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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Riddle of the Night, by Thomas W. Hanshew

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Title: The Riddle of the Night

Author: Thomas W. Hanshew

Release Date: July 27, 2010 [EBook #33271]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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THE RIDDLE OF THE NIGHT




[Illustration: HE TOOK UP THE DECANTERS ONE BY ONE AND SAMPLED THEIR
CONTENTS IN TURN]




THE INTERNATIONAL
ADVENTURE LIBRARY

[Illustration]

THREE OWLS EDITION

       *       *       *       *       *

THE RIDDLE OF
THE NIGHT


BY
THOMAS W. HANSHEW

Author of
"Cleek, the Man of the Forty Faces,"
"Cleek of Scotland Yard,"
Etc.

       *       *       *       *       *

W. R. CALDWELL & CO.
NEW YORK


_Copyright, 1915, by_
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                                           PAGE

       I. A Mysterious Affair                                          3
      II. How the Chase Ended                                         14
     III. The Shadow That Lay Behind                                  23
      IV. Clews and Suspicions                                        36
       V. The Riddle of the Night                                     47
      VI. A Little Discrepancy                                        58
     VII. "Coming Events Cast Their Shadows Before"                   72
    VIII. Ailsa Lorne                                                 77
      IX. Blind Groping                                               88
       X. Another Strand in the Web                                  101
      XI. The Cloudburst                                             109
     XII. The Thunderbolt                                            120
    XIII. A Question of Veracity                                     127
     XIV. A Change in the Program                                    139
      XV. A Clew from the Air                                        149
     XVI. A Bold Stroke                                              159
    XVII. A Blunder and a Discovery                                  171
   XVIII. Springing a Surprise                                       182
     XIX. Picking up Threads                                         188
      XX. "How Sharper Than a Serpent's Tooth"                       199
     XXI. When Two and Two Make Four                                 204
    XXII. When Four and Four Make Eight                              215
   XXIII. The Lady at the Gate                                       226
    XXIV. The Mousetrap                                              237
     XXV. The Fly in the Ointment                                    248
    XXVI. The Open Window                                            260
   XXVII. The View Halloo                                            268
  XXVIII. Loisette is Vindicated                                     279
    XXIX. "Quick! Fire!"                                             287
     XXX. Nearing the Truth!                                         296
    XXXI. How the Truth Was Told                                     304




CHARACTERS


     HAMILTON CLEEK, The Man of the Forty Faces and once known to
     the Police as "The Vanishing Cracksman," now the great
     Detective in his various disguises as Monsieur Georges de
     Lesparre, Philip Barch, George Headland.

     SUPERINTENDENT NARKOM, of Scotland Yard.

     LENNARD, his chauffeur.

     HAMMOND } Detective Sergeants.
     PETRIE  }

     MELLISH, Police Officer.

     DOLLOPS, Cleek's trusted assistant.

     LORD ST. ULMER, the father of

     LADY KATHERINE FORDHAM, who is in love with

     GEOFFREY CLAVERING, the only son and heir of

     SIR PHILIP CLAVERING, of Clavering Close, and

     LADY CLAVERING, his second wife.

     COUNT FRANZ DE LOUVISAN, found mysteriously murdered after
     having forced Lady Katherine to become engaged to him.

     AILSA LORNE, Lady Katherine's friend and companion.

     GENERAL and

     MRS. RAYNOR, Lady Katherine's relatives.

     HARRY RAYNOR, their son.




CHAPTER ONE

A MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR


It was half-past eleven on the night of Wednesday, April 14th, when the
well-known red limousine of Mr. Maverick Narkom, superintendent of
Scotland Yard, came abruptly to the head of Mulberry Lane, which, as you
may possibly know, is a narrow road skirting one of the loneliest and
wildest portions of Wimbledon Common.

Lennard, the chauffeur, put on the brake with such suddenness that the
car seemed actually to rise from the earth, performed a sort of buzzing
and snorting semicircle, and all but collided with the rear wall of
Wuthering Grange before coming to a halt in the narrow road space which
lay between that wall and the tree-fringed edge of the great Common.

Under ordinary circumstances one might as soon have expected to run foul
of a specimen of the great auk rearing a family in St. Paul's
churchyard, as to find Mr. Narkom's limousine in the neighbourhood of
Mulberry Lane at any hour of the day or the night throughout the whole
cycle of the year.

For a reason which will be made clear in the course of events, however,
the superintendent had been persuaded to go considerably out of his way
before returning to town after mingling duty with pleasure in taking
part in the festivities attendant upon the coming of age of his friend
Sir Philip Clavering's son and heir, and, incidentally, in seeing, too,
that Petrie and Hammond, two of his sergeants, kept a watchful eye upon
the famous Clavering service of gold plate which had been brought out of
the bank vault for the occasion.

All three were sitting serenely back among the cushions of the limousine
at the period when Lennard brought it to this abrupt and startling halt,
the result of which was to fairly jerk them out of their seats and send
them sprawling over one another in a struggling heap.

There was a moment of something like absolute confusion, for mist and
darkness enveloped both the road and the Common, and none of the three
could see anything from the windows of the car which might decide
whether they had collided with some obstruction or were hovering upon
the brink of some dangerous and unexpected pitfall.

Nor were their fears lessened by perceiving--through the glass
screen--that Lennard had started up from his seat, and, with a hastily
produced electric torch in one upraised hand, was leaning forward and
wildly endeavouring to discern something through the all-enfolding mist.
Mr. Narkom hastily unlatched the door and leaned out.

"What is it? What's gone wrong?" he inquired in the sharp staccato of
excitement. "Anything amiss?"

"Lord, yessir! I heard a shot and a cry. A pistol shot ... and a police
whistle ... and a cry of murder, sir. Up the lane ahead of us!" began
Lennard, in a quaking voice; then he uttered a cry of fright, for, of a
sudden, the darkness was riven by the screaming note of a police
whistle--of two police whistles in fact: shrilling appeal and answer far
up the lonely lane.

Hard on this came a man's voice shouting: "Head him off there, whoever
you are! Don't let him get by you. Look sharp! He's making for the
railway arch!"

"All right, mate. I'm here!" another male voice flung back. "He won't
get past me, the blighter!"

Instantly there struck out the swift-measured sound of heavily shod feet
racing at top speed up the mist-shrouded lane, and rapidly increasing
the distance between the unseen runner and the standing limousine.

No need to tell either Narkom or his men that the man whose steps they
heard was a constable, for there is a distinctive note, to ears that are
trained, rung out by the heavy, cumbersome boots which folly accords to
the British policeman.

Catching the ring of that telltale note now, Narkom shouted out at the
top of his voice: "All right, Constable! Stick to him! Help coming!"

Then with a word of command to Lennard he pulled in his head, slammed
the door, and the chauffeur, dropping back to his seat, threw open the
clutch and sent the limousine bounding up the lane at a fifty-mile clip.

To-night, with the trees shadowing it and the mist crowding in, shoulder
high, from the adjacent Common, the lane was a mere dark funnel; but to
Lennard, whose boyhood had been passed within hailing distance of the
place, it possessed no mysteries that the night or the vapour could
hide.

He knew that it ran on for some seven or eight hundred feet, with the
high brick wall which marked the rear boundary of Wuthering Grange on
one side of it and straggling trees and matted gorse bushes shutting it
in on the other, until it dipped down a steadily increasing incline, and
ran straightway through an old brick-walled, brick-roofed arch of a
long-abandoned Wimbledon Loop line.

Some two hundred feet upon the other side of this it divided into a sort
of "Y," one branch swerving to the left forming a right of way across
the meadows to the public highway, whilst the other struck out over the
Common to the right, crossed Beverly Brook, and merged at length into
the road which leads to Coombe Wood, and thence, through picturesque
ways, to Kingston and the river.

The limousine took those seven or eight hundred feet between the head of
the lane and the old railway arch at such a stupendous pace that it
seemed to have no more than started before the distance was eaten up
and it came to halt again; but this time, in such a din and babel of
struggling and shouting that Lennard seemed to have reached the very
gateway of Sheol.

Narkom and his men were out of the vehicle almost as the brake fell into
place, and clicking their electric pocket torches into sudden flame,
rushed headlong into the black opening of the arch, into which they had
taken but half a dozen steps, when they came upon a startling sight.

Snarling and yapping like a couple of fighting dogs and crying out in
concert: "Got you, you blighter! Got you fast!" were two men, locked
tight in each other's arms, reeling and swaying--one wearing the
official badge of an appointed Common keeper, the other in the helmet
and tunic of an ordinary constable.

"Lend a hand, gov'ner, for Gawd's sake!" rapped out the former. "Name's
Mawson, sir--keeper on the Common-- Number four, sir. Got the
blackguard! Murder, sir--got him red handed!"

"Good Lord!" little more than gulped the man he held.

The two pairs of gripping hands dropped, the struggling figures fell
apart, and the two men who but an instant before had been locked in an
angry embrace stood staring at each other in open-mouthed amazement.

"What kind of a game is this?" demanded Narkom, as with his allies he
crowded forward. "You two people are paid to keep the peace, not to
break it, dash you!"

"My word!" exclaimed the Common keeper, finding his voice suddenly. "A
copper, is it?--a copper! when I thought.... Gawd's truth, Constable,
wot have you done with him? He run in here with me on his blessed heels.
You didn't let him get past you, did you?"

"No fear!" snapped out the constable indignantly. "I stood here
waiting--waiting and shouting to you--until you ran smack into my
blessed arms; and if anybody but you come in _your_ side of the arch, he
never come out o' mine, I'll take my solemn oath!"

"Then where's he gone? Wot's become of him?" shouted the Common keeper
excitedly. "I tell you I was on the very heels of him from the moment I
first whistled and called out to you to head him off. I could a-most
have touched him when he dashed in here; and--and his footsteps never
stopped soundin' for one second the whole blessed time. Murder is wot
he's done--murder!--and I've been on his heels from the very moment he
fired the shot."

Narkom and his allies lost not an instant in revealing their identity
and displaying their insignia of office to the two men.

"Murder is it, Keeper?" exclaimed the superintendent, remembering all at
once what Lennard had said about hearing the cry and the shot. "When and
how? Lead me to the body."

"Lor' bless you, sir, I aren't 'ad no time nor chanct to look after any
body," replied the keeper. "All's I can tell you is that I was out there
in my shelter on the Common when I heard the first cry--like as some one
was callin' for help whiles some one else had 'em by the windpipe, sir;
so I dashes out and cuts through the mist and gorse as fast as my
blessed legs could carry me. Jist as I gets to the edge of the lane,
sir, 'Bang!' goes a revolver shot jist 'arf a dozen feet in front of me,
and a man, wot I couldn't see 'ide nor 'air of on account of the mist,
nicks out o' somewheres, and cuts off down the lane like a blessed race
'orse. I outs with me whistle and blows it as 'ard as I could, and cuts
off after him. He never stopped runnin' for a blessed instant. He never
doubled on me, never turned to the right nor to the left, gov'ner, but
jist dashes into this arch--straight in front of me, sir, and me running
on almost within reachin' distance, until I runs smack into the arms of
this constable here, and grabs _him_, thinkin' I'd got my man for sure.
Wherever he's got to since, I tell you he come in here, sir--smack
_in_!--and me after him; and if he didn't get past the constable----"

"He didn't-- I've told you so once, and I'll stick to it!" interrupted
the constable himself, with some show of heat. "What do you take me
for--an old woman? Look here, Mr. Narkom, sir, my name's Mellish. It's
true I've only been on the force a little over a week, sir, but my
sergeant will tell you I've got my wits about me and aren't in the least
likely to let a man slip past me in the manner that this chap thinks.
_Nothing_ went past me--nothing the size of a cat, let alone a man,
sir--and if the party in question really _did_ come in here----"

"I'll soon settle that question!" rapped in Narkom sharply.

He flung a hurried command to Lennard, waved Petrie and Hammond aside,
and an instant later the limousine moved swiftly up out of the mist
until its bulk filled the entrance of the arch and its blazing acetylene
lamps were sweeping it with light from end to end. Smooth as a rifle
bore, its damp walls and curving roof shone out in the sudden glare--not
a brick displaced, not a crevice big enough to shelter a rat much less a
human being--and of the man the Common keeper had been chasing, not a
sign nor a trace anywhere!

"Whatever the fellow did or wherever he went, he can't have gone far, so
look sharp, my lads!" commanded Narkom. "If we're quick we're sure to
nab him. Come along, Constable, come along, Keeper. Lennard, you stop
where you are and guard the exit from the arch, so if he doubles on us
he can't get by _you_!"

"Right you are, sir!" responded Lennard, as the superintendent and the
four men made a dash toward that end of the arch through which the
keeper was so positive the fugitive had come.

"I say, Mr. Narkom!" he added, raising his voice and shouting after
them. "Eyes sharp to the left, all of you, when you get outside this
arch. Know the neighbourhood like a book, sir. Lane forks out into a 'Y'
after you get about fifty yards on. Branches off on the left where
there's an old house called Gleer Cottage, sir, that hasn't been
tenanted for years and years. Walled garden--tool house--stable. Great
place for man to hide, sir!"

"Good boy! Thanks!" flung back Narkom. "Come on, my lads! Lively!"

Then they swung out of the arch with a rush, and the last that Lennard
saw of them before the shrouding mist took them and blotted them from
his view, they were pelting up the lane at top speed and making headlong
for the branching "Y" to which he had directed them, their footsteps
sounding on the moist surface of the road and their electric torches
emitting every now and again a spark like a glowworm flashing.

Five minutes passed--the click of their flying steps had dropped off
into silence; the flash of their torches had vanished in the distance
and the mist; even the blurred sound of their excited voices was
stilled; and neither ear nor eye could now detect anything but the soft
drip of the moisture from the roof of the arch and the white oblivion of
the close-pressing, ever-thickening mist.

Still he sat there, waiting--alert, watchful, keen--looking straight
before him and keeping a close watch on the unobstructed end of the
miniature tunnel whose entire length was still flooded with the glare
from the motor's lamps. If a mouse had crawled down its damp walls he
must have seen it; if even so much as a shadow had come up out of that
wilderness of mist and crept into the place, he must have detected, it.
But there was nothing; neither man nor beast, neither shade nor shadow;
only the loneliness and the mist and the soft "plick-plick!" of the
dropping moisture.

The five minutes became eight, ten, a dozen, without the slightest
change in anything. Then, all of a sudden, Lennard's tense nerves gave a
sort of jump and a swift prickle flashed up his spine and through his
hair. A sound had come--a rustle--a step--a movement. Not from the
direction in which he was looking, however, but from the lane beyond the
arch and _behind_ the limousine.

He jumped to his feet and rising on tiptoe on his driver's seat flashed
the light of his electric torch back over the top of the vehicle; what
he saw took all the breath out of him and set his heart and pulses
hammering furiously.

Against that thick blanket of mist the penetrating power of the torch's
gleam was so effectually blunted that it could do nothing more than
throw a pale, weak circle of light a few feet into the depths of a
crowding vapour, leaving all beyond and upon either side doubly dark in
contrast.

Yet as the light streamed out and flung that circle into the impinging
mist, there moved across it the figure of a woman, young and fair, with
a scarf of lace thrown over her head, from beneath which fell a glory
of unbound hair, thick and lustrous, over shoulders that were wrapped in
ermine--ermine in mid-April!

A woman! Here! At this hour! In this time of violence and evil doing!
The thing was so uncanny, so unnatural, so startlingly unexpected, that
Lennard's head swam.

She was gone so soon--just glimmering across the circle of light and
then vanishing into the mist as suddenly as she had appeared--that for a
moment or two he lost his nerve and his wits, and ducked down under the
screen of the motor's top, remembering all the tales he had ever heard
of ghosts and apparitions, and, in a moment of folly, half believing he
had looked upon one. But of a sudden his better sense asserted itself,
and realizing that for a woman--_any_ woman, no matter how dressed, no
matter how young and fair and good to look upon--to be moving stealthily
about this place, at this hour, when there was talk of murder, was at
least suspicious, he laid hands upon the wheel, and being unable to turn
the vehicle in the arch and go after _her_, put on full power and went
after Narkom and his men. A swift whizz carried him through the arch and
up the lane, and, once in the open, he laid hand upon the bulb of the
motor horn and sent blast after blast hooting through the stillness,
shouting at the top of his voice as he scorched over the ground:

"Mr. Narkom! Mr. Narkom! This way, sir, this way! This way!"




CHAPTER TWO

HOW THE CHASE ENDED


Meanwhile Mr. Narkom and his zealous assistants had rushed wildly on,
coming forth at last from the old railway arch into the narrow lane
without so much as catching a glimpse or finding the slightest trace of
either victim or murderer.

But that they had not all been deceived by an hallucination of the
night, received proof from the triumphant discovery of Sergeant Petrie,
who, with the aid of his torch and the bull's-eye lantern of Constable
Mellish, had found the unmistakable traces of hurried footsteps on the
soft, yielding earth.

"Lummy, sir! the place is alive with 'em," ejaculated Mellish. "This is
the way he went, sir, down this 'ere lane, and makin' for the right of
way across the fields, like wot that shuvver of yours said, sir."

Narkom, Hammond, and Petrie were at his side before he had finished
speaking. It was true, other footprints were there, all the lonely
tree-girt road was full of them, going down the centre in one long,
unbroken line. They stopped but a moment to make sure of this, then rose
and dashed on in the direction which they led.

Straight on, down the middle of the thoroughfare, without break or
interruption, the foot-made trail drew them; under dripping
overshadowing trees; by natural hedges and unnatural mounds where weeds
and briars scrambled over piles of debris, and the light of their
torches showed Narkom and his men the dim irregular outlines of a
crumbling wall, green with moss and lichen and higher in parts than a
man's head.

On and still on, the deeply dug footprints lessening not a whit in their
clearness, until, all of a moment, they swerved slightly to the left and
then abruptly stopped--stopped dead short, and after that were seen no
more!

"Here's where he went!" called out Hammond, pointing to the left as
Narkom and the others, in a sort of panic, went running round and
endeavouring to pick up the lost trail. "Look, sir--grass here and the
wall beyond. Hopped over on to the grass, that's what he did, then
scaled the wall and 'went to earth' like an idiot in that old house
Lennard told us of. Come along--quick!

"Fair copped him, sir, as sure as eggs," he added excitedly, plunging in
through the mist and the shadow of the trees until he came to the wall
in question. "Break in the wall here, coping gone, dry dust of newly
crumbled mortar on the grass. Got over here, Mr. Narkom--yes, and cut
himself doing it. Hand, most likely; for there are bits of mortar with
broken glass stuck in 'em lying about and a drop of fresh blood on the
top of the wall!"

A single look was enough, when Mr. Narkom came hurrying to his side, to
verify all that had been said; and with an excited, "This way, all of
you. Look sharp!" the superintendent sprang up, gripped the broken top
of the wall, scrambled over it and dropped down into the darkness and
mist upon the other side. The others followed his lead, and the next
moment all were in the dark, walled-in enclosure in the middle of which
the long-abandoned house known as Gleer Cottage stood. They could see
nothing of it from where they were, for the mist and the crowded screen
of long-neglected fruit trees shut it in as with a curtain.

"Better let me go ahead and light the way, gents," said Constable
Mellish in an excited whisper, as he again unshuttered his bull's-eye
and directed its gleam upon the matted and tangled verdure. "Stout boots
and thick trousers is what's wanted to tramp a path through these
briars; them evening clothes of yours 'ud be torn to ribbons and your
ankles cut to the bone before you'd gone a dozen yards. Lummy! there's
another of his footprints--on the edge of that flower bed there! see!
Come on, come on--quick!"

Too excited and too much occupied with the work in hand to care who took
the lead so that they got through the place and ran their quarry to
earth, Narkom and the rest suffered the suburban constable to beat a way
for them through the brambly wilderness, while with bodies bent, nerves
tense as wire, treading on tiptoe along the trail that was being so
cautiously blazed for them, they pressed on after him.

Suddenly, without hint or warning, a faint metallic "click" sounded,
the light they were following went suddenly out, and before Narkom,
realizing that Mellish had sprung the shutter over the flame of his
lamp, could voice a whispered inquiry, the constable's body lurched back
against his own and a shaking hand descended upon his shoulder.

"Don't move, don't speak, sir!" said Mellish's voice close to his ear.
"We've got him right enough. He's in the house itself, and with a light!
There's a board or something put up against the window to shield it, but
you can see the light through the chinks--coming and going, sir, like as
he was carrying it about."

Startling as the statement was, when Narkom and the rest came on tiptoe
to the end of the trampled path and peeped around the last screening
bush into the open beyond, they found it to be the case.

Blurred, shadowy, mist wrapped--like the ghost of a house set in a
ghostly garden--there stood the long-abandoned building, its blank upper
windows lost in the wrapping fog; its dreary face toward the distant
road; its bleak, unlovely side fronting the point from which Narkom and
his men now viewed it; and from one of the two side windows thin
wavering lines of constantly shifting light issued from beneath the
shadow of a veranda.

"Candlelight, sir, and a draught somewhere, nobody moving about,"
whispered Hammond. "Window or a door open--that's what makes the light
rise and fall. What an ass! Barricaded the window and never thought to
stop up the chinks. Lord, for a fellow clever enough to get away from
the constable and the keeper in the manner he did, you'd never look for
an idiot's trick like this."

Narkom might have reminded him that it was an old, old failing on the
part of the criminal class, this overlooking some trifling little point
after a deed of almost diabolical cunning; but at present he was too
much excited to think of anything but getting into that lighted room and
nabbing his man before he slipped the leash again and escaped him.

Ducking down he led a swift but soundless flight across the open space
until he and his allies were close up under the shadow of the building
itself, where he made the rather surprising discovery that the rear door
was unlocked. Through this they made their way down a passage, at the
end of which was evidently the room they sought, for a tiny thread of
light lay between the door and the bare boards of the passage. Here they
halted a moment, their nerves strung to breaking point and their hearts
hammering thickly as they now heard a faint rustling movement and a
noise of tearing paper sounding from behind it.

For a moment these things alone were audible; then Narkom's hand shot
upward as a silent signal; there was a concerted movement, a crash that
carried a broken door inward and sent echoes bellowing and bounding from
landing to landing and wall to wall, a gush of light, a scramble of
crowding figures, a chorus of excited voices, and--the men of Scotland
Yard were in the room.

But no cornered criminal rose to do battle with them, and no startled
outcry greeted their coming--nothing but the squeal and scamper of
frightened rats bolting to safety behind the wainscot; a mere ripple of
sound, and after it a silence which even the intruders had not breath
enough to break with any spoken word.

With peeling walls and mouldering floor the long, low-ceiled room gaped
out before them, littered with fallen plaster and thick with dust and
cobwebs. On the floor, in the blank space between the two boarded-up
windows, a pair of lighted candles guttered and flared, while behind
them, with arms outstretched, sleeves spiked to the wall--a human
crucifix, with lolling head and bended knees--a dead man hung, and the
light shining upon his distorted face revealed the hideous fact that he
had been strangled to death.

However many his years, they could not have totalled more than five and
thirty at most, and ghastly as he was now, in life he must have been
strikingly handsome: fair of hair and moustache, lean of loin and broad
of shoulder, and with that subtle _something_ about him which mutely
stands sponsor for the thing called birth.

He was clad in a long gray topcoat of fine texture and fashionable
cut--a coat unbuttoned and flung open by the same furious hand which had
rent and torn at the suit of evening clothes he wore beneath.

The waistcoat was wrenched apart and a snapped watch chain dangled from
it, and on the broad expanse of shirt bosom thus exposed there was
rudely smeared in thick black letters--as if a finger had been dipped
for the purpose in blacking or axle grease--a string of mystifying
numerals running thus:

[Illustration: 2 X 4 X 1 X 2]

For a moment the men who had stumbled upon this appalling sight stood
staring at it in horrified silence; then Constable Mellish backed
shudderingly away and voiced the first spoken word.

"The Lord deliver us!" he said in a quaking whisper. "_Not_ the murderer
himself, but the party as he murdered! A gent--a swell--strangled in a
place like this! Gawd help us! what was a man like that a-doing of here?
And besides, the shot was fired out there--on the Common--as you know
yourselves. You heard it, didn't you?"

Nobody answered him. For Narkom and his men this horrifying discovery
possessed more startling, more mystifying, more appalling surprises than
that which lay in the mere finding of the victim of a tragedy where they
had been confident of running to earth the assassin alone. For in that
ghastly dead thing spiked to the crumbling wall they saw again a man who
less than four hours ago had stood before them in the full flower of
health and strength and life.

"Good God!" gasped Hammond, laying a shaking hand upon Narkom's arm.
"You see who it is, don't you, sir? It's the Austrian gent who was at
Clavering Close to-night-- Count Whats-his-name!"

"De Louvisan--Count Franz de Louvisan," supplied Narkom agitatedly. "The
last man in the world who _should_ have shown himself in the home of the
man whose sweetheart he was taking away, despite the lady's own desires
and entreaties! And to come to such an end--to-night--in such a place as
this--after such an interview with the two people whose lives he was
wrecking.... Good God!"

A thought almost too horrible to put into words lay behind that last
excited exclamation, for his eyes had fallen on a thin catgut halter--a
violoncello string--thus snatched from its innocent purpose, and through
his mind had floated the strains of the music with which Lady Katharine
Fordham had amused the company but a short time before. He turned
abruptly to his men and had just opened his mouth to issue a command
when the darkness and silence without were riven suddenly by the hooting
of a motor horn and the voice of Lennard shouting.

"Stop!" commanded Narkom, as the men made an excited step toward the
door. "Search this house--guard it--don't let any one enter or leave it
until I come back. If any living man comes near it, arrest him, no
matter who or what he is. But don't leave the place unguarded for a
single instant--remember that. There's only one man in the world for
this affair. Stop where you are until I return with him."

Then he flung himself out of the room, out of the house, and ran as fast
as he could fly in the direction of the tooting horn. At the point where
the branching arm of the "Y" joined the main portion of Mulberry Lane,
he caught sight of two huge, glaring motor lamps coming toward him
through the mist and darkness. In a twinkling the limousine had halted
in front of him, and Lennard was telling excitedly of that startling
experience back there by the old railway arch.

"A woman, sir--a young and beautiful woman! And she must have had
something to do with this night's business, gov'ner, or why should she
be wandering about this place at such a time? Hop in quick, sir, and
I'll run you back to the spot where I saw her."

At any other time, under any other circumstances, Narkom might, probably
would, have complied with that request; but now---- A woman indeed! No
woman's hand could have nailed that grim figure to the wall of Gleer
Cottage, at least not alone, not without assistance. This he realized;
and brushing the suggestion aside, jumped into the limousine and slammed
the door upon himself.

"Drive to Clarges Street! I must see Cleek! Full speed now! Don't let
the devil himself stop you!" he cried; and in a moment they were
bounding away townward at a fifty-mile clip that ate up the distance
like a cat lapping cream.




CHAPTER THREE

THE SHADOW THAT LAY BEHIND


It had but just gone midnight when the car slowed down before the house
in Clarges Street. Here in company with his faithful henchman, Dollops,
and attended upon by an elderly housekeeper and a deaf-and-dumb maid of
all work, there dwelt--under the name and guise of "Captain Horatio
Burbage," a superannuated seaman--that strange and original genius who
chose to call himself "Hamilton Cleek," but who was known to the police
of two continents by the sobriquet of "The Man of the Forty Faces."

In the merest fraction of a minute Narkom was out of the limousine, had
crossed the narrow pavement, mounted the three shallow steps, and was
standing in the shadow of a pillared porch, punching a signal on the
button of an electric bell. In all he could not have been kept waiting
more than a minute, but it seemed forty times that length when he at
last heard a bolt slip, and saw, in the gap of the open door, the figure
of a slim, red-headed youth arrayed in a bed quilt, a suit of pink
flannelette pajamas, and a pair of white canvas tennis shoes.

"Come in, sir, come in quick!" this young man whispered, in the
broadest of Cockney accents, as he opened the door just wide enough for
Narkom to sidle into the semi-dark passage.

"Where's your master, Dollops?" put in the superintendent. "Speak up! Is
he in? I've got to see him at once!"

The voice which answered came, not from Dollops, but from the dark top
of the dim staircase.

"Come up, Mr. Narkom," it said. "I thought that young beggar had gone to
bed ages ago and was just coming down myself to let you in. Come along
up. You know the way."

Narkom acted upon the invitation so promptly that he was up the stairs
and in the cozy, curtained, and lamp-lit room which Cleek called his den
almost as quickly as his host himself. In fact, Cleek had scarcely time
to sweep into the drawer of his writing table a little pile of something
which looked like a collection of odds and ends of jewellery, bits of
faded ribbon, and time-stained letters, and turn the key upon them,
before the police official was at the door.

"Hullo!" said Cleek in a tone of surprise and deep interest as the
superintendent came fairly lurching into the room. "What's in the wind,
Mr. Narkom? You look fairly bowled. Whisky and soda there--at your
elbow--help yourself. I presume it is a case--nothing else would bring
you here at this time and in such a state. What kind is it? And for
whom? Some friend of yours or for the Yard?"

"For both, I'm afraid," replied Narkom, pouring out a stiff peg of
whisky and nervously gulping it down between words. "God knows I hope it
may be only for the Yard, but considering what I know----Get your hat
and coat. Come with me at once, Cleek. It's a murder--a mystery after
your own heart. Lennard's below with the limousine. Come quickly, do,
there's a dear chap. I'll tell you all about it on the way. The thing's
only just been done--within the hour--out Wimbledon way."

"I might have guessed that, Mr. Narkom, considering that you were to
mingle duty with pleasure and spend the evening at Wimbledon with your
old friend, Sir Philip Clavering," replied Cleek, rising at once.
"Certainly I will go with you. Did you ever know the time when I
wouldn't do all that I could to help the best friend I ever
had--yourself? And if it is, as you hint, likely to be in the interest
of the friend of _my_ friend----"

"I'm not so sure of that, Cleek. God knows I hope it's a mistaken idea
of mine; but when you have heard, when you have seen, how abominably
things point to that dear boy of Clavering's and to the girl that dead
fellow was conspiring with her father to take away from him----"

"Oho!" interjected Cleek, with a strong rising inflection. "So there is
that element in the case, eh?--love and a woman in distress! Give me a
minute to throw a few things together and I am with you, my friend."

"Thanks, old chap, I knew I could rely upon you! But don't stop to
bother about a disguise, Cleek, it's too dark for anybody to see that it
isn't 'the Captain' that's going out; and besides, there's everything of
that sort in the limousine, you know. The street is as dark as a pocket,
and there's nobody likely to be on the watch at this hour."

The curious one-sided smile so characteristic of the man looped up the
corner of Cleek's mouth; his features seemed to writhe, a strange,
indefinable change to come over them as he put into operation his
peculiar birth gift; and an instant later, but that he had not stirred
one step and his clothing was still the same, one might have thought
that a totally different man was in the room.

"Will it matter _who_ watches?" he said, with just a suspicion of vanity
over the achievement. "It will be--let us see--yes, a French gentleman
whom we shall call 'Monsieur Georges de Lesparre' to-night, Mr. Narkom.
A French gentleman with a penchant for investigating criminal affairs,
and who comes to you with the strong recommendation of the Parisian
police department. Now cut down to the limousine and wait for me, I'll
join you presently. And, Mr. Narkom?"

"Yes, old chap?"

"As you go out, give Dollops directions where and how to get to the
scene of the tragedy, and tell him to follow us in a taxi as
expeditiously as possible."

"Oh, Molly 'Awkins! There ain't no rest for the wicked and no feedin'
for the 'ungry this side of Kensal Green--and precious little on the
other!" sighed Dollops when he received this message. "Not four weeks it
ain't since I was drug off in the middle of my lunch to go Cingalee
huntin' in Soho for them bounders wot was after Lady Chepstow's 'Sacred
Son,' and now here I am pulled out of my blessed pajamas in the middle
of the night to go 'Tickle Tootsying' in the bally fog at Wimbledon!
Well, all right, sir. Where the gov'ner goes, I goes, bless his 'eart;
so you can look for me as soon as I can get out of these Eytalian
pants."

Narkom made no comment; merely went down and out to the waiting
limousine and took his seat in it, full of a racking, nervous impatience
that was like a consuming fire; and there Cleek found him, ten minutes
later, when he jumped in with his kit bag and gave the signal which set
Lennard to speeding the car back on its way to the scene of the
mysterious tragedy.

"Pull down the blinds and turn up the light, Mr. Narkom, so I can make a
few necessary changes on the way," he said, opening the locker and
groping round in the depths of it as the limousine scudded around the
corner and tore off up Picadilly. "You can give me the particulars of
the case while I'm making up. Come on--let's have them. How did the
affair begin, and where?"

Narkom detailed the occurrences of the night with the utmost clearness,
from the moment when the shot and the cry attracted Lennard's attention
to that when the ghastly discovery was made in the semi-ruined cottage.

"Oho!" said Cleek, with one of his curious smiles. "So our friend the
mysterious assassin disappeared in the middle of a sort of tunnel did
he--and with a man at either end? Hum-m-m! I see, I see!"

"Do you? Well, I'm blest if I do, then. There wasn't a place as big as
your hand to hide anything in, much less shelter a man; and the fellow
who could do a diabolical thing like that----"

"That is a question which simply remains to be seen," interposed Cleek.
"The thing is not so supernatural as it appears at first blush. Once--in
the days that lie behind me, when I was the hunted and not the
hunter--in that old 'Vanishing Cracksman' time of mine, I myself did
that 'amazing disappearance' twice. Once in an alley in New York when
there was a night watchman and a patrolman to be eluded; and once in
Paris when, with Margot's lot, I was being hunted into a trap which
would have been the end of one of the biggest coups of my career had I
been nabbed that night."

"Margot?" repeated Narkom. "Yes, I remember the Queen of the
Apaches--the woman with whom you used to consort. Said she'd get even
with you when you turned down the old life and took sides with the law
instead of against it, I recollect. And you tell me that in those old
days you practised a trick such as this fellow did to-night?"

"Yes. Beat him at it--if you will pardon the conceit--for I vanished in
the middle of a narrow passage with a sergeant de ville chasing me at
one end and a concierge accompanied by a cabman and a commissionaire
racing in at the other, I always fancied that that trick was original
with me. I know of no one but Margot and her crew who were aware of the
exploit, and if any man has borrowed a leaf from the book of those old
times---- Oh, well, it will be the end of all your fears regarding any
friend of ours, Mr. Narkom, for the fellow will stand convicted as a
member of the criminal classes and, possibly, of Margot's crew. We shall
know the truth of that when we get to the scene of this mysterious
vanishment, my friend."

"Yes, but how was it done, Cleek? Where did he go? How did he elude the
chasing keeper and the waiting constable? A man can't vanish into thin
air, and I tell you there wasn't a place of any sort for him to hide in.
Yet you speak of the trick as if it were easy."

"It _is_ easy, provided he had the same cause and adopted the same means
as I did, my friend. Wait until we come to investigate that railway arch
and you will see. Now tell me something, Mr. Narkom: How came you to be
in the neighbourhood of Mulberry Lane at all to-night? It is nowhere
near Clavering Close; and it was decidedly out of your way if, as you
tell me, you were on the way back to town. It is peculiar that you
should have chosen to go out of your way like that."

"I didn't choose to do it. As a matter of fact I was executing a
commission for Lady Clavering. It appears that a jewel had been found by
the maid-in-attendance lying upon the floor of the ladies' room, and as
Lady Clavering recollected seeing that jewel upon Miss Ailsa Lorne's
person to-night, she asked me to stop at Wuthering Grange and return it
to her."

"Ailsa Lorne!" A light flashed into Cleek's face as he repeated the
name, and rising into his eyes, made them positively radiant. "Ailsa
Lorne, Mr. Narkom? You surely do not mean to tell me that Ailsa Lorne is
in Wimbledon?"

"Yes, certainly I do. My dear fellow, how the name seems to interest
you. But I remember: you know the lady, of course."

Know her? Know the woman whose eyes had lit the way back from those old
days of crime to the higher and the better things, the woman who had
been his redemption in this world, and would, perhaps, be his salvation
in the one to come? Cleek's very soul sang hymns of glory at the bare
thought of her.

"I did not know Miss Lorne would be in Wimbledon," he said quietly, "or
anywhere in the neighbourhood of London. I thought she had accepted a
temporary position down in Suffolk as the companion of an old school
friend, Lady Katharine Fordham."

"So she did," replied Narkom. "And it is as that unhappy young lady's
companion that she was at Clavering Close to-night. Lady Katharine, as
you doubtless know, is Lord St. Ulmer's only child."

"Lord St. Ulmer?" repeated Cleek, gathering up his brows thoughtfully.
"Hum-m-m! Ah-h-h! I seem to remember something about a Lord St. Ulmer.
Let me see! Lost his wife when his daughter was a mere baby, didn't he,
and took the loss so much to heart that he went out to Argentina and
left the girl to the care of an aunt? Yes, I recall it now. Story was in
all the papers some months ago. Got hold of a silver mine out there;
made a pot of money, and came home after something like fifteen years of
absence; bought in the old family place, Ulmer Court, down in Suffolk,
after it had been in the hands of strangers for a generation or two, and
took his daughter down there to live. That's the man, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's the man. He's worth something like half a million sterling
to-day--lucky beggar."

"Then why do you allude to his daughter and heiress as an 'unhappy young
lady'? Surely with unlimited wealth at her command----"

"Which I dare say she would gladly give up to get back other things that
she has lost," interposed Mr. Narkom. "Her hopes of becoming young Geoff
Clavering's wife for one!"

"Young Geoff Clavering? The chap whose coming of age was celebrated
to-day?"

"Yes, the son and heir of my friend, Sir Philip Clavering, as fine a boy
as ever stood in shoe leather. He and Lady Katharine have almost grown
up together, as her uncle and aunt, General and Mrs. Raynor, are close
neighbours at Wuthering Grange. They were engaged at seventeen, a
regular idyllic love match, old chap. Sir Philip and Lady Clavering were
immensely fond of her and heartily approved the match. So apparently did
her father, to whom she wrote, although she had not seen him since she
was a baby. Even when he returned to England with a fortune big enough
to warrant his daughter wedding a duke, he still appeared to approve of
the engagement, and suggested that the wedding should be celebrated on
the young man's twenty-first birthday."

"Which, as to-day is that day, and you still speak of her as Lady
Katharine Fordham, I presume did not take place?"

"No, it did not. Some three months ago, a certain Count de Louvisan, an
Austrian, appeared on the scene, claiming acquaintance with St. Ulmer;
and it seems that after a subsequent interview, Lord St. Ulmer informed
his daughter that her engagement with Geoff Clavering must come to an
end, and that it was her father's intention that she should become the
wife of Count de Louvisan."

"Oho!" said Cleek, in two different tones. "All of which goes to suggest
that the count had some hold over the old gentleman and was using it to
feather his own nest. Of course the girl couldn't be compelled to marry
the man against her will, so if she consented to the breaking of the
engagement----Did she?"

"Yes."

"Then something must have been told her--something which was either a
lie or an appalling truth--to make her take a step like that, for a
woman does not break with the man she loves unless something more than
life is at stake. And it is this Count de Louvisan, you tell me, that
has been murdered? Hum-m-m!"

"Yes, the worst of it is," said Mr. Narkom gloomily, "there was a scene
between him and young Clavering but a couple of hours before the murder
was discovered."

"What's that?" rapped out Cleek. "A 'scene'! A quarrel do you mean? How
and where? Or perhaps you don't know?"

"As it happens, I do," said Narkom, "for I happened to be at Clavering
Close when it took place. You see, Lord St. Ulmer is laid up with a
sprained ankle at Wuthering Grange, where he has been staying with his
sister and brother-in-law, the Raynors. Lady Katharine seized the
opportunity to say farewell to Geoff, and came over at about eight
o'clock; and I hope, Cleek, I may never in my life again see anything so
heartbreaking as was made those last few minutes of parting."

"Few? Why few, pray?"

"Because they had not been together half an hour when the Count de
Louvisan came over, posthaste, after his fiancee. Lady Katharine's
absence had been discovered from the Grange, and naturally he was the
one who would come after her. You can guess what followed, Cleek. Young
Clavering fairly flew at the fellow, and would have thrashed him but
that his father and I got hold of him, and Hammond and Petrie hustled
the count out of the room. But even so, nobody could prevent that wild,
impetuous, excited boy from challenging the man, then and there. To that
the count merely threw back a laugh and said, as Petrie and Hammond
hustled him out of the room: 'Monsieur, one does not fight a fallen
foe--one merely pities him!' And it took all his father's strength and
mine to hold the boy in check. 'Pity yourself if ever I meet you!' he
shouted. 'There'll be one blackguard the less in the world if ever I
come within reach of you again, damn you! I had nine years of hope until
you came, and I'll put a mark on you for every one of them that you've
spoilt!"

"'A mark'!" repeated Cleek, with some slight show of agitation. "A mark
for every year? It is true that the barking dog is the last to bite
but---- What were those figures that you tell me were smeared on the
dead man's shirt bosom--2-4-1-2, were they not? And that sum equals
nine!"

"Yes," said Narkom, with a sort of groan. "Just nine, Cleek, just
exactly nine. That's what cut the heart out of me when I saw that dead
man spiked to the cottage wall, bearing the very mark he had sworn that
he should bear."

"I see," murmured Cleek thoughtfully. "Of course, the wisest of men are
sometimes mistaken, but somehow I took those numerals to stand for a
sign of a secret society; but, as you say, the numbers do indeed total
nine--the years of young Clavering's threat, but----"

His voice trailed off; he sat for a moment deep in thought.

"Then there is the 'spike,' that is an old Apache punishment. They
spiked Lanisterre to the wall when he went over to the police. Which is
it? The Apaches or this foolish, hot-headed boy lover?"

Narkom wisely refrained from comment. He knew the ways and methods of
his famous ally only too well, and he sat silent therefore till Lennard
pulled up the limousine sharply in front of Gleer Cottage.

"Here we are at the cottage--unless you would like to see the arch
first?"

"Oh, no," Cleek smiled softly. "That part of the mystery, my friend, is
quite simple. Lead the way, please."

They alighted without further remark, and Narkom was followed by as
complete a specimen of a French dandy as could be found in Paris, from
the gardens of the Tuileries to the benches of the Luxembourg.




CHAPTER FOUR

CLEWS AND SUSPICIONS


A minute more and Cleek was in the house--in the presence of Hammond and
Petrie--and Narkom had introduced him as "Monsieur Georges de Lesparre,
a distinguished French criminologist who had come over to England this
morning upon a matter connected with the French Police Department and
who, in the absence of Mr. Cleek, had consented to take up this peculiar
case."

"My hat! Wouldn't that drive you to drink!" commented Petrie in a
disgusted aside as he eyed this suave and sallow gentleman with open
disapproval. "What will we be importing from the continent next,
Hammond? As if there aren't detectives in England good enough to do the
Yard's work without setting them to twiddling their blessed thumbs
whilst a blooming Froggie runs the show and--beg pardon! what's that?
Yes, Mr. Narkom. Searched the house from top to bottom, sir. Nobody in
it, and nobody been here either, sir, not a soul since you left."

"You are quite sure, monsieur?" This from Cleek. "About the 'nobody in
the house,' I mean, of course. You are quite sure?"

"Of course we're sure!" snapped Hammond savagely. "Been from the top to
the bottom of it--me and Petrie and the constable here--and not a soul
in it anywhere."

"Ah, the constable, eh? You shall tell me, please, Mr. Narkom, is this
the constable who was at the one end of the arch while the keeper was
chasing the man in at the other? Ah, it is, eh? Well--er--shall not we
see the keeper, too? I do not find him about and I should much like to
speak with him. Where is he?"

"Who--the keeper?" said Narkom. "Blest if I know. Is he about, my lads?"

"No, sir. Ain't _been_ about--has he, Petrie?--for the Lord knows how
long. Never thought of the beggar until this moment, sir."

"Nor did I," said Narkom. "Come to think of it, I haven't seen the
fellow since we came to the 'Y' of the road and found those footprints
leading here. No doubt he has gone back to his shelter on the Common
and---- Monsieur! Why are you smiling? Good God! you-- I---- Monsieur,
shall I send my men for the fellow? Do you want to see him?"

"Yes, Monsieur Narkom, I want to see him very, very much indeed--if you
can find him! But you can't, monsieur; and I fear me that you never
will. What you will find, however, if you will send your men to the
shelter of which you speak will be the _real_ keeper, either dead or
stunned or gagged, and his coat and hat and badge removed from his body
by the man who personated him."

"Good heavens above, man, you don't mean to say----"

"That you had the real criminal in your hands and let him go, that you
talked with him, walked with him, were taken in by him, and that he told
you no lie when he said the assassin really _did_ run into the arch,"
replied Cleek quietly. "It is the old old trick of that fellow who was
called the 'Vanishing Cracksman,' my friend: to knock down the fellow
who first gives the alarm, rip off his clothing, and then to lead the
hue and cry until there's a chance to steal away unobserved. Send your
men to the keeper's shelter and see if I have guessed the truth of that
little riddle or not. I'll lay you a sovereign, my friend, that your man
has slipped the leash, and it will be but a fluke of fate if you ever
lay hands on him again."

In a sort of panic Narkom turned to his men and sent them flying from
the house to investigate this startling assertion; and, turning as they
went, Cleek walked into the room where that awful dead figure hung. He
had taken but one step across the threshold, however, when he stopped
suddenly and began to sniff the air--less to the surprise of Narkom, who
had often seen him do this sort of thing before, than to Constable
Mellish, who stood looking at him in open-mouthed amazement.

"Good lud, man-- I should say, monsieur," exclaimed the superintendent
agitatedly, "after what you have just hinted, my head is in a whirl and
I am prepared for almost anything; but surely you cannot find anything
suspicious in the mere atmosphere of the place?"

"No; nothing but what you yourself must have observed. There is a
distinct odour of violets in the room; so that unless that unhappy man
yonder was of the kind that scents itself, we may set it down that a
woman has been in here."

"A woman? But no woman could do a thing like that," pointing to the
position of the dead man. "Nor," after sniffing the air repeatedly, "do
I notice anything of the odour which you speak."

"Nor me nuther, sir," put in the constable.

"Still, the odour is here," returned Cleek. "And--no! it does not
emanate from the dead man. There is scent on him to be sure, but it is
not the scent of violets. Odours last at best but a little time after
the person bearing them has left the room, and as it must now be upward
of an hour since the discovery of the crime----"

Cleek sucked in his upper lip and took his chin between his thumb and
forefinger and pinched it hard. What was that that Narkom had told him
regarding Lennard's startling experience after he had been left on guard
at the old railway arch? Hum-m-m! Certainly there was _one_ woman abroad
in this neighbourhood to-night, and a woman decidedly _not_ of the lower
classes at that, as witness the fact that she had worn an ermine cloak.
Certainly, that would point to the wearer being a woman to whom money
was no object--and to Lady Katharine Fordham, with all the great St.
Ulmer wealth behind her, it assuredly was not. Clearly, then, whoever
was or was not the actual perpetrator of this night's crime, a woman of
the higher walk of life--a rich and fashionable woman, in fact--was in
some way connected with it.

The question was, did Lady Katharine Fordham possess an ermine cloak?
And if she did, would she be likely to have brought it up from Suffolk
at this time of the year? The curious smile slid down his cheek and
vanished. He turned to Mr. Narkom, who had been watching him anxiously
all the time.

"Well, my friend, let us poke about a bit more till your assistants get
back from the shelter on the Common," he said and dropped down on his
knees, examining every inch of the flooring with the aid of a pocket
torch and a magnifying glass. For some moments nothing came of this, but
of a sudden Narkom saw him come to an abrupt halt.

Twitching back his head, he sniffed at the air, two or three times,
after the manner of a hound catching up a lost scent; then he bent over,
brought his nose close to the level of the bare and dirty boards,
sniffed again, blew aside the dust, and exposed to view a tiny grease
spot not bigger than a child's thumbnail.

"_Huile Violette!_" he said, with a sound as of satisfied laughter in
his voice. "No wonder the scent of violets lingered. Look! here is
another spot--and here another," he added, blowing the dust away and
creeping on all fours in the direction the perfumed trail led. "Oh, I
know this stuff well, my friend," he went on. "For many, many years its
manufacture was a secret known only to the Spanish monks who carried it
with them to South America and subsequently established in that part of
the country now known as Argentina a monastery celebrated all over the
world as the only source from which this essential oil could be
procured."

"Argentina?" repeated Narkom agitatedly. "My dear chap, have you
forgotten that it was in Argentina Lord St. Ulmer spent those many years
of his self-imposed exile? If then, the stuff is only to be procured
there----"

"Gently, gently--you rush at top speed, Mr. Narkom. I said '_was_,'
recollect. It is still the chief point of its manufacture, but since
those days when the Spanish monks carried it there others have learned
the secret of it, notably the Turks who now manufacture an attar of
violets just as they have for years manufactured an attar of roses. It
is enormously expensive; for the veriest drop of it is sufficient, with
the necessary addition of alcohol, to manufacture half a pint of the
perfume known to commerce as 'Extract of Violet.' At one time it was a
favourite trick of very great ladies to wear on a bracelet a tiny golden
capsule containing two or three drops of it and supplied with a minute
jewelled stopper attached to a slender golden chain, which stopper they
occasionally removed for a moment or two that the aroma of the contents
might diffuse itself about them. I knew one woman--and one only--who
possessed such a bracelet. You, too, have heard of her. Whatever her
real name may be, she is simply known to those with whom she associates
as 'Margot.'"

"Scotland! The queen of the Apaches?"

"Yes."

"You are sure of that?"

"I ought to be. I, myself, stole the bracelet from the collection of the
Comte de Champdoce and presented it to her. I remember that the stopper
to the capsule was carved from a single emerald that, owing to its
age--it was said to have belonged in its day to Catherine de
Medicis--had worn loose, and could only be prevented from dropping out
and allowing the contents to drip away by wedging it into the orifice in
the capsule by winding the stopper with silk."

Narkom's face positively glowed.

"My dear Cleek, you give me the brightest kind of hope," he said
enthusiastically, as he stooped and investigated the tiny, perfumed
grease spots on the floor, so clearly made by the dropping of some oily
substance that there could be no question regarding their origin. "Then,
there can be no possibility of connecting young Geoff Clavering or the
girl he loves with this ghastly business if that Margot woman has been
here, and it was from her bracelet that these stains were dropped?
Besides, after what you said about that fellow of her crew who was
spiked to the wall as this poor wretch here is----"

"A moment, my friend--you are on the rush again," interjected Cleek.
"All that we actually _know_, at present, Mr. Narkom, is that some one,
and very likely a woman, has been here and--unconsciously, of
course--has spilled some drops of a very valuable and highly
concentrated perfume. This naturally points to a defective stopper to
the article containing that perfume, but whether or not that defective
stopper was one carved from a single emerald and wound with silk----"

He stopped and let the rest of the sentence go by default. All the while
he had been speaking he had been following, after the manner of a hound
on the scent, the trail of that perfume's lead; now it had brought him
to a litter of rat-gnawed paper and a parcel containing a peach and the
remnants of a roasted fowl. As if the scent seemed stronger here than
elsewhere--so strong, in fact, that it was suggestive of a goal--he
began tossing the scraps about, till at last he gave a sort of cry and
pounced upon something in a distant corner.

"Cleek!" rapped out Narkom in an excited but guarded tone, as he noted
this, "Cleek, you have found something? Something that decides?"

"Yes," the detective made answer. "Something which proves that, whoever
the woman who dropped the scent may be, Mr. Narkom, she was _not_
Margot!"

He unclosed his hand and stretched it out toward the superintendent, and
Narkom saw lying on his palm a crushed and gleaming thing which looked
like a child's gold thimble that had been trodden upon. The snapped
fragment of a hairlike gold chain still clung to it, and at the end of
this dangled a liliputian stopper, a wee mite of a thing that was little
more than a short, thick pin of plain, unjewelled, unornamented gold.

"One of the 'capsules' of which I spoke, you see," said Cleek, "and
bearing not the slightest resemblance to the one belonging to Margot.
The thing has snapped from its fastening and been trodden upon--trodden
under a very heavy foot, I should say, from the condition of it. There
is something engraved upon it, something that won't tend to ease your
mind, Mr. Narkom. Take my glass and look at it."

Narkom did so. Engraved on the crushed and fragrant-smelling bit of gold
he saw a coat-of-arms--arms which he, at least, knew to be those of the
house of St. Ulmer--and under this the name "Katharine."

"Good Lord!" he said, and let the crushed bauble fall back upon the palm
from which he had lifted it. "That child--that dear girl who is as much
as life itself to young Geoff Clavering? But how could she--a slip of a
girl like that----"

He turned and looked over at the dead figure spiked to the cottage wall.

Cleek made no reply--at least for the moment. He had gone back to the
"hound's trick" of sniffing the trail and was creeping on again--_past_
the litter of papers this time--and crawling on all fours toward the
very doorway by which the police had first gained access to the room.

"Wait! Cross no bridges until you come to them," he said at last in an
excited whisper. "Some one who trod upon that thing passed out this way.
I _knew_ I smelt the oil the very instant I crossed the threshold; now I
can understand why. The assassin left by the very door you entered, but
whether man or woman----"

By now the trail had led him to the very threshold of the room. Beyond
lay the dark hall by which Narkom and his men had entered the house, and
the light of his upraised electric torch shining out into that black
passage showed him something that made his pulses leap. It was simply a
fragment of some soft pinkish material, caught and torn off from a
woman's skirt by a nail head that protruded above the level of the
boarded floor. He rose and ran out to it; he caught it up and examined
it; then, with a laugh, shut his hand over it and went hurriedly back to
the superintendent's side.

"Mr. Narkom," he said, "tell me something! We have, presumably, found a
perfume receptacle belonging to the Lady Katharine Fordham; but did you
notice--can you remember what manner of frock her ladyship wore at
Clavering Close to-night?"

"I remember it very well indeed. It was a simple white satin frock, very
plain and very girlish, and she wore a bunch of purple pansies with it."

"Ah-h-h!" Cleek's voice was full of relief, his eyes full of sparkle and
life. "Then she did _not_ wear a gown of some soft, gauzy pink material,
eh? An airy sort of gown trimmed at the hem with scalloped embroidery
of rose-coloured silk. Good! Can you remember any lady to-night that
did?"

"Yes," said Narkom promptly. "Miss Ailsa Lorne did. She wore some soft,
gauzy pink stuff--chiffon, I think I've heard the wife call it--with a
lot of rose-coloured silk stitchery on the edges of the flounces, and
she had a band of pink ribbon in her hair."

Cleek made no comment, nor did his countenance betray even the slightest
trace of emotion. He simply put the shut hand that held that gauzy pink
fragment into his pocket and shoved it far down out of sight.

A while ago he could have sworn that Ailsa Lorne's foot had never
crossed the threshold of this house of crime; now he knew that it had,
and if the evidence of this scrap of chiffon stood for anything, crossed
it _after_ she had left Clavering Close--after she had heard that threat
against the Count de Louvisan's life.




CHAPTER FIVE

THE RIDDLE OF THE NIGHT


Before Mr. Narkom could ask any questions, the sound of excited voices
and hasty footsteps coming up the drive and making toward the lonely
house drove all other thoughts from his head.

"Come along," he whispered to Cleek. "It's Hammond and Petrie returning
from the keeper's shelter on the Common. I know their voices. And they
have unearthed something startling or they wouldn't be talking so
excitedly."

They had, indeed, as he learned when he hurried out and intercepted them
at the cottage steps; for between them they were supporting a man
stripped of coat, waistcoat, and hat, and wearing bound round his head a
bloodstained handkerchief. His bearded face was bruised and battered,
his shirt and trousers were covered with mud, and he was so weak from
loss of blood that it was next to impossible for him to stand alone.

"Sir," broke out Hammond, as they came up with Mr. Narkom and paused
with this unexpected newcomer before him, "I don't know whether that
French mounseer is a wizard or not, but he copped the lay at the first
guess, Mr. Narkom, and foreigner or not I take off my blessed hat to
him. Here's what we found when we got to the shelter, sir--this here
party, knocked senseless, tied up like a trussed fowl, and tucked out of
sight under the gorse bushes nigh the shelter. Coat, cap, badge, and
truncheon all gone, sir--nicked by that dare-devil who took us in so
nicely down there at the old railway arch. The murderer himself he were,
I'll lay my life; for look here, sir, here's what he most brained this
poor chap with--a hammer, sir--look! And a hammer was used, wasn't it,
to spike that dead man to the wall? Had him, Mr. Narkom, had the rascal
in our very hands, that's what we did, sir, and then like a parcel of
chuckleheads we went and let him go."

"It is a trick that has succeeded with others besides yourselves," said
Cleek, who had been bending over the injured man. He looked up at Narkom
significantly. "Monsieur, I expect my assistant here any minute now.
Would it not be as well to report this shocking affair to the local
authorities?"

"Certainly, monsieur!" agreed Narkom, who had forgotten that Dollops
might arrive now at any moment.

"What about this poor chap here, sir?" interposed Petrie. "He's in a
desperately bad way. Oughtn't we to take him with us, and turn him over
to the hospital folk?"

"Non--that is, not yet, my friend," softly interposed Cleek. "Your good
superintendent and I will look after him for a little time. There is a
question or two to ask. He will bear the strain of talking now better
than he might be able to do later. Notify the hospital officials as you
pass through the town proper, and have an ambulance sent out. That's
all. You may go."

"Well, so help me," began the indignant Petrie, then discreetly shut up
and went. A moment later the limousine had whizzed away into the mist
and darkness with the three men, and Cleek and Narkom were alone with
the injured keeper.

"I expect that is Dollops in his taxi," whispered Cleek. "I thought I
heard the sound of a motor. That will obliterate every track if you
don't stop him. Head him off if you can, dear chap, and set him to work
directly you have dismissed the taxi. Tell Dollops to measure and make a
drawing of every footmark in and about the place. Quickly, please,
before it is too late."

Mr. Narkom hurried off and vanished in the mist, leaving his ally alone
with the dying man, for that he was dying there could be no question.

A bullet had gone through his body; a hammer had battered in the back of
his head; he was but partly conscious--with frequent lapses into
complete insensibility--and the marvel was not that he occasionally
uttered some wandering, half-coherent sentences, but that he was able to
speak at all.

"My poor chap," Cleek said feelingly, as he administered a stimulant by
which the keeper's flagging energies were whipped up. "Try to
speak--try to answer a question or two--try--for a woman's sake."

"A woman's?" he mumbled feebly. "Aye, my poor wife-- Gawd 'elp her--her
and the kiddies! And me a-goin' 'ome, sir--me a-gettin' of my death like
this for jist a-doin' of my duty--doin' of it honest and true, sir, for
king and country!"

"And both letting you face the nightly peril of it unarmed!" said Cleek
bitterly; then, passionately: "Will you wake up, England? Will you wake
up and do justice by these men who give their lives that you may sleep
in peace, and who, with a badge and a truncheon and two willing hands,
must fight your criminal classes and keep law and order for you?"

"Aye--some day, may like--some day, sir," mumbled the dwindling voice;
then it trailed off and sank sobbingly away, and Cleek had to administer
more brandy to bolster up his fading strength.

"A word," he said eagerly, the hammering of his heart getting into his
voice and making it unsteady. "Just one word, but much depends upon it.
Tell me--now--before anybody comes: Who did it? Man or woman?"

"I dunno, sir-- I didn't see. The mist was thick. Whoever it was, come
at me from behind. But there was two--there must have been two--one as I
heard a-runnin' toward me when I challenged, sir, and--and got shot down
like a dog; and 'tother as come at me in the back when I sang out
'Murder' and blew my whistle for help. But men or women, whichever it
may a-been, I never see, sir, never. But one woman _was_ on the Common
to-night. A lady, sir--oh, yes, a lady indeed."

"A lady? Speak to me--quickly--my friend is returning. What did that
lady wear? Was it a pink dress? Or couldn't you see?"

"Oh, yes, I could see--she came near me--she spoke in passing. She gave
me a bit of money, sir, and asked me not to mention about her bein' out
there to-night and me havin' met her. But it wasn't a pink dress, sir;
it was green--all shiny pale green satin with sparklin' things on the
bosom and smellin' like a field o' voylits on a mornin' in May!"

The sense of unspeakable thankfulness that Cleek experienced upon
hearing that the dress of this unknown "lady" was not pink, was lost in
a twinkling in one of utter and overwhelming surprise at learning that
it was _green_! Pink, white, and green, here were three evening dresses
called into the snare of this night's mystery; and yet a _third_ woman
now involved. White satin, that had been Lady Katharine Fordham's gown
to-night; pink chiffon, that had been Ailsa Lorne's. Who then was the
wearer of the pale green satin gown? Here was the riddle of the night
taking yet another perplexing turn.

A clatter of hasty footsteps came along the drive and up the steps to
the veranda, and Narkom, in a state of violent excitement, stood beside
him.

"All right," he said, answering Cleek's inquiring glance. "I headed the
taxi off and set Dollops to work as you suggested--and a blessed good
thing I did, too, otherwise we might have lost valuable clues."

"There _were_ footsteps then?"

"Footsteps? Great Scott, yes, heaps of them: the absolute continuation
of those which led me and my men to this house. But the madness of the
thing, the puzzle of the thing! No man on earth can run away in two
directions, yet there the blessed things are, going down the road at
full tilt and coming back up it again still on a dead run. Two lines of
them, old chap, one going and the other returning and both passing by
the gate of this house. By it, do you hear?--_by_ it, and never once
turning in; yet in the garden we have found marks that correspond with
them to the fraction of a hair, and we know positively that the fellow
_did_ come in here. It licks me, Cleek--it positively licks me. It's
beyond all reason."

"Yes," admitted Cleek, thinking of the green satin dress. "It is, Mr.
Narkom, it certainly is."

"Dollops will bring the drawings he's making to you as soon as he has
covered all the ground," resumed the superintendent almost immediately.
"Clever young dog that and no mistake. But to return to our muttons, old
chap. Did you get anything out of this poor fellow? Any clue to the
party who assaulted him?"

"None. He doesn't know. For one thing, the mist prevented him seeing his
assailant, and for another, he was first shot down by some one who was
running toward him and answered his challenge with a bullet, and then
pounced upon by somebody else who was behind him and floored him with
the hammer. I take it that the person who was running and who fired the
shot was advancing toward him from this direction--was, in fact, the
actual assassin--and that having discharged the pistol and caused this
poor fellow to whistle a call for assistance to the constable in
Mulberry Lane, he was put to it to get out of the box in which he found
himself by those two things. To escape across the Common meant to be
pursued by the constable and driven across the track of one of the other
keepers; so he took the bold hazard of putting on this poor chap's coat,
cap, and badge and playing at joining in the hue and cry in the manner
he did. Is that"--turning to the dying man--"the truth of it?"

The keeper could only nod--he was now too far gone to make any verbal
response, and even the administering of another dose of brandy failed to
whip up his expiring strength.

"I'm afraid we shall never get any more out of him, poor fellow," said
Cleek feelingly. "He is lapsing into unconsciousness, you see. Raise him
a bit, make him a little more comfortable if pos---- Quick! Catch his
head, Mr. Narkom! Don't let it strike the boards. Gone!--a good true
servant of the public gone! And the blackguard that killed him still at
large!"

Then he gently folded the useless hands and closed down the sightless
eyes, and shaking out the coat which Petrie had bundled into a pillow,
spread it over the dead man and was very, very still for a little time.

"There's a widow--and some little nippers, Mr. Narkom," he said when he
at length rose to his feet. "Find them out for me, will you? And if you
can see your way to offer a good substantial reward for the clearing up
of this case and the capture of the criminal, I'll pull it off and you
may pay that reward to the mother of this man's children."

"Cleek, my dear fellow! How ridiculously quixotic. What on earth can you
be thinking about?"

"A woman, Mr. Narkom--just a woman--and a few little nippers ... who
might take the wrong road as--well, as somebody I know of took it
once--if there wasn't a hand to help them or a friend to guide. That's
all, dear friend, that's all!"

Lifting his hat to that silent, covered figure, he turned and walked
away. But at the foot of the steps leading down to the mist and darkness
of the drive he came to a halt; and there Narkom, following almost
instantly, joined him again.

"My dear fellow, of all the impulsive, of all the amazing men," he
began; but got no further, for Cleek's upthrown hand checked him.

"We won't go into that, Mr. Narkom," he said. "We'll stick to the case,
please. I've got something to tell you that you haven't heard as yet.
Something that that poor dead chap did manage to tell me. A woman--a
lady--was out there on the Common to-night and paid him not to disclose
the fact."

"Great Scott! My dear fellow, you don't surely mean to hint that by any
possibility that poor child, Lady Katharine Fordham----"

"No, I do not. The lady in question was neither Lady Katharine Fordham,
who, you tell me, wore a white satin dress to-night, nor yet Miss Ailsa
Lorne, whose frock you say was of gauzy pink. The lady in question wore,
I understand, a gown of very pale green satin with what I take to have
been several diamond ornaments upon the corsage; furthermore, a delicate
but very distinct odour of violets clung about her."

"Good Lord!"

"No wonder you are surprised, Mr. Narkom. Ladies dressed in that fashion
are not, as a general thing, given to wandering about Wimbledon Common
either by night or by day, and the presence of this particular one is
curious, to say the least of it. I am of the opinion, however, that she
was no stranger to the Common keeper, otherwise he would have hurried
her into the shelter the instant she offered to bribe him, whistled up
the constable in Mulberry Lane, and given her in charge as a suspicious
character. Then there is another side to the affair which we must not
overlook. An entertainment was in progress at Clavering Close to-night,
and there must have been quite a number of ladies present dressed in
gala attire. But if your exclamation means that you have no
recollection of seeing one who wore a gown of pale green satin----"

"It doesn't!" rapped in Narkom excitedly. "It was the absurdity, the
madness, the--the utter impossibility of the thing. That she--she of all
women----! What rot!"

"Oho!" said Cleek, with a strong, rising inflection. "Then there _was_
such a gown in the rooms at Clavering Close to-night, eh? And you do
remember the lady that wore it?"

"Remember her? There's nobody I should be likely to remember better. It
was Lady Clavering herself!"

"Whew-w! The hostess?"

"Yes. Sir Philip's wife--young Geoff's stepmother; one of the sweetest,
gentlest, most womanly women that ever lived. And to suggest that she
... either the fellow must have deliberately lied or his statement was
the delusion of a dying man. It couldn't have happened--it simply
couldn't, Cleek. Why, man, her ladyship was there--at the Close--when I
left. It was she who put that jewel into my hand and asked me to leave
it at Wuthering Grange when----"

He stopped, biting his words off short and laying a nervous grip on
Cleek's arm; and Cleek, facing about abruptly, leaned forward into the
mist and darkness, listening.

For of a sudden, a babble of angry voices, mingled with the sounds of a
scuffle, had risen from the road beyond the gates, and hard on the
heels of it there now rang forth sharply the shrill tones of Dollops
crying out at the top of his voice:

"None o' yer larks, now! Got yer! Gov'ner! Mr. Narkom! This way! Come
quick, will yer? I've copped the bounder. Out here in the bushes under
this blessed wall!"




CHAPTER SIX

A LITTLE DISCREPANCY


The distance between the gates of Gleer Cottage and the porch wherein
lay the body of the dead keeper was by no means a short one, but at the
first sound of Dollops's voice the two men sped down the centre of the
dark, mist-wrapped drive and out into the lane, their electric pocket
torches sending two brilliant streams of light in front of them. The
sounds of scuffling feet and of wrangling voices guided them along the
broken, irregular line of the crumbling brick wall which encircled the
grounds of the cottage, and following the lead of them, they came
presently upon an amazing picture.

Close to that identical spot where, earlier in the night, Hammond had
found the gap in the wall, two figures struggled together: the one, in a
vain endeavour to free himself from the clutches of his captor; the
other intent on bringing him to the ground, on which lay scattered all
the drawings and paraphernalia with which Dollops had evidently been
carrying out his master's instructions. The light of the torches
revealed his prisoner to be a sturdy, fair-haired young man, and a first
glance showed Cleek that he was arrayed in a fashionable light-weight
overcoat which, torn open in the struggle, showed him also to be in
immaculate evening dress. It hardly needed Mr. Narkom's startled
exclamation, "Geoff!" to tell the detective that this was indeed the son
and heir of Sir Philip Clavering, the young man whose bitter threats
against the dead man in the cottage had been so swiftly carried out.

But the exclamation had a far-reaching effect upon Dollops's prisoner,
for he ceased struggling at once and faced round upon the superintendent
so that the full glare of the torches could fall upon his features and
leave not a shadow of doubt regarding his identity.

"Hullo! Mr. Narkom!" he exclaimed. "This _is_ a stroke of good luck and
no mistake! Who and what is this enterprising individual upon my back? I
can't see his interesting face, for he pounced upon me in the dark; but
if I had known that his yells and cries were likely to bring _you_ upon
the scene, I certainly shouldn't have gone to the length of struggling
and getting my clothes in this awful mess."

Cleek made a mental tally of that remark, and set alongside of it the
circumstance that Dollops, when he first called out, had most distinctly
mentioned Mr. Narkom by name. He said nothing, however; merely removed
the pressure of his thumb from the controlling button of his torch,
slipped that useful article into his pocket, and busied himself with
picking up Dollops's effects from the ground.

"Here you, whoever you are! You keep your blessed thievin' irons off
them things!" snapped Dollops, with a wink at the superintendent. "I
say, Mr. Narkom, sir, don't let that josser go carryin' off my
drorin's--them's for my gov'ner, _you_ know that. And, sir," he went on
earnestly, "don't you be took in by none of the gammon of this 'ere
person. Actin' suspicious and creepin' along in the dark he was when I
'opped up and copped him, sir, and no matter if he _is_ a party as
you're acquainted with, sir----"

"He is," interrupted the superintendent curtly, not, however, without
some slight show of agitation at finding this particular young man in
the neighbourhood at this particular time. "The gentleman is Mr.
Geoffrey Clavering, my friend Sir Philip Clavering's son and heir."

"Well, sir, I can't 'elp that," began Dollops, but his words were
interrupted by the captive himself.

"I shouldn't have blamed you if you had failed to recognize me from the
state I'm in through the mistaken ardour of this enterprising youth, Mr.
Narkom," he said. "He appears not to have left one inch of my person
unmarked with his hands; and if you would oblige me by requesting him to
detach himself from me as expeditiously as possible, I shall be
unspeakably obliged."

"Certainly, Geoff. Dollops, let the gentleman go."

"But, sir-- Mr. Narkom----"

"Stand back, I tell you!"

"But upon my sacred word of honour, sir----"

"You have heard what I said, haven't you? That's enough," interrupted
Narkom, sharply.

Dollops gave a swift glance at Monsieur Georges de Lesparre's face, then
sullenly relinquished his hold on his prisoner, and with a knowing wink
over his shoulder, busied himself with picking up his scattered and
muddied papers.

"A jolly cheeky young beggar that, Mr. Narkom; I wonder you take his
impertinences so lightly," said young Clavering, who seemed, somehow, to
have lost a little of his self-possession now that it became evident the
matter of his presence must inevitably be the topic of conversation. "I
say, send him away, won't you? And if you would--er--send your friend
away, too, I'd be obliged. I'd like to have a little conversation with
you in private, if you don't mind."

"Certainly, Geoff. Dollops, take yourself off--hot shot!"

"Me, sir? My hat! Where'll I go? Wot'll I do, sir?"

"Go and continue what you were told to do in the first place. Gather up
your traps, and be off about it."

"Oh, yuss--of course--nuthink easier than _that_ after the way as the
gent 'ere has went gallopin' all over 'em with his muddy boots!" said
Dollops with apparent disgust. "Look at that for a sample of drorin',
will yer?"

He slyly twitched the corner of his eye round in Cleek's direction,
turned the mud-stained paper so that he should see the footprint, and
mumbling and muttering shambled away in the direction of the cottage and
disappeared in the mist and darkness.

"I'm afraid, Geoff," went on Narkom as soon as Dollops had gone, "that I
can't humour you to the extent of requesting this gentleman, too, to
leave us; but let me have the pleasure of introducing him--Monsieur
Georges de Lesparre, the famous French criminologist. We are engaged
together upon a very serious matter to-night. In short, an exceptionally
ghastly murder has been committed since I left Clavering Close, Geoff,
and you will be horrified to hear----"

"Gently, gently, monsieur," softly interposed Cleek, who, while
appearing to be absorbed in acknowledging the introduction, had been
quietly taking in every detail relative to the young man's appearance
and had decided offhand that he liked him; that he was simply a
handsome, straight-looking, frank-faced, clear-eyed young fellow who, in
the general order of things, ought not to have one evil impulse in him.
"Shall one go into details that may, possibly, be unnecessary?" he went
on. "Perhaps Mr. Clavering has already heard of the crime, and it is
that which is accountable for his presence in this neighbourhood."

In his heart he knew that there was no such possibility, that there was
not even the ghost of a chance that news of the murder could so soon
have gotten abroad when even the local police had not yet learned of
it, and he threw out this "feeler" hoping that young Clavering would rid
himself of any shadow of complicity by at once rejecting it. To his
disappointment, however, Geoff rose to it as a trout to a fly; and his
face, which had betrayed a strong effort to repress an overwhelming
agitation from the instant Narkom made mention of the crime, now lit
with something like relief and thankfulness.

"Yes, that's the case. You have guessed it, monsieur," he said
gratefully, a sound that seemed a curious blend of a sigh and a sob
getting into his voice despite an effort to keep it level and
emotionless. "I had gone to bed--that is, I mean to say I was getting
ready to go to bed--but I knew I shouldn't be able to sleep, so I came
down into the grounds for a walk and a smoke. The open air always does
me good. All at once a motor came along with Mellish, the police
constable, in it. I stopped him, and he told me of this awful thing. I
nearly went mad. To think what it means to my dear girl! She hasn't
heard yet, of course----"

"No," said Mr. Narkom. "She will have to be told in the morning. Poor
girl, it will be a shock to her, but it means a great obstacle removed
from your path."

"Yes," agreed the young man uneasily. "That's what made me so anxious to
come here and find out for myself if the murderer had been traced. You
see I lost my head a bit to-night," he added half apologetically, "and
you never know what people will say, so I was just coming cautiously
along when that cheeky young chap threw himself on me, mistaking me, I
suppose, for the assassin."

He made an attempt to laugh, but even to Mr. Narkom it was palpable that
the young fellow was making a desperate effort to cover up his
agitation.

"You can't, in the circumstances, blame him for that, Geoff," replied
Narkom. "Besides, it was a most indiscreet thing for you--you of all
men--to come here to-night, especially after what happened at the
Close."

"You mean about my threatening De Louvisan?"

"Yes. At least twenty or thirty persons heard that; and although after
you were calmer and the Austrian had left the house, you excused
yourself to your guests and were said to have gone to your room for the
night----"

"I did go to it!" rapped in Geoff excitedly. "Purviss, my valet, will
prove that if there's any question regarding it. Simply because I didn't
have the heart to indulge in any more dancing or tomfoolery of that sort
when my dear girl had been dragged away from me as though I were a
leper. Good God, Mr. Narkom! _you_ don't believe I had anything to do
with this awful thing, do you?"

Cleek took the reins before Narkom could utter so much as a single word.

"Of a certainty he does not, monsieur. Who could on so slight a thing as
the mere hot-headed outburst of an excited young man?" he said suavely,
making, as was his way, a cunning hazard that should at once prove or
disprove a suspicion that lay at the back of his head. "And to base it
upon no stronger circumstance than that you afterward left the
drawing-room and did not return! Ridiculous! One might as well suspect
Lady Clavering herself when she, too, was obliged to retire and leave
her guests for the time, if merely absenting one's self is to be
regarded as suspicious. It is what you Anglais shall call 'tommyrot,'
that, eh?"

"Of course it is, monsieur--er--what's-your-name--of course!" assented
Geoff gratefully, rather liking this suave and gentle Frenchman who
seemed bent upon coming to his rescue and showing him the way out
whenever matters took an awkward turn. "You're a jolly, sharp-sighted
chap, you are, and you spot the weak points in these affairs like a
shot. My stepmother doesn't often suffer from headaches, but just as it
happens, she was so queer that she had to lie down for about an hour;
but her maid can prove that she stopped in her room, just as Purviss can
vouch for it that I remained in mine."

The curious one-sided smile moved up Cleek's left cheek, then vanished
again.

"Quite so, quite so," he said blandly. "Besides, it is not with Lady
Clavering that we are concerned, but with the owner of a jewel that we
found on the spot--a little gold scent bangle that smelt of violets----"

"My God! Kathie's! She said she lost it!" cried Geoffrey through his
clenched teeth; then realizing what his words meant, he turned on the
two men fiercely.

"What do you mean? What are you trying to infer? That she--my dear
girl---- Good heavens! but if you dare to bring her name into this
horrible business, I'll throttle the pair of you! You shan't connect her
with the abominable affair! By God, you shan't!"

"M'sieur is too quick with his threats," put in Cleek suavely. "Would it
not be as well to wait? Unfortunately, we have only too much proof that
a woman was concerned in the murder, and----"

"But it was not Lady Katharine. That I swear!" The young man's voice
shook with emotion, and his strained eyes gazed from one face to the
other in heartbreaking intensity.

"You are absolutely sure that you have no suspicion of the murderer's
identity?" Cleek asked with a sharpness unusual to him. "No reason to
doubt any living soul?"

For just the merest fraction of a second young Clavering appeared to
hesitate.

"No," he said curtly. "No, I have not. I know no more about it than a
child. Mellish told me about the murder, and it was only natural that I
should come up here to make inquiries."

"But, yes, monsieur, of course," agreed Cleek softly. "There is, then,
no more to be said save good-bye. I fear me I shall not have the
pleasure of meeting you again, as I return to Paris to-morrow. The case
is one of the most mysterious, and I leave it to your English detective,
Mr. George Headland. So it is adieu, monsieur, and not au revoir."

He held out his hand to the young man, who grasped it in his own
trembling one, and then, with a sharp "good-night," Geoff Clavering
turned and strode back in the direction whence he had come.

"Hum-m-m!" said Cleek, taking his chin between his thumb and forefinger
and rubbing it up and down. "A total denial! And with enough decency to
blush! Quite so! Quite so!"

Mr. Narkom, knowing the signs and being torn with eagerness for the
father of that rash boy, moved forward and laid a shaking hand upon his
sleeve.

"Cleek," he said in a whisper full of anxiety and excitement, "don't
keep it back, dear chap. You've come to some conclusion. Speak up, do,
and tell me what you make of it?"

"Make of it, Mr. Narkom? Well, for one thing, I make of it that that
young man lied like a pickpocket and deliberately attempted to throw
dust in our eyes. He not only _does_ suspect some one--and with good
grounds, too--but he has been here before and in that house to-night. In
other words, his was the foot that crushed that golden capsule. The
scent of the _Huile Violette_ was upon the drawing paper, the measure,
the muffler, the cap--every blessed thing he trod on in his scuffle with
Dollops!"

"Good God! Oh, his poor father! Surely, surely, Cleek, you do not
believe----"

"My dear Mr. Narkom, I never suffer myself to 'believe' anything until I
have absolute proof of it. What I may _think_ is a different matter."

"And you think of that boy--what?"

"That he is either a hot-headed, quixotic, loyal, lovable young ass, Mr.
Narkom, or he's a remarkably dangerous and crafty criminal! I'm put to
it for the moment to decide which. One thing is pretty certain, and that
is that young Geoffrey Clavering knows more of this crime than he will
admit, and that the woman he is shielding is Lady Katharine Fordham, who
was not only on the Common but in Gleer Cottage itself with Master
Geoffrey."

"Good heavens! Cleek, how do you know that?" cried Mr. Narkom, his voice
hoarse and shaken.

"Firstly, because his clothes are all scented with that peculiar scent
of violets, and although I know from the dead keeper that another woman,
probably Lady Clavering, was on the Common, he is certainly not
shielding her; otherwise he would not have admitted that she had
absented herself from her guests. No, I think you will find that both
the young people were out here to-night. Let's hear now what Dollops has
to say."

A minute later there sounded the familiar cry of a night owl, which
brought the boy himself running up at full speed.

"Lor' lumme, sir!" he cried disgustedly, as a quick glance revealed the
absence of his former prisoner. "You never went and let 'im go after me
a-showin' of you the footprint wot he'd left on my drorin' paper! It's
just the same as one of 'em in the lane wot you told me to measure, sir;
measure 'em off yourself and see. And him a-playin' off innercent and
actin' like he was a respectable gent as was comin' here unsuspectin'
and got copped by mistake! He wasn't, the bounder! He was tryin' to
sneak away, that's wot _he_ was a-doin' of--trying to do a bunk before
anybody dropped to where he was a-hidin'."

"What's that? Hiding? Did you say hiding?"

"Yes, I did, Mr. Narkom, and I'd a-told you of it at the time, only you
wouldn't let me open me blessed mouth, but jist shuts me up and orders
me off prompt. Hidin' in that blessed 'oller tree there--look!" He
flashed the light of his torch upon a tree which stood about three or
four yards distant. "In that he was," he went on, "and jist as soon as
the motor had went and the way was clear, I sees him sneak out and make
toward the Common; so I ups and does a tiptoe run along this strip o'
grass, sir, so's me feet wouldn't make no noise, and jist as he starts
to do a bunk I does a spring, and comes down on his blessed back like a
'awk on a guinea 'en."

Narkom twitched up his chin and looked at Cleek; and for a moment there
was silence, a deep significant silence, then Cleek spoke.

"How shall we sum him up by the measure of these things, Mr. Narkom, as
a hero or as a scoundrel?" he said. "If he is innocent, why was he
hiding? And if not for a criminal purpose, why did he come to this place
at all?"

"Heavens above, man, don't ask _me_!" returned Narkom irritably. "It's
the most infernal riddle I ever encountered. My head's in a positive
whirl. But look here, old chap. Supposing he did have a hand in the
murder, how on earth could he have coaxed De Louvisan to this house--a
man who had cause to dread him, a man whose life he had threatened?"

"Perhaps he didn't, Mr. Narkom; perhaps somebody did the coaxing for
him. A woman is a clever lure, my friend, and we know that one or two,
perhaps three---- Oh, well, let it go at that."

A faint sound of an automobile horn sounded its blare through the
distance and darkness.

"Lennard is coming back with the local authorities. I'd know the hooting
of that horn among a thousand, Mr. Narkom. And with their coming,
'Monsieur de Lesparre' returns to his native kit bag. This way,
Dollops--look sharp! Pick us up at the old railway arch as soon as you
can, Mr. Narkom. We'll be on the lookout for you. Now then, Dollops, my
lad, step lively!"

"Right you are, gov'ner. So long, Mr. Narkom. We're off--as the eggs
said to the cook when she got a whiff of 'em."

"Good-bye for a little time," said Cleek, reaching out and gripping the
superintendent's hand. "At the arch, remember. It has been child's play
up to this, Mr. Narkom. Now the real work begins. And unless all signs
fail, it promises to be the case of my career."

And so, like this, he stepped off into the mist and darkness, and went
his way--to the beginning of the chase; to the reading of the riddle; to
those things of Love and Mystery, of Faith and Unfaith, of Sorrow and of
Joy, whose trail lay under the roof of Wuthering Grange and which walked
as shadows with Lady Katharine Fordham and Ailsa Lorne.




CHAPTER SEVEN

"COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE"


Once the affair had been reported to the local police, news of the
tragedy spread over the neighbourhood with amazing velocity, and by nine
o'clock next morning there wasn't a soul within a radius of five miles
who had not heard of it; by ten the Common and the immediate vicinity of
Gleer Cottage were literally black with morbid-minded sightseers and
reporters.

As yet, however, none but the police and the representatives of the
press had been permitted to cross the threshold of the house or to
obtain even the merest glimpse of the murdered man. For all that,
certain facts relative to the position in which the body had been found,
together with the mysterious marks upon his shirt bosom, had leaked out,
and as Scotland Yard, as represented by Cleek and Superintendent Narkom,
had chosen to remain silent for the present relative to such clues as
had been discovered, this gave room for some fine flights of fancy on
the part of the representatives of the press.

The special correspondent of the _Evening Planet_ "discovered" that the
Count was "a well-known Austrian nobleman" who had offended the famous
Ravaschol group, and was the author of the equally famous "Ninth Clause"
which had acted so disastrously against it--a circumstance which, the
_Planet_ claimed, left no shadow of a doubt regarding "the true meaning
of the mysterious markings upon the shirt bosom of the unfortunate
gentleman." Whereupon the representative of its bitterest rival, the
_Morning Star_, as promptly discovered that he was nothing of the sort;
that he had been "positively identified" as the former keeper of a sort
of club in Soho much frequented by Russian, German, French, and Italian
anarchists; and that, on its being discovered by those gentry that he
had sold to the police of their several countries secrets thus learned,
he had been obliged to disappear from his regular haunts in order to
save his skin. And, furthermore, as the address of the house in which
that club had been maintained, and from which he had carried on his
system of betrayal, was 63 Essex Row, the explanation of the markings
was quite clear--to wit: "Four and two make six; one and two make three;
furthermore, the peculiar formation of the repeated figure 2 is, of
course, a rude attempt to make it serve for the letter S. as well;
which, taken in conjunction with the three X's, leaves no room for doubt
that these markings stand for Number Sixty-three Essex Row and for
nothing else."

Now as it happened that 63 Essex Row had, at one time in its career,
been the seat of just such a club and just such a proceeding as the
_Morning Star_ stated, nothing was left the _Evening Planet_ but
sneeringly to point out that "the imaginative genius of our esteemed
contemporary should not let it fail to remember that the man
Lovetski--to whom it doubtless refers, and whose mysterious vanishment
some years ago has never been cleared up--had his supporters as well as
his accusers. It was clearly shown at the time that although he dwelt in
the house where the 'club' in question held forth, there never was any
absolute proof that he was himself in any way actually connected with
it, his vocation being that of a maker of dressing for boots, shoes,
ladies' bags, and leather goods generally, which dressing he
manufactured upon the premises."

This statement, being correct, gave the _Morning Star_ a chance to
clinch its argument yet more forcibly and to prove itself better
informed than its rival by coming out in its next issue with the
declaration that "there can no longer be any question relative to the
identity of the murdered man. That he is, or rather was, the
long-vanished Ferdinand Lovetski who was formerly identified with the
club _and_ the boot-dressing industry carried on at 63 Essex Row, is
established beyond all cavil, since the marks smeared upon his shirt
bosom are now known to have been made with shoe-blacking of that variety
which is applied and polished with a cloth, and which has of recent
years almost entirely superseded the brush-applied variety of our
fathers' and grandfathers' days!"

Narkom, much impressed thereby, showed these two articles from the
_Morning Star_ to Cleek.

"An ingenious young man that reporter, Mr. Narkom, and his deductions
regarding those marks reflect great credit upon him," said the latter.
"For it is positively certain that whoever he may or may not have been,
the man certainly was _not_ the Count de Louvisan, for the simple reason
that there is _no_ 'Count de Louvisan' in the Austrian nobility, the
title having lapsed some years ago. The theory that the dead man is that
Ferdinand Lovetski who formerly lived at 63 Essex Row, however, will
bear looking into. It is well thought out. I should, perhaps, be more
impressed with the genius of the chap who worked out so likely a
solution to those mysterious figures if he hadn't made me lose faith in
his powers of observation by the 'shoe blacking' statement. It is not a
bad _guess_, in the circumstances--for each would leave marks very
similar, if one trusted to the eye alone--but I happen to _know_ that
the figures were _not_ smeared on with shoe-blacking, but with a stick
of that greasy, highly scented black cosmetic which some actresses use
for their eyelashes and some men employ to disguise the gray hairs in
the moustache. You know the kind of stuff I mean. It is always wrapped
in a brilliant, ruby-coloured tin foil; is to be found in most barbers'
and hairdressers' establishments, and is very heavily and peculiarly
perfumed. You will remember that, when I wanted to ascertain if the
odour of the _Huile Violette_ emanated from the body of the dead man or
not, I told you he _was_ scented, but _not_ with violets? Very well, the
scent which was upon him was the peculiar spicy fragrance of that
particular kind of cosmetic; and I had only to get one whiff of his
shirt bosom to understand what had been used to make those marks upon
it."

"My dear Cleek, could you be sure of that?" ventured Narkom. "I know the
kind of stuff you mean. But few Englishmen use it these days, though I
remember it was once very popular. It comes in light brown shades for
fair people, as well as in black for dark ones; and the Count was
extremely fair, almost flaxen. Could you be positive then that what you
smelt was not on his hair or moustache? If he had used the light sort it
would not show, remember."

"My dear Mr. Narkom, have you so poor an opinion of my methods that you
fancy I would be likely to be slipshod in my examination, and to pass
over so important a possibility as that? The man had brilliantine on his
hair and moustache, and the latter had been dressed with curling irons!
Believe me, when we find who put those marks upon him, we shall find
some one who is addicted to the use of black cosmetic of the kind which
I have mentioned."

And afterward, when the rush of events had crowded yet more important
ones from his mind, Mr. Maverick Narkom remembered those words and set
that statement down in his diary as another proof of the amazing
thoroughness and the shrewd far-sightedness of this remarkable man.




CHAPTER EIGHT

AILSA LORNE


Mrs. Raynor positively jumped as the premonitory knock trembled on the
door before Johnston the butler opened it and entered. Ordinarily she
was but little given to "nerves" and was by no means easily startled,
but this morning was a decided exception to the rule. And why not? You
don't get called up out of your bed every morning to learn that a
gentleman who had been walking about your tulip beds yesterday afternoon
had been barbarously murdered during the night in a house but a few
yards away. Nor is it pleasant to face the likelihood of getting your
name and your residence mentioned in the daily papers in connection with
a police affair, and to know that before nightfall every groom,
washerwoman, and chambermaid within a fifty-mile radius will have read
exactly what the interior of your home is like, exactly what you wore
when "our representative" called, and will know a good deal more about
you than you ever knew about yourself.

"Begging pardon, madam, but a gentleman----" began Johnston, but was
suffered to get no further.

"If it is a reporter I will not see him," interrupted his mistress with
a decisive wave of the hand. "You know very well that your master and
Mr. Harry have gone over to the scene of the abominable affair to
ascertain if there is or is not any likelihood of its being a case of
mistaken identity; and you ought to know better, Johnston, than to admit
strangers of any sort during their absence."

"Your pardon, madam, but nobody has called--at least at the door,"
replied Johnston with grave politeness. "The gentleman in question is
asking over the telephone to speak with Miss Lorne."

"With me?" exclaimed Ailsa, turning around in the recess of the big bay
window of the morning room where she had been standing with her arm
about Lady Katharine Fordham and looking anxiously down the drive which
led to the Grange gates. "Did you say that somebody was asking over the
telephone for _me_, Johnston? Thank you! I will answer the call
directly."

"My dear, do you think that wise? Do you think it discreet?" said Mrs.
Raynor rather anxiously. "Consider what risks you run. It may be a
reporter--I am told that they are up to all sorts of tricks--and to be
trapped into giving an interview in spite of one's self---- Dearest, you
must not let yourself be dragged into this abominable affair."

"I think it will be a clever man who can do that against my will--and
over the telephone," replied Ailsa gayly. "I shan't be gone more than a
minute or two, Kathie dear; and while I'm away, you might get your hat
and be ready for a stroll in the grounds when I come back. And you, too,
Mrs. Raynor, if you will. The weather is glorious, and one might as well
spend the time waiting for the General's and Mr. Harry's return in the
open air as cooped up here at half-past nine o'clock on a brilliant
April morning."

"My dear, you are wonderful, positively wonderful," said Mrs. Raynor
admiringly. "How _do_ you maintain your composure under such trying
circumstances? Look at Katharine and me--both of us shaking like the
proverbial aspen leaf and looking as washed out as though neither of us
had slept a wink all night; and you as fresh and serene as the morning
itself. No, I don't think I will go out, thank you. There may be people
with cameras you know; and to be snapshotted for the edification of the
readers of some abominable halfpenny paper----"

Ailsa did not wait to hear the conclusion of the remark, but slipped
out, went hastily to the library and the telephone, and lost not a
moment in making her presence known to the caller at the other end of
the line. She had barely spoken three words into the receiver, however,
when she gave a little start, eyes and lips were involved in a radiant
smile, and her face became all red and warm with sudden blushes.

"Yes, yes, of course I recognize your voice!" she said in answer to a
query unheard by any ears but hers. "How wonderful you are! You find out
everything. I had meant to write and tell you, but we came up so
unexpectedly and---- What! Yes, I can hear you very distinctly. Pardon?
Yes. I am listening." Then letting her voice drop off into silence she
stood very, very still, with ever-widening eyes, lips parted, and a look
of great seriousness steadily settling down over her paling countenance.

She had said that she would be absent for but a minute or two; it was
five or six, however, before she came back, to find Lady Katharine and
Mrs. Raynor just as she had left them.

"No, it wasn't a reporter," she said gayly in response to Mrs. Raynor's
inquiring look. "It was a dear old friend"--blushing rosily--"a Mr.
Philip Barch, whom I first met through my uncle, Sir Horace Wyvern, in
the days before his second marriage. Mr. Barch has asked if he may be
permitted to call this morning, and I have taken the liberty of saying
that he may."

"Take a further one, dear, and ask him to stop to luncheon when he
comes," said Mrs. Raynor. "When a girl blushes like that over the mere
mentioning of a man's name---- Oh, well, I wasn't always fifty-two, my
dear, and I flatter myself that I know the duties of a hostess."

Miss Lorne's only response was another and a yet more radiant blush and
an immediate return to the side of the slim, dark girl standing in the
recess of the window.

"Kathie, you are positively lazy," she said. "You haven't budged an inch
since I left, and I distinctly asked you to get your hat."

"I know it," admitted Lady Katharine. "But, Ailsa, dear, I simply
couldn't. I am afraid Uncle John and Harry may return, and you know how
anxious I am."

"Still, Kathie, staying in will make no difference," said Ailsa gently,
"and you will soon know when they arrive."

Reluctantly Lady Katharine let herself be piloted through the open
French windows and out into the grounds, ablaze with flowers.

"I should think Geoffrey would be here, too," said Ailsa, with a swift
glance at her companion's pale face. "He must have heard the news by
this time, but something has evidently delayed him."

A wave of scarlet surged into Lady Katharine's face.

"Oh, if only he would!" she muttered. "I am so tired----"

"I daresay, dear," said Ailsa sympathetically. "You did not sleep well,
darling, did you?"

"Yes, but I did--that's just the strange thing," said Lady Katharine
quickly. "What made you think not, Ailsa?"

"Well, for one thing, I thought I heard your door open and shut in the
night. I came within an ace of getting up to see whether you were ill,
but fell asleep again myself."

Her companion looked puzzled. "It must have been a mistake on your part,
Ailsa. I fell asleep almost directly my head touched the pillow, and
slept like a log until morning. But don't let's talk about last night."
She turned impulsively to Ailsa, her voice thrilling with emotion. "It's
no use," she said. "I simply can't feel sorry over it. I know I ought.
Death is always horrible, and such a death!" She shuddered
involuntarily. "But you don't know what a release it is to me. If this
had not happened, I think I should have died----"

Ailsa pressed her arm in silent sympathy, but before she could speak
Mrs. Raynor appeared on the scene. She had guarded herself against
attacks of possible snapshotters by carrying an open parasol, and Ailsa
was glad to change the topic of conversation.

It was some twenty minutes later, when they were still strolling in the
gardens, that a taxicab halted at the lodge gates, and they saw a tall,
slim figure arrayed in an exceedingly well-cut morning suit, with a rose
in his buttonhole and shiny top hat on his closely cropped fair head,
advancing up the drive toward them with that easy grace and perfect
poise which mutely stands sponsor for the thing called breeding.

"My dears!" began Mrs. Raynor admiringly, "what a distinguished looking
man!" She had time to say no more, for Ailsa, with a face like a rose,
had gone to meet the newcomer--who quickened his steps at sight of her
and was now well within earshot--and was greeting him as a woman greets
but one man ever.

"My dear," said Mrs. Raynor to Lady Katharine, in a carefully lowered
tone, "if I know anything, you will be parting with that dear girl's
companionship for good and all before the summer is over. Look at the
man's eyes: they are positively devouring her. Of course we shall have
to remain to welcome him, but I think we shall earn their gratitude if
we leave them to themselves as soon as we decently can."

A few minutes later the opportunity to do this was offered her; and
having lingered just long enough to be introduced to "Mr. Philip Barch"
and to become even more impressed with him at close quarters as not only
a man good to look at, but as an apt and easy conversationalist, she
suddenly remembered that she and Lady Katharine had promised to gather
some hyacinths for the lunch table, and forthwith spirited her away.

Cleek followed her with his eyes as long as she remained in sight, then
he turned to Ailsa. "A very tender and sensitive girl I should say, Miss
Lorne, although she bears herself so well under the cross of last
night's tragedy. I see by your manner of looking at her that you are
attached to her in many ways."

"Not in many, but in all, Mr. Cleek. She is the dearest girl in the
world."

"We won't go into that, otherwise we should disagree for the first time
in the whole course of our acquaintance. Let me thank you for adhering
so closely to all that I asked over the telephone. I didn't mean to, at
first. My original idea was to come here unknown to all, even to you;
but when I came to think over it, it seemed so disloyal, so
underhanded, as if I didn't trust you in all things, _always_--that I
simply couldn't bring myself to do it."

She looked up at him with grave sweet eyes--the eyes that had lit him
back from the path to destruction, that would light him up to the gates
of heaven evermore--and smiled on him, bewildered.

"I am afraid I do not follow you," she said. "I don't quite grasp what
you mean. Oh!" with sudden fear, "if you thought from my cry of surprise
when I recognized your voice over the telephone, that I was not glad----
Why, I was going to write to you this morning. But I expected it to be
Geoffrey Clavering asking for Kathie, you know----"

The name brought a ridge between Cleek's brows as of a sudden
disconcerting thought.

"Geoffrey Clavering? But he has been over here, this morning, has he
not?" he asked anxiously.

"No, he has not, and that is what seems so strange," said Ailsa.

"Did he write no note to Lady Katharine then--send her no message, Miss
Lorne?"

"No. I see that surprises you, Mr. Cleek, as, to be perfectly frank with
you, it surprises me. I can't make it out. I know that his whole life is
bound up in Kathie, as hers is bound up in him. I know that it nearly
drove him frantic when he was told their engagement would have to come
to an end; so one would naturally think that when there is a rumour that
the man who came between them is dead----And he _must_ have heard by
this time."

"Miss Lorne, let me tell you something," said Cleek gravely. "Geoffrey
Clavering does know of the murder. He has known of it since twelve
o'clock last night, to my certain knowledge."

"Mr. Cleek! And yet he has made no move to communicate with Lady
Katharine! But"--with sudden hopefulness--"perhaps he wishes to make
absolutely sure; perhaps the identity of the murdered man is not yet
wholly established! Perhaps it is not really the Count de Louvisan after
all."

"It _is_ the Count de Louvisan, Miss Lorne! That was settled beyond all
question last night."

"And Geoffrey Clavering knew it then?"

"And Geoffrey Clavering knew it then--yes! The man slain is, or rather
was, the one known as the Count de Louvisan; on his dead body numbers
whose total make up the sum of nine were marked; and--I fancy you
remember what Geoffrey Clavering threatened when the fellow went to
Clavering Close last night."

Ailsa looked at him, her eyes dilating, the colour draining slowly out
of her cheeks and lips. It was impossible not to grasp the significance
of these two circumstances, one of which--the mysterious markings on the
dead man's body--she now heard of for the first time.

"Oh, Mr. Cleek, oh!" she said faintly. "You surely can't think---- A
dear lovable boy like that! You can't believe that Geoffrey Clavering
had anything to do with it?"

"I hope not, for, frankly, I like the boy. But one thing is certain: if
_he_ didn't kill the man, he knows who did; knows, too, that there is a
woman implicated in the crime."

"A woman! Oh, Mr. Cleek, a--a woman?"

"Yes--perhaps two women!"

"Women and--and a deed of violence, a deed of horror, like that? No!
Women couldn't. They would be fiends, not women. I hold too high an
estimate of my sex to let you call them that! And for him, for Geoffrey
Clavering, there is but one woman in all the world! Even you shan't hint
it of _her_! No, not even you."

"Hush! I am hinting nothing. Now that I have seen Lady Katharine I would
almost as soon think evil of you as of her."

There was a little summerhouse close at hand. He saw that she was faint,
shocked, overcome, and gently led her to it, loathing himself that even
for one moment he had brought pain within touch of her.

"Who knows better than I how false appearances may be?" he said. "Who
should be less likely to take suspicious circumstances for proof?"

"Oh, but to suspect, even to _suspect_, Kathie--the dearest and the
sweetest girl on earth."

"Again I dispute that!" he threw back with repressed vehemence. "And
again I declare that I am not swayed by facts, black as they may be,
black as they undoubtedly are. If I believed, should I come here and
openly tell you of these things? My duty is to the law. Should I not
carry proofs there if I believed that they were proofs? But my faith is
as a rock. Shall I prove it to you? Then look! I know that you will tell
me the truth; and it is because of that, because in my heart I know it
is a truth which you can and will face openly and with no cause for
fear, that I have declined to hold this thing of sufficient importance
to be called a clue, and as such to be handed over to the police. Miss
Lorne--Ailsa--tell me, will you--have you ever seen this thing before?"

While he was speaking his hand had gone to his pocket and come forth
tightly shut. Now he opened his closed fingers and let her see that
there was a scrap of pink chiffon edged with rose coloured stitchery
lying on his open palm. Her eyes, fixed earnestly upon his face
heretofore, dropped to the gauzy fragment held out to her, and a ridge
dug itself between her level brows.




CHAPTER NINE

BLIND GROPING


Ailsa Lorne gave a little start as she examined the fragment.

"I thought at first that it was torn from my own dress," she said
frankly, looking up at him, "for, as it happens, I was wearing a pink
dress, but not quite of this shade. I will show it to you if you like."

"There is no need, Miss Lorne," said Cleek, his eyes shining. "If you
tell me that you were not at Gleer Cottage last night, then there is no
more to be said," and with a little laugh of sheer happiness he
carefully replaced the bit of chiffon in his pocketbook. "Just one more
question, please, Miss Lorne. Tell me: has Lady Katharine a certain kind
of bracelet to which there is attached a small capsule by a link of
gold, and which smells adorably of violets?"

"Yes. Anybody that knows her could tell you that. Her father, Lord St.
Ulmer, brought it to her from South America. He had her name and the St.
Ulmer arms engraved upon it. At least, upon what you have called the
'capsule,' which contains some highly concentrated perfume that makes
the whole room fragrant whenever she removes a tiny gold stopper from
the delightful thing."

"Thank you! I supposed as much. Now will you tell me, Miss Lorne, how
long it is since Lady Katharine lost that little golden capsule from her
bracelet? Was it, as I am hoping, on the day when you visited Gleer
Cottage in company with her, or since?"

"What a strange question. She hasn't lost it at all. At least, she has
made no mention of having done so, as I am sure she would if it _had_
been lost. Always, of course, providing it wasn't lost without her
knowledge. At any rate, she wore it last night when we went to Clavering
Close. I know that, because I remarked at the time that she had better
let a jeweller look at it, as the ring of the scent globe was very
nearly worn through."

"Was that before you left the Grange or after?"

"After--a long while after--at Clavering Close; in fact, while we were
taking off our wraps preparatory to going down to the drawing-room."

"Hum-m-m!" said Cleek, puckering up his lips and looking grave. "You are
establishing a very unpleasant fact by that statement. It proves that,
in spite of your belief to the contrary, Lady Katharine revisited Gleer
Cottage last night, and that, too, _after_ the affair at Clavering
Close."

"How perfectly absurd! Why, she wasn't out of my sight for a single
instant."

"Nevertheless, she certainly visited Gleer Cottage last night," repeated
Cleek with calm persistence. "I know that beyond all possible doubt,
Miss Lorne; for I myself found the capsule of that bracelet there,
crushed and broken, but still showing that the St. Ulmer arms and the
name 'Katharine' had been engraved upon it. Don't look at me like that,
please, or you will make me hate myself for having to tell you this."

"But I tell you it is impossible," she still protested. "I tell you she
was never out of my sight for one instant from the time we left this
house to the time we returned. No, not for one, Mr. Cleek, up to the
very moment she left me to go to bed."

"Just so. But after that?"

"After that? After----" she began; and then stopped, and grew very pale
and very, very still, for there had come to her a recollection of that
moment when, as she had said, she fancied she heard Lady Katharine's
door open and shut in the night when all the house was still.

"And after that?" repeated Cleek, driving the question home.

"How should I know?" she gave back, in something akin to panic. "How
could I? We do not sleep together. But"--with sudden brightening--"this
I do know, however: the bracelet was still on her wrist and the scent
globe still attached to it, even then. I saw it with my own eyes."

"A clear proof that, as the capsule was dropped after that time, she
left the house last night without your knowledge, Miss Lorne."

"I can't believe it; I will not believe it!" protested Ailsa loyally. "I
know that she did not! I _know_!"

"How?"

"It is likely that you have not heard it, but Katharine is an
accomplished violoncellist, Mr. Cleek. She loves her instrument, and in
times of sorrow or distress she flies to it for comfort, and plays and
plays until her nerves are soothed. Last night, after she left me, I
heard her playing in her room."

"For long?"

"No. Of a sudden something went snap and the music ceased. She opened
her door and called across the passage to me: 'Ailsa, pray for me. I am
so wretched, so abandoned by fortune, that even the solace of my 'cello
is denied me. I have broken the A-string and have not another in the
house. Good-night, dear. I wish I could break the String of Life as
easily!' After that she closed and locked the door, and I heard her go
to bed."

_The A-string!_

Cleek turned away his head and took his chin between his thumb and
forefinger. _The A-string!_ And it was with a noose of catgut that the
Count de Louvisan had been strangled!

"I'll not believe that she left the house," went on Miss Lorne. "She is
the soul of honour, the very embodiment of truth, and she told me
herself that she 'slept like a log until morning.' If she had gone out
after I left her, after I fell asleep----"

"It could be proved and proved easily," interposed Cleek. "The night was
moist and foggy, the roads were wet and muddy. Her clothes, the hem of
her skirt, the state of her shoes---- But I will not ask you to play
the spy upon your friend, Miss Lorne."

"Nor would I do it!" she flashed back spiritedly; then stopped and gave
a little excited exclamation and laid a shaking hand upon Cleek's
sleeve. An automobile had swung suddenly into view in the drive leading
up from the gates to the house, and in it were two men: one white of
hair and snowy of beard but as erect as a statue; the other slim and
young and fashionably dressed, and so clearly of the order "Johnnie"
that he who ran might read. The General and his son had returned from
their visit to Gleer Cottage.

Miss Lorne made that fact clear to Cleek in a few words.

"Now we shall have the full account of everything in Harry Raynor's
original and detestable style," she whispered. "You are so shrewd in
guessing riddles, Mr. Cleek, tell me, if you can, why it is that lions
so often breed asses, and that heroes so often father clowns? If you
were to search the world you could find no truer gentleman, in speech,
in manner, in instincts, in everything, than dear old General Raynor;
and yet, if you were to search it thrice over, you could find no greater
cad than his son."

"From what I can see at this distance he certainly does look like a fine
example of the genus bounder, I must confess," said Cleek. "You do not
appear to have much of an opinion of the young man, Miss Lorne."

"I have not. I detest him! I never did care for 'scented' men; and when
they come down to the 'curling iron' and the 'dye stick' they are simply
abominable!"

"The 'dye stick'?"

"Yes. You mustn't be deceived by that waxed and delicately darkened
moustache of Mr. Harry Raynor's, Mr. Cleek. It would be as sandy as his
hair if the wretched little dandy didn't darken it with black cosmetic
because he is ashamed of the cow colour which nature so appropriately
bestowed upon it."

Cleek screwed round on his heel and looked at Mr. Harry Raynor with
renewed interest.

"I suppose I ought not to have said that," she continued, "but I do
detest him so. I think I had better run and tell Kathie that they have
come back, but I will not keep you waiting many minutes." She smiled
brightly at Cleek, and with a little nod ran lightly off, leaving him to
await her return.

But, despite his interest in Mr. Harry Raynor, Cleek dropped discreetly
out of sight and into one of the many winding paths with which the
grounds abounded. A few minutes' gentle stroll along this particular one
brought him to the rear of the house, and before he quite realized it he
found himself within the precincts of the stable. The yard itself was
deserted save for a single groom who was evidently hard at work
polishing a boot, and which, judging from the muddy appearance of its
companion, must have proved no easy task.

Cleek gave one look at the expensively cut article of footgear, then he
lounged across the yard.

"That's a pretty tough job, isn't it?" said he offhandedly. The groom
looked up, but meeting the visitor's disarming smile, only gave vent to
a grunt.

"Should think it is a tough job," he muttered. "They're his lordship's
boots, an' 'ow 'e comes to make 'em in such a state beats me to fits.
Fair caked with mud, and 'im in bed with a sprained ankle. It's that
valet of 'is, I s'pose----" He broke off, then looked questioningly at
Cleek.

"I've lost my way," he said, plunging his hand into his pocket. "I
strolled down a path from the lawns in front of the house. Which one
will take me back?"

"First path to the right, sir, and thank you," said the gratified groom,
and a minute later found Cleek back at the spot where Ailsa had left
him.

He certainly had to admit that the whole affair was most perplexing, and
he was still pondering over the various points of the case when Ailsa
Lorne returned, and for a few moments they paced the lawn in silence;
then Cleek turned with a little smile.

"I suppose we shall have to go and meet the General," said he serenely.
"Shall we meet Lady Katharine's father as well?"

"Oh, dear, no! The man's in bed with a sprained ankle. Can't put his
foot to the ground."

"Oh! Indeed? Then that explains it, of course. I wondered."

"Explains it? Explains what?"

"Why, his not being about at such a time--not appearing to take any
interest in his daughter's affairs, especially her deliverance from a
loveless marriage. It struck me as curious when I saw her. But I set it
down to the possibility of there being bad blood between them. Is
there?"

"No, there is not," said Ailsa, falling unconsciously into the trap.
"Kathie is not the kind of girl to hold a grudge against any one, Mr.
Cleek. She is intensely emotional, but she is also intensely loyal. The
very last person in the world she would be likely to treat spitefully
would be her father."

"I see. She is fond of him, then? Probably I have heard the wrong
version of the story. Have I? I was told that it was he who compelled
her, very much against her will, to accept the attentions of
the--er--Count de Louvisan and to become engaged to him. That she begged
her father to save her from marrying the man, but he would not--or could
not--consent."

"That is quite true. You have not been misinformed. She did just what
you have been told. Indeed, I happen to know that she even went so far
as to get down on her knees to Lord St. Ulmer and implore him to kill
her rather than to compel her to give up Geoff--and especially for a man
she loathed as she did the Count de Louvisan. It was useless, however.
That same night Lord St. Ulmer asked her to come to him alone in the
library at Ulmer Court. They were together for two hours. The next day
she accepted the Count de Louvisan."

"I see!" said Cleek. "Of course, his lordship told her something which
influenced her beyond her own will and desires. Do you happen to know
what that something was?"

"No. She has never told me one word beyond that she went into that
library with a breaking heart, and came out of it with a broken one."

"And in spite of all that, she still loves this father who compelled her
to give up all that life held, eh?"

"I didn't say that. I said that she was loyal to him, not that she loved
him. How could she love a father whom she had not seen since she was a
baby--whom she did not even know when he came back to claim her? Why,
she hadn't even a picture to tell her what he looked like, and in all
the years he was away he never wrote her so much as one line. A girl
couldn't love a father like that. She might like him, she might be
grateful to him, as Katharine is, for loading her with all the things
that money can buy; but to love him---- What is the matter, Mr. Cleek?
What in the world made you say 'Phew' like that?"

"Nothing! Do you happen to know if the late Count de Louvisan was ever
in Argentina, Miss Lorne?"

"No, I do not. Why?"

"Oh, mere idle curiosity, that's all. Turned up suddenly at Ulmer Court,
didn't he? Any idea from where?"

"Not the slightest. He called quite unexpectedly one evening after we
all--Kathie, his lordship, and I--had been over to the autumn races at
Fourfields. That was an unfortunate day altogether. We did not see the
conclusion of even the first race. Lord St. Ulmer was suddenly taken
ill, although he had been quite well a moment before, and was so bad
that we had to leave immediately. Nothing would do him but that we must
drive home as quickly as possible, so that he could consult our local
doctor."

Cleek glanced at her swiftly. "Hum-m-m! Bad as that, was he?" he asked.
"What did the local doctor think caused the illness? Or did his lordship
recover on the way home, and find it unnecessary to call him in at all?
Ah, he did, eh? Queer things those sudden attacks; you never know when
they will come on or when they will go off again. Possibly his present
illness came just as suddenly. Did it?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," replied Miss Lorne. "I wasn't there when it
happened. Nobody was. Kathie and I had just gone into the refreshment
room at the railway station for tea-- Lord St. Ulmer said he didn't care
for any, and would just step round to the news stall and get an
afternoon paper--and when we came out there he was, poor man, sitting on
a seat and groaning. He stepped on a banana peel, he said, and turned
his ankle. A few minutes later Count de Louvisan put in an appearance.
He had arranged to join us at Liverpool Street Station, and, no doubt,
would have done so, but at the last minute Lord St. Ulmer had made up
his mind to journey up to town by an earlier train than originally
arranged. Anyway, his lordship made him go and wire to General Raynor
that he was afraid our visit would have to be postponed indefinitely, as
he had met with an accident and was going direct to the Savoy Hotel. Of
course the General came with his motor, and wouldn't listen to his
stopping there; so we all came on, as agreed, to Wuthering Grange. That
was the day before yesterday, and Lord St. Ulmer has been in bed ever
since."

"Very neat, very neat indeed," commented Cleek. "Couldn't tell me, I
suppose, where I might get a peep at-- I--er--mean who is the doctor
attending to him?"

"He hasn't a doctor. He wouldn't have one. He is a very obstinate man,
Mr. Cleek, and simply would not allow General Raynor to call in the
local practitioner. Claims that he brought some wonderful ointment with
him from Argentina which, as he phrases it, 'beats all the doctors
hollow in the matter of sprains and bruises'; and simply will not allow
anybody to do anything for him."

Cleek puckered up his brows. Obviously it would be useless to represent
himself as an assistant to the local doctor, or even to make himself up
to pass muster for that doctor himself, for the purpose of examining a
man who would not see any medical man upon any pretext whatsoever. And
yet---- He gave a little toss of his shoulders, as if to throw away
these fresh ideas, and came back again to Lady Katharine. What other
proof could he secure? Why had she played the 'cello at all at such a
time? Was it to secure that very string? Was it but a cloak to hide her
designs? A swift idea flashed across his mind, as he recalled Lennard's
story of a lady in an ermine cloak. He turned suddenly to his companion.

"Miss Lorne," he asked, "did Lady Katharine bring her ermine cloak with
her when she came up from Suffolk?"

"No," said Ailsa in reply. "And for the very best of reasons: she hasn't
one."

"Oh, I see. Know anybody who has?"

"Yes, I have. Lady Chepstowe gave me hers when she went to India. Why?"

"Oh, just a fancy of mine, that's all," replied Cleek with apparent
offhandedness. "I seem to fancy that I heard something about Lady
Katharine having had her portrait painted wearing a very superb ermine
cloak. But, of course, if she hasn't one--or--yes, she might have
borrowed yours. You'd lend it to her, I know--lend it like a shot. Did
you?"

"I certainly did not. For one thing, she never in her life asked me to;
and for another, whoever told you that tale about her having her
portrait painted wearing one must be blessed with a very remarkable
imagination. She had no such portrait painted. And I never lent her the
cloak for any purpose at any time."

"I see. Couldn't have left it lying about where anybody might pick it
up, could you?"

"How like a man that is," she said gayly. "Fancy a girl, especially one
in my position, being possessed of so valuable a thing as an ermine
cloak, and then leaving it about like a fan or a garden hat! No, I did
not leave it about. Indeed, I couldn't if I had wanted to."

"Why?"

"For the very good reason that I sent it to the furrier's to have it
made into a muff and stole."

"May I ask when? Recently?"

"No; quite two months ago. They are storing it for me, and will make the
alterations in time for next winter's wear. As a cloak, of course, it is
quite useless to a girl in my position. But really, I must go now.
Kathie will think it very heartless of us if we do not fly to hear the
General's report. Wait for me here, please. I shall be back directly."

Then she hurried out of the summerhouse and taking a path which led
round to the rear of the Grange, passed from sight and left Cleek to his
own devices.




CHAPTER TEN

ANOTHER STRAND IN THE WEB


The arrival of Mrs. Raynor and the General upon the scene, with Harry
Raynor in their wake, gave a different atmosphere, so to speak, to
Cleek's thoughts, and he threw himself, heart and soul, into getting
into the good graces of the family. He did not much fancy Mr. Harry
Raynor, who was too self-assertive to be pleasant company to a matured
man of the world, and just at the age which may be best described in the
quotation, "young enough to know everything."

Nevertheless, he had made up his mind to secure an invitation to stay
overnight at Wuthering Grange, in order that he might have a peep at
Lord St. Ulmer, and he knew that it was only by making himself a boon
companion of the young man that he could hope to secure it. About three
and twenty, the idol of an adoring mother, if not of his father, that
gentleman was of the type that favour the ladies of the ballet with
their attentions, and prefer chorus girls, stage doors, and late suppers
to home amusements and the like; and it was not long before Cleek had
him nicely "managed" and in the desired frame of mind.

A casual remark about a certain dashing musical-comedy actress who had
sprung into sudden prominence set the ball rolling; then Cleek expressed
in confidence a burning desire to know the lady and deep disappointment
over the fact that he knew no one who was in a position to introduce
him; and in ten minutes' time he had his fish hooked.

"I say, you know, I'll give you an introduction to her like a shot, old
chap, if you really do want to know her," young Raynor imparted to him
in deep confidence as he led him outside and got him away from the
ladies. "Know her like a book! Rippin' sort! Introduce you any time you
like. My hat! yes!"

"Really?" said Cleek with every appearance of boundless delight. "You
know her--you actually know her?"

"Yes, rather! Know the whole blessed shoot of 'em from Flossie
Twinkletoes down. Get reams of letters from 'em and bushels of
photos--all autographed. I say, come up to my den and have a peep. You
never saw such a gallery!"

Cleek admitted to himself when he saw them that he never had, for the
room was literally smothered under photographs of actresses, gymnasts,
ladies of the music-hall persuasion, and public characters in general.

"Always sport my oak, you know," said the young man with a laugh and a
wink, as he locked the door behind him. "Pater might see 'em, and then
there would be a time of it. Awful old muff, the pater; good sort, you
know, but he'd have this lot in the fire in less than no time if he
knew. Fearful old fossil. Flowers, fruits, rubber at whist, pipe, and an
old army friend--that's his idea of life."

Cleek felt like taking him by the back of the neck and kicking him. He
didn't, however. He had other fish to fry; and he succeeded so well that
before he left that room he had an invitation to stop the night, and as
he had brought no evening clothes with him, the offer of a suit to meet
the emergency.

"Look here, I'll tell you what, Barch," said Raynor when this invitation
and this offer were accepted, turning round as he spoke--he was at a
window which overlooked the drive up from the gates of the Grange "chaps
like us don't want to sit in a drawing-room and waste time with a pair
of prunes and prisms like Lady Katharine Fordham and that prig of a
Lorne girl. If you're in for a lark, we'll slip out and I'll show you a
bit of life on the sly. I like you-- I'm blest if I don't; so if you're
game for a kick up, I'll let you into a secret and give you the time of
your life. Now, then, listen here, old chap."

He stopped abruptly as a sudden grating sound of wheels rose from the
drive, and looking down, he saw that a vehicle had swung in through the
gates and was advancing toward the house.

"Oh Lord! that settles it; now we're in for a visitation!" he said with
an expression of deep disgust. "There's that prig of a chap, Geoff
Clavering, driving in. Can't stick that fellow at any price!"

Geoff Clavering! Cleek rose as he heard the name, walked to the window,
and looked out. So, then, he had not been so far out in his reckoning
after all. Geoff Clavering had come at last to seek an interview with
the girl of his heart.

Why the boy had delayed until now Cleek could not guess, unless it was
because of a shrinking dread of going abroad anywhere at such a time;
but that he had nerved himself to come at last for something more than a
mere call was apparent at first glance; for his face was white and
strained, and it was evident, even from this distance, that he was
labouring under strong excitement.

Undoubtedly there would be, as he had surmised, a private interview
arranged between those two people, and undoubtedly he must manage to
overhear it. What a pity that this should have happened at this
particular time, that young Clavering should have arrived while he was
up here, out of the way of seeing what happened when Geoff and Lady
Katharine first met!

A glance, a movement, a hundred different things, might tell him what he
wanted to know if he were there at that moment of first meeting. But
perhaps it was not yet too late. The carriage hadn't reached the
entrance of the house as yet; perhaps, if he hurried, if he went at
once----

"I say, let's go down, Raynor," he said desperately. "I don't know
what's come over me, but my head's suddenly begun to swim, and I'm
afraid I shall keel over if I don't get out in the air. We can let the
lark you were speaking of rest until afterward. Come on, will you? By
Jove! you know, I'm in a fearful way."

And from the effort to carry out the impression of extreme giddiness a
curious thing came:

Clapping his hand to his head, and wheeling staggeringly round to make
his way to the door, he had the good or ill fortune to blunder against a
little table, upon which stood what was undoubtedly an earthenware
tobacco jar, and to send it crashing to the ground. Instantly and out of
it there rolled, on top of the quantity of spilled tobacco which had
originally been used to cover it, a little silver box, which flew open
as it fell and disgorged a photograph, a couple of letters in a woman's
hand, and a fragment of pink gauze.

Cleek had just stooped to pick these things up and to lay them back upon
the table, when a yet more curious thing happened.

"I say! You let those things alone!" snapped young Raynor excitedly; and
springing forward, whisked them out of his hand. But not before Cleek
had made a rather startling discovery: the letters were written in a
woman's hand--a hand he recognized the instant he saw it--and the
picture which accompanied them was a photograph of Margot. He had no
longer a desire to hurry downstairs.

The rudeness of his act and of his manner of speaking seemed to dawn
upon young Raynor almost as he snatched the photograph and letters, and
he hastened to apologize.

"I say, don't think me stable-bred, Barch," he said, a flush of
mortification reddening his face. "Didn't mean to rip out at you like
that, b'gad! Fact is, I was a bit excited; forgot for a moment that
you're a pal. So don't get your back up, please."

"I haven't the slightest intention of doing so, dear chap," replied
Cleek, who, it must be confessed, was a little shaken by the discovery.
"Every man has a right to cut up a bit rough when he thinks some other
fellow is going to pry into his secrets. And I reckon this is one of
your pet mashes--eh, what?"

"Yes, something like that. The latest--and a ripper. French, you know.
That's what rattled me for the moment. The dad loathes French women. I'm
extra careful to keep this one's picture out of sight. I say! Don't know
what you'll think about my manners, but I forgot all about your asking
to go down and get out into the air. Sorry, old chap! Come along! Take
my arm, and I'll help you."

As the breaking of the tobacco jar had deprived Raynor of again making
use of that as a means of hiding the little silver box and its contents,
he had, while speaking, crammed the letters, the photograph, and the
scrap of pink gauze into an inside pocket of his coat, and now came
forward and took Cleek's arm with the amiable intention of leading him
from the room.

There was, of course, in the circumstances nothing for it but to go,
much as Cleek would have preferred to stop and trace the connection
between young Raynor and Margot; but he was far too careful in his
methods to cast any doubt regarding the genuineness of that sudden
attack of a moment before by pretending that it had begun to abate, and
therefore yielded himself to the inevitable.

But he had this consolation in doing it: not only would he now be
enabled to witness the meeting between Geoff Clavering and Lady
Katharine Fordham after all, but as a man who is ill is always more or
less an object of sympathy and attention upon the part of women, he
foresaw that he might induce Lady Katharine to hover round him, and thus
bring Geoff Clavering within close range for easy and careful studying.
Nor did he fear that he had lost all opportunity for pursuing the
subject of Harry Raynor's acquaintance with Margot. The mere fact that
that young man had the contents of the little silver box upon his person
might easily cause an apprehensive inquiry regarding the risk of
carrying them about where they might be dropped, and so brought to his
father's attention; and from that inquiry it would be simple work
getting back to the subject itself without exciting any suspicion
regarding his keen interest in it. He therefore allowed young Raynor to
lead him from the room.

"Fearfully groggy, old chap, fearfully," he said in answer to young
Raynor's inquiry regarding how he felt as they went down the dim passage
toward the staircase; "head going round like a teetotum; hope I don't
keel over and spoil the evening's sport by having to be put to bed like
a kid. Don't want two sick men on one floor, do you, eh? Or is it on
this floor that Lord St. Ulmer's room is situated?"

"Yes, that one over there--second door from the wing staircase. Speak
low, old chap, or you may disturb him. Sleeps like a cat, they say--one
eye and both ears always open. Doesn't do anything but sleep, I imagine,
day and night, from the way he keeps to his room. Hullo! I say! What's
it? Aren't going to crumple up, Barch, are you?"

This, because Cleek had suddenly lurched against the bannister at the
head of the stairs, and swung clean round until his back was resting
against it.

"No--that is, I hope not; but I do feel rotten, old chap," replied he.
"Just half a second, will you?"

He lolled back his head, gave a sort of groan, and rapidly and silently
began to count the doors and to make sure of the location of Lord St.
Ulmer's room. "All right; only a passing spasm, I reckon, old chap," he
went on as soon as he had discovered that his lordship's door was the
third from the end of the passage, and that his window would, therefore,
be the second from the angle of the wing in the outer wall of the house.
"Come on--let's go down." And leaning heavily upon young Raynor, he
descended to the dining-room.




CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE CLOUDBURST


The delay, trifling though it was, occasioned by the smashing of the
tobacco jar and the discovery of the photograph, served to interfere
with the smooth progress of events, as it fell out that Cleek did not,
after all, rejoin the party below in time to witness the first meeting
between Geoffrey Clavering and Lady Katharine Fordham, for the carriage
had arrived at the entrance to the house before he put in an appearance,
and the General and Mrs. Raynor, Ailsa and Lady Katharine, were out on
the veranda talking excitedly with young Clavering when Harry and Cleek
came upon the scene.

There is a subtle magic in love that dispels all other emotions, and
despite the gravity of the situation, a look of happiness radiated from
Lady Katharine's face, reflected, though in a far lesser degree, upon
Geoffrey Clavering's; indeed it did not need an over-keen eye to detect
that the young man was seriously ill at ease, and general conversation
languished.

Cleek's entry, therefore, with young Raynor's announcement of his sudden
attack of faintness, not only drew all attention, but, as he had
foreseen, he became an object of extreme solicitude upon the part of
the ladies.

"Crocked up, poor beggar, and came within an ace of bowling over,"
explained young Raynor as he led him to a seat in a big wicker chair.
"Sharp attack of indigestion, if I know the symptoms. Bet you a hat,
mater, it was that beastly cheese souffle we had for lunch. Enough to
kill a dog, that stuff. But you will give that silly ass of a cook his
head, and let him serve up anything he likes. How are you, Clavering?
Things look like going all right for you after all--eh, what? 'Tisn't
every man who can have his rival's wind shut off to order."

The remark could not be said to be a happy one, despite the fact that
the maker of it laughed as though he had just perpetrated a witticism;
for even his doting mother could not but deplore it.

"Harry, darling, how can you?" she said reproachfully, as young
Clavering coloured and the two girls looked distressed and indignant.
"Darling, you ought to think before you speak."

"Huh!" grunted the disgusted General. "If he did, he probably wouldn't
speak at all. It seems to me, Harry, that you must lie awake at nights
planning how you can arrange to say just the wrong thing upon all
occasions--you do it so constantly."

"Oh, that's it--just lay everything on me!" responded his dutiful
offspring sulkily. "I'm always doing the wrong thing--if you believe
what other people say. Seems to me that the best thing I can do is to
take myself off, and then everybody will be happy. I say, Barch, when
you feel like yourself again you'll find me either at the stables or in
the pater's blessed ruin taking lessons in etiquette from the family
ghost--if the pater has been able to rake up one and coax him to reside
there."

And with this ill-natured dig at his father's pet weakness this engaging
young gentleman lurched down the steps of the veranda and walked surlily
away round the angle of the house.

The place which he had spoken of as "the pater's ruin" was a little fad
of the General's, whose love of antiquities and the like had tempted him
to transform a bare and unattractive part of the Grange grounds into
something at least picturesque if not in the very highest good taste.
Ancient ruins had always been a passion with him, but as you can't have
ancient ruins in modern Wimbledon, the General had had a ruin built for
himself, modelling it after the crumbling remains of an old Scottish
castle which had appealed to his artistic eye, planting it with ferns
and enwrapping ivy and vines of Virginia creeper, and even supplying it
with owls and bats to keep up the illusion. It was his one harmless
weakness, his one foible--that ruin; and nobody but his son ever mocked
him for it, though many laughed in their sleeves and secretly made game
of his foolish whim.

Cleek had heard of the "ruin" at Wuthering Grange before he had ever set
foot inside the gates of the place; and hearing of it again--now, like
this--he felt that he would like to kick the young cub who could
publicly mock his father's folly in this fashion. He saw the General's
kindly old face flush with anger and mortification, and was not at all
surprised when he presently made an excuse to get away and retired
indoors.

Meantime, Cleek's plan of pretending illness had panned out precisely as
he had imagined, and was productive of the results he desired.
Essentially feminine and of a highly sympathetic nature, Lady Katharine
hovered near him, doing all in her power to ease the sufferings of one
whom she shrewdly suspected of being very near to the heart of her
dearest friend, and this naturally brought Geoffrey to the little group
surrounding him, and enabled him to study his attitude at close
quarters.

The more he saw of Sir Philip Clavering's son and heir, the better he
liked him; but although the young man occasionally turned an adoring
look upon Lady Katharine, and appeared to be doing his best to share her
evident high spirits, it was apparent to Cleek, after a moment's study,
that his attitude was for the most part assumed. He made no attempt to
get away from the others and have the lady of his heart all to himself,
and whenever he and she were for a moment separated from Mrs. Raynor and
Ailsa Lorne, he was nervous, distressed, and acted with an air of
restraint that was as puzzling as it was pronounced.

A chance remark regarding the state of Lord St. Ulmer's health brought
from Lord St. Ulmer's daughter the happy, excited remark:

"Oh, Geoff, dear, he's improving every hour, and he has been so
wonderfully kind and tender to me this afternoon that I could kiss him.
Just think, he says that things can go on now just as they did before
Count de Louvisan came; that there is nothing now to come between us,
Geoff; nothing to keep us apart for another moment!"

"Really? That's ripping!" said young Clavering, and in his effort to
appear delighted smiled the ghastliest parody of a smile possible to
conceive. It was so pronounced that even Lady Katharine herself noticed
it and looked puzzled and distressed.

"You don't seem very glad," she said, a note of pain in her voice, a
look of pain in her reproachful eyes. "_Aren't_ you glad, Geoff? And is
that why you did not come over to see me before?"

"Don't be silly, Kathie. I couldn't come any earlier because--well,
because I couldn't, that's all."

"A very lucid explanation, I must say. What is the matter with you,
Geoff? You're not a bit like yourself to-day--is he, Ailsa?"

But Ailsa made no reply. There was none really needed. Geoffrey had
taken hardly any notice, but as if struck with a sudden thought, whipped
out a notebook and began shuffling the pages nervously through his
fingers.

"I'd nearly forgotten, Kathie," he said apologetically; "my mother asked
if you would lend her these books." He handed her the torn leaf with
something scribbled upon it. "Any time will do, but she said you would
have them."

Lady Katharine looked down at the writing, and a wave of colour surged
over her face.

"But----" she commenced.

"I don't want them now; in fact, I can't stop even now, only I just
wanted to know that you were all right."

There was no mistaking the look of adoration on the young man's face,
but she looked at him reproachfully.

"Going back again, so soon!" she said softly, averting her head, while
her lips trembled and her hand clutched painfully on the leaf of the
notebook.

"I'm afraid I must, dear," responded Geoff. Then he turned swiftly to
Cleek, who had been watching the little scene, the peculiar one-sided
smile looping up the corners of his mouth.

"Good-bye, Mr. Barch; pleased to have met you," he said without,
however, coming forward and offering his hand.

"Thanks! same to you; good-bye," replied Cleek, and that same smile was
still on his face when a minute or two later, young Clavering having
taken his departure, Cleek was rejoined by Ailsa Lorne.

"What do you think about it?" she asked abruptly. "What is it that is
wrong? Oh, Mr. Cleek, do you think----"

"I'll be beyond 'thinking' before the morning. I shall know," he
interposed. "Now, show me the way to that ruin, please. I want a word or
two with Mr. Harry Raynor if he is there. Down that path, is it? Thanks
very much." And swinging down from the veranda, he moved away in the
direction indicated.

A brisk two minutes' walk brought him to the picturesque ruin with its
ivy-wrapped walls, its gaping Gothic windows, and its fern-bedded
battlements, so artfully copied that the stones actually seemed to be
crumbling and the plants to have been set there by Nature rather than by
man. Even the appearance of a dried-up moat and a ruined drawbridge was
not wanting to complete the picture and to give an air of genuine
antiquity; and he had just stepped on the latter to make his way across
to the wide arch of the entrance when he was hailed, not from within,
but from behind.

He faced round suddenly to see young Raynor moving quickly toward him.
He was walking rapidly, and appeared to be in a state of great
excitement.

"I say, Barch, hold on a moment, will you?" he sang out. Cleek gave him
time to get to the drawbridge and then the reason for his excitement
became known. "Look here, old chap, I'm afraid we shall have to give up
our little 'lark' for this evening, after all. Rotten bad luck, but I've
just got a message that will call me to--well, somewhere else; and I've
got to go at once. Don't expect I shall be able to get back this side of
midnight; but if you don't mind prolonging your stay and making it two
nights instead of one----"

"Not in the least. Delighted, old chap."

"Oh, well, then, that's all right. Have our night out to-morrow
instead--eh, what? Look here, Barch, blest if I don't like you
immensely. Let you into the secret. It'll be with 'Pink Gauze.'"

"Pink Gauze? Don't mean the little Frenchy, do you--the little beauty of
the photograph?"

"The very identical. Be a good boy, Barchie, and I'll take you to see
her to-morrow night. What do you think--eh, what?"

Cleek didn't say what he thought; it would have surprised the young man
if he had.

"Well, ta-ta until midnight or thereabouts, old chap. So long!" And with
a wave of the hand he was gone.

Cleek stood and looked after him for a moment, a curl on his lip, an
expression of utter contempt in his eyes; then he gave his head a jerk
indicative of a disgust beyond words, and, facing about, walked on into
the ruins.

The General had done the thing well, at all events. The atmosphere of
antiquity was very cleverly reproduced: walls, roof, floor--all had the
appearance of not having been disturbed by the hand of any one for ages.
Half-defaced armorial bearings, iron-studded doors, winding staircases,
even a donjon keep.

This he came to realize when the sight of a rusted iron ring in the
floor tempted him to pull up and lay back a slab of stone that appeared
centuries old, and to expose in doing so a twisting flight of stone
steps leading downward into the very depths of the earth.

Really, you know, the old chap had done it well. Cells down there, no
doubt--cells and chains and all that sort of thing. Well, he had time to
spare; he'd go down and have a look at those cells. And, leaving the
stone trap-slab open, he went down the black stairway into the blacker
depths below, flicking the light of his torch about and going from cell
to cell. One might swear that the place was centuries old. Rusty old
barred doors, rustier old chains hanging from rings in the walls.
Nothing modern, nothing that looked as if it had known use or been
disturbed for these hundreds of years; nothing that---- Hello! There was
a break in the illusion, at all events: a garden spade, with fresh earth
clinging to the blade of it, leaning against the wall. Fancy a man so
careful of preserving an atmosphere of antiquity letting one of the
gardeners leave---- No, b'gad! it hadn't been left merely by chance. It
had been brought here for use, and was probably left for _further_ use.
There was a place over in that corner that most decidedly had been
recently dug up.

He walked over to the place in question and directed the glow of the
torch so that the circle of light fell full upon it. Somebody had been
digging in the earthen floor of the cell, and had made an attempt to
hide the fact by sprinkling bits of stone and plaster scraped from the
walls over it. In the ordinary course of things, and with a light less
powerful than this of the electric torch, the thing would have passed
muster very well, and would, in all probability, have escaped
observation. Now, asked Cleek of himself, what the dickens should any
one wish to dig in this place for? And, having dug, why try to disguise
the fact? Hum-m-m!

He switched round suddenly, walked to the place where the spade stood,
in the angle of the wall opposite, took it up, and, returning, began to
dig where the digging had been done before.

This he had to do in the darkness, for the moment his thumb was removed
from the button of the torch the light went out. But, having once
located the place, this was not difficult, for the earth, having once
before been disturbed, yielded easily to the spade.

For five--possibly six--minutes he worked on, shovelling out the loose
earth and tossing it aside unseen; then, of a sudden, the spade
encountered something which, though soft and yielding, would not allow
the blade to penetrate it at all, press his foot down as hard as he
might. If Cleek knew anything at all, he knew that that betokened a
fabric of some sort, and knew, too, that he had got to the bottom of the
original excavation.

He laid aside the spade, and the electric torch spat its light into the
hole.

Clothing at the bottom of it--buried clothing!

He stooped and pulled it to the surface, letting the articles thus
unearthed drop one by one from his fingers. A cap, a pair of trousers, a
coat with a badge on it, a stick with a loop of leather by which to
carry it, a belt, and a number on that belt.

He looked at the number; it was a brass "4." He looked at the badge, and
then rose upright, clamping his jaws hard and understanding.

What he had unearthed was the clothing of the Common keeper who had been
done to death last night--the clothing which the assassin had stolen and
worn.

And he had found that clothing here, hidden in the grounds of Wuthering
Grange! Why, then, in that case, the murderer---- He stopped; and the
thought went no farther--stopped, and releasing the button of the torch,
let utter darkness swing in and surround him.

Some one had entered the ruin--some one was moving about overhead.




CHAPTER TWELVE

THE THUNDERBOLT


It was not a man's foot that made that soft noise; his trained ear
recognized that fact at once. A woman, eh? What woman would be coming
here at this time when all the ladies of the household would be in their
rooms dressing for dinner?

He crept in the darkness out of the cell in which he had been digging,
through the one next and through the next again, until he came to the
passage leading to the staircase, and then, dropping on his hands and
knees, went soundlessly up the stone steps.

Above him as he crept upward--as slow as any tortoise and with far less
noise--sounded the woman's faint footfalls pacing the paved floor with
that persistent restlessness which tells of extreme agitation. He had
but just begun to ask himself what that agitation might portend, when
something occurred which caused him to twitch up his head with a jerk
and crouch there, a thing all eyes and ears.

The woman's footsteps had ceased abruptly, brought to a sudden halt by
the ring of others--the nervous, heavy-heeled, fast-falling steps of an
excited man coming across the drawbridge and into the ruin at a pace
which was almost a run; and that man had no more than come into range
of the woman's vision when the thin, eager voice of Lady Katharine
Fordham sounded and made the situation clear.

It was a tryst--the lovers' meeting upon which Cleek had built such high
hopes and upon which he had blundered by the merest fluke.

"Geoff!" sounded that enlightening voice, with a nervous catch in it
which told of a hard-hammering heart. "Thank heaven you have come. Ailsa
thinks I am in my room dressing for dinner. Now tell me what it is all
about, there's a dear, for my head has been in a whirl ever since I read
what you wrote. Why did you want me to come here and meet you without
anybody knowing? Whatever can it be that you 'have to say to me that no
one on this earth must hear'? Do tell me. I'm frightened half to death!"

"Are you?" His footsteps clicked sharply as he moved rapidly across the
floor toward her. "You have not gone so far as I, then, for I believe I
have been frightened _past_ death, and that after this nothing on earth
or in heaven or hell can appall me! Come here, into my arms, and let me
hold you while I speak. How I love you! My God, how I love you!"

"Geoff!"

"Put your arms round me. Kiss me! I want you to know that I love you so
well I'll fight all the dogs of justice and all the devils of hell but
what I'll stand by you and save you from them. They can't kill my love
for you. Nothing on God's earth can do that. I'll come between them and
you no matter what happens, no matter what it costs me--life with all
the rest. That's what I've come to tell you! But, oh, my God, Kathie,
why didn't you let _me_ kill him?"

"Kill him, Geoff? Good heavens, what are you talking about? Kill whom?"

"De Louvisan!"

"De Louvisan? Let you kill De Louvisan-- I? Oh, my God!
Geoff--you--think--_I_--killed--killed--him?"

Geoff groaned and buried his face in his hands. "There was no one in the
house but you," he said hoarsely. "It was you who took me into the
place; it was you who showed me his dead body spiked up there against
the wall--you and you alone. My God! Kathie, what is the use of denying
what we both know?"

Cleek sucked in his breath, drew every muscle of his body taut as wire,
and then crouching back in the darkness listened intently.

Lady Katharine remained perfectly silent for a moment, as though she had
been stricken dumb by the directness of the charge: as though the
half-despairing, half-impatient protest of that final "What is the use
of denying what we both know?" had impressed her with a realization of
the utter futility of longer endeavouring to act a part.

It was either that that held her silent, Cleek told himself, or she was
utterly amazed, utterly overcome by an accusation which had no
foundation in fact and had fallen upon her like a thunderbolt. If the
latter should prove to be the case, why, then, Geoff Clavering would be
lying, and she would be wholly and entirely innocent of the crime with
which he had charged her.

Then she spoke suddenly:

"You mean this thing? You really and truly _mean_ it?"

Geoff bowed his head in silent assent.

"That I--I--did this thing?"

Still he could not answer, could not put into brutal words the
conviction that had been forced upon him.

"That I met you and took you into Gleer Cottage last night?" she went
on. "Took you in there and showed you that man's--body? I?"

"Not exactly showed it to me--that, as we both know, is an exaggeration.
You showed me into the room where it was hanging, however. Or, at least,
you waved me to the door and told me to go in there and wait a minute or
two and you'd rejoin me and show me something that would 'light the way
back to the land of happiness!' But you never did rejoin me. I waited in
that dark room for fully ten minutes but you never came back. Afterward,
when I struck a match to light a cigarette and saw that dead man spiked
to the wall-- God! I think I went mad for the moment. I know I ran out
of the house, although I do not know when nor how; for when I came to my
senses I was racing up and down the right-of-way across the fields; and
if it had not been for you I should have run on until I dropped. But all
of a sudden I remembered you, remembered that in rushing out of the
house I had left you there; and you might come back to that room and
find me gone, and think that I had deserted you. I ran back to the place
as fast as I could. I remembered that when first you met me and took me
into it you had led me in through the gates and up the drive to the
door; but when I got back there a horror of the place seized me. I
couldn't have gone in that way again had my life depended upon it. There
was a break in the boundary wall. I got back into the grounds that way,
cutting my wrist--look, see, here's the mark--on the fragments of broken
glass which still adhered to the coping. I ran through the gardens and
round to the back of the house. I burst open the rear door and raced
along the passage to the room where De Louvisan's body hung. You were
not there. I struck another match to see, noticing this time that there
was the half of a candle standing upon the mantelpiece, where it had
been secured in its own wax. I took that thing and lit it and ran
through all the house, hunting for you. There was not a trace of you
anywhere--and at last, in a panic, I rushed from the house and flew for
my very life. But there was no getting away so easily as all that.
Lights were shining, men were coming, the hue and cry had begun. I could
not go forward; I dared not go back. I remembered the old hollow tree
where we used to play in our kiddy days, you and I. I ran to that and
got inside of it--and I was there through all that followed. I was found
in time, and it might have ended badly for me but for my father's
friend, Mr. Narkom, and a French detective--a muff of a fellow named De
Lesparre. It didn't, however. I got off scot free, thanking God that no
suspicion pointed your way, and telling myself that you had not left so
much as one hair from the ermine cloak you wore that might be caught up
as a clue to bring the thing home to you!"

"The ermine cloak I wore! You say I wore an ermine cloak?"

"Yes. An ermine cloak and the same pretty white frock you had worn at
the Close earlier in the evening. It was the white of the ermine that
first attracted my attention in the darkness when I looked up and saw
you near the gates of Gleer Cottage."

"That is not the truth!" she flung back, with a sudden awakening from
the sort of stupor which, up till now, had mastered her. "I never wore
an ermine cloak in my life! I never was nearer to Gleer Cottage last
night than I am at this minute; and if you say that I met you, that I
spoke to you, that I even saw you, or that you saw me after Ailsa Lorne
led me out of the drawing-room at Clavering Close when you threatened
the Count de Louvisan's life, you are saying what is absolutely untrue."

"Kathie!"

"I repeat it, utterly and absolutely untrue."

"Good God! Do you accuse me of lying?"

"There must be some horrible mistake. Some one impersonated me for some
awful purpose. You never saw me again after I left your father's house
last night, and you know it. But, in any case, since you confess that
you were there, what took you to Gleer Cottage last night at all?"




CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A QUESTION OF VERACITY


Geoffrey Clavering's reply to Lady Katharine's staggering question was
given so promptly that one might have been tempted to believe he had
expected it and prepared himself for the question beforehand.

"I had no idea of going there at first," he said. "I couldn't remain
among the guests after you had left the Close and Narkom's men had
bundled that De Louvisan out of the house; my head seemed full of fire,
and I simply couldn't. I got away as soon as I decently could, and went
upstairs to my own room. I couldn't stop there, either; the stillness
and the loneliness half maddened me and set me to thinking and thinking
until I thought my head would burst. So, in sheer desperation, I caught
up a cap, sneaked down the back stairs, and let myself out. Nobody saw
me go, and, thank God, nobody saw me return, either. I walked about the
Common for heaven knows how long before I turned round at the sound of
some one coming toward me through the mist, and the next thing I knew I
'bumped' smack into that person, and found it to be my stepmother."

"Lady Clavering?" said the girl in a tone of the utmost surprise--and
Cleek could have blessed her for the words, since they voiced an inquiry
upon a subject which he much desired to have explained. "You mean to say
that Lady Clavering was out there on the Common, away from her guests?
What could have impelled her to take such a step--and at such a time?"

"She had come in search of me, she said. She felt anxious, distressed,
afraid, so she said, that I would do something desperate, and went to my
room to talk with me. When she found it empty she jumped to the
conclusion that I had gone out for the purpose of following De Louvisan
and meeting him somewhere for the mere satisfaction of thrashing him.
She begged and implored me to come back to the Close; to do nothing
rash; to think of my father; to remember her; to be careful to do
nothing that would get your name mixed up in a vulgar brawl. And she
wouldn't leave me until I promised her on my word of honour that I would
make no effort to find De Louvisan. When I did that, she was satisfied
and went back to the Close."

In the darkness of the stone staircase Cleek puckered up his brows and
thoughtfully pinched his chin.

Oho! so that was the explanation of her ladyship's presence on the
Common last night, was it? Mere solicitude for the welfare of a beloved
stepson, eh? Hum-m-m! Rather disappointing, to say the least of it, to
find that she had no more connection with the case than just that. After
all, she was merely "a red herring drawn across the trail," eh? He
shouldn't have thought so, but, of course, if young Clavering spoke the
truth, that eliminated _her_ from the affair altogether. Odd that she
should have bribed the Common keeper not to say a word about having met
her! In the circumstances, why should she have done so?

Ah, yes--just so! She wouldn't like to have the affair talked about; she
wouldn't like to have young Geoff put on his guard, so that he might
purposely avoid meeting her, and she would be most anxious to get him
back into the house as quietly and as expeditiously as possible. No,
decidedly, you never can be certain. Women are queer fish at the best of
times, and mothers have odd methods of reasoning when beloved sons are
concerned. But stepmothers? Hum-m-m! Yes, yes! To be sure, there are
always exceptions. Still, he hadn't thought--he decidedly had not
thought----

Young Clavering was speaking again. Cleek let the "thought" trail off
and lose itself, and pricked up his ears to listen.

"I suppose it was her speaking of you that first put the idea into my
head," Geoff went on, "and impelled me to walk over to the place where
we had been so happy before your father returned from Argentina and
spoiled everything for us. That's why I went. That's how I came to meet
you there."

"You did not meet me there!" she flung back indignantly. "Really this is
past a jest."

"A jest? You think I'm likely to jest over it--a thing that threatens
the life of the girl I love? In the name of heaven, Kathie, put an end
to this nonsense. You know I did meet you there! You know how surprised
I was when I got to the place to see you stealing out of the gates. Why,
the very moment you saw me you spoke my name, and that I had no more
than just time to say to you, 'For God's sake, Kathie, how did you come
here?' when you plucked me by the sleeve and said, 'Come in, come in;
I'll show you something that will light the way back to the land of
happiness, dear!' And after all that to face me down like this--to
pretend that you were not there. It is simply ridiculous."

"I am glad you can give it so mild a name," said the girl coldly. "To me
it seems the cruellest and the wickedest falsehood a man could possibly
utter. Dear God! what has come over you, Geoff? Are you mad, or are you
something worse, to come here and make this abominable lying charge
against me--against _me_? And when you know in your heart that there is
not one word of truth in it!"

"Oh, for God's sake, don't treat me as if I were a fool, Katharine. Who
is there to impersonate you, and for what reason? I know what I know, I
know what I've seen, what I've heard, what I've been through! Then what
in heaven's name is the use of keeping up this idle pretence with me?"

"It is not a pretence--it is the truth, the simple and the absolute
truth!" she replied with heat. "If they were the last words I had to
say in this world, I would repeat on the very threshold of the one to
come: _I was not at Gleer Cottage last night._ I came straight from
Clavering Close to Wuthering Grange, and I never left my room for one
instant from that time until I came down to breakfast this morning.
Ailsa Lorne was with me when I returned; she will tell you that I am
speaking the truth."

Yes, decidedly Ailsa Lorne would tell him; that Cleek acknowledged to
himself. Had she not done so already? But again she might also have told
him that she thought she heard Lady Katharine's bedroom door open in the
night and some one steal out of it. Besides, there was another
thing--the golden capsule of the scent bracelet--to be reckoned with.
Hum-m-m! Was there, then, a possibility that Geoff Clavering was
speaking the truth, and that it was Lady Katharine herself who was
lying? Of course, in that case---- Stop a bit--they were going at it
again, and he could not afford to lose a single word.

"I don't care a hang what Ailsa Lorne or anybody else will say; I know
what I know," young Clavering flung in doggedly. "You can't tell me that
I didn't see a thing when I did see it--at least, you can't and expect
to make me believe it. Give me credit for a little common sense."

"How can I when your own words so utterly refute it, when you convict
yourself out of your own mouth, when even the dead man himself is a
witness to the utter folly of this charge?"

"De Louvisan?"

"Yes. He speaks for me!"

"What nonsense!"

"He speaks for me," she repeated, not noticing the interruption, "and if
you will not believe a living witness, then you must believe a dead one.
Uncle Raynor and Harry said this morning that the Count de Louvisan's
body had been found, not lying on the ground, but lifted up and spiked
to the wall; and you who claim to have seen me in that house last night
claim also to have searched the place and found no one but me present.
Will you tell me, then, how I could possibly have lifted the body of a
man weighing ten or eleven stone at the least computation, much less
have lifted it high enough to spike it to a wall?"

"One for the girl!" commented Cleek silently.

"You might have had help; there might have been somebody there who left
before I arrived," replied Geoff.

"And another one for the man!" Cleek was obliged to admit. "Which of
this interesting pair is doing the lying? They can't both be speaking
the truth. At least, they can't unless---- By Jupiter! Hum-m-m! Quite
so! Quite so! 'Write me down an ass, gentlemen,' and an ass with a
capital A." Then the curious one-sided smile travelled up his cheek, and
lingered there longer than usual.

Young Clavering's last remark had hurt the girl more than anything he
had yet said; hurt her so deeply that she gave a little shuddering cry
and, womanlike, broke into tears.

"That is the wickedest thing of all!" she said. "The very wickedest
thing of all. I can't doubt any longer that you have made up your mind
to bolster up this abominable thing by every possible insult to me!"

"Insult? What funny things are sometimes said by accident!" he flung
back stridently. "I am likely to 'insult' you when I'm ready to stand by
you through thick and thin, am I not? And to lie till I'm black in the
face, so that I keep others from knowing what I know!"

"You don't know it--you can't know it! It never happened! I was not in
that house last night, and you did not see me there!"

"Oh, well then, let us say I didn't," impatiently. "What does it matter
one way or the other? Say I didn't, then! Say _I_ murdered him; but, for
God's sake, don't say I insult you when I have come here merely to show
you how much I love you--how ready I am to fight the whole world for
you. Come back into my arms, and let me tell you what I want to tell,
dear. Come back, and don't fear anything or anybody on earth. They
shan't touch you! They shan't lift a finger to harm you, say one single
word against you; and God help the first that tries it, that's all! A
man doesn't cease to love a woman just because she does a desperate
thing for his sake. No, not he! If he's worthy of the name of man, he
loves her all the better for it. That's how I love you! Better to-day
than I ever loved you in all the days that were; better than I shall
ever love anything in all the days that are to be. I don't care if you
are red with the blood of a hundred men, you're the girl I love, the
girl I mean to marry, the girl I'm going to stand up and fight for as
long as there's breath left in my body!"

"Marry--marry?" Her voice struck through his even before he had finished
speaking, and there was a sting in it that bit. "Do you think for one
instant that I would marry you when you make such a charge as that
against me? Do you think I would? Do you? I'd no more marry you than I
would cut off my right hand, Geoff Clavering, after you have slandered
me and lied about me like this."

"Kathie, dearest----"

"No--please! If you touch me I think I shall faint! Stay where you are!
Let me alone! Ah, please do--please! I have suffered and suffered and
suffered, but not like this; oh, never like this before! That you should
say these things--you! That you should even dream of saying them! You
ought to be ashamed of yourself--ashamed!"

"Kathie, darling----"

"No, no--don't, please don't; it would be wicked to touch me when I am
suffering so much. I want to get back to my room-- I want to lie down;
my head will split if I don't. Please do not follow me; please stay
where you are. I won't say a word to anybody; I promise you I won't.
I'll try to bear it, I'll try to forget it. Nine years! Dear God, nine
years; and--those marks totalled nine!"

He jumped as though some one had stabbed him; a red wave rushed up and
crimsoned all his face, then flashed out of existence again and left it
waxen white.

"Good God! you won't attempt to suggest----" he began, then lost the
power of speaking altogether, and stood looking at her with blank eyes
and with colourless lips hard shut as she crept on through the shadowy
dusk to where the doorway of the ruin showed a pointed arch against the
dimming saffron of a twilight sky. A moment her drooping figure stood
there against that shield of yellow light, pausing irresolute with one
foot on the edge of the drawbridge, one hand pressed to her head; then
she turned and looked back at the place where he stood. But in the dim
dusk of the ruin she could scarcely see him.

"I will never speak, I will never tell--even to the day I die I won't!"
she said in a whisper; then waited an instant as if expecting a reply,
and getting none, added yet more sadly, "Good-bye," and went across the
drawbridge to the darkening gardens, and was gone.

For a minute the man made neither movement nor sound till of a sudden
there came something so totally unexpected as to cause him to literally
jump. Some one had given a none too perfect representation of a muffled
sneeze, telling him that he was not alone.

"Who's there? Who are you?" he cried in an excited whisper

But nobody answered.

"Do you hear what I say? Come out and show yourself, whoever you are!"
he called in a slightly louder tone; and then, getting no answer this
time either, he fumbled in his pocket, fished out his match box, and
struck a vesta.

The glimmering light showed him what the dusk had so successfully
concealed heretofore--namely, the gap in the floor and the underside of
the slab which usually covered the entrance to the underground cells,
but which was now laid back on its hinges with its lower side upmost and
the way to the stone staircase in full view. And in the very instant he
made this discovery there rolled up from that gap the sound of somebody
running away.

In a sort of panic young Clavering made a dash for the trap, and was
through it and down the stone steps in almost no time, the wax vesta
flickering and flaring in the fingers of his upraised hand and sending
gushes of light weaving in and out among the arches of the passage and
the gaping doorways of the mimic cells.

Nobody in sight. He called, but nobody answered; he commanded, but
nobody came forth. And with the intention of routing the author of the
sneeze and the footsteps, he had just started forward to investigate the
cells themselves, when the match burnt his fingers and was flung down
sharply. Darkness shut in as though a curtain had fallen. He fumbled
with the box to get another match, and had almost secured one when he
heard a movement behind him and flashed round on his heel.

"Anybody there?" he rapped out sharply.

"Yes; Cleek, of Scotland Yard!" answered a bland voice immediately in
front of him; then there was a sharp spring, a swift rustle, a metallic
click-click! His match box was on the floor, and a band of steel was
locked about each wrist.

"Good Lord! you've put handcuffs on me, you infernal scoundrel!"
Clavering cried out indignantly. "What is the meaning of this outrage?
What are----Here! chuck that! Confound your cheek! what are you doing to
my ankles?"

"Same thing as I've done to your wrists," replied Cleek serenely.
"Sorry, but I shall have to carry you, my young friend; and I can't risk
getting my shins kicked to a pulp."

"Carry me? Carry me where? Good God, man! not to jail?"

"Oh, no. That may come later, and certainly will come if you are guilty.
For the present, however, I am simply going to carry you to a rather
uncomfortable cell at the end of the passage, and put you where you
won't be able to run away. I am afraid, however, that I shall have to
gag you as well as handcuff you, and make you more uncomfortable still.
But I'll manage somehow to get some bedding of some sort, and to see
that you don't miss your dinner. You are going to spend the night here,
my friend. Now, then, up you come and--there you are, on my shoulder.
Steady, if you please, while I get out my pocket torch to light the way.
I suppose you realize that I have heard all that passed between you and
Lady Katharine Fordham this evening?"

"And you know that I lied, don't you?" put in Geoff eagerly. "You know
that she _wasn't_ there last night, after all?"

"To the contrary, my friend, I know that she was."

"It's a lie--it's a dashed lie! She never was near the place. That was
pure bluff. It was I who killed the man."

"Don't tell any more lies than you are obliged to, my lad. I don't
believe she killed him, and I'm not so very sure that you killed
him--and there you are."

"Then what are you arresting me for?"

"I'm not arresting you; I'm simply sifting evidence. Your
stepmother--according to _your_ story--must be very, very fond of you,
and very, very solicitous for your welfare. And if she risked catching
cold and having people talk and all that sort of thing to rush out after
you when you had only been gone for a short time, let's see how she'll
act when you disappear mysteriously and don't come home all night!"




CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A CHANGE IN THE PROGRAM


"I suppose you understand that this is a pretty high-handed sort of
proceeding?" began young Clavering agitatedly, half indignantly. "Even
the processes of the law have their limits; and to abduct a man and
imprison him before there is the ghost of a charge against him----"

There he stopped; his ear caught by a faint metallic click, his eye by a
little gleam of light that spat out through the darkness and made a
luminous circle upon the earthen floor of the passage. Cleek had
switched on his electric torch the better to see his way in carrying his
captive to the cell of which he had spoken and was now moving with him
toward it. His interest attracted in yet another direction, Geoffrey
twitched round his head and made an effort to see the face of his
captor. Pretty nearly everybody in England had, at one time or another,
heard of the man, and a not unnatural curiosity to see what he was like
seized upon young Clavering.

His effort to satisfy that curiosity was, however, without fruit, for
the downward-directed torch cast only that one spot of light upon the
floor and left everything else in the depths of utter darkness. But
that Cleek was aware of this desire upon the part of the young man and
of his effort to satisfy it, was very soon made manifest.

"In a minute, my friend--have a little patience," he said serenely. "If
you wanted to take me unawares you should have remembered that we must
soon come to the cell and I shall have to set you down, and you could
then see all that you wanted to without putting me on my guard. What's
that? Oh, yes, I am frequently off it--even Argus occasionally shut all
his hundred eyes and went to sleep, remember."

By this time he had travelled the entire length of the passage, and now
stood upon the threshold of the cell toward which he was aiming. He was
no longer careful to keep the light from illuminating the surroundings,
however. Indeed, he had merely done that in the first place to prevent
Geoff from seeing, as they passed, the excavation he had made and the
clothing he had dug up. He now flashed the light round and round the
place as if taking stock of everything. He was not, by the way; what he
sought was what he had seen in each of the other cells and hoped to find
here as well--the iron ring in the wall and the short length of rusty
chain attached to it.

The air of antiquity had been perfectly reproduced, and this cell was as
carefully equipped as its mates. He walked toward the ring the instant
he saw it, switched off the light of the torch, swung Geoff down from
his shoulder, unfastened his ankles and one end of the shackles that
held his wrists.

"What are you going to do with me now?" demanded young Clavering with
sudden hopefulness. "I say--look here--is this thing a joke after all,
and are you going to give me my liberty?"

The only response was a sharp click; then Cleek's hands fell away from
his captive entirely, and under the impression that he was free, young
Clavering made an effort to spring up from the ground where he had been
laid.

A sharp backward jerk and a twinge of the right wrist brought him to a
realization that while one end of the handcuffs still encircled that
wrist, the other had been snapped into the ring in the wall, and it was,
therefore, impossible for him to move ten inches from the spot where he
had been left.

In the utter darkness he had no means of telling if Cleek had or had not
left the cell; and in a sort of panic, called out to him.

"I say, officer! Have you left me?" he asked; then hearing a sound quite
close to him, a sound so clearly that of some one moving and breathing
that his question was answered without words, he added nervously: "What
are you up to now? What are you doing that you have to work about it in
the dark?"

"Merely twisting up a handkerchief into a form of gag," replied Cleek,
in a tone which clearly indicated that he was speaking with one end of
that handkerchief held between his teeth. "It is not a nice thought, the
idea of gagging a gentleman as if he were a murderous navvy or a savage
dog that needs muzzling. I should much prefer, Mr. Clavering, accepting
your parole--putting you on your word of honour not to cry out or to
make any effort to attract the attention of anybody who may enter this
ruin to-night; and if you will give me that----"

"I'll give you anything rather than undergo any further indignity,"
snapped Geoff. "Look here, you know, Mr. Thingamy, this is a beastly
caddish trick altogether, jumping on a man in the dark and giving him no
chance to defend himself."

"Unfortunately, the law cannot allow itself to study the niceties of
etiquette, my dear sir," replied Cleek. "It has to go on the principle
that the end justifies the means, and it must always be prepared to
accept risks. I, as one of its representatives, am, as I have told you,
quite ready to accept one now; so if you will give me your word of
honour not to make any outcry, the gag can be dispensed with."

"Very well, then; I do give it."

"Good! And I accept it; so that's the end of that, as the fellow said
when he walked off the pier," said Cleek as he ceased twisting up the
handkerchief and returned it to his pocket. "But why not go farther and
spare us both an unnecessary amount of trouble and discomfort, Mr.
Clavering?"

"I don't know what you mean. Put it a little clearer, please. I'm not
good at guessing things."

"No, you are not; otherwise you might have guessed that when Lady
Katharine Fordham denied so emphatically what you knew to be true----
But no matter; we'll talk of that some other time."

"No, we won't!" flashed in Geoff hotly. "We'll leave Lady Katharine
Fordham's name out of this business altogether. Understand that? I don't
care whether you're a police officer or not, by George! Any man that
tries to drag her into this affair will have to thrash me, or I'll
thrash him, that's all. You can believe what you jolly well please about
what you overheard. You've got no witness to prove that you did hear it;
and as for me--I'll lie like a pickpocket and deny every word if you try
to make capital out of it against her."

Cleek laughed, laughed audibly. But there was a note of gratification,
even of admiration, underlying it; and he found himself liking this
loyal, lovable, hot-tempered boy better and better with every passing
moment. But the laughter nettled Geoff, and he was off like a firework
in a winking.

"Look here! I'll tell you what!" he flung out hotly. "If you'll set me
free from this confounded chain and come outside with me and will take a
sporting chance--if you thrash me I'll take my medicine and do whatever
you tell me; but if I thrash you, you're to let me go about my business,
and to say nothing to anybody about what you happened to hear. Now,
then, speak up. Which are you--a man or a mouse?"

"I know which you are, at all events," replied Cleek, with still another
laugh. "You have some most original ideas of the workings of the law,
it must be admitted, if you think Scotland Yard affairs can be settled
in that way."

"You won't come out and stand up to me like a man, then?"

"No, I won't; because if I did I should catch myself wanting to clap you
on the back and shake hands with you, and wishing to heaven that I were
your father. But--wait--stop! You needn't go off like a blessed
skyrocket, my lad. There's still a way to do very much what you have
proposed, and that I was about to mention when you tore at me about Lady
Katharine. I said, if you remember, that you might go farther than
simply give me your word of honour with regard to the gagging part of
the matter, and might save us both a lot of trouble and discomfort."

"Yes, I know you did. Well, what of it? What trouble and discomfort can
be saved?"

"A great deal if you are wise as well as loyal, my boy. It couldn't be a
very pleasant experience for you to pass the night in a place like this.
Nevertheless, it is absolutely imperative that you should not return to
your home to-night, and that your stepmother should have no hint of
where you had gone or what had become of you."

"Why?"

"That's my affair, and you will have to pardon me if I keep it to
myself. Now, then, why not make matters easier and pleasanter for you
and for me by giving me your word of honour that if I let you go free
from this place, and promise not to say one word of what I overheard
pass between you and Lady Katharine Fordham, you will secretly journey
up to London, stop there the night, and neither by word, nor deed will
let a hint of your whereabouts or of what has passed between us this
evening get to the ears or the eyes of any one at Clavering Close? Come
now; that's a fair proposition, is it not?"

"I don't know; I can't think what's at the bottom of it. Good
Lord!"--with a sudden flash of suspicion "you don't mean that you
suspect that Lady Clavering, my stepmother--and just because I said she
was out on the Common last night? If that's your game---- Look here,
she's as pure as ice and as good as gold, my stepmother, and my dear old
dad loves her as she deserves to be loved. If you've hatched up some
crazy idea of connecting her with this affair simply because De Louvisan
was an Austrian and she's an Austrian, too----"

"Oho!" interjected Cleek. "So Lady Clavering is an Austrian, eh? I see!
I see!"

"No, you don't. And don't you hint one word against her! So if it's part
of your crawling spy business to get me to give my parole so that you
may sneak over to Clavering Close and play another of your sneaking
abduction tricks on her, just as you have played it on me----"

"Ease your mind upon that subject. I have no intention of going near
Clavering Close, nor yet of sending anybody there. Another thing: I
have not, thus far, unearthed even the ghost of a thing that could be
said to connect Lady Clavering with the crime. Do you want me to tell
you the truth? It is you against whom all suspicions point the
strongest; and I want you to go away to-night simply that I may know if
you have spoken the truth, or are an accomplished actor and a finished
liar!"

"What's that? Good Lord! how can my disappearing for a night prove or
disprove that?"

"Shall I tell you? Then listen. I meant at first to keep it to myself,
but----" His voice dropped off; there was a second of silence, then a
faint clicking sound, and a blob of light struck up full upon his face.
"Look here," he said suddenly, "do you know this man?"

Clavering looked up and saw in the circle of light a face he had never
seen in life before--a hard, cynical face with narrowed eyes and a
thin-lipped, cruel mouth.

"No," he said, "if that is what you look like. I never saw such a man
before."

"Nor this one?"

In the circle of light the features of the drawn face writhed curiously,
blent, softened, altered--made of themselves yet another mask. And young
Clavering, pulling himself together with a start, found himself looking
again into the living countenance of Monsieur Georges de Lesparre.

"Good heavens above!" he said with a catch in his voice. "Then you were
that man--you? And Mr. Narkom knew all the time?"

"_Oui, m'sieur_--to both questions--_oui_. It shall again be I, _mon
ami_; and I shall remember me last night vair well. And now since
_m'sieur_ shall haf so good a recollection of zis party--_voila_! He may
tell me what he remembers of this one also."

Then in a flash the face was gone, and another--changed utterly and
completely--was there.

"Barch!" exclaimed young Clavering, shrinking back from the man as
though he were uncanny. "And you are that man--Philip Barch, Ailsa
Lorne's friend? You are that man, too?"

"Yes, I am that man, too," replied Cleek. "I have made these silent
confessions that you may know--that you may understand before I make
another and equally candid one. If I had chosen not to let you know the
real identity of Philip Barch, you have seen how easily I could have
kept that secret. Now that you know me you will understand how honestly
and straightforwardly I intend to deal with you. You asked me why I
wanted you to disappear for a night, and I have told you that I may
prove to my own satisfaction whether you are what I hope you are, or are
merely a clever actor and an accomplished liar. If what you said about
your stepmother's reason for following you out upon the Common last
night is as true as you would have had Lady Katharine Fordham believe,
her interest in you must be an abnormal one; and if it is as great as
you represent--ah, well, the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Not
all the powers on this earth will be able to keep her indoors should you
be mysteriously missing. But if it is not so great, if you have lied
about that as about other things, Lady Clavering will not come out in
quest of you herself, but will leave that to her husband and her
servants; and I shall know then that you have simply been playing a
part--that you have something to hide and some desperate reason for
hiding it. Now, then, knowing what threatens, knowing what I am up to,
knowing what trap has been set for you, will you give me your parole and
go up to London to-night and face the issue of that act like a man?"




CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A CLEW FROM THE AIR


Cleek did not have to wait for his answer.

"Yes, certainly I will," said Geoff instantly. "If there's nothing more
than that behind it, I'll give you my word of honour and go this moment
if you want me to do so."

"And you will say nothing, absolutely nothing, to any living soul about
this--about me--about anything that has happened here?"

Young Clavering gave his promise promptly; and, with equal promptness,
Cleek walked forward, unlocked the handcuff, and set him free, leading
him back along the passage to the stone steps, and being careful as they
passed through the cell where the murdered Common keeper's clothing lay
that no ray from the torch should disclose his ghastly find. At the foot
of the stone staircase he came to a halt.

"Now go," he said, "and remember that I trust you. Come back when you
like to-morrow and make what explanation you please regarding your
absence. I've trusted you with one or two secrets, and I will trust you
with another: there's good proof, my lad, that what you said about Lady
Katharine Fordham being at Gleer Cottage last night is the truth in
spite of her denial. She dropped the scent capsule from her bracelet
there, and I found it a few minutes before my boy Dollops found you
hiding in the hollow tree. No, no, no! Don't get excited. There's
nothing in that discovery to prove the lady guilty of any part in this
abominable crime. Last night I was inclined to think that that little
golden globe pointed toward her having been at least a confederate;
to-day I have changed my mind, and since I overheard that conversation
between you two, I have come to the conclusion that it proves her
absolutely innocent of any complicity whatsoever."

"But how, Mr. Barch?-- I mean Cleek. You know that she was there; you
know that I, too, was there. It's no use denying that since you're
'Monsieur de Lesparre' as well as what you are. You heard her deny her
presence. You heard her say that she did not show me into the room where
De Louvisan's body was. But she did; as God hears me, she did, though
I'll never believe her guilty"--this in a last wild effort to divert
suspicion from her--"whatever I might have said, whatever you may have
discovered against her."

"I have just said there is nothing against her," said Cleek, with one of
his curious smiles. "I have come to the conclusion that she is not a
criminal, but a martyr. I don't believe she has any more idea of who
murdered De Louvisan, or why, than has a child in its cradle. I know you
say that she showed you into the room where the dead man's body was;
but I don't believe, my friend, that she was there. I don't believe she
ever saw him again after she left Clavering Close, and I do not believe
that she had the slightest idea that the man--either living or dead--was
in Gleer Cottage when she led you into it."

"Then why did she lead me into it? Why did she run away and leave me
there with his dead body? Where did she go? What did she mean by saying
what she did about showing me something that would light the way back to
the land of happiness?"

"I hope to be able to tell you all that to-morrow, my friend," replied
Cleek. "Indeed, I may be able to tell it this very night; for if there
is anything in the Loisette theory of recurring events acting upon a
weary brain and producing similar results when----No matter, we shall
know all about that later. In spite of the fact that that scent capsule
was dropped in the room where the murder was committed, and dropped
before you were shown in there, as proved by the fact that you crushed
it beneath your feet and carried the odour of it from the house with
you, I do not believe that Lady Katharine knew one word of De Louvisan's
death until the news of it was carried to her this morning. There!
That's the last 'secret' I am going to let you into for the present.
Now, then, off with you; and not a word to anybody before to-morrow. But
one last thing"--this as Geoffrey began to run up the steps toward the
open trapdoor--"if you should happen by any chance to catch a glimpse of
Mr. Harry Raynor while you are in town to-night, keep an eye on
him--see whom he meets, see where he goes, and mind that he does not see
you."

"Harry Raynor? I say"--eagerly--"do you think it possible that that
bounder----"

"No, I don't! A worm and a snake are two entirely different things. That
young gentleman never killed anything but time and the respect of decent
men in all the days of his worthless life. He hasn't the necessary grit.
But watch him if you run foul of him. He may know something that is
worth while finding out; and, besides that, somebody or something called
him away very suddenly this afternoon before I could get a chance to
sound him on a most important subject. He knows a person who is very
likely to be somewhere at the bottom of this case, that's all. Good-bye.
And--oh, stop a bit! Just one more word: Happen to know anybody besides
Mr. Harry Raynor who is addicted to the use of black cosmetic for the
moustache?"

"Yes," said Geoffrey, pausing halfway up the staircase, and caught by
the artfulness of this apparently artless question. "Know two other men.
Why?"

"Oh, nothing in particular; only that I'd like to borrow some. Who are
the two men in question?"

"Lord St. Ulmer, for one."

"Lord St.---- Hum-m-m! Just so! Just so! And the other; who's he?"

"Why, my dad. Used it for years, bless his bully old heart!"

"Your---- Good-bye!" said Cleek with a curious "snap" in his voice;
then he faced round suddenly and walked back down the underground
passage and left Geoff to go his way.

But if he said nothing his thoughts were busy; and this new move in the
game, this new fish in the net, troubled him a great deal. He could not
but remember that Sir Philip Clavering was this young man's adoring
father; that he was also Lady Clavering's husband, who, as he had just
heard from her stepson, was an Austrian; that the pseudo Count de
Louvisan was also an Austrian, and after his unexpected appearance at
Clavering Close last night Lady Clavering had had a sudden attack of
illness, had left her guests at supper and retired to her own room, and
afterward had gone out on the Common and had bribed the keeper not to
mention having seen her.

Why did she go out? Of course that was all nonsense about her being
anxious over Geoff; but, still--why? To meet some one? You never could
be quite sure, quite safe, in dealing with those Continental women.
After all, morality is merely a question of geography. Suppose--simply
by way of argument, you know, nothing more--suppose the lady had had a
love affair years before Sir Philip Clavering had met and married her?
Suppose when De Louvisan turned up she had recognized in him, and he had
recognized in her---- Quite so! Quite so! De Louvisan, an adventurer
pure and simple, would be likely to make capital out of a hold obtained
over the wife of an English millionaire. It would be imperative for her
to see him at once and buy his silence if she could. Of course! Of
course! Gleer Cottage was within easy reaching distance; Gleer Cottage
was known to be absolutely deserted; and if one wanted to have a secret
interview---- And to carry the hypothesis further, suppose Sir Philip
Clavering, anxious over his wife's condition, should run up to her room
to inquire about her, and, finding her gone, should trace her movements,
go out after her, follow until he came to Gleer Cottage; and as soon as
she and De Louvisan had parted---- Well, there you are! Then, too, Sir
Philip Clavering was addicted to the use of black cosmetic! And the
marks on the dead man's shirt front were---- Heigho! You never know! You
never know! But for the boy's sake and for the sake of Narkom's fondness
for both----

His thoughts dropped off. He had come again to the cell where the
murdered keeper's clothes lay, just where he had flung them down when
the coming of Geoff and Lady Katharine had attracted his attention and
turned his interest in another direction. Now he had time to turn to
them again.

If, by any chance, it really had been Sir Philip Clavering, how came
these clothes buried in the grounds of Wuthering Grange? Of course the
General's "ruin" was famous all over the district; and, naturally, if a
man of Sir Philip Clavering's keen wits were the assassin, he would take
means to get the things hidden away as expeditiously as possible, and as
far away from his own place as circumstances would permit. He wouldn't
know, of course, that circumstances would arise that would point to an
occupant of Wuthering Grange--Lady Katharine--being implicated and any
search of the place result, and he would be quite free from wishing to
lead the trail in that direction. Of course, when he learned that he had
done so--as learn everybody must in a day or two--he would do his best
to get rid of the things, and when that happened---- Ah, well! poor
devil, it would be the end of one rope and the beginning of another.

It was an old, old trick of the assassin's, this burying things and then
harking back to the spot either to remove them or to see if they were
safe; and this assassin, whosoever he might prove to be, would be sure
to follow the universal precedent. When he did----! Cleek bundled the
clothing back into the hole, took up the spade, shovelled back the
earth, and made the spot look as nearly as possible as it had been when
he stumbled upon it.

"A little bit of spy work for Dollops," was his unspoken thought. "He
can spend a few days down here very profitably, and be ready to give the
signal when the man comes."

He put the spade back in the place where he had found it, and, facing
about, went up the stone steps, and after replacing the movable slab,
made his way out of the ruin; for it was now time to be about the task
of dressing for dinner and what promised to be an eventful evening.

Should he take Miss Lorne into his confidence or not? Yes, he fancied
that he would. For one thing, she knew Lady Clavering and he did not,
and as it would be necessary for him to get out after dark and prowl
about the Common to learn if her ladyship did or did not join in the
search for the missing Geoff----Hullo! What the dickens was that?

A very simple thing, indeed, when he came to investigate it. By this
time he had come abreast of the house itself, and was moving along under
the shadow of the deepening twilight when the circumstances which sent
his thoughts off from the plans he was mapping out occurred. It was
nothing more nor less than the fluttering down through the still air of
a soft flaky substance, which struck him in the face and then dropped
softly upon his sleeve--a small charred scrap of burnt paper. He looked
up, and saw that it had fallen from other charred scraps that clung to
the prickly branches of a huge monkey-puzzle tree close to the angle
where a recently added wing joined the main structure of the house.

A window was above that tree, and a chimney was above that window.
Hum-m-m! Second window from the angle--Lord St. Ulmer's room. What was
Lord St. Ulmer burning papers for? What sort of papers had he that it
was necessary for him--a supposed invalid--to get out of bed and
destroy? And why in the world should he choose this particular day to do
it? And a lot of paper, too, by George! judging from the quantity of
charred scraps clinging to that monkey-puzzle. What an ass the man was
to burn things when there was no wind to carry off the ashes and
when---- He looked down and saw one or two half-burned discs of paper,
which had escaped entire destruction, lying upon the gravel of the path.

[Illustration]

He stooped and picked one up. It was a circular white label, printed on
one side and gummed on the other, just the sort of label which chemists
and proprietors of patent ointments use to affix to the lids of the
round tin boxes containing their wares. The thing was partly burnt away
until, from being originally a complete circle, it was now merely a
"half moon" of white paper with charred fragments clinging to the
fire-bitten gap in it.

He turned the thing over and looked at its printed side. Part of that
printing had been destroyed, but there was still enough of it to show
for what the label had been prepared.

Evidently Lord St. Ulmer had been engaged in burning labels, unused
labels, that had been prepared for boxes containing a patent blacking
for boots, shoes, and leather goods generally.




CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A BOLD STROKE


Cleek stood a moment holding the burnt label between his thumb and
forefinger and regarding it silently, his face a blank as far as any
expression of his feelings was concerned. Then, of a sudden, his gaze
transferred itself to one of the two other labels which, like this one,
had escaped entire destruction by the fire; and carefully picking them
up, he laid them inside his pocket notebook, gave a casual, offhand
sort of glance at the windows of Lord St. Ulmer's room, and then quietly
resumed his sauntering walk in the direction of the house.

[Illustration]

The twilight was now so rapidly fading that it might be said to be all
but dark when he reached the main entrance to the building and found one
of the footmen busily engaged in lighting up the huge electric
chandelier which served to illuminate the broad hallway of the Grange.
But neither the General nor any of the ladies was visible, all, as he
correctly surmised, being engaged in the matter of dressing for dinner.

"Pardon me, sir," said the footman, turning at the sound of his step as
he came in, "I was just about to step out into the grounds to ascertain
if you might not, by chance, have lost yourself or failed to hear the
dressing gong, sir. It is quite half an hour since Miss Lorne requested
me to be on the lookout for you, and I was getting anxious."

"Extremely kind of you, I must say," said Cleek serenely. "But never
give yourself any uneasiness upon my account so long as I remain here. I
am given to taking my time on all occasions, my man. I think out all the
plots of my novels prowling about in silence and alone, and an
interruption is apt to destroy a train of thought forever." And having
thus given the man an idea that he was an author--and accounted
beforehand for any possible need for prowling about the place when the
others were asleep--he went further, and gave him half a crown to salve
his injured feelings, and won in return for it something which he would
have held cheaply bought at a sovereign.

"Now tell me," he went on, "why did Miss Lorne ask you to be 'on the
lookout' for me? Has anything extraordinary occurred?"

"Oh, no indeed, sir," replied the footman with a full half-crown's worth
of urbanity; the generosity of the gentleman had touched him on his
weakest part. "You see, sir, it being the butler's evening off, and Mr.
Harry having been called away before any arrangements were made with
regard to your sleeping quarters, sir, Miss Lorne requested me to say
that she had spoken to mistress, and you were to have any vacant suite
in the house which might best meet your pleasure, sir. I was to wait
here and conduct you through all the unoccupied ones in the house."

Cleek smiled. Oho! That was it, eh? Well, there was a thoughtful ally
and no mistake! Knowing full well that it would be awkward for him to be
put off into some inconvenient wing of the house, should he have cause
to leave it secretly and to communicate with Dollops and Narkom at any
time, she had taken this step to serve and to assist him. What a woman!
What a gem of a woman she was!

His thoughts worked rapidly, and his mind was made up in a twinkling.

"Quite so, quite so! Very kind and very thoughtful," he said composedly.
"I always prefer the second story of a building--it's a fad of mine,
and Miss Lorne recollects it. So if there are any rooms vacant upon the
second floor----"

"Only one, sir, and it's the least comfortable one in the house, I'm
afraid, being next to that occupied by Lord St. Ulmer."

"Lord St.--oh, ah--yes! That's the gentleman who is ill, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. That's why I spoke of it as being uncomfortable. Butler says
he's a very crochety gentleman. But sick folk are always that, sir; so
maybe you'd be disturbed a deal in the night."

"Hum-m-m! Yes, that is a drawback, certainly. Might take it into his
head to get up and wander about during the night, and so keep one awake.
Does he?"

"I couldn't say, sir; never set eyes on him since he arrived. Nobody in
the house has except master and butler. Don't think he would be likely
to move about much, though, sir, for I've heard his ankle's sprained and
he can't put a foot to the ground. Butler always carries up his meals;
at least, he has done it so far, his lordship having arrived only the
night before last. Like as not I'll have to carry up his dinner
to-night, this being, as I've said, sir, butler's evening off."

Cleek made a mental tally. Then if none of the servants at the Grange
had seen his lordship, with the single exception of Johnston, the
butler---- Quite so, quite so! His lordship wouldn't know what the other
servants were like, so, of course---- He glanced at the footman out of
the tail of his eye. Livery, dark bottle-green--almost black; would pass
for black in anything but a brilliant light. Waistcoat, narrow black and
yellow stripes. No cords, no silver buttons. Hum-m-m! With a
black-and-yellow striped waistcoat and in a none too brilliantly lighted
room--and a sickroom was not likely to be anything else unless the man
was too much of an ass to keep up the illusion by attending to
details--an ordinary suit of evening clothes would do the trick. And he
wouldn't have a doctor and wouldn't see any outsiders, this Lord St.
Ulmer, eh? Oh, well--you never know your luck, my lord; you never do!

Mental processes are more rapid in the action than in the recording. Not
ten seconds had passed from the time the footman ceased speaking when
Cleek answered him.

"Oh, well, if it's a case like that, and his lordship isn't likely to
disturb me by wandering round his room in the night, I dare say I can
risk the rest, as I'm a very sound sleeper. The room's on the second
floor; that's the main thing," he said offhandedly. "So you may show me
to it at once."

"Very good, sir; this way if you please, sir," the footman replied, and
forthwith led him to the room in question.

It was one immediately adjoining that occupied by Lord St. Ulmer, but
unfortunately, having no connection with it, the wall which divided the
two was quite solid. Had there been a door---- But there was not. Cleek
saw at a glance that matters were not to be simplified in that way;
whoever might wish to see into that room must first _get_ into it: there
was no other way.

"All right, this will do; you may go," he said as soon as he was shown
to the place he had chosen; and taking him at his word, the footman
gently closed the door and disappeared. Cleek gave him but a minute or
two to get below stairs, then slipped out on tiptoe and followed,
getting out of the house unseen and running at all speed in the
direction of the stables.

At the angle of the wall he stopped suddenly, and began to whistle
"Kathleen Mavourneen." He hadn't rounded off the third bar before the
wall door clicked and swung open, and Dollops was beside him.

"Kit bag--quick!" whispered Cleek. "Need an evening suit, and the chap
who was going to lend me one went off and forgot all about it. Move
sharp, I'm in a hurry."

"Right ho!" said Dollops, and vanished like a blown-out light. In half a
minute's time he was back again, and the kit bag with him.

"Here you are, gov'ner. Shall I get out the evenin' clothes, and put the
bag back under the hedge, or will you take it with you?"

"I'll take it. There are other things I shall want. Where's Mr. Narkom?"

"Gone back to town, sir--to the Yard. Want him?"

"No, not yet; maybe not to-night at all. Nip off and get yourself
something to eat and be back here by nine o'clock at the latest. I shall
very likely need you. Cut along!" Then he caught up the kit bag, whisked
away with it into the darkness, and five minutes later stood again in
the room which he had so recently left.

Accustomed to rapid dressing, he got into his evening clothes in less
time than it would have taken most men to unpack and lay them out ready
for use when required; and then, taking the half-burnt labels from his
pocketbook, carried them to the light and studied them closely. None was
so big as the one which he had first inspected nor bore so much printed
matter; but fortunately one was a fragment of the exactly opposite side,
so that by joining the two together he was able to make out the greater
part of it.

Clearly, then, the original label, making allowance for what had been
totally destroyed by the flames, must have read:

  JETANOLA

  AN UNRIVALLED PREPARATION

  FOR BOOTS, SHOES, AND ALL LEATHER

  GOODS

  MANUFACTURED SOLELY BY

  FERDINAND LOVETSKI

  63 ESSEX ROW

  SOHO

After all, the imaginative reporter had not been so far out when he
figured those mysterious markings upon the dead man's shirt bosom to
read "63 Essex Row," an address where one Ferdinand Lovetski once did
manufacture a certain kind of blacking for boots, shoes, etc. Not that
they really did stand for that, of course, or that this ingenious person
had done anything more than work out as a solution to the riddle of the
marks a name and an address that were eventually to come into the
case--as they now had done--but in a totally different manner from what
the author of the theory intended or supposed.

Of two things Cleek was certain beyond all question of error. First:
that the dead man was not Ferdinand Lovetski--not in any way connected
with Ferdinand Lovetski to be precise; second: that the markings on the
shirt were not made with "Jetanola" or any other kind of blacking; and
ingenious as the theory was, he was willing to stake his life that those
marks no more stood for 63 Essex Row than they did for 21 Park Lane. For
one thing, what would be the sense of smearing them on the dead man's
shirt bosom if they merely stood for that? It was all very well for that
imaginative reporter to suggest that it was a sign given by the assassin
to the whole anarchistical brotherhood that a debt of vengeance had been
paid and a traitor punished; but the brotherhood did not need any such
sign. If the man were Lovetski it would know of his death without any
such silly nonsense as that. It knew the men it "marked," and it knew
when those men died, and by whose hand, too; and it did not go about
placarding its victims with clues to their identity or signs of whose
hands had directed the exterminating blow.

And Ferdinand Lovetski it never had "marked"--never had issued any
death sentence against, never had sought to punish, never, indeed, had
taken any interest in--for the simple reason that, as Cleek knew, the
man had been in his grave these seven years past! He knew that beyond
all question; for in those dark other times that lay behind him
forever--in his old "Vanishing Cracksman" days, in those repented years
when he and Margot had cast their lot together and he had been the
chosen consort of the queen of the Apaches--in those wild times
Lovetski, down on his luck, bankrupt through dissipation, a thief by
nature, and a lazy vagabond at heart, had joined the Apaches and become
one of them. Not for long, however. Within six months word had come to
him of the death of a relative in his native Russia, and of a little
property that was now his by right of inheritance; and he was for saying
good-bye to his new colleagues and journeying on to Moscow to claim his
little fortune. But the law of the Apaches is the law of the
commonwealth, and Margot and her band had demanded the usual division.
Lovetski had rebelled against it; he had sworn that he would not share;
that what was his should remain his only as long as he lived and--it
did. But five days later his knife-jagged body was fished out of the
Seine and lay in the morgue awaiting identification; Margot went thrice
to see it before it went into the trench with others that were set down
in the records as unknown.

That was seven years ago; and now here was Lord St. Ulmer, or some one
in his room, burning labels that had to do with the days when that dead
man was in honest business, and had lost it simply through dissipation
after the police had discovered that 63 Essex Row was used in part as a
meeting place for several "wanted" aliens, and had raided it and closed
it up.

Lovetski had never belonged to the brotherhood; he had never even known
that they met under that roof until the time of the raid; but he had
been arrested with every other inmate of the house, held as a suspect to
await examination at the hands of a magistrate, and in the meantime his
business had gone to the dogs. After that drink got him, and
acquaintances made in the place of detention became associates and pals.
It was only a step from that to the Apaches, and from the Apaches to the
Seine and the trench; and the little fortune in Russia was never
claimed.

And now this Lord St. Ulmer was burning labels that once had been the
property of that man, was he? And burning them at this particular
period, of all others, when somebody, who evidently had some undesirable
knowledge regarding him, had been mysteriously done to death and the
Yard was out on the trail of the crime!

What did that mean? How did Lord St. Ulmer come into possession of those
labels? And having come into possession of them, why had he suddenly
become anxious to get rid of them?

What few paltry effects Lovetski had possessed when he joined the
Apaches were left in the room he hired from old Marise--Madame Serpice's
mother--at the inn of the "Twisted Arm." The Apaches had gone through
them, and voted them not worth ten sous the lot--and very probably they
were not. Still there might have been letters, and there might have been
some unused labels; fellows of that sort would be apt to keep things of
that kind merely to back up maudlin boasts of former standing. And if
there had been, if this Lord St. Ulmer had come into possession of
things that were left in the secret haunts of the Apaches---- Decidedly
it would be an advantage to get a look at his lordship, and that, too,
as expeditiously as possible.

A footman's waistcoat--merely that. He had one, that he knew; but was it
in the kit bag? He went over and reopened the bag, and examined its
contents. Good old Dollops! What strokes of inspiration the chap
sometimes had! There it was, the regulation thing--the stripes, perhaps,
a trifle broader than those the General's servants wore, but quite near
enough to pass muster with a stranger. Now, then, upon what pretext?
How? When? Hullo! What was that? The dinner gong, by Jupiter!

Certainly! The very thing. "Master wishes to know if there is any
especial dish your lordship fancies, or shall I bring up just what cook
has prepared?" That would do the trick to a turn; and he need be only
four or five minutes late in going down to join his host and the ladies.

He whisked off his coat, waistcoat, and necktie, and made the change in
a twinkling. Another and more subtle "change"--yet made even
quicker--altered his countenance so completely that not one trace of
likeness to Mr. Philip Barch remained. A moment later he had passed
swiftly out of the room and was tapping upon Lord St. Ulmer's door.




CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A BLUNDER AND A DISCOVERY


Cleek's knuckles had no more than touched the panel before he became
aware of a singular and most significant circumstance. A faint "snick"
sounded upon the other side of the door, a quick, metallic "snick,"
which his trained ears identified at once as the switching off of an
electric light; and quick as he was in opening the door, it was an
utterly black room he looked into. Still, that did not dismay him. He
knew full well that the button controlling the switch must be near the
bed for it to be so quickly reached; and Lord St. Ulmer was most
certainly _in_ bed, as the creaking springs told him, and it was always
within his power to make an awkward slip and, with every appearance of
an accident, to switch the light on again.

But for the present--as he had thoughtfully stepped in and closed the
door behind him that he might not stand there in the full glow of the
lights in the outer passage, seen, but himself unseeing--for the present
he was in blackness as dark as ink and as thick as tar, as far as the
eye was concerned; and through that blackness the sharp staccato of an
excited man's voice was flinging a challenge at him.

"Who are you? What do you want? What the devil do you mean by coming in
here, unasked?" that voice rapped out with an unmistakable note of alarm
in it.

"Master sent me up, your lordship," replied Cleek in the bland, deeply
deferential tones of the well-trained manservant. "He is anxious to know
if your lordship would prefer some especial dish prepared for your
lordship's dinner, or if----"

He got no further than that, for the rasping, excited voice broke
sharply in, and the violent jangling of the bed springs told that the
speaker had as sharply turned over in bed.

"Your master sent you up about my dinner?" the voice trumpeted out in a
sort of panic. "Sent you about my _dinner_--and by that door?"

Then came yet another sound--the jingle of a spoon or a fork against a
plate or a cup--and hard after it a noise of rustling paper, and Cleek
had just time to realize that he had blundered, that there must be
another staircase and another door by which the servants came and went,
and that, in all probability, judging from that telltale clink of metal
and china, his lordship's dinner had already _been_ served, when he made
another and a yet more embarrassing discovery: his lordship was not
alone in the room. Some one was there with him, some one who simply gave
an amazed exclamation without putting it into words, then moved swiftly,
snicked on the light, and scattered all the darkness with one dazzling
electric glare.

In that sudden outburst of light Cleek saw a bed and a man on it, a man
who had turned over, so that his face was to the opposite wall, while an
open newspaper--one of many--almost covered his head. Beside that bed
there was a table and a salver loaded with many dishes, and beyond that
an open door, and beyond that again a gaping passage and the head of a
staircase that led up from below.

And between the table and the door he saw something more startling and
dismaying than all the rest.

With his hand on the switch that controlled the electric light, his head
bent forward, and his small, ferret eyes brightly gleaming, Mr. Harry
Raynor stood looking him in the face.

"Hullo! I say, who the devil are you?" snarled that startled and amazed
young man. "What's your game? What are you up to? You're no servant in
this house, dash you! You can't fool _me_ on that point, b'gad! What are
you doing here? What are you up to? What's your little dodge, eh?"

For the present Cleek's "little dodge" was to get out of that room as
expeditiously as possible. For here was an emergency which could not be
adequately met by mental finesse; a situation which could result only in
exposure and the complete undoing of all his plans if he made any
attempt to bolster up his claim to being one of the servants in this
house, or stopped to be "interviewed" by young Raynor; and being never
slow to make up his mind or to act, he did both now with amazing
celerity.

Without one word of reply to young Raynor's challenge, indeed without
one second's hesitation, he backed out of the door by which he had just
entered, shut it sharply after him, snicked out the electric light in
the passage, and dodged back into his own room with the fleet
soundlessness of a hunted hare, shutting and bolting himself in with no
more noise than a cat would have made in getting over a garden wall.

In a twinkling, young Raynor, although taken somewhat aback by this
unexpected action, was out after him, being obliged, of course, to stop
for a second and turn on the extinguished light before he could see in
which direction this pseudoservant had gone, much less follow him; but
by the time he had done this Cleek was safely out of sight, and was
engaged in tearing off his evening clothes and bundling them back into
the kit bag as fast as his hands could fly.

The turning on of the light had resulted in the discovery that the
passage was empty, and in a moment there was an uproar. For no sooner
had Raynor voiced one astonished "Good Lord! why, the fellow's
gone--gone as clean as a whistle, blow him!" than Lord St. Ulmer began
to rattle out an absolute fusillade of excited cries and frightened
queries and suggestions, all snarled up in one hopeless tangle of
jumbled words, and to tug with all his force at the bell rope hanging
beside his bed.

"Head him off! Have him stopped! Find out who he is and what he's up
to!" he shrilled out in an excited treble, which was audible to Cleek,
even through the thickness of the dividing wall. "Send for your father.
Call up the servants. I want to know who that man is and what he was
doing here."

If that were possible, he had certainly gone the surest and the shortest
way about accomplishing what he desired, for the wild pulling of the
bell rope had brought the servants flocking up by one staircase and the
General and a couple of footmen dashing up by another; and for the next
twenty seconds, what with young Raynor trying to give his version of the
affair and his lordship excitedly flinging out his, there was confusion
and hubbub enough in all conscience. Nobody had any light to shed on the
mysterious occurrence, however; nobody had seen any man coming down any
staircase, and nobody had the very slightest idea who that particular
one could be, whence or why he had come, nor whither and how he could
have gone.

It was in the midst of this confusion that suddenly the door of the room
immediately adjoining his lordship's bedchamber was drawn sharply
inward, and then as sharply reclosed until it left but a half foot or so
between itself and the casing, and through that half foot of space the
head of Mr. Philip Barch was thrust; not, however, before the General
and his son and the two footmen had had a chance to see that the owner
of that head was arrayed simply in his underclothing, and to understand
why he had partly reclosed the door when he found people in the
immediate neighbourhood of it.

Apparently Mr. Barch was in a state of violent excitement and did not at
once notice the presence of the General or his son.

"I say, dash it all! what's up? What are you bounders kicking up all
this noise about? And why on earth hasn't one of you answered my ring?"
he blurted out, addressing the nearer of the two footmen. "I've pulled
that dashed bell rope until I'm tired. I say, nip downstairs, one of
you, and tell that valet chap to bring back my clothes, and not to
bother about brushing them until after I go to bed. Mr. Harry promised
to lend me a suit of evenin' togs, but went off without doing so, blow
him! And I haven't a blessed livin' stitch to put on!"

"Good Lud, Barch! I do beg a thousand pardons, old chap!" exclaimed the
General's hopeful. "Sorry I forgot about the evenin' togs, dear boy.
What a beast of a hole you'd have been in if I hadn't come back. Eh,
what?"

"Well, if it could be any worse than the one I've been in for the past
five minutes it would be a marvel, dear boy," responded Cleek, with
lamblike innocence. "Always was a thoughtless beggar, don't you know.
Took off my blessed clothes, and let your valet toddle off with 'em to
brush 'em, as he suggested, before I once thought about the evenin' ones
you'd promised to lend me."

"Harry's valet?" It was the General who spoke. "Do I understand you to
say, Mr. Barch, that you gave your clothes to somebody whom you took for
my son's valet? In the name of reason, where did you get that impression
of the man? I ask, because Harry has no special valet. Hawkins,
here"--indicating the second footman--"valets both my son and myself;
but having only me to look after this evening, as we did not expect
Harry to return in time for dinner, he has been in attendance upon me up
to the present moment, so it most certainly could not have been he."

"Oh, no; chap wasn't a bit like him, General. Wasn't like the other
footman, either. Tallish chap, fair-haired, little turned-up 'ginger'
moustache. Was dressed in evening clothes and wore a black-and-yellow
striped waistcoat."

"That's the man! That's the man!" trumpeted forth Harry Raynor and Lord
St. Ulmer in concert, the latter's excited voice ringing out from the
room into which, unfortunately, Cleek could not, of course, see. "That's
the identical fellow, pater; Barch has described him to a hair," went on
young Raynor, addressing his father. "Sneak thief--that was his little
game, St. Ulmer. Nicked my friend Barch's clothes and would have nicked
yours, too, if he hadn't come a cropper. Got down the staircase there,
and dodged into one of the empty rooms, I'll lay my life, pater, and as
soon as you came up and left the coast clear, slipped out of the house
and got away."

In the game of life chance is an important factor; and chance, as much
as anything else, favoured Cleek in this particular instance, for it was
his especial aim to lull Lord St. Ulmer's suspicions of the mysterious
"man" and to quiet any fear he might possess of that man's possible
connection with the police. It need scarcely be recorded, therefore,
that he hastened to second Harry Raynor's suggestion relative to the
intruder being nothing more nor less than a sneak thief, who had taken
precisely the mode mentioned of making his escape, and backed it up with
a panicky sort of appeal to the General to "have the house searched and
all the empty rooms below stairs looked into on the off-chance that the
fellow hadn't really got away as yet."

The suggestion was acted upon forthwith. Every vacant room was searched,
and it was in this matter that chance favoured Cleek so signally, for it
was found that a window in one of the lower rooms had been left wide
open, and as that window communicated with a veranda, from which a short
flight of steps led down to the garden at a point where the walk was
asphalted and could not be expected to retain a footprint, there would
seem to be no question of where and how the man had made his escape.

Dinner, owing to this interruption, together with the unexpected return
of Mr. Harry and the awkward position in which Philip Barch had been
placed, was put back for half an hour; and Cleek, left to himself,
proceeded to dress himself in the clothes with which young Raynor had
supplied him. But for all his cleverness in turning suspicion into
another channel, he was not best pleased with the result of the
adventure, for he was faced with the fact that he had failed to
accomplish what he had set out to do, and that his efforts concerning
Lord St. Ulmer had been absolutely barren of results. He had _not_
succeeded in seeing his lordship's face, he had _not_ succeeded in
discovering how this man, of all men, should have come into possession
of the Jetanola labels, or, indeed, _anything_ that had belonged to
Ferdinand Lovetski. Ferdinand Lovetski had been done to death in Paris
only seven years ago, and his lordship had been--or was said to have
been--more than twice that number of years in Argentina.

Then there was another point: What had called Harry Raynor away so
unexpectedly, and what had so unexpectedly called him back? What was he
doing in Lord St. Ulmer's room this evening? Was his being there merely
a commonplace thing, or was there something between them? More than
that, what was the connection between young Raynor and Margot? How came
she to be writing letters to him, sending her photograph to him? And
what was the explanation of the scrap of pink gauze that was hidden with
the other things in the filled tobacco jar? The scrap of gauze which had
been caught by the nail head in the passage at Gleer Cottage was pink,
the same shade of pink he believed as Raynor's fragment, and neither was
anything like Ailsa Lorne's frock. True, there was no stitchery of
rose-coloured silk upon that fragment Raynor had kept hidden in the
tobacco jar, but that didn't prove that there was none upon the frock
from which it came. It might have been torn from a part that was devoid
of stitchery; and, again, it might not be part of the frock at all. It
might be part of a gauze scarf that was worn with the dress. Women do
wear things like that with evening gowns.

Hum-m-m! Now if the dress which Margot wore was found in time to have
rose-coloured stitchery, and the pattern of that stitchery matched the
pattern on the piece found in Gleer Cottage---- Yes, but what would take
Margot to Gleer Cottage? Certainly it would be to meet a man; but what
man? De Louvisan? But if he had been an Apache and a traitor, he would
have been on his guard, and would make no appointment with her or with
any of her followers.

Then what other man? Lord St. Ulmer, who, on the evidence of his muddy
boots, had been out _somewhere_ last night, or the fellow--whoever he
might prove to be--who had killed the Common keeper and had hidden the
clothing in the General's famous ruin? For, according to that
unfortunate Common keeper, there had been two persons implicated in the
attack upon him. What two? Margot would not fit in with any theory that
implicated Sir Philip Clavering--it would be preposterous to suggest
such a thing--nor did it really seem feasible to connect her with St.
Ulmer either but for the fact of those labels and his own knowledge
that Lovetski had once been a member of the Apaches.

Perplexed with these thoughts, Cleek was almost startled at the sound of
the second dinner gong, and he walked swiftly to the glass to note the
effect of his borrowed plumes. They were certainly not a good fit, and
he passed his hand over the wrinkled breast; then--his fingers stopped
suddenly at the touch of something hard in the pocket. Slowly, his lips
drawn to a soundless whistle, he pulled out a round metal object and
looked at it with startled eyes, his thoughts in a sudden conflicting
whirl.

Last night, when he had found the golden capsule with the name of
Katharine upon it, and had given Mr. Narkom a brief history of the
famous _Huile Violette_ and the methods of the _grande dames_ of old, he
had declared that he knew of but one woman who ever had worn one of
those antique scent bracelets, and knew of _her_ wearing it simply
because he himself had stolen it from a famous collection and given it
to her. To-night that identical bracelet, with the scent globe and the
stopper cut from an emerald, was in his hand again! Margot's bracelet in
the pocket of Harry Raynor's coat! And only a moment or two ago he had
asked himself, "Which man?"




CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SPRINGING A SURPRISE


The circumstance was something of a shock to him. Up to this moment he
had looked upon young Raynor as being merely a selfish, irresponsible
wastrel, not as something vicious, something that had the courage or
even the power to bite or to sting. Now, however---- He turned the
bracelet over in his hand and examined it closely, to be certain before
he finally decided that it really was Margot's.

The act served merely to deepen suspicion into certainty. By a dozen
things he knew it for what he hoped it might not be. It was Margot's
bracelet, beyond all possible question it was! So, then, he had been a
fool for his pains, had he--a fool taken in and gulled by appearances,
eh? And the creature he had fancied a mere worm was, after all, a
serpent and--dangerous!

Margot's bracelet in the pocket of Harry Raynor's evening coat was
something rather more significant than Margot's picture and Margot's
letters in Harry Raynor's tobacco jar, for an evening coat consorted
well with an evening frock, and some woman who was not Ailsa Lorne, nor
yet Lady Katharine Fordham, had worn an evening frock at Gleer Cottage
last night.

Where was Harry Raynor last night? That, too, would want looking into in
the light of present events. And possessing two evening suits, which had
that interesting young gentleman worn yesterday? This one, which he had
lent to Cleek, or the one he would himself wear at dinner to-night? A
great deal would depend upon that point--as great a deal as sometimes
sends men to the gallows. For whensoever he had last worn this suit,
this bracelet was put in the pocket of it. Upon that point there could
be no shadow of doubt; for although he had forgotten all about the
thing--as evidenced by his leaving it in the pocket when sending the
clothes to Cleek--he could not possibly have put this coat on again
without noticing how abominably the thing sat upon the wearer, and
discovering the cause of it.

And if he had worn this particular suit last night, and Margot could be
proved to have visited Gleer Cottage at, or about, the time of the
murder----Cleek shut off that train of thought, and puckered up his lips
until they were white and full of creases, and sighed inwardly, thinking
of the loving mother and of the added cross for the shoulders of the
bitterly disappointed father, a man and a hero, a soldier and a
gentleman, cursed with such offspring as this!

"And the little beast would sacrifice the pair of them for the price of
a night's orgy, and turn suspicion even against his mother to save his
own skin if he were in danger," was his unspoken summing up of Harry
Raynor's character. "Gad, how little there is in heredity, after all,
when we so often see eagles breeding jackdaws and lions bringing forth
mice!"

The dinner gong sounded again; and it was only then that he realized how
long a time he had spent mooning over a stolen bracelet and a gnat that
seemed suddenly to have grown into a bird of prey.

He turned round on his heel and switched off the light. "A bombshell for
_you_, my laddie!" he said in the soundless words of thought, as he put
the bracelet into the tail pocket of his coat and nodded as if young
Raynor were there in person to be addressed; then he walked out and shut
the door behind him, and went down to the business of dining.

He found the General and his son and Mrs. Raynor and Ailsa awaiting him
in the drawing-room, and was not--considering what he now knew--at all
surprised to learn that Lady Katharine had developed a bad headache,
gone to bed, and wished no dinner at all.

"I can't think what's come over her," said Ailsa when she made this
announcement.

"Oh, can't you?" said young Raynor with a cackling laugh. "Lord! women
don't look far beneath the surface of things, do they, Barch? Who
wouldn't go to bed with a headache after a visit from a goat like Geoff
Clavering?"

"Harry, dearest, do think what you are saying, and before whom,
darling!" bleated apologetically his adoring mother. "You mustn't mind
him, Mr. Barch; he _is so_ full of spirit, the dear boy."

Cleek did not reply, neither did the General. Possibly both were
secretly battling with a desire to catch hold of this young man and to
kick him as far as the human foot could propel him; and it was, no
doubt, a relief to all when the two footmen swung open the great double
doors leading into the dining-room and announced gravely that dinner was
served.

With the matter of that dinner it is doubtful if anybody but Cleek
really enjoyed the hour spent in consuming it, and even he merely
because the girl of his heart was beside him, and _that_ would make a
heaven with any healthy and well-conditioned man in the universe. But it
was certain that nobody was deeply regretful when the end came, and Mrs.
Raynor, rising, gave the hint to Miss Lorne that it was time to return
to the drawing-room and to leave the gentlemen to their half hour with
the coffee, the liqueurs, and the cigars. But to-night the General would
have none of these.

"Young men to young men's pleasure, gentlemen. I'm an old fogy, and I'm
sleepy," he said immediately after the ladies had retired. "Besides, my
monthly copy of the _Gardener and Fruit Grower_ arrived this evening,
and I haven't looked at it yet. So, if you will excuse me, Mr.
Barch----"

"My dear General, pray make no apologies," said Cleek, struggling
between the necessity for keeping up his rakish attitude and the desire
to be a man in the eyes of this rugged old soldier, who was fighting a
braver battle now than he had ever fought in the days when king and
country called him. "If a man may not consider his personal convenience
in his own house, what's the good of saying that an Englishman's home is
his castle?"

"Ah, we outlive old notions, Mr. Barch, we outlive them!" replied the
General with a kindly smile and something that was like a smothered
sigh. "Pray make yourself thoroughly at home, however. I hear from Harry
that you have decided to honour us with a week's visit, and I am very
greatly pleased. Hawkins, in the absence of Johnston, see that the
gentlemen want for nothing."

"Very good, sir. Serve your coffee in your study, sir?"

"No, I shan't take any. See that I'm not disturbed; and don't bother to
valet me to-night; I shall be reading late. Good-night, Harry;
good-night, Mr. Barch." And with that he walked out of the room and left
them.

"Now, then, Hawkins," said young Raynor as soon as his father was fairly
out of sight and sound, "set the decanters and the glasses on the table
here, and you and Hamer clear off about your business as fast as you can
toddle. We don't need you. Hook it!"

"Very good, sir," replied Hawkins deferentially, and obeyed the order to
the letter.

Harry Raynor waited a moment to give both time to leave the room and to
get beyond earshot, then caught up a decanter, drew a glass toward him,
and poured out a stiff peg of brandy.

"I say, Barch, I've got a flea to put into your ear," he said earnestly,
"and I didn't want those blighters hanging round to hear it; that's the
reason I packed them off as I did. I'm going to give you a shock that
will set you thinking."

"Are you?" said Cleek with the utmost serenity. "Well, I'm going to give
_you_ one, too, dear boy; and as first horse at the post wins--I say,
what price this little caper? How did you come by this, dear boy--and
when?"

He dipped round and down into his coat-tail pocket, as he spoke, pulled
out the scent bracelet, and laid it on the table before him.




CHAPTER NINETEEN

PICKING UP THREADS


Young Raynor was not in the smallest degree upset at sight of the thing.
He was mildly surprised, and expressed it by a low, soft whistle as he
reached out his hand and took up the bracelet.

"Well, of all the mutton heads! Shows what a thoughtless beggar I am!"
he said with a slight lurch of the shoulders and an impatient twitch of
the head. "No need to ask you how you came by the blessed thing, dear
boy. Found it in the inside pocket of that coat you're wearing, I know.
That's where I put the bally thing, I recollect. What an ass of me to
forget all about it. Hope she won't think I've bagged it."

"She?" said Cleek, with admirable composure, considering that this open
admission, this evidence of there being nothing to conceal, threatened
to upset all his calculations. "Antecedent of that personal pronoun,
please; who may the 'she' in question be?"

"Why, Mignon, of course."

"Mignon?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle Mignon De Varville, the famous Whirlwind Dancer of
the Paris Varietes. _You_ know her, or ought to, considering that you
got a peep at her phiz in spite of me this afternoon."

"Not 'Pink Gauze'? The lady of the tobacco jar?"

"The very identical. Little bit of all right, that--eh, what?"

"Looked like it, at all events," said Cleek, selecting a cigar and
lighting up. "What a lucky beggar you are, dear chap--all the good
things seem to go your way. And so"--puff! puff!--"Pink Gauze gave you
the bracelet, eh? When? Last night? Or didn't you see her then?"

"Oh, I saw her last night, right enough; in fact, I've seen her pretty
nearly every night since she came over from Paris, but she didn't give
me the bracelet to take care of _then_. _That_ was on the night
before--over at her little place, you know."

"No, I'm blest if I do. How should I? Never saw or heard of her, dear
boy, till I had the misfortune to break that tobacco jar and tumble out
her photo. So her name's Mignon de Varville, is it? And she's got a
little place of her own, eh? Where? In this neighbourhood?"

"Lord, no! Beyond Wimbledon. Rippin' little place, too. Clinkin' little
house standing in its own grounds and fitted up to the nines. Took it
furnished, and gives the rippin'est suppers and the jolliest dances
going. Hot stuff, I give you _my_ word. Brought over her entire troupe
with her. Rehearsing now, and with all their evenings to themselves.
Going to open in London in a fortnight's time, she says, and no English
hotels for _her_ and her little lot. There are ten of 'em: five spiffin'
pretty girls, and five of the most awful-lookin' Johnnies you ever saw
in evening clothes since the hour you were christened. Coarse as dog's
hair, every mother's son of 'em, but clinkin' good chaps, for all that.
Plenty of champagne, and jolly good champagne it is, too, dear boy; and
after supper there's always a dance, two of the chaps and two of the
girls sitting out and furnishing the music. And Lord, you don't know
what a dance is, Barch, till you've had one with Mignon de Varville, my
boy!"

Cleek did not dispute the assertion. He had had many with the lady in
those old days that lay forever behind; and it needed no man's word to
tell him how tirelessly, how joyously, and with what mad _abandon_
Margot could dance when the fever of music and wine got into her blood.

"My hat! I'll be choking you from sheer jealousy, presently, you lucky
beggar!" he said enviously. "All the plums seem to fall over on _your_
side of the wall, dash you! and here am I sitting solitary and alone in
a howling wilderness with not even _one_. I say, how the dickens did you
ever come across this French lot? Blest if I can seem to meet with
_any_--French, English, or any other sort, dash it! Where did you meet
the charming Mignon? In Paris?"

"No fear! You can fall in with anything going in London if you only
know the ropes, dear boy, and are popular. Flossie Twinkletoes
introduced me to her. She'd just come over from Paris, and Flossie was
out of work through the failure of 'The Seaside Girl,' and asked me to
take her to supper and meet a friend of hers. I did--and the friend was
Mignon. After that--well, you know how it is, dear boy. When a fellow
knows his way about women _will_ run after him. Mignon and I took to
each other from the first, and we've been jolly good pals ever since.
Invited me to her place before we'd known each other half an hour. Fact,
dear boy. And she's rather exclusive, too, I can tell you. Just _how_
exclusive you may guess when I tell you that I'm the only living man
outside of those who belong to her troupe that ever sees the inside of
her house or shares one of those rippin' evenings there."

The curious one-sided smile travelled up Cleek's cheek, hovered there a
moment, and then disappeared. He said nothing upon the subject, but it
was perfectly clear to him just _why_ Mr. Harry Raynor was the only
stranger present. He knew Margot and he knew her methods. This one man
was desirable because she had an especial use for him; and he meant to
make it his business to find out just what that especial use might be.
So, then, she had abandoned her customary tactics for once, and had
brought some of the female members of her crew to England with her, had
she?

The murder of De Louvisan looked more than ever like an Apache crime,
in the light of these things. But _why_ an Apache crime? Margot's game
was always money; and the pseudo Count de Louvisan had not a shilling to
bless himself with. Again, if it were an Apache crime, how came a man
who was undeniably Lord St. Ulmer--undeniably everything that he
claimed--to be mixed up in the affair to such an extent as he was? And
what of Lady Clavering? Where did she come in? What had taken her out
upon the Common last night? What of young Geoff? What of his father? And
what, of all things, about Lady Katharine Fordham?

None of these people could be connected with Margot--with the Apaches.
He had his own ideas relative to Lady Katharine's part in the puzzle,
but there was still that bundle of buried clothing, still the fact that
it was found in the grounds of Wuthering Grange, and that it was highly
improbable either Margot or any of her crew could have put it there.
Still, Margot had a purpose in "catching" Mr. Harry Raynor; and if----
Ah, well, you never can tell. Shallow-looking pools are sometimes very
deep. Which, then, _was_ Mr. Harry Raynor: the brainless fool he
appeared, or a very excellent actor playing a very cunning part?

During the moment it had taken for these thoughts to travel through his
mind, Cleek's whole attention seemed to be claimed by his cigar, which,
for some unknown reason, appeared to have an objection to draw. Now,
however, he flung the thing aside.

"Pardon me, dear boy, if I have seemed inattentive," he said. "Please go
on. What was it you were saying? Oh, ah! I recollect: about your being
the only guest that Mademoiselle What's-her-name ever asks to her
blessed kick-ups. Lay you a tanner I can tell you why, old chap."

"Can you? Then why?"

"Either she's clean gone on you--which, no doubt, is very likely--or
she's trying to get something out of you. Ever give you what our Yankee
cousins call the touch? Ever try to get anything out of you?"

"Not a blessed rap. Never wanted _anything_ from me. That is, anything
in the money line, I mean. Hinted pretty strongly at something else,
however; but, of course, I wasn't taking any on that score!"

"Weren't you? Why not?"

"Don't be an ass, Barchie! You've seen the pater and mater, and you can
judge for yourself just how impossible it would be to even hint at
having a girl like Mignon asked over here to dinner one night just
simply because she has, as she says, an intense yearning to see how
people of the better class in England live and conduct themselves in
their own homes."

Cleek reached for another cigar and lit it. Oho! so that was how the cat
jumped, was it? That was Margot's little game, eh? She had taken up with
this engaging young man merely for the purpose of getting an entree to
Wuthering Grange. Clearly, then, there must be something or some one
under the roof of this house that she desired to get in contact with;
and having failed to get _invited_, as she had hoped----Yes, of course!
Cunning of her, diabolically cunning. Forgotten all about the bracelet,
eh? Not she! He knew her like a book. It would be an excuse to come over
in person to ask for its return. "So sorry; but called away suddenly,
and couldn't possibly wait for you to bring it back." That sort of
thing, and--well, there you are. Ah, she was the very embodiment of
craft and cunning, that lady: cut her off at one door and she would make
her way round to the other.

"Wasn't aware that it was anything of that sort, dear chap, or I
shouldn't have asked," said Cleek, responding with the utmost serenity
to young Raynor's remark. "Of course you couldn't do anything of that
sort, so it was deuced wise of you to ignore the hint. Rum what fancies
women of that sort have, eh? And how blessed crafty they are in getting
what they want! You look out, dear boy, that she doesn't come over here
after that bracelet. Lay you a sov that's why she got you to take charge
of it."

"Lay you another it isn't," replied the young man, with a smile of
confidence. "You don't know the facts, dear boy, or you wouldn't jump to
such silly conclusions. She gave it to me because the blessed thing
would keep coming undone and falling off and interfering with our
waltzing. Besides, it wasn't she--it was I--that suggested that I should
put it in my pocket for safe keeping until the dancing was over; and,
like a blithering idiot, you see, I forgot all about it. Blessed lucky
thing for me that I had to lend you a suit of evening clothes, b'gad, or
I might not have found the bracelet for heaven knows how long."

"And a blessed lucky thing for me that you turned up in time to lend it
to me," said Cleek, in reply. "Never was in such a beastly funk in all
my life, dear chap. Could have said a prayer, if I knew any, I was so
blessed glad when I looked out and saw you standing in the passage. I
say, how did you come to be there, Raynor? Thought you were heaven knows
how far away, and blest if I can think where you came from."

"Popped out of St. Ulmer's room. Next one to yours. Was in there when
that sneak thief appeared."

"In there? My hat! What a rum idea! Thought you didn't care for the old
josser. At least, you spoke as though you didn't this afternoon; and to
have you sitting in there and kow-towing to a gouty old sick man----"

"Wasn't sitting in there, dear boy. Had just popped in on my way up to
dress. Evening papers full of that business at Gleer Cottage last night.
Bought several of them at the railway station. Happened to think that,
maybe, the old bounder hadn't read the news and would be interested in
it, so just dropped in to give them to him. That was all."

"Oh, I see," said Cleek. "That accounts for it, of course. Wondered how
the dickens you came to be there, and what on earth had called you back
home so early after you'd told me not to expect you until twelve. By the
way, dear boy, what did call you back, if it isn't an impertinence to
ask. Needn't bother to reply if you'd rather not." This latter, for the
reason that at the mention of his coming back earlier than expected,
young Raynor's lips had come together in a sharp, hard, narrow line, and
his eyes had assumed an absolutely savage expression. "Sorry if I've
poked my nose in where I'm not wanted, old chap, deuced sorry."

"Oh, that's all right," said Raynor, reaching for the decanter and
pouring out a fresh peg of brandy. "Don't bother about treading on _my_
corns. Of course I'm a bit sore on the subject, but--well, I like you,
Barch; I like you no end. Besides, I was going to tell you, anyhow.
Remember, don't you, that I said I was going to give you a shock?"

"Oh, ah! Yes. Blest if I hadn't forgotten. And I thought I was going to
give you one, too, about the bracelet; but it didn't come off. Maybe
yours won't either, dear boy."

"Oh, don't you make any mistake upon that score. Lay you a fiver it
makes you sit up when I spring it on you. Shove that siphon over this
way, will you, dear boy? Thanks, very much. I say, Barch--chin'-chin',
old chap!-- I say, you want to know what sent me back so unexpectedly,
do you, eh? Well, you may."

"May I? Thanks. Then what did?"

"Same thing that called me away in the first place--a blessed swindle!"

"The dickens you say? What sort of a swindle, old chap, eh?"

"A forged letter. Somebody wanted to get me away from this house for
some purpose or another, and to _keep_ me away until late to-night, too.
I don't know why, and I don't know what for, but I'm jolly well certain
who the party is, b 'gad; and it's a howlin' eye-opener, I give you _my_
word! Wait a bit!"

He got up suddenly, walked to the door, opened it a foot or so, peeped
out, then reclosed it and walked back to his seat. He poured out a third
brandy, and drank it almost neat this time, then put his elbows upon the
table, and, leaning forward, looked straight into Cleek's eyes.

"Barch, I've discovered something," he said in a lowered voice. "My
father's playing a double game. He's a damned old two-faced hypocrite,
that's what, and I've found him out at last!"

The cigar dropped suddenly from Cleek's fingers, and he ducked down in
quest of it. He simply _had_ to have some excuse to cover up the state
of his feelings, or they would have got the better of him. A while ago
he had said to himself that the fellow was despicable enough to
implicate his own parents if it were necessary to save his skin; but
even then he had only half believed it; now, however, he knew, and a
fierce indignation bit into the very soul of him.

The worm had suddenly developed into a viper.

He went on groping for the dropped cigar. He might have found it at once
had he chosen to do so, but he did not. It needed a moment or two to
whip his savage desires into subjugation, to get himself well in hand
again that he might face this unnatural son without giving way to the
temptation to thrash him; and all the while his head was whirling with
the crushing recollections that were crowding into it.

If it were worth his while--to save his own skin, to divert suspicion
from himself---- Well, was it not worth his while now? The chase was
narrowing, and perhaps he knew it--one could not be certain what such a
man _would_ find means of discovering. Perhaps he knew of the unearthing
of the buried clothing. Perhaps he knew that there was proof the
murderer had been traced to Wuthering Grange, and knowing, realized the
necessity for diverting suspicion from himself, if he were guilty? But,
guilty or innocent, principal or accessory, this one thing was certain:
last night a murder had been committed; last night a dead man had been
spiked to the wall in true Apache fashion; and this Mr. Harry Raynor,
who was casting slurs upon his own father, was hand and glove with the
Apache queen!




CHAPTER TWENTY

"HOW SHARPER THAN A SERPENT'S TOOTH"


Cleek found his cigar at last, and rose with it in his hand, leaving
young Barch to finish his story in his own inimitable way.

"Yes," he continued, "what I call a regular facer for me. I was swindled
into going away by a forged letter, which I swear he wrote himself.
Recollect, don't you, that when you came to meet me at the ruin, I told
you I'd suddenly been called away? Well, so I had. While I was waiting
there at the ruin for you to get shot of that muff Geoff Clavering and
come to join me, up walks the pater and hands me a letter--a typewritten
letter, mark you--with word that a messenger had just brought it. Now
listen to this closely, Barch! Last January some fool of an editor
suggested to my pater that he should write a series of articles upon the
proper cultivation of hot-house fruits for his tomfool paper, and said
that typewritten copy was absolutely necessary. Out goes the pater and
buys a typewriter, and engages a girl to operate it. Got her from some
typewriting school in town, and a rippin' fine little girl she was, too!
Name, Katie Walters. Pretty as a picture and lively as a cricket. Well,
Katie and I became jolly good pals. Pater found it out, and then just
what you might have expected happened. I got a lecture, and Katie got
the sack and was packed off to town before I could get a private word
with her. Now, the letter my father handed me this afternoon was
supposed to come from that girl."

"And didn't?"

"No, it didn't. It asked me to run up to town and meet her just outside
the typewriting school when the day's work was over. I went, but I
didn't do exactly as I'd been asked. I suppose the party that wrote it
hoped that I'd wait there until dark, and that when she didn't come out
I'd come to the conclusion that I'd missed her, and, being in town,
would probably go somewhere else and make a night of it, as I most
likely should have done under ordinary circumstances. But I didn't feel
like waiting round for that bally school to close; so as soon as I got
there, I walked upstairs and asked to see her."

"Humph! And she wasn't there?"

"No, she wasn't. And what's more, she hadn't been there for weeks and
weeks. Had got a position up in Scotland, and is going to be married to
a bank clerk next month."

"Oho!" said Cleek, "I see! I see!"

He walked over to the other side of the room, where there was a huge
potted azalea on an ebony pedestal. He had admired and he had examined
that azalea earlier in the evening, so it was, perhaps, only natural
that he should be attracted by it now. Still, for once in a way, it was
not the blossoming beauty of the plant that lured him to it, much as
flowers always had and always would appeal to him. He could see the
trend of young Raynor's tale now, the dim, shadowy outline of the
argument he was putting forth, the suspicion he was endeavouring to
lead; and he was afraid that something in his face or his eyes might
betray the true state of his feelings if he remained there in the bright
light for the man to study him. The big azalea offered the refuge of
shadow. He walked there and stood in the shade of it, and began idly
poking at the earth in the huge pot.

"Naturally, dear boy," he went on, "when you heard that you knew that
you had been taken in."

"So I did, on the instant," said young Raynor, tackling yet a fourth
glass of brandy. "It was as plain as the nose on your face that somebody
had tried to spoof me; somebody had an interest in sending me off to
town on a wild-goose chase and getting me out of this neighbourhood
to-night, and that that somebody hadn't reckoned upon my doing what I
did, and didn't know about my having promised you to take you to see
Mignon de Varville, when that blithering letter intervened. And speaking
of that-- I say, Barchie, we'll go to-night, if you like--eh, what?"

"Sorry, dear boy," said Cleek, whose intention was to get out on the
Common to-night and test the truth of Geoff Clavering's story; "sorry,
but I'm afraid we'll have to put that off until to-morrow. Thinking you
weren't coming back in time, I arranged with the ladies for an evening
of bridge; so, if you don't join us, you'll have to pay your respects to
'Pink Gauze' to-night without me. And, by the way, how did you get that
bit of pink gauze, old chap? Any particular significance attached to
it?"

"Lord, no! Bit of gauze scarf she wore the other night--always wears
pink, by the way--caught in my watch chain. Tore in gettin' loose, and I
kept the bit as a memento."

"Ah, I see. Well, get on with the other subject; I'm immensely
interested. As soon as you'd found out that Katie What's-her-name
couldn't have written the letter, and that you'd been deceived by
somebody, then what?"

"Why, then I put back home by the first possible train. I had my
suspicions--yes, rather--so I came back to prove them true."

"And did you?"

"Ah, didn't I? Nobody knew of my affair with Katie outside of my father,
and my father has a typewriter ready to hand, and typewriters don't
betray anybody's 'fist.' I went to the lodgekeeper. No messenger had
passed him to-day. I went to Hawkins and Hamer. No messenger had brought
any letter that they knew of to the house. I couldn't ask Johnston,
because this is his evening off; but no doubt that when I do ask him
he'll say the same. Well, now, you put all those things together, Barch,
and see for yourself what they make. As nobody but my father knew
anything about the girl, and nobody gave him a letter, and he has a
typewriter ready to hand, why there you are. He wrote the letter, that's
what. And if he wrote it to get me away and keep me away until late at
night, why he's got a devilish good reason for it; and if he has got a
reason for doing things at night that he doesn't want other people to
know about and doesn't want his own son to discover, then he's playing a
double game. And last, when a man sets himself up for a howling saint in
the virtue line and yet plays a double game, why he's a rotter and a
hypocrite, whether he's my father or not, and I'm not going to stand
it." He nodded with drunken solemnity. "I'm going to have it out with
him to-night, you'll see. Come with me if you like----"

"Not I, old man, I've promised to join the ladies, see you later, eh?"
said Cleek, and with a look of unseen contempt at the drink-sodden
figure, he turned abruptly and left the youth to continue his potations
at his own sweet will.




CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

WHEN TWO AND TWO MAKE FOUR


It would not be overstating the case if one were to say that Cleek's
mind was absolutely in a whirl when he closed the door of the
dining-room behind him and stood alone in the brilliantly lighted hall;
for, added to the loathing contempt he felt for the young reprobate he
had just left, there was the knowledge that this new and unexpected
development threatened to destroy the whole fabric of his theories in
almost every particular.

Not for one moment, heretofore, had he looked upon young Raynor as other
than a shallow, empty-headed wastrel; a mere cuckoo hatched in an
eagle's nest; a thing to be scorned, not dreaded; a mere mischievous
atom that hadn't the courage to be a bird of prey, nor blood enough in
its veins to be dangerous. Now, however---- God! what a riddle life is!
You never know!

The door that led out into the grounds of the Grange was but a rope's
cast distant. He felt that he couldn't trust himself to go in and face
the ladies just yet a while; that he must think over this new and
staggering turn which events had taken: think over it for a time in the
hush and darkness of the outer world; and, turning on his heel, went
swiftly to the door and let himself out.

By this time the night had closed in, the moon had risen, and the
gardens were simply a shadowy place of dark and fragrant mystery, with
here and there a silver arabesque on the earth where the moonlight
shafted through the boughs of trees, and here and there a streak of
yellower radiance where the windows of the house threw man-made light
across the lawn and against the massed green of crowded leaves. Cleek
took to the grass that his footsteps might not be heard, and there, in
the darkest shadow of all the darkened land, walked up and down, up and
down, with his lower lip pinched up between his thumb and forefinger,
his brows knotted, and the elbow of one arm in the hand of the other: a
quiet, slow-moving figure, as silent as the other soundless shades that
were about it.

So that was how the cat jumped, was it? Directing suspicion--not openly,
not with any positive hint of _what_, but with deadly seriousness,
considering that last night a man had been mysteriously murdered and the
police were out for the assassin--directing suspicion against his own
father, and at such an appallingly significant time.

What a cur the fellow was! Even if his father could in any way have been
implicated in the crime, by any means, upon any pretext, what a devil's
act it was to lead the law into the right channel. But when there was
not one solitary circumstance that pointed, when it was merely to save
his own skin, merely to divert suspicion away from himself, what an act
of unspeakable atrocity! Couldn't the fellow reason? Couldn't he see
that the very thing he was doing to mislead justice was the one
circumstance which directed its sword against himself? That the simple
fact of his endeavouring to direct suspicion against one who was in no
way implicated was absolute proof that he had a purpose in wishing it to
be misdirected. And if he _had_ a purpose in doing that, the inference
was so obvious that a child might read between the lines.

Heigho! It was just another exemplification of the truth of the old
adage that "when the wine's in the wit's out." If he'd let that brandy
decanter alone, if he hadn't fuddled his reason and clogged his wretched
brain with alcohol, he must have seen what an ass thing he was doing,
and what a fool his loosened tongue was making of him.

True, as yet there did not seem any just cause for connecting him with
the murder of De Louvisan, any reason why he should have killed the man;
any single purpose he might serve, any solitary thing he might gain by
slaying him; but still---- Oh, well, you never know how deep a well is
until you have reached the bottom of it. The thing had every appearance
of being an Apache crime, and he was "in" with Margot--Margot, who
played for money and money alone; so if---- Good God! the little reptile
hadn't let her lead him into _that_ folly, had he? Hadn't let her lure
him into taking the oath and enrolling himself a member of the Apache?

If he had been mad enough to do that, if that were the explanation, why,
then, all the rest was possible. The law of the Apache is the law of the
commonwealth; and he would find that out, as Lovetski had found it
out--too late. If St. Ulmer was in any way implicated, St. Ulmer's
fortune would be _one_ stake. And if this brainless weakling should fall
heir to his father's money, ho! there was the other "stake"; there the
possible motive, there the first connecting link!

Was that Margot's little game? Was that the way the idiot had been
tricked into becoming an accomplice? Just so! let's put the jumbled bits
together and see if they fit; let's sum up two and two and learn if they
really do make four.

First bit: De Louvisan with such a hold upon St. Ulmer that he can
compel his lordship to cancel his daughter's engagement and force her to
accept him as a fiance. Quite so! Second bit: De Louvisan, without any
rupture occurring between himself and St. Ulmer, suddenly murdered in
cold blood. And not only murdered, but spiked up to the wall after the
manner of Lanisterre and other traitors to the Apache. A clear proof
that this De Louvisan himself was an Apache; and being a traitor to the
cause---- Quite so! quite so! Prevented from marrying Lady Katharine,
because that was not part of the agreement; because he was making an
effort to obtain for himself and his own personal use a fortune which it
was intended should come into the commonwealth. Hum-m-m! Those two
pieces seem to fit together. Now for the next:

If St. Ulmer, over whom this De Louvisan undoubtedly had a hold of some
sort, bought that fellow's silence by promising him his daughter for a
wife, then it is quite certain that he was acquiescing in his
traitorship to the Apache and quite willing that the man should have
Lady Katharine's dower for himself. That bit fits also. Now for another:
if in doing that thing this De Louvisan merited the name of traitor, it
must have been that he came between the Apache and the possession of the
St. Ulmer fortune, and if the owner of that fortune had to make terms
such as he did with the man, the inference is as plain as the nose on
your face. In other words, St. Ulmer, too, had reason to dread the
Apache, and there must, therefore, be some connection between him and
Margot. Two and two--and it makes four exactly! St. Ulmer, then, is the
game, St. Ulmer the pivot upon which the whole case revolves.

Where, then, does young Raynor come in? Hum-m-m! Ah! Of course, of
course. Very crafty, very crafty indeed. A beautiful woman could do
anything in the world with such a worm as he. The stage-door Johnnie
will be best caught by a chorus girl. Yes, yes, just so. Get one who is
out of an engagement or in debt--anything that will make her willing
and eager to accept a bribe. She will do the introducing; the rest you
can do yourself. Easy enough with such an ass as that fellow. Lovely
women and jolly chaps for companionship; a lonely house, music, dancing,
champagne; a famous French variety star heels over head in love with
him, letters, photographs, nights of revelry, and quarts of wine; and
then--_voila_, the fish is hooked!

Sworn in, by heaven! sworn in in a drunken fit, to wake and find himself
not only an Apache, but to have his vanity tickled, his empty head
turned, and his love of being thought a regular ladies' man pampered to
the full by being told that he is in reality the _king_ of the Apaches,
and that hundreds and hundreds of just such jolly fellows and girls as
he sees about him are willing and eager to do the little worm homage and
to be ruled by him as though he were actually royal.

It is an old, old game of yours, that, isn't it, Margot? So you have
caught many a fool in your day, wiser fools than this one, and sillier,
too, in their way, but none of them ever held his kingship beyond the
space of a month; none at all but that bolder rascal, the Vanishing
Cracksman.

And this little maggot of a Harry Raynor is the latest dupe, eh? Hooked
in a drunken moment, the silly gudgeon, hooked that you may get at St.
Ulmer and--get even--with the chap called De Louvisan. It must have been
a shock when you found what a cowardly cur the fellow is at heart.
Still there must be an accomplice, and there must be a strong incentive
to command the services of this one.

How did you work it, then? How get him to assist in that thing, if he
did assist? How lead him up to this abominable act regarding his own
father? Yes! To be sure, to be sure. Help you and your crew to St.
Ulmer's money and you'd help him to _his_: to be rid of a father who
kept him upon a short allowance, who disapproved of all the things and
all the people he cared for, and who treated him as though he were a
little foolish boy instead of a great, noble, splendid man, who ought to
be free to live like the king he was.

Oh, it would be easy: just the mere turning of suspicion after the other
thing was done. A letter would do that--a forged letter--and that would
be prepared for him nicely. Oh, no, no! of course he wouldn't be hanged.
Means would be provided to prevent that. He would be so deeply
compromised, however, that there would be no possibility of his escaping
but by death, and the means of bringing that about would be conveniently
supplied him. A swift but painless poison; or, perhaps, a bottle of
ether--something of the sort. No pain, no suffering, all over in a
minute or two; then "darling Harry" would come into everything, and the
clever little forged letter would explain everything away.

Would it? Cleek's jaws clamped together as the thought came, Would it,
indeed? Well, _he'd_ see that it wouldn't, then! If any one was to
suffer it should be the guilty, not the innocent; they should never pull
that game off to the end of time.

The forged letter, eh? Ah, be sure that Harry Raynor would take means to
preserve it and to have it handy against the time of need. And be sure,
too, that Margot would instruct him with the utmost carefulness just how
to act with regard to it, and just where to keep it in order to make
everything appear natural and in accordance with what he was to tell to
his friend, Mr. Barch, in order to set the ball rolling. Claimed to have
received it this afternoon, didn't he? So, of course, it would be in the
pocket of the coat he had worn at the time. Had to change into evening
clothes for dinner, and was in evening clothes still. So, of course----

The thought had no more than shaped itself in Cleek's mind before he put
it into action. As swiftly and as soundlessly as he had left the house
he now returned to it. But whereas he had gone out unsuspected and
unseen, it now became manifest that he was not to be permitted to enjoy
the same privilege in returning, for as he stepped into the hall he came
face to face with Hawkins advancing from the direction of the servants'
staircase.

"Out for another ramble in quest of a new plot you see, Hawkins," he
said gayly as he entered. "The woes of the novelist are many when plots
come slowly. Where's Mr. Harry--upstairs or in the drawing-room with the
ladies?"

"Neither, Mr. Barch, sir. Still sitting in the dining-room. Just on my
way there with a message. Shall I say that you will rejoin him there,
sir?"

"No, not at present, thanks. Just going upstairs to change my shoes--the
grass is very damp. By the way, Hawkins, do you happen to know what time
Mr. Harry got home last night? Your mistress was asking Miss Lorne
earlier in the evening, and as he was with me until ten I shouldn't like
to contradict anything he may have said, _you_ know, should she conclude
to ask _me_. Know when he got back?"

"No, sir, that I don't. All I can tell you is that he wasn't home at
half-past twelve when I went to bed."

Cleek made a mental tally. Wasn't home at half-past twelve; and it was
at half-past eleven, according to Mr. Narkom, that the limousine arrived
at the head of Mulberry Lane and the first cry of murder was heard.

"Oh, all right," he said. "Don't worry him by mentioning that I asked.
See him myself when I come down." Cleek then passed by and went up the
stairs two steps at a time.

He did not stop at the second floor, however, but went up still another
flight, and then, stopping a moment to look about to see if anybody was
watching and to lean over the bannisters and listen if anybody was
following, went fleetly to Harry Raynor's den, passed in, and shut the
door behind him.

The place was quite black, but a touch of the electric button flooded it
with light, and showed him at once what he had come to seek. On a chair
close to the open bedroom door lay the clothes which young Raynor had
worn this afternoon, neatly folded, just as Hamer had placed them after
brushing and pressing, in case the young man should, by any chance,
elect to wear the same suit to-morrow.

Cleek moved rapidly to the chair, partly unfolded the coat and slipped
his hand into the inside breast pocket. A letter was there--_the_
letter, as he learned when he drew it out and opened it--typewritten by
what was clearly the hand of a novice, and setting forth just such a
message as young Raynor had stated.

"A bad move, Margot, and a little less carefully done than I should have
thought _you_ would have countenanced, knowing how clever and cunning
you are," was his mental comment as he read the thing. Then carefully
refolding it, he slipped it into his own pocket, snicked off the light,
and left the room.

In the lower passage he encountered Hamer.

"Begging pardon, Mr. Barch," the footman said, "but I was just going up
to see you, sir. Hawkins tells me that you were anxious to know at what
hour Mr. Harry returned home last night, and it happens that I know."

"Do you?" said Cleek. "That's jolly. At what hour did he return last
night, then?"

"He didn't return last night at all, sir. It was four this morning and
day just beginning to break, sir, when I heard a noise, and getting up,
looked out of my window, and there he was, a-coming up the drive very
cautious-like and acting as though he didn't want to be seen, as no
doubt he didn't, sir, considering that master and mistress didn't know
he was out at all."

"Didn't know he was out? How do you know that?"

"Because, sir, he said he was going to sit up and write letters when the
master gave the order for Johnston to lock up after Lady Katharine and
Miss Lorne returned from Clavering Close; and Mr. Harry he gave me a
half a crown to see that the door wasn't bolted before I went to bed, as
he intended to slip out and visit a friend. Of course I wouldn't have
said anything about it to anybody, sir, if Hawkins hadn't told me that
you said he was with you, which, of course, means that you were the
friend he was going to see, and not, as I'd supposed, the Lady in
Pink."




CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

WHEN FOUR AND FOUR MAKE EIGHT


In spite of himself Cleek's nerves gave an absolute jump, but being an
adept in the art of dissimulation, he laughed lightly and gave Hamer a
quizzical look.

"The Lady in Pink, eh?" he said cheerily. "You know more than your
prayers, I'm afraid, Hamer. Now what in the world made you think he'd be
calling on her last night, eh?"

"Well, sir, I can't exactly say what, unless it was a sort of putting
two and two together, sir. I'd seen him with her over Kingston way on my
day off, only she wasn't dressed in pink then, of course. And last
night, a deal earlier in the evening, just about the time Lady Katharine
and Miss Lorne was starting for Clavering Close it was, sir, I happens
to go round back and slip into Mulberry Lane for a pull at my pipe on
the sly--master never letting any of the servants smoke in the grounds,
and housekeeper objecting to pipes in the servants' hall--and just as I
comes out, there she was a-standing in the shadow of the trees, and so
close up to the wall that I nigh barged into her, sir."

"Who? The Lady in Pink?"

"Yes, sir. Took her by surprise, coming out in that unexpected manner,
and she just had time to throw a pink scarf she was wearing over her
face and hurry away, sir, before I could so much as apologize. But quick
as she was it didn't prevent me a-seeing of her, sir, and recognizing
her as the lady I'd seen Mr. Harry with on my day off, although, as I
say, sir, she was dressed quite different last night. Looked to me as
she was going to some sort of an evening affair: a dance or the theatre
or something of that sort; for she didn't have any hat on, and although
she was wearing a long black cloak that reached almost to the ground, I
could see when she made such a bolt to get out of sight that it was
lined with ermine, and that, under it, she wore a rose-pink evening
frock that she was holding up to keep from touching the ground."

Cleek did not so much as turn a hair, although beneath his placid
exterior something in the nature of a tumult was raging. And why not?
For here, undoubtedly, was the pink gauze dress that had left the
fragment on the nail head at Gleer Cottage last night; and here, too,
was a garment which, being turned inside out, would become in truth an
ermine cloak!

"Oho! Now I see how you came by the idea that Mr. Harry had gone out to
meet her, Hamer," he said with the utmost serenity. "Quite natural,
quite, in the circumstances; only, as it turns out, you were mistaken.
Mr. Harry spent the evening with me, and as we had the misfortune to
miss the Pink Lady altogether, we didn't see her at all last night,
worse luck. But, I say, that's letting you into something, isn't it?
Well, here's half a crown to pay you to forget all about it and to keep
your tongue behind your teeth. Understand?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Much obliged, sir. Won't breathe a word to a
living soul."

"Mind you don't, or you'll spoil sport and--wait! Stop a moment! Got
time to do something for me?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, sir. Plenty of time; no end of it this evening. Master
says he'll be up best part of the night reading, sir, and won't need me
at all to-night; so if it's to go anywhere or to carry any message for
you, sir, I've got hours at my disposal."

"Thanks, but I shan't require any more than a minute or two of your
time. I'll just scrawl a line on the leaf of my notebook, and--ph, blow!
Another fellow's evening clothes! And, besides, when I come to think, it
was in the pocket of the coat that confounded thief carried off. Slip
into the library and get me a sheet of paper and a bit of pencil, will
you? Look sharp!"

"Couldn't do that, sir--couldn't get what you want from the library, I
mean. Master's in there reading, sir, and he's locked the door and given
orders that nobody's to disturb him. But if a bit of typewriting paper
will do, sir----"

"Yes, certainly. The very thing. Can you get me a sheet or two?"

"As much as you care to have, sir. It's all in the hall cupboard along
with the typewriter itself. Master had them taken there when he'd
finished his book and let the typist go. I'll get you some in an
instant, sir."

He hurried away forthwith and was back presently with half a dozen
sheets of typewriting paper, a bit of pencil and an envelope, which
latter he had included on the off-chance of its being needed.

Walking a few paces away, Cleek rested the paper against the wall,
scribbled a few hasty words, sealed them up in the envelope, and then
handed it over to Hamer.

"Here, take this thing to Miss Lorne. You'll find her in the
drawing-room," he said, as he threw the remaining sheets which he had
employed as a sort of writing pad upon one of the hall chairs. "You can
attend to that litter afterward. Move sharp!"

He turned as he spoke, as if to go upstairs again, but the very instant
Hamer had disappeared he went fleetly back to the chair, caught up one
of the sheets of paper, folded it carefully, slid it into his pocket,
and passing swiftly and soundlessly down the hall, opened the door and
went out again into the night.

Hitherto all had been speculation, theory, guesswork, not irrefutable
facts; hitherto all clues had been mere possibilities, never actual
certainties. Now----

The curious smile travelled up his cheek, slipped down again, and left
his face as hard and as colourless as a mask of stone. He turned as he
rounded the angle of the house and glanced back to where the windows of
the dining-room cut two luminous rectangles in the fragrant,
flower-scented darkness; then his eye travelled farther on, and dwelt a
moment on the chinks of light that arrowed out from the curtained bay of
the library.

"Poor old chap! Poor, dear old chap!" he said between shut teeth.

The tightly woven fabric of last night's mystery had started to unravel.
In one little corner a flaw had suddenly sprung into existence, and
to-night the first loosened thread was in this man's hands.

He set his back to the lighted windows and forged on through the
darkness until the swerving path brought him to the little summerhouse
where, earlier, he had first met Ailsa, and stepping in, threw himself
into a rustic seat and bent forward with his elbows upon his knees and
his face between his hands: a grim and silent figure in the loneliness
and the darkness.

Five minutes passed--six, seven--and found him still sitting there,
still communing with his own thoughts, though it was now nearing ten
o'clock, and he had told Dollops to be at the wall angle to meet him at
nine. But suddenly his attitude changed; his hands dropped, his head
jerked upward, as a sleeping cat's does when it hears a gnawing mouse,
and he was on his feet, alert, eager, all alive, in a twinkling. Half a
minute later Miss Lorne stepped from the grass on to the gravel and
found him waiting for her in the arch of the summerhouse doorway.

"It is you at last, then, is it?" he said, reaching out to her through
the darkness. "Take my hand and I will guide you if you cannot see the
way clearly. I can't risk striking a match."

"It isn't necessary; I know the way quite well," she answered; but she
took his hand all the same. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting; I came
as quickly as I could. Mrs. Raynor had fallen asleep over her novel
while we were waiting for you and her son to finish your cigars and join
us in the drawing-room, but Hamer coming in with your note awoke her and
I could not get away so quickly as I desired."

"Was Mrs. Raynor interested in the note, then? Did she show any desire
to hear what it was about?" he questioned eagerly.

"Oh, no. She"--colouring under cover of the darkness--"she merely
laughed, and said that it was no more than she should have expected, but
she kept me talking so long that I nearly lost all patience, and your
note did puzzle me, Mr. Cleek. Why was it so important that you should
see me at once without Kathie knowing? Have you discovered anything
fresh?"

"Such strange things indeed have happened, Miss Lorne, since this
evening," he returned quietly, "that I think I shall need your help in
getting to the bottom of them. For one thing, it is now absolutely
certain that the murderer of the Common keeper came into these grounds
last night after he had committed the crime, and that when he gave
Narkom and his men the slip the fellow came directly to this place
unseen."

"Mr. Cleek!"

"Sh-h-h! Not so loud, please. And don't shake like that. Steady
yourself, for there is something yet more startling to come. There is
now positive proof, Miss Lorne, that Lady Katharine Fordham did leave
this house last night and go to Gleer Cottage."

"I won't believe it!" she flung out loyally. But she had scarcely more
than said it when his next words cut the ground from beneath her.

"A witness has turned up," he said; "a witness who saw her there and
spoke to her."

"A witness? Dear God! Who?"

"Geoffrey Clavering!"

"Geoffrey Clavering? Geoffrey?"

"Yes. He and Lady Katharine had an interview in the ruin this evening,
an interview which I overheard without either being aware of my
presence. That is what sent Lady Katharine to bed with a bad headache
just before dinner. Geoffrey Clavering accused her of murdering De
Louvisan and acknowledged that it was he himself who placed the two
lighted candles at the feet of the dead man's body."

She made no cry this time, no single sound. He knew that she was beyond
doing so, that she was struck to the very heart, and he made haste to
lessen her distress by telling her of Lady Katharine's denial and of the
whole circumstance as it happened. Then he told of his own discovery of
the buried clothing, his overhearing the interview, the manner in which
the lovers had parted, and, finally, of his own act in apprehending
young Clavering and then accepting his parole and sending him off to
London for the night.

"Why did you do that?" she questioned feebly, and was not satisfied even
when he explained his motive. "I will not even take his word against
Kathie's, but I could have told you that he speaks the truth when he
says that his stepmother's interest in him is so great it is very likely
that she did go out on the Common to look for him, and for the reason he
gave. If he were her own son she could not think more of him. She
absolutely idolizes him. He is not dearer to his father than he is to
her; and if he does not return to Clavering Close to-night, be sure she
will have the Common searched from end to end, and will go half out of
her mind when she does not find him."

Cleek took his chin between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed it
hard. This was somewhat of a facer, he was obliged to confess.

"You rather take the wind out of my sails," he said reflectively. "If
the boy spoke the truth, if the stepmother really does care like that,
why that eliminates her from the case altogether, and it isn't worth
while asking you to take the risk I alluded to in the note."

"What risk?"

"A very considerable one for a young lady in your position, should you
be seen. As I do not even know Lady Clavering by sight, I was going to
ask you if you would mind prowling about the Common in company with me,
that, if the lady put in an appearance, you might be able to identify
her for me. But of course, if it is so very certain that she will join
in the search for the boy, there's no necessity for doing such a thing."

"Pardon me, but I think, Mr. Cleek, there is more reason than ever," she
replied, "if only to ease her mind, you know. You might do that by
telling her that Geoff was unexpectedly called to town and that you were
on the way to the Close to tell them so. I don't in the least mind
taking the risk, as you call it, under those circumstances; it would be
a charity to do so, for I know her ladyship, and Sir Philip will worry.
Of course they will not think of worrying yet a while; it is much too
early; and as Geoff came over here to see Kathie they will think he is
remaining for the evening. But later, when it is past bedtime, when it
is getting on toward twelve o'clock, they will be half out of their
minds with anxiety. Oh, yes; I'll go with you willingly, this minute if
you like, in such a cause as that."

"How loyal you are! What a woman you are! What a friend!" said Cleek
admiringly. "Shall I tell you something? I have hope that one of those
friends will be wholly cleared before another day comes; that something
may happen to-night which will make Geoff Clavering the happiest of men
and you and Lady Katharine almost beside yourselves with joy. No, don't
ask me what it is just yet a while. I have dreams and fancies and odd
notions like other men sometimes; and I am a great believer in the
theory of Loisette that a likeness of events acting upon a weary brain
is apt to produce similar results in certain highly strung natures. But
will you walk with me as far as the angle of the wall on the other side
of the shrubbery, Miss Lorne? Dollops is waiting there for me. I have
something of great importance for him to do to-night, and I think you
will be interested in it. Will you come? Thank you! This way then,
please, as quietly as you can."

Taking her hand and keeping always on the grass and always in the dark,
where the shadows of the trees lay between them and the lighted windows
of the Grange, he led her on to something which even he had not foreseen
and never for a moment guessed.

At the angle of the wall he stopped and began to whistle softly
"Kathleen Mavourneen." As upon another occasion, before he had completed
the third bar, the wall door gaped open and flashed shut again and
Dollops was in the dark, tree-crowded enclosure with him. It was a
rather more excited Dollops than he had expected to find, however, for
Cleek had no more than just begun to apologize for his lateness when the
boy was on him like a pouncing cat and was cutting into his low-spoken
words in a panting sort of whisper:

"For Gawd's sake, gov'ner. Come quick, sir!" he said, as he laid a
tense, nervous grip on Cleek's arm. "'Nother door in the wall, sir.
Higher up where them mulberry trees is thickest. Woman prowlin' round,
gov'ner. Been prowlin' round this ten minutes past and been to that door
and tried it three times a'ready. Woman in a pink dress, sir, and a long
dark cloak reachin' almost to the ground!"

"Margot!" said Cleek in an exultant whisper. "Margot at last, by
George!"

Then, for the second time that night, he received a shock.

"If you mean that French Aparsh 'skirt' we run up against in the time of
the Red Crawl, gov'ner," interposed Dollops, "you're backin' the wrong
horse. It aren't _her_--aren't a bit like her, sir; no fear!"




CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

THE LADY AT THE GATE


Cleek was conscious of a sense of keen disappointment at this piece of
intelligence, it so completely upset all his calculation. Hitherto, the
bits of the puzzle had fitted nicely and bade fair to make a smooth and
flawless whole.

"Are you sure?" he whispered, laying a tense hand upon Dollops's arm.
"Don't jump to a conclusion without positive evidence. Are you _sure_?"

"Rath-_er_! Of course it's too dark to see her face, gov'ner; but when
she come to the gate the first time--she's been several, sir--it was a
deal lighter on account of the moon not bein' hid so much with them
blessed clouds, sir; and I could see then that she was wot you might
call a high-stepper--summink classy and up in the nines, gov'ner, and
had a way with her that you don't pick up if you aren't born to it. She
couldn't have been putting it on for effect, 'cause she didn't know
there was anybody there to see. Gone she is now, sir; slipped off over
the Common, and I lost sight of her among all them furze bushes, but
she'll come back, never fear. She's went away like that two or three
times before, but always come back and tried the door, and jist struck
her hands together and rocked back and forwards like she was half
beside herself when she found it locked and nobody there to meet her."

"And you didn't succeed in seeing her face at all?"

"No, sir. It never was light enough for me to do that. But even if it
had been, it wouldn't 'a' been no use, sir. She had summick that looked
like a white lace scarf wrapped all round her head and over her face.
But I was near enough to make out as she smelt summink beautiful of
voylits, and had on one of them shiny, silky-lookin' kind of
mackintoshes and a dress of pink silk."

A black mackintosh and a dress of pink silk! _Not_ a black cloak lined
with ermine! Not a dress of pink gauze! Of course Dollops was right in
his statement that it was not Margot; that fact alone proved it. So
there was a second woman who prowled about Wuthering Grange and
endeavoured to see somebody in secret, was there? Whom? Harry Raynor or
Lord St. Ulmer?

Clearly the one in the pink gauze--Margot beyond all possible
question--came to see Raynor, for Hamer had identified her as the woman
he had seen in that young man's company that day at Kingston. Who, then,
was this other woman in pink? And whom did _she_ come to see? What was
_her_ mission, her place in this elusive puzzle?

Come to think of it, he had been a fool to imagine when Dollops first
spoke of her that it could possibly be Margot. The pink dress itself
ought to have told him that. For although young Raynor had said that
the lady he knew as Mademoiselle Mignon de Varville nearly always
dressed in pink, Margot was no such fool as to prowl round this place
to-night in the identical frock she had worn at the time of the tragedy,
and from which that tiny scrap had been torn by the nail head in the
floor of Gleer Cottage.

True, nobody but Narkom and Ailsa and he himself knew, as yet, of the
finding of that betraying scrap, but---- Ah, well, you couldn't catch
Margot napping! She might not know when, how, nor _where_ that scrap had
been torn off, but _her_ shrewd eyes would detect the missing bit in the
skirt: she would be on to it like a cat on a mouse. He knew her methods,
knew her miscroscopic carefulness and attention to detail. What, then,
was this other woman's place in the puzzle? What was she after? Whom had
she come to see? He'd make it his business to find that out, and in
short order, too.

These things had travelled through Cleek's thoughts rapidly. It was
scarcely more than a moment after Dollops had last spoken when he
addressed the boy again.

"I've got something important on hand for you, as I told you, my lad,"
he said in a cautious whisper. "But, first, tell me: where is this other
door in the wall of which you speak, the one where the Pink Woman goes?"

"Jist about thirty feet farther up, gov'ner; there where them mulberry
trees is so blessed thick. You don't notice the place till you come
smack on to it, on account of furze bushes and ivy along the foot of the
wall. You can creep up till you're almost on it, though, without a body
seein' of you, 'specially if you go before the party comes back."

"Right you are," said Cleek in reply. "I'll act on that tip, my lad.
Now, then, listen here. There's a ruin in the grounds of this place, and
that ruin I particularly wish to have closely watched to-night. For one
thing, the man who murdered the Common keeper made his way to that place
and buried his victim's clothing there; and for another--oh, well, never
mind. That will keep for later. Miss Lorne"--he turned to Ailsa, who all
along had remained silent and closely huddled back in the shadow of the
wall-angle and the trees--"Miss Lorne, we shall have to defer our stroll
on the Common until later, I'm afraid. I shall have to look into the
matter of this mysterious woman in pink before we can give any further
thought to Lady Clavering and her possible anxiety over her stepson. In
the meantime, will you, as silently and as expeditiously as you can,
steal back through the grounds and show Dollops the way to the ruin?
Afterward, you and I can meet again here. And you, Dollops, listen
closely to what I say. The chances are that some one, either man or
woman, will secretly visit that ruin to-night. Keep yourself well hidden
and your eyes wide open. If a woman comes, slip away from the place as
quietly as you can, come round to the shrubbery near the front entrance
to the house, and hoot like an owl three times in succession; then lie
low until I come out and join you. But if, on the other hand, it should
be a man who puts in an appearance--here, lay hold of this pair of
handcuffs--look sharp! At all costs, at any hazard, get those things on
him and then blow your police whistle as a signal to me. I'll be with
you like a shot. Now, then, cut along with you. Show him the way, Miss
Lorne, and be as quiet as you can in your movements, both of you."

"Mice'll be fools to us, sir," whispered Dollops.

Cleek waited a minute to let them get well on their way, then stooped in
the darkness, crept to the wall door, opened it cautiously, and went
down on all-fours upon the strip of grass and the row of furze bushes
that flanked that wall upon the outer side and made a narrow black alley
between it and the crowded mulberry trees.

The moon had ridden farther than ever into the depths of the thick,
slow-moving clouds, and the darkness was almost opaque. To the left the
great Common stretched out, a thing of gloom and shadows, blotted here
and there with deeper black where the furze clumps were thickest or the
full-leaved tree reached up above the skyline. On the right, the blank
wall rose, flat, smooth as your hand, so tall it shut out even the
lights in the windows of the Grange; and between these lay Mulberry
Lane, a black funnel leading on to deeper darkness and the shapelessness
of crowded trees.

In the shadows of that narrow alley made by the wall and the furze
bushes Cleek crouched a moment and listened before he ventured to move
another inch. Not a sound, not the merest ghost of a sound. If the woman
were in the immediate neighbourhood, she was keeping extremely quiet;
therefore it behoved him to progress with infinite caution. Inch by
inch, on hands and knees, he moved up that narrow alley, stopping every
now and then to prick up his ears and listen breathlessly. But upon
every occasion he found the stillness yet unbroken and no sign or sound
of breathing life anywhere about him.

Two minutes passed--three--five--half a dozen, and still all was as it
had been in the beginning. By this time this slow, cautious creeping had
carried him over two thirds of the distance, and he was now within ten
or eleven feet of the hidden gate; and still no sound or sign of the
woman's return. Indeed, no sound of any sort until, with one hand
outstretched and one knee lifted to edge forward yet a trifle more, he
paused abruptly, sucked in his breath, and huddled softly down, becoming
but a mere dark heap on the damp, dark grass.

A sound had come at last! The unmistakable sound of some one moving
cautiously through close-pressing branches and crowded leaves.

It was so faint a thing that ears less keen than his might not have
detected it. Yet, at the first rustle of the first stirred leaf he
caught the hiss of it and knew it was not the woman that made it; for
the prickly foliage of furze makes no rustling sound when a passing
body brushes it, and there was nothing upon the outer side of the wall
_but_ furze that was low enough to be brushed in passing.

Clearly, then, the sound was from the other side of the wall, from
within the grounds of the Grange! Some one was coming to keep the
tryst--some one who, evidently, had been delayed past an agreed time,
otherwise the woman would not have made all those anxious pilgrimages to
the door and been so upset when she found it still locked and nobody
there to meet her.

Well, this was a stroke of good fortune at all events; for if by any
chance the woman did not return there would at least be the satisfaction
of discovering----A sound interrupted: a cat's mew to the life. And from
the shadow of a thick furze hedge on the Common side of the lane it was
answered.

"Yes, I am here," a shrill, eager voice called out in a sharp, keen
whisper. "Oh, come quickly or I shall go insane!"

Almost instantly there was a rustle of silken garments, a patter of
footsteps, the swift moving of a figure across the lonely lane, followed
by the rattle and click of a key in a spring lock, the creak of an
in-swung gate moving upon its hinges, and with these things the sound of
an excited man whispering warningly, "Sh-h-h!" as the woman swept down
upon him in a state bordering on absolute hysteria.

"Oh, if you could but know what agonies I have suffered, what horrors
of suspense I have endured!" she said in a wailing sort of whisper, "I
feared that you might not be able to come, after I have risked so much
to be here; but when I heard the cat's mew, I wonder that I did not
scream."

And again the man's whispered "Sh-h-h!" sounded, but fuller than ever of
excitement and fear.

But Cleek scarcely heard it. Other and more startling things were
claiming his thoughts. A scent of violets was in his nostrils; a sting
of bitter recollection was in his memory. What was it the dying Common
keeper had said? "All shiny pale green satin, sir, with sparklin' things
on her bosom, and smellin' like a field of voylits in the month of May!"

He did not need Ailsa Lorne to point her out to him after this. He knew
without anybody telling him; knew in that first moment, as surely as he
ever lived to know in moments yet to come, that this veiled and
night-hidden woman who stood there by the garden door keeping tryst with
a man was she who had been out on the Common last night: Sir Philip
Clavering's wife!

And the man she was meeting, this crafty fellow who hung back in the
shadow of the solid gate, who and what was he? What part was his in this
grim riddle of death?

It was Lady Clavering herself who gave the answer.

"Oh, it is so easy to say that," she went on, answering his warning
"Sh-h-h" in a whisper that was shrill with agony and despair, "but the
dread of shrieking will be on me forever after this, the horrible dread
that if I do not cry out in my waking moments I may unconsciously do so
in my sleeping ones. I know it was mad of me to do this thing, to take
this dreadful risk in coming here; but I couldn't sleep until I saw you,
until I had told you that I know! I think I knew it yesterday; I think I
foresaw it when you wrote and warned me, and if I had not been a coward,
if fate had not sent him to Clavering Close last night and let me see
that it was written he should come back into my life again----"

Her voice snapped off and failed her for an instant, sinking down to a
dull, whimpering sound like the wail of an animal that is beaten; then
it came back to her and she spoke again.

"I knew you would kill him, I knew that you would!" she said in that
horrible, excited whisper. "I felt it in my soul the moment he looked up
and recognized me, and I knew what I--what you--had to dread. It was
that that drove me out on the Common. I wanted to find you; I wanted to
stop you. But it was too late, too late! I know that you did it for my
sake as much as for your own, but the thought of the thing, the
_thought_ of it! If anything can palliate that, if God can in any way
excuse it, it will be that you got the letters; that you tore them up,
burnt them, did anything in the world but let them fall into that woman
Margot's hands! Oh, did you? I cannot sleep until I know. For if you did
not----"

Here her voice snapped again, but for quite another reason this time, a
reason which made Cleek groan inwardly.

Far down at the other end of the dark alley where he lay breathlessly
listening, a faint rustling sound had suddenly risen--the sound of some
one creeping gently toward him. He knew and understood what was
happening, what an unkindly blow fate had dealt him. Ailsa was
returning. She had taken his expression, "Afterward you and I can meet
here again," to mean after she had conducted Dollops to the ruin, not
after Cleek's own work was done; and lo! here she was returning at this
inopportune moment. She was creeping along on tiptoe, it was true, and
moving as stealthily and as silently as she knew how, but in that utter
stillness, with silk skirts that brushed the wall as she advanced----

The end came abruptly. There was just one second of breathless
listening, then without a word the two people at the open doorway
parted. Lady Clavering jumped back, darted across the lane, and vanished
in the blackness of the Common; the wall door closed, the spring lock
clicked, and the sound of a man's running echoed faintly from the other
side. No time this for craft and finesse. Here was a call for action, a
demand for muscle, not brain. If that man was a member of this
household, if fleet running could do it, if any man who should be under
that roof was _not_ there----

Cleek was on his feet like a flash. He scudded down the lane openly, he
ducked into the door and vanished into the gardens without so much as a
word to Ailsa, he struck through the plantation and made a short cut for
the lawn and the front door, and with jaw squared and teeth shut, ran
and ran and ran.




CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE MOUSETRAP


Cleek covered the distance between the wall angle and the door of the
Grange in a fraction over a minute, and he had neither heard any one nor
seen any one on the way. He went up the steps two at a time, and,
swinging into the hallway, made hot foot for the dining-room. An inward
push on the door and all that lay beyond it was in view.

The lights were still burning, the decanter and the glasses still _en
evidence_, and, what was still more to the point, there lay Mr. Harry
Raynor with his arms sprawled out over the tablecloth and his head
between them, snoring away in a semi-drunken stupor, with his mouth wide
open and his flushed face a little less attractive in slumber than it
was in wakefulness.

Not he, then!

Cleek dashed out of the room and flew upstairs to Lord St. Ulmer's room.
No time for craft and cunning this. At whatever risk, at whatever cost,
he must assure himself of where _that_ man was at this particular
moment; and, even if he had to break down the door to get in---- The
possibility ceased to exist while it was yet taking shape in his mind.

For he had reached the second landing, had come within three feet of
Lord St. Ulmer's room, when he heard a voice from within it say, "Then
if there is nothing more, your lordship, allow me to thank your lordship
and to say good-night"--and was in time to see the door open and
Johnston, the butler, come out. More than that, to look past him and see
the figure of a man lying in bed with his back to the door, his face to
the wall, and one pajama-clad arm lying outside the bedclothing.

Not St. Ulmer either, eh? Then who the dickens----He turned and made a
bolt for the staircase again.

"Anything I can get you, Mr. Barch?" inquired Johnston. "I've just
returned from town, sir, so if there's anything Hamer has neglected to
do in my absence----"

"No, thanks, don't want anything!" flung back Cleek, not waiting for him
to finish; and then cut downstairs again in such hot haste that his feet
beat an audible tattoo upon the padded steps and gave such evidence of
excitement that he was not at all surprised when the key of the library
click-clacked sharply, the door opened, and General Raynor appeared.

"What's this? What's the meaning of all this confounded hubbub when I
expressly said"--he began--and then, looking up and seeing Cleek,
stopped short and changed his tone. "Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Barch; I
didn't know it was you! Is there anything wrong?"

"No, General," replied Cleek. "Sorry if I disturbed you. Just looking
for----" Then he, too, stopped short and changed his tone. For of a
sudden his ear had caught the shrilling note of a distant police
whistle, and excitement swayed him.

"Dollops, by Jupiter!" he cried unthinkingly. "Got him! Got him, the
little brick!" and without another word he faced about, ran down the
hall, and pelted off through the grounds in the direction of the ruin.

And all the time the police whistle was shrilling, and Dollops's voice
was sounding, and the darkness was full of scuffling sounds. For the
noise of the whistle had disturbed the servants, and Cleek was hard put
to it to get to the scene of the uproar before them. He did, however;
but they were close upon his heels and as excited as he when, upon
nearing the ruin, they came upon two struggling figures linked together
and careering about like a couple of fighting tomcats.

"Here yer are, gov'ner; ketched him foul, the rotter," sang out Dollops
as his master came scudding up with all that troop of servants pounding
along in his wake. "Look! See!"

Then an electric torch clicked, and lo, there he was, with one end of a
pair of handcuffs snapped on his own wrist and the other locked fast
upon that of a distinguished-looking man in a spring overcoat and
evening clothes.

A stranger to Cleek this man, but not to the servants of Wuthering
Grange; and it came as a shock when he heard them speak his name.

It was Sir Philip Clavering.

The man's identity had no sooner been made known than he broke forth
with a storm of indignant protest.

"What is the meaning of this outrage, and who is this young person?" he
demanded with heat. "As some of you have good enough eyes to recognize
me, perhaps you will have good enough wits to go for your master and let
me get to the bottom of this extraordinary proceeding as soon as
possible. I should like to know what on earth this means. Ah, Raynor, is
that you?" he added, as he caught sight of the General forcing his way
to the front. "Glad you've put in an appearance. Perhaps you can throw
some light upon this affair. Who's this fellow?" twitching his head
toward Dollops. "What's he doing here? And what is the meaning of this
astonishing business, if you please?"

"Good heavens above, how do you expect I am going to know? Never saw him
in all my life," exclaimed the General in bewilderment. "Look here,
young man, what's the meaning of this? Who are you? What are you doing
in this place? Speak up.

"Name's Dollops," replied that youth serenely. "Business: Scotland Yard.
Lay: Doin' wot I'm told by my gov'ner. Boss: Mr. 'Amilton Cleek,
_Es_-quire. All other questions I refers to him."

Cleek! The name produced universal excitement. There was not one person
present that had not, at one time or another, heard it and did not
recollect of what it was the synonym. It stood for the Law and the
coming of the Law! And last night a man had been done to death within a
gunshot of this house.

"It is too absurd, too absurd!" said Sir Philip, after a moment,
speaking with a little shaky laugh and looking Dollops up and down with
half-contemptuous interest. "I hope, Raynor, that you----Good heavens
above! What asinine mistakes the law does sometimes make. And it is all
so easily explained. Superintendent Narkom of the Yard will speak for me
if it is necessary. There can, by no shadow of possibility, be anything
to connect me with that abominable case."

It was here that Cleek chose to take part in the affair, and with a
warning glance at Ailsa, who had come up and joined the gathering,
stepped forward and addressed Sir Philip.

"My dear Sir Philip Clavering, allow me to introduce myself," he said
suavely, serene in the confidence that Dollops, hearing, would take the
cue and act accordingly. "My name is Barch; I am at present a guest of
the General's, and I am taking this liberty because I, too, happen to be
a friend of Mr. Narkom's. I have heard him speak of you time and again,
and always with the warmest interest. Perhaps, then, if we question this
young man----" He turned to Dollops, and Dollops looked at him and
never turned a hair! "Boy, what's all this thing about? How came you in
this place, and for what reason?"

"Come in by the garden door, sir, 'arf an hour or so back. Told off by
my gov'ner to lie low and wait for somebody who might come a-sneakin'
about, meanin' to break into the house, I suppose, and with his eye on
the plate."

"I see! Well, better take my advice, my lad, and unlock those handcuffs,
and set this gentleman at liberty before they do come, or you're likely
to have a sharp talking to from Superintendent Narkom. By the way, what
induced you to snap them on him in the first place? You surely do not
expect us to believe that a gentleman of Sir Philip Clavering's standing
was acting suspiciously? What was he doing, if you please, that you
should have gone to such a length?"

"Sneakin' along and feelin' about the bushes like he was huntin' for
somethin'," said Dollops as he unlocked the handcuffs and put them in
his pocket.

"He is quite right in that, Mr. Barch. I _was_ looking for something,"
said Sir Philip, wiping his wrists with his handkerchief, as though to
remove something of the infection with which he felt he had come into
contact. "As a matter of fact, I was looking for my way. I had come into
the grounds from a point where I had never before entered them, and I
was endeavouring to find a path which would lead me to the house. As it
was as black as a pocket, nothing was left me but _to_ feel my way. I
got hopelessly muddled up, and was just telling myself that I would have
done better to make my call in orthodox fashion and by the regular
entrance, when, the first thing I knew, this enterprising young man
jumped out of the dark and pounced on me like a monkey. You see, it was
this way, Raynor," glancing up at the General, who was looking at him
fixedly, and with a curious ridge between his brows, as if, for some
reason, he only half believed him, though for years they had been tried
and trusted friends; "I was in such a dickens of a hurry to see you that
when I came off the Common and found that wall door open----"

"Open? What wall door open?" interposed the General agitatedly.

"The one at the angle of the wall, where your boundary flanks the waste
land between here and the right-of-way across the fields."

"And you found that door open? _Open?_ Why, man alive, it has been
locked and screwed up for years."

"Has it, indeed? Well, it was open to-night, then. As I was saying, when
I found that open, I thought that, possibly, it might be a short cut to
the house, so I dashed in and got into this abominable fix."

"But why did you wish to take a short cut to the house, Clavering? Was
there any reason for such a thing?"

"None but that I was anxious; that I am anxious still, when it comes to
that. About my boy, Geoff, you know."

"About Geoff?"

"Yes, you know how foolish Marise and I are over him. He left to come
over here early this afternoon, and said he would not be long, but he
did not return even for dinner. Of course Marise was disappointed, for
she had said that after so much gloom and depression we must do all that
we could to brighten him up and to appear merry, and even went to the
length of getting out a pink silk frock which he had always admired,
when she dressed for dinner to-night. She was distressed when he didn't
come, and anxiety brought on a splitting headache, so bad, in fact, that
she went to her room to lie down and rest. Later, Celine came down to
tell me she had taken a sleeping draught and there was every likelihood
of her sleeping until morning. I was glad when I heard that, for I knew
how she would worry if she were awake and the boy did not return at a
reasonable hour; and when it crept along to be nine o'clock and after, I
don't mind confessing that I began, myself, to worry."

"Why?" said Cleek, dropping in an unexpected query.

"My dear Mr. Barch, you wouldn't ask that if you knew what a bond of
affection exists between my son and me," Sir Philip replied. And Cleek
heard, or fancied that he heard, the General give a sort of sigh, as if
he were contrasting this man's heir with his own. "Besides, after that
mysterious and abominable affair last night--after a man had been
murdered in this identical neighbourhood, to have my boy out and
alone---- Oh, well, you can understand. I got a bit nervous--a bit
dotty, if you like. I imagined all sorts of things, and when it got to
be half-past nine I set out to walk across the Common to meet him. I
didn't, however, so I suppose he is still here; and in the enjoyment of
Lady Katharine's society and the hope that has so unexpectedly returned
to them both, has forgotten all about the time and the probable worrying
of his silly old dad. That's why I was so anxious to get to the house as
quickly as possible, Raynor, and why I was foolish enough to take what I
fancied might be a short cut. I wanted to be certain that the boy is
still here; I wanted to walk back with him when he goes home. No harm
can possibly come to him then."

Not once during all this had General Raynor's eyes left the man's face,
nor had the faint pallor and the curiously tense look departed from his
own. He stood looking at Sir Philip in intense and unbroken silence, his
lips tightly set, a worried look in his fixed eyes, as if he were trying
to believe this thing and found it difficult to do so. Now, however, he
turned to the assembled servants, ordered them back to the house, made
one or two uneasy turns up and down for a distance of three or four
yards, then halted suddenly and looked into Sir Philip's face again.

"Clavering," he said in his abrupt, direct manner, going straight to the
point, as was his custom. "Clavering, are you sure that you are telling
the truth about this? Are you sure? Will you swear, will you give me
your word of honour, that it was to seek your boy, that and that alone,
which brought you to this place to-night?"

"Raynor! By the Lord Harry, sir----"

"No, don't fly into a passion. Anger is no answer, and an answer is what
I want. A man of honour responds promptly to an appeal to that honour;
and I am asking you on yours if you are telling the truth?"

"On my word of honour, then, I am!" said Sir Philip indignantly.

"And you will swear by it that you came only to meet your son? That you
had no other purpose in coming whatsoever?"

"Yes, decidedly I will swear it. Are you taking leave of your senses,
Raynor? What other reason _could_ I have?"

An expression of intense relief drove that other and darker look from
the General's face and eyes.

"I don't know," he said, fetching a deep sigh; "but I am glad to have
your word for it, glad to say that I accept it. Still, why should I not
ask? Why should I not question everything, any statement, in the face of
to-night?"

"I don't know what you are driving at, I am sure."

"Don't you? Then let me tell you: your boy is not here. He left this
afternoon; came and stayed but a little time, and left so early that
there has been time and to spare for him to get back to Clavering Close
a dozen times over. On the top of that, you tell me that a door in my
garden wall, a door that has been locked up, and screwed up, and even
rusted up, for years was found standing open. And on top of that again,
an emissary of the police, of Scotland Yard, of that man Cleek, is here
in these grounds. Who opened that door? What brings the police to
Wuthering Grange? That is what mystifies me; that is what I want to
know. What brings the police here, of all places in England? Do you
know, Clavering? Do you know, Miss Lorne? Do you know, Mr. Barch?"

"Not the ghost of an idea, I assure you, General," said Cleek serenely.
"Never knew the beggars were here until this young person declared
himself. But, yes, by Jove! We'll have 'em here in full force presently,
I'm afraid, if those sounds go for anything. Coming in answer to that
blessed whistle, I'll lay my life. Here, boy!"--this to Dollops--"nip
off as quickly as you can, and head them off. Tell 'em it's a mistake;
tell 'em you didn't mean to blow that whistle for assistance. Move
sharp; we don't want that lot in here, or---- Hullo! I say, what's the
matter, Sir Philip? A bad turn, is it? Upon my soul, you look as white
as a sheet!"

It was no exaggeration. The moon, coming suddenly out from behind the
clouds at that moment, showed him leaning heavily against a tree and
looking pale as a dead man.




CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

THE FLY IN THE OINTMENT


"My boy?" Sir Philip Clavering made answer, in a wrung voice, a voice
that clearly showed where all his thoughts were, and that he had had
ears for nothing, care for nothing, heart for nothing, from the moment
he had been told that Geoff had left the Grange hours and hours ago.
"What has become of my boy? Where did he go? What has happened to him?
He never came back! He never came back!"

The agony of the man was so intense, so apparent, that Cleek's heart
ached for him, and he made haste to spare him any greater pain.

"Oh, as for that, Sir Philip, you needn't worry an atom," he said. "I
think Miss Lorne has something to tell you about him, and just where he
went, and why he hasn't returned. In fact, I know she has, for he left a
message with her. Went to town on some special matter for Lady Katharine
Fordham, didn't he, and is likely to be very late indeed in returning?"

"Yes," said Ailsa, taking her cue and remembering. "In fact, it is a
matter that may keep him so late it is possible he will stop in town
until morning, Sir Philip. He asked me to send word over to you and
Lady Clavering to relieve you of any possible anxiety; and, indeed, I
should have done so long ago, only----"

"Only that I volunteered to walk over the Common and back with her if
she'd carry the message herself instead of sending it by some one,"
supplemented Cleek, coming to the rescue. "And then, like an idiot, I
sat so long after dinner with young Mr. Raynor that I forgot all about
it until she sent me in word. We were going to start at once, and would
have done so but for this hubbub. Happened to think, however, that as it
was late and the Common very lonely, it would be wisest to carry
something for protection in case of necessity, so ran up to my room to
get a pistol I had given me. That's why you heard me making such a
clatter in running up and down stairs, General, when you popped out of
the library and asked what was up."

The General made no reply, but the expression of his mouth and eyes told
plainly what he thought of a man who had to rely upon firearms for
protection in case of assault by footpads. He gave his shoulders a
significant twitch.

But Sir Philip was too greatly relieved by the good news of his son's
safety to give thought to other details.

"You can't think what a load you've taken off my mind, Mr. Barch," he
said. "I can go home now feeling satisfied. My mind is at rest."

"I wish mine were, then," put in the General. "But to have one's place
invaded--and secretly invaded--by the police! God! If I only knew what
it means. That thing last night, and now this! Who under this roof has
fallen under suspicion--_could_ fall under suspicion? The thing is as
mysterious as it is appalling. Clavering, you know this man Narkom. You
must introduce him to me; he must tell me upon what evidence, what
pretext, this thing has been done. The police do not take action without
_some_ shadow of reason, some good cause, for what they do; and that my
garden door should be secretly unfastened that one of their spies may
enter these grounds---- It is abominable. Why didn't he apply to me for
permission to enter the place if he thought it necessary to do so? I
have my rights as well as any other subject of the king. Why, then,
should he break open my garden door without warrant or privilege and
send his spies in here?"

"Maybe he didn't, General." It was Cleek that spoke. "Come to think of
it, the explanation of that chap who claimed to be attached to the
police was rather fishy, and he was precious sharp about cutting his
lucky when I sent him off. Besides, why _should_ he take orders from
_me_, anyway?"

"My dear Mr. Barch----"

"Catch the point? We've had one sneak thief visit the Grange already,
General. What's the odds that they are not identical? We never knew how
the first one managed to get into the place nor where he went when he
got out of it. Well, then, what about that garden door being the answer?
Why shouldn't it have been he that unfastened it? Why shouldn't this
business of pouncing upon Sir Philip and making an outcry be a clever
dodge to make a safe getaway?"

The General looked up, brightening, as if a load had been lifted from
his shoulders, and breathed a deep sigh of relief.

"I hadn't thought of that, Mr. Barch," he said, caught by the
feasibility of an argument backed up so plausibly. "We did have a thief
pay us a visit earlier in the evening, to be sure; and, as you say, very
possibly---- Yes, yes, it must be so. There could be no shadow of a
reason for the police coming here, because---- Eh? What's that, Hamer?"
facing round as he heard his name mentioned, and discovering the second
footman, who had just put in an appearance. "Telephone, did you say?"

"Yessir. Somebody asking to speak to Mr. Barch, sir; and I requested him
to hold the line while I came to call the gentleman."

"Somebody calling for me over the telephone?" inquired Cleek, with
sudden deep interest. "You are sure it is for me, Hamer? Sure that the
name was Barch?"

"Yessir, quite. Mr. Philip Barch was the name given, and I was to say
that it's a most important message."

Cleek turned and looked inquiringly at the General.

"Yes, certainly, Mr. Barch, certainly," he said, replying to that look.
"The instrument is in the library, which opens directly off my study.
Hamer will show you the way."

"No, I will," put in Ailsa. "I shall have to be running up to see how
Kathie is, and it will be on my way. Good-night, Sir Philip. Good-night,
General. Come, Mr. Barch, I'll show you the way." She went with him out
of the moonlight in the open to the dark of the shrubbery and the trees
that shut in the path to the house.

"Tell me," she whispered eagerly as they hurried along. "Are you nearer
the end? Is the solution anywhere in sight?"

"I think so," he answered.

"Oh!" with a sharp intaking of the breath. "You found it out at the
garden door, then? You saw the woman and you saw the person she came to
meet?"

"To the contrary, I saw neither. I merely heard the woman speak. It was
a voice I had never heard before. The man said nothing, and never once
showed himself. He might have done both but that they heard you
returning and separated like a shot. But please, we will not speak of
that at present. Wait for me by the shrubbery; I'll tell you a lot when
I meet you there. Just now I am anxious to know who it is that is
telephoning to 'Mr. Philip Barch' and for what. Only two persons outside
of Dollops and yourself know that name and whose identity it covers.
One is Geoffrey Clavering, the other Mr. Narkom. No, please! Don't ask
me any questions now, I can't stop to answer them. But this you may know
if it will ease your mind at all: Lady Katharine Fordham never had
anything to do with it, although she was there. Oh, yes, she was, Miss
Lorne; for all your protestations, I tell you that she was! And, what is
more, I know the man, although I do not as yet know the motive!"

"Oh! You found it out, then, at the garden door?"

"No, I did not. I daren't stop to explain, but believe me, Miss Lorne, I
begin to see light. I only wonder at one thing: What makes Sir Philip
Clavering use black cosmetic? Sheer vanity, I suppose."

"Does he?" cried Ailsa, in surprise.

"Yes, on his moustache. It's wonderful why some of these old men hate
gray moustaches so. Wait for me, I'll be back as quickly as possible,"
and he dived into the house to answer the mysterious telephone call.

Cleek went straight to the library, flashed an inquiring look all round
it as he closed the door, made sure that nobody else was there, and
walking to the telephone took up the receiver and put it to his ear.

"Hallo!" he said somewhat cautiously; then, after a moment: "Yes,
Barch," he added in response to a query from the other end. "What's
that? Speak a little louder, please; I can't hear clearly. And, I say, I
don't recognize your voice. Who are you?"

The voice in question underwent a complete change, showing that the
owner of it had, in the first instance, carefully altered it until sure
of his man, and then over the wire came promptly the two words: "Geoff
Clavering!"

"Eh, what?" exclaimed Cleek, not a little surprised by this revelation,
and not doubting the truth of the statement for an instant now that the
real voice of the speaker sounded. "Why, what the dickens-- I say, where
are you?"

"In London, at the Savoy Hotel, speaking from one of the booths. Got
here twenty minutes ago, and as soon as I registered and got a room, I
hunted up one of the clerks who knew me by sight, and then came in here
and rang you up."

"Why?"

"I wanted you to know that I'd kept faith with you; that I really have
come to London as I promised. If you doubt it, there's the clerk to
prove it any time you like."

"Why, you ripping young---- By George! Well, well! See here: as open
confession's good for the soul, let me say that I don't doubt it, and,
what's more, I never did doubt it, you splendid young pepper pot!"

"Thanks very much, that's jolly nice of you. But listen here,
Mr.--er--Barch. Can't you get word to my pater somehow? He'll worry
himself dotty when midnight comes on and I don't turn up. And I say: how
long have I got to stop up here, anyhow? I hear there's a down train at
four in the morning. Can't I take that, and put on end to the dad's
anxiety as soon as possible?"

"He hasn't any anxiety on the subject whatsoever, my boy. Miss Lorne and
I have seen him, and trumped up a story to cover everything. He doesn't
expect you back until morning. But---- Would you like a pleasant
surprise? Well, you can come back at once if you like and get it. Take
your own time, however; only be sure that you turn up here not later
than twelve, and are waiting just outside the lodge gates of the Grange
when I go there to meet you. What's that? Yes, quite satisfied, quite.
She did come out on the Common to-night, and---- What's that? To look
for you? Yes, of course. What other motive could she have, you silly
fellow? She came out, and your father came out; and--listen and catch
this, Clavering"--sinking his voice--"for it is very important. You
said, did you not, that last night when Lady Katharine took you into
that house she told you she would show you something that would 'light
you back to the land of happiness'?"

"Yes. Those were her words. Why?"

"Well, you be outside the lodge gates at the time I want you, my boy,
and I'll show both of you the way to that land to-night." And he hung up
the receiver before Geoff could say a word.

"The soul of honour, just as I knew he was, the young beggar!" he said,
putting his thoughts into words for once in a way. "A son for any man
to be proud of, that!" And chuckling a little, he prepared to leave the
room.

But as if the sight of that room, with its swinging French window, its
reading desk with an open book upon it and an easy chair beside, brought
back to his memory that other son and that other father, the smile faded
suddenly from his lips, his jaw squared, and a pucker gathered between
his level brows.

What a difference between the two sons of those two men he had left out
there in the grounds! The one clean-lived, clean-minded, honour's very
self. The other a wastrel, a sot, a liar, the consort of evil women and
disreputable men, a poor, paltry worm living in an oak tree's shade.

And to-night the General had wondered why the police should be coming to
Wuthering Grange; what trail from last night's tragedy led to the
threshold of this house! Yet, while he sat here reading, his own son----
Heigho! "'Tis a mad world, my masters," a mad, mad world indeed. Poor
old chap! Poor, blind, unsuspecting old chap, sitting here all alone and
reading! What was it he was reading while his unnatural son was
slandering him to a stranger?

He walked to the reading desk and bent over the open book that lay upon
it, with a pamphlet beside it and a litter of loose papers all round.

"Fruit Culture," by Adolph Bonnaise. And the pamphlet? He took it up to
look at the title page, for the half of it was smothered under loose
papers, one or two of which his act sent fluttering to the floor. The
April number of _The Gardener and Fruit Grower_. Reading of flowers and
of fruits, of Nature's good and beautiful things, and all the while----
Yes, indeed, Shakespeare was right. It _is_ a mad world! Worse than mad:
it is wicked! And the sons of men are the wickedest things in it!

Oh, well, he mustn't stand wasting time here in moralizing and mooning.
Ailsa was waiting.

The papers he had disturbed lay on the floor, close to a half-filled
scrap basket. Unimportant things enough they were: seedsmen's circulars,
soap advertisements, tailors' announcements, all the litter of
loose-leaf insets that are thrust between the covers of monthly
magazines; quite unimportant, and not worth the trouble he was taking to
gather them up and replace them upon the desk. But---- Oh, well, he
shouldn't like the General to think that when he came into the library
to use his telephone he'd been cad enough to look over his papers; so,
of course--That all of them? Any drop into the waste basket by chance?
Perhaps that bit of white paper with the red blob of sealing wax on each
end might have fallen with the rest. He picked it out of the basket,
turned it over, and decided that it hadn't; smelt it, smiled one of his
curious one-sided smiles, and flung it back into the basket.

Even an old soldier may have his foibles and his weaknesses. It is on
record that Bonaparte had a secret love of bonbons; that Washington had
a passion for barley sugar; and that Drake slept always with anise
seeds within easy reach.

He turned away as he tossed the paper back, walked to the door, opened
it, and stepped out. The staircase down which he had run in such hot
haste at the sound of Dollops's whistle was before him. He stopped an
instant and looked up it, then nodded his head in the direction of Lord
St. Ulmer's quarters, and if he had put his thoughts into actual words,
would have said this:

"I'll know your part in it, and I'll see your face by hook or by crook
before this night is over; I promise you that, my man!" Then he turned
again, and went down the hall to the dining-room.

Harry Raynor was still there, lying with his arms sprawled out upon the
table and his head sunk between them.

Cleek stood still and looked at him. Of a certainty, the man had moved
since last he saw him; but whether that movement had been merely the
unconscious stirring of a sleeping man or the fellow had been up and
about in the meantime, it was impossible to say.

Cleek, taking no chances, closed and locked the door, and assuming once
more his "Barch" tone and manner of expression, advanced to his side,
shook him, and said:

"I say, Raynor, don't be a howling ass! Buck up and don't sleep the
whole blessed night away. I'm jolly lonesome."

Young Raynor went on snoring serenely, and neither answered nor moved.

Still Cleek was taking no chances. He repeated the operation with
greater force and louder spoken words, and finding it produced no
effect, finally shook the man so hard that his head lolled over on one
arm and let the hidden face come into sight.

The jaw hung loose, the scooped cheeks and pendulous lip gleamed pale as
ivory, and the whites of his eyes shone like narrow bands of silver
through the slits of their half-closed lids.

There was no question whatsoever regarding the man's condition.
Satisfied now, Cleek felt his pulse, pushed up one of his eyelids and
examined the eye itself. The pupil was largely dilated, the white
suffused considerably, and both were slightly filmed.

"Hum-m-m!" he breathed conclusively, then turned from the man and looked
at the decanters and glasses on the littered table. "Port, Brandy,
Benedictine, Scotch. To be sure! to be sure! Who is to know the taste of
a mere guest in the matter of his after-dinner drink? So, if it is put
in _all_----" He took up the decanters one by one, sampled their
contents in turn, and smiled one of his queer crooked smiles when he set
the last one down.

"Clever, very clever, my friend," he said. "And who was to tell you that
the guest would not drink at all?"

Then he turned on his heel suddenly and left the room.




CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THE OPEN WINDOW


He had scarcely taken a dozen steps down the hallway, however, before he
encountered General Raynor, who had just then reentered the house by the
front door.

His rugged old face wore a look of deep anxiety, as though the exciting
scene through which he had so recently passed bore heavily upon his
spirits, despite Cleek's attempt to allay his distress by branding
Dollops as a possible sneak thief; but he brightened perceptibly and
made a valiant effort to appear quite at his ease when he looked up and
saw Cleek.

"Get your call over the telephone all right, Mr. Barch?" he inquired
pleasantly.

"Yes, thanks," said Cleek serenely, still keeping up his "Johnnie" air.
"Awfully obliged to you, I'm sure. Dickens of an important message.
Should have been in no end of a hole if I hadn't received it. But I say,
General, you ought to be more careful, you know, especially with sneak
thieves about."

"As how, Mr. Barch?"

"Why, that blessed swing window in the library. I found the thing
unfastened, don't you know."

He hadn't, of course, for he had not been near it. But his statement
undeniably agitated the General, though he made a brave effort to
disguise it.

"Did you?" he said. "That's peculiar. I never noticed it. I must speak
to Johnston about it; it's his duty to see that it is locked, and I
supposed he had done so. Still, it's of no great consequence as it
happens. The sneak thief didn't enter by that way, I am sure."

"No, but he might easily have done so; and if he had come in there while
you were alone you might have had a warm time of it; don't you think so,
eh, what?"

"I fancy _he_ would have had a warm time of it, as you express it, Mr.
Barch. I'm not so old but I know how to take care of myself, believe
me."

"No, I suppose not," said Cleek. "Had a jolly lot of practice in your
young days--with the gloves and all that. Forty-fifth Queen's Own used
to have a national reputation for the best boxers and wrestlers in the
service, I'm told. Suppose it was the same in your day; and you got a
lot of practice out there in Simla in your subaltern days."

"You are wrong in both particulars. I did not belong to the Forty-fifth
Queen's Own, Mr. Barch, and I was not billeted to India. I passed out of
Sandhurst into the Imperial Blues, and from the time I was twenty-two
until I was twenty-six I was stationed at Malta."

Cleek made a mental tally of those two statements.

"Oh, I see; mistake on my part," he said serenely. "Malta was it? And
the Imperial Blues? Thought Harry said the other. I've got a rotten
memory. But it doesn't matter which, does it, so long as you learned the
trick, and are able to put up a stiff fight and floor a burglar still?
I'll lay you could floor one in short order, too, when I come to look at
you," he went on, glancing the General up and down with apparent
admiration. "Lord! shouldn't like to run foul of you when your temper's
up. Built like a blessed gladiator. Shoulders on you like a giant; arms
like--mind if I feel what they're like?"

Impudently taking hold of him before he could reply or resent the
familiarity, Cleek moved the General's forearm up as if to see the
swelling of the biceps.

"That's what I call muscle!" he exclaimed. "What a wrist! What a fist to
floor a man or---- Hullo! been flooring some one since I left you,
General? Big green smudge on your cuff, as if you'd been up against a
mossy wall? Didn't get into a scrap with Sir Philip after I left you,
did you, eh?"

There was no gainsaying it, the General's face grew absolutely white as
he looked down and saw that green smudge on the white cuff which
protruded beyond the sleeve of his evening coat. It was evident he had
not noticed it before.

"No, certainly I have _not_!" he rapped out sharply as he plucked away
his arm. "Sir Philip Clavering has gone home. And if you will pardon my
saying it, Mr. Barch, I object to being handled."

"Awful sorry; did it before I thought," said Cleek vacantly. "No
offence, eh? Because, you know, none was meant. Ought to have
remembered; ought to have remembered half a dozen things when I come to
think of it. One of 'em is that you and Sir Philip weren't likely to
scrap like a couple of drunken navvies; and t'other is that you couldn't
have got wall-moss on your cuff if you had, when there wasn't any wall
where I left you. So you couldn't have got it there, of course."

"And as that settles it, I think we can abandon the subject with profit
to both, Mr. Barch," said the General stiffly. "As a matter of fact, I
don't know where nor how I did get the smudge; and it's of no
consequence anyway. And now, if you will pardon me, I'll ring for
Johnston to lock up the house--we always retire to bed early at the
Grange, Mr. Barch--and have a wee drappie o' whisky and turn in. The
evening has been unpleasantly eventful, and I feel the need of something
in the way of stimulant."

"So do I, by Jove! Never drank a blessed drop to-night, didn't feel up
to it, don't you know; but if you don't mind my toddling into the
dining-room and helping myself----"

"By all means do so, Mr. Barch, by all means!" interposed the General
with something akin to eagerness. "You will find plenty there. Help
yourself."

"Thanks very much. But come to think of it, you haven't had a drink
to-night, either. Told Hawkins you didn't feel like it, I recollect."

"No, I didn't at the time, but I certainly require it now; so if----"

"Good business!" interjected Cleek airily. "Come in and let's have one
together. Harry's asleep, so I shan't have any company; and as I never
like to drink alone, and you are my host, and there's plenty in the
dining-room----"

"Pray don't think me discourteous, Mr. Barch," interposed the General
blandly, "but I think I will take my whisky hot this evening; and as I
make a practice of never taking a hot whisky until I am safely between
the sheets, will you pardon me if I do not join you, but have mine
served in my bedroom to-night?"

"Yes, certainly," said Cleek. "Only if I'm left to drink alone I'm apt
to take two or three instead of one, and my doctor says I oughtn't to,
don't you know."

"Doctors are not infallible, Mr. Barch; they often make errors.
Good-night."

"Good-night," said Cleek. "But if I have a headache in the morning--oh,
well, I can't help it. If I have one I'll have it I suppose. Here goes!"
He walked back along the hall and went into the dining-room and shut the
door, leaning heavily against it and breathing through his shut teeth
the one word, "God!"

The footsteps of the General clicked off down the hall, but Cleek never
stirred, never moved a muscle, until their dwindling sound dropped off
into sudden silence and all was still. Then, as softly as any cat, he
twitched round, opened the door, closed it after him, and stood alone in
the hall.

He moved on tiptoe to the library. The door was closed. He stopped and
listened.

The faint rustling sound of papers told its own story. The General had
not gone to his bedroom, he was in there!

With fleet, unsounding steps Cleek moved from that closed door to the
open one of the drawing-room, remembering what Ailsa had said of how
Mrs. Raynor had dozed over her coffee while they waited for him to come,
and of how, after Hamer had carried in his note, the good lady had
rallied the girl, and then gone off to bed because, she said, she was
sleepy--sleepy at half-past eight o'clock!

Taking into consideration the events of the evening, he had counted upon
the possibility of something happening; and the moment he entered that
room and looked round him he knew that it had done so.

The butler's evening off; the excitement and distraction occasioned by
that screaming police whistle sounding from the grounds and sending all
the servants flocking out. These things had conspired to upset the
routine of things as they should be in a well-regulated house; and lo!
the silver tray and the coffee service and the cups, used and unused
alike, had been overlooked, and there they still were, awaiting removal.
And beside them stood a liqueur stand with Chartreuse, Benedictine,
Creme de Menthe, and a half-dozen tiny Venetian glasses.

Liqueurs with coffee! He went over and looked at the glasses; so much,
so very much, depended upon that. If more than one had been used; if
Ailsa, too, had taken liqueur---- No, she had not! Only one glass had
been used, and Mrs. Raynor had gone to bed!

He rubbed the tip of his finger round the inner side of that one used
glass, and put it to his tongue.

The wine and the spirits in the decanters on the table of the
dining-room had all tasted alike. This liqueur tasted like them.

He made no comment, wasted no time. The instant he had decided that
point he left the room and went back to the hall and to the gardens
beyond the entrance.

Ailsa Lorne waited for him at the shrubbery; but it was not to the
shrubbery he went! His way lay round the angle of the house, past the
path to the ruin, past the windows of the dining-room where a drugged
man lay, and on through the darkness, until he stood in the shelter of
the trees directly opposite a broad stone terrace, upon which the
swinging French window of the library gave.

It was bright with inner light, when first he came in sight of it; but
he had barely halted before that light went out--and left it as black as
pitch.

But a moment later Cleek drew farther back in the shadow of the trees.

He had warned General Raynor to be careful to lock that window, and now
here he was not only disregarding that warning, but pushing the sashes
wide apart.

"Coming again, is she, General?" said Cleek in the soundless words of
thought. "A bad move, my friend, a very bad move. One may not recognize
a man's voice from a simple 'Sh-h-h!' but when he steps out of a library
with a black mud-spot on the toe of his house shoes and a green smudge
on his cuff----"

He stopped and crouched back under the trees, and was very, very still.

Through the darkness a faint rustling sound had suddenly risen, the soft
falling of a foot, the careful passage of a body between lines of
leaves.

Some one was advancing cautiously toward that darkened and opened
window.




CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THE VIEW HALLOO


That the nocturnal visitor would prove to be Lady Clavering Cleek had
not the smallest shadow of a doubt, although he marvelled much at her
temerity in venturing into the grounds of the Grange after that
experience at the wall door so short a time previously, and he therefore
remained as breathless and as still as the shadows surrounding him, and
waited the coming of events. Not, however, without some slight feeling
of disappointment at the thought that, intricate and puzzling as this
case had been, it now promised to be solved in such a tame and paltry
manner; for if the newcomer should prove to be Lady Clavering, as,
naturally, he had every reason for supposing, the affair would resolve
itself into simply playing the part of eavesdropper at her interview
with the General, and then making capital of the information thus
obtained.

The intruder was advancing with extreme caution, but lacking his own
peculiar gift of soundless stepping and noiseless movement, did not
succeed in passing between hedge and coppice without the betraying
rustle of disturbed leaves; and it was out of this circumstance the
mischief which followed was formed.

The shrubbery where Ailsa was waiting lay but a rope's cast distant from
the spot where Cleek now crouched; and as if the ill-luck which had
balked him once before to-night was intent upon flooring him at all
quarters, he had no sooner grasped the unwelcome fact--made manifest by
the clearer sound of the approaching body as it came into closer
range--that the steps were advancing in a direct line with that
shrubbery than a thin, eager whisper pierced the stillness.

It was the voice of Miss Lorne, saying cautiously, yet distinctly:

"Goodness gracious! Why, Purviss! You don't mean to tell me it's you?"

Purviss! Not Lady Clavering, but Geoff Clavering's old valet, Purviss?
Here was a facer to be sure. Well, well, you never can tell which way a
cat will jump, and that's a fact.

Purviss, eh? So he, too, was in the know, was he? Of course he must be,
to be playing the role of Mercury and carrying messages between them in
this secret manner. Cleek decided to have a look at Mr. Purviss, and a
word or two as well, by George! For now, of course, he would make no
attempt to go near that window.

The thought had no sooner presented itself to him than he acted upon it.
With the speed of a hound, but with no more noise than a moving shadow,
he left his hiding-place, skirted the house, got round to the front of
it, crawled up the steps, then, rising suddenly, appeared to come out of
the doorway and down the steps whistling, as he descended to the gardens
and moved leisurely along in the direction of the shrubbery.

When he was within a foot of it he suddenly stopped, pulled out his
cigarette case, struck a match as if for the purpose of smoking, and by
the aid of that light saw standing within a yard of him Miss Ailsa Lorne
in close conversation with a mild-mannered, mild-faced elderly person,
upon whom the word "valet" was clearly written.

"Hullo, Miss Lorne, enjoying an evening ramble, too? May I be allowed to
join you?"

"With pleasure, Mr. Barch," said Ailsa. Then she motioned toward the
valet, who had stepped meekly back.

"Purviss has just come over from Lady Clavering to inquire for Mr.
Geoffrey----"

"Ah, yes," said Cleek, smiling to himself unnoticed in the dark. "He
left this afternoon, did he not? You have evidently just missed Sir
Philip, who was himself here."

"Yes," added Ailsa, "I was just telling him, but it seems he has a
message for General Raynor from Lady Clavering----"

"I thought as much," said Cleek to himself triumphantly, though aloud he
remarked, calmly enough: "Ah! but the General has gone to bed. I heard
him say that he was not to be disturbed, but if you care to give any
message or letter, I'll go and knock him up."

"Oh, no, there's no need to do that, sir," replied Purviss hurriedly.
"It's only a request for a gardening book if I happened to see General
Raynor; of no importance at all, sir."

"I quite understand," said Cleek, the smile on his face hidden in the
screening darkness.

"As for Mr. Geoffrey," put in Ailsa kindly, "he is quite safe. He went
up to town on an errand for Lady Katharine----"

"Thank you, Miss," returned Purviss respectfully. "That will be a relief
to her ladyship to know that. She was very anxious. Good-night, Miss!
Good-night, sir!" With a deferential salute, the man turned and
disappeared swiftly into the night.

"You see now," said Ailsa, "that I was right, that Geoff's absence would
create such a panic at the Close that they would scour the place for
news of him. First his father, and now Purviss. I thought you would be
satisfied as to the truth of his mission directly I spoke."

"Yes," said Cleek quietly, "but he did not come here to seek Geoff
Clavering. That was a lie. He came for the purpose of having an
interview with some one else, and for the second time this night, Miss
Lorne, you have unfortunately prevented me from hearing something which
might have cleared this mystery up without any further search on my
part. You remember how I rushed past you at the time when Dollops had
set me on the track of the lady in pink? She came and she had an
interview, or, at least, she had the beginning of an interview, with the
man she was there to see. What's that? No, she was not Margot. She was
Lady Clavering. Sh-h-h! Quiet! Quiet! Yes, she was Lady Clavering. And
she had just accused the man she came to meet of having murdered De
Louvisan, when your approach startled the pair of them and made them
separate hurriedly. Miss Lorne, can you stand a shock? Good! Then hold
your nerves under tight control. The man Lady Clavering met at the wall
door to-night was the master of this house, General Raynor!"

She all but collapsed when she heard that.

"General Raynor?" she breathed in a horrified voice. "General Raynor?
And Lady Clavering? Oh, but why, but how? Dear Mr. Cleek, it--it is like
some horrible dream! What possible connection could there be between
those two people of all others?"

"I don't know. I have a suspicion--it is my business to have that, you
know--but I want something stronger. I shall have it soon. My work here
in this house is pretty well finished, I fancy. Maybe to-morrow, maybe
the next day, but this week certain, I shall be off to Malta. I am going
to hunt up a man's army record there."

"The General's?"

"Yes. His and--well, possibly, some one's else. When I come back I
promise you that I will have the solution to this riddle in my hands.
What's that? Oh, yes, Margot is in it."

"Then why--then how can Lady Clavering----"

"Lady Clavering, it appears, knows Margot. So does the General,
evidently, for she mentioned her name to him."

"Dear heaven! And you say that she accused him of the murder? Accused
him? How could she?"

"She was there--at Gleer Cottage--_last_ night. She went there to meet
him. But she was not, however, the first to direct my suspicions against
the General. That was done hours before and by a totally different
person."

"Whom?"

"His son," said Cleek, and forthwith told her of that memorable
interview with Harry Raynor after dinner, and of the typewritten letter
he had abstracted from the young wastrel's coat pocket. "Miss Lorne, I
waste no sympathy upon that worm," he went on. "From the top of his
empty head to the toe of his worthless foot there's not one ounce of
manhood in him. But he spoke the truth! His father did type that forged
letter and for the purpose he declared."

"To get him out of the neighbourhood for the night?"

"Yes. And but for the mere accident of the fellow's having discovered
that the typist girl was out of England, he would have succeeded
without having to resort to other means."

"How do you know that the General typed the letter?" asked Miss Lorne.

"I didn't in the beginning," returned Cleek. "I did know, however, that
it had been typed by somebody in this house; for I stole the letter,
then tricked Hamer into getting me an unused sheet of the typing paper
that was left over from the manuscript of the General's book. A glance
at the watermark showed them to be identical; in other words, that the
letter had been typed upon one of those left-over sheets. Well, that was
one thing; the other was that the General, having failed to get his son
out of the way for to-night by that means, took steps to accomplish it
by drugging him."

"Drugging him?"

"Yes. Earlier in the day Purviss had brought him a note from Lady
Clavering, and it was imperative that he should go out to-night to meet
her in secret. He didn't want his son prowling about, and he didn't want
me prowling about, either. Still less did he want you prowling about, or
that his wife should know of his leaving the house after she had gone to
bed. To make sure of having no such risk to run, he put a sleeping
draught into every drop of spirit or liqueur that was served in this
house to-night. What he had not reckoned upon, however, was the fact
that neither you nor I tasted either. But at this moment his son lies
drugged and unconscious in the dining-room, and it would be a safe
hazard to stake one's life that his wife is lying unconscious in bed."

"But--but--are you _sure_ there is no mistake?"

"No, Miss Lorne, there is no mistake. It was the General who did the
drugging. I found the paper in which the sleeping draught had come from
the chemist's in the waste basket in the library; and when I wanted to
clench the belief and make it absolutely positive, I tricked the General
into confessing that he stood in need of a stimulant after the stress of
the night, then invited him to join me in one from the decanters in the
dining-room. He knew what was in that liqueur and--he declined. I knew
then that there was no mistake about his being the hand that had done
the drugging, just as I had known previously that he was the man Lady
Clavering had met at the wall door.

"When I rushed past you that time and raced through these grounds, I had
no more idea than a child unborn who the man I was pursuing would prove
to be. He might have been Harry Raynor; he might have been Lord St.
Ulmer. I even said to myself that he might be any male member of this
household from the General down; and my one idea was to get to the house
and to find which man was missing. I found no one absent! St. Ulmer was
in his bedroom; Harry Raynor was sleeping over the table in the
dining-room; and as I came clattering down the stairs the General
stepped out of the library to inquire into the cause of the
disturbance. To all intents and purposes he had been in there reading
the whole evening long. But it was a significant fact that as he opened
the door and came out, I was able to see past him into the room and to
discern that the curtains drawn over the swinging window were bellying
inward, showing that the opening of the door had started a current of
air which could be created only by the window behind them being likewise
open.

"That gave me the first suspicion of a clue. I looked at the man himself
for further evidence to back it up and, in the first glance, found it.
There was black soil on the toes of his house shoes and a smudge of
green wall-moss on his shirt cuff! I knew then just what he had done,
and how I had failed to overhaul him in that hot race. He had simply
ducked down out of sight, lain still in the bushes and allowed me to run
past him. For me there was, of course, no other means of entering the
house but by the door; for him there was the library window! He waited
to give me time to get into the house, then rose, ran across the
intervening space and back into the library by means of that window, and
had had just about sufficient time to get there when I came rushing down
the stairs. You will remember, will you not, that I spoke of those two
things: the spot of black and smudge of green? You know now to what I
alluded."

"It is wonderful and--yes, it is horrible also!" she said with a faint
shudder. "What a day of horror this has been! I think the shadow of it
will weigh upon me forever."

"Not if I can help it," said Cleek very gently, very tenderly. "And I
count very, very much indeed, Miss Lorne, upon the possibility of making
you bless it before the whole twenty-four hours of it have been rounded
out. Don't you remember what I said to you about my hopes for the
clearing of all shadows from the path of Geoff Clavering and Lady
Katharine, about the theory of Loisette?"

"Loisette? That is the great French scientist, is it not? The first man
who actually did establish a standard rule for the training of the
memory and schools for the teaching of his system all over the world?"

"Yes, that is the man. His principle is somewhat akin to that of the
principle of homoeopathy. 'Like cures like,' says the homoeopathist.
'Like produces like,' says Loisette, 'and the similarity of events
acting upon the human mind may, by suggestion, produce similar results,'
Well, last night Lady Katharine Fordham went through an experience which
no living woman is ever likely to forget: the knowledge that hope of
happiness is over, and that the man she loves is lost to her beyond all
possible recall. This evening, in the ruin over there, she went through
an exactly similar experience, and after some few hours of hope, was
thrust rudely back into the absolute certainty that a barrier as high as
heaven itself had come between Geoff Clavering and her. I stake my
hopes upon that, Miss Lorne. I look for Loisette to be vindicated. I
look for last night to be repeated _in all particulars_, and I am so
hopeful of it that I have sent for Geoff Clavering to come here and be a
witness to it."

"Sent for Geoff Clavering to come here--here?"

"Yes. At twelve o'clock he will be waiting for me at the lodge gates;
and if all goes as I hope and believe that it will go--ah, well, it will
be a blessed time for him, for her, for you! As for myself--but that
doesn't matter. I shall have but one more thing to accomplish under the
roof of this house, and then if the trail leads elsewhere, I'll be off
to Malta as fast as steam can take me."

"And that one thing, Mr. Cleek? May I ask what it is?"

"Yes, certainly. It is to discover Lord St. Ulmer's part in this elusive
business, and then to be absolutely certain of getting at the man who
killed the Count de Louvisan, and at the reason for the crime."

"The reason? The man?" repeated Ailsa in utter bewilderment. "I thought
you said just now that you were satisfied regarding that? Why, then,
should you speak as if there were a possibility of Lord St. Ulmer being
concerned in the murder if you are seemingly so sure that General Raynor
did it?"

"General Raynor? Good heavens above, Miss Lorne, get that idea out of
your mind! Why, General Raynor is no more guilty of the murder of De
Louvisan than you are!"




CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

LOISETTE IS VINDICATED


Ailsa caught her breath with a faint, little, sobbing sigh at this, and
even if the moon had not chosen just then to slip out from the screen of
the enveloping clouds and throw a dusk of silver over everything, so
that he could see her face and the deep look of relief in her uplifted
eyes, he still would have known what a load his declaration of the
General's innocence had lifted from her mind.

"Oh, I am so glad," she said fervently; "so very, very glad! Do you
know, I made sure from the manner in which you spoke that, horrible as
it seemed, it must surely be he; that you must certainly have discovered
something which left no room for doubt in your own mind; otherwise you
would not have told me all these terrible things regarding the forged
letter and the drugged drink and his meeting with Lady Clavering at the
wall door. And now to know that you do not suspect him, that you are
sure it was not he that killed De Louvisan, ah, I can't tell you how
glad I am."

"How loyal you are to your friends," he said admiringly. "You needn't
assure me of your gladness; I can read it in your voice and face. No,
General Raynor is not guilty, although I am very positive that he not
only was out last night, but was actually at Gleer Cottage; but I am
absolutely certain his was not the hand that killed De Louvisan. I will
even go further, and say that it would not surprise me to learn that he
was not even present at the time of the killing, though there is, of
course, always the possibility, in the light of my theory of the whys
and wherefores of the case, that he was."

"You have a theory regarding it, then?"

"Yes. I had a vague one in the beginning that became more pronounced
when I heard Lady Clavering speak of 'letters' in her interview with the
General at the wall door to-night. She also spoke of Margot, recollect.
And I have said from the first that a woman was in it."

"And you think that she--that Margot--did it?"

"Did what--the murder? No, I do not. As a matter of fact, I am beginning
to believe that the presence of that crafty female in England, and in
this particular neighbourhood at this particular time, may possibly have
led me to leap to a conclusion which is a long way from the truth. That
she meant to see De Louvisan, and, with the aid of her band, deal pretty
harshly with him--give him the 'traitor's spike,' in fact--I feel very
nearly positive; but I am now beginning to realize there is a
possibility that the scrap of pink gauze may not have come from Margot's
dress, and that she may not have been at Gleer Cottage last night,
after all. In other words, that the woman in the case is not Margot."

"Who then? Lady Clavering?"

"Possibly. There is, however, a chance that it is not even she."

All in a moment Ailsa flamed up.

"You are leaving only Kathie," she said with spirit. "And if you were an
angel from heaven you could not make me believe it is she. I know you
declare that she was at Gleer Cottage last night; that you say Geoff
swears he met her there; but even so----"

"Oh, thank you for reminding me of that dear boy," interjected Cleek,
whipping out his watch and glancing at it. "If he keeps his promise, as
he doubtless will, he'll be at the lodge gates in exactly twelve
minutes, Miss Lorne. And there is another 'dear boy' to consider too, my
poor Dollops, who's probably waiting at the wall angle for me to explain
my change of tactics with regard to the arrest and release of Sir Philip
Clavering. Will you pardon me if I rush off and see him for a few
minutes? I'll be back here to join you as quickly as I can, and then, if
you will honour me, we'll be off together to the lodge gates to meet
Geoff Clavering."

He did not wait for her to reply; did not stop to make any comment upon
her remarks regarding Lady Katharine. Moving off as briskly as if he
were endeavouring to evade that subject, he slipped soundlessly away
through the shrubbery and was gone before she could speak. He was absent
for something like eight or ten minutes; then, as silently and as
abruptly as he had left her side he issued from the bushes and returned
to it.

"Shall we go to meet Geoff?" he asked; and again scarcely waiting for
her to reply, led the way in silence.

It was on the tip of Ailsa's tongue to ask him if, after so often
expressing his conviction of Lady Katharine's innocence and admitting
to-night that he had changed his opinion with regard to one woman's part
in this elusive riddle, he had suddenly changed it regarding her, too,
when, without preface of any sort, he looked round at her.

"Rum how we English stick to precedent, isn't it?" he said. "Ever remark
how faithfully old footmen cling to their 'calves' and old valets cleave
to their little black side-whiskers? And, I say, Miss Lorne! what's the
fashion in evening petticoats these days? Coloured ones, I mean. Do they
have to match the dress that's worn with them or not?"

"Certainly they don't," said Ailsa, looking round at him in surprise.
"Good gracious, Mr. Cleek, whatever in the world are you thinking
about?"

"I? Oh, nothing in particular. There we are at the lodge gates at last;
and here's our man. Come in, bonny boy, come in."

Geoff came up out of the shadow of the two big trees at the entrance and
moved swiftly toward the gates.

"Wait a bit," went on Cleek. "I've got a skeleton key handy, and in two
shakes of a ram's tail----Told you so! In with you, my lad. Miss Lorne's
here with me; and if Loisette wasn't a dreamer and I'm not a fool,
you'll be the happiest chap in England to-night. Sh-h-h! don't speak.
Walk on your toes, take to the grass, keep in the shadow of the hedge,
and get over there to that shrubbery as quickly and as noiselessly as
you can. With you in a minute, my boy."

He was. Stopping just long enough to relock the gates and to motion
Ailsa to accompany him, he travelled like a fleet-moving shadow across
the lawn, and was again with Geoff Clavering.

"Well, here I am as you requested, you see, Mr. Barch," said Geoff. "I
don't know what in the world you meant when you told me that thing over
the telephone; but whatever it is that's going to make Kathie and me as
happy as you promised, I'm ready enough to hear it, God knows."

"Yes, God does know; you're right there, my boy. He knows that Lady
Katharine did call you into Gleer Cottage last night, and did send you
into the room where that dead man's body hung; and--oh, yes, she did,
Miss Lorne. He'll tell you that just as he told me; won't you,
Clavering, eh?"

"Yes," said Geoff, and did forthwith, giving all the details just as he
had given them to Cleek hours earlier in the General's famous ruin.

"Will you believe now, Miss Lorne?" said Cleek, and then paused and gave
a little, shaky, half-suppressed laugh. For, of a sudden, a cuckoo's
note had risen softly over the stillness, sounding thrice in rapid
succession, as if the bird had mistaken the moon's glamour for the sheen
of day dawn, and had sent forth this untimely call.

Hearing it, Cleek knew that what he had so fervently hoped might come to
pass really _had_ come to pass, and that the theory of Loisette was
about to be vindicated.

"Or, if you will not," he said, taking up the sentence just where the
bird note had broken off, "come with me and find proof of it for
yourself. Come quickly. Hold your breath. Walk on your toes. Don't make
a sound on your lives. This way. Quickly. Come."

He took them each by the hand and, leading the way, passed on tiptoe
with them out of the shrubbery and down the hedged path to the mimic
ruin. The figure of Dollops rose out of the shadow of it as they came
upon the place, moved fleetly and quietly to Cleek's side, and then as
quietly slipped round behind him into the shade of the trees.

"All right, gov'ner," he whispered softly. "Over to the left there. Give
you the signal the minute I spotted her. Lie low, all of you. Here she
comes!"

"Here who comes?" Ailsa and Geoff spoke in concert.

"Lord, I dunno, miss," replied Dollops in a whisper. "Gov'ner said,
'Look sharp for a lady in white, and "cuckoo" when she appears.' Dunno
no more than that."

Ailsa flashed round and looked at Cleek.

"Yes, Miss Lorne," he said, answering that look. "Lady Katharine
Fordham! She did steal out of the house last night, and-- Loisette is
right. The mirror of to-night, reflecting the counterpart of yesterday,
is duplicating events. Her ladyship is stealing out of the house again,
and on the selfsame mission: to visit Gleer Cottage. She will certainly
wear a cloak, though not an ermine one, to-night. I looked out to see
that one was placed in the anteroom, to make sure of that. Quiet, quiet,
all of you! Not a sound, not a breath! Look sharp! You'll see her
presently!"

They saw her even then. Of a sudden a footstep sounded, the rustle of
moved leaves disturbed the stillness, then the figure of Lady Katharine
rounded the angle of the ruin, and advanced toward them with great
deliberation. A long dark cloak covered her almost to the feet, the hood
of it being drawn up over her head until its loose frill framed her
face; but it was easy to see, as she advanced, that under that cloak she
wore a gown of white satin and slippers with sparkling buckles on the
toes. She came into view so suddenly, and was walking so rapidly, that
she was upon them almost as they saw her, walking straight to them,
walking straight by them, within touch of them, yet seeming not to care
or even to notice, and taking the path which led to the stable gate, to
the waste land beyond, and thence to Gleer Cottage. It was then, when
she had deliberately walked past them, then, and then only, that Ailsa
understood.

"Dear God!" she said in a shaking whisper as she plucked at Cleek's
sleeve. "She does not know, she does not understand. She is asleep, Mr.
Cleek!"

"Yes," he made answer. "You know now why she looked so haggard and weary
this morning, despite her assurance that she had slept well. Poor little
woman; poor unhappy little woman! A sleep-walker, Clavering--and going
back where her heart leads her: to the cottage where she had often spent
those happier days when she was so sure of love and of you!"




CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

"QUICK! FIRE!"


Geoff did not reply; he could not. As if the sight of that slow-moving
figure, linked with the realization which had now come upon him, had
wrought a curious numbing effect upon mind and heart alike, he simply
stood there, breathing hard, and looked, and looked, and looked, but
said no single word. Even Dollops could see that there was a glint of
something wet and shining in the crease beside his eye, and that, in
spite of tears, he smiled as a man might smile if he had waked to find
that all the world was his. It was Ailsa that made the first sound,
spoke the first word.

"Oh, Mr. Cleek, to think that she should be a somnambulist," she said
with a little catch in her voice, as if she were laughing and sobbing at
the same time and fighting hard to do neither. "And to think that you
should have guessed it when even I, her dearest and closest friend,
never suspected it for an instant."

"Oh, as for that, Miss Lorne, I really deserve very little credit
indeed," he made answer.

For a moment he followed with his eyes the departing figure of Lady
Katharine as it moved fleetly along the path to the stable quarters,
where stood the stile giving access to the paddock and thence, by a
far-away wall door, to the waste land of the open country beyond.

"If anybody is to be praised for the discovery of the truth as
manifested to-night," he went on presently, "that praise should go to
Loisette alone. He has said--that wise Frenchman--that 'the likeness of
events acting upon a highly strung and overwrought mind is likely to
produce exactly similar results.' There is his vindication before you.
Last night all hope of happiness was smitten out of that poor girl's
mind by the affair at Clavering Close and the certainty that she had
lost the man she loves forever. This morning new hope came; this evening
that new hope was dashed to earth again by her interview with this dear
boy, and the future looked blacker and more hopeless than ever. The
'likeness of events' had come; there is the 'likeness of result' before
you. Back into her ball dress, back into her cloak, back into everything
that had to do with that other time; there she goes now back to Gleer
Cottage as well!"

"God!" said Geoff, with a queer sort of sob; then leaned his curved arm
against a tree trunk and hid his face in the crook of it. "And to think
what I said to her, what I thought of her! I ought to be kicked for a
brute. And yet I wouldn't have hurt her for all the world--my dear, dear
girl!"

"Buck up, my boy, buck up!" said Cleek, patting him on the shoulder,
"The world can do with all the brutes of your kind that can be created;
for they make good sons, good husbands, and loyal gentlemen! She said,
did she not, that she would 'show you something that would light the way
back to the land of happiness'? Well, she's doing it, my boy; and if you
were to follow her this minute you'd find history repeating itself down
to the smallest detail. Only, you _mustn't_ follow her; you mustn't let
history repeat itself, Clavering. Gleer Cottage is not in the same
lonely and unwatched state to-night that it was in last night. The
police are there. They mustn't see what happens, because I've a fancy
for keeping some things with regard to this case off the annals of
Scotland Yard and out of the courts of England. You must stop her, you
and Miss Lorne."

"Stop her? How? Isn't it dangerous to wake a sleep-walker?"

"Yes, if it's done rudely. But people in that condition will answer
questions, and---- Who spoke first, when you met last night?"

"Why, I did, of course. I was so bowled over when I looked up and
recognized her that I said: 'Kathie! Great Scott, is it you?' before I
thought. That's how she came to speak to me."

"Then go and say it again," advised Cleek. "When she answers, suggest to
her that you sit down and wait for a moment, as you promised you would
do, until Miss Lorne could join you. Once she sits, be sure the desire
to walk will pass away; she will gradually sink into the natural
position for sleeping and will sleep soundly for a time. As for the
rest, you may rely upon the coldness and the hardness of the earth to
half arouse her, and it will be but a step from that to complete
wakefulness if Miss Lorne begins to sing very, very softly and to rustle
the leaves as she comes up and joins you both. Now then, off with you,
my boy, and move as softly as you can until you come up with her and
speak."

Geoff did not hesitate. He only paused to look back at Cleek and say:
"By Jove, you know, you are a ripping chap!" and then was off on tiptoe
after Lady Katharine.

Watching, they saw him come up with her at last, and knew when he spoke
by the manner in which she stopped and looked round at him; they saw her
put a finger to her lips and nod and beckon, and knew when he spoke
again and suggested the things that Cleek had advised, by the listless
manner in which she let her hands drop, the wavering uncertain way in
which she stood swaying and looking straight before her.

Then, after a moment or two--they could have cheered had they
dared--they saw her look round in the direction of a little knoll to
which Geoff pointed and then placidly turn and walk with him toward it.

"Oh, what a dear, dear friend you are!" said Ailsa, impulsively, as she
looked round and up at Cleek, with tears in her eyes and a face all
smiling. "I wonder which is your greater side--your shrewdness or your
humanity?"

"I can tell you which is my weaker one," he smiled, looking down upon
her with eyes that spoke to hers. "And maybe, some day if you will let
me do so----But that's another story, as our friend Mr. Kipling puts it.
Wait! Don't go yet, Miss Lorne. Before you start to join them and to
play your little part in the drama of Lady Katharine's awaking, there's
one more favour to be asked. Afterward you will understand why I ask
this thing; for the present I want only your promise that you will
unquestioningly obey. Will you give me that promise? Thank you, I felt
sure that you would.

"You know the old saying: a bird that can sing and won't sing must be
made to sing. Equally, then, a door that can be opened and will not open
by persuasion or by threats, must be compelled to open by trickery and
craft. I am going to commit an act of violence under the roof of
Wuthering Grange to-night, Miss Lorne. I'm going to do a thing that men
get sent to prison for, and justly, too, if they are found out; only
that I am not going to carry my act into full completion: merely make a
bluff at it, as it were.

"Meanwhile I want you to promise me that as soon as you have awakened
Lady Katharine and have made her understand that she did go to Gleer
Cottage last night and really has been walking in her sleep, you will
find a pretext--you and Geoff Clavering, between you--to get her as far
from the neighbourhood as possible for the next two or three hours. Yes,
Clavering Close will do. Any place will do so that neither she nor he is
within hailing distance of this house when my 'act of violence' is
committed. Try to do this if possible, Miss Lorne; more than you dream
of hinges upon it. In any case, promise me that no matter what
excitement is created you will not venture near the house and will
prevail upon them not to do so either. Will you?"

"Yes, certainly I will. And if I tell Geoff that it is your wish, I'm
sure I may promise for him as well."

"Thank you. That's all. Now I'll be off about my business. You
see"--nodding in the direction of the paddock--"Geoff has persuaded her
to sit. Good luck to your little 'singing tour,' and God bless you.
Good-bye. This way, Dollops! Move sharp!"

Speaking, he swung off into the darkness, with the boy following close
upon his heels, and forged on in the direction of the wall angle, there
to wait until his instructions were acted upon and it was time for him
to play his last great card.

And lo, as they went, a sweet, soft voice rose in murmuring melody
behind them and they could just distinguish the words, "Kathleen
Mavourneen, the gray dawn is breaking," so softly Ailsa sang them as she
passed on in the direction of the paddock stile.

"A good, true woman that, Dollops," said Cleek, pausing to listen. "And
there's nothing better in heaven or out of it than a good woman, my lad.
Always remember that."

"Yes, sir," said Dollops softly and refraining from further comment.

Cleek laughed to himself as they took the angle path again. "I know the
secret of the universe at last, my lad," he said softly. "The way to
heaven is through a good woman's eyes!" Then he laughed again, and spoke
no more until they were at their journey's end.

"Now, then, my embryo Vidocq," he began, halting in the shadow of the
wall angle and laying a gentle hand on Dollops's shoulder, "a word or
two with you. I think you told me earlier in the evening that Mr. Narkom
had gone back to town, did you not? Did he say if he'd be returning to
Wimbledon to-night or not? I fancy he will be likely to, considering his
interest in the Claverings, but did he say he would?"

"Yes, sir. Said he'd be back somewheres between nine and ten, sir; that
he'd drop in at the police station, and if there was a need for him, he
said I'd find him there."

"Right you are! Well, there _is_ a need for him, Dollops; for him and
for the limousine, too. So off with you, my boy, and tell him to be
here, at this spot, as quickly as he can; and to be ready when I call
for him. Now then," said Cleek, opening the wall door, "off with you as
fast as you can travel."

For some minutes Cleek stood in deep thought, then he turned and walked
quickly back into the house. He had made up his mind to beard Lord St.
Ulmer in his room, and his quick brain was intent on a plan by which he
should secure an entry. Three minutes later he stood outside the door
and placed a bunch of extinguished matches at the foot of it, while he
called softly but piercingly.

"Lord St. Ulmer! Quick! _Quick!_ _Fire!_ The place is on fire."

His heart pounded as he waited, for if the man were asleep his efforts
would be fruitless. Suddenly, however, there came a faint sound to his
straining ears, and again he whispered in that sibilant whisper:

"Lord St. Ulmer, _fire_!"

He did not have time to repeat it, for there came the sound as of an
extremely agile man leaping from his bed, and another moment he heard
the snick of an unfastened lock, then the door opened.

Cleek waited not a second, his foot was in the narrow aperture, and he
was through the door and had switched on the light before the other man
had realized what had happened. Then he gave vent to a little low laugh
of triumph as with his back against the closed door he surveyed the
white-faced man who had retreated to the middle of the room.

"Good evening! Citizen Paul, good brother Apache, so it is you, is it?"
he said airily. "Let us have a quiet little understanding, _mon ami_.
You need not be distressed. There is no fire. It is merely a bluff.
What! You do not know me. But wait! Look!" The serene face writhed
suddenly, and it was as if another man took his place. "Ever see a chap
that looked like this, friend Paul, eh?"

"God! The Cracksman!"

"The identical party!" acknowledged Cleek blandly. "Come! I want to have
a few minutes' talk with you, my friend, and---- Stop! Don't back away!
Stop and face me. By God! you'll hang for last night's business if you
don't!"




CHAPTER THIRTY

NEARING THE TRUTH!


It was one o'clock when Mr. Maverick Narkom, pacing uneasily up and down
the narrow strip of turf just outside the boundary wall of Wuthering
Grange, saw the door at the wall angle flash open and shut again, and
without so much as a murmur of sound looked up to find Cleek standing
within a few paces of him.

"My dear fellow! Gad, I never was so glad to see anybody in all my
days," exclaimed the superintendent, swooping down on him in a little
whirlwind of excitement. "Cinnamon! You'll never guess what's happened,
Cleek, never! After all my instructions, those blundering idiots of
local police were too late to catch Margot and her crew at Wimbledon,
the house where young Raynor visited, as you wrote me. I went down
myself directly Dollops brought me your note, but it was too late, the
police had frightened her in some way----"

"It does not matter," said Cleek calmly. "I have come to the end of the
riddle."

"The end?" gasped Mr. Narkom. "The end! Man alive, tell me who----"

"Patience, my friend; perhaps I ought not to have said that yet, some
few things remain to be discovered, but the first thing to do is to
carry out the murderer's message before it is too late, or the letters
get into the wrong hands."

"Whose letters?" exclaimed Mr. Narkom, naturally bewildered.

"The woman who lured Count de Louvisan, though that is not his name, to
his death, Lady Clavering----"

"Lady Clav---- Heavens, man, what possible motive could she have?"

"We shall see, my friend, if my ideas are right. Call up Lennard and the
limousine and let us go down to the cottage. With one more thread in my
hand, and then to-night will see the knot unravelled."

With this Mr. Narkom was fain to be content, and once in the car, the
few minutes that elapsed before they reached Gleer Cottage were passed
in silence. At the gate, when the limousine drew up, Cleek aroused
himself from his reverie.

"Mr. Narkom, get the constables stationed on duty near that room out of
the way. Put them outside somewhere where they won't be able to see or
hear what goes on at the back of the house. Then make an excuse of
having to examine the body in reference to some new evidence that's just
cropped up. I'll join you there in one minute."

Mr. Narkom gave a nod of comprehension and vanished up the path, leaving
his great ally to carry out his plans in his own inimitable fashion.

That was the last the superintendent saw of him until full twenty
minutes later when, with his customary soundlessness, he came up out of
the gloom of the neglected garden, entered the rear door of the cottage,
and joined him in the room where the body of the dead man still hung,
spiked to the wall, with knees bent, head lolling, and the lantern in
Narkom's hand splashing a grotesque shadow of him on the side of the
chimney breast.

Cleek walked over to that ghastly human crucifix and regarded the dead
man bitterly, his lips puckered, and his whole expression one of
unspeakable contempt.

"So it has come to this at last, has it, De Morcerf?" he said, half
audibly. "Well, was it worth the price, do you think? Peace to you, or,
at least, such peace as you deserve. You've paid your scot and passed
out eternally. As for the rest---- Mr. Narkom!"

"Yes, old chap?"

"I noticed last night, when I was down on my knees following the trail
of the _Huile Violette_, that there was a section of the flooring which
has evidently been raised lately, as it was fastened down with new
nails. Locate the place for me--it's over their somewhere--and stand
there while I do a little measuring and counting."

Narkom moved over in the direction indicated, searched about for a time
with a magnifying glass, and finally announced the discovery of the
place he had been set to look for.

"Good heavens above, old chap, how you notice things! Fancy your
remarking that when you were looking for something totally different! I
say what on earth are you doing?"

"Measuring," replied Cleek, stepping off the distance between the spot
where the body hung and that where Narkom knelt. "Three feet, one yard;
three yards---- No, that won't do. 'Nine feet from the body' doesn't
work out, so it's not that. Nine paces are impossible--room's too
short--and nine boards---- Hum-m-m! That's poorer than the rest--doesn't
go half the way. Clearly then, if my theory is correct, it's _not_ the
body that's the starting point. How about the mantelpiece then? Let's
have a try. Nine feet? No go! Nine boards, then? Oh, piffle! that's
worse than ever. It leads off in a totally different direction. But stop
a bit! These boards run up and down the room, not across it; and as it
is undoubted that the measurement goes to the left, why, two and four
make six. Hum-m-m! Six feet from the corner of the mantelpiece
to----Hullo! that brings me exactly opposite to where you stand, doesn't
it? And counting the board between us runs to--one, two, three, four,
five, six, seven, eight, nine! Exactly nine boards across the room! Got
it, by Jupiter! Three paces from the body bring one to the mantelpiece.
And paces are usually designated in a diagram by X's. And nine boards
across the room does the trick! Letters, she said, letters! That was the
first clue. Letters that might fall into Margot's hands; and as that
dead wretch was Margot's ally once upon a time, and might threaten to
give the things over to her if his demands were not acceded to----
Victoria! He will have hidden them there, unless I'm the biggest kind of
an ass, and can no longer put two and two together!"

Speaking, he moved rapidly across the room to the spot where Narkom
stood, knelt, and in five minutes' time had the board up. Under it there
lay something tied up in an old white silk handkerchief; and when the
knots of that were unfastened three thick packets of yellow,
time-discoloured letters, tied up with old neckties and frayed silken
shoelaces, tumbled out upon the floor. One and all were addressed to "M.
Anatole de Villon," and were written in a woman's hand.

Cleek snapped the binding of the first bundle, looked at the signature
appended to the letters, and then passed them over to Narkom.

"There is the answer to the riddle," he said. "Poor soul--poor, poor
unhappy soul! Under God, she shall suffer no more from this night on!
And he would have sold her--sold her for money had he lived."

Narkom made no reply in words. He simply glanced at the signature
attached to the first letter, then sucked in his breath with a sort of
shuddering sigh, and grew very, very still.

"Let's get out!" said Cleek in a sharp, biting voice. "I can't breathe
in the presence of that dead beast any longer. 'Who breaks pays!' Yes,
by God, he does!"

He turned and got out of the room, out of the house, and forged back
through the darkness toward the spot where the limousine waited.

Halfway up the lane Narkom overtook him.

"Cleek, dear chap," he said, plucking him by the sleeve, "in the name of
heaven, what is to be done now? The man is my friend. He believes in
her; he loves her; and on my soul I believe that she loves him. Dear old
chap, isn't there something better and nobler than human justice,
something higher than the laws of man?"

"Yes," said Cleek, "a great deal higher. There's God and there's
humanity. The woman has paid and paid and paid, as erring women must
always do; but if I can help it, she shall pay no longer. I tell you I
will compound a felony that her secret may be kept."

"And I'll assist you in it, old chap; I'll compound it with you!" said
Narkom with quiet impressiveness. "Not because the man is my friend,
Cleek, but because--oh, well, because the woman is a _woman_!"

"And they have a hard road to travel at best," supplemented Cleek. "So
let's give a sorely tried one a lift and a bit of sunlight on the long,
dark way! You see how it came about, do you not? She made the
appointment with him to meet her at Gleer Cottage because it was a
lonely as well as a convenient spot. I dare say that when he learned
the character of the place it struck him as being a safe one in which to
hide the letters in case of any attempt being made to steal them from
him. When he set out earlier than the appointed hour for that purpose,
the--well, _the other party_ was on the watch and saw where they were
put, yet didn't have an opportunity to remove them at once, so marked
the clue down in that particular manner on the dead man's bosom, in
order to tell Margot that she had been avenged and the letters hidden. I
will tell you the story presently, but first let us get back to General
Raynor."

"Raynor!" ejaculated Mr. Narkom, "Surely it was not he who----"

"Committed the murder," finished Cleek. "No, luckily for him, he found
it already committed. No, it is these letters that he wanted. Here we
are at the limousine at last, thank fortune. The Grange, Lennard, as
fast as you can make it, my lad."

Lennard got there in record time, depositing them at the gates in
something less than a quarter of an hour later. And here Dollops, who
was patiently waiting in the shadow of the wall, rose to meet them as
they alighted.

"Gawd's truth, gov'ner, is it you at last? I've been nigh off my biscuit
wonderin' wot 'ad become of you, sir," he began as he approached; and
would probably have said more but that Cleek interrupted him.

"No time for talking now, Dollops," said he. "We are at the end of the
trail and even moments count. Into the limousine with you, my lad, and
let Lennard drive you over to Clavering Close. Ask for Miss Lorne when
you get there, and give her this message. Say that she and Lady
Katharine are to stop where they are until I come for them in person.
Understand?"

"Yes, sir. And when I've done that, wot next, if you please?"

"Go home and go to bed; that's all. Good-night. Cut along!"

The boy and the limousine were gone like a flash.

"Come along, Mr. Narkom. Let us go and pay our respects to the General,"
said Cleek; then he pushed open the gates and passed into the grounds,
with the agitated superintendent trotting along by his side.




CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

HOW THE TRUTH WAS TOLD


In the closed and curtained library General Raynor paced up and down,
silent, anxious, alone, his nerves raw, his face haggard, his eyes
brightening with expectancy every time a breeze shook or bellied the
draperies hanging over the open window, but dimming again when they
sagged back into position without anything coming of their disturbance.

"Waiting, you see," said Cleek in a whisper as he and Narkom emerged
from the screen of the trees, and saw the chink of light made by the
wind-blown curtains, and the shadow which moved back and forth and
momentarily blotted it. "Poor old chap! He must be suffering torments.
Come on! Step lightly! Make no noise until we are at the window's ledge.
This is the end of his waiting at last!"

Evidently the General was of that opinion, also, when, a few moments
later, he heard a footstep on the gravel, and, halting to listen and to
make sure, heard that footstep come on and up the terrace steps. With a
quick intaking of the breath and a whispered, "Is it you? Is it you at
last?" he moved fleetly to the window, twitched aside the curtains, and
let the guarded light streak outward into the night.

It fell full upon two men--Cleek and Narkom--standing within an arm's
reach of the indrawn sashes and the divided drapery.

A flash of sudden pallor, followed quickly by an angry flush, passed
over the General's face as he saw and recognized Cleek.

"Really, Mr. Barch, this is carrying your little pleasantries too far,"
he rapped out in a voice that had a little tremble in it. "Will you
allow me to say that we are not accustomed to guests who get up and
prowl about the place at all hours of the night, and turn up suddenly at
half-past one in the morning with uninvited acquaintances."

"Quite so," said Cleek, "but the law is no respecter of any man's
convenience, General."

"The law? The law?" The General's sudden fright was pitiful. He dropped
back a step under the shock of the thing, and all the colour drained out
of his lips and cheeks. "What utter absurdity! What have I to do with
the law? What have you, Mr. Barch?"

"Cleek, if you want the truth of it, General--Cleek of the Forty Faces,
Cleek of Scotland Yard. It's time to lay aside the mask of 'Philip
Barch' forever."

"Cleek? Cleek?" The General's cry was scarcely more than a shrill
whisper. "God! You that man? You? And all the time you have been here in
my house. Oh, my God! is this the end?"

"Yes, I fear it is, General," said Cleek in reply, as he stepped past
him and moved into the room. "If you dance to the devil's music in your
youth, my friend, be sure he will come round with the hat in the days of
your age! Last night one of the follies of your youth came to its
inevitable end: last night a man was murdered who---- Stop! Doors won't
lead a man out of his retribution. Come away from that one. The
gentleman who is with me, General, is Mr. Maverick Narkom,
superintendent of Scotland Yard. Isn't that enough to show you how
impossible it is to evade what is to be? Besides, why should you want to
get out of the room? It's not your life that's in danger, it's your
honour; and there's no need to make any attempt to prevent either your
wife or your son learning that when both are deep in the drugged sleep
to which you sent them."

"My God!" The General collapsed into a chair.

"That's right," said Cleek. "Sit down to it, General, for it is likely
to be a strength-sapping time. I've something to say to you; and Mr.
Narkom has still something to hear. But first, for the sake of
emergencies, and to have things handy if required, allow me to take a
certain precaution."

As he spoke he moved over to the window, and switched the curtains over
them.

"General," he said, facing about again, "the laws of society, the laws
which prevail in civilized communities, are pretty rotten things. If a
woman errs in her youth she pays for it all her whole life long--in
sorrow, in tears, in never-ceasing disgrace. If the same law prevailed
for both sexes, and men had to pay for the sins of their youth as women
must for theirs, how many of them think you would be out of sackcloth
to-day? Atonement is for the man, never for the woman. For Eve, youth
must stand always as a time of purity, unspotted by a single sin. For
Adam, it stands only as a time of folly that may be brushed aside and of
sin that may be outlived. Probably you were no worse in the days of your
youth, General, than ninety-nine men out of every hundred, but----" He
gave his shoulders a shrug, and broke off.

But of a sudden he reached round and took a packet of letters from the
tail pockets of his evening coat, and threw them to the stricken man.

"Carry those things to Lady Clavering and let her burn them with her own
hands," he said. "They are letters which caused last night's crime--the
letters of Mademoiselle Marise de Morcerf, a pretty school-girl, who
wrote them in all innocence to Lieutenant Raynor out there in Malta, all
those years ago. They were stolen by the man who was christened under
the name of Anatole de Vellon, and died under that of Count Franz de
Louvisan."

The General plucked up the letters with a wild sort of eagerness and sat
forward in his chair, breathing hard.

"You know then, you know?" he said, in a shaking voice, the pallor on
his face deepening until he was absolutely ghastly. "Is there, then, no
keeping anything from you, that you are able to unearth secrets such as
this--things that no one but our two wretched selves knew in all the
world? And you know how that man, that De Louvisan, had blackmailed
her?"

"Yes, General, I know. But the source of my knowledge is by no means so
miraculous as you seem to fancy. It came in part from those letters and
in part from your guest, Lord St. Ulmer."

"St. Ulmer? St. Ulmer? What can he know of this? He is in no way
concerned. He is little better than a stranger to me, despite his
relationship to my wife."

"Nevertheless, he knows more than you fancy, General. He, too, was a
visitor to Gleer Cottage last night. And he went, as you went, my
friend, determined to be rid of the danger of Count Franz de Louvisan's
tongue, even if he had to descend to crime to do it."

"St. Ulmer! St. Ulmer!" repeated the General with an air of
bewilderment. "Why should he? What reason could he have for dreading the
man?"

"A very good one, as you will see when I explain to you that St. Ulmer,
as you call him, has no more right to the title than I myself!"

"An impostor!" gasped both the General and Mr. Narkom with one voice.

"Yes, an impostor," said Cleek quietly. "I recognized him directly I was
able to get face to face with him. He was known as Paul the Panther,
though Paul Berton is his name, an Apache, a boon companion of Margot,
the queen of the Apaches, and of Anatole de Villon, a cousin of the
greatest scoundrel in Paris. This man Paul had been valet to the real
Lord St. Ulmer, probably engaged in Paris, and went with him to the
Argentine. With him also Paul took the effects and credentials of
another Apache, Ferdinand Lovetski, the maker of that special blacking,
'Jetanola.' He had been killed for refusing to give up to the Apaches
his little fortune, and accordingly, Anatole annexed it without the
permission of Margot, and hence brought down on him her wrath. He
managed to slip away with his master, and whether he had any hand in
killing him in the Argentine, heaven alone knows. What is certain is
that he decided to return to Europe and finally to England as Lord St.
Ulmer, and in this he succeeded. The old solicitor had died. Both you
and your wife had seen but little of St. Ulmer in later years, so that,
armed with all the papers and his own quick wits, it was not so
difficult as you would have imagined. Had it not been for the stray
meeting with Anatole de Villon, who was himself masquerading here as the
Count de Louvisan, all would have gone well. As it was, one rogue
threatened the other, and De Louvisan held the trump cards. It was his
plan to marry Lady Katharine, and St. Ulmer had to submit, for fear not
only that he should be betrayed to the police as an impostor, but in
case Anatole should give him up to Margot. He played on Lady
Katharine's feelings, therefore, so as to make her give up young
Clavering and marry the count. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, at
the last minute De Louvisan quarrelled with him; he had some other
plans, he said, connected with letters----"

"Good heavens! I see now," gasped the General. "De Louvisan played a
double game. Those letters were mine. He had contrived to steal them
from me in Malta. There is really no harm in them, but Marise--Lady
Clavering--and I, had fancied ourselves in love many years ago, and she
was afraid, needlessly perhaps, that Sir Philip Clavering, who is the
very soul of honour himself, would disown her and cut the friendship
between him and myself. We had each found our true mates, and it was an
unutterable shock to both to find that this wretch had threatened to
inform Sir Philip, or else hand over the letters to Margot to publish at
her will. I nearly went mad when Marise told me that she was going to
meet him. I think I went off my head for a few minutes; at any rate, I
did one of those unaccountable things for which people who have mental
lapses are noted. It was after bedtime, long after, when the message
arrived, and struck all my thoughts into a bewildering sort of chaos. I
remember hanging up the receiver and turning to the door, but from that
moment there is a blank until I found myself standing before the
dressing mirror in my own room, not in the act of disrobing, as I ought
properly to have been doing at that hour and in that place, but dressing
myself as if for dinner! I think you are aware of the fact that I use
black cosmetic on my moustache, Mr. Cleek? When that mental lapse passed
and I came to myself, there I was with my hair freshly combed and in the
very act of applying the cosmetic to my moustache. I don't know how I
got into the room or when--everything is a blank to me.

"A not unusual thing under the circumstances, General. These sudden
shocks produce effects of that sort frequently. You were not really
accountable, not really aware of what you did, or why--that, I suppose,
is the explanation of how, when you came to think of going to the
cottage and facing the man, you ran out of the house with the stick of
cosmetic still in your hand. You did, did you not?"

"Yes, although I was not aware of it until I arrived at the place."

"Hum-m-m! So I imagined. And the A-string? How did you come to take
that?"

"The A-string, Mr. Cleek?"

"Yes, the bit of catgut. Shall I be out in my reckoning, General, if I
say that as you crept out of the house something fell either on your
head or your hands, something which proved to be a long thick piece of
catgut, and that, without realizing what you were doing, or why, you
carried that, too, with you?"

"Good heavens, how do you know these things? Nobody, nobody on God's
earth could have told you that, Mr. Cleek, for no living soul was there.
But that is exactly what did happen. When I got into the cottage and
found Lady Clavering----"

"With a pink gauze petticoat under a pale green satin dress?"

"Yes. When I got there and found her in conversation with that wretch,
why, those two things--the cosmetic and the catgut--were still in my
hand. I had no use for them, of course, and as soon as I realized that I
was holding them I threw them aside."

"So I supposed," said Cleek. "And the assassin found them there,
although he _might_ have had one of the articles upon his person; not
likely, but he _might_, for he, too, uses it."

"The assassin?" The General looked at him sharply. "You know that, too?
Who is he? What was his motive? Why did he spike that body to the wall?"

"We will come to that in good time, General," replied Cleek. "For the
present let us stick to _your_ connection with the case, please. After
you had given your promise to Lady Clavering not to return to Gleer
Cottage, why, may I ask, did you break it and go back?"

"I have told you in a measure, Mr. Cleek. I went back to make one last
effort to move the man to pity. He must have been making use of the time
for some purpose of his own, not counting upon my coming back, for as I
returned to the house I caught the distant sound of a hammer being
used, and he was savagely out of temper when he saw me. Springing at me
like a wild animal, he cried out: 'Spying, were you? Damn you, I'll
brain you before you can give away what you saw. She shan't get shut of
me that way; nor shall you!' I ducked down under the sweep of the blow
he aimed at me, so that it whizzed past my head and the impetus of it
carried him half round; then, as he wheeled and gathered himself for a
second stroke, I half straightened and came at him with an upper cut
that landed squarely on the peak of his jaw and carried him off his
feet. He went up and over, and the back of his head landed against the
edge of the mantelpiece and stunned him. He dropped like a log. I
thought for the instant I had killed him, but a moment's examination
convinced me that he was only stunned; indeed, was already showing signs
of reviving; and I should certainly have stopped to see the matter out
but that I was sure I heard somebody moving in the garden, so as quickly
as I could, I got out and flew for dear life. I saw nobody and I heard
nobody all the way back to this house, and you can guess my surprise
when this morning brought news of the tragedy. I should have said to
myself that I had killed the man had he been found as I left him; but
when I not only heard, but went and saw for myself, that he had been
found nailed to the wall and marked with mysterious figures, I knew that
some one else had slain him; and life has been a nightmare of terror and
suspense ever since."

"I can well believe it," said Cleek. "You have paid dearly for all your
follies, General. But that is to be expected, for it is written, my
friend, that he who breaks _must_ pay. The laws of God are no more fixed
in that respect than are the laws of man; and I, as the instrument of
those man-made laws----" He shrugged his shoulders, and threw out both
hands with a sweeping and expressive movement. "Murder has been done,"
he went on. "The law demands a life for a life, and my duty to the law
is to hang the murderer of that man, even though the victim may have
merited death twenty times over and the world be well rid of him.
General"--he swung suddenly away from the chair against which he had all
the time been leaning with his back to it and his face toward the
room--"General, the law demands of the man-hunter that he shall be a
thing of iron, cold, passionless, inflexible, a mere machine for the
carrying out of its mandates, the probing of its riddles, the fulfilment
of its retribution. It allows him to possess no private sentiments, to
make no hero of a murderer, even though his crime be in the interest of
others, and of itself brings good out of evil."

The General looked up at him, awed and silent. A strange and terrible
impressiveness was in Cleek's voice.

"General," he went on after a brief pause, "the bringing to justice of
the Count de Louvisan's murderer must inevitably entail the exposure of
Lady Clavering's secret and yours. That I would spare both you and her,
if I could. The anguish you two have suffered I would let be the only
thing that comes out of this crime if it were mine to say; but I am the
instrument of the law, and I must obey its dictates. I cannot shield the
assassin, and I cannot shield you or her ladyship if this case has to be
brought up before the courts. General, I know the murderer and I know
the motive. It was a great one, that I grant you; and the carrying of it
out was one of craft and cunning.

"As you have guessed, it was Paul Berton, alias St. Ulmer, who committed
both crimes; the killing of the keeper and De Louvisan. As you said just
now, Anatole had been playing a double game, and he had threatened to
throw over Lady Katharine and reveal the truth of the impostorship to
Margot, thus earning his forgiveness from her for the stealing of that
other property, and if possible marrying her and sharing her rule. St.
Ulmer came to the cottage in those few minutes before you and Lady
Clavering put in an appearance. He saw afterward what you did not
see--namely, what De Louvisan did in those few minutes you were absent.
He saw, too, that length of catgut which you dropped, and when you
rushed out, leaving the man unconscious, Paul Berton, or St. Ulmer,
flashed into the room, caught that up and strangled the fellow where he
lay. He spiked him to the wall with the very hammer the hound had
assailed you with, and he would have accomplished all he had set out to
do but for an accident. De Louvisan, or Anatole, had taken up a board
and hidden the letters beneath the floor. Paul had seen him do it and
meant to get them. But the noise he had made, he fancied, had attracted
the attention of either a constable or a Common keeper, for he heard the
sound of some one stealing through the garden. That was Lady Katharine
Fordham walking in her sleep, poor girl. He had no time to lose, so
caught up the stick of cosmetic you had dropped, and scrawled those
figures on the dead man's shirt----"

"Their meaning, Cleek?" cried Narkom. "What was it?"

"A very simple one. Part of the Apache cipher. I remembered it
afterward, and translated it thus:

  "2 X 4 X 1 X 2. Hiding X letters X Paul X Hiding

"You see he meant that if Margot should arrive on the scene, she should
know that it was he, Paul, who had avenged the gang and hidden the
letters. By this he meant to win his own pardon from Margot. As it
happened, she had already taken fright and left the country. The numbers
counted to nine, and I reckoned that Paul, noting this fact, must have
trusted to luck to Margot being sharp enough to take it as a measurement
of some kind. I took it to be nine boards, and was right, as you know.

"He would probably have gone back for the letters afterward, but he had
no time; he fled across the Common, headlong into the arms of the
Common keeper, whom he shot at and knocked senseless, making use of the
man's clothing, as we know. These he buried later in the old ruin, and
there you will find them, General."

An exclamation burst from the lips of General Raynor, followed by the
sound of something more startling, that of a pistol shot.

"God! What was that!" the General breathed in a frightened whisper at
the sound of the explosion.

"The end of De Louvisan's murderer, General, I hope, and the everlasting
shutting of the door on Lady Clavering's secret and yours," said Cleek.
"Come quickly, before the servants arrive on the scene."

He led the way out of the room, and up the stairs to where was Lord St.
Ulmer's room. Cleek opened the door with the key which had evidently
reposed in his own pocket. A strange sight met their eyes. It was
evident that St. Ulmer, or Paul Berton, had been left handcuffed and
bound by ropes to the bedpost, but he had managed to evade his bondage
sufficiently to get to a drawer in which must have been a loaded
revolver, and he had thus set himself free.

"Let the dead past bury its dead," said Cleek quietly. "The world need
only know that one impostor killed another, and finally shot himself
when the law discovered the truth."

He bent down and swiftly removed the handcuffs from the still figure,
and the General gave vent to a deep sigh of relief just as the startled
servants came flocking up the staircase.

The riddle of the night had been solved, and their secret lay buried in
the grave.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was an hour afterward. In the seclusion of the General's study, he
and Narkom and Cleek sat talking over the events of the night.

"You must not accord me too much honour, General," said Cleek. "For
after all I did not ferret out the entire truth until I came face to
face with Paul Berton, who told me the facts, under force, it is true.
It was, as I have already explained, he who killed the poor Common
keeper when that unfortunate man interrupted his headlong dash for
freedom. Then, General, borrowing a leaf from the book of a certain
person known as the 'Vanishing Cracksman,' with whom he had had some
dealings in other days, he leaped upon the unfortunate man, beat him to
the ground, and hastily robbed him of his uniform. You know the rest:
the assassin's blows were perhaps harder than he had intended, and so
another life was added to the list. I confess I was puzzled at first by
Lady Katharine's part in the affair and the ermine cloak, as I knew
there were at least two women on the Common that night. But I managed to
look into Mrs. Raynor's room in one of my rambles, and there I saw an
ermine cloak soiled at the edges. The maid told me, unconscious of doing
either harm or good, that she had just fetched it from Lady Katharine's
room, as she had borrowed it a couple of days ago. I had already made up
my mind after overhearing a certain interview between the lovers, that
Lady Katharine must have acquired the habit of walking in her sleep, and
so that part of the mystery was made clear. But I am afraid I have given
you an unpleasant time, General, and I have had to spy about a good
deal. However, I think we may agree with the immortal Shakespeare that
after all, 'All's well that ends well.'"

He turned and put out his hand suddenly, and the General, with a little
choking sound, put his own into it and breathed hard. There was a
curious misty something lurking in his eyes.

Cleek smiled.

"Good-night!" he said softly, "and good-bye. Mr. Narkom and I will motor
back to town, and perhaps on our way will make a point of calling at
Clavering Close and break the news to Lady Katharine of her erstwhile
father's death. She cannot grieve deeply, poor girl, for that which she
has never known--a father's devotion, or a father's love; but it will
end her suspense. Good-night, General, once more."

He waited a brief moment, and their eyes met in a look of perfect
understanding; then with a nod to Narkom, who was standing in the
background watching them, he spun on his heel and went out into the
night whose riddle he had solved, leaving behind him that which is above
all earthly things: a perfect peace and a still greater gratitude.


THE END





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