The Project Gutenberg eBook, Who?, by Elizabeth Kent This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Who? Author: Elizabeth Kent Release Date: February 7, 2011 [eBook #35205] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHO?*** E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries (http://www.archive.org/details/americana) Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive/American Libraries. See http://www.archive.org/details/whobyelizabethke00kentiala Who? By Elizabeth Kent Author of "The House Opposite," etc. G. P. Putnam's Sons New York and London The Knickerbocker Press 1912 Copyright, 1912 BY G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS The Knickerbocker Press, New York "Here, quick, I hear footsteps on the stairs!" From the drawing by John Cassel, (Chapter XX) CONTENTS CHAPTER I. The Woman in the Compartment CHAPTER II. "Mrs. Peter Thompkins" CHAPTER III. The Tribulations of a Liar CHAPTER IV. On the Scene of the Tragedy CHAPTER V. The Detective Detects CHAPTER VI. The Mysterious Maid CHAPTER VII. The Inquest CHAPTER VIII. Lady Upton CHAPTER IX. The Jewels CHAPTER X. The Two Frenchmen CHAPTER XI. The Inspector Interviews Cyril CHAPTER XII. A Perilous Venture CHAPTER XIII. Campbell Remonstrates CHAPTER XIV. What Is the Truth? CHAPTER XV. Finger Prints in the Dust CHAPTER XVI. The Story of a Wrong CHAPTER XVII. Guy Relents CHAPTER XVIII. A Slip of the Tongue CHAPTER XIX. An Unexpected Visitor CHAPTER XX. "I Know It, Cousin Cyril" CHAPTER XXI. The Truth CHAPTER XXII. Campbell Resigns A Selection from the Catalogue of G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS Who? CHAPTER I THE WOMAN IN THE COMPARTMENT It was six o'clock on a raw October morning, and the cross Channel boat had just deposited its cargo of pale and dishevelled passengers at Newhaven. Cyril Crichton, having seen his servant place his bags in a first-class compartment, gazed gloomily at the scene before him. It was the first time in three years that he had set foot on his native shore and the occasion seemed invested with a certain solemnity. "What a mess I have made of my life! Yet God knows I meant well!" He muttered in his heart. "If I hadn't been such a good-natured ass, I should never have got into all this trouble. But I won't be made a fool of any longer. I will consult Campbell as to what—" He paused. It suddenly occurred to him that he had forgotten to let the latter know of his impending arrival. "I will send him a wire," he decided. The telegraph-office was farther off than he expected, and to Crichton's disgust, he found it shut. He had forgotten that in well-regulated England, even matters of life and death have to wait till the offices open at eight A.M. He was still staring at the closed window, when he was startled by the guard's whistle, and the slamming of the carriage doors. Turning quickly, he ran back, trying to find his compartment, but it was too late; the train was already moving. Flinging off a porter's detaining hand, he jumped on to the foot-board and wrenched open the nearest door. The impetus flung him headlong into the lap of a lady,—the sole occupant of the carriage. To his horror and amazement, instead of listening to his apologies, she uttered a piercing shriek and fell forward into his arms. For a moment Crichton was too dazed to move. There he knelt, tightly clasping her limp form and wondering fearfully what would happen next. At last he managed to pull himself together, and staggering to his feet, laid her gently on the seat near the window. Strangely enough, he had had no idea, so far, as to the appearance, or even the age, of the lady with whom fate had thrown him into such intimate contact: consequently he now looked at her with considerable curiosity. Her slight, graceful figure proclaimed her youth, but her face was completely concealed by a thick, black veil, which prevented him from so much as guessing the outline of her features. As she continued to show no sign of returning consciousness, Crichton looked helplessly around for some means of reviving her. More air was what she needed; so with much trepidation he decided to unfasten her veil. His fingers fumbled clumsily over their unaccustomed task, but finally the last knot was disentangled, the last pin extracted. The unknown proved to be even younger than he expected, and to possess beauty of the kind which admits of no discussion. At present, however, it was sadly marred by a red welt, probably the result of a fall, Crichton decided, which disfigured her left cheek. A minute before he had been cursing his luck, which invariably landed him in strange adventures, but at the sight of her beauty, our hero suddenly ceased to find the situation annoying. His interest, however, increased his alarm. What if she were dead or dying? Heart attacks were not uncommon. Bending over her, he laid his hand on her heart, and as he did so, the long lashes lifted, and a pair of sapphire blue eyes looked straight into his. Before he had time to move, she threw out both hands and cried: "Oh, let me go!" "Don't be alarmed. Notwithstanding my unceremonious entrance, I assure you, I am a perfectly respectable member of society. My name is Crichton." The girl staggered to her feet. "Crichton?" she gasped. He looked at her in surprise. "Yes, Crichton. Do you know any member of my family by any chance? My cousin, Lord Wilmersley, has a place near here." "No," she faltered, "I—I am quite a stranger in this part of the country." He was sure she was lying, but what could be her object in doing so? And why had his name caused her such alarm? What unpleasant connection could she possibly have with it? The only male members of his family who bore it, were, a curate, serving his probation in the East End of London, and a boy at Eton. "That is a pity," he said. "I hoped we might find some mutual friends who would vouch for my inoffensiveness. I can't tell you how sorry I am to have given you such a fright. It was unpardonably stupid of me. The fact is, I am rather absent- minded, and I should have been left behind if I had not tumbled in on you as I did. Please forgive me." "On the contrary, it is I who should apologise to you for having made such a fuss about nothing. You must have thought me quite mad." She laughed nervously. "Madam," he replied, with mock solemnity, "I assure you I never for a moment doubted your sanity, and I am an expert in such matters." "Are you really?" She shrank farther from him. "Really what?" he inquired, considerably puzzled. "A—a brain specialist? That is what they are called, isn't it?" He laughed heartily. "No, indeed. But you said——" "Of course! How stupid of me!" "Why should you know that I am a soldier?" She blushed vividly. "You don't look like a civilian." "At all events I hope I don't look like the keeper of an insane asylum." "No, indeed. But you said——" "Oh, as to being an expert. Was that it? I must plead guilty to having attempted a feeble joke, though as a matter of fact, it so happened that I do know something about lunatics." "Aren't you dreadfully afraid of them?" "On general principles, of course, I am afraid of nothing, but I fancy a full-grown lunatic, with a carving knife and a hankering for my blood, would have a different tale to tell." "Oh, don't speak of them!" She covered her eyes with her hands. "I beg your pardon." "Why should you beg my pardon?" she asked looking at him suspiciously. "I really don't know," he acknowledged. "I know that I am behaving like a hysterical schoolgirl. What must you think of me! But,—but I am just recovering from an illness and am still very nervous, and the mere mention of lunatics always upsets me. I have the greatest horror of them." "Poor child, she must have been through some terrible experience with one," thought Crichton. "I trust you may never meet any," he said aloud. "I don't intend to." She spoke with unexpected vehemence. "Well, there is not much chance of your doing so. Certified lunatics find it pretty difficult to mingle in general society." "I know—oh, I know—" Her voice sounded almost regretful. What an extraordinary girl! Could it be—was it possible that she herself—but no, her behaviour was certainly strange and she seemed hysterical, but mad—no, and yet that would explain everything. "I am sure it was the horrid crossing which upset you—as much as anything else," he said. "I didn't cross, I—" She stopped abruptly, and bit her lip. It was quite obvious that for some reason or other, she had not wished him to know that she had got in at Newhaven. He knew that politeness demanded he should not pursue a subject which was evidently distasteful to her. But his curiosity overcame his scruples. "Really? It is rather unusual to take this train unless one is coming from the continent." "Yes. One has to start so frightfully early. I had to get up a little before five." That meant she must live in Newhaven, and not far from the station at that—but was it true? She had about her that indescribable something which only those possess whose social position has never been questioned. No, Newhaven did not seem the background for her. But then, had she not herself told him that she did not live there? She might have gone there on an errand of charity or— After all, what business was it of his? Why should he attempt to pry into her life? It was abominable. She settled herself in a corner of the carriage, and he fancied that she wished to avoid further conversation. Serve him jolly well right, he thought. During the rest of the journey his behaviour was almost ostentatiously discreet. If she feared that he was likely to take advantage of the situation, he was determined to show her that he had no intention of doing so. To avoid staring at her he kept his eyes fixed on the rapidly changing landscape; but they might have been suddenly transported to China without his observing the difference. In fact, he had not realised that they were nearing their destination, till he saw his companion readjust her veil. A few minutes later the train stopped at Hearne Hill. Crichton put his head out of the window. "There is something up," he said, a moment later turning to her. "There must be a criminal on board. There are a lot of policemen about, and they seem to be searching the train." "Oh, what shall I do!" she cried, starting to her feet. "What is the matter?" "They will shut me up. Oh, save me—save me!" For a moment he was too startled to speak. Was it possible? This girl a criminal—a thief? He couldn't believe it. "But what have you done?" "Nothing, nothing I assure you. Oh, believe me, it is all a mistake." He looked at her again. Innocent or guilty, he would stand by her. "They will be here directly," he said. "Have you enough self-control to remain perfectly calm and to back up any story I tell?" "Yes." "Sit down then, and appear to be talking to me." "Tickets, please." The guard was at the door, and behind him stood a police inspector. Crichton having given up his ticket, turned to the girl and said: "You have your ticket, Amy." She handed it over. "From Newhaven, I see." The inspector stepped forward: "I must ask the lady to lift 'er veil, please." "What do you mean, my man? Are you drunk? "Steady, sir. Do you know this lady?" "This lady happens to be my wife, so you will kindly explain your extraordinary behaviour." The inspector looked a little nonplussed. "Sorry to hinconvenience you, sir, but we 'ave orders to search this train for a young lady who got in at Newhaven. Now this is the only lady on board whose ticket was not taken in Paris. So you see we have got to make sure that this is not the person we want." "But, man alive, I tell you this lady is my wife." "So you say, sir, but you can't prove it, can you, now? You're registered through from Paris, and this lady gets in at Newhaven. How do you explain that?" "Of course, one doesn't travel about with one's marriage certificate—but as it happens, I can prove that this lady is my wife. Here is my passport; kindly examine it. Mrs. Crichton returned to England several months ago, and went down to Newhaven last night so as to be able to meet me this morning. As to lifting her veil, of course she has no objection to doing so. I thought it idle curiosity on your part, but as it is a question of duty, that alters the case completely." "Thank you, sir." The inspector opened the passport and read aloud. "Cyril Crichton—Lieutenant in the—Rifles, age 27 years, height 6 ft., 1 inch, weight 12 stone. Hair—fair; complexion—fair, inclined to be ruddy. Eyes—blue. Nose— straight, rather short. Mouth—large. Distinguishing marks: cleft in chin." And as he read each item, he paused to compare the written description with the original. "Well, that's all right," he said. "And now for the lady's. Will you kindly lift your veil, m'm?" To Crichton's surprise, the girl did so quite calmly, and her face, although deadly pale, was perfectly composed. The inspector read: "Amy Crichton, wife of Cyril Crichton, age—26 years—H'm that seems a bit old for the lady." The girl blushed vividly, but to Crichton's infinite relief she smiled gaily, and with a slight bow to the inspector said: "You flatter me." Crichton breathed more freely. Her manner had done more to relieve the situation than anything he had said. The inspector continued in quite a different tone. "'Height—5 ft., 4 inches.' You look a bit shorter than that." "Measure me, if you doubt it." She challenged him. "Oh, well, I am sure it is all right. 'Weight—9 stone, 4 lbs.'" He paused again, but this time made no comment, although Crichton felt sure that his companion weighed at least ten pounds less than the amount mentioned. "Hair—black. Complexion—fair. Eyes—blue. Nose—straight. Mouth—small. Oval chin. Distinguishing marks—none. All right, m'm! Sorry to 'ave disturbed you, but you understand we 'ave got to be very careful. We'd never 'ear the last of it if we let the party we're after slip through our fingers." "What is the woman you are looking for accused of?" asked Crichton. "Murder," replied the inspector, as he closed the door. CHAPTER II "MRS. PETER THOMPKINS" "Murder!" Crichton looked at the girl. Her eyes were closed and she lay back breathing heavily. He did not know if she had even heard the accusation. Luckily the train was already moving. In a few minutes, however, they would be in London and then what should he do with her? Now that he had declared her to be his wife, it would arouse the suspicion of the police if he parted from her at the station. Besides, he could not desert the poor child in her terrible predicament. For she was innocent, he was sure of that. But here he was wasting precious time worrying about the future, when he ought to be doing something to revive her. It was simply imperative that she should be able to leave the train without exciting remark, as, once outside the station, the immediate danger would be over. His ministrations, however, were quite ineffectual, and, to his dismay, the train came to a standstill before she showed a sign of returning consciousness. A porter opened the door. "Bring a glass of water; the lady has fainted," he ordered. The porter returned in a few minutes followed by the police inspector. Crichton's heart sank. He fancied the latter eyed them with reawakened suspicion. As he knelt by the girl's side, her head on his shoulder, his arms around her, he suddenly became aware that a number of people had collected near the door and were watching the scene with unconcealed interest And among them stood Peter, his valet, staring at him with open-mouthed amazement. Damn! He had completely forgotten him. If he didn't look out, the fellow would be sure to give the situation away. "Peter," he called. Peter elbowed his way through the crowd. "Your mistress has fainted. Get my flask." Crichton spoke slowly and distinctly and looked Peter commandingly in the eye. Would he understand? Would he hold his tongue? Crichton watched him breathlessly. For a moment Peter blinked at him uncomprehendingly. Then the surprise slowly faded from his face, leaving it as stolid as usual. "Very well, sir," was all he said as he went off automatically to do his master's bidding. An order has a wonderfully steadying effect on a well-trained servant. The brandy having been brought, Crichton tried to force a few drops of it between the girl's clenched teeth. After a few minutes, however, he had to abandon the attempt. The situation was desperate. The inspector stepped forward. "Don't you think, sir, you ought to send for a doctor? The lady looks bad and she can't stay here, you know. The train has to be backed out in a few minutes. We'll carry her to the waiting-room if you wish, or come to think of it, hadn't you better call an ambulance? Then you could take the lady home and the doctor who comes with them things would know what to do for her." Crichton almost gasped with relief. "An ambulance! The very thing. Get one immediately!" The last passenger was just leaving the station when the ambulance clattered up. The doctor, although hardly more than a boy, seemed to know his business, and after examining the girl and asking a few questions, he proceeded to administer various remedies, which he took out of a bag he carried. "I am afraid this case is too serious for me," he said at last. "What is the trouble?" "Of course, I can't speak with any certainty, but from what you tell me, I think the lady is in for an attack of brain fever." Crichton felt his brain reel. "What shall I do?" "We will take her home and in the meantime telephone to whatever doctor you wish to have called, so that he can see the patient as soon as possible." "I have no house in town. I was going into lodgings but I can't take an invalid there." "Of course not! What do you say to taking her at once to a nursing home?" "Yes, that would be best. Which one would you recommend? I am ignorant of such matters." "Well—Dr. Stuart-Smith has one not far from here. You know him by reputation, don't you?" "Certainly. All right, take her there." "I had better telephone and prepare them for our arrival. What is the lady's name, please?" The inspector's eyes were upon him; Peter was at his elbow. Well—there was no help for it. "Mrs. Cyril Crichton," he said. The doctor returned in a few minutes. "It is all right. They have got a room and Doctor Smith will be there almost as soon as we are." Having lifted her into the ambulance, the doctor turned to Cyril and said: "I suppose you prefer to accompany Mrs. Crichton. You can get in, in front." Crichton meekly obeyed. "Take my things to the lodgings and wait for me there, and by the way, be sure to telephone at once to Mr. Campbell and tell him I must see him immediately," he called to Peter as they drove off. They had apparently got rid of the police—that was something at all events. His own position, however, caused him the gravest concern. It was not only compromising but supremely ridiculous. He must extricate himself from it at once. His only chance, he decided, lay in confiding the truth to Dr. Smith. Great physicians have necessarily an enormous knowledge of life and therefore he would be better able than any other man to understand the situation and advise him as to what should be done. At all events the etiquette of his calling would prevent a doctor from divulging a professional secret, even in the case of his failing to sympathise with his, Cyril's, knight-errantry. Crichton heaved a sigh of satisfaction. His troubles, he foresaw, would soon be over. The ambulance stopped. The girl was carried into the house and taken possession of by an efficient-looking nurse, and Cyril was requested to wait in the reception-room while she was being put to bed. Dr. Smith, he was told, would communicate with him as soon as he had examined the patient. Crichton paced the room in feverish impatience. His doubts revived. What if the doctor should refuse to keep her? Again and again he rehearsed what he intended to say to him, but the oftener he did so, the more incredible did his story appear. It also occurred to him that a physician might not feel himself bound to secrecy when it was a question of concealing facts other than those relating to a patient's physical condition. What if the doctor should consider it his duty to inform the police of her whereabouts? At last the door opened. Dr. Smith proved to be a short, grey-haired man with piercing, black eyes under beetling, black brows, large nose, and a long upper lip. Cyril's heart sank. The doctor did not look as if he would be likely to sympathise with his adventure. "Mr. Crichton, I believe." The little man spoke quite fiercely and regarded our friend with evident disfavour. Crichton was for a moment nonplussed. What had he done to be addressed in such a fashion? "I hope you can give me good news of the patient?" he said, disregarding the other's manner. "No," snapped out the doctor. "Mrs. Crichton is very seriously, not to say dangerously, ill." What an extraordinary way of announcing a wife's illness to a supposed husband! Was every one mad to-day? "I am awfully sorry—" began Crichton. "Oh, you are, are you?" interrupted the doctor, and this time there could be no doubt he was intentionally insulting. "Will you then be kind enough to explain how your wife happens to be in the condition she is?" "What condition?" faltered Cyril. "Tut, man, don't pretend to be ignorant. Remember I am a doctor and can testify to the facts; yes, facts," he almost shouted. Poor Crichton sat down abruptly. He really felt he could bear no more. "For God's sake, doctor, tell me what is the matter with her. I swear I haven't the faintest idea." His distress was so evidently genuine that the doctor relaxed a little and looked at him searchingly for a moment. "Your wife has been recently flogged!" "Flogged! How awful! But I can't believe it." "Indeed!" "Certainly not. You must be mistaken. The bruises may be the result of a fall." "They are not," snapped the doctor. "Flogged! here in England, in the twentieth century! But who could have done such a thing?" "That is for you to explain, and I must warn you that unless your explanation is unexpectedly satisfactory, I shall at once notify the police." Police! Crichton wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead. "But, doctor, I know no more about it than you do." "So you think that it will be sufficient for you to deny all knowledge as to how, where, and by whom a woman who is your wife—yes, sir—your wife, has been maltreated? Man, do you take me for a fool?" What should he do? Was this the moment to tell him the truth? No, it would be useless. The doctor, believing him to be a brute, was not in a frame of mind to attach credence to his story. The truth was too improbable, a convincing lie could alone save the situation. "My wife and I have not been living together lately," he stammered. "Indeed!" The piercing eyes seemed to grow more piercing, the long upper lip to become longer. "Yes," Crichton hesitated—it is so difficult to invent a plausible story on the spur of the moment. "In fact, I met her quite unexpectedly in Newhaven." "In Newhaven?" "Yes. I have just arrived from France," continued Crichton more fluently. An idea was shaping itself in his mind. "I was most astonished to meet my wife in England as I had been looking for her in Paris for the last week." "I don't understand." "My wife is unfortunately mentally unbalanced. For the last few months she has been confined in an asylum." Crichton spoke with increasing assurance. "Where was this asylum?" "In France." "Yes, but where? France is a big place." "It is called Charleroi and is about thirty miles from Paris in the direction of Fontainebleau." "Who is the director of this institution?" "Dr. Leon Monet." "And you suggest that it was there that she was ill-treated. Let me tell you——" Cyril interrupted him. "I suggest no such thing. My wife escaped from Charleroi over a week ago. We know she went to Paris, but there we lost all trace of her. Imagine my astonishment at finding her on the train this morning. How she got there, I can't think. She seemed very much agitated, but I attributed that to my presence. I have lately had a most unfortunate effect upon her. I did ask her how she got the bruise on her cheek, but she wouldn't tell me. I had no idea she was suffering. If I had been guilty of the condition she is in, is it likely that I should have brought her to a man of your reputation and character? I think that alone proves my innocence." The doctor stared at him fixedly for a few moments as if weighing the credibility of his explanation. "You say that the physician under whose care your wife has been is called Monet?" "Yes, Leon Monet." The doctor left the room abruptly. When he returned, his bearing had completely changed. "I have just verified your statement in a French medical directory and I must apologise to you for having jumped at conclusions in the way I did. Pray, forgive me——" Crichton bowed rather distantly. He didn't feel over-kindly to the man who had forced him into such a quagmire of lies. "Now as to—" Cyril hesitated a moment; he detested calling the girl by his name. "Now—as to—to—the patient. Have you any idea when she is likely to recover consciousness?" "Not the faintest. Of course, what you tell me of her mental condition increases the seriousness of the case. With hysterical cases anything and everything is possible." "But you do not fear the—worst." "Certainly not. She is young. She will receive the best of care. I see no reason why she should not recover. Now if you would like to remain near her——" There seemed a conspiracy to keep him forever at the girl's side, but this time he meant to break away even if he had to fight for it. "I shall, of course, remain near her," Cyril interrupted hastily. "I have taken lodgings in Half Moon Street and shall stay there till she has completely recovered. As she has lately shown the most violent dislike of me, I think I had better not attempt to see her for the present. Don't you agree with me?" "Certainly. I should not permit it under the circumstances." "I shall call daily to find out how she is, and if there is any change in her condition, you will, of course, notify me at once." Crichton took out a card and scribbled his address on it. "This will always find me. And now I have a rather delicate request to make. Would you mind not letting any one know the identity of your patient? You see I have every hope that she will eventually recover her reason and therefore I wish her malady to be kept a secret. I have told my friends that my wife is in the south of France undergoing a species of rest cure." "I think you are very wise. I shall not mention her name to any one." "But the nurses?" "It is a rule of all nursing homes that a patient's name is never to be mentioned to an outsider. But if you wish to take extra precautions, you might give her another name while she is here and they need never know that it is not her own." "Thank you. That is just what I should wish." "What do you think Mrs. Crichton had better be called?" Cyril thought a moment. "Mrs. Peter Thompkins, and I will become Mr. Thompkins. Please address all communications to me under that name; otherwise the truth is sure to leak out." "But how will you arrange to get your mail?" "Peter Thompkins is my valet, so that is quite simple." "Very well. Good-bye, Mr. Thompkins. I trust I shall soon have a better report to give you of Mrs. Thompkins." A moment later Cyril was in a taxi speeding towards Mayfair, a free man—for the moment. CHAPTER III THE TRIBULATIONS OF A LIAR While Crichton was dressing he glanced from time to time at his valet. Peter had evidently been deeply shocked by the incident at the railway station, for the blunt profile, so persistently presented to him, was austerely remote as well as subtly disapproving. Cyril was fond of the old man, who had been his father's servant and had known him almost from his infancy. He felt that he owed him some explanation, particularly as he had without consulting him made use of his name. But what should he say to him? Never before had he so fully realised the joy, the comfort, the dignity of truth. It was not a virtue he decided; it was a privilege. If he ever got out of the hole he was in, he meant to wallow in it for the future. That happy time seemed, however, still far distant. Believing the girl to be innocent, he wanted as few people as possible to know the nature of the cloud which hung over her. Peter's loyalty, he knew, he could count on, that had been often and fully proved; but his discretion was another matter. Peter was no actor. If he had anything to conceal, even his silence became so portentous of mystery that it could not fail to arouse the curiosity of the most unsuspicious. No, he must think of some simple story which would satisfy Peter as to the propriety of his conduct and yet which, if it leaked out, would not be to the girl's discredit. "You must have been surprised to hear me give my name to the young lady you saw at the station," he began tentatively. "Yes, sir." Peter's expression relaxed. "Her story is a very sad one." So much at any rate must be true, thought poor Cyril with some satisfaction. "Yes, sir." Peter was waiting breathlessly for the sequel. "I don't feel at liberty to repeat what she told me. You understand that, don't you?" "Certainly, sir," agreed Peter, but his face fell. "So all I can tell you is that she was escaping from a brute who horribly ill-treated her. Of course I offered to help her." "Of course," echoed Peter. "Unfortunately she was taken ill before she had told me her name or who the friends were with whom she was seeking refuge. What was I to do? If the police heard that a young girl had been found unconscious on the train, the fact would have been advertised far and wide so as to enable them to establish her identity, in which case the person from whom she was hiding would have taken possession of her, which he has a legal right to do—so she gave me to understand." Crichton paused quite out of breath. He was doing beautifully. Peter was swallowing his tale unquestionably—and really, you know, for an inexperienced liar that was a reasonably probable story. "So you see," he continued, "it was necessary for her to have a name and mine was the only one which would not provoke further inquiry." "Begging your pardon, sir, but I should 'ave thought that Smith or Jones would 'ave done just as well." "Certainly not. The authorities would have wanted further particulars and would at once have detected the fraud. No one will ever know that I lent an unfortunate woman for a few hours the protection of my name, and there is no one who has the right to object to my having done so—except the young lady herself." "Yes, sir, quite so." "On the other hand, on account of the position I am in at present, it is most important that I should do nothing which could by any possibility be misconstrued." "Yes, sir, certainly, sir." "And so I told the doctor that the young lady had better not be called by my name while she is at the home and so— and so—well—in fact—I gave her yours. I hope you don't mind?" "My name?" gasped Peter in a horrified voice. "Yes, you see you haven't got a wife, have you?" "Certainly not, sir!" "So there couldn't be any possible complications in your case." "One never can tell, sir—a name's a name and females are sometimes not over-particular." "Don't be an ass! Why, you ought to feel proud to be able to be of use to a charming lady. Where's your chivalry, Peter?" "I don't know, sir, but I do 'ope she's respectable," he answered miserably. "Of course she is. Don't you know a lady when you see one?" Peter shook his head tragically. "I'm sorry you feel like that about it," said Crichton. "It never occurred to me you would mind, and I haven't yet told you all. I not only gave the young lady your name but took it myself." "Took my name!" "Yes. At the nursing home I am known as Mr. Peter Thompkins. Pray that I don't disgrace you, Peter." "Oh, sir, a false name! If you get found out, they'll never believe you are hinnocent when you've done a thing like that. Of course, a gentleman like you hought to know his own business best, but it do seem to me most awful risky." "Well, it's a risk that had to be taken. It was a choice of evils, I grant you. Hah! I sniff breakfast; the bacon and eggs of my country await me. I am famishing, and I say, Peter, do try to take a more cheerful view of this business." "I'll try, sir." Crichton was still at breakfast when a short, red-haired young man fairly burst into the room. "Guy Campbell!" exclaimed Cyril joyfully. "Hullo, old chap, glad to see you," cried the newcomer, pounding Cyril affectionately on the back. "How goes it? I say, your telephone message gave me quite a turn. What's up? Have you got into a scrape? You look as calm as possible." "If I look calm, my looks belie me. I assure you I never felt less calm in my life." "What on earth is the matter?" "You won't have some breakfast?" "Breakfast at half-past eleven! No thank you." "Well, then, take a cigarette, pull up that chair to the fire, and listen—and don't play the fool; this is serious." "Fire away." "I want your legal advice, Guy, though I suppose you'll tell me I need a solicitor, not a barrister. I wish to get a divorce." "A divorce? Why, Cyril, I am awfully sorry. I had heard that your marriage hadn't turned out any too well, but I had no idea it was as bad as that. You have proof, I suppose." "Ample." "Tell me the particulars. I never have heard anything against your wife's character." "You mean that you have never heard that she was unfaithful to me. Bah, it makes me sick the way people talk, as if infidelity were the only vice that damned a woman's character. Guy, her character was rotten through and through. Her infidelity was simply a minor, though culminating, expression of it." "But how did you come to marry such a person?" "You know she was the Chalmerses' governess?" "Yes." "I had been spending a few weeks with them. Jack, the oldest son, was a friend of mine and she was the daughter of a brother officer of old Chalmers's who had died in India, and consequently her position in the household was different from that of an ordinary governess. I soon got quite friendly with Amy and her two charges, and we used to rag about together a good deal. I liked her, but upon my honour I hadn't a thought of making love to her. Then one day there was an awful row. They accused her of carrying on a clandestine love affair with Freddy, the second son, and with drinking on the sly. They had found empty bottles hidden in her bedroom. She posed as injured innocence—the victim of a vile plot to get her out of the house—had no money, no friends, no hope of another situation. I was young; she was pretty. I was dreadfully sorry for her and so—well, I married her. As the regiment had just been ordered to South Africa, we went there immediately. We had not been married a year, however, when I discovered that she was a confirmed drunkard. I think only the fear of losing her position had kept her within certain bounds. That necessity removed, she seemed unable to put any restraint on herself. I doubt if she even tried to do so." "Poor Cyril!" "Later on I found out that she was taking drugs as well as stimulants. She would drink herself into a frenzy and then stupefy herself with opiates. But it is not only weakness I am accusing her of. She was inherently deceitful and cruel— ah, what is the use of talking about it! I have been through Hell." "You haven't been living together lately, have you?" "Well, you see, she was disgracing not only herself but the regiment, and so it became a question of either leaving the army or getting her to live somewhere else. So I brought her back to Europe, took a small villa near Pau, and engaged an efficient nurse-companion to look after her. I spent my leave with her, but that was all. Last spring, however, she got so bad that her companion cabled for me. For a few weeks she was desperately ill, and when she partially recovered, the doctor persuaded me to send her to a sanitarium for treatment. Charleroi was recommended to me. It was chiefly celebrated as a lunatic asylum, but it has an annex where dipsomaniacs and drug fiends are cared for. At first, the doctor's reports were very discouraging, but lately her improvement is said to have been quite astonishing, so much so that it was decided that I should take her away for a little trip. I was on my way to Charleroi, when the news reached me that Amy had escaped. We soon discovered that she had fled with a M. de Brissac, who had been discharged as cured the day before my wife's disappearance. We traced them to within a few miles of Paris, but there lost track of them. I have, however, engaged a detective to furnish me with further particulars. I fancy the Frenchman is keeping out of the way for fear I shall kill him. Bah! Why, I pity him, that is all! He'll soon find out what that woman is like. He has given me freedom! Oh, you can't realise what that means to me. I only wish my father were alive to know that I have this chance of beginning life over again." "I was so sorry to hear of his death. He was always so kind to us boys when we stayed at Lingwood. I wrote you when I heard the sad news, but you never answered any of my letters." "I know, old chap, but you must forgive me. I have been too miserable—too ashamed. I only wanted to creep away and to be forgotten." "Your father died in Paris, didn't he?" "Yes, luckily I was with him. It was just after I had taken Amy to Charleroi. He was a broken-hearted man. He never got over the mess I had made of my life and Wilmersley's marriage was the last straw. He brooded over it continually." "Why had your father been so sure that Lord Wilmersley would never marry? He was an old bachelor, but not so very old after all. He can't be more than fifty now." "Well, you see, Wilmersley has a bee in his bonnet. His mother was a Spanish ballet dancer whom my uncle married when he was a mere boy. She was a dreadful old creature. I remember her distinctly, a great, fat woman with a big, white face and enormous, glassy, black eyes. I was awfully afraid of her. She died when Wilmersley was about twenty and my uncle followed her a few months later. His funeral was hardly over when my cousin left Geralton and nothing definite was heard of him for almost twenty-five years. He was supposed to be travelling in the far East, and from time to time some pretty queer rumours drifted back about him. Whether they were true or not, I have never known. One day he returned to Geralton as unexpectedly as he had left it. He sent for me at once. He has immense family pride— the ballet dancer, I fancy, rankles—and having decided for some reason or other not to marry, he wished his heir to cut a dash. He offered me an allowance of £4000 a year, told me to marry as soon as possible, and sent me home." "Well, that was pretty decent of him. You don't seem very grateful." "I can't bear him. He's a most repulsive-looking chap, a thorough Spaniard, with no trace of his father's blood that I can see. And as I married soon afterwards and my marriage was not to his liking, he stopped my allowance and swore I should never succeed him if he could help it. So you see I haven't much reason to be grateful to him." "Beastly shame! He married Miss Mannering, Lady Upton's granddaughter, didn't he?" "Yes." "She is a little queer, I believe." "Really? I didn't know that. I have never seen her, but I hear she is very pretty. Well, I'm sorry for her, brought up by that old curmudgeon of a grandmother and married out of the schoolroom to Wilmersley. She has never had much of a chance, has she?" "There are no children as yet?" "No." "So that now that your father is dead, you are the immediate heir." The door was flung open and Peter rushed into the room brandishing a paper. "Oh, sir, it's come at last! I always felt it would!" He stuttered with excitement. "What on earth is the matter with you?" "I beg pardon, sir, but I am that hovercome! I heard them crying 'hextras,' so I went out and gets one—just casual-like. Little did I think what would be in it—and there it was." "There was what?" Both men spoke at once, leaning eagerly forward. "That Lord Wilmersley is dead; and so, my lord, I wish you much joy and a long life." "This is very sudden," gasped Crichton. "I hadn't heard he was ill. What did he die of?" "'E was murdered, my lord." CHAPTER IV ON THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY "When, how, who did it?" cried Cyril incoherently. "Give me the paper." "Murder of Lord Wilmersley—disappearance of Lady Wilmersley," he read. "Disappearance of Lady Wilmersley," he repeated, as the paper fell from his limp hand. "Here, get your master some whiskey; the shock has been too much for him," said Camp bell. "Mysterious disappearance of Lady Wilmersley," murmured Crichton, staring blankly in front of him. "Here, drink this, old man; you'll be all right in a moment," said Campbell, pressing a glass into his hand. Cyril emptied it automatically. "The deuce take it!" he cried, covering his face with his hands. "Shall I read you the particulars?" Campbell asked, taking the paper. Cyril nodded assent. "'The body of Lord Wilmersley was found at seven o'clock this morning floating in the swimming bath at Geralton. It was at first thought that death had been caused by drowning, but on examination, a bullet wound was discovered over the heart. Search for the pistol with which the crime was committed has so far proved fruitless. The corpse was dressed in a long, Eastern garment frequently worn by the deceased. Lady Wilmersley's bedroom, which adjoins the swimming bath, was empty. The bed had not been slept in. A hurried search of the castle and grounds was at once made, but no trace of her ladyship has been discovered. It is feared that she also has been murdered and her body thrown into the lake, which is only a short distance from the castle. None of her wearing apparel is missing, even the dress and slippers she wore on the previous evening were found in a corner of her room. Robbery was probably the motive of the crime, as a small safe, which stands next to Lady Wilmersley's bed and contained her jewels, has been rifled. Whoever did this must, however, have known the combination, as the lock has not been tampered with. This adds to the mystery of the case. Lady Wilmersley is said to be mentally unbalanced. Arthur Edward Crichton, 9th Baron Wilmersley, was born—' here follows a history of your family, Cyril, you don't want to hear that. Well, what do you think of it?" asked Campbell. "It's too horrible! I can't think," said Crichton. "I don't believe Lady Wilmersley was murdered," said Campbell. "Why should a murderer have troubled to remove one body and not the other? Mark my words, it was his wife who killed Wilmersley and opened the safe." "I don't believe it! I won't believe it!" cried Cyril. "Besides, how could she have got away without a dress or hat? Remember they make a point of the fact that none of her clothes are missing." "In the first place, you can't believe everything you read in a newspaper; but even granting the correctness of that statement, what was there to prevent her having borrowed a dress from one of her maids? She must have had one, you know." "No—no! It can't be, I tell you; I—" Cyril stopped abruptly. "What's the matter with you? You look as guilty as though you had killed him yourself. I can't for the life of me see why you take the thing so terribly to heart. You didn't like your cousin and from what you yourself tell me, I fancy he is no great loss to any one, and you don't know his wife—widow, I mean." "It is such a shock," stammered Cyril. "Of course it's a shock, but you ought to think of your new duties. You will have to go to Geralton at once?" "Yes, I suppose it will be expected of me," Cyril assented gloomily. "Peter, pack my things and find out when the next train leaves." "Very well, my lord." "And Guy, you will come with me, won't you? I really can't face this business alone. Besides, your legal knowledge may come in useful." "I am awfully sorry, but I really can't come to-day. I've got to be in court this afternoon; but I'll come as soon as I can, if you really want me." "Do!" "Of course I want to be of use if I can, but a detective is really what you need." "A detective?" gasped Cyril. "Well, why not? Don't look as if I had suggested your hiring a camel!" "Yes, of course not—I mean a detective is—would be—in fact—very useful," stammered Cyril. Why couldn't Guy mind his own business? "Why not get one and take him down with you?" persisted Campbell. "Oh, no!" Cyril hurriedly objected, "I don't think I had better do that. They may have one already. Shouldn't like to begin by hurting local feeling and—and all that, you know." "Rot!" "At any rate, I'm not going to engage any one till I've looked into the matter myself," said Cyril. "If I find I need a man, I'll wire." Campbell, grumbling about unnecessary delay, let the matter drop. Two hours later Cyril was speeding towards Newhaven. Huddled in a corner of the railway carriage, he gave himself up to the gloomiest reflections. Was ever any one pursued by such persistent ill-luck? It seemed too hard that just as he began to see an end to his matrimonial troubles, he should have tumbled headlong into this terrible predicament. From the moment he heard of Lady Wilmersley's disappearance he had never had the shadow of a doubt but that it was she he had rescued that morning from the police. What was he going to do, now that he knew her identity? He must decide on a course of action at once. Wash his hands of her? No- o. He felt he couldn't do that—at least, not yet. But unless he immediately and voluntarily confessed the truth, who would believe him if it ever came to light? If it were discovered that he, the heir, had helped his cousin's murderess to escape—had posed as her husband, would any one, would any jury believe that chance alone had thrown them together? He might prove an alibi, but that would only save his life—not his honour. He would always be suspected of having instigated, if not actually committed, the murder. If, however, by some miracle the truth did not leak out, what then? It would mean that from this day forward he would live in constant fear of detection. The very fact of her secret existence must necessarily poison his whole life. Lies, lies, lies would be his future portion. Was he willing to assume such a burden? Was it his duty to take upon himself the charge of a woman who was after all but a homicidal maniac? But was she a maniac? Again and again he went over each incident of their meeting, weighed her every word and action, and again he found it impossible to believe that her mind was unbalanced. Yet if she was not insane, what excuse could he find to explain her crime? Provocation? Yes, she had had that. She had been beaten, flogged. But even so, to kill! He had once been present when a murderer was sentenced: "To hang by the neck until you are dead," the words rang in his ears. That small white neck—no—never. Suddenly he realised that his path was irrevocably chosen. As long as she needed him, he would protect her to the uttermost of his ability. Even if his efforts proved futile, even if he ruined his life without saving hers, he felt he would never regret his decision. "Newhaven." It seemed centuries since he had left it that morning. Hiring a fly, he drove out to Geralton, a distance of nine miles. There the door was opened by the same butler who had admitted him five years previously. "It's Mr. Cyril!" he cried, falling back a step. "Why, sir, they all told us as 'ow you were in South Africa. But I bid you welcome, sir." "Thank you. I am glad to see you again." "Thank you, sir,—my lord, I mean, and please forgive your being received like this—but every one is so upset, there's no doing nothing with nobody. If you will step in 'ere, I'll call Mrs. Eversley, the 'ousekeeper." "Is Mrs. Eversley still here? I remember her perfectly. She used to stuff me with doughnuts when I came here as a boy. Tell her I will see her presently." "Very good, my lord." "Now I want to hear all the particulars of the tragedy. The newspaper account was very meagre." "Quite so, my lord," assented the butler. "Lady Wilmersley has not been found?" asked Cyril. "No, my lord. We've searched for her ladyship 'igh and low. Not a trace of her. And now every one says as 'ow she did it. But I'll never believe it—never. A gentle little lady, she was, and so easily frightened! Why, if my lord so much as looked at her sometimes, she'd fall a trembling, and 'e always so kind and devoted to 'er. 'E just doted on 'er, 'e did. I never saw nothing like it." "If you don't believe her ladyship guilty, is there any one else you do suspect?" "No, my lord, I can't say as I do." He spoke regretfully. "It was a burglar, I believe. I think the detective——" "What detective?" interrupted Cyril. "...