.

She could never afterwards clearly remember what happened in that brief half-hour--possibly less--before Roger was taken away, and she was left alone.

She had made no scene--that at least was something for which to be thankful; though when the detective said he wanted to speak to her husband alone, some strong instinct had forbidden her to go, and she had moved to Roger’s side, saying quite quietly:

“I don’t think you can have anything to say to my husband that I may not hear”; and, after a moment’s hesitation, Roger said:

“My wife is quite right; I have no secrets from her. What is your business with me?”

And then--and then--the shock came, or rather was intensified, for when she first saw these two men of ill-omen a strange, swift premonition told her what their errand was.

So when Snell--more embarrassed than he had ever before felt in the execution of his duty, and most anxious to get the difficult business over--bluntly pronounced his formula, and added the customary caution as to any statement made by his prisoner being liable to be used as evidence against him, she was scarcely conscious of surprise, only of intense indignation.

Roger had uttered a startled, horrified exclamation, and she involuntarily slipped her hand through his arm, not for support--that hand did not tremble, nor did she, but its pressure was eloquent.

Her slender figure drawn to its full height, her grey eyes fixed steadily on Snell, she spoke, coldly, deliberately, in a voice that sounded in her own ears like that of a stranger:

“How utterly preposterous. You have made a great, a terrible mistake.”

“Excuse me, madam; I have to do my duty. I would have spared you if I could, but you _would_ stay, you know,” Snell protested, watching her as closely and relentlessly as she watched him, for the moment leaving Roger Carling to Evans, who had silently entered the room and taken up his position beside him.

Having had a good deal of experience with women under such circumstances, Snell fully expected a violent hysterical outburst, but, as he afterwards confided to his wife, he had never seen such marvellous self-possession as Mrs. Carling displayed.

“I never felt sorrier for anyone in my life, nor ever felt a greater respect for anyone. She was simply splendid! And it was rough on her, poor girl--on their honeymoon and all; and of course she had nothing in the world to do with the crime. And she loves him and believes in him utterly. Mark my words, she’ll believe in him to the very end, whatever that may be.”

“Perhaps he didn’t do it,” suggested Mrs. Snell.

“That’s to be proved at the trial,” said Snell. Not even to the wife of his bosom would he commit himself to any expression of opinion on the guilt or innocence of any prisoner. That was outside his duty.

And he was right. The control Grace imposed on herself, and that helped Roger to maintain his during the ordeal, was nothing less than heroic.

She announced her intention of accompanying them back to London, but accepted Snell’s decision that that was undesirable--in fact not permissible--and arranged to settle up and follow in the course of the day.

“When and where shall I see you, Roger?” she asked. “This--this dreadful mistake will be put right, of course, but I suppose it will be a few days at least--and till then?”

“That will be all right,” Snell interposed. “Mr. Carling’s solicitors will arrange everything, and you will be able to see him at any reasonable time for the present.”

“Thank you. Who are your solicitors, Roger?”

“The only firm _I_ know anything about are Twinings--Sir Robert’s solicitors, you know; but they’ve never done any business for me personally. I’ve never needed it. I’d better communicate with them. I suppose I shall have facility for that?” he added, glancing at Snell. “I don’t know anything about these things, or the procedure, myself.”

“You’ll have every facility,” Snell assured him. “But though I don’t want to hurry you, we must be getting off now--within ten minutes, in fact--and you’ll want to take some necessaries with you. Perhaps Mrs. Carling will put them together? I’m sorry, madam, but I must not lose sight of Mr. Carling. Duty’s duty!”

“I will fetch them,” she said, and exchanged a long, silent glance with Roger ere she